Covet fa-1

by J. R. Ward

  “You sure?”

  “What's the worst that can happen? I start throwing up again and use the guy's pockets instead of my bedpan? I'm willing to risk that.”

  “Okay, you got it. If it goes on too long, hit the nursing button and we'll intervene.” The doctor nodded and swept the drape back. “Good luck.”

  As the curtain swung shut, Vin squeezed Gretchen's hand with urgency, because he didn't know how much time they had.

  “I want you to tell me the truth.”

  “Always.”

  “What happened with Jim? Did he…?”

  The hard swallow she took before she answered told him everything, and to spare her from having to put out the words, he kissed her hand again. “Shh, it's all right. You don't have to say it—”

  “He was your friend. I'm so sorry—”

  “I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to.” Vin rubbed the beating pulse at her wrist with his thumb. “I'm so glad you're still here. For your son. For me. Jim did an incredibly selfless, heroic thing, and as much as I wish he hadn't died because of it, I'm very grateful for what he did.”

  She dropped her head and nodded, her curling hair falling forward. As he drew circles over the fine bones of her wrist, he traced the glossy waves with his eyes. Jim's final action on earth had left one hell of a legacy, namely a life to be lived…and a son who still had his mother…and a lover whose heart hadn't been shattered by loss.

  A fine legacy.

  “He was a real man.” Vin cleared his throat. “That one…was a real man.”

  They sat in silence together, he flat on the gurney, she on a plastic chair, their hands linked tightly — just as the man who had saved her life had put them together over his chest.

  On the other side of the gray-and-blue curtain, people rush-rush-rushed along, their voices overlapping, their shoes shuffling by, their shoulders brushing the drape and causing it to swing from the metal hooks it hung from.

  He and Gretchen, on the other hand, were motionless.

  Death did that to a person, Vin thought. Stopped them in their place in the midst of the great tumble and scramble of their life, isolating them in still silence. In the instant it took hold, it changed everything, but its effect was like that of a car slamming into a wall—what was inside kept on going because the shit didn't know better…with the result being utter chaos: All the clothes the person had worn became some kind of history exhibit to be cleaned out by a weepy nearest-and-dearest…and their magazine subscriptions and account reports and dental reminders went from “correspondence” to “junk mail”…and the place where they lived went from being a home to a house.

  Everything stopped…and nothing was what it had been.

  God, when the news hit that someone you knew died, you got a small shot of what the deceased was getting a whole boatload of: You stopped short and pulled out of the business of life as the ringing of the bell resonated through your mind and your body. And because humans were a pain in the ass, usually the first thought was, No, it can't be.

  Life, however, didn't come with a rewind button and it sure as fuck wasn't interested in opinions from the peanut gallery.

  The curtain pulled back, revealing a stocky man with dark hair and dark eyes. “Vin diPietro?”

  Vin jerked himself to attention. “Ah…yeah, that's me.”

  The man stepped inside and took out a badge. “I'm Detective de la Cruz from Homicide. How you doing?”

  “Haven't thrown up in about ten minutes.”

  “Well, good for you.” He nodded to Gretchen and gave her a little bow. “I'm sorry we have to meet again so soon…and under these circumstances. Now, can you guys give me a quick version of what happened? And listen, neither of you is under arrest—but if you'd rather talk with a lawyer present, I understand.”

  Mick Rhodes hadn't been called yet, and he'd no doubt advise against saying anything without him, but Vin was too tired to care—and anyway, it didn't hurt to be nominally cooperative when you'd acted within the bounds of the law.

  Vin shook his head back and forth on the pillow. “No, it's fine, Detective. As for what went down…we were upstairs in the bedroom with…” For no good reason, an overriding instinct told him not to mention Eddie—one so strong that he felt powerless to resist it. “…with Jim.”

  The detective took out a little pad of paper and a pen, all Columbo-style. “What were you doing in the house? The neighbors said that usually there's no one in it.”

