by J. R. Ward
She went to the videos section. God, these things were positively repulsive, most taken at fan rallies—
She frowned and leaned in toward her screen. One of the newest had been shot within the last couple days or so from in front of the prison where the elder DelVecchio was housed. In the bright sun, the signs were plainly visible and the slogans were ridiculous.
Some even rhymed.
Execution. Persecution. How original.
She watched the video again. And again. And again. Until she’d memorized the two-minute clip’s pans and close-ups, as well as the part where that flashbulb went off from the back—
Wait.
Not a flashbulb.
She backed the file up and let it resume. In the back row, standing off to the side, was a man . . . with a pair of mirrored sunglasses on.
There was no way of zooming in, so she just replayed.
“Oh . . . God . . .”
Again with the replay.
“Oh . . . my . . . God.”
It was . . . Bails?
It had to be him . . . standing in and among the deranged devotees. As the camera panned, he was speaking to the guy next to him—until he saw that he was on the video and turned away.
She went back to the wall on the page. Searching the membership was useless: Not only was there no way to screen the data, more to the point, she didn’t know what she was looking for in terms of a name. In fact, if she typed in “John Bails” in the Facebook directory, it brought up a guy in Arizona who was sixty, and someone in New Mexico who was seventeen, and three other people who weren’t a match.
On a burst of paranoia, she paused and checked over her shoulder. No one was behind her . . . or even in the department.
Back to the video.
As she watched over and over again, she wasn’t absolutely sure it was him. After all, there were a million pairs of mirrored sunglasses out in the world. But the hair . . . the build . . . the coloring . . . all of that was dead-on.
Abruptly, she thought of those “boxes” he’d talked about . . . as well as the fact that Veck had passed his lie detector test. Yes, it was possible to dupe the machine, and given how cool Veck could get, he seemed like a perfect candidate for that rarified class of fibbers. But why, then, would he have admitted intent when it came to hurting Kroner? It didn’t make sense.
Unless, of course . . . he’d simply told the truth.
Reilly went through every video there was . . . and found two other sightings of the man who appeared to be Bails. He always wore sunglasses, even at night, but not exclusively those mirrored jobs.
She sat back in her chair. Kicked her foot and sent herself on a leisurely spin.
Was it possible that Bails had a relationship with Veck’s father?
Then again, if Bails was one of the legions of fans that madman had, he didn’t have to actually know the guy. But why frame Veck?
As the momentum of her chair slowed, she found herself looking at the page again, and thought, Well, duh . . .
If the father was executed, how did they keep the love going? Simple—someone created the illusion that the family tradition was carrying on. Maybe even got Veck jailed. Maybe even drove him to kill.
She thought of that polygraph, and considered the idea that Veck actually had a murderous impulse. If pushed hard enough, if put under enough stress, it was possible that someone could snap and act in ways they wouldn’t normally. Hello, that was why police departments had homicide divisions.
As for what happened in the woods? Veck might have gone there with the thought of killing Kroner on his mind, but given the way he’d behaved with the paparazzo he’d hit, it was eivable he’d approached it as retaliation for what the man had done—which was still illegal, immoral, and inexcusable if he acted on it, but different from singling out an innocent woman and defiling her. Make that twenty-five innocent women.
Besides, Veck had not, in fact, harmed Kroner.
He had, in fact, called 911.
She thought of how Veck had been around her, the way he’d talked and acted and touched her.
Then she recalled Bails by her car, looking forlorn and betrayed by his “best friend.”
Psychopaths could be very convincing. That was at the core of how they caused the damage they did.
The question was, Between those two men, who was the liar?
As she thought more about Bails’s great reveal in her unmarked in front of the hospital, she had to wonder . . . how had he known about the earring’s discrepancy? There were hundreds of pieces of evidence in the preliminary report. Hundreds. As a detective on the case, he would have looked that list over once, maybe twice. Kind of hard to believe he’d remember a single entry.
What had prompted him to compare the two lists around that particular object? The fact that Veck had recognized the earring as Sissy Barten’s?
Or maybe because Bails was the guy doing the framing?
There was only one way to know for sure. Unfortunately, it was not legal.
Reilly stood up and walked through her department, striding all the way to the rear and looking in the conference rooms; then returning to the front to check reception; before doubling back and peeking into her boss’s office even though she knew the woman had left.
Over at her desk once more, she picked up her phone and dialed the one person she knew could help her.
When the call was answered, she said softly, “I need some help, but it’s walking the line.”
De la Cruz’s voice was steady. “What kind of line we talking about?”
“The only one that counts.”
CHAPTER 43
Adrian Vogel was a bloody fucking lunatic.
Staring out the picture window from the flat above the garage, the archangel Colin measured the battlefield down below. Previously, the quarter acre had been nothing but a dirt drive and a squat piece of lawn. The moment those minions had showed their oily faces, however, an alteration of purpose had been affected, and now Adrian was facing a legion of Devina’s bastards.
