“We shall see how long that reticence lasts,” he murmured.
“He has taken to his own quarters.”
The subtext was that should Nigel want to speak with the archangel, that would be the place to find him, and the field report, as it were, was rather dear of Byron, actually. And not really a surprise. It was impossible for Byron and Bertie not to know how close Nigel and his second in command were, but everything was handled with discretion.
This appearance, however, was Byron’s way of saying that he was worried about the pair of them.
The optimist. Worried.
Indeed, things were in a very bad way.
“Colin is in his quarters,” the archangel repeated.
“As he should be.” After all, they had been spending their time together herein, but “officially” they lived apart.
Upon the smooth reply, Byron removed his tinted glasses, and when his iridescent eyes lifted, Nigel could not recall the archangel ever without those rosy lenses. “Forgive me for being blunt, but I think you should perhaps go speak with him.”
“He may come to me.”
“I knew you were going to say that.”
“Any chance you approached him first?” The silence answered that one. “Ah, but you are kindhearted, dear friend.”
“No, that is Bertie.”
“And you. You always see the best in people.”
“No, I am surrounded by good people doing their best. In fact, I am a realist, not an optimist.” Abruptly, the angel’s face glowed with the power of knowledge. “Your nature and Colin’s are one and the same. My hope is that you will both realize this and unite once more.”
“So you are a romantic, too, then. Bit of a contradiction for a realist.”
“On the contrary, I want to win, and our chances are better for prevailing if you are not distracted by a broken heart.”
“My heart is not broken.”
Byron replaced his glasses upon his pert, straight nose. “And I ask unto you . . . to whom you are lying.”
With a bow, he ducked out of the tent.
In the silence that followed, Nigel became utterly frustrated that there was little to do save tally herein for the Maker’s remark.
And how galling to think he was also awaiting Colin’s arrival with an apology.
Mayhap he should not hold his unneeded breath for that one, however.
CHAPTER 17
“No, thanks—I think I’ll let you have lunch with that agent on your own.”
As Reilly answered his question, Veck paused in the process of pulling on his leather jacket. The pair of them had been working steadily through the morning, going line by line through the Barten reports, and he’d been surprised at how well they’d stuck to business.
The shit from the night before had been put firmly on the back burner, it seemed—at least for her. On his side? Hell, yeah, it was still on his mind, and he would have loved for that to be because he was looking for a break in conversation to slide in another lame-ass apology.
Instead, it was because he wanted her. Still.
Even more, actually.
God, he needed a cigarette. “I’ll see you back here in an hour, then.”
“It’s a date—ah, plan, I mean.”
At that, she bit on her lip with her clean white teeth, like she was shutting herself up or punishing her mouth for the “date” reference.
There were much better things to do with that part of her body.
Cursing under his breath, he left the Homicide department before that bright idea got any airtime, and instead of taking the main stairs, he went down the back way: He was not interested in getting stuck at the Britnae barricade, or in running into any colleagues. And as soon as he was out of HQ, he stopped, lit up a Marlboro, and checked the sky. The sunshine that had prevailed the day before was buried beneath a thick cloud cover, and the wind was cold and damp.
Good thing he was up for a brisk walk.
Five minutes of striding later, he was at the diner. Agent Heron was outside the front door, leaning against the building, smoking. He was wearing a lot of leather, looking more like a biker than a federal agent. Then again, maybe he was off duty and into riding.
Veck frowned. Christ, for some reason he had a hazy memory of one of those agents bitching about his BMW. Except when had that happened?
Maybe he’d just dreamed it.
“A cigarette at the right time is better than food,” Veck muttered, as they shook hands.
“Amen to that.”
“Bad day?”
“You got it.”
“You wanna just walk it out?” Veck nodded to the sidewalk. “Chain-smoking seems more appealing than the BLT I’d planned on ordering.”
“Good idea.”
They hit the concrete path together and kept their speed at a meander. Beside them, the Hudson River was the same murky color as the sky, the surface getting choppier toward the middle from the wind.
“Brought you a copy of our report,” Veck said, putting his cigarette between his teeth and taking out the papers that he’d folded in half. “But you’ve probably already seen most of it.”
“Never hurts to take a second look.” The documents went into Heron’s breast pocket. “I want to help.”
“And I could use whatever you’ve got. This case is fucking frustrating.”
“I hear you.”
And that was all they said for a while. Cars whipped along to the right of them, honking at one another from time to time. An ambulance went by at a dead run with sirens blaring. A thicket of bike riders wearing Saran Wrap suits and aerodynamic ice buckets on their heads ripped past, pedaling like they were being chased.
Unlike the rest of the world, he and Heron stayed in slow-mo.
“You’re easy to talk to,” Veck said on the exhale, his smoke drifting up over his head.
Heron laughed. “Haven’t said much.”
“I know. I like it. Shit, this Barten case is killing me. None of it makes any sense, to be honest.”
“Yeah.”
Veck glanced over. “By the way, where’s your team?”
“Not here.”
Well, duh. And clearly that was a closed subject.
At that moment, Veck’s phone went off, and he jacked it right up to his ear. “DelVecchio. Yeah? Really. Shit . . . no kidding.”
He felt Heron look over . . . and as the guy did, the strangest warning tickled over Veck’s nape.
Last night . . . in his kitchen . . .
Veck’s feet stopped and he finished the Bails report about Kroner on autopilot, his eyes locked with Heron’s.
He’d always had good instincts about things, but this was deeper than intuition or hunches. This was fact, even though he didn’t understand the hows or whys.
After he hung up, he just kept staring at the FBI agent. “You know, I think someone was in my house last
