Envy fa-3

by J. R. Ward

  When there was no immediate reply, Nigel walked over to a galley kitchen and stood before a short, squat door. Behind the flimsy barrier, Edward lay in state, neither breathing nor in decay, the angel’s body a vase sporting the scent of flowers that were not there.

  Colin was wise to be here, he thought. With Jim and Adrian engaged in heated warring with Devina, this vessel was not safe—and if it were broken or compromised, there was no restoring the seat of Edward’s soul.

  Although even if it remained pristine, there was no way of knowing whether he would return. Things of this nature were within the purview of the Creator alone.

  Moreover, it would be an unprecedented occurrence.

  But still, Colin should have—

  “I should have told you where I was going,” the archangel said brusquely. “You are correct in that.”

  Nigel turned about. The angel was still on the couch, still sprawled, but those eyes were focused upward, meeting his own.

  “Is that an apology,” Nigel said.

  “Take it as you will.”

  Nigel shook his head and thought to himself, Not good enough, old friend. ’Tis just not good enough, I’m afraid.

  Tugging at the sleeves of his shirt, he pulled down upon his gold cuff links, and stated once again, “I am endeavoring to win this vital contest the best way I know how—and that is within the bounds of proper gamesmanship. I cannot subscribe to the tenet that two wrongs make a right. I will not.”

  “Do not kid yourself,” Colin murmured as he lifted his palm and flexed his fingers. “Clean hands, as you say.”

  “And look at how that turned out. Edward is dead.”

  “You are not to blame for this.”

  “I am.” Nigel shook his head. “That is what you do not understand. All of this is my responsibility. You can have your opinions and your contrariness and your anger, but at the end of it, your shoulders shall not bear the burden of defeat if that is what arises. That is for me, and me alone. So whilst you despise my control, you view things from the advantaged position of commentary without consequence.”

  On that note, Nigel walked over to the door. “I’m glad you are here, and I know you will guard well what is precious.”

  “Nigel.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Colin.”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  When nothing further appeared to be forthcoming, Nigel looked over to the kitchen, and thought of the nature of loss: Some you chose—and could unchoose. Some was forced upon one. And . . . some was permanent.

  “I shall see you anon,” Nigel said, before he ended things by walking out.

  CHAPTER 40

  The next morning, Reilly went into work from her parents’ house on a full stomach: fresh orange juice, two homemade cinnamon buns, a cup of coffee, and a strip and a half of bacon that she had purloined from her father’s plate.

  As she parked her car in the lot behind HQ, every ounce of the yummy-yummy turned to lead: Veck’s motorcycle was angled in against the building.

  He’d obviously turned himself in and was being questioned.

  Looking up the ugly rear flank of where she worked, she was tempted to turn the unmarked’s engine back on and head off to . . . anywhere.

  But she did not run. Never had. Never would.

  Getting out, she blinked in the bright sunlight, and wished that God would hit the dimmer switch: Instead of lifting her mood, the cheery-spring thing drove it down even farther into the sewer.

  “Beautiful day, ain’t it,” someone called out.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Morning, Bails.”

  The detective was wending his way through the cars and trucks and SUVs, and as she watched him, she squinted, the light abruptly going glare on her.

  Maybe she was getting a migraine.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Not even close. You?”

  As he came up, he took off his sunglasses. “Same boat.” He nodded over at the bike. “So he’s here.”

  Reilly rubbed her eyes. “Yes, he is.”

  “Where are your lenses?” he said, tapping his aviators. “Summer’s coming, and so are cataracts.”

  As he put his darks back on, she tilted her head and looked up at him. The light was so bright around the guy, it seemed as if he were made of chrome.

  Okay, she was losing her mind, going total gaga. Next thing she knew, she’d be wearing meat to work.

  “I said . . . are you going to watch the interrogation?”

  Shaking herself, she murmured, “God, no. And sorry, I’m just off today.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders as a friend would, nothing more. “I get that. Come on, let’s go in and try to pretend we’re working.”

  “Good plan.”

  They walked in together, headed out to the lobby and hit the stairs. On the second-floor landing, the admin pool was not at their desks, but over in the back corner, clustered together. As soon as one of them saw Reilly, all of them looked over.

  Ducking her head, she muttered a see-you-later and hurried off to her department. In Internal Affairs, she had more eyes on her, but at least here her colleagues came over, said good morning, and acknowledged the situation: awkward, but better than hushed whispers—and folks were supportive.

  Then again, most people at one time or another had gotten snowed. It was an occupational hazard of breathing.

  When the chat-ups dwindled, she sat down at her desk, logged into her computer and lasted about . . . a minute and a half.

  Out of her department. Down the hall. Into Homicide.

  And as if it were supposed to happen, the first person she ran into was de la Cruz.

  “I was wondering if you’d show,” he said, coming forward and offering his hand.

  Shaking his palm, she cleared her throat. “How’s it going.”

  “They’re just getting started. You want to watch?”

  “Yes,” she said hoarsely.

