Envy (Fallen Angels #3)

Envy (Fallen Angels #3) Page 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.

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 ofthe 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 befoe 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? Krer 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....