police blotter, and the story was probably on the television and radio news already. A homicide detective so prominently associated with the mauling of a psycho? That shit sold papers and justified ad prices.
Pushing open the glass door, he went into the Riverside’s cacophony with his face buried in the nonheadlines of the Sports section. The place was packed, and as loud and hot as a bar, and he studiously didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he scanned around for a free stool at the counter or an empty booth along the edges.
Nothing was vacant. Damn it. And he wasn’t about to join a table of CPDers. The last thing he needed was a lot of questions from his colleagues. Maybe he should just go on to HQ and hit the vending machine—
“Morning, Detective.”
Veck glanced over to the right. The fine Officer Reilly was sitting in the booth closest to the door, her back to him, her head cranked over her shoulder to look up at him. There was a cup of coffee in front of her, a cell phone in her hand, and a whole lot of no-nonsense on her face.
“Care to join me?” she said, motioning across her table.
She had to be kidding. There were about a dozen members of the force staring over at them—some more surreptitiously than others.
“You sure you want to be seen with me?”
“Why? Do you have terrible table manners?”
“You know what I mean.”
She shrugged and took a sip from her cup. “Our meeting with the sergeant is in about twenty minutes. You’ll be lucky to have a seat by then.”
Veck slid in opposite her. “I thought in Internal Affairs you guys always worried about propriety.”
“This is just two eggs over easy, Detective.”
He put his newspaper aside. “Fair enough.”
The waitress came over with her pad out and her pencil ready. “What’ll it be.”
No reason to look at a menu. Riverside had every omelet, egg, and toast known to man. You wanted pie for breakfast? A BLT? Cereal, oatmeal, pancakes? Fine, whatever—just order quick and eat fast so someone else could get a seat.
“Three scrambled. Hard. White toast with butter. Coffee. Thanks.”
The waitress smiled at him, like she approved of the efficiency. “Comin’ up.”
Annnnnd then he was alone again with Reilly. She’d had a shower and changed into a professional skirt-and- button-down combo. The jacket that went with the outfit was folded neatly beside her on top of her coat. Her dark red hair was once again pulled back from her face, and she had just a little lipstick on for makeup.
Matter of fact, as she put down her coffee cup, there was a half-moon of pink where she’d put her mouth. Not that he was looking for details on her lips. Really.
“I have a preliminary report from the field,” she said.
Huh . . . those eyes weren’t just green, as he’d assumed before. They were hazel-ish, made up of a unique combination of colors that merely appeared green from a distance. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I have last night’s prelim.”
“And?”
“No other weapons were found in the area.”
He kept his relief to himself out of habit.
And before he could comment, the waitress put down his coffee and Reilly’s breakfast: a bowl of oatmeal with a side of toast. No butter.
“Is that whole-wheat?” he asked.
“Yes, it is.”
Of course it was. She probably had a light salad for lunch with a protein, and one glass of wine, if that, with a dinner that was all about root vegetables, grilled chicken, and a low-glycemic-index starch of some kind.
He wondered what she thought of the heart attack special he’d ordered.
“Please don’t wait for me,” he said.
She picked up her spoon and added a little brown sugar and cream. “You want to know what I think happened?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“It was a wild animal attack and you got knocked in the head in the process.”
He brushed his face. “No bruises.”
“Could have fallen backward.”
Matter of fact, he thought maybe he had? “But no bumps. And then my coat would have been dirty all over.”
“It is.”
“Only from when I put it on Kroner.”
She lowered her spoon. “Can you verify that? How do you know when it got soiled if you can’t remember anything? Besides, your head was killing you last night, and P.S., you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Arguing with me about this. As well as rubbing your temple.” As he cursed and relocated his hand to his mug of coffee, she smiled with an edge. “Guess what, Detective? You’re getting yourself checked out at HQ right after our meeting.”
“I’m fine.” Christ, he could hear the bitch in his own voice.
“Remember what I said last night, Detective? That’s an order.”
As he sat back and drank some of his wakey-wakey, he caught himself checking out her ring finger. Nothing there. Not even a circular indent as if something
He wished she was sporting a solitaire and a band: He didn’t do wives knowingly. Ever. No doubt he’d been with a couple in his long history of anonymous hookups, but it had been only because they hadn’t told him.
He was a man-whore with standards, don’t you know.
“Why aren’t you suspending me?”
“Again with the negative.”
“I don’t want you ruining your career over me,” he muttered.
“And I have no intention of allowing that to happen. But there is no evidence that you were responsible for the attack, Detective, and plenty that says you weren’t—and I really don’t get why you keep pushing me on this.”
As he stared into those eyes of hers, he heard himself say, “You know who my father is, don’t you.”
That put her in pause-mode for a moment, her triangle of unbuttered fiber goodness halfway back down to her plate. She even stopped in midchew.
But then the fine Officer Reilly recovered with a shrug. “Of course I do, but that doesn’t mean you tore up somebody.” She leaned in. “But that’s what you’re afraid of, aren’t you. And that’s why you keep playing devil’s advocate.”
The waitress picked that moment to show up with his steaming plate of cholesterol, and the arrival was a conversational lifesaver if he’d ever seen one.
He salted. Peppered. Forked up and sucked down.
“Would it help if you talked to someone?” Reilly said quietly.
“As in a psychiatrist?”
“Therapist. They can be very helpful.”
“This from personal experience, Officer?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
He laughed in a hard burst. “Somehow I wouldn’t think you’re the type who needed one.”
“Everybody has issues.”
He knew he was being a bit of a shit, but he felt naked, and not in a good way. “So what’s one of yours.”
“We’re not talking about me.”
“Well, I’m getting tired of being up onstage all by my little lonesome.” He polished off half a piece of toast in two bites. “Come on, Officer. Spill something about yourself.”
“I’m an open book.”
