The electric bolt that shot down into his cock was a surprise—and Christ, he was glad that beam was flashing right at his chest and not in a southerly direction.
Man, this was so damned wrong—and unlike him. He didn’t hit on colleagues, whether they were admin assistants, fellow detectives . . . or Internal Affairs officers. Too much hassle when the inevitable end to the one- night stand came—
Dear God, where was his head at?
Not on reality, apparently.
It was almost like the magnitude of what had happened on that patch of red-stained leaves over there was so great, his brain was seeking shelter in any topic other than the giant, bloody elephant in the forest.
Then again, maybe he’d just lost his mind. Period.
“Thank you, Detective,” Reilly said as she stepped back with his weapon and leather holster. “Your phone?”
He handed it over. “You want my wallet?”
“Yes, but you can keep your driver’s license.”
When the handoffs were finished, she tacked on, “Further, I’ll ask you to remove your clothing at home, bag it, and turn it in to me tomorrow.”
“No problem. And you know where to find me,” he said, his voice gruff.
“Yes, I do.”
As they got ready to part, there was no coy duck of her chin and flash of the eyes. No hair flipping. No brush of the hip. Which, okay, would have been ridiculous under the circumstances—but he had the sense that the two of them could have been at a club by the bar and she wouldn’t have pulled any of that obvious crap anyway. Not her style.
Shit, she really did just keep getting more attractive by the minute. This kept up and he was going to end up asking her to marry him next week.
Har-har, hardy-har-har.
On that note, Veck turned away from her for the second time. And was surprised to hear her say, “You sure you don’t want a coat, Detective? I’ve got an extra flak jacket in my trunk, and it’s going to be cold on that bike of yours.”
“I’ll be fine.”
For some reason, he didn’t want to look back. Probably because of the peanut-gallery combo of de la Cruz and Bails.
Yeah. That was it.
At his BMW, he threw his leg over the seat and grabbed his helmet. He hadn’t worn the damn thing on the way here, but he needed to conserve body heat—and as he pulled it on, he half expected de la Cruz to wander over to revisit the lawyer issue. Instead, the venerable detective stayed where he was and spoke with Officer Reilly.
Bails was the one who came up. The guy was in gym clothes, his short hair spiky, his dark eyes a little aggressive—no doubt because he didn’t like Reilly taking over. “You sure you’re okay to get home?”
“Yeah.”
“You want me to follow you?”
“Nah.” Likely the guy would anyway. He was just that way.
“I know you didn’t do it.”
As Veck stared at his buddy, he was tempted to unload everything—the two sides to him, the split that he had felt coming for years, the fear that what he’d worried about had finally happened. Hell, he knew he could trust the guy. He and Bails had been at the police academy together years ago, and though they’d gone their separate ways, they’d stayed tight and in touch—until Bails had recruited him to come up from Manhattan to join the Caldwell homicide team.
Two weeks. He’d been on the force here for only two frickin’ weeks.
Just as he opened his mouth, a van pulled behind to other CPD cars, announcing the arrival of Team Nitpick.
Veck shook his head. “Thanks, man. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
With a swift punch of his boot, he kick-started the engine, and as he pumped the gas, he glanced back to the scene. Reilly was kneeling by his jacket, going through its pockets. Just like she was going to do with his wallet.
Oh, shit. She was going to find—
“Call me if you want me to come over, man.”
“Yeah. I will.”
Veck nodded at Bails and eased his bike off the shoulder, thinking he really didn’t need her to see the two Trojans he always kept in that inside slot behind his credit cards.
Funny, being a slut had never really bothered him before. Now, he wished he’d tied it in a knot years ago.
When he got out to the proper road, he gunned the bike hard, and went roaring off. As he rocketed through 149’s twists and turns, he leaned into the corners, ducking down tight over the handlebars, becoming just another aerodynamic part of the BMW. With his lick-split velocity, winding turns became nothing but quick jogs left and right as he and the bike wagered on the laws of physics.
Given that he was betting everything he had at this speed? He’d be lucky if he left anything big enough to bury.
Faster.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, he wasn’t sure which, the end for him did not come in a screeching rip into the trees to avoid a Buick or a Bambi.
It was a Polo Ralph Lauren outlet store.
Or specifically, the light right before the place.
Pulling out of the tunnel vision he’d enjoyed made him feel strangely disoriented, and the only reason he stopped at the red was that there were a couple of cars in front of him and he was forced to obey the traffic laws or ride over their roofs. The goddamn light took forever, and the lineup he was in moved at a snail’s pace when it finally got its green on.
Then again, he could have been popping sixty-five on the highway and it would have felt like he was twiddling his thumbs.
But it wasn’t like he was trying to run from something. Of course not.
Passing by Nike, Van Heusen, and Brooks Brothers, he felt as empty as the huge parking lots, and there was a part of him that wanted to keep going . . . past this retail fringe, through Caldie’s suburban maze, out around the skyscrapers, and over the bridge to God only knew where.
The trouble was, everywhere he went . . . there he was: Geographical relocation wasn’t going to change the face in the mirror. Or that part of him that he’d never understood, but never questioned. Or what the fuck had gone down tonight.
He must have killed that sick bastard. There was no other explanation. And he didn’t know what Reilly was thinking in letting him go. Maybe he just needed to confess. . . . Yeah, but to what? That he went there with the intent to kill, and then he—
The headache that plowed into his front lobe was the kind of thing you couldn’t think around. All you did was groan and close your eyes—not the best move when you were on a bike that was basically just an engine with a padded seat screwed to it.
Forcing himself to focus on the road and nothing else, he was relieved when the cranial thumping eased off and he pulled into his development.
The house he lived in was in a neighborhood full of teachers, nurses, and sales reps. There were a lot of young kids, and the yards were maintained by amateurs—which meant in the summer there was probably going to be a lot of crabgrass, but at least the shit would be mowed regularly.
Veck was the outlier: He had no wife, no kids, and he was never going to bust out a Toro or a Lawn-Boy. Fortunately, he had the vibe that the neighbors on either side of his postage stamp of a yard were the type to cheerfully encroach with their blades.
