by J. R. Ward
In the course of her years on the force, she had seen a lot of gruesome things, but the situation with Sissy got to her. Maybe because she’d become personally involved, thanks to some criminally stupid decisions on her own part.
Unsettled, but unable to leave yet, she decided to waste some time on the Internet. Entering the name “Thomas DelVecchio Sr.” into Google gave her over one million references in seventeen seconds. Mousing down through the tally, she clicked over and scanned some of the blogs and the Web sites—only to become seriously unimpressed with humanity.
Not that she needed the help in that department.
There was just so much adoration for the wrong reasons, and she had to wonder how many of these people would think it was fun if their daughter or mother had been one of the victims. Or if they themselves had fallen into DelVecchio’s hands . . . and knives.
Refining her search to victims, she found plenty of references to the first woman who had been killed, including some with autopsy photos. And doing a side-by-side comparison between Sissy Barten and Suzie Bussman told her what she already knew: The method and markings were the same.
What a way to pay homage to your father. God, even the names were eerily similar.
Reclining deeply into her chair, her eyes went back and forth between the two halves of the screen—and she found herself praying that they found enough to nail Veck. All they had to go on right now was the planted earring, Kroner’s statements with regard to the quarry, and the fact that Veck had been in the Barten house. Then again, everyone had approached the case as if Kroner had done it. No one had been looking at Veck—and that was changing now. His desk, computer, and locker had already been searched and everything in them seized. His home was being cased. And as soon as he showed up, he was going straight into interrogation.
Although maybe he’d gone on the run—
Reilly jerked up and wrenched around in her chair.
Her heartbeat roared in her ears, drowning out the sound of the heat coming through the ceiling vents, and the whirring of computer equipment . . . and the creak she’d heard behind her.
Glancing to the ceiling, she looked at the security camera in the far corner. The red light on its belly was slowly blinking, the lazy cycle of flashes telling her it was operational.
“Who’s there.”
Of course no one answered. Because there was no one there.
Right?
She listened to her own breathing for a while, and then thought, Okay, this is bullshit. She was not going to be bullied in her own goddamn department.
Bursting out of her chair, she marched down the lane of empty cubicles and checked the conference rooms and offices. On the trip back, she went all the way to the main door, pushed it open, and looked down the hall both ways.
Pivoting quickly, she half expected to find someone behind her.
No one.
Cursing under her breath, she returned to her desk, sat down, and—
When her cell phone went off, she jumped and put her hand to her throat. “Oh, shut up.”
Hard to tell whether she was addressing her BlackBerry or her adrenal gland.
Grabbing the thing and accepting the call, she barked, “Reilly.”
“How’re you doing.”
At the sound of Detective de la Cruz’s voice, she took a deep breath. “I’ve been better.”
“Sarge called me.”
“What a mess.” Apparently, that was her new theme song.
“Yup.”
There was a long pause, filled by the same kind of silence that had marked the drive back from the hospital for her and Bails: What the hell happened was all over the line without a word being spoken.
“Did anyone tell you the other part of it?” she asked.
“That you and Veck were . . . ah . . .”
She had to grimace. “It was incredibly poor judgment on my part. I thought I knew him, I really did.”
“And that’s the rub, isn’t it.” This was said with the kind of exhaustion that came from personal experience. “In the end, you can only really know yourself.”
“You’re so right . . . and I’m glad you called. When this gets out—and it’s going to—”
“All people are going to do is think he’s an asshole. And that’s a best-case scenario for him.”
Killer was the other word they would be batting around, no doubt.
“You’re going to get through this,” de la Cruz said. “I just wanted you to know you can call me if you need anything.”
“You’re being really . . . kind.”
“Partners are tricky shit. I’ve been through a few.”
Bet you’ve never slept with one, though, she thought. “Thanks, Detective.”
After Reilly cut off the connection, she stared into space. God, had that story about Veck finding his mother murdered even been true? Or had it just been another way to play on her emotions?
Well, there was one way to find out . . .
It didn’t take long for her to locate some amateur blog entries that covered that particular chapter in DelVecchio family history. She read all about how Veck had discovered the body, been questioned, and been cleared of any involvement based on the physical evidence: Although his fingerprints were all over the house, there had been none on the victim; there also had been no blood under his nails, on his clothes, or in and around his bathroom or bed.
Sissy Barten’s body was the same: no evidence to tie him to the killing.
Then again, Veck was a detective who knew exactly what to do to leave nothing behind. Which made her wonder about his mother. And worry.
God . . . what if he got away with this? The threshold for being fired for planting evidence was so much lower than that of a successfully prosecuted murder charge. He could be out of a job, but free on the streets. And if he was building on his father’s foundation of slipping out of the hands of law enforcement, then it could be years before anything stuck to him.
Disgusted with so much, and apparently looking for more to get sick about, she went to Facebook and typed in Thomas Delvecc—
She didn’t have to go any farther than that to find a line of results. Idly going from page to page, she stared at the fan clubs Veck had spoken about.
