Envy

Funny, she hadn’t heard it ringing. Neither had he or Bails, apparently.

As Veck yeah’d and uh-huh’d his way through some kind of conversation, she could feel Bails hovering and wanted to shoo him off like a fly. Fortunately, the same woman who’d called out for Veck to get with the receiver came over and told the other detective that his suspect was down at intake.

“I’ll stop by when I’m through,” Bails said. After she nodded, he clapped Veck on the shoulder and walked off.

Veck hung up. “That was de la Cruz. He wants me downtown on a shooting that happened late last night. He needs an extra hand—and I think he wants to make sure I don’t get any ideas about going to the hospital with you.”

Made sense. “We’re not heading off for a while, though.”

“This is going to be a long day. We’ve got to cover an entire apartment complex.”

Veck stood up, put on his coat, and patted his various pockets, no doubt checking for badge, gun, wallet, keys, cigarettes.

“You need to stop smoking,” she blurted out.

As he froze, she thought, Damn it, way to sound like a girlfriend; those three words he’d sent her over e-mail didn’t give her those rights. Step in that direction? Yeah. But not a door to drive a bus through.

The trouble was, she cared about him enough not to be comfortable with sitting by and watching him kill himself—

Veck took out his open pack of Marlboros . . . and crushed them in his hand.

“You’re right.” He tossed the wad into the wastepaper basket under his desk. “If I get cranky for the next couple of days, I apologize.”

Reilly couldn’t stop the smile on her face. And in a whisper only he could hear, she said, “I’ll think of some ways to distract you.”

As she slowly uncrossed and recrossed her legs, his eyes flared. Which told her she might as well have revealed her Secrets, so to speak.

“I’m going to hold you to that.” He winked like a bad boy who knew what to do with her body. Natch. “Stick with Bails—and call me when you’re through, okay?”

“Deal.”

She turned back to the desk she was using, but watched him walk out the door from the corner of her eye.

Dear Lord, that man looked good from behind. . . .

CHAPTER 35

On some level, it felt great to be out doing his job, Veck thought a few hours later.

Okay, it was not great that some sorry bastard had gotten shot in the face, or that none of the neighbors wanted to say a word about what they might have seen, or that he and de la Cruz were likely wearing out the soles of their shoes for nothing. But this was normal-course-of-hard-business shit. This was not about his father or freaky, no-footprint-leaving, midnight-stalker shit.

The victim in question had been popped while parked and sitting in the driver’s seat of his SUV at this twelve-building apartment complex known for its lively, illegal cash-and-carry commerce. Discovered this morning by the street-sweeping crews, there had been no drugs or cash on the body or in the vehicle, but they had found a list of names and dollar amounts on a crumpled piece of paper in the guy’s coat, crack residue in a series of plastic bags in the back, and a total of five guns in the car.

None of which he’d evidently been able to get to fast enough.

Unless you assumed that the ones that had been easy-access had been lifted along with the rest of the valuables.

By noon, he and de la Cruz were well into their rounds of the buildings, knocking on doors, trying to get people who were suspicious of cops and rightfully scared of retaliation to talk.

As he went from door to door, he kept recalling the victim’s frozen grimace as the kid sat slumped behind that wheel, the seat belt across his chest all that kept him upright, the facial features that had once identified him to his mother and his family and his buddies ruined to the point of putting him into dental records territory.

Thinking back to Kroner in those woods, Veck remembered his own urge to kill. The idea that he was going to take out an evildoer had made it seem more justifiable—at least, to one part of him—but did that really matter?

Hell, the motherfucker who’d shot this victim in the SUV no doubt had his or her reasons, however twisted they might have appeared on an objective moral scale. Except a murderous act was a murderous act, no matter the target’s disposition.

Too bad none of that mattered to the dark side of him: That element didn’t give a crap whether Kroner was a saint or a sinner—the killing, the taking had been the thing. The object of the wrath? Important only insofar as it was a target to hit.

Which was undoubtedly how his father felt about other people.

And what a happy thought that was.

As the sun started sinking, and the shadows grew longer, the warmth of the afternoon dwindled and the complex seemed even grungier. He and de la Cruz had split up and were focusing on the buildings around where the body was found, but given that there were six stories of apartments, they’d be lucky to wrap this part up by five o’clock.

Turning away from yet another no-answer, Veck hit the bald concrete stairs, descending to the lobby. The front doors were supposed to be locked, of course, but they’d been kicked open so many times, it was a wonder they shut at all.

Rubbing his face and wishing he had a cigarette, he turned to the east and headed for the last apartment building that was his responsibility. He was just at the door when his phone went off. The text from Reilly said that she was heading over to the hospital now with Bails.

Well, at least that gave him some more time to tie things up on this case.

And afterward, maybe take a little trip down to Connecticut, an inner voice suggested. To see your father.

He actually looked behind himself to see if someone was talking to him. But there was nothing except thin air and weak sunlight on his tail.

As well as the conviction that he was probably going to do just that. Soon.

With a curse, he turned back to the entrance, and as he pivoted, he happened to glance down at the cracked cement of the sidewalk.

What he saw stopped him dead.

He glanced over his shoulder again. The sun was setting right behind him, the single sun—as in one light source. And there was no huge reflective surface to throw a second illumination, no car with a lot of chrome, no stage light, for God’s sake.

He looked back down at his feet. There were two shadows thrown by his body. Two separate and distinct shadows, one leading north, one leading south.

Graphic evidence of what he’d always felt—of two halves of him, cleaving apart, drawing him in opposite directions.

Look down at your feet, Thomas DelVecchio . . . and then you call me when you get scared enough.

As Jim Heron’s voice shot through his mind, he thought of Reilly. He’d been confident of protecting her from any stalker, so fucking sure he could be what she needed. But all that cock and balls did not apply to this shit on the ground. He didn’t understand it himself; how the hell could he fight it for her?

And Reilly was on the line. Otherwise she wouldn’t have spent the night before sitting up in a chair with a gun in her hand.

I’m the only one who can help you.