by J. R. Ward
Well, that sealed the deal, didn’t it—and made her worried about what might be loose in those woods. “What kind of animal are we talking about?”
“That I’m not too sure of. I took some tissue samples—God knows there were plenty to go around—and we’ll find out what kind of saliva was left. I’ll tell you this, though: Whatever it was? We’re talking big, powerful . . . and pissed off.”
“Thanks so much for calling me this fast.”
“No problem. I’m going to catch a couple of Zs and get back to work. I’ll be in touch.”
After she hung up, she typed out an addendum to her report, hit ctrl-P and then sent the document as an attachment to the sergeant on e-mail. Gathering her file and cell phone, she went to stand by the printer as the pages licked out of the machine.
At least she had some evidence to back up what she’d told the sarge before breakfast this morning.
On that note, she thought about the diner. She probably shouldn’t have asked Veck to join her. He was right; it did look bad, but more to the point, they could have avoided that unpleasant exchange. Which had hurt, actually.
Not that it should have. Casual comment over coffee when he was being inappropriate? Shouldn’t have bothered her. At all.
Or maybe it was just her being allergic to the word coward.
Yeah, that was it.
Veck went through the lobby of headquarters like a cold draft, shooting around people, rushing across the floor. He hit the staircase and took the stone steps two at a time.
When he got to the second-floor landing, he headed left, but he wasn’t going to his office. Internal Affairs was where he was—
From out of nowhere, something pink and blond stepped in his path. “Hi!”
As he looked down at the girl, he thought . . . now he knew what tornadoes felt like when they came up to a trailer home: absolutely nothing. He’d just as soon mow her over to get to Reilly, if that was what it took.
“Hi!” she said again, like a one-note bird.
Man, too loud, too cheerful, too much flowery perfume. And what was with the lip gloss? Any more of that shit and she could give her own car an oil change.
“Hey. ’Scuse me—I’m late.”
Unfortunately, she decided to take up ballroom dancing with him, jogging right when he did, and then left. When he stopped, she took a deep breath, or arched her back, or maybe hit some kind of air compressor, because suddenly she became Jessica Rabbit with the cleavage.
If she showed any more breast tissue, she’d be getting a goddamn mammogram.
“So,” she drawled, “I was wondering if you want some coffee . . .”
Tea . . . or me? he finished in his head for her.
“Thanks, but I’m late for a meeting.” Sidestep.
Counterstep. “Well, I could bring it to you?”
“No, thanks—”
She put her hand on his arm. “Really, I don’t mind—”
The fine Officer Reilly picked that moment to come out of IA. And what do you know, she didn’t hesitate or show any change of expression—but then again, why in the hell should it bother her that he was getting the come-on from someone?
As she passed by, she nodded at him and said hi to his nemesis.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, beyond done with the delays.
“I’ll come see you later,” Britnae called out.
“Reilly,” he hissed. “Reilly.”
The woman he was actually after stopped in front of the sarge’s office. “Yes?”
“I really am sorry. For what I said. That was out of line.”
Reilly switched her file over to her left arm and smoothed her hair. “It’s okay. High-stress time. I understand.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Wouldn’t matter to me if it did.”
On that note, she pivoted on her sensible heel and pushed into the waiting room.
Okay . . . ouch. But he couldn’t blame her.
Instead of following her inside, he just stood there like a plank as the door shut in his face, preoccupied by wanting to kick his own ass. Next thing he knew, the scent of fresh coffee announced that his partner had come up to him.
José de la Cruz looked tired, but alert, which was the man’s SOP. “How we doing?”
“Shitty.”
“You don’t say.” He handed over one of the two coffees in his mitts. “Drink this. Or maybe mainline it.”
“Thanks, man.”
“You ready?”
No. “Yeah.”
As they went into the office, Reilly glanced over to good-morning de la Cruz, then went back to talking to the sarge’s assistant.
