Envy

“Sometimes.”

“It’s a treasure trove of information.” She made an elaborate show of picking up the first section. “You never know what you might find.”

Flattening the thing and spinning it around to face him, she stared across the table.

Jim looked down. Three big articles. One on a new school districting plan. Another on emerging minority businesses. And a third on . . .

The nib of Eddie’s pen pointed to the last article.

“I believe I have completed my part of the agreement,” she drawled.

The headline read: “DelVecchio Execution Scheduled.”

Jim quickly skimmed the article and thought, Shit, that was the soul?

Just as Devina went to retract the pen, he flashed out a hand and locked a hold on her wrist, keeping it in place.

The nib of the Paper Mate was actually on a name within the article—and it wasn’t the DelVecchio serial killer guy. It was the man’s son . . . Thomas DelVecchio Jr.

A detective on the Caldwell police force.

Jim glanced across the table at his enemy and smiled with his incisors. “Tricky.”

Her lashes lowered demurely. “Always.”

Done with her and the time suck, Jim got up and took the pen with him. “Enjoy my waffles, sweetheart.”

“Hey, how will I finish my crossword puzzle?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way. See you soon.”

Jim stalked out of the diner and beelined for his wingmen. When he came up to the bikes, he held the Paper Mate up to Eddie.

“Your pen.” As the angel went to take it back, Jim held on to the thing. “Metal casing around the nib. Next time, give the bitch a Sharpie.”

As Jim went to sling a leg over his hog, Adrian asked, “What did she say?”

“Looks like we’re going into the land of cops and robbers.”

“Oh. Good.” Ad mounted his own bike. “At least I speak the language there.”

CHAPTER 6

When Reilly walked into HQ, it was through the back door and down the cinder-block hallway that dumped out into what was supposed to be the newly renovated, inspiring and uplifting lobby. Unfortunately, the bronze statue of Lady Justice with her scales and her sword was a modern interpretation of the classic Greco-Roman prototype, and the blindfolded goddess looked like melted cheese. Old, brown melted cheese.

The circular walk around her and the spotlights shining down from the open loggia above just provided greater visual access to the hot mess. Then again, most of the police personnel, district attorneys, and defense lawyers striding through were too busy to worry about the decor. Headquarters had a lot going on: The secured dropoff and central processing for arrests was to the right, along with the jail itself. Records was to the left. Up at the top of the curving stairs were the offices for Homicide and Internal Affairs, as well as the squad room and locker room. Third floor was the new lab and the evidence lockup.

Reilly hit the stairs two at a time, passing a couple of colleagues who were going slower than her. But as she stepped off on the second-floor landing she lost her momentum. The wide-open area up ahead had a bank of desks where the pool of admin support people worked. Front and center among the young men and women? Brittany spelled Britnae, a.k.a., the Pneumatic Office Hottie.

The blonde had a hand mirror up and was running her fingertip under one heavily MAC’d or Bobbi Brown’d or Sephora’d eye. Next move was to fluff the curls. Last was to smack her lips and pout.

All the while, she was bending forward and flashing her double Ds to. . . herself.

Evidently pleased with her paint job and landscaping, Britnae turned her wrist and checked one of those little itty-bitty watches some women wore, the kind that had linked bracelets and tiny mother-of-pearl faces.

She probably had baskets of bangles, and dangly earrings that hung from a little stand, and a closet full of pink stuff.

Reilly’s closet looked like Marilyn Manson’s. Assuming he’d been reborn as an accountant. And she didn’t do jewelry. Her watch? Casio. Black and shockproof.

Three guesses who Britnae was getting ready for. . . and the first two didn’t count: The girl had been panting after Veck since the day he’d come through that door two weeks ago.

Not that it was Reilly’s business.

Before someone booked her for being a creepy-ass stalker, she hurried along to the IA division and went to her cubicle. Pretending to be alert, she signed into her computer, but as she went into her e-mail, everything had been translated into a foreign language. Either that or her brain had forgotten English.

Goddamn DelVecchio.

Calling her a coward? Just because she wanted to keep things professional? He didn’t know half the hell she’d been through. Besides, she’d been trying to help him . . .

Made her want to feed the guy his breakfast with her size nine.

Getting with the program, she called up the report she’d filed via e-mail early this morning and double- checked her work, going through the whole document from beginning to end.

When her phone rang, she reached for the receiver without having to look up. “Reilly.”

“Thomason.” Ah, the lab upstairs. “Just wanted you to know that I think Kroner’s injuries were the result of teeth.”

“As in . . .”

“Fangs, specifically. I met up with the medics last night at the ER and was there as Kroner was intubated, stitched up, and transfused. I had a good look at those neck and facial wounds. When a knife is used in an attack like that, you tend to get very clear boundaries on the lacerations. His flesh had been torn—which was what I saw when that tiger ate that trainer last year.”

Well, that sealed the deal, didn’t it—and made her worried about what might be loose in those woods. “What kind of animal are we talking about?”

“That I’m not too sure of. I took some tissue samples—God knows there were plenty to go around—and we’ll find out what kind of saliva was left. I’ll tell you this, though: Whatever it was? We’re talking big, powerful . . . and pissed off.”

“Thanks so much for calling me this fast.”

“No problem. I’m going to catch a couple of Zs and get back to work. I’ll be in touch.”

After she hung up, she typed out an addendum to her report, hit ctrl-P and then sent the document as an attachment to the sergeant on e-mail. Gathering her file and cell phone, she went to stand by the printer as the pages licked out of the machine.

At least she had some evidence to back up what she’d told the sarge before breakfast this morning.

On that note, she thought about the diner. She probably shouldn’t have asked Veck to join her. He was right; it did look bad, but more to the point, they could have avoided that unpleasant exchange. Which had hurt, actually.

Not that it should have. Casual comment over coffee when he was being inappropriate? Shouldn’t have bothered her. At all.

Or maybe it was just her being allergic to the word coward.

Yeah, that was it.

Veck went through the lobby of headquarters like a cold draft, shooting around people, rushing across the floor. He hit the staircase and took the stone steps two at a time.

When he got to the second-floor landing, he headed left, but he wasn’t going to his office. Internal Affairs