This had catastrophe stamped all over it: Even though Colin had no respect for the denizens of the demon’s lair, they were very dangerous, especially in these kinds of numbers. And that daft son of a bitch was facing off at them with nothing but a thin suit of leather and a farming tool.
Colin closed his eyes briefly and cursed. The angel was not going to make it out of this. He was an extraordinary fighter—as good as even the savior who was a master. But the sheer numbers he was facing? It was a swarm.
Except there was no leaving Eddie to go down there and help. Devina would want the body undefended, for one thing, and Jim had only a notification spell up with that bloody handprint of his. If something broke in here?t would only trigger a signal to the savior—and pulling Jim away from his work with the soul in question was not what anyone needed.
Moreover, if Colin assumed arms and went down upon the ground, he’d have to deal with Nigel for interfering—and less strife betwixt them rather than more was advisable at this point.
Except one couldn’t stand by and just watch the massacre, could one.
Getting up and going over to the door, Colin opened up the fragile, worthless barrier. Immediately, the wafting stench of acid blood tingled in his nose, and the shouts and grunts of fighting burned in his ears.
Adrian was astonishing, wielding the hay fork with piercing success even as the tide of the enemy pressed forward and threatened to close ranks to surround him. Stabbing front-wise, then angling left, then right, then returning to center, he was picking off minions with such capability that for a moment, one had to reconsider involvement.
But then a minion, backed up a mate, came in low whilst Adrian was working at the chest level.
The bastard was going for the angel’s feet, trying to get him off balance and then on the ground—at which point they would all seize control and own him like a dog.
Colin ducked back into the house and looked around.
&n
bsp; Mirror. He needed a mirror.
A quick survey of the premises yielded one that hung over the sink in the bathroom. Unfortunately, it was part of a built-in unit upon the wall, not something he could take down from a hook. He would, however, make it work.
Focusing upon his forefinger, he gathered a coldness upon the tip, intensifying the energy, building it up and keeping it harnessed.
When he made contact with the reflective glass, the pane shattered but held itself within its frame, the cracks emanating from where he had touched. Glancing around, he found a publication upon the back of the toilet marked Car and Driver, and picking it up, he pressed the folios flat against that which he had splintered.
With a drawing force of will, he called the shards forward, separating them from their backing, affixing them temporarily upon the face of what he held to them.
When he removed the stack of papers, the pieces stuck as if they had been glued, the rest free-falling into the white sink in a tinkling, sparkling rush.
He was zip-quick as he raced back through the flat and went out upon the landing of the exterior stairs once again.
Adrian was nearly surrounded. He had done incredible work, however. With just the lowly hay fork, he had incapacitated so many, the lawn and drive were an obstacle course of black writhing bodies. Steam, from where he’d been splattered with that corrosive blood, rose off his leather outerwear, giving him a foggy shadow as he jabbed and whirled.
Holding the magazine flat in his palm, Colin commanded the mirrored shards to rise and fly, sending them in a group out to Adrian. When they arrived at their destination, they rotated en masse so that their reflective surfaces faced him and then began to circle him, picking up his image . . . and throwing it.
One Adrian became two. Two became four. Four became sixteen. Sixteen became a countless army to meet a finite force.
Each had the leather coat. Every had the pitchfork. All were the proficient killer.
They were Adrian multiplied, perfect reproductions who fought and thought exactly as he did. And as he looked around at himselves, he lost his rhythm for a moment as he realized he had backup of an unexpected kind.
He was not one to waste time in the heat of battle, however, and as he reengaged, the others of him fell into fighting stances and then made good on the preparation, engaging the minions.
“Now ’tis fair,” Colin murmured as he shut himself back in the garage and resumed his perch at the window.
It was a full-blown melee down below, a ground war of proper dimension with well-matched combatants. The minions snapped out their expandable limbs, their fangs flashing white in featureless, noir faces whilst they sought for purchase upon angel arms and legs. And in return, the Adrians engaged with no less aplomb, striking with vicious accuracy and a kind of brutal elegance of movement, that humble farming tool transformed into a most worthy weapon. As time passed, the angel brigade lengthened their territory, cutting off any avenues for rear-flank dominance, and then they began to conquer their foes, squeezing the minions into a wedge as they closed in from the sides, leaving contorted bodies underfoot.
’Twas so very satisfying to watch, but even better to be a part of, Colin thought with envy.
Up above in heaven, this war was of grave importance, yes, but there was a staunch lack of visceral feel. Here . . . this was where it was happening.
Here was where he wished he was.
Abruptly, he thought of Nigel and wondered whether the archangel was correct. Colin had long seen himself as a logical being, rising above all base emotion—and that was a big part of what defined him.
He had passion in his gut, however. Deep rivers of it.
And it made him want to fight, not play witness.
Alas, he wanted to be in Adrian’s combat boots . . .
CHAPTER 44
As Reilly sat at her desk and stared at her phone, she didn’t think de la Cruz was going to pull it off.
