She shrugged. “I’ll wrap up what I’m working on this morning, and then we’ll focus on cold cases.”
“For thirty days.”
“Thirty days.” She didn’t look enthused, but neither did she seem to dread the prospect. Which told him she was not an easy poker target if they had downtime. “I’ll see you at one o’clock in your department, Detective.”
“Roger that, Officer.”
As she walked off, she made some notes in her file, her head buried in work. A couple of guys from the beat passed her and looked her way, their focus lingering, as if they were hoping to catch her eye. She didn’t look up, though. Didn’t notice.
Veck sure as hell did. And found that he wanted to perform an optical adjustment on the bastards.
“You left this in the sarge’s office.”
Veck turned. De la Cruz had come out and had Veck’s coffee.
Well, this wasn’t awkward. Nope.
“Thanks, man.” Veck palmed the paper mug and took a draw from the rim. The shit was now lukewarm, its only redeeming factor gone. “Well, it was nice working with you.”
“Same.” José put his palm out. “But who knows, maybe you’ll be reassigned to me in a month.”
“Yeah.” Somehow, though, Veck had a feeling his days with the CPD were numbered.
They walked back to Homicide together in silence, and when they opened the door to the department, every single detective in there looked around the gray partition walls of his or her cubicle.
Veck saw no reason to sugarcoat things. “On duty. Off Kroner. With Reilly.”
A lot of nodding came back at him, and, man, he appreciated people being cool. Then again, these were decent folks doing a hard job on a shoestring budget, and there wasn’t a lot of time for bullshit. Besides, good or bad, after he’d coldcocked that paparazzo, he’d earned a lot of respect.
As everyone returned to work, José clapped him on the shoulder and headed off to his own desk.
Veck didn’t waste time. He parked it in his chair, signed into the computer, and checked his e-mail.
Cold cases, huh. That was a pretty goddamn broad category.
Going into the departmental database, he called up all missing persons reports. Which were technically cold cases, weren’t they, assuming they were still open. Initiating a search, he leaned back and let the computer do its thing. The fact that the data screen he used just happened to be women aged sixteen to thirty who’d been reported in the last, oh, say . . . three weeks? When Kroner happened to be busy in the area?
Wasn’t that a coincidence.
CHAPTER 7
At twelve o’clock, Reilly left the station house on foot and headed into deep downtown. The day was glorious, the April sun so bright and warm that it chased away the bite of the fifty-five-degree air. She was not the only one taking advantage of the weather. People were out on the sidewalks and crosswalks in droves, clogging traffic while they strolled with sodas or ice cream in their hands, or carried their take-out to the lip of a fountain or the contour of an iron bench in the park.
After six months of icy-cold darkness, upstate New York was panting for some sign that winter’s back had finally been broken—and this beautiful lunch hour was not to be squandered.
Ostensibly, she was taking a break so she could clear her head before she saw Veck again. Her strides, however, had a purpose and direction she refused to look too closely at.
The Galleria Mall was yet another downtown revitalization project, but unlike so many attempts, it had actually succeeded. Anchored by a Macy’s and a shiny new Barnes and Noble bookstore, the four-block stretch of 1920s office buildings had been closed to everything but foot traffic, given an attractive, unifying face-lift, and become the locus of high-noon retail therapy for thousands of cubicons like Reilly.
Except unlike a lot of her cohorts, this was the first time she’d ever walked the stretch of Bath & Body Works, and Talbots, and the Gap. . . .
When she stopped in front of the next store in line, she blinked in the pink glare that came through all the glass.
Oh, no. Nope. This was not her—
A woman came out with two big bags swinging from her hands, and a smile as wide as a freeway on her face.
“Sale!” she said to Reilly. “Yay!”
Her voice was so high it was like she was breathing out helium. Although maybe that was because it looked like she was wearing a bustier under her coat.
Reilly shook her head. Sale or no sale, this was not her kind of—
Annnnnnd somehow she was in the store.
Holy. Crap. She’d never seen so much underwear in one place in her whole damn life.
Victoria’s Secret was not for the faint of heart . . . or the big of butt, she feared, wondering exactly how long it had been since she’d hit the gym.
High school. No . . . maybe it was elementary.
Boy, all the lace was intimidating. As were the pictures of the Photoshop’d models who had been blown up to beyond life-size.
And to make matters worse, the place was packed with women who were not Reilly’s demographic. These were all chippies in their early twenties, snatching up thongs and demi-cups and peekaboo somethings or another. Even the slouchy, sweatpantsy stuff looked like it was meant to be stripped off by the teeth of some quarterback —
“Hi, can I help you?”
Reilly winced. “Ah . . .”
The saleswoman was a gorgeous African-American who probably looked good in every single thing that hung on the little hangers or was folded on the tables, and in comparison, Reilly felt like a pasty, freckled stretch of please-let’s-do-this-with-the-lights-off.
“I’m good, thanks—”
“We’re having a sale.”
“Yeah, I saw someone come out of here with a couple of bags.” Which, considering how small everything was, meant the chick had bought five hundred, maybe six hundred sets of stuff.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
Reilly was about to shake her head no, when her mouth opened of its own volition. “I want to feel like a woman, instead of a police officer. I’m just . . . really frickin’ tired of myself and my job right now. Do you know what I mean?”
Oh, shit, what was she saying?
And P.S., this had nothing to do with Brittany, spelled Britnae.
The saleswoman smiled. “I do. And you’ve come to the right place.”
Reilly glanced at a tiger-print teddy and wasn’t so sure about that. “I don’t think I’ve ever bought lingerie before—nothing I own matches, and I think a couple of my bras are from the Civil War. Maybe the Revolutionary.”
“Well, I’m Ralonda.” She put out her hand. “And I can take care of you.”
“Reilly. I mean . . . Sophia.” As they shook, she muttered, “Do you have a pysch degree, by any chance?”
“As a matter of fact, that’s what I’m going to school for over at SUNY Caldwell.”
“God, you are perfect.”
“Hardly.” Ralonda smiled again, flashing beautiful white teeth. “Let’s get you measured and I’ll bring you some things.”
One hour and six hundred seventy-two dollars and forty-three cents later, Reilly left with three bags full of things. As she headed out the door, her chin was up and she found herself smiling at two girls who were peering in through the windows.
