tarps supported by squat poles. Unlike Nigel’s private sanctuary, it was small and modest. No silks. No satins. No luxurious accoutrements. The archangel bathed in the rushing stream behind and slept not on a bedding platform, but a cot. One blanket. No pillows. Only books for amusement.
All of this was why Nigel had insisted that they share his quarters, the other archangel having essentially moved in ages ago.
In fact, as he came up to the tent, Nigel realized he had never spent a “night” herein. It had always been Colin who transplanted himself.
When had he even been here last? Nigel wondered.
No jamb upon which to knock.
“Colin?” he said quietly.
When there was no reply, he repeated the name. And did it once more.
There appeared to be no light glowing within, so Nigel summoned a beacon upon his palm, calling up a glow for his eyes. Reaching out, he pulled the tarp aside and led with his hand, the illumination penetrating the dark interior.
Empty.
And indeed, if one didn’t know better, one would think there had been a robbery. There was so little inside. Yes, yes . . . just that field cot with a steamer trunk at its foot. Some leather-bound books. An oil lamp. For the floor, there was not even a woven rug, but merely the grass of the lawn.
Bertie’s and Byron’s quarters, which were on the opposite end of the wall, were as luxurious as Nigel’s own, just kitted out to their individual tastes. And Colin could have had more than this.
Colin could have had the world.
Turning away, Nigel left the tent and went around to the stream. There were towels hanging from tree branches and a set of footprints on the sandy shore.
“Colin . . .” he whispered.
The sound of his own mournful voice was what pulled him up short.
Abruptly, his desperation shocked him and recast his decision to come here in light of the reality of the war: he thought of Jim and Adrian and their weaknesses, weaknesses that were being exposed and exploited by the other side.
He himself was weak when it came to Colin. Which meant he had an unprotected flank.
On a burst of speed, Nigel wheeled about and rushed away, his feet carrying him through the night as he pulled his robes and pride back about him.
The destination of his own quarters was one he must not stray from again.
He was not Adrian. He would not be lost . . . as Adrian was. And he would not be compromised by his emotions as Jim was.
Duty called for such isolation and strength.
And heaven could afford nothing less.
CHAPTER 26
The following morning, Veck sat at his desk, and stared over his Starbucks mug at Bails. The guy’s mouth was moving at a fast clip, his face animated, his hands motioning in circles.
“—the whole goddamn thing blew out.” Bails paused and then waved in Veck’s face. “Hello? Did you hear me?”
“Sorry, what?”
“The entire first floor of Caldwell Bank and Trust at Trade and Thirteenth is in the fucking street.”
Veck shook himself into focus. “What do you mean, ‘in the street’?”
“All the glass of the lobby windows was blown out. There isn’t anything left but the steel frames. Happened sometime before midnight.”
“Was it a bomb?”
“Damnedest bomb anyone’s ever seen. No damage in the lobby—well, some of the waiting area’s chairs had been blown back, but there’s no evidence of a detonation—no ring of impact. There was some weird paint on the lobby floor, sparkly shit that looked like fingernail polish, and the place smelled like a florist’s. But other than that, nothing.”
“Officers on scene check the security tapes?”
“You better believe it, and guess what? The system flickered off at about eleven and stayed that way.”
Veck frowned. “It just went dead?”
“Dead. Even though no power surge in the neighborhood was reported. The lobby lights appear to have been fritzed as well, although no other electricals, or systems, were affected in the place—including their alarm and their computer network. It’s just too fucking weird. How do you lose your vid and nothing else?”
Veck’s nape went tingly on him. For chrissakes, where had he heard that before . . .
“So yeah, it’s weird.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Bails tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Hey, are you okay?”
Veck turned to his computer and called up his e-mail. “Never been better.”
“If you say so.” There was a pause. “Guess your partner’s going in with Kroner.”
Veck jerked around. “She is?”
“You didn’t know?” Bails shrugged. “De la Cruz texted me late last night. I wanted to go back in there again today, but IA is getting the next crack at him—no doubt to tie you up in a pretty bow of not-the-perp ribbon.”
Fucking hell. The idea of Reilly anywhere near that monster made his blood run cold. “When?”
“Now, I guess.”
And what do you know, his first instinct was to get over to St. Francis at a dead run. Which was no doubt why she hadn’t stopped in this morning and told him where she was going.
“Anyway, I’ll see you. Gotta get back to work.”
instinct, Veck grabbed his phone and checked it. Sure enough there was a text that he hadn’t heard come in and it was from Reilly:
“Fuck.”
He looked around, like that was going to do any good. Then he tried to focus on the screen in front of him.
Damn it . . . no way in hell he could sit on his ass stewing while she interviewed a madman.
And, actually . . . this was an opportunity, wasn’t it.
Taking his coffee with him, he walked out of Homicide, hung a louie, and headed for the emergency exit. In the concrete stairwell, he went up two steps at a time, punched through the steel door, and beelined for the evidence room.
Inside, he checked in with the receptionist, did a little small talk—like this was all just routine—and then after an appropriate chat-up, he was inside the stacks.
As a beat cop down in Manhattan, he’d spent a good deal of time handling evidence like bags of drugs, cell phones, and impounded cash—things that were used. Now that he was in Homicide, it was more about bloodied clothes, weapons, and personal effects—things that were left behind.
Heading down the long rows of shelving, he zeroed in on the back of the huge facility where the tables were.
“Hey, Joe,” he said, as he came around a six-foot-tall partition.
The veteran crime scene investigator looked up from a microscope. “Hey.”
“How’s it going?”
“Workin’ our way through.”
As the guy lifted his arms over his head and stretched hard, Veck leaned against the workstation, all casual. “How you holding up?”
“The night shift is easier than the day. Of course, after this week, both suck.”