  “I own the place and I've decided to finally do it over for resale. I'm a real estate developer and Jim works…worked…for me. We were there discussing the project, you know, going through the rooms…I guess I'd left the front door open and we were upstairs when it all happened.” As the detective nodded and made notes in his pad, Vin gave him a chance to get it all down. “We were in the bedroom, talking, and the next thing I know I hear this gun go off. It happened so damn fast…Jim jumped in front of her and took the bullet…I was by the dresser with my back to the door, and I went for my piece—which, by the way, is registered and I have a license to carry. I shot the guy with the gun and he went down.”

  More notations in the pad. “You shot him a number of times.”

  “Yeah, I did. He wasn't getting a chance to let loose any more rounds.”

  The detective backed through his notebook, the inked-up pages making a crackling sound. When he looked up again, he smiled briefly. “Right, okay…so why don't you try it again and tell me the truth this time. Why were you in that house?”

  “I told you—”

  “There was salt poured everywhere and incense in the air and the window upstairs in that bedroom had been broken. The sink on the second floor was filled with some kind of solution, and there were empty bottles of things like hydrogen peroxide all over—and the circle drawn on the floor in the middle of that bedroom you were in was also a nice touch. Oh…and you were found with your shirt off and no shoes on, which seems like an odd wardrobe if you were gum-flapping about business. So…although I'm inclined to believe you about the shooting part, because I can trace the paths of bullets as well as the next guy, you're full of crap about the rest of it.”

  Right, pin-drop time.

  “I think we should tell him the truth, honey,” Gretchen said.

  Vin looked over at her and wondered, Exactly which truth would that be, dear?

  “Please do,” the detective said. “And look, I'll tell you what I believe, if it'll help. The guy you killed was named Eugene Locke, alias Saul Weaver. He's a convicted murderer who got out of prison about six months ago. He was renting the house next door and he was obsessed”—the detective nodded at Gretchen—“with you.”

  “This is what I can't understand…why—” Gretchen stopped. “Wait a minute, how do you know that? What did you find at his house?”

  The detective looked away from his notes, focusing on a middle ground. “The man had pictures of you.”

  “What kind of pictures,” she asked in a flat tone.

  As Vin rubbed her hand, the detective met her eyes. “Wide-lens, telephoto stuff.”

  “How many.”

  “A lot.”

  Gretchen's palm tightened against his. “You find anything else?”

  “There was a statue upstairs. One that actually had been reported stolen from St. Patrick's Cathedral—”

  “Oh, my God, the Mary Magdalene,” Gretchen said. “I saw it was missing from the church.”

  “That's the one. And I'm not sure if you noticed or not, but she looks a lot like you.”

  Vin struggled with the urge to kill the guy all over again. “Could this Eugene…Saul guy…whatever his name was, be responsible for those deaths and beatings in the alleys?”

  The detective flipped through his book. “Since he's dead, and therefore there's no chance of maligning his reputation…I'll tell you that I think I can tie him to both incidents. Right now, the man who was wounded in the head last night is still hanging on. If he mak
es it, I believe he'll identify his attacker as having dark hair, because when we went through Locke's house, we found a men's brunet wig with fine traces of blood splattering on it. The CSIers are already running tests, and I believe that the residue is going to match one or all of our victims. We also have a shoe print from the first scene which happens to look a helluva lot like what Locke was wearing tonight.

  “So, yeah, pulling this all together…” More with the flipping through, then another glance at Gretchen. “I'm thinking that Locke was targeting men you'd danced with or for at the club, and that explains those attacks. And it was a stroke of luck—or misfortune was more like it—that he happened to live in the house next to where you guys were tonight. Because he didn't know that place was yours, right?”

  Vin shook his head. “I'd been there like one other time in the last month, and before that…I can't recall. And I don't think he knew my name to search the real estate records. Besides, how long had he lived next door?”

  “Since he was released from prison.”

  “Yeah, she and I didn't meet but…three days ago.”

  De la Cruz made another note. “Okay, I've been candid. How about returning the favor…? You want to tell the truth about why you were there?”