At least he hadn’t lied on this one.
The largest group had twenty thousand members, and she went to the wall and looked at the lineup of photographs on the top and then the postings that ran vertically. All about the execution. All about the adoration.
She sat back and just stared at the screen.
It was a long time before she shut her computer down and grabbed her coat.
“Who is the ‘she,’ ” Veck demanded from behind the wheel of Heron’s truck. “The one that my father went on about?”
As Jim sat beside the guy, he didn’t look over. They had at least another hour before they were back in Caldwell, so there was plenty of time to frickin’ chat it up—but he wasn’t in a big hurry to talk about the weather, much less Devina and Sissy.
She wants you to know she suffered.
That demon was such a bitch.
Veck cursed hard. “Damn it, one of the pair of you had better get talking. And if you don’t want to tell me about the chick, then you’d better fucking explain that exorcism reference.”
Jim tapped the tip of his cigarette out the crack of the window, and decided to tackle the latter rather than the former. “You’re not our first trip through the park. The first soul we saved—we did it by serving Devina an eviction notice.”
“Devina?”
“Devil in a blue dress, buddy.”
“Is she the one who suffered?”
“We wish,” Adrian muttered from the back.
Jim couldn’t agree more on that one. “Here’s the way it works. Devina is a demon—and if you need more of an explanation about that, think of collective wisdom and you’ve got a pretty good picture of it. She gets into a person and gradually takes over, influencing their
choices and decisions. Eventually, you get to your crossroads, and you have to pick. Depending on the way you go, what you follow, what action you take—that determines where you’re going to end up. And downstairs is a roasty, toasty fucking place, if you get what I’m saying.”
“Hell.”
“You got it.”
On that note, Jim thought about the guy’s father. Man, that one was pure evil. And if that was what bound Veck’s flesh?
“Am I going to end up there?” Veck said softly, as if he were talking to himself.
“Not if we can help it.”
Although how the hell were they going to pull that off? Especially given that Veck had seemed darker since he’d left that visiting room. Angrier. Farther away even though he was just as close by.
Why the hell did Eddie have to die, Jim thought. They needed him on this one.
Devina was such a bitch.
“Is Reilly in danger,” Veck asked harshly.
“The more distance between the two of you, the better.”
The man cursed again, and muttered, “Mission accomplished there.”
“It really is safer. She’d be nothing more than collateral damage, and Devina’s into that shit.”
At the side of the highway, a green sign with white lettering read, CALDWELL 55.
How many cigarettes did he have left?
“So who is the ‘she.’ The one who suffered?”
Oh, yay. That question was so going to help his mood. “Someone I care about.”
“Sissy Barten.” Veck looked over. “Right? Kroner said the same thing, in exactly the same words, when he was talking to Reilly about her. And you already told me it was personal.”
“That I did.”
“So what were those markings on the girl’s stomach?”
“Devina doesn’t know from ADT. She uses virgins.” Jim stretched in his seat, his muscles going rigid as the urge to kill rang his motherfucking bell. “What you saw on Sissy was the way she does it.”
“Fucking . . . hell. So my father’s first victim . . .”
“Maybe Devina made him do it for her as a pledge of faith. Maybe he just helped her work. Who knows.”
“How long has this been going on? Between you and the . . .” The pause that followed suggested the man was still getting used to the word demon on his tongue.
“Only a couple of weeks. But there were people before me—and going to be none after me unless I make sure that you don’t go the way she wants you to.”
Jim glanced over at the detective’s hands. They were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel, it was a wonder the damn thing hadn’t snapped off.
Okay, that kind of pissed was not going to work in their favor: It gave Devina a flashpoint—if she hit the vein correctly, they’d be dealing with an explosion. And Veck was a big, powerful guy who was capable, and probably trained, to kill with his bare hands.
Goddamn it, Jim hated this waiting around. “By the way, we’re staying with you tonight.”
“I figured. I only have one bed, but I got a couch.”
“I’m mostly interested in some version of a 7-Eleven.” He flipped open the box of Marlboros. “Running low.”
“There’s a Stewart’s close to my house.”
“Cool.”
Veck reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. “Might as well turn this back on.”
While Jim seethed in frustration, he looked out the side window at the highway’s dark shoulder, wondering when in the hell things were going to—
“What the hell,” Veck muttered. “My damn phone blew up.”
As Jim slowly cranked his head around, he thought, Waiting’s over; here we go.. . .
CHAPTER 39
Up in Heaven, Nigel was playing with himself.
Chess, that was.
In truth, it was a bit boring, even though he found his opponent smashingly dressed and incredibly astute: Fellow had all the same moves he did, so the lack of surprise presented no challenge a’tall, really—in spite of the flamboyantly brilliant strategies.
“Checkmate,” he said out loud to the silence of his private quarters.
When there was no cursing, no accusations of unfair practice, no stamping about and demands for a rematch, he was reminded again as to why playing with Colin was much more gratifying.
