Lover Unleashed bdb-9

by J. R. Ward

  Straightening, he glanced around the empty alley. Same MO as the first, he was willing to bet: Do the work elsewhere, dump the remains in downtown Caldwell, go trolling for another victim.

  They had to catch this motherfucker.

  Clicking off his beam, he checked his digital watch. Forensics had been doing their nitpicking job, and the photographer had clicked her shit, so it was time to take a good look at the body.

  “Coroner’s ready to see her,” Veck said from behind him, “and he’d like some help.”

  José pivoted on his heel. “Have you got gloves . . .”

  He paused and stared over his partner’s broad shoulder. On the street beyond, a group of men walked by in triangular formation, one in the lead, two behind him, three behind them. The arrangement was so precise and their footfalls in such synchronization that at first, all José noticed was the militarylike marching and the fact that they were all wearing black leather.

  Then he got a sense of their size. They were absolutely huge, and he had to wonder what kind of weapons they were packing under their identical long coats: The law, however, forbade police officers from strip-searching civilians just because they looked deadly.

  The one in the lead cranked his head around and José took a mental snapshot of a face only a mother could love: angular and lean, with hollowed cheeks, the upper lip malformed by a cleft palate that hadn’t been fixed.

  The man resumed looking straight ahead and the unit continued onward.

  “Detective?”

  José shook himself. “Sorry. Distracted. You got gloves?”

  “I’m holding them out to you.”

  “Right. Thanks.” José took the set of latex and snapped them on. “You’ve got the—”

  “Bag? Yup.”

  Veck was grim and focused, which, José had learned, was the man’s cruising speed: He was on the young side, only in his late twenties, but he handled shit like a veteran.

  Verdict thus far: He did not suck as a partner.

  But it had been only a week and a half since they’d really started working together.

  At any crime scene, who moved the bodies depended on a host of variables. Sometimes Search and Rescue handled it. With others, like this sitch, it was a combination of whoever was around who had a strong stomach.

  “Let’s cut open the front of the box,” Veck said. “Everything’s been dusted and photographed, and it’ll be better than trying to tip it forward and have the bottom rip free.”

  José glanced over at the CSI guy. “You sure you got everything?”

  “Roger that, Detective. And that’s what I was thinking, too.”

  The three of them worked together, Veck and José holding the front side while the other man used a box cutter—natch. And then José and his partner carefully lowered the panel.

  She was another young woman.

  “Damn,” the coroner muttered. “Not again.”

  More like damned, José thought. The poor girl had been done just as the others had, which meant she’d been tortured first.

  “Fucking hell,” Veck muttered under his breath.

  The three of them were careful with her, as if even in her deceased state, her battered body registered the rearrangement of her limbs. Carrying her a mere two feet, they placed her in the opened black bag so the coroner and photographer could do their things.

  Veck stayed crouched down with her. His face was utterly composed, but he nonetheless gave off the vibe of a man who was angered by what he saw—

  The brilliant flare of a camera flash broke out through the dim alley, sure as a scream through a church. Before the shit even faded, José’s head ripped around to see who the hell was taking pictures, and he wasn’t the only one. The other officers who were standing about all snapped to attention.

  But Veck was the one who exploded up and took off at a hard run.

  The camera guy didn’t stand a chance. In a totally brazen move, the bastard had ducked under the police tape and taken advantage of the fact that everyone had been focusing on the victim. And in his escape, he got snared in what he’d violated, tripping and falling before he recovered and gunned for the open door of his car.

  Veck, on the other hand, had the legs of a sprinter and way more lift than your average white boy: No scurrying under the yellow for him; he vaulted over the bitch and launched himself onto the hood of the sedan, pulling his weight up by the lip of the hood. And then everything went slow-mo. While the other officers rushed forward to help, the photographer floored it, and the tires squealed as he panicked and tried to peel off—

  Right in the direction of the crime scene.

  “Fuck!” José yelled, wondering how in the hell they were going to protect the body.

  Veck’s legs fishtailed around as the car snapped through the yellow tape and came arrowing right for the cardboard box. But that son of a bitch DelVecchio not only stayed put like glue; he managed to reach in through the open window, grab the wheel, and crash the sedan into a Dumpster four feet in front of the goddamned victim.

  As the air bags exploded and the engine let out a vicious hiss, Veck was thrown up and over the trash bin—and José knew he was going to remember the sight of that man airborne for the rest of his life, the guy’s suit jacket blown open, his gun on one side and his badge on the other flashing as he flew without wings.

  He landed flat on his back. Hard.

  “Officer down!” José hollered as he ran for his partner.

  But there was no telling that SOB to stay still or even a chance to help him up. Veck jumped onto his feet like the fucking Energizer bunny and lurched over to the knot of officers who had surrounded the driver with guns drawn. Shoving the others out of the way, he ripped open the driver’s-side door and pulled out a partially conscious photo poacher who was one last pastrami and rye away from a heart attack: The bastard was as fat as Santa Claus and had the ruddy coloring of an alkie.

