Envy fa-3

by J. R. Ward

She wasn’t alone long, however, because he moved fast, going downstairs, rifling around in what sounded like the kitchen, coming back quickly. He canned the overhead light as he reentered, and at first she thought it was for her modesty—not that she needed it, considering what he’d done to her at that counter—but then she saw him put something on the bedside table.

  His gun.

  No, there were two. He’d brought hers as well. From where they’d disarmed at the table before dinner.

  How romantic.

  The stark reminder of the night before chilled her, but he took care of that, covering her with his hot, hard body.

  “Don’t think about it,” he whispered. “Not now. There’ll be plenty of time when we’re through.”

  She touched his face and wished they were on vacation somewhere far, far away from the kind of work they did and the reason they had been brought together.

  “You’re right,” she said. “And I don’t want to wait a moment longer.”

  He nodded, and produced that last foil square he’d kept in his wallet. When he was finished taking care of things, he mounted her again, and as she spread her legs further, she felt the shift in him, in herself: everything slowed down.

  As he entered her on a gentle glide, she welcomed him not just with her sex, but her soul, kissing him deeply.

  Without words, without hesitations, without any reservations, they moved together, building momentum, gathering intensity. When the end came, it was at the same time, and they held on to each other, she with her nails digging into his back, he with his arms under her and squeezing.

  It was the most perfect union. And afterward, even though he had to pull out and did, they lay together in the dark as close as they could get, their bodies forming a critical mass of warmth in the center of the bed.

  “Will you let me stay the night?” he asked.

  “Yes. Please, yes.”

  “I’ll be right back. You get under the covers.”

  Good idea. Because as soon as he was up off of her, the cold rushed in and goose-pimpled her all over.

  A few minutes later he came back from the bath and joined her. “Did I take your side?”

  “Ah . . . no. I’m over here at night.”

  “Good.”

  She rolled over and they faced each other, heads on her pillows, bodies warming up under the weight of the blankets.

  He brushed his fingertip down her cheek . . . across her jaw . . . to her lips. “Thank you . . .” he whispered.

  God, she couldn’t find her breath at this moment. “For what.”

  There was a pause. “The pizza. It was just the way I like it.”

  Reilly laughed. “Smart-ass.”

  “Come here. I need to hold on to you.”

  She felt the same way. And when there was no distance between them, it was like coming home.

  With her head on his chest over his thumping heart, and his arms around her, and her leg thrown over his, she wasn’t just comfortable; she was safe.

  While he idly smoothed her hair, she closed her eyes. “This is just perfect.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice: “Which is how I want it to be for you. I want to make everything perfect for you.”

  As Reilly drifted off to sleep, her last thought was . . . she couldn’t wait to do it all over again. And not just the sex. This lovely, invaluable quiet was even better than the making love part.

  Although that hadn’t been half-bad, either.

  CHAPTER 34

  The following morning, as Veck walked into HQ, his number one priority was not grinning like a motherfucker.

  Tough to pull off.

  He was an hour late, because he and Reilly had engaged in acts that, had he had any more condoms, would have been termed “foreplay.” As it stood, given that they’d been completely surrounded by no amount of latex, what went down was better than the best sex he’d had with anyone else—by about five thousand miles.

  And he’d already hit a Walgreens and stocked up on the way into work.

  As he strode through the lobby, he nodded to people, keeping it professional even though his inner sixteen-year-old had its swagger on like he’d won the Super Bowl, the World Series, and the Stanley Cup all in one night.

  When he got to the top of the stairs, he prayed like hell that Britnae didn’t morning-coffee him. That girl had nothing on his Reilly, and it was time to break her of the habit of coming on to him. He didn’t need to worry, though. One of the night guys, who worked intake, was at her desk. Veck didn’t know the officer all that well, but he was looking different somehow. Kind of like he’d gotten his Hugh Jackman on, in spite of the fact that on the surface he had more in common with Homer Simpson. And Britnae? Eating it up.

  Which proved that what was inside was what counted—and who knew a girl like that would figure it out?

  Down in Homicide, he sat at his desk and fired up his computer. And then struck by a romantic notion that was as unfamiliar as it was undeniable, he went into his e-mail, got Reilly out of his contacts, and got ready to send her something.

  Lot of space to fill. Looooot of space.

  In the end, he typed only a few words. And he hit send fast, before someone looked over his shoulder.

  Afterward, he just sat there and stared at his screen, wondering if he’d done the right thing . . . until he realized he was looking at his in-box, and the report on Sissy Barten was already in from the ME.

  Clearly, the guy had burned the midnight oil to do the autopsy.

  Veck read through it all and looked at each one of the twenty or so photographs of the body. There was nothing in any of them that he hadn’t seen for himself at the quarry, and when he got to the last shot of the ritualistic markings on the torso, he sat back, and tapped his forefinger on his mouse.

  If Kroner didn’t kill her, who did?

  “Mail call.”

  Veck glanced up at the administrator with his rolling cart of envelopes and boxes. “Thanks, man.”

  Three pieces. Two interdepartmental. One U.S. mail . . . that happened to have a cancellation stamp from Connecticut. Return address? The federal corrections institution he had avoided for the past ten years.