Yes, he was the only person she could think of who could get into a sealed juvenile file that was fifteen years old and no doubt buried in the basement of some suburb of New York City. But that was a tall order, even for a miracle worker like him.
For one thing, “sealed” meant “lose your job” if you went there. For another, most old records were tossed after a number of years, given that computerized files were not all that prevalent in the nineties, especially in smaller municipalities. And finally, the guy hadn’t worked in Manhattan for years and years. Who knew if he had any contacts left down south?
Still, it had been a relief to lay everything out to the detective, even the stuff about Bails: She didn’t like feeling crazy all by herself. And at least he didn’t seem to think her suspicions were totally unfounded.
Glancing at the clock across the office, she knew that he wouldn’t be getting back to her tonight . . . so it was probably time to go home before she ossified in her chair.
Rising to her feet, she stretched hard—which was less about loosening her body and more about finding an excuse to look behind herself. Again.
Man, you knew panoia was bad when you had to make excuses for it to yourself.
After shutting down her computer, she picked up her coat, pulled it on, and grabbed her purse. Before she left IA, she checked her gun in its holster under her arm and got out her cell phone.
Just in case.
As she stepped out into the hallway, she looked both ways and took a listen. Off in the distance, past Homicide, she heard a vacuum running, and down below in the foyer someone was using a floor buffer.
She glanced behind her. There was no one around.
Walking fast for the main stairs, she reminded herself that even though it was after hours, the lights were still on everywhere and there were twenty or thirty night-shift people working in the building—
When her phone went off, she nearly dropped the damn thing. And then almost lost it again when she saw it was de la Cruz. Accepting the call, she whispered, “Don’t tell me you found the juvie record?”
“That’s what you asked me to do.”
Her feet slowed. “My God . . .”
“My brother-in-law’s cousin’s husband, actually.”
“Tell me.”
“Truancy. That’s it.”
She stopped at the head of the stairs, and kept her voice low. “What do you mean ‘that’s it.’ ”
“The Garrison County records department has a single listing in ‘ninety-six for a Thomas DelVecchio Jr. He was brought in for skipping school repeatedly.”
“And there is no other reference? No psych evals? No—”
“Nothing. The backlog of cases were digitalized in two thousand five—and they saved ten years of files, so we just made it inside the safe zone. DelVecchio was fourteen at the time he was brought in—and if he’d had earlier trips through the justice system, they would have been noted in that entry.”
“And there was nothing afterward.”
“Not a thing.”
There was a long silence. And then she felt compelled to ask, “There is no way something was missed?”
“If for some reason he got into trouble in another jurisdiction, well, then yeah. But real estate records show that his mother owned a house in the same town for twenty years and I know Veck’s résumé’s been vetted—and he has on it that he graduated from the Garrison County High School in two thousand. So I think it’s safe to assume he stayed in that area.”
Reilly put her hand on her head as her mind reeled. “He’s being framed.”
“Sure looks that way.”
“Goddamn it.”
Now she got moving, racing down the stairs, her heels clipping loudly on the marble.
“Another thing,” de la Cruz said. “While I was waiting for the callback, I got on that Facebook page that you sent me the link to.”
“And you saw Bails?”
“Yup, I think that’s him, too. Where are you?”
“Just leaving the station house. I’m going ove
r to Veck’s right now.”
As she passed by the housekeeping thinf, she watched her footing on the wet marble and then shot down the back hallway.
“There’s only one problem,” de la Cruz said. “We can’t use the juvie record to prove anything. We should never have gotten this information.”
She punched the bar on the rear exit and burst out into the night. “I have the Bails images on Facebook—I took screen shots of them in case they get taken down and I found the alias he’s using. I think we have enough to get a warrant to force Facebook to give us the account details and the Internet service provider. We can link him that way.”
“Proving that he’s a fan of DelVecchio Sr. isn’t enough.”
“It’s a start.”
“Agreed, but there has to be something more. And before you ask, yes, I’ll call the sergeant—unless you want to?”
“I’m going to be busy with Veck. Maybe he’ll have some ideas.”
“Roger that—”
“I don’t know how you pulled this off.”
“Officially, I didn’t.”
“Well, I really owe you. You’re a lifesaver.”
She ended the call and got out the keys to her unmarked—
“Actually, that’s not quite the word I would have used.”
Reilly didn’t get a chance to spin around. A hand grabbed the back of her head and slammed her face-first into the car’s hard contours, the top of the door catching her right at the browline.
As her lights went out and her knees buckled, all she heard was Bails’s voice in her ear: “You really should have looked behind you.”
Adrian slayed the last minion with an arcing slice that went from high to low, the pitchfork’s tines piercing an oily black chest, all knife-through-butter.
At least . . . he thought he was the one who did it.
As the body fell to the ground with a wet thud, he looked around . . . at all the others of him. Who, at the very same moment, turned and looked in his direction.
He spun the pitchfork around and stabbed the ground—and the other dozens of himselves did the same thing a mere split second later.