Envy

CHAPTER 5

Veck woke up on his living room sofa. Which was sort of a surprise, because he didn’t have one.

As he rubbed his eyes against the cheerful spring sunlight, he was amazed that he’d taken the desire to sleep closer to the fine Officer Reilly as far as dragging the POS in from his man cave of a family room.

Sitting up, he looked out into the street. The unmarked was gone, and he wondered when she’d left. Last he’d checked, she’d still been out there at four a.m.

Groaning, he gave things a stretch, his shoulders cracking. Details from the night before filtered back, but he instinctually stayed away from the Monroe Motel & Suites part. He already felt like hell; he didn’t need to add a headache to the steaming pile of fuck-me he was rocking.

When he stood up, he had to rearrange an obscene morning erection—which gave him another thing to studiously ignore. He had a feeling he’d been wrapped up in a fairly raunchy and totally spectacular dream about him and his Internal Affairs shadow. Something about her riding him raw . . . he’d been mostly clothed; she’d been completely naked—

No, wait, she’d had her badge and her gun and her hip belt on.

“Fuck . . .” As his cock kicked hard, he put in a prayer for another round of short-term memory loss, and cursed at the porn cliché.

Then again, he could now see why guys found that shit attractive.

Given the direction his brain was heading in, he wasn’t sure that adding caffeine to the mix was a good plan, but his body needed the lift. Too bad he’d discovered he’d lied to Officer Reilly: after coming back inside from talking to her, he’d realize hern out of Folgers.

Upstairs, he showered, shaved, and put on his working uniform of slacks and a dress shirt. No tie for him, although a lot of the detectives wore them. No suit jacket; he didn’t wear one unless it was leather and of the biker or bomber variety.

Downstairs, he got his backup coat out of the closet, grabbed the key to his bike, and locked things up. As he walked over to the BMW, he was dogged by the night before, but also feeling too light: No cell to check for voice mail. No badge in his breast pocket. No gun in his holster. No wallet on his ass.

Officer Reilly had all of that. And his BVDs.

Squeezing on his helmet and mounting up, the morning was too frickin’ bright and shiny for him—and this was without the sun being fully up. Hell, given the squint he was rocking, it was a good thing his bike knew where he was going.

De la Cruz had introduced him to the Riverside Diner just the other day, and already Veck wondered how he’d managed without the greasy spoon. Heading for the place, he took the surface roads in, because even at seven forty-five, the Northway was going to be crowded.

The dive was right on the shores of the Hudson, only about four blocks from HQ—and it wasn’t until he pulled into the parking lot full of unmarkeds that he second-guessed his destination. Chances were good that half the force was sucking java inside, as usual, but it was too late to go anywhere else.

Just before he went in, he palmed up seventy-five cents and grabbed a Caldwell Courier Journal from the dispenser box outside. There was nothing about last night on the first page above the fold, so he flipped the thing over, looking for an article—

And there was his name. In bold.

Except the reporting wasn’t about him or Kroner. It was something on his old man, and he quickly avoided the piece. He hadn’t kept up with the charges, the trial, the death row sentence, anything that had to do with his father. And gee whiz, when he’d been taking criminal justice, he’d been sick the day they’d covered the case.

The rest of the first section was clear, so was the Local, and naturally, there was nothing in the Sports/Comics/Classified caboose. The lack of coverage wasn’t going to last, however: Reporters had access to the police blotter, and the story was probably on the television and radio news already. A homicide detective so prominently associated with the mauling of a psycho? That shit sold papers and justified ad prices.

Pushing open the glass door, he went into the Riverside’s cacophony with his face buried in the nonheadlines of the Sports section. The place was packed, and as loud and hot as a bar, and he studiously didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he scanned around for a free stool at the counter or an empty booth along the edges.

Nothing was vacant. Damn it. And he wasn’t about to join a table of CPDers. The last thing he needed was a lot of questions from his colleagues. Maybe he should just go on to HQ and hit the vending machine—

“Morning, Detective.”

Veck glanced over to the right. The fine Officer Reilly was sitting in the booth closest to the door, her back to him, her head cranked over her shoulder to look up at him. There was a cup of coffee in front of her, a cell phone in her hand, and a whole lot of no-nonsense on her face.

