Envy

CHAPTER 9

The Hannaford supermarket was about five miles away, but it took Reilly some time to get them over there. Between the traffic and the red lights, she was beginning to think that the pair of them were going to spend eternity in the car.

Or maybe the buzzing in her head was what made it seem like forever.

“What’s on your mind,” Veck said.

Tightening her hands on the wheel, she readjusted herself in the driver’s seat. “If it turns out that Cecilia Barten is one of Kroner’s victims, we have to let her go. Are you prepared to do that?”

“Yeah. I am.”

As she looked over, her new partner’s jaw was tight, his big body tense.

“You sure about that.” Because she wasn’t.

“Yeah. I am.”

Are you a hardheaded sonofabitch who’s likely to do what he damn well pleases even if it screws a direct order? Yeah. I am.

Just as she pulled into the parking lot and started on the spot hunt, her phone went off. “Officer Reilly. Uh-huh, yes—not a big surprise. Really? Okay, and thanks for the update. Yes, please keep me informed.”

She hung up and plugged them into a vacancy between an older silver Mercedes and a blue truck.

Twisting sideways in her seat, she said, “Kroner’s barely hanging on. They don’t expect him to live.”

Veck’s harsh face gave nothing away. “Shame. Maybe he knew what happened.”

“And the analysis is in from the samples they took off him—there is saliva residue, but the readings are not one hundred percent clear as to the source. There appear to be similarities with both cougars and wolves. Hard to say for sure, but the animal hypothesis continues to look directionally correct.”

He nodded and cracked his door open. “Mind if I have a smoke before we go in.”

So maybe he was having a reaction, after all. “Sure.”

They got out, and Veck came around to the back of the car, easing against the trunk and taking out a pack of Marlboros—as if a man like him would smoke anything else? As he lit up, she did her best not to think about all the bras and panties that were separated from the seat of his pants by nothing but some layers of sheet metal.

He was careful not to exhale anywhere near her or in a direction she was downwind of. “Bad habit,” he muttered, “but no one lives forever.”

“Very true.”

Leaning against the trunk herself, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked up toward the sun. The warmth on her face was a benediction, and she closed her eyes to enjoy it.

When she eventually opened her lids again, she was shocked.

Veck was staring at her, and there was an expression on his face . . . a sexual speculation that she was almost sure she was reading incorrectly.

Except then he looked away quick.

Not something you did if you were thinking about work.

Abruptly, the spring day’s temperature shot up into the tropical, and now she was the one staring at him. Well, “ogling” was another word for it.

As he brought the cigarette up to his lips, his mouth parted and then he was sucking, the tip flaring orange, his fore- and middle fingers briefly releasing the shaft. Oh, hell’s bells, she thought. Smoking was a deadly, nasty habit she didn’t approve of . . . so it was unsettling to realize all those old Humphrey Bogart movies had not been insane when they’d done close-ups like this. There was just something undeniably erotic about the whole thing. Especially as the smoke eased out of his mouth and briefly shadowed his laser-like navy blue eyes and his dark cropped hair.

She looked away fast before she got caught—

“So?” he prompted.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked what you think.”

Right. How to answer that: I think all the cherry red I’m wearing under my clothes is warping my brain. Because I’m finding the idea of straddling you against this car and riding you like a cowgirl with her hat over her head pretty damn appealing.

“I need more information before I can form an opinion.” So how about lighting up another one of those bad boys and dropping your pants— “Oh, God—”

“Are you okay?” he said, leaning in and putting his free hand on her arm. “You didn’t eat much breakfast—did you get anything for lunch?”

You’re all but sitting on three bags of what I had on my hour off, big daddy.

“You know”—she cleared her throat—“I probably should eat something.”

And so help her, God, if her brain coughed up anything even remotely like whipped cream on some part of his body, she was putting in for a transfer away from herself.

“Let’s go inside,” he said, snuffing out his Marlboro on the heel of his shoe.

Good idea. And note to self: No downtime with her temporary partner. Ever.

They walked over and went through the automatic doors, passing the lineup of carts in the foyer and entering the supermarket proper.

When Veck paused and looked around, she nodded to the right. “The manager’s office is this way.”

“You shop here?”

“These stores are all laid out pretty much the same.”

As they walked together, he said, “I probably should know this one by heart. My house isn’t far from here.”

“So this is where you buy your groceries?”

“My coffee and cigarettes—healthy, huh.”

He sure looked to be in great shape. “You can always change your habits.”

“You know, I quit for a while. The cigs, not the caffeine.”