Veck parked it on one of the old-school wooden chairs that were lined up against the wood-paneled walls of the sergeant’s outer office. Drinking the coffee, he watched Reilly and noticed all kinds of minute details about her: the way she fussed with her right earring, like the back was loose; how she tended to bend her leg and tap the toe of her shoe when she was making a point; the fact that when she smiled, she had a gold filling on an upper molar that flashed ever so slightly.
She was really attractive. Like, really attractive.
“So, I tried to call you last night,” de la Cruz said quietly.
“My cell’s at the lab right now.”
“You really should get a landline.”
“Yeah.” He looked at his partner. “Guess they didn’t find much out there in the woods.”
“Nada.”
They sat side by side, drinking out of those paper mugs with the card deck suits on them. The coffee tasted awful, but it was hot and gave him something to do.
“You thought about killing Kroner, didn’t you.” As Veck shot a glance over, the other detective shrugged. “I saw you with that paparazzo, remember. I was the one who pulled you off of him. Lot of anger.”
Veck resumed staring at Reilly, glad she was deep in conversation. Nodding in her direction, he said softly, “She doesn’t think I did it. I’m getting the impression you do, however.”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Don’t have to.”
“Nah, I saw the shape Kroner was in. Saw you, too. That’s an equation that doesn’t add up.”
“So why bring up intent?”
“Because I think it’s on your mind.”
Veck made a noncommittal noise. “If she recommends that I stay on active duty, are you going to have a problem with that.”
“No, but I think you shouldn’t be out on the streets alone right now.”
Funny, he felt the same way. And wasn’t that a bitch. “We gonna be grafted at the hip, then?”
The sarge opened his office door and stuck his gray-haired head out. “Let’s do this.”
Reilly unplugged from the assistant, and Veck and de la Cruz followed her into the larger office beyond. The conference table in the far corner was big enough to seat everyone comfortably, and she took the chair farthest away from Veck—which meant she was right across from him. No eye contact; no surprise.
Fucking hell.
“So I’ve read the report you e-mailed me,” the sergeant said to Reilly. “Anything else?”
“Just this addendum which I also sent through.” She passed copies around, and then entwined her fingers together and sat back. “I stand by my conclusions.”
The sarge looked over at de la Cruz. “Anything to add?”
“No. I’ve read the report as well and it says it all.”
“Then I’m prepared to agree with Officer Reilly.” The sergeant stared hard at Veck. “I like you. You’re my kind of cop. But I won’t keep anyone under the badge who’s a danger to others. Reilly here’s your new partner—I can’t spare de la Cruz for the probational hand-holding period I’m laying on you. Which is a month, minimum.”
Reilly showed no reaction to the reassignment, but she was a professional, wasn’t she.
“Can I work on Kroner?” Veck asked.
“Not on your life. You’ll
be focusing on cold cases for the next thirty days, as well as meeting with Dr. Riccard.”
Ah, yes, the departmental shrink. And in the silence that followed, he knew everyone was waiting for him to groan, but he wasn’t a Lethal Weapon wild card, damn it.
Yeah. For example, he couldn’t dislocate his shoulder, he didn’t live on the beach with a dog, and he wasn’t rocking a death wish. You’re welcome.
“Okay.”
Sarge seemed a little surprised, but then he knocked on his table with his knuckles, which Veck took as the guy’s way of expressing satisfaction. “Good. De la Cruz, I want to talk to you. The pair of you—we’re done.”
Reilly was up and out of the office faster than a bullet, but two could shoot that quick. Veck got right on her tail, and he caught her in the outside hallway.
“So how’s this going to work,” he said.
That was all he had. The apology route hadn’t worked, and somehow he didn’t think thanking her for the report was going to fly, either.
She shrugged. “I’ll wrap up what I’m working on this morning, and then we’ll focus on cold cases.”
“For thirty days.”