“Care to join me?” she said, motioning across her table.

She had to be kidding. There were about a dozen members of the force staring over at them—some more surreptitiously than others.

“You sure you want to be seen with me?”

“Why? Do you have terrible table manners?”

“You know what I mean.”

She shrugged and took a sip from her cup. “Our meeting with the sergeant is in about twenty minutes. You’ll be lucky to have a seat by then.”

Veck slid in opposite her. “I thought in Internal Affairs you guys always worried about propriety.”

“This is just two eggs over easy, Detective.”

He put his newspaper aside. “Fair enough.”

The waitress came over with her pad out and her pencil ready. “What’ll it be.”

No reason to look at a menu. Riverside had every omelet, egg, and toast known to man. You wanted pie for breakfast? A BLT? Cereal, oatmeal, pancakes? Fine, whatever—just order quick and eat fast so someone else could get a seat.

“Three scrambled. Hard. White toast with butter. Coffee. Thanks.”

The waitress smiled at him, like she approved of the efficiency. “Comin’ up.”

Annnnnd then he was alone again with Reilly. She’d had a shower and changed into a professional skirt-and-button-down combo. The jacket that went with the outfit was folded neatly beside her on top of her coat. Her dark red hair was once again pulled back from her face, and she had just a little lipstick on for makeup.

Matter of fact, as she put down her coffee cup, there was a half-moon of pink where she’d put her mouth. Not that he was looking for details on her lips. Really.

“I have a preliminary report from the field,” she said.

Huh . . . those eyes weren’t just green, as he’d assumed before. They were hazel-ish, made up of a unique combination of colors that merely appeared green from a distance. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I have last night’s prelim.”

“And?”

“No other weapons were found in the area.”

He kept his relief to himself out of habit.

And before he could comment, the waitress put down his coffee and Reilly’s breakfast: a bowl of oatmeal with a side of toast. No butter.

“Is that whole-wheat?” he asked.

“Yes, it is.”

Of course it was. She probably had a light salad for lunch with a protein, and one glass of wine, if that, with a dinner that was all about root vegetables, grilled chicken, and a low-glycemic-index starch of some kind.

He wondered what she thought of the heart attack special he’d ordered.

“Please don’t wait for me,” he said.

She picked up her spoon and added a little brown sugar and cream. “You want to know what I think happened?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“It was a wild animal attack and you got knocked in the head in the process.”

He brushed his face. “No bruises.”

“Could have fallen backward.”

Matter of fact, he thought maybe he had? “But no bumps. And then my coat would have been dirty all over.”

“It is.”

“Only from when I put it on Kroner.”

She lowered her spoon. “Can you verify that? How do you know when it got soiled if you can’t remember anything? Besides, your head was killing you last night, and P.S., you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Arguing with me about this. As well as rubbing your temple.” As he cursed and relocated his hand to his mug of coffee, she smiled with an edge. “Guess what, Detective? You’re getting yourself checked out at HQ right after our meeting.”

“I’m fine.” Christ, he could hear the bitch in his own voice.

“Remember what I said last night, Detective? That’s an order.”

As he sat back and drank some of his wakey-wakey, he caught himself checking out her ring finger. Nothing there. Not even a circular indent as if something had been there.

He wished she was sporting a solitaire and a band: He didn’t do wives knowingly. Ever. No doubt he’d been with a couple in his long history of anonymous hookups, but it had been only because they hadn’t told him.

He was a man-whore with standards, don’t you know.

“Why aren’t you suspending me?”

“Again with the negative.”

“I don’t want you ruining your career over me,” he muttered.

“And I have no intention of allowing that to happen. But there is no evidence that you were responsible for the attack, Detective, and plenty that says you weren’t—and I really don’t get why you keep pushing me on this.”

As he stared into those eyes of hers, he heard himself say, “You know who my father is, don’t you.”

That put her in pause-mode for a moment, her triangle of unbuttered fiber goodness halfway back down to her plate. She even stopped in midchew.

But then the fine Officer Reilly recovered with a shrug. “Of course I do, but that doesn’t mean you tore up somebody.” She leaned in. “But that’s what you’re afraid of, aren’t you. And that’s why you keep playing devil’s advocate.”

