by J. R. Ward
And yet here he was.
As promised, the moment he got out of the truck, a reinforced door opened wide and a guard met him and led him into the sparkling clean, well-lit environs. As an officer of the law, normally, he would have been allowed to keep his badge and cell phone and weapon, provided he didn’t go into the cell blocks, but he wasn’t here in an official capacity, and that meant everything got checked in.
While he was turning his phone over, he saw that the thing had a couple of messages. Clearly, the trip down had taken them into some no-service areas, because he hadn’t heard it ring, but he wasn’t going to stop and listen now. Whatever it was would be waiting for him when he got out of here. Besides, he had a feeling what they were about. He was no doubt going to get assigned another IA person—oh, joy. And Bails was probably checking in on him. The guy did that, especially if he’d texted and Veck didn’t reply.
After he’d signed in and given all his stuff to the guard, he was taken down a series of halls with not much more than footfalls between him and the prison officer. But what the hell were they going to talk about?
Here to say good-bye to your dad? Oh, cool . . .
Yeah, first time I’ve seen him in years, last time in this life . . .
Have fun with it, then.
Thanks, man.
Yup. Big hurry to have that one.
About a hundred yards through the prison’s maze later, Veck was shown into a visiting area that was the size of a small cafeteria, and made up like one as well, with long tables that had seats on both sides. The thing was lit like a jeweler’s display case, with great panels of fluorescents screwed into the ceiling, and the floor was a speckled brown, the kind of thing that hid dirt well, but was kept buffed and shined anyway. There were no windows, no plants, and only one mural of what appeared to be the Connecticut statehouse.
Although the bank of four vending machines did add a little color.
“He’s being brought over now,” the guard said. “We’ve put you both in the contact visiting area as a courtesy, but I’m going to have to ask you to keep seated with both hands on the table at all times, Detective.”
“No problem. You care where I park it?”
“Nope. And good luck.”
The guy backed up and stood against the door they’d come through, crossing his arms and focusing on the bare wall across the way like he had a lot of experience with the pose.
Veck sat at the table in front of him and linked his hands together on the smooth surface.
Closing his eyes, he felt the presence of the two angels. They were to the left and the right of him, standing much as the guard did, still and watchful—
The door at the far end of the room opened without a sound . . . and then there was shuffling.
His father came through the jamb with a smile on his handsome face, and shackles on his wrists and ankles. In spite of the fact that he was in a baggy orange jumpsuit, he was elegant, with his dark gray hair brushed back off his forehead and his ambassador attitude out like a royal flag.
But Veck didn’t give a shit about those kinds of appearances ; he looked to the floor. His father threw a shadow, all right, a single shadow that pooled around his feet like black ink. The fact that it was darker than any other on the linoleum seemed logical in the new paradigm.
“Hello, son.”
The voice was as deep and grave as Veck’s own, and as he lifted his eyes to his father’s, it was like looking in the mirror—twenty or thirty years from now.
“No greeting for me?” the elder DelVecchio said as he came forward with tight little steps, the guard who brought him in riding his ass so close he might as well have had another jumpsuit on his back.
“I’m here, aren’t I.”
“You know, it’s a shame we have to be chaperoned.” His father sat down across from him and put his hands on the table . . . in the precise position Veck’s were. “But we can keep our voices low.” The planes and angles of that face eased into an expression of warmth—that Veck didn’t buy for a second. “I’m touched that you’re here.”
“Don’t be.”
“Well, I am, son.” The saddened shake of the head was so appropriate Veck wanted to roll his eyes. “God, look at you . . . you’re so much older. And tired. Work been tough? I’ve heard you’re in law enforcement.”
“Yeah.”
“In Caldwell.”
“Yeah.”
His father eased forward. “I’m allowed to read the newspapers and I’ve heard you have a little fiend at work up there. But you caught him, didn’t you. In the woods.” Gone was the benevolent-father lie. In its place? An intensity in the man’s expression that made Veck want to stand up and walk out. “Didn’t you. Son.”
If eyes were the windows of the soul, then Veck found himself staring into an abyss . . . and in the same way that leaning over a ledge and looking down created a vertigo-induced increase in gravity, he felt a pull.
“What a hero you are, son. I’m so proud of you.”
The words warped in Veck’s ears, his senses getting muddled, so it was as if he both heard them and felt them as a brush over his skin.
You should have killed him when you had the chance, though.
Veck frowned as he realized his father had spoken without moving his lips.
Shaking his head, Veck broke the connection. “This is bullshit.”
“Because I complimented you? I meant it. As God is my witness.”
“God has nothing to do with you.”
“Oh, no?” His father quickly reached into his jumpsuit and pulled out a cross before the guards could get a hard-on about the hands rules. “I can assure you He does. I’m very much a religious man.”
“Because it looks better for you, no doubt.”
“I have nothing to prove to anybody.” Now those eyes glinted. “I let my actions speak for me—have you been to your mother’s grave lately?”