“What made you take it up again?”

“Coldcocking that photographer.”

Ahhh, so he did have emotions. “There’s a lot of stress in your job.”

“Have you ever been a smoker?”

“No, and I don’t really drink. I’m not big on vices.”

Then again, she could be working on one for shopping.

And that was the last thought she had on any off-work subject. As they went over to customer service, she put aside all distractions, her game head coming back online as she imagined Mrs. Barten’s daughter coming here to this store to help out her mother . . . only to have what should have been a routine trip for groceries turn into a nightmare.

Maybe because of Kroner.

As she got ready to flash her badge to the manager, it was dangerously satisfying to imagine Veck, or even that hard-ass Agent Heron, beating the ever-loving hell out of the guy. But that was not the kind of justice that was going to be served to the serial killer. And she wasn’t fooling herself: It would not be a surprise to find out Sissy was on Kroner’s list of victims, and that possibility was absolutely why Veck was interested in the case.

But Reilly played by the rules. Always had, always would.

First sign this poor girl was one of his victims? They were turning her case over to de la Cruz, and she was dragging Veck’s attention to something else.

Even if it killed him.

When Veck next checked his watch, it was four thirty. The manager was a slow talker, and the digital recordings from the security cameras took a while to review; there were also a bagger and two cart sweepers to interview. No new information, but damn, he and Reilly worked well together.

She knew just when to come forward, and as with Mrs. Barten, she had a way of putting people at ease—which meant they talked more. Meanwhile, he tended to scope out the environment, and assess all the things folks weren’t saying, but were showing in their faces.

Outside the customer service counter, he shook the manager’s hand, and then Reilly did the same.

“Thank you for your time,” she said to the guy. “We really appreciate it.”

“I don’t think we helped you at all.” The man pushed his square glasses up higher on his nose. “Now or before. I feel awful about the whole thing.”

“Here’s my card.” She passed it over. “Call me anytime—I’m available twenty-four/seven. And truly, you’ve been open and honest—that’s all you can do.”

Veck handed his card over as well and then he and Reilly headed for the exit.

“Have dinner with me,” he said abruptly. After all, a second shot at sharing a meal had to go better than their first. Provided he didn’t behave like a defensive asshole again . . .

In response, all he got was a slowdown in her stride and a long hesitation. And then an “Ah . . .”

Not a good sign, so he backed the invite up with a valid rationale: “We need to go through the file together in light of the four hours of interviews we’ve done. Might as well eat at the same time—and I know you’ve got to be starved by now.”

Man, check his shit out. Smooth, casual. Perfect.

He stopped at a huge display made up out of bags of nacho chips, jars of salsa, and a refrigerator bank full of cheese. “I’ll cook for you. Mexican—that’s my specialty.”

Actually, that would be comparatively so: he didn’t know jack about fiesta-anything, but considering this layout, he had more to go on than any other style of cooking: Ordering takeout was the only expertise he had in the kitchen. But come on, if he hit this setup? Nabbed a box of Tacos-for-Dummies in the Ortega aisle? How could he fuck it up?

“We should probably keep things professional,” she hedged.

“It’s not a date, I promise. You’re way too good for that and I’m not that lucky.”

As her eyebrows shot to the heavens, he let the comment stand. It was the truth and they both knew it.

“So what do you say, Officer? The only spice will be in the salsa.”

That got him a true smile, her lips curling upward. “I do like Mexican.”

“Then I’m your man.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then she spoke slowly and carefully, “Okay, but where?”

“My place.”

Walking past her, he snagged a cart and raided the shit out of the nachos display. Talk about manna from above: All the ingredients were lined up, so there was no choice involved. This was just the preamble, however, and he headed for the hanging sign with MEXICAN FOOD on it.

“Are you staring at me, Officer?” he said, as he felt her eyes on him.

“I’m just . . . surprised, that’s all.”

“About what?”

Docking their cart in front of shelves full of bright yellow boxes, he waited for her answer.

“Tacos or enchiladas?” When she didn’t reply to either inquiry, he reached for a meal-in-a-box. “Tacos it is.”

Quick scan of the back. Lettuce. Cheese—he checked in the cart and decided they needed more. Tomatoes.

Roger that. “Where’s the produce section?”

“Down and to the left. But you need hamburger.”

“Yeah, good call.”

The meat counter and freezers ran down the rear of the store, and as they passed by the trays of ground beef, he snagged a flat of four percent lean organic—because she was probably an all-natural kind of eater. When they got to the land of greens and gourds, it was a case of tomato, tomato, and a head of iceberg in a bag.

