Envy

CHAPTER 6

When Reilly walked into HQ, it was through the back door and down the cinder-block hallway that dumped out into what was supposed to be the newly renovated, inspiring and uplifting lobby. Unfortunately, the bronze statue of Lady Justice with her scales and her sword was a modern interpretation of the classic Greco-Roman prototype, and the blindfolded goddess looked like melted cheese. Old, brown melted cheese.

The circular walk around her and the spotlights shining down from the open loggia above just provided greater visual access to the hot mess. Then again, most of the police personnel, district attorneys, and defense lawyers striding through were too busy to worry about the decor. Headquarters had a lot going on: The secured dropoff and central processing for arrests was to the right, along with the jail itself. Records was to the left. Up at the top of the curving stairs were the offices for Homicide and Internal Affairs, as well as the squad room and locker room. Third floor was the new lab and the evidence lockup.

Reilly hit the stairs two at a time, passing a couple of colleagues who were going slower than her. But as she stepped off on the second-floor landing she lost her momentum. The wide-open area up ahead had a bank of desks where the pool of admin support people worked. Front and center among the young men and women? Brittany spelled Britnae, a.k.a., the Pneumatic Office Hottie.

The blonde had a hand mirror up and was running her fingertip under one heavily MAC’d or Bobbi Brown’d or Sephora’d eye. Next move was to fluff the curls. Last was to smack her lips and pout.

All the while, she was bending forward and flashing her double Ds to. . . herself.

Evidently pleased with her paint job and landscaping, Britnae turned her wrist and checked one of those little itty-bitty watches some women wore, the kind that had linked bracelets and tiny mother-of-pearl faces.

She probably had baskets of bangles, and dangly earrings that hung from a little stand, and a closet full of pink stuff.

Reilly’s closet looked like Marilyn Manson’s. Assuming he’d been reborn as an accountant. And she didn’t do jewelry. Her watch? Casio. Black and shockproof.

Three guesses who Britnae was getting ready for. . . and the first two didn’t count: The girl had been panting after Veck since the day he’d come through that door two weeks ago.

Not that it was Reilly’s business.

Before someone booked her for being a creepy-ass stalker, she hurried along to the IA division and went to her cubicle. Pretending to be alert, she signed into her computer, but as she went into her e-mail, everything had been translated into a foreign language. Either that or her brain had forgotten English.

Goddamn DelVecchio.

Calling her a coward? Just because she wanted to keep things professional? He didn’t know half the hell she’d been through. Besides, she’d been trying to help him . . .

Made her want to feed the guy his breakfast with her size nine.

Getting with the program, she called up the report she’d filed via e-mail early this morning and double-checked her work, going through the whole document from beginning to end.

When her phone rang, she reached for the receiver without having to look up. “Reilly.”

“Thomason.” Ah, the lab upstairs. “Just wanted you to know that I think Kroner’s injuries were the result of teeth.”

“As in . . .”

“Fangs, specifically. I met up with the medics last night at the ER and was there as Kroner was intubated, stitched up, and transfused. I had a good look at those neck and facial wounds. When a knife is used in an attack like that, you tend to get very clear boundaries on the lacerations. His flesh had been torn—which was what I saw when that tiger ate that trainer last year.”

Well, that sealed the deal, didn’t it—and made her worried about what might be loose in those woods. “What kind of animal are we talking about?”

“That I’m not too sure of. I took some tissue samples—God knows there were plenty to go around—and we’ll find out what kind of saliva was left. I’ll tell you this, though: Whatever it was? We’re talking big, powerful . . . and pissed off.”

“Thanks so much for calling me this fast.”

“No problem. I’m going to catch a couple of Zs and get back to work. I’ll be in touch.”

After she hung up, she typed out an addendum to her report, hit ctrl-P and then sent the document as an attachment to the sergeant on e-mail. Gathering her file and cell phone, she went to stand by the printer as the pages licked out of the machine.

At least she had some evidence to back up what she’d told the sarge before breakfast this morning.

On that note, she thought about the diner. She probably shouldn’t have asked Veck to join her. He was right; it did look bad, but more to the point, they could have avoided that unpleasant exchange. Which had hurt, actually.

Not that it should have. Casual comment over coffee when he was being inappropriate? Shouldn’t have bothered her. At all.

Or maybe it was just her being allergic to the word coward.