“Don’t you dare go there.”
His father laughed a little and lifted his hands, showing off the steel cuffs. “Of course, I can’t. I’m not allowed out—this is a prison, not the Four Seasons. And even though I’ve been falsely accused, falsely tried, and falsely sentenced to death, I’m held just as everyone else is.”
“There is nothing false about where you’re at.”
“You actually think I murdered all those women.”
“Let’s be more accurate—I think you butchered all those women. And others.”
More with the head shaking. “Son, I don’t know where you get your ideas. For example . . .” His father’s stare lifted to the ceiling, as if he were faced with a complex math equation. “Did you read about the death of Suzie Bussman?”
“I’m not one of your fans. So no, I don’t keep up with your work.”
“She was not the first girl they accused me of, but the first one they thought I killed. She was found in a drainage ditch. Her throat had been cut, her wrists had been slashed, and her stomach had been inscribed with all of these symbols.”
As his father fell silent, he leveled his chin and stared at Veck.
Sissy Barten. Found in a cave. Her throat cut, her wrists slashed, her stomach inscribed with ritual symbols.
“Now, son, as you know, serial killers have patterns they like to follow. It’s like a style of clothing or an area of the country to live in or a professional pursuit. It’s where you feel most comfortable expressing yourself . . . it’s the sweet spot in the center of the racket and the perfectly cooked piece of tenderloin and the room that is decorated to your taste and no one else’s. It is home, son—where you belong.”
“So you’re saying that all those other women couldn’t have been your work—in spite of the evidence at the scenes—because your first one didn’t match the pattern?”
“Oh, I didn’t kill anyone.”
“So how do you know about the sweet spot.”
“I’m a good little reader, and I like pathology.”
“I’ll
bet.”
His father leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I know how you feel, how apart you are, how desperate it can be to be lost. But I was shown the way and was all the better for it, and the same is going to be true for you. You can be saved—you will be saved. Just look inside of yourself and follow that inner core that we both know you have.”
“So I can grow up and be a serial killer just like my father? No fucking thank you.”
His father backed off and offered his palms to the ceiling. “Oh, not that, never that . . . I’m talking about religion. Naturally.”
Yeah. Right.
Veck glanced around at the security cameras in the corners of the room. His father had cleverly not implicated himself in anything, even though the subtext was Las Vegas–obvious.
“Find your God, son. . . .” Those eyes grew luminous once again. “Embrace who you are. That impulse you have is going to take you where you need to go. Trust me. I’ve been saved.”
As he spoke, the voice morphed into a dark symphony in Veck’s ears, as if his father’s words were being set to epic movie music.
Veck slanted forward, bringing them so close together he could see every one of the flecks of black in his father’s deep blue irises. In a whisper, he said with a smile, “I’m pretty sure you’re going to hell.”
“And I’m taking you with me, son. You can’t fight what you are, and you’re going to be put in a position you can’t win.” His father tilted his face, like someone would a gun when they had it right up to your forehead. “You and I are the same.”
“You sure about that? I’m walking out of here, and you’ve got a date with a needle on Wednesday. No ‘same’ there.”
The pair of them stared at each other for a while, until his father was the one who ended up backing off.
“Oh, son, I think you’ll find me alive and well come the end of the week.” Lot of satisfaction in that tone. “You’ll read about it in the papers.”
“How the hell are you going to manage that.”
“I have friends in low places, as it were.”
“That I believe.”
The charming, slightly haughty smile returned, and his father’s voice eased back into gracious territory. “In spite of how . . . acrimonious . . . this is, I’m glad to see you.”
“Me, too. You’re less impressive than I remember.”
The twitch in the left eye told him he’d hit a mark. “Would you do something for me?”
“Probably not.”
“Go see your mother’s grave for me and bring her a red rose. I loved that woman to death, I really did.”
Veck’s hands curled into fists.
“Tell you what.” Veck smiled. “I’ll put my cigarette out on your headstone. How about that, Father.”
The elder DelVecchio eased back, his expression going cold. Clearly, the meet-and-greet was not rolling the way he’d expected.
“This wasn’t just about you, by the way,” his father announced.
As Veck frowned, the man focused on the blank space behind Veck’s shoulder. “She wants you to know that she suffered. Horribly.”
Jesus . . . exactly what Kroner had said . . .
Veck caught himself before he looked up and over at Jim, but the angel’s response was clear: A cold draft boiled up and drifted over Veck’s head, crossing the table and causing the skin on the back of his father’s hands to go goose bumps.
His father smiled into the thin air where Jim was standing. “You don’t honestly think you’re going to win this, do you? Because you can’t take her out of him—an exorcism isn’t going to work because he was born with it—it’s not in him, but of him.”
His father glanced back over at Veck. “And didn’t you think I’d know you brought friends? Silly, silly boy.”
Veck stood up. “We’re done.”