  “Come with me.” As he led her past the desks, he lifted up his coffee cup. “I just made a caffeine run, you want some?”

  “I’m jittery enough—thanks, though.”

  The interrogation rooms ran down a narrow corridor that was entered through its own doorway, but there was a cut-through at the rear of the department, and de la Cruz held the back door open for her.

  “There’s a monitor in here.”

  The tiny conference room had old carpet, but a new round table—on which was a screen showing black-and-white feed from a ten-foot-by-fifteen-foot room. The camera was trained on Veck, who was sitting in a chair against the corner, and she felt a physical shock at seeing him. Man, he was big, especially looking as coldly aggressive as he was: his arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyes were narrowed and focused on the detective who was questioning him.

  Kind of like the guy was a dartboard.

  Reilly pulled out a chair and sat down, her legs feeling unreliable.

  “Here, let me turn the sound on,” de la Cruz said as he settled in and reached forward.

  “. . . did not plant that earring as evidence,” Veck clipped out. “You have video—watch the damn recording. I didn’t plant the fucking—”

  “But you were over by the Kroner evidence—”

  “Just like every other detective in the house.”

  “And Officer Reilly indicated that you were hoping to find a tie to the Barten case.”

  Veck showed no reaction to her name. “And I did. But how does that correlate with planting something?”

  The other detective—his name was Browne, if she remembered correctly—leaned in over his legal pad. “Your hand was in and out of your pocket.”

  “You ever hear of change? Quarters, dimes, nickels?”

  “You had been up in Sissy Barten’s bedroom.”

  “As had others. I’m not the only rep from this department who’s been through that house.”

  “Look, Veck, just tell me what happened.”
>
  Veck leaned in as well, his face flat-out furious. “I went to Sissy’s house to speak to her mother. I went upstairs, yeah, sure, but I didn’t take anything out of there, and I did not plant any evidence. You’ve already proved that I didn’t hurt Kroner. Why would I want to frame the guy—for a murder, incidentally, that I did not commit?”

  “I’m not sure what we’ve proved with Kroner.”

  Veck sat back again. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  “Maybe you staged the attack precisely so you could put the Barten murder around his neck.”

  “So you think I travel with trained mountain lions or some shit? Besides, Kroner knew where the body in the quarry was, not me.”

  “On the contrary, Kroner mentioned the quarry. You found the body.”

  “No, I didn’t. That was . . .”

  “Who?”

  At that, he reached into the pocket of the fleece he had on and pulled out a pack of Marlboros.

  Ah, so he’d lied about quitting as well.

  The other detective shook his head. “No smoking in here.”

  Veck muttered under his breath as he disappeared the pack. “Look, you want my statement? It’s simple. I didn’t do it—the murder, the earring, any of it. Someone is trying to frame me.”

  “Can you prove that, Veck.”

  God, she could practically feel a cold rush of air as Veck bit out, “The question is more, can you prove it.”

  “He killed her,” Reilly said roughly. “Oh, my God, he killed her, didn’t he.”

  He knew how the system worked, knew the ways to get away with murder—he was a detective, after all. He’d been trained on the limits of the law and evidence and proof.

  De la Cruz glanced over. “I’m not going to lie. This doesn’t look good, any of it.”

  She thought back to the quarry, to Jim Heron, to Veck finding the body . . . it was the perfect staging piece.

  And Kroner? Veck could have gone out to those woods with the plan of killing the guy, only to have a wild animal cut him off.

  Luck, after all, didn’t just play in favor of the righteous.

  If Kroner had died by that motel as he was supposed to, and the earring had been planted successfully, and Bails hadn’t seen those juvie records, Veck would have gotten away with murder—just like his father.

  And he would have killed again.

  That was what psychopaths like him did.

  Reilly’s hand crept up to her throat. To think she could have fallen in love with a killer . . . just like Veck’s mother had.

  “The most important thing,” she heard herself say, “is that the charges stick. We can’t let someone like him get loose—or it’s his father all over again.”

  “We’re going to need stronger evidence. Right now, he’s technically just a person of interest.”

  “We have to get into his house.”

  “We’re lining up the warrant as we speak.”

  She refocused on the screen. “I want to be there.”

  Sitting on the “other side” of the interrogation table, Veck was on the edge of violence.

  Someone, or something, was lining him up to take a fall, and, man, they’d done their homework. Between the condition of Sissy’s body, the bullshit about this earring, and the connection with his father, he was looking at a crossroads, all right.

  No choice for him, though.

  It was like the autopilot on his life had recalibrated a course right into the side of a mountain, and he couldn’t get the controls back. And the ass-slapper? His colleague across the way here, Detective Stan Browne, was using all the standard interrogation techniques. Hell, Veck could write the dialogue, and he knew the tricks; how the interviewer could shade things or suggest the truth even if there were gray areas. So there was no way to be sure exactly how much hard evidence they had against him.

  At this point, he had one and only one thing going for him: he actually was innocent and the law favored innocent men.