  He was also having trouble breathing—although it wasn’t clear whether that was from inhaling the powder of the air bag or the fact that he’d made eye contact with Veck and clearly knew he was about to get a beat-down.

  Except Veck just dropped him and dived into the car, pawing his way through the deflated bags. Before he could get hold of the camera and bust it to dust, José jumped in.

  “We need that for evidence,” he barked, as Veck outted himself and lifted his arm over his head like he was going to slam the Nikon down on the pavement.

  “Hey!” José two-handed the guy’s wrist and threw all his weight into his partner’s chest. Christ, the fucker was a big bastard—not just tall, but jacked—and for a split second, he had to wonder whether he was going to get anywhere with this manhandling bullshit.

  Momentum turned the tide, however, and Veck’s back slammed into the side of the car.

  José kept his voice calm in spite of the fact that he had to use all his strength to keep the guy in place. “Think about it. You kill the camera, we can’t use the picture he took against him. You hear me? Think, damn you . . . think.”

  Veck’s eyes shifted over and locked on the perp, and frankly, the lack of crazy in them was a little disturbing. Even in the midst of manic, physical exertion, DelVecchio was strangely relaxed, utterly focused . . . and undeniably deadly: José got the sense that if he let the other detective go, the camera wasn’t the only thing that was going to be irreparably damaged.

  Veck looked entirely capable of killing in a very calm, competent way.

  “Veck, buddy, snap out of it.”

  There was a moment or two of nothing-doing, and José knew damn well that everyone in the alley was as unsure as he was about how this was going to go. Including the photog.

  “Hey. Look at me, my man.”

  Veck’s baby blues slowly shifted over and he blinked. Gradually, the tension in that arm loosened and José escorted the thing down until he could take the Nikon—no way of knowing whether the storm was truly over.

  “You okay?”
José asked.

  Veck nodded and pulled his jacket back into place. When he nodded a second time, José stepped back.

  Big mistake.

  His partner moved so fast there was no stopping him. And he cocked that photog so hard, he probably broke the fucker’s jaw.

  As the perp sagged in the hold of the other policemen, no one said a thing. They’d all wanted to do it, but given Veck’s little car ride, he’d earned the right.

  Unfortunately, the payback move was probably going to get the detective suspended—and maybe the CPD sued.

  Shaking out his punching hand, Veck muttered, “Someone give me a cigarette.”

  Shit, José thought. There was no reason to keep trying to find Butch O’Neal. It was like his old partner was right in front of him.

  So maybe he should give up trying to trace that 911 call from last week. Even with all the resources available down at headquarters, he’d gotten nowhere and the cold trail was probably a good thing.

  One wild card with a self-destructive streak was more than he could handle on the job, thank you very much.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Down in the training center at the compound, Butch kind of wanted to hate the surgeon out of loyalty to V.Especially given the guy’s Chippendale, half-naked routine with that towel.

  God, the idea that piece of meat had been near Payne all undressed? Wicked bad idea on so many levels.

  It would have been different if he’d been built like a chess player, for instance. As it was, Butch felt like John Cena had been macking on V’s little sister. How the hell was a surgeon built like that?

  Still, there were two things that saved the guy: The bastard had put on the fresh scrubs Butch had given him—so no more ladies’ night. And, as they’d sat down in front of the Dell in the exam room, the guy seemed honestly concerned about Payne and her welfare.

  Not that they were getting anywhere on that front. The pair of them were staring at the computer screen like two dogs watching Animal Planet: very focused, but incapable of turning up the volume or changing the channel.

  Ordinarily? Butch would phone or text Vishous. But that was not going to happen, given the showdown that was going on up at the Pit.

  God, he hoped V and Jane got their act back together.

  “So now what,” the surgeon asked.

  Butch shook himself back into focus and put his palm on the mouse. “We pray I pull the security files out of my ass. That’s what.”

  “And you were bitching about my towel.”

  Butch cracked a smile. “Smart-ass.”

  As if on cue, the two of them leaned in closer to the screen—like that was somehow going to magically help the mouse find the stuff they were looking for.

  “I suck at this shit,” the surgeon muttered with disgust. “I’m better with my hands.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Go to the start menu.”

  “I’m going, going. . . .”

  “Shit,” they said together as they got a load of all the files or programs or whatever it was.

  Naturally, there was nothing named “Security,” “Cameras,” or “Click here, dummy, to find what you two losers are looking for.”

  “Wait, would it be under ‘videos’?” the surgeon said.

  “Good idea.”

  They both inched even closer, until the tips of their noses were all but polishing the damn monitor.

  “Can I help you guys?”

  Butch snapped his head around. “Thank God, Jane. Listen, we need to find the security camera’s digital files—” He stopped himself. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine, fine.”

  Uh-huh, right. Standing in the doorway, she wasn’t fine. Not even close to fine. To the point where he knew not to ask where V was—or expect the brother to show up anytime soon.

  “Hey, Doc,” Butch said, as he casually got to his feet, “can I talk to you a sec?”

  “Ah—”

  He cut off the protest she was about to put up. “Thanks. Just outside in the corridor. Manello, you try and find your way around the comp.”

