Envy

CHAPTER 3

Down below, in the cold woods next to the Monroe Motel & Suites, Veck stood in the direct glare of the ambulance’s headlights, his partner de la Cruz on his right, his buddy Bails on the left. Spotlit as he was, he felt like he was onstage as Kroner was rolled out from the trees on a gurney.

Except there was only one person looking at him.

Internal Affairs officer Sophia Reilly.

She was standing off to the side, and as their eyes locked, he wished they were getting together under different circumstances—again. The first time he’d been introduced to her had been because he’d corked that paparazzo.

This shit made one sucker punch look like a day at the beach.

The thing was, he’d liked her the moment he’d shaken her hand, and that first impression had only been reinforced tonight: The detective in him had so approved of her just now, as well as the way she’d looked him over, like even if he’d been bullshitting her—and he hadn’t—she would have known.

But they had to stop meeting like this. Literally.

Over at the asphalt lip of the parking lot, there was a thunch as the medics shut the double doors of the ambulance and then the vehicle backed out, taking the illumination with it. As Reilly turned to watch the departure, she was in the shadows—until she clicked on a flashlight.

Before she came back over, de la Cruz leaned into him and spoke softly: “Do you want a lawyer.”

“Why would he need a lawyer,” Bails snapped.

Veck shook his head at his buddy. He understood the guy’s loyalty, but it was a shitload more faith than he had in himself at the moment. “It’s a fair question.”

“So do you?” de la Cruz whispered.

Officer Reilly circled around the blood pool, wending in and out of the trunks and branches, small sticks snapping under her feet, the sounds loud in his ears.

She stopped in front of him. “I’m going to have follow-up questions tomorrow, but you can go home now.”

Veck narrowed his eyes. “You’re letting me go.”

“You were never in my custody, Detective.”

“And that’s it.”

“No, not at all. But you’re through here tonight.”

Veck shook his head. “Listen, Officer, that can’t be—”

“The CSI people are on the way. I don’t want you here when they go through the scene because it represents a potential compromise to their work. That clear enough for you?”

Ah. And he should have guessed. It was dark here in the woods. He could easily pick up or manipulate evidence from the ground without anyone knowing, and she’d been trying to give him a gracious way out.

She was smart, he thought.

She also happened to be beautiful: In the reflected glow of the flashlight, she was stunning in the way that only a natural, healthy woman could be—with no heavy makeup to gunk up her pores or weigh down her lids, and no greasy, slippery gloss on her mouth, she was utterly un-fake.

And that heavy dark red hair and that deep green stare weren’t exactly hard on the eyes, either.

Plus there was her take-no-shit attitude . . .

“Fair enough, Officer,” he murmured.

“Please report to the sarge’s office at eight thirty a.m. tomorrow.”

“You got it.”

As Bails muttered something under his breath, Veck prayed the bastard kept his opinions to himself. Reilly was just doing her job—and being damn professional about it. The least they could do was pay her the respect back.

Before his buddy could spout anything else, Veck clapped palms with Bails and nodded at de la Cruz. As he went to walk off, Reilly’s low, serious voice broke out through the night.

“Detective.”

He looked over his shoulder. “Yeah, Officer.”

“I’m going to have to take your gun. And your badge. And that knife holster.”

Right. Of course. “Badge is in the leather coat over there on the ground. Do you want to do the honors on my nine and strap?”

“Yes, please. And I’ll take your cell phone, too, if you don’t mind.”

As she stepped in close, he smelled her perfume. Nothing fruity or flowery or, God forbid, that vanilla shit. Nothing he could place commercially, either. Shampoo, maybe? Had she gotten the call just when she’d been stepping out of the shower?

Now, there was a picture. . . .

Wait a minute. Was he actually fantasizing about his coworker . . . five feet from a murder scene? While he was a suspect?

Wow.

Yup, that was all he had on that one.

Reilly put her flashlight in her mouth, and then her bright blue gloved hands reached forward. As he lifted his arms to help her get to his waist, a subtle tugging registered in his hips, the kind of thing that he would have felt if she’d been taking off his pants—

The electric bolt that shot down into his cock was a surprise—and Christ, he was glad that beam was flashing right at his chest and not in a southerly direction.

Man, this was so damned wrong—and unlike him. He didn’t hit on colleagues, whether they were admin assistants, fellow detectives . . . or Internal Affairs officers. Too much hassle when the inevitable end to the one-night stand came—

Dear God, where was his head at?

Not on reality, apparently.