Rising to his feet, he stepped away from the table and left the pieces as they were, with only two on the board, a white queen and a black king.
The urge to leave his tent and go wandering across the lawn toward the castle, toward the river, toward where Colin slept, was such a compelling impulse, it went beyond the mental to border upon the physical.
But he had lowered himself to that folly once, and been spared embarrassment. He would not do so again.
Distracted by the ache in his chest, he went ’round the bed and into the bath and then came back out once more. In truth, he hadn’t properly focused in . . . well, since that horrid meal . . . when Colin’s honesty had fired a shot directly at Nigel’s arrogant, pissy little ego.
Strange the way one’s position changed, wasn’t it. As time had drifted by like a lazy current in a vast and largely still stream, his initial hotheaded, defensive reaction had faded into a more moderated response . . . one that might even make him prepared to apologize, provided an apology was tendered in return.
Which was proof positive that miracles could happen.
Unfortunately, he was entirely unsure what he would receive in reply, and knowing himself, as well as the other archangel, he recognized that another round of arguing would benefit neither of them.
Still, Colin could be the one to offer the olive branch.
In fact, although Nigel would admit it to no one, he had been skipping the last several meals, and passing time herein, in hopes of that archangel coming forward. This was wearing thin, however. Such passivity was not in his nature, and patience was a virtue he had little of—
“Nigel?” came a voice from the far side of the flaps.
Nigel gritted his teeth, but kept his curse to himself as he double-checked his cravat. The last thing he needed was a visitor of the non-Colin variety. It was hardly proper to punish a well-intended innocent, however.
“Byron, old boy,” he muttered, heading for the entrance, “how fare thee—”
The moment he drew back the satin weight and saw the other archangel’s face, he stopped dead. “Tell me.”
“Is . . . Colin herein?”
“No.”
“We cannae find him.” Byron fiddled with the brass buttons on the sleeves of his club jacket. “When he did not present himself for the evening meal, we assumed he was studying and left him be. But afore I was going to turn in, I went to search him out with some provisions. He was not in his tent. Not at the water’s edge. Not in the castle . . . and not here, either, apparently.”
Nigel shook his head at the same time he stretched out his senses—and found no sign of the angel. Indeed, if he had not been so preoccupied with himself, he would have recognized previously what he noted clearly now: Colin was not on the premises.
There was a brief urge to give in to panic, but Nigel controlled the emotional response. And considering things logically, he knew there was but one place the sod would go.
Why had he not seen this coming?
“Worry not,” Nigel said grimly. “I shall go and retrieve him.”
“Would you care for aid in this?”
“No.” For he was not going to be responsible for the ass-lashing he gave the archangel. Personality conflict was one thing; rank insubordination was another altogether. And the latter was not going to be indulged in any fashion dead.
Upon his will, his robing and monogrammed slippers morphed into a suit of dove gray, a shirt of bright white, a pale tartan tie, and a pair of wingtips.
“Go forth and comfort Bertie and Tarquin,” he told the other archangel. “Undoubtedly, they shall be worried. And know that I shan’t be long.”
“Where he is.”
With that Nigel was off, traveling through the barrier to the world down below. And when he resumed his corporeal form, it was before a two-story garage of modest distinction set within farmland country.
He thought of Edward resting therein.
How common a marker for such an extraordinary soul.
With grim focus, Nigel surmounted the narrow exterior staircase and passed through the door as if it were naught but a veil of fog.
No reason to be throwing the panels open; he had announced himself sure enough.
And Colin did not seem shocked at the intrusion. The archangel was sitting on a ragtag sofa beneath a picture window, lounging with one arm running across the top of the cushions and his legs crossed knee to ankle.
Nigel recommitted to memory every angle and line of the male’s harsh, handsome face. And then recast them with a black eye and a fat lip of his doing. “Did you not think your absence would be noted?”
“Do I appear surprised at your arrival?”
“The proper course of these things is to ask permission before taking your leave.”
“Perhaps for Byron and Bertie. But not I.”
“I would not have denied you.”
“How could I have known that.”
Nigel frowned, his anger abruptly abating, exhaustion taking its place. How did humans stand this emotional turmoil? And why ever had he allowed it into his heart?
This was no good. Moreover, this could not go on.
When he next addressed the archangel, it was with composure. “Colin, it would appear that you and I have reached our own crossroads. As much as I was prepared to recognize certain . . . errors of judgment on my part . . . I fear that will be insufficient for you, as water shall not do when blood is sought. Further, I believe that in your thrust to embrace a logical stance, you have missed the truth about yourself. Your passions rule you far more than you realize, and they take you in directions that jeopardize our collective interests.”
Colin’s eyes shifted away.
“Therefore, I say unto you, let us put into the past any assignations that may have occurred, and move forward into a proper distance. Mayhap over time, we shall work together in harmony anew. However, until that occurs, I expect you to behave appropriately or I shall remove you from any influence over these proceedings.”