The waitress picked that moment to show up with his steaming plate of cholesterol, and the arrival was a conversational lifesaver if he’d ever seen one.

He salted. Peppered. Forked up and sucked down.

“Would it help if you talked to someone?” Reilly said quietly.

“As in a psychiatrist?”

“Therapist. They can be very helpful.”

“This from personal experience, Officer?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

He laughed in a hard burst. “Somehow I wouldn’t think you’re the type who needed one.”

“Everybody has issues.”

He knew he was being a bit of a shit, but he felt naked, and not in a good way. “So what’s one of yours.”

“We’re not talking about me.”

“Well, I’m getting tired of being up onstage all by my little lonesome.” He polished off half a piece of toast in two bites. “Come on, Officer. Spill something about yourself.”

“I’m an open book.”

“Who needs a therapist?” When she didn’t respond, he leveled his stare at her. “Coward.”

Eyes narrowing, she eased back and pushed her half-full bowl away. He expected some witty retort. Or, even more likely, a smack-down.

Instead, she reached into her pocket, took out a ten-dollar bill, and put it between them. “I’ll see you in the sergeant’s office.”

With subtle grace, she scootched out, taking her coat, purse, and cell phone with her.

Before she took off, Veck snagged her wrist. “I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

She disengaged the hold by putting her phone in her bag. “See you shortly.”

After she left, Veck pushed his own plate away, even though there was a good egg and a half left.

Not even nine in the morning . . . and he’d already won the asshole-of-the-day prize. Fantastic—

A draft passed over the back of his neck, prickling the hairs at his nape and making him crank around toward the door.

A woman had come in, and she was as out of place as a Ming vase in the Target housewares department. As her perfume drifted over, and she swizzled out of her fur jacket, there was an audible pause in the diner’s fifty or so conversations. Then again, she’d just exposed some Pamela Anderson breasts to half the CPD.

As Veck checked her out, he supposed he should have been attracted to her, but instead, that cold shaft tickling down his spine made him want to take out a gun and point it at her in self-defense.

And how fucked up was that.

Leaving a twenty of his own, he bailed on the rest of his breakfast and hit the door. Stepping outside, he stopped. Glanced around.

The back of his neck was still going, his instincts screaming, particularly as he glanced at the round windows of the diner. Someone was watching him. Maybe the chippie with the Hustler body, maybe someone else.

But his instincts never lied.

Good news was, it appeared he’d be getting his weapons back later this morning. So at least he could legally protect himself again.

As Jim pulled into the Riverside Diner’s lot on his Harley, some guy on a sweet BMW bike tooled off with a roar.

Adrian and Eddie were right behind him on their rides, and the three of them parked together in the far corner by the Hudson’s shore. As he dismounted and looked at the place Devina had named for a rendezvous, he thought, Well, isn’t this special. He’d been at this very same dive with his first soul.

Guess Caldwell was a hotbed of activity for the damned.

Then again, maybe she just liked the java here and was going to tell him the soul in question was somewhere else.

Heading over to the entrance, his boys were giving him the silent treatment—not a news flash on Eddie’s part, but a miracle on the other angel’s. No way that was going to last with Ad, though

The diner was crowded, noisy, and smelled like coffee and melted butter. Hell of a place for Devina to pick—

And there she was, way to the left, sitting at a booth and facing the door with a shaft of sunlight pouring in through the window next to her. The warm yellow rays illuminated her face perfectly, like she was about to be photographed, and he thought of the first time he’d seen her at that club, standing under a ceiling fixture. She’d been glowing then, too.

Evil had never looked so hot, but unlike the other men, who were staring over the rims of their mugs and all but drooling like dogs, he knew what she really was—and he wasn’t so distracted by the slipcover that he didn’t notice she threw no shadow: As bright as the illumination that struck her was, there was no dark outline on the tabletop or the Naugahyde beside her.

For a split second, he had an image of the two of them together from the night before. He’d tried to fuck her from behind on that table, but she’d insisted on doing it face-to-face. Frankly, he’d been surprised that he could get it up, but anger had a way of making him hard. At least with her.

As he’d departed that sweaty, rough scene, he’d looked around at her walls, imagining Sissy stuck in the tangle of the damned. He prayed his girl couldn’t see out of it. God, to think she might have . . .