It was almost like the magnitude of what had happened on that patch of red-stained leaves over there was so great, his brain was seeking shelter in any topic other than the giant, bloody elephant in the forest.

Then again, maybe he’d just lost his mind. Period.

“Thank you, Detective,” Reilly said as she stepped back with his weapon and leather holster. “Your phone?”

He handed it over. “You want my wallet?”

“Yes, but you can keep your driver’s license.”

When the handoffs were finished, she tacked on, “Further, I’ll ask you to remove your clothing at home, bag it, and turn it in to me tomorrow.”

“No problem. And you know where to find me,” he said, his voice gruff.

“Yes, I do.”

As they got ready to part, there was no coy duck of her chin and flash of the eyes. No hair flipping. No brush of the hip. Which, okay, would have been ridiculous under the circumstances—but he had the sense that the two of them could have been at a club by the bar and she wouldn’t have pulled any of that obvious crap anyway. Not her style.

Shit, she really did just keep getting more attractive by the minute. This kept up and he was going to end up asking her to marry him next week.

Har-har, hardy-har-har.

On that note, Veck turned away from her for the second time. And was surprised to hear her say, “You sure you don’t want a coat, Detective? I’ve got an extra flak jacket in my trunk, and it’s going to be cold on that bike of yours.”

“I’ll be fine.”

For some reason, he didn’t want to look back. Probably because of the peanut-gallery combo of de la Cruz and Bails.

Yeah. That was it.

At his BMW, he threw his leg over the seat and grabbed his helmet. He hadn’t worn the damn thing on the way here, but he needed to conserve body heat—and as he pulled it on, he half expected de la Cruz to wander over to revisit the lawyer issue. Instead, the venerable detective stayed where he was and spoke with Officer Reilly.

Bails was the one who came up. The guy was in gym clothes, his short hair spiky, his dark eyes a little aggressive—no doubt because he didn’t like Reilly taking over. “You sure you’re okay to get home?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to follow you?”

“Nah.” Likely the guy would anyway. He was just that way.

“I know you didn’t do it.”

As Veck stared at his buddy, he was tempted to unload everything—the two sides to him, the split that he had felt coming for years, the fear that what he’d worried about had finally happened. Hell, he knew he could trust the guy. He and Bails had been at the police academy together years ago, and though they’d gone their separate ways, they’d stayed tight and in touch—until Bails had recruited him to come up from Manhattan to join the Caldwell homicide team.

Two weeks. He’d been on the force here for only two frickin’ weeks.

Just as he opened his mouth, a van pulled behind to other CPD cars, announcing the arrival of Team Nitpick.

Veck shook his head. “Thanks, man. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With a swift punch of his boot, he kick-started the engine, and as he pumped the gas, he glanced back to the scene. Reilly was kneeling by his jacket, going through its pockets. Just like she was going to do with his wallet.

Oh, shit. She was going to find—

“Call me if you want me to come over, man.”

“Yeah. I will.”

Veck nodded at Bails and eased his bike off the shoulder, thinking he really didn’t need her to see the two Trojans he always kept in that inside slot behind his credit cards.

Funny, being a slut had never really bothered him before. Now, he wished he’d tied it in a knot years ago.

When he got out to the proper road, he gunned the bike hard, and went roaring off. As he rocketed through 149’s twists and turns, he leaned into the corners, ducking down tight over the handlebars, becoming just another aerodynamic part of the BMW. With his lick-split velocity, winding turns became nothing but quick jogs left and right as he and the bike wagered on the laws of physics.

Given that he was betting everything he had at this speed? He’d be lucky if he left anything big enough to bury.

Faster. Faster. Fast—

Unfortunately, or fortunately, he wasn’t sure which, the end for him did not come in a screeching rip into the trees to avoid a Buick or a Bambi.

It was a Polo Ralph Lauren outlet store.

Or specifically, the light right before the place.

Pulling out of the tunnel vision he’d enjoyed made him feel strangely disoriented, and the only reason he stopped at the red was that there were a couple of cars in front of him and he was forced to obey the traffic laws or ride over their roofs. The goddamn light took forever, and the lineup he was in moved at a snail’s pace when it finally got its green on.

Then again, he could have been popping sixty-five on the highway and it would have felt like he was twiddling his thumbs.

But it wasn’t like he was trying to run from something. Of course not.

Passing by Nike, Van Heusen, and Brooks Brothers, he felt as empty as the huge parking lots, and there was a part of him that wanted to keep going . . . past this retail fringe, through Caldie’s suburban maze, out around the skyscrapers, and over the bridge to God only knew where.

