by J. R. Ward
“You helped me with the first.”
“I was permitted that license.”
“And look at how number two turned out.”
Nigel hid his agreeing concern behind a sip of his glass. “Your passion is laudable. And I will tell you that your return to Caldwell is well-served.”
“Thanks for the tip. There are two million people in that goddamn town. Hardly narrows it down.”
“Nothing is arbitrary, and there are no coincidences, Jim. In fact, there is another who shall seek what you do, and as the separate quests unite, you will find the next soul.”
“No offense, but that doesn’t mean shit.” Heron glanced at Colin. “And I’m not going to apologize to the talk police for that. Sorry.”
Colin crossed his arms over his bare chest. “Suit yourself, lad. And I’ll do the same.”
Read: Maybe I’ll pop you now. Or maybe later.
The last thing Nigel needed was a fistfight in his quarters as undoubtedly that would bring the other archangels, as well as Tarquin at a full gallop. Hardly the intermission one looked for.
“Colin,” he said, “do go soak your head.”
“I’m wet enough, thank you.”
“That is a matter of opinion,” Nigel muttered before addressing Jim again. “Go forth and have faith that you will be where you should to do what you must.”
“I don’t believe in fate, Nigel. That’s like picking up an unloaded gun and thinking it’ll shoot something. You’ve got to put the bullets in the chamber yourself.”
“And I am telling you there are greater things at work than your efforts.”
“Okay, wonderful, so put that on a Christmas card. But don’t try to feed that bullshit to me.”
Staring into the hard face of the savior, Nigel knew a flash of fear. With this attitude, there was yet one more thing stacked against the angels prevailing. And yet what could he do? Heron had no patience or faith, but that did naught to change the rules of the game or the likelihood that the Creator would inevitably redress Devina’s liberties.
At least the latter worked in their favor.
“I believe we are through,” Nigel said. “Nothing favorable shall come from our continued conversing.”
There was a dark, rather evil moment during which Heron regarded him with a kind of fury.
“Fine,” the savior said. “But I don’t give up this easy.”
“And I am the mountain that will not be moved.”
“Roger that.”
In between one blink and the next, that angel was gone. And it was not until silence rang out within the tent that Nigel realized he had not been the one to send Heron on his way. He had done that himself.
He was becoming stronger, wasn’t he.
“Do you want me to go down and watch over him,” Colin said.
“When I agreed to him as the chosen one, I thought there were enough reins to hold him. I truly did.”
“And so I say, shall I depart and watch o’er him?”
Nigel turned to his dearest friend, who was so much more than a colleague and a confidant. “That is the purpose of Adrian and Edward.”
“Stipulated. But I worry where his growing competence will take him. We are not on a good path with this.”
Nigel took another sip of his wine and stared at the empty space that Heron had just inhabited. Though he kept silent, he had to agree. The question was, what to do, what to do . . .
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, tha
t 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.
H
e 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.