  Gretchen spoke up before Vin could. “Do you believe in ghosts, Detective?”

  The man blinked a couple of times. “Ah…I'm not sure.”

  “Vin's parents died in that house. And he does want to do it over. The problem is…there's a bad spirit in it. Or was. We were trying to get it out.”

  Vin popped his brows. Holy crap. That was fantastic, he thought.

  “Really?” the detective asked, his brown eyes going tennis-match between them.

  “Really,” Vin and Gretchen said together.

  “No shit,” the detective murmured.

  “No shit,” Vin replied. “The salt was supposed to create a barrier or some crap, and the incense was to clean the air. Listen, I'm not going to pretend I understand all of it…” Hell, he still wasn't clear on everything. “But I know what we did worked.”

  Because he felt different. He was different. He was just himself now.

  De la Cruz flipped to a fresh page and wrote something. “You know, my grandmother used to be able to predict the weather. And there was a rocker up in her attic that moved by itself. What got thrown out the window?”

  “Would you believe it broke on its own?” Vin answered.

  De la Cruz glanced up. “I don't know.”

  “Well, it did.”

  “Guess whatever you did might really have worked.”

  “It did.” Vin rubbed his eyes with his free hand until his shoulder let out a holler he couldn't ignore and he had to stop. “Let's fucking hope it keeps, though.”

  There was a pause and then De la Cruz looked at Gretchen. “I have a follow-up question for you, if you don't mind. You stated to the medics that your name is Gretchen Capricio, but I have it down as Marie-Terese Boudreau. Would you feel comfortable helping me out a little about that?”

  Gretchen did a thorough explanation of her situation, and as she spoke, Vin stared at her beautiful face and wished he could take all the pain from the past and the stress from the present away from her. She had shadows in her eyes and under them, but as he'd come to expect, her voice was strong and her chin up.

  Man, he was in love with her.

  The detective was shaking his head as she finished up. “I'm really sorry about all that. And I understand completely—although I do wish you'd been up-front in the beginning with us.”

  “I was afraid of the press, mostly. My ex-husband's in prison, but his family connections are all over the country…and some of them are in law enforcement. After what happened with my son, I don't trust anyone—even those people with badges.”

  “What made you decide to come clean tonight?”

  Her eyes shifted to Vin. “Things are different and I'm leaving town. I'll still let you know where I am, but…I have to get out of Caldwell.”

  “After all this, I understand it—although we're going to need to be able to reach you.”

  “And I'll come back anytime you need me.”

  “Okay. And look, I'll talk to my sergeant. Giving a false identity to the police is a crime, but under the circumstances…” He put his notebook away. “I also heard from the staff here that you told them you were his wife?”

  “I wanted to stay with him.”

  De la Cruz smiled a little. “I did that once. My wife and I were dating and she sliced her finger open with a knife cutting up a salad for dinner. When I took her to the ER, I lied and told them we were married.”

  Gretchen lifted Vin's hand to her lips and kissed it briefly. “I'm glad you understand.”

  “I do. I really do.”

  The detective nodded at Vin. “So you two just started dating?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Guess your previous lady friend didn't like it, did she.”

  “Yeah…I had the ex-girlfriend from hell.” Literally.

  In a rush, Vin thought back to the mess his duplex had been left in and the lies Devina had told the police. “She's vicious, Detective. Worse than you can imagine. And I did not hit her, not once that night, not ever. My mother was abused by my father, and I don't pull shit like that. I'd walk out and leave everything I own behind before I ever struck a female.”

  The detective's eyes narrowed and that eagle stare locked on Vin. After a moment, the guy nodded. “Well, we'll see. I'm not handling that side of things because it's out of my department…but I wouldn't be surprised if they didn't find there was more going on, like a third party or something. I've looked into the faces of a lot of wife beaters and you're not one of their kind.”

  De la Cruz put his notebook and pen away and glanced at his watch. “Hey, check it out. Now you haven't thrown up in almost a half hour. That's a good sign—maybe they'll let you blow this Popsicle stand.”