  Looking at the envelope, he felt like he’d gotten shrinkwrapped in broken glass.

  His first impulse was to throw the thing out, but the pull of what might be inside made that impossible—and didn’t that make him hate the mental power his father had always had over him.

  Call me when you get scared enough.

  Why Jim Heron’s voice was in his head as he tore open the flap was nothing he was going to waste energy on.

  Inside was a sheet of paper with three lines handwritten in an elegant, flowing script that was more the image of wealth that his father had sported than the guy’s roots in the Midwest.

  Dear Thomas: I hope this finds you well. I wish for you to come see me as soon as possible. The prison is allowing me a final visitor and I have chosen you. There are things to be said, son. Call the below. Love, Your Father

  “Are you okay?”

  Veck glanced up. Reilly was standing next to him, her coat still on, her purse hanging from her shoulder, her hair smooth and freshly shampooed.

  If it hadn’t been for the night before, he would have yeah-fine’d her and moved along. Instead, he just held the letter up to her.

  She sat down in her chair as she read it, and he watched her eyes go left to right, left to right, left to right. Then she went back to the top and read it over again.

  “What are you going to do,” she asked when she finally looked up.

  “It’s mental suicide to see him.” Veck rubbed his eyes to clear the imprint of those words. “Mental fucking suicide.”

  “Then don’t do it,” she said. “You don’t need whatever he’s going to say to stick in your head for the rest of your life.”

  “Yeah.”

  The trouble was, his father wasn’t the only one with something on his mind. And sure, it would
be great to be the big man and walk away, but he felt the need to look into those eyes one last time—at least to see if there really was anything in common in there. After all, he’d felt crazy all these years, covering up mirrors, double-checking shadows, staying up at night wondering whether it was paranoia or valid perception.

  This could be the last chance to find out.

  “Veck?” she said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Are you going to go down?”

  “I don’t know.” And that was the truth. Because she did have a point. “Hey, ah . . . the report on Sissy Barten came in. You need to take a look at it.”

  “Okay.” Down with the purse. Off with the coat. “Anything surprising?”

  “Everything is surprising about that case.” Veck glanced over. “And I want to go to talk to Kroner.”

  She met him right in the eye. “You’ll never get the clearance.”

  “I wasn’t planning on asking for it.”

  Reilly cursed to herself. This was not how she’d planned for the morning meet-and-greet to go. After Veck had left her house, she’d enjoyed a long shower, shaved everything she had to run a razor over, and gone bag-diving into her new Victoria’s Secret collection.

  The black-and-red bra-and-panty set she had on reminded her of every single lick, suck, and stroke they’d shared—and put her in mind for more of the same as soon as possible. So she’d planned on coming in here, acting professional, and somehow discreetly tipping her hand to him about what was under her clothes.

  Instead, she’d walked into a management issue.

  Glaring at her partner, she shook her head. “Going off half-cocked is not the answer. And if you intend to follow through with this, you’ve put me in a hell of a position.”

  “Sissy Barten is what’s important. Not bureaucratic rules. And I’ve been cleared from any involvement with that night at the motel—remember? You were the one who did it.” He sat forward. “Kroner didn’t kill her, and you know it. Serial killers do not vary their styles—they get sloppy sometimes, or stop in the middle if they’re interrupted. But a guy who has been taking trophies off his victims does not suddenly start scratching symbols into their skin, or bleeding them out. What I need to find out is why that man knew what he did about the quarry and why the hell her earring is in the things from his truck. There’s something we aren’t seeing in all this.”

  She couldn’t argue with him on any of that. It was his method that was the problem. “Someone else could ask him those questions.”

  “You?”

  “Yes.”

  In the silence that followed, she thought, Well, at least they’d had the night and the early morning to be on the same page. Too bad it hadn’t lasted. He was going to fight her on this, and she was going to get pissed, and then everything they’d shared before and after that damn pizza was going to go out the window—

  “Okay,” he said. As Reilly recoiled, his mouth tightened. “You don’t have to look so surprised. Just take Bails with you this time. Or de la Cruz. The idea of you alone with that man, even though he’s in a hospital bed and you’re good with a gun, gives me the heebs.”

  God, she wanted to take his face in her hands and kiss him for being sensible.

  Instead she smiled and took out her cell phone. “I’ll check in with de la Cruz right now.”

  As she got the detective on the phone, she signed into her e-mail—and nearly lost focus on the conversation she was having with the man. Veck had left her something in her in-box, and she double-clicked on it just as some kind of update on Kroner’s condition came over the line.

  There were only three words: I love you.

  Her head whipped around. But Veck was looking studiously busy with his computer.

  “Hello?” de la Cruz said.

  “Sorry. What?”

  “Why don’t you and Bails go together.”

  “Fine.” Her eyes stayed on Veck’s face as he stared at the screen in front of him. “I’m ready to head out when he is.”

  Some other things were said, but damned if she knew what they were. And when she hung up, she was at a loss.

  There was no I think before the I love you. No stupid photo below the words of a cat and dog with computer-generated affection in their eyes. No other way of misinterpreting the statement.