  “I’ll get right on that,” the guy said drily.

  When he and Jane were outside the room, Butch dropped his voice. “What’s going on? And yes, it’s none of my business. But I want to know anyway.”

  After a moment, Jane crossed her arms over her white coat and just stared ahead. But not to shut him out, it seemed. More like she was replaying something in her mind.

  “Talk to me,” he murmured.

  “You know why he went for Manny, right?”

  “Not the particulars. But . . . I can guess.” The female had been looking pretty suicidal, frankly.

  “As a doctor, I get pulled in different directions. If you can extrapolate . . .”

  Oh, God, it was worse than he’d thought. “I can. Shit.”

  “That’s not all,” she continued. “When I went up to pack, I found a set of his leathers in the back of the closet. There’s black wax all over them. Along with blood and . . .” She took a shuddering breath. “Something else.”

  “Christ,” Butch groaned.

  As Jane went silent, he knew she didn’t want to put him in the middle and wasn’t going to ask out loud. But she was good like that.

  Fucking hell . . . so much for honoring V’s stay-out-of-it demand. Except he just couldn’t watch the two of them fall apart.

  “He didn’t cheat on you,” he said. “That night, a week ago? He let himself get beaten, Jane. By lessers. I found him surrounded by three of them and they were whipping him raw with chains.”

  She let out a gasp, which she covered with her hands. “Oh . . . God . . .”

  “I don’t know what you found of his, but he wasn’t with anyone else. He told me himself.”

  “But what about the wax? And the . . .”

  “Did it ever occur to you he might have done it himself.”

  Jane was momentarily speechless. “No. Although why couldn’t he just say so.”

  Wasn’t that the theme song of the night. “No guy wants to admit to his wife he was jacking off alone. It’s too pathetic—and he probably thought it was cheating in a way. He’s that devoted to you.”

  As tears speared into Jane’s forest green eyes, Butch was momentarily nonplussed. The good doctor was as buttoned up as her hellren—and that reserved strength was why she was so damned useful as a doctor. It didn’t mean that she was without feelings, though, and here they were.

  “Jane . . . don’t cry.”

  “I just don’t know how we’re going to get through this. I really don’t. He’s upset. I’m upset. And then there’s Payne.” Abruptly, she put her hand on his arm and squeezed. “Can you please . . . can you help him. With what he needs. Maybe it’s the crack in the ice that will help us.”

  As the two of them stared at each other, he wondered if they were really on the same level. But how could he bring that up judiciously: So do you want me to work him over instead of the lessers?

  What if they weren’t on the same page. And she was already tearing up.

  “I can’t do it,” Jane said roughly. “And not just because we’ve got issues at the moment. I just don’t have it in me. He trusts you—I trust you . . . and he needs it. I’m worried that if he doesn’t break through this wall he’s got going on that he and I aren’t going to make it—or worse. Take him to the Commodore, please.”

  Well, that settled one issue.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking the same thing, frankly. And, actually, I just . . . offered it to him.”

  “Thank you.” She cursed and wiped her eyes. “You know him as well as I do. He needs to get unfrozen—somehow, some way.”

  “Yeah.” Butch reached out and stroked her cheek. “And I’ll take care of him. You don’t worry about it.”

  She put her hand on his. “Thank you.”

  They embraced for a moment, and as they did, he thought there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep Jane and V together.
/>   “Where is he now?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. He gave me a bag and I just packed it and left. I didn’t see him in the Pit, but then I wasn’t looking for him.”

  “I’m on it. Will you help Manello?”

  When she nodded, he gave her a lingering squeeze and then took off, hitting the underground tunnel and rocketing down to the last stop in the thing: the Pit.

  With no idea what he was walking into, he put in the pass code and stuck his head in through the reinforced door. No smoke, so nothing was on fire. No screaming. No scent of anything but the fresh bread his Marissa had baked earlier.

  “V? You here?” No answer.

  God, it was too fucking quiet.

  Down the hall, he found V and Jane’s room empty and in a mess. The closet door was open and there were things gone from the hangers, but that was not what really got his attention.

  He went over to the leathers and picked them up. Nice Catholic boy like him didn’t know much about BDSM, but it looked like he was going to be learning firsthand.

  Taking out his cell phone, he hit V, but didn’t expect an answer. He guessed GPS was going to have to come in handy once again.

  “Seems like old times.”

  Manny focused on the computer screen as he spoke. Hard to say what was the most awkward part of sitting next to his former colleague. With so much to choose from, the silence between them was an Easter-egg hunt for three-year-olds, everything badly hidden, ready to be found and captured.

  “Why do you want to review the digital files?” she asked.

  “You’ll see when we get there.”

  Jane had no problem locating the right program, and a moment later the live image of Payne’s room came up on the screen. Wait, the bed was empty . . . except for a duffel bag.

  “Wrong one. Here it is,” Jane murmured.

  And there she was. His Payne. Lying against the pillows, the tail end of her braid in her hands, her eyes locked on the bathroom as if maybe she were imagining him still in the shower.