Yeah, that was it.

Veck went through the lobby of headquarters like a cold draft, shooting around people, rushing across the floor. He hit the staircase and took the stone steps two at a time.

When he got to the second-floor landing, he headed left, but he wasn’t going to his office. Internal Affairs was where he was—

From out of nowhere, something pink and blond stepped in his path. “Hi!”

As he looked down at the girl, he thought . . . now he knew what tornadoes felt like when they came up to a trailer home: absolutely nothing. He’d just as soon mow her over to get to Reilly, if that was what it took.

“Hi!” she said again, like a one-note bird.

Man, too loud, too cheerful, too much flowery perfume. And what was with the lip gloss? Any more of that shit and she could give her own car an oil change.

“Hey. ’Scuse me—I’m late.”

Unfortunately, she decided to take up ballroom dancing with him, jogging right when he did, and then left. When he stopped, she took a deep breath, or arched her back, or maybe hit some kind of air compressor, because suddenly she became Jessica Rabbit with the cleavage.

If she showed any more breast tissue, she’d be getting a goddamn mammogram.

“So,” she drawled, “I was wondering if you want some coffee . . .”

Tea . . . or me? he finished in his head for her.

“Thanks, but I’m late for a meeting.” Sidestep.

Counterstep. “Well, I could bring it to you?”

“No, thanks—”

She put her hand on his arm. “Really, I don’t mind—”

The fine Officer Reilly picked that moment to come out of IA. And what do you know, she didn’t hesitate or show any change of expression—but then again, why in the hell should it bother her that he was getting the come-on from someone?

As she passed by, she nodded at him and said hi to his nemesis.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, beyond done with the delays.

“I’ll come see you later,” Britnae called out.

“Reilly,” he hissed. “Reilly.”

The woman he was actually after stopped in front of the sarge’s office. “Yes?”

“I really am sorry. For what I said. That was out of line.”

Reilly switched her file over to her left arm and smoothed her hair. “It’s okay. High-stress time. I understand.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Wouldn’t matter to me if it did.”

On that note, she pivoted on her sensible heel and pushed into the waiting room.

Okay . . . ouch. But he couldn’t blame her.

Instead of following her inside, he just stood there like a plank as the door shut in his face, preoccupied by wanting to kick his own ass. Next thing he knew, the scent of fresh coffee announced that his partner had come up to him.

José de la Cruz looked tired, but alert, which was the man’s SOP. “How we doing?”

“Shitty.”

“You don’t say.” He handed over one of the two coffees in his mitts. “Drink this. Or maybe mainline it.”

“Thanks, man.”

“You ready?”

No. “Yeah.”

As they went into the office, Reilly glanced over to good-morning de la Cruz, then went back to talking to the sarge’s assistant.

Veck parked it on one of the old-school wooden chairs that were lined up against the wood-paneled walls of the sergeant’s outer office. Drinking the coffee, he watched Reilly and noticed all kinds of minute details about her: the way she fussed with her right earring, like the back was loose; how she tended to bend her leg and tap the toe of her shoe when she was making a point; the fact that when she smiled, she had a gold filling on an upper molar that flashed ever so slightly.

She was really attractive. Like, really attractive.

“So, I tried to call you last night,” de la Cruz said quietly.

“My cell’s at the lab right now.”

“You really should get a landline.”

“Yeah.” He looked at his partner. “Guess they didn’t find much out there in the woods.”

“Nada.”

They sat side by side, drinking out of those paper mugs with the card deck suits on them. The coffee tasted awful, but it was hot and gave him something to do.

“You thought about killing Kroner, didn’t you.” As Veck shot a glance over, the other detective shrugged. “I saw you with that paparazzo, remember. I was the one who pulled you off of him. Lot of anger.”

Veck resumed staring at Reilly, glad she was deep in conversation. Nodding in her direction, he said softly, “She doesn’t think I did it. I’m getting the impression you do, however.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Don’t have to.”

“Nah, I saw the shape Kroner was in. Saw you, too. That’s an equation that doesn’t add up.”

“So why bring up intent?”

“Because I think it’s on your mind.”

Veck made a noncommittal noise. “If she recommends that I stay on active duty, are you going to have a problem with that.”

“No, but I think you shouldn’t be out on the streets alone right now.”

Funny, he felt the same way. And wasn’t that a bitch. “We gonna be grafted at the hip, then?”

