dragging Veck’s attention to something else.
Even if it killed him.
When Veck next checked his watch, it was four thirty. The manager was a slow talker, and the digital recordings from the security cameras took a while to review; there were also a bagger and two cart sweepers to interview. No new information, but damn, he and Reilly worked well together.
She knew just when to come forward, and as with Mrs. Barten, she had a way of putting people at ease— which meant they talked more. Meanwhile, he tended to scope out the environment, and assess all the things folks weren’t saying, but were showing in their faces.
Outside the customer service counter, he shook the manager’s hand, and then Reilly did the same.
“Thank you for your time,” she said to the guy. “We really appreciate it.”
“I don’t think we helped you at all.” The man pushed his square glasses up higher on his nose. “Now or before. I feel awful about the whole thing.”
“Here’s my card.” She passed it over. “Call me anytime—I’m available twenty-four/seven. And truly, you’ve been open and honest—that’s all you can do.”
Veck handed his card over as well and then he and Reilly headed for the exit.
“Have dinner with me,” he said abruptly. After all, a second shot at sharing a meal had to go better than their first. Provided he didn’t behave like a defensive asshole again . . .
In response, all he got was a slowdown in her stride and a long hesitation. And then an “Ah . . .”
Not a good sign, so he backed the invite up with a valid rationale: “We need to go through the file together in light of the four hours of interviews we’ve done. Might as well eat at the same time—and I know you’ve got to be starved by now.”
Man, check his shit out. Smooth, casual. Perfect.
He stopped at a huge display made up out of bags of nacho chips, jars of salsa, and a refrigerator bank full of cheese. “I’ll cook for you. Mexican—that’s my specialty.”
Actually, that would be comparatively so: he didn’t know jack about fiesta-anything, but considering this layout, he had more to go on than any other style of cooking: Ordering takeout was the only expertise he had in the kitchen. But come on, if he hit this setup? Nabbed a box of Tacos-for-Dummies in the Ortega aisle? How could he fuck it up?
“We should probably keep things professional,” she hedged.
“It’s not a date, I promise. You’re way too good for that and I’m not that lucky.”
As her eyebrows shot to the heavens, he let the comment stand. It was the truth and they both knew it.
“So what do you say, Officer? The only spice will be in the salsa.”
That got him a true smile, her lips curling upward. “I do like Mexican.”
“Then I’m your man.”
For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then she spoke slowly and carefully, “Okay, but where?”
“My place.”
Walking past her, he snagged a cart and raided the shit out of the nachos display. Talk about manna from above: All the ingredients were lined up, so there was no choice involved. This was just the preamble, however, and he headed for the hanging sign with MEXICAN FOOD on it.
“Are you staring at me, Officer?” he said, as he felt her eyes on him.
“I’m just . . . surprised, that’s all.”
“About what?”
Docking their cart in front of shelves full of bright yellow boxes, he waited for her answer.
“Tacos or enchiladas?” When she didn’t reply to either inquiry, he reached for a meal-in-a-box. “Tacos it is.”
Quick scan of the back. Lettuce. Cheese—he checked in the cart and decided they needed more. Tomatoes.
Roger that. “Where’s the produce section?”
“Down and to the left. But you need hamburger.”
“Yeah, good call.”
The meat counter and freezers ran down the rear of the store, and as they passed by the trays of ground beef, he snagged a flat of four percent lean organic—because she was probably an all-natural kind of eater. When they got to the land of greens and gourds, it was a case of tomato, tomato, and a head of iceberg in a bag.
“Talk to me, Reilly,” he said quietly.
“You just . . . you don’t strike me as a man who needs luck with the ladies.”
“You’d be surprised.” As he piloted them toward the line of checkouts, going by the deli and the salad bar, he felt like explaining himself for some reason. “Look, my father’s well-known for an evil reason, and people are attracted to me because of the notoriety. The women are not like you. Either they’ve got tattoos in stupid places and piercings all over themselves and dumb-ass, overdyed hair or they’re Barbies who want to ‘save’ someone or are hungry for a safe walk on the wild side. Then there are the ones who seem normal, but turn out to have pictures of my father in their purses, and letters they want me to get to him—it’s a fucking mess, to be honest. I’ve learned that I can’t trust anyone, but the good news is that I’m never surprised anymore.”
He pulled their cart into a U-serve and began swiping stuff as Reilly handed him things. “But like I said, you aren’t in any of those categories,” he finished.
“Definitely not.” She passed over the bag of tomatoes. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.”
“There are worse things to get saddled with.” Like his blood tie to that maniac father of his, for instance. Hell, the groupies who wanted to fuck him just because of his name were bad, but the fact that he had that killer in his very marrow was the true nightmare.
“Are you going. . . in the middle of next week?” she asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“To the execution,” she said gently.
Veck froze with the yellow Old El Paso box in his hand. “It’s going forward?”
“If the governor doesn’t issue a stay. There was an article in the paper today.”
Ah, yes, the three columns he’d skipped at the diner. “Well, I hope they fry the bastard. And no, I’m not going. I have to see that son of a bitch every time I look into a mirror. Enough is enough.”
He took his wallet out and snagged his ATM card.
“Here, let me give you some—”
Veck shot a stare over his shoulder. “The man should pay. I’m traditional like that.”
“And the woman can damn well make a contribution. I’m a realist like that.”
As she shoved a twenty-dollar bill into his palm and leveled her eyes at him, he knew he wanted to kiss her —and not just in his fantasies: He wanted to know what it was like to pull her in close and take a taste of that no- nonsense mouth of hers.
Not going to happen.
Refocusing on things that weren’t going to get him written up or rightfully slapped, he swiped his card, punched in his PIN, and waited for the transaction to go through. After he snagged the receipt and threw it out, they headed for the exit, where he left the cart with the others and grabbed the bags.
As they walked back over to her car, he murmured, “You’re quiet. Did I say too much.”
She glanced up at him as she hit her remote and unlocked everything. “About your father? God, no . . . anytime you want to talk about him, or anything else, I’m happy to listen.”
Veck believed her. Which was a miracle of its own.
Just as he reached for the trunk release, she went for the rear passenger door and said, “Wait, here, put the groceries—”
“I’ll just throw them in—”
As the top rose on its own, he got a gander at three big Victoria’s Secret bags.
He couldn’t help it: His eyes shot over to her and scanned up her body . . . all the way to her brilliant red cheeks.
Which told him that chances were good there weren’t a whole lot of fuzzy pajamas and fluffy bathrobes in