The trouble was, everywhere he went . . . there he was: Geographical relocation wasn’t going to change the face in the mirror. Or that part of him that he’d never understood, but never questioned. Or what the fuck had gone down tonight.

He must have killed that sick bastard. There was no other explanation. And he didn’t know what Reilly was thinking in letting him go. Maybe he just needed to confess. . . . Yeah, but to what? That he went there with the intent to kill, and then he—

The headache that plowed into his front lobe was the kind of thing you couldn’t think around. All you did was groan and close your eyes—not the best move when you were on a bike that was basically just an engine with a padded seat screwed to it.

Forcing himself to focus on the road and nothing else, he was relieved when the cranial thumping eased off and he pulled into his development.

The house he lived in was in a neighborhood full of teachers, nurses, and sales reps. There were a lot of young kids, and the yards were maintained by amateurs—which meant in the summer there was probably going to be a lot of crabgrass, but at least the shit would be mowed regularly.

Veck was the outlier: He had no wife, no kids, and he was never going to bust out a Toro or a Lawn-Boy. Fortunately, he had the vibe that the neighbors on either side of his postage stamp of a yard were the type to cheerfully encroach with their blades.

Good people. Who had told them they felt safer with a cop next door.

Showed what they knew.

His two-story house was about as fancy and unique as a penny from the seventies. Which, as it turned out, was the last time the place had been wallpapered.

Pulling up to the garage, he dismounted and left his helmet hanging from the handlebars. There wasn’t a lot of crime in this area—so his mowing neighbors were getting a burn deal on a lot of levels.

He went in the side door, passed through the mudroom and walked into his kitchen. Not a lot of Food Network going down in here: all he had were a couple of empty pizza boxes on the counter, and some Starbucks dead soldiers clustered around the sink. Half-opened mail and loosely stacked reports were on the table. Laptop was closed down for the day next to a Valpak coupon book he was never going to use and a cable bill that was not yet overdue but probably would be because he sucked at paying shit on time.

Always too busy to write a check out or go online to pay.

God, the only difference between this place and the office downtown was the fact that there was a king-size bed upstairs.

On that note, Officer Reilly wanted him to get naked, didn’t she.

Snagging a Glad trash bag from under the kitchen sink, he went upstairs, thinking he was going to have to hire a cleaner to come once a week so that he didn’t end up with cobwebs in every corner and dust bunnies going IVF clinic under the couch. But this was no home and was never going to be. Pine-Sol and 409 four times a month didn’t get you cozy.

Although at least the occasional chick he brought in would have somewhere halfway decent to get re-dressed in.

His bedroom was at the front of the house, and all it had in it was that big bed and a bureau. His boots, socks and pants came off quick. Turtleneck was the same. As he peeled off his black boxer briefs, he refused to think of Officer Reilly handling them. Just was not going to go there.

Heading into the bath, he turned on the shower, and as he waited for it to get warm, he stood in front of the mirror over the sink. No reflection to bother with—he’d covered the glass with a beach towel the day he’d moved in.

He was not a fan of mirrors.

Lifting his hands, he held them out palms down. Then flipped them. Then looked under his nails.

It appeared as though his body, as with his mind, was empty of clues. Although you could argue that no scratches, no blood, no gore on him was an indicator—and no doubt what the fine Officer Reilly had noticed and acted on.

Man, this was the second time in his life he’d been in this situation. And the first . . .

No reason to think about his mother’s murder. Not on a night like tonight.

Stepping into the shower, he closed his eyes and let the spray fall down his head and shoulders and face. Soap. Rinse. Shampoo. Rinse.

He was standing in the steamy, wet heat when he felt the draft: Sure as if someone had opened the window by the toilet, the blast of air shot over the top of the plastic curtain and brushed across his skin. Goose bumps came when called, popping out across his chest and shooting down his legs and back.

The window hadn’t been opened, however.

And this was why he’d removed the glass wall of the shower and covered that built-in mirror over the sink. Those two things had been the only changes he’d made to the house, and the unimprovement had been for his own sanity. He’d been shaving for years without his reflection.

“Get the fuck away from me,” he said, closing his eyes and keeping them that way.

The draft swirled around his legs, feeling like hands roaming over his flesh, going higher, fondling his sex before hitting his abdomen and his pecs, up to his neck . . . his face. . . .

Cold hands ran through his hair—

“Leave me alone!” He threw out his arm and shoved the curtain aside. As warm air greeted him, he bore down at his core, trying to kick the intruder out, kill the connection.