Yup, it was definitely time to go: Given the arctic-blast thing going on, Jim Heron, the angel, was about to raise hell on his dad. Fun to watch, but aftermath-wise? File that under not-here-not-now.
“No hug,” his father drawled.
Veck didn’t bother replying to that one. He was through wasting his breath and his time on the sonofabitch. In fact, he wasn’t sure why he’d come—just to trade potshots? There was no crossroads he could see here . . . Then again, maybe the point had been that message to Heron?
As Veck turned and walked over to the guard, the other guy opened the door quickly, like he didn’t want to be in the enclosed space a moment longer, either.
“Thomas,” his father called out. “I’ll see you in the mirror, son. Every day.”
The closing door cut offe="3"rds.
“You okay?” the guard asked.
“Just fine. Thanks.”
Following the other man, Veck headed in the direction they’d come from. “When’s the execution scheduled for?”
“First thing in the morning, Wednesday. If you petition the warden, I think you can get a seat.”
“Good to know.”
As he strode along, Veck could feel his father’s presence with him, as if the battery that kept that evil lamp inside of him on had been plugged into its charger and regained a strength it hadn’t had for years.
In the center of his chest, that dark anger flared to life . . . and spread.
“You sure you’re okay, Detective?”
Veck wasn’t certain which part of him was answering as he replied, “Never felt better in my life.”
CHAPTER 38
“ You did the right thing.”
Reilly glanced over the felt lip of her cubicle. Her supervisor was leaning against the partition, her coat on, her briefcase in one hand, her keys dangling from the other.
“And you should go home.”
Reilly smiled a little. “Just catching up.”
“No offense, but bullshit—I’m not going to stop you, though.”
“Thank you.” Reilly stretched her arms over her head. “I’ve just got to do this. For my own sanity.”
On the screen of her computer was that preliminary list of evidence that had come out of Kroner’s impounded truck. She’d done a word search on earring and was now scanning the descriptions and first-impression photos one by one.
She had about fifteen more to go, and then she was going to comb through the master list, which had been finalized just this afternoon.
Stuff like this she had to see for herself.
Her supervisor nodded. “No, I get it. And FYI, DelVecchio hasn’t returned my calls—and I just talked to the sergeant again. Nothing there, either.”
“When are you going to issue an arrest warrant for him?”
“Noontime tomorrow if he hasn’t turned himself in for questioning before then.”
The charge would be tampering with evidence. Both she and her supervisor, as well as the sergeant, had screened the security video of the evidence room from the day before—and they had watched as Veck had gone in, looked through all the cataloged objects, and then rifled through the box of things that had yet to be logged in. That was his opportunity, and he had made several passes in and out of his pocket with his left hand.
It was not ironclad proof, but paired with Bails’s statements and the discrepancy in the list, it was enough to at least arrest him. Besides, if he wasn’t responding to calls, there was a good chance they were right.
“Be honest with me,” her boss said. “Do you fear for your own personal safety.”
“No.” Maybe.
“Do you want me to put a patrol on your house?”
“Good idea. And consider the patrol done.” The woman put her hand on Reilly’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself for any of this.”
“How can I not?”
“You can’t control other people.”
But she could choose whether or not to sleep with them, for god’s sakes. Changing the subject, she said, “So are you finished talking to Bails?”
“Yup, his statement’s on file. You can read it if you like
—it’s exactly what he told you. He just left a little while ago.”
“I’ll do that. And before you say it, yes, I promise to go home before midnight.”
Her boss was almost at the door when Reilly called out, “When are you going to talk to the Bartens about this?”
“Not until our ducks are in a row. Those poor people have been through hell and back, and the idea that a cop might have slaughtered their daughter is going to make it so much worse. Especially with the name DelVecchio associated with the case.”
And in light of the fact that Veck had been in their house.
At that moment, his own words replayed in her head. I took that man into a victim’s home.
God, he was such a liar.
“Call me if you want to talk,” her boss murmured.
“I will. And thanks again.”
As she was left by herself, she thought of Jim Heron, the “FBI” agent, the one who had “shown” them the cave where Sissy’s remains had been found.
Veck had played that scene brilliantly. So surprised when it happened. So professional thereafter.
And as for the lack of muddy footprints on the rock? Heron could have been camping down there for hours as he waited for Veck to lead her in the right direction, the soles of his shoes drying off until he raced away in another direction. And they’d all been so transfixed by finding the body, no one had looked for him. Which had been a major mistake.
It was clear that Heron and Veck had to be working together.
Reilly cursed and refocused on her screen. The last of the preliminary earring entries took no time to go through, and as she’d expected, there was no dove anything to be found. Just as Bails had said.
After she moved over to the final version, with its precise photographs taken with a microscope, the cataloging was so succinct it was the work of a moment to find the earring. The discrepancy hadn’t been noted; it would be soon, however.
“What a mess,” she murmured, as she went over to Sissy’s file to review the autopsy pictures again.
God, they were physically painful to look at.