“Thirty days.” She didn’t look enthused, but neither did she seem to dread the prospect. Which told him she was not an easy poker target if they had downtime. “I’ll see you at one o’clock in your department, Detective.”
“Roger that, Officer.”
As she walked off, she made some notes in her file, her head buried in work. A couple of guys from the beat passed her and looked her way, their focus lingering, as if they were hoping to catch her eye. She didn’t look up, though. Didn’t notice.
Veck sure as hell did. And found that he wanted to perform an optical adjustment on the bastards.
“You left this in the sarge’s office.”
Veck turned. De la Cruz had come out and had Veck’s coffee.
Well, this wasn’t awkward. Nope.
“Thanks, man.” Veck palmed the paper mug and took a draw from the rim. The shit was now lukewarm, its only redeeming factor gone. “Well, it was nice working with you.”
“Same.” José put his palm out. “But who knows, maybe you’ll be reassigned to me in a month.”
“Yeah.” Somehow, though, Veck had a feeling his days with the CPD were numbered.
They walked back to Homicide together in silence, and when they opened the door to the department, every single detective in there looked around the gray partition walls of his or her cubicle.
Veck saw no reason to sugarcoat things. “On duty. Off Kroner. With Reilly.”
A lot of nodding came back at him, and, man, he appreciated people being cool. Then again, these were decent folks doing a hard job on a shoestring budget, and there wasn’t a lot of time for bullshit. Besides, good or bad, after he’d coldcocked that paparazzo, he’d earned a lot of respect.
As everyone returned to work, José clapped him on the shoulder and headed off to his own desk.
Veck didn’t waste time. He parked it in his chair, signed into the computer, and checked his e-mail.
Cold cases, huh. That was a pretty goddamn broad category.
Going into the departmental database, he called up all missing persons reports. Which were technically cold cases, weren’t they, assuming they were still open. Initiating a search, he leaned back and let the computer do its thing. The fact that the data screen he used just happened to be women aged sixteen to thirty who’d been reported in the last, oh, say . . . three weeks? When Kroner happened to be busy in the area?
Wasn’t that a coincidence.
CHAPTER 7
At twelve o’clock, Reilly left the station house on foot and headed into deep downtown. The day was glorious, the April sun so bright and warm that it chased away the bite of the fifty-five-degree air. She was not the only one taking advantage of the weather. People were out on the sidewalks and crosswalks in droves, clogging traffic while they strolled with sodas or ice cream in their hands, or carried their take-out to the lip of a fountain or the contour of an iron bench in the park.
After six months of icy-cold darkness, upstate New York was panting for some sign that winter’s back had finally been broken—and this beautiful lunch hour was not to be squandered.
Ostensibly, she was taking a break so she could clear her head before she saw Veck again. Her strides, however, had a purpose and direction she refused to look too closely at.
The Galleria Mall was yet another downtown revitalization project, but unlike so many attempts, it had actually succeeded. Anchored by a Macy’s and a shiny new Barnes and Noble bookstore, the four-block stretch of 1920s office buildings had been closed to everything but foot traffic, given an attractive, unifying face-lift, and become the locus of high-noon retail therapy for thousands of cubicons like Reilly.
Except unlike a lot of her cohorts, this was the first time she’d ever walked the stretch of Bath & Body Works, and Talbots, and the Gap. . . .
When she stopped in front of the next store in line, she blinked in the pink glare that came through all the glass.
Oh, no. Nope. This was not her—
A woman came out with two big bags swinging from her hands, and a smile as wide as a freeway on her face.
“Sale!” she said to Reilly. “Yay!”
Her voice was so high it was like she was breathing out helium. Although maybe that was because it looked like she was wearing a bustier under her coat.
Reilly shook her head. Sale or no sale, this was not her kind of—
Annnnnnd somehow she was in the store.
Holy. Crap. She’d never seen so much underwear in one place in her whole damn life.
Victoria’s Secret was not for the faint of heart . . . or the big of butt, she feared, wondering exactly how long it had been since she’d hit the gym.