Stumbling over to the counter, he braced his arms and leaned down, breathing hard and hating himself, hating this night, hating his life.

He knew damn well that it was possible, if you had multiple personality disorder, for a part of you to break free and act independently. Sufferers could be completely unaware of the actions their body had taken, even if it involved violence—

As that headache started kicking his temples like tires again, he cursed and dried off; then pulled on the flannel shirt and NYPD academy sweatpants he’d slept in the night before and left on the back of the toilet. He was about to go downstairs when a quick glance out the window held him in place.

There was a car parked across the street about two houses down.

He knew every vehicle in the neighborhood, all the trucks, vans, SUVs, sedans, and hybrids, and that shadow-colored, late-model American nothing-much was not on the list.

It was, however, exactly the kind of unmarked that the Caldwell Police Department used.

Reilly was having him surveilled. Good move—exactly what he would have done in her position.

Might even be her in the flesh.

Hitting the stairs, he hesitated at the front door, drawn to go out in his bare feet, because maybe she, or whoever it was, had some answers from the scene. . . .

With a curse, he pulled himself out of that bright idea and headed for the kitchen. There had to be something to eat in the cupboards. Had to be.

Pulling them open and finding a lot of shelf space and nothing more, he wondered exactly what grocery-fairy he thought had magically come and delivered food.

Then again he could just throw some ketchup on a pizza box and chow down. Probably good for his fiber intake.

Yum.

Two houses down from Detective DelVecchio’s, Reilly was behind the wheel and partially blinded.

“By all that is holy . . .” She rubbed her eyes. “Do you not believe in curtains?”

As she prayed for the image of a spectacularly naked colleague to fade from her retinas, she seriously rethought her decision to do the stakeout herself. She was exhausted, for one thing—or had been before she’d seen just about everything Veck had to offer.

Take out the just.

One bene was that she was really frickin’ awake now, thank you very much—she might as well have licked two fingers and shoved them into a socket: a full-frontal like that was enough to give her the perm she’d wanted back when she’d been thirteen.

Muttering to herself, she dropped her hands into her lap again. And gee whiz, as she stared at the dash, all she saw . . . was everything she’d seen.

Yeah, wow, on some men, no clothes was so much more than just naked.

And to think she’d almost missed the show. She’d parked her unmarked and just called in her position when the upstairs lights had gone on and she gotten a gander at the vista of a bedroom. Easing back into her seat, it hadn’t dawned on her exactly where the unobstructed view was going to take them both—she’d just been interested that it appeared to be nothing but a bald lightbulb on the ceiling of what had to be the master suite.

Then again, bachelor pad decorating tended to be either storage-unit crammed or Death Valley–barren.

Veck was obviously the Death Valley variety.

Except suddenly she hadn’t been thinking about interior decorating, because her suspect had stepped into the bathroom and flipped the switch.

Hellllllllo, big boy.

Ifont sio many ways to count.

“Stop thinking about it . . . stop thinking about—”

Closing her eyes again didn’t help: If she’d reluctantly noticed before how well he filled out his clothes, now she knew exactly why. He was heavily muscled, and given that he didn’t have any hair on his chest, there was nothing to obscure those hard pecs and that six-pack and the carved ridges that went over his hips.

Matter of fact, when it came to manscaping, all he had was a dark stripe that ran between his belly button and his . . .

You know, maybe size did matter, she thought.

“Oh, for chrissakes.”

In an attempt to get her brain focused on something, anything more appropriate, she leaned forward and looked out the opposite window. As far as she could tell, the house directly across from him had privacy shades across every available view. Good move, assuming he paraded around like that every night.

Then again, maybe the husband had strung those puppies up so that his wife didn’t get a case of the swoons.

Bracing herself, she glanced back at Veck’s place. The lights were off upstairs and she had to hope now that he was dressed and on the first floor, he stayed that way.

God, what a night.

She was still waiting for any evidence that came from the scene, but she’d made up her mind already about Kroner’s injuries. There were coyotes in those woods. Bears. Cats of the non–Meow Mix variety. Chances were good that the guy had come walking through there with the scent of dried blood on his clothes and something with four paws had viewed him as a Happy Meal. Veck could well have tried to step in and been shoved to the side. After all, he’d been rubbing his temples like he’d had pain there, and God knew head trauma had been known to cause short-term memory loss.

The lack of physical evidence on him supported the theory; that was for sure.

And yet . . .

God, that father of his. It was impossible not to factor him in even a little.