  Vin extended his free hand even though his shoulder didn't appreciate it. “You're okay, Detective, you know that?”

  A solid palm met Vin's and they shook. “And I hope you two are going to be all right. I'll be in touch.”

  After the guy left, the curtain flapped back down in place and Vin took a deep breath. “How long do you suppose I have to wait before I can go?”

  “Let's give it another half an hour, and if they don't come to check on you, I'll go find that doctor.”

  “Okay.”

  The trouble was, being powerless and waiting like a good boy had never sat well. Within five minutes, he was getting ready to hit the nurse-call button, except then the curtain parted again.

  “Perfect timing—” Vin frowned. Instead of a nurse or a doctor, it was Eddie, looking as grim as a guy who'd just lost a friend and fallen out of a second-floor window.

  Go. Fig.

  Vin's first instinct was to sit right up, but that didn't go over well at all. As his shoulder let out an opera-singer scream, he had to close his throat up to keep from vomiting all over the front of himself— but at least it wasn't from the Demerol.

  As Gretchen lunged for a fresh bedpan and Eddie held up both of his palms in the universal language of whooooooooooooa, Vin tottered on the edge of losing it.

  Thank fuck the tide receded and his stomach eventually loosened up.

  “Sorry 'bout that,” he said roughly. “I'm having issues.”

  “No probs. No probs at all.”

  Vin breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. “I'm sorry…about Jim.” Gretchen went up to Eddie and gripped the guy's massive upper arms. Standing in front of him, she was both tiny and fierce. “I owe him my life.”

  “Both our lives,” Vin chimed in.

  Eddie hugged her briefly and nodded once at Vin. Clearly, he was the type who controlled his emotions—which was something Vin could respect.

  “I appreciate it. And now, why I've come.” Eddie reached into his pocket, and when he brought out his palm, in th
e center of it was the diamond ring and the gold earring. “Adrian did what he had to and got them away from her. You're both completely free, and the way it works is you're now off-limits to her. You don't have to worry about Devina coming back. Just hold on to these, okay?”

  As Gretchen took the pieces and hugged him again, Vin let her embrace say everything he wished he could, but didn't dare. He was getting a little choked up, and not because his stomach was rolling into another evac: Sometimes sharp gratitude had the same effect on the gut as nausea. The thing was, he just couldn't figure out what these men had gotten from helping him and Gretchen. Jim was dead, Eddie looked like shit, and fuck only knew what Adrian had done with Devina.

  “You guys take care of yourselves, okay?” Eddie murmured, turning to leave. “I've got to go.”

  Vin cleared his throat. “About Jim…I'm not sure if you were planning on claiming his body, but I'd love to give him a proper burial. Nothing but the best. Straight up.”

  Eddie looked over his shoulder, his odd red-brown eyes grave. “That would be cool—I'll leave you in charge of him. And I'm sure he'd appreciate it.”

  Vin nodded once, the deal struck. “You want to know when and where? Can you give me your number?”

  The guy recited some numerals, which Gretchen wrote down on a piece of paper. “Text me with the details,” Eddie said. “I'm not sure where I'll be. I'm taking off.”

  “You don't want to be seen by a doc?”

  “No need to. I'm fine.”

  “Ah…okay. Take care. And thank you…” Vin let the words drift because he didn't know how to say what was in his heart.

  Eddie smiled in an ancient way and held his hand up. “You don't have to say anything else. I feel you.”

  And then he was gone.

  As the curtain flapped shut, Vin watched under its hem as those shitkickers turned to the right, took one step…and disappeared into thin air. Like they'd never been there in the first place.

  Bringing his right palm to his face, Vin rubbed his eyes. “I think I'm hallucinating.”

  “Do you want me to get the doctor?” Gretchen came over, all worried. “I can use the nurse's button—”

  “No, I'm okay…Sorry, I think I'm just really overtired.” For all he knew, the guy had simply moved over to the left and was now, at this very moment, striding out of the ER and into the night. Vin tugged Gretchen down next to him. “I feel like it's over now. This whole thing.”