  “Don’t bother to get a warrant,” Veck said as he took his keys out and put them on the table. “Go through my house. Search my shit. You will not find a single thing that will tie me to Sissy Barten or Kroner.”

  Assuming whoever was after him hadn’t planted their own version of a dove earring.

  Shit.

  Browne reached across and took the keys. “Do you want counsel?”

  “I don’t need it. Because this is going nowhere.”

  The other detective rubbed over his eyebrow with the pad of his thumb. “You sound very sure of that.”

  “I am.”

  “So how do you explain the fact that the earring was not accounted for immediately after the truck was impounded and searched, and that it showed up after you’d been in the evidence room?”

  “Like I said, how many people were in and out of there over the last few days? Have you looked at all the digital files from the security cameras?”

  “We will. We’re just starting our investigation.”

  “Well, you better get going. Because what I don’t see, Browne, is anything concrete.”

  “Yet.”

  “Ever.”

  “Will you take a lie detector test?”

  Veck paused on that one. If they asked him whether he intended to hurt Kroner that night? How was he going to handle that?

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Browne turned the page on his pad, even though he’d done nothing but scribble circles on the top sheet. “Okay, good. And I appreciate your giving your consent to go through your house.”

  As if he had a choice? They were going to get permission from a judge anyway. What he really wanted to know was who the hell had implicated him in this—

  Reilly, he thought. That was what the conversation had been about last night—she’d already turned him in at that point. Either that, or she’d been about to.

  But why the hell did she think he’d taken any earring? And she’d been there at the quarry with him when Jim had shown them where Sissy was. They’d both been surprised.

  Unless she didn’t believe any of it. And if that was true, what had been the tipping point?

  Fuck that . . . more like who.

  “Would you mind doing the lie detector now?”

  The subtext being: while we search your house.

  Would Reilly go with them? he wondered. Probably. That was what he would have done in her shoes.

  Veck lifted his eyes to the camera that was focused on him . . . and knew she was on the other side of it.

  “Get the machine,” he said to the lens.

  Browne rose to his feet. “It’ll take us a little time to get set up. You sit tight.”

  “Like I have a choice.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  As Browne left, Veck kept staring up at the little black eye on the buff-colored unit in the corner.

  In slow motion, he mouthed, I’m . . . being . . . framed.

  He was dead clear on the fact that she wouldn’t believe him, but he wasn’t the type not to fight. And after that mute salvo, he refocused on the door. It didn’t take a crystal ball to know that he wasn’t walking away from this one with a reprimand letter or a really beautiful shadow from IA. His career in law enforcement was over, even if he were cleared.

  Which, given how thorough this setup appeared to be, wasn’t a given.

  As he chewed on this new reality he had going on, that anger, that dark, vicious anger, took another crank behind his sternum. Tighter. Tighter still.

  “So what do you think, Jim,” he said softly.

  The angel had been standing in the opposite corner the whole time, looming behind Browne—to the point that when the detective had first sat down, the guy had looked over his shoulder as if he’d sensed the presence.

  Jim’s voice echoed in his head. This is just the setup. The question is, where is this taking us. And you need to lie on the test. You tell them you went out there to kill Kroner and you’re fucked—they may
not let you out of here, and that makes my job harder.

  In the silence that followed, the fury multiplied yet again in the center of Veck’s chest, and in a terrible moment of clarity, he realized he was fully capable of killing someone. Right here. Right now. With the chair he was sitting on. With that blue-and-gold CPD pen Browne had left behind by mistake. With his bare hands.

  And it would not be murder as in a “go apeshit, lose your mind, and white out” kind of event—as he’d assumed had happened with Kroner. This would be a very calculated murder, the sort of thing that would leave him in control of himself and his victim.

  The sort of thing that took you away from this furious impotence and made you feel like a god.

  No wonder his father had been addicted to the rush. And weaklings like Kroner craved it. The ultimate power was to take away life, to see someone beg, to hold in your hands the future of another person and their family and their community . . . and then crush all of it.

  Fear was the master and pain was the weapon.

  And in Veck’s current state, even with the angel right behind and sticking with him, he was only a step away from filling his father’s shoes.

  Sweet spot, indeed.

  CHAPTER 41

  As Reilly drove over to Veck’s house with half a dozen other officers, she was prepared to let her colleagues’ fingers do the walking.

  She was in observational mode and going to stay that way: eyes peeled, but hands staying in her pockets. Frankly, she was lucky to be allowed to come along at all.

  By the time the various cars were parked in Veck’s driveway, it looked like a cop convention, and as she got out of her unmarked, she caught sight of a couple of neighbors peeking through blinds. His reputation in his neighborhood was not her concern anymore, however.

  Now, she was worried about keeping these people safe from him.

  As the front door was opened with his own keys, the talk of her colleagues faded into background music for her, everything receding from notice as she entered behind the others.

  The first thing she did was look at the couch. There was a pillow down at the far end, as if Veck had spent the night there, but no blanket, even though it was still cold at night. An ashtray full of butts along with two crushed packs of Marlboros and a red Bic were on the floor . . . right where his wallet had landed three nights ago.