High school. No . . . maybe it was elementary.
Boy, all the lace was intimidating. As were the pictures of the Photoshop’d models who had been blown up to beyond life-size.
And to make matters worse, the place was packed with women who were not Reilly’s demographic. These were all chippies in their early twenties, snatching up thongs and demi-cups and peekaboo somethings or another. Even the slouchy, sweatpantsy stuff looked like it was meant to be stripped off by the teeth of some quarterback—
“Hi, can I help you?”
Reilly winced. “Ah . . .”
The saleswoman was a gorgeous African-American who probably looked good in every single thing that hung on the little hangers or was folded on the tables, and in comparison, Reilly felt like a pasty, freckled stretch of please-let’s-do-this-with-the-lights-off.
“I’m good, thanks—”
“We’re having a sale.”
“Yeah, I saw someone come out of here with a couple of bags.” Which, considering how small everything was, meant the chick had bought five hundred, maybe six hundred sets of stuff.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
Reilly was about to shake her head no, when her mouth opened of its own volition. “I want to feel like a woman, instead of a police officer. I’m just . . . really frickin’ tired of myself and my job right now. Do you know what I mean?”
Oh, shit, what was she saying?
And P.S., this had nothing to do with Brittany, spelled Britnae.
The saleswoman smiled. “I do. And you’ve come to the right place.”
Reilly glanced at a tiger-print teddy and wasn’t so sure about that. “I don’t think I’ve ever bought lingerie before—nothing I own matches, and I think a couple of my bras are from the Civil War. Maybe the Revolutionary.”
“Well, I’m Ralonda.” She put out her hand. “And I can take care of you.”
“Reilly. I mean . . . Sophia.” As they shook, she muttered, “Do you have a pysch degree, by any chance?”
“As a matter of fact, that’s what I’m going to school for over at SUNY Caldwell.”
“God, you are perfect.”
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“Hardly.” Ralonda smiled again, flashing beautiful white teeth. “Let’s get you measured and I’ll bring you some things.”
One hour and six hundred seventy-two dollars and forty-three cents later, Reilly left with three bags full of things. As she headed out the door, her chin was up and she found herself smiling at two girls who were peering in through the windows.
“They’re having a sale,” she said to them. “Better get in there. And ask for Ralonda—she’s the best.”
As they scurried inside, Reilly marched back to the station house feeling curiously light in her shoes. Then again, maybe the slightly padded cherry red bra with matching red panties she’d put on and kept on had antigravity properties, lifting not just her cleavage, but her entire body.
Made you wonder what the astronauts had on under their suits.
As a horrific image of Buzz Aldrin in a set of hot pink itty-bitties lit up her mind, it dawned on her that walking into HQ with her VS bags and a bounce in her step didn’t exactly send the right message—especially given that she was partnering with Veck for the next month.
Sneaking around the side of the station house, she made it to her car and stashed the contraband in her trunk, as opposed to the backseat.
This time, as she went in through the back and passed by the guard in the lobby, she was painfully aware of herself, wondering whether anyone knew what she had on under her clothes. Nobody paid her any unusual attention, though, which suggested that among the numerous talents of the various members of the force, it appeared as if X-ray vision was not one of them.
First stop was her office. Quick check of voice mail and e-mail. Then it was grab a pad and head for Homicide. And what do you know, her growing confidence in the concealing properties of cotton and wool took it on the chin as she opened the door into the department.
Everyone looked up, including Veck.
Right. Now she knew why folks hated those dreams where they walked naked into a room full of people. She’d never had a nightmare like that before, and as she put her pad up to the front of her breasts, she wasn’t in a big hurry to hop on that learning curve.
But then people just waved and helloed, and she nodded and helloed back while heading over to Veck. The cubicle next to him was empty of everything but a computer and a phone, and as she sat down, she kept her yellow-and-lined right where it was.