But enough of that. Coming up to Devina, he put a block on any thoughts of Sissy or sex with the enemy or even the game itself.

“So who is it?” he said.

The demon peered over the top of her Caldwell Courier Journal, her black eyes doing a quick circuit of his body and making him want to take another shower—this time with a belt sander.

“Well, good morning, Jim. Won’t you sit down with me.”

“No goddamn way.”

The guy in the booth in front of her glared over his shoulder. Like he didn’t approve of Jim’s tone or language around a lady.

She only looks like one, buddy, Jim thought.

Devina put the paper down, and went back to her buttermilk pancakes and her coffee. “Do you have a pen?”

“Do not fuck with me.”

“Little late for that. Pen?”

As some people tried to get past, Jim and the boys had to turn sideways while Eddie outed a Paper Mate something or other and handed it over.

Devina uncapped the thing with her long, manicured hands. And then she folded the paper to the crossword puzzle.

“What’s a five-letter word for—”

“Damn it, Devina, cut—”

“—antagonist.”

“—the shit.”

“Actually, Jim, ‘the shit’ is seven letters. Although I am, aren’t I.” Devina began carefully filling in a word. “I believe ‘enemy’ is the word I’m looking for. And you’re either sitting down with me—alone—or you’re going to stand there until your legs rot off and you fall over in the aisle.”

More with the careful printing. Wonder if she was working on another word for “pain in the ass.”

Jim glanced at his boys. “I’ll be right out.”

“Good-bye, Adrian,” Devina said, with a wave. “I’ll see you soon, though—I’m quite sure.”

The demon didn’t say anything to Eddie. Then again, she liked to get a rise out of people, and Eddie was as unleavened as matzo.

Which Jim supposed put him and Adrian in the hotcross-bun department.

As the two angels took off, Jim slid into the booth. “So.”

“Would you care for some breakfast?”

“Who is it, Devina.”

“I hate to eat alone.”

“You could hold your breath until I join you—how about that.”

Her black eyes became direct. “Must we fight.”

At that, he had to honestly laugh. “It’s the reason we’re here, baby.”

She smiled a little. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you do that.”

Jim cut the sound right off as a waitress came over with a coffeepot. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

“He’ll have coffee and the waffles.”

When the waitress looked at him like, Come on, make up your damn mind, he shrugged and let it go.

After they were alone again, Devina just went back to her puzzle.

“You can’t have a shot with me unless you get talking.”

There was a pause, as if the demon were thinking of some way to prolong the meeting. Eventually, she tapped the newspaper with the tip of Eddie’s pen.

“You read the CCJ?”

“Sometimes.”

“It’s a treasure trove of information.” She made an elaborate show of picking up the first section. “You never know what you might find.”

Flattening the thing and spinning it around to face him, she stared across the table.

Jim looked down. Three big articles. One on a new school districting plan. Another on emerging minority businesses. And a third on . . .

The nib of Eddie’s pen pointed to the last article.

“I believe I have completed my part of the agreement,” she drawled.

The headline read: “DelVecchio Execution Scheduled.”

Jim quickly skimmed the article and thought, Shit, that was the soul?

Just as Devina went to retract the pen, he flashed out a hand and locked a hold on her wrist, keeping it in place.

The nib of the Paper Mate was actually on a name within the article—and it wasn’t the DelVecchio serial killer guy. It was the man’s son . . . Thomas DelVecchio Jr.

A detective on the Caldwell police force.

Jim glanced across the table at his enemy and smiled with his incisors. “Tricky.”

Her lashes lowered demurely. “Always.”

Done with her and the time suck, Jim got up and took the pen with him. “Enjoy my waffles, sweetheart.”

“Hey, how will I finish my crossword puzzle?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way. See you soon.”

Jim stalked out of the diner and beelined for his wingmen. When he came up to the bikes, he held the Paper Mate up to Eddie.

“Your pen.” As the angel went to take it back, Jim held on to the thing. “Metal casing around the nib. Next time, give the bitch a Sharpie.”

As Jim went to sling a leg over his hog, Adrian asked, “What did she say?”

“Looks like we’re going into the land of cops and robbers.”

“Oh. Good.” Ad mounted his own bike. “At least I speak the language there.”