Like every criminal justice major, she’d studied Thomas DelVecchio Sr. as part of her courses—but she’d also spent considerable time on him in her deviant-psych classes. Veck’s dad was your classic serial killer: smart, cunning, committed to his “craft,” utterly remorseless. And yet, having watched videos of his interviews with police, he came across as handsome, compelling, and affable. Classy. Very non-monster.

But then again, like a lot of psychopaths, he’d cultivated an image and sustained it with care. He’d been very successful as a dealer of antiquities, although his establishment in that haughty, lofty world of money and privilege had been a complete self-invention. He’d come from absolutely nothing, but had had a knack for charming rich people—as well as a talent for going overseas and coming back with ancient artifacts and statues that were extremely marketable. It wasn’t until the killings had started to surface that his business practices came under scrutiny, and to this day, no one had any idea where he’d found the stuff he had—it was almost as if he’d had a treasure trove somewhere in the Middle East. He certainly hadn’t helped authorities sort things out, but what were they going to do to him? He was already on death row.

Not for much longer, though, evidently.

What had Veck’s mother been like—

The knock on the window next to her head was like a shot ringing out, and she had her weapon palmed and pointed to the sound less than a heartbeat afterward.

Veck was standing in the street next to her car, his hands up, his wet hair glossy in the streetlights.

Lowering her weapon, she put her window down with a curse.

“Quick reflexes, Officer,” he murmured.

“Do you want to get shot, Detective?”

“I said your name. Twice. You were deep in thought.”

Thanks to what she’d seen in that bathroom, the flannel shirt and academy sweats he had on seemed eminently removable, the kind of duds that wouldn’t resist a shove up or a pull down. But come on, like she hadn’t seen every aisle in his grocery store already?

“You want my clothes now?” he said as he held up a trash bag.

“Yes, thank you.” She accepted the load through her window and put the things down on the floor. “Boots, too?”

As he nodded, he said, “Can I bring you some coffee? I don’t have much in my kitchen, but I think I can find a clean mug and I got instant.”

“Thanks. I’m okay.”

There was a pause. “There a reason you’re not looking me in the eye, Officer?”

I just saw you buck naked, Detective. “Not at all.” She pegged him right in the peepers. “You should get inside. It’s chilly.”

“The cold doesn’t bother me. You going to be here all night?”

“Depends.”

“On whether I am, right.”

“Yup.”

He nodded, and then glanced around casually like they were nothing but neighbors chatting about the weather. So calm. So confident. Just like his father.

“Can I be honest with you?” he said abruptly.

“You’d better be, Detective.”

“I’m still surprised you let me go.”

She ran her hands around the steering wheel. “May I be honest with you?”

“Yeah.”

“I let you go because I really don’t think you did it.”

“I was at the scene and I had blood on me.”

“You called nine-one-one, you didn’t leave, and that kind of death is very messy to perpetrate.”

“Maybe I cleaned up.”

“There wasn’t a shower in those woods as far as I saw.”

Do. Not. Think. Of. Him. Naked.

When he started to shake his head like he was going to argue, Reilly cut him off. “Why are you trying to convince me I’m wrong?”

That shut him up. At least for a moment. Then he said in a low voice, “Are you going to feel safe tailing me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

For the first time, emotion bled through his cool expression, and her heart stopped: There was fear in his eyes, as if he didn’t trust himself.

“Veck,” she said softly, “is there anything I don’t know.”

He crossed his arms over that big chest of his and his weight went back and forth on his hips as if he were thinking. Then he hissed, and started rubbing his temple.

“I’ve got nothing,” he muttered. “Listen, just do us both a favor, Officer. Keep that gun close by.”

He didn’t look back as he turned and walked across the street.

He wasn’t wearing any shoes, she realized.

Putting up the window, she watched him go into the house and shut the door. Then the lights in the house went out, except for the hallway on the second floor.

Settling in, she eased down in her seat and stared at all those windows. Shortly thereafter, a massive shadow walked into the living room—or rather, appeared to be dragging something? Like a couch?

Then Veck sat down and his head disappeared as if he were stretching out on something.

It was almost like they were sleeping side by side. Well, except for the walls of the house, the stretch of scruffy spring lawn, the sidewalk, the asphalt, and the steel cage of her Crown Victoria.

Reilly’s lids drifted down, but that was a function of the angle of her head. She wasn’t tired and she wasn’t worried about falling asleep. She was wide-awake in the dark interior of the car.

And yet she reached over and hit the door-lock button.

Just in case.