  “Just thought you should know,” Veck said under his breath.

  She wasn’t aware of a conscious decision to hit reply, or of putting her hands on her keyboard. It just happened—

  “What’s going on here?”

  Reilly cleared the screen with a quick click. Swiveling her chair around, she looked up at Bails. Crap. He was right behind her, looking tense.

  “Did de la Cruz call you?” she said smoothly.

  The guy glanced over to the back of Veck’s head—where he got nothing, obviously. So his eyes returned to her. “Ah . . . yeah, he did. Just a second ago.”

  Cue the Jeopardy! theme. And the likelihood that he’d read what had been on that e-mail.

  “And when will you be ready to go over to the hospital with me?” she prompted.

  “Ah . . . I’ve got a suspect coming in for questioning right now. So after that?”

  “Fine. I’ll be here.”

  As she stared up at him, she met his narrowed gaze fully and without apology. She didn’t know the guy well at all, but it was pretty clear he wasn’t happy. And this was why you didn’t date people from work. Possessive best buddies were bad enough if all you had to do was deal with them on the occasional poker night and during major sporting events. Seeing them nine-to-five?

  Then again, as soon as Veck’s probationary period was over, she was going to go back to IA.

  The idea eased her. Much better all around—

  Oh, crap. She was going to have to disclose this relationship, wasn’t she. And once she did, they were going to take her off monitoring him—which was absolutely appropriate.

  Well . . . it looked as if she wasn’t going to have to wait for a month before she went back to her department.

  “Hey, DelVecchio. Pick up your phone,” someone called out.

  Funny, she hadn’t heard it ringing. Neither had he or Bails, apparently.

  As Veck yeah’d and uh-huh’d his way through some kind of conversation, she could feel Bails hovering and wanted to shoo him off like a fly. Fortunately, the same woman who’d called out for Veck to get with the receiver came over and told the other detective that his suspect was down at intake.

  “I’ll stop by when I’m through,” Bails said. After she nodded, he clapped Veck on the shoulder and walked off.

  Veck hung up. “That was de la Cruz. He wants me downtown on a shooting that happened late last night. He needs an extra hand—and I think he wants to make sure I don’t get any ideas about going to the hospital with you.”

  Made sense. “We’re not heading off for a while, though.”

  “This is going to be a long day. We’ve got to cover an entire apartment complex.”

  Veck stood up, put on his coat, and patted his various pockets, no doubt checking for badge, gun, wallet, keys, cigarettes.

  “You need to stop smoking,” she blurted out.

  As he froze, she thought, Damn it, way to sound like a girlfriend; those three words he’d sent her over e-mail didn’t give her those rights. Step in that direction? Yeah. But not a door to drive a bus through.

  The trouble was, she cared about him enough not to be comfortable with sitting by and watching him kill himself—

  Veck took out his open pack of Marlboros . . . and crushed them in his hand.

  “You’re right.” He tossed the wad into the wastepaper basket under his desk. “If I get cranky for the next couple of days, I apologize.”

  Reilly couldn’t stop the smile on her face. And in a whisper only he could hear, she said, “I’ll think of some ways to distract you.”

  As she slowly uncrossed and recrossed her legs, his eyes flared. Which told her she might as wel
l have revealed her Secrets, so to speak.

  “I’m going to hold you to that.” He winked like a bad boy who knew what to do with her body. Natch. “Stick with Bails—and call me when you’re through, okay?”

  “Deal.”

  She turned back to the desk she was using, but watched him walk out the door from the corner of her eye.

  Dear Lord, that man looked good from behind. . . .

  CHAPTER 35

  On some level, it felt great to be out doing his job, Veck thought a few hours later.

  Okay, it was not great that some sorry bastard had gotten shot in the face, or that none of the neighbors wanted to say a word about what they might have seen, or that he and de la Cruz were likely wearing out the soles of their shoes for nothing. But this was normal-course-of-hard-business shit. This was not about his father or freaky, no-footprint-leaving, midnight-stalker shit.

  The victim in question had been popped while parked and sitting in the driver’s seat of his SUV at this twelve-building apartment complex known for its lively, illegal cash-and-carry commerce. Discovered this morning by the street-sweeping crews, there had been no drugs or cash on the body or in the vehicle, but they had found a list of names and dollar amounts on a crumpled piece of paper in the guy’s coat, crack residue in a series of plastic bags in the back, and a total of five guns in the car.

  None of which he’d evidently been able to get to fast enough.

  Unless you assumed that the ones that had been easy-access had been lifted along with the rest of the valuables.

  By noon, he and de la Cruz were well into their rounds of the buildings, knocking on doors, trying to get people who were suspicious of cops and rightfully scared of retaliation to talk.

  As he went from door to door, he kept recalling the victim’s frozen grimace as the kid sat slumped behind that wheel, the seat belt across his chest all that kept him upright, the facial features that had once identified him to his mother and his family and his buddies ruined to the point of putting him into dental records territory.

  Thinking back to Kroner in those woods, Veck remembered his own urge to kill. The idea that he was going to take out an evildoer had made it seem more justifiable—at least, to one part of him—but did that really matter?