“Talk to me, Reilly,” he said quietly.

“You just . . . you don’t strike me as a man who needs luck with the ladies.”

“You’d be surprised.” As he piloted them toward the line of checkouts, going by the deli and the salad bar, he felt like explaining himself for some reason. “Look, my father’s well-known for an evil reason, and people are attracted to me because of the notoriety. The women are not like you. Either they’ve got tattoos in stupid places and piercings all over themselves and dumb-ass, overdyed hair or they’re Barbies who want to ‘save’ someone or are hungry for a safe walk on the wild side. Then there are the ones who seem normal, but turn out to have pictures of my father in their purses, and letters they want me to get to him—it’s a fucking mess, to be honest. I’ve learned that I can’t trust anyone, but the good news is that I’m never surprised anymore.”

He pulled their cart into a U-serve and began swiping stuff as Reilly handed him things. “But like I said, you aren’t in any of those categories,” he finished.

“Definitely not.” She passed over the bag of tomatoes. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

“There are worse things to get saddled with.” Like his blood tie to that maniac father of his, for instance. Hell, the groupies who wanted to fuck him just because of his name were bad, but the fact that he had that killer in his very marrow was the true nightmare.

“Are you going. . . in the middle of next week?” she asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“To the execution,” she said gently.

Veck froze with the yellow Old El Paso box in his hand. “It’s going forward?”

“If the governor doesn’t issue a stay. There was an article in the paper today.”

Ah, yes, the three columns he’d skipped at the diner. “Well, I hope they fry the bastard. And no, I’m not going. I have to see that son of a bitch every time I look into a mirror. Enough is enough.”

He took his wallet out and snagged his ATM card.

“Here, let me give you some—”

Veck shot a stare over his shoulder. “The man should pay. I’m traditional like that.”

“And the woman can damn well make a contribution. I’m a realist like that.”

As she shoved a twenty-dollar bill into his palm and leveled her eyes at him, he knew he wanted to kiss her—and not just in his fantasies: He wanted to know what it was like to pull her in close and take a taste of that no-nonsense mouth of hers.

Not going to happen.

Refocusing on things that weren’t going to get him written up or rightfully slapped, he swiped his card, punched in his PIN, and waited for the transaction to go through. After he snagged the receipt and threw it out, they headed for the exit, where he left the cart with the others and grabbed the bags.

As they walked back over to her car, he murmured, “You’re quiet. Did I say too much.”

She glanced up at him as she hit her remote and unlocked everything. “About your father? God, no . . . anytime you want to talk about him, or anything else, I’m happy to listen.”

Veck believed her. Which was a miracle of its own.

Just as he reached for the trunk release, she went for the rear passenger door and said, “Wait, here, put the groceries—”

“I’ll just throw them in—”

As the top rose on its own, he got a gander at three big Victoria’s Secret bags.

He couldn’t help it: His eyes shot over to her and scanned up her body . . . all the way to her brilliant red cheeks.

Which told him that chances were good there weren’t a whole lot of fuzzy pajamas and fluffy bathrobes in those damn bags.

“Uh . . . backseat,” he muttered, “yeah . . .”

“They were having a sale,” she said as he shut the trunk.

He was getting hard again. Right now. Shit.

After the groceries were in the car, the pair of them got in their respective seats and she started the engine. The seat belt cut into his erection, but he figured the damn thing deserved the pinch. He had no business fantasizing about a fashion show.

The fine Officer Reilly was into that stuff?

Man, he needed a smoke—

“Shit,” he said.

“What?”

“We have to go to your place to do it.” With a curse, he amended, “Dinner, I mean. Do dinner at your place—I don’t have any pans.”

As they stopped at the light that led out of the parking lot, she glanced over . . . and started to laugh. Before he knew it, he was smiling.

“You don’t know how to cook anything, do you,” she said.

“I’ll be lucky if I can get the box of tacos open.” He put up his forefinger. “But I’d still like to make you dinner, if you’re game.”

Shaking her head, she smiled. “Okay, but can you do me a favor?”

“Name it.”

“Can you forget what you saw in my trunk?”

His eyes drifted to her mouth and then went farther down to the pale column of her throat and . . . “I’m sorry,” he said darkly. “That I can’t do.”

She inhaled on a sharp suck, as if everything he was thinking was showing in his face.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I mean, yeah, of course. Consider it done. Totally forgotten.”

A loud honk sounded behind them, and she jumped before hitting the gas.

Well, this was going smoothly. Maybe he’d top off the night by burning her frickin’ house down.