The sarge opened his office door and stuck his gray-haired head out. “Let’s do this.”

Reilly unplugged from the assistant, and Veck and de la Cruz followed her into the larger office beyond. The conference table in the far corner was big enough to seat everyone comfortably, and she took the chair farthest away from Veck—which meant she was right across from him. No eye contact; no surprise.

Fucking hell.

“So I’ve read the report you e-mailed me,” the sergeant said to Reilly. “Anything else?”

“Just this addendum which I also sent through.” She passed copies around, and then entwined her fingers together and sat back. “I stand by my conclusions.”

The sarge looked over at de la Cruz. “Anything to add?”

“No. I’ve read the report as well and it says it all.”

“Then I’m prepared to agree with Officer Reilly.” The sergeant stared hard at Veck. “I like you. You’re my kind of cop. But I won’t keep anyone under the badge who’s a danger to others. Reilly here’s your new partner—I can’t spare de la Cruz for the probational hand-holding period I’m laying on you. Which is a month, minimum.”

Reilly showed no reaction to the reassignment, but she was a professional, wasn’t she.

“Can I work on Kroner?” Veck asked.

“Not on your life. You’ll be focusing on cold cases for the next thirty days, as well as meeting with Dr. Riccard.”

Ah, yes, the departmental shrink. And in the silence that followed, he knew everyone was waiting for him to groan, but he wasn’t a Lethal Weapon wild card, damn it.

Yeah. For example, he couldn’t dislocate his shoulder, he didn’t live on the beach with a dog, and he wasn’t rocking a death wish. You’re welcome.

“Okay.”

Sarge seemed a little surprised, but then he knocked on his table with his knuckles, which Veck took as the guy’s way of expressing satisfaction. “Good. De la Cruz, I want to talk to you. The pair of you—we’re done.”

Reilly was up and out of the office faster than a bullet, but two could shoot that quick. Veck got right on her tail, and he caught her in the outside hallway.

“So how’s this going to work,” he said.

That was all he had. The apology route hadn’t worked, and somehow he didn’t think thanking her for the report was going to fly, either.

She shrugged. “I’ll wrap up what I’m working on this morning, and then we’ll focus on cold cases.”

“For thirty days.”

“Thirty days.” She didn’t look enthused, but neither did she seem to dread the prospect. Which told him she was not an easy poker target if they had downtime. “I’ll see you at one o’clock in your department, Detective.”

“Roger that, Officer.”

As she walked off, she made some notes in her file, her head buried in work. A couple of guys from the beat passed her and looked her way, their focus lingering, as if they were hoping to catch her eye. She didn’t look up, though. Didn’t notice.

Veck sure as hell did. And found that he wanted to perform an optical adjustment on the bastards.

“You left this in the sarge’s office.”

Veck turned. De la Cruz had come out and had Veck’s coffee.

Well, this wasn’t awkward. Nope.

“Thanks, man.” Veck palmed the paper mug and took a draw from the rim. The shit was now lukewarm, its only redeeming factor gone. “Well, it was nice working with you.”

“Same.” José put his palm out. “But who knows, maybe you’ll be reassigned to me in a month.”

“Yeah.” Somehow, though, Veck had a feeling his days with the CPD were numbered.

They walked back to Homicide together in silence, and when they opened the door to the department, every single detective in there looked around the gray partition walls of his or her cubicle.

Veck saw no reason to sugarcoat things. “On duty. Off Kroner. With Reilly.”

A lot of nodding came back at him, and, man, he appreciated people being cool. Then again, these were decent folks doing a hard job on a shoestring budget, and there wasn’t a lot of time for bullshit. Besides, good or bad, after he’d coldcocked that paparazzo, he’d earned a lot of respect.

As everyone returned to work, José clapped him on the shoulder and headed off to his own desk.

Veck didn’t waste time. He parked it in his chair, signed into the computer, and checked his e-mail.

Cold cases, huh. That was a pretty goddamn broad category.

Going into the departmental database, he called up all missing persons reports. Which were technically cold cases, weren’t they, assuming they were still open. Initiating a search, he leaned back and let the computer do its thing. The fact that the data screen he used just happened to be women aged sixteen to thirty who’d been reported in the last, oh, say . . . three weeks? When Kroner happened to be busy in the area?

Wasn’t that a coincidence.