Envy

“But he’s never done anything as an adult,” she countered—except it was less a statement than a question.

“Not that we know of. And, see, that’s what’s been worrying me. Psychopaths are really good at pretending to be normal. On the surface, they fit in—because they make it their business to. What if this stretch of relative peace and quiet up until now . . . is all he can manage? The end of the acting period and the time when the real him makes an appearance? You can’t deny that his wheels have been coming off—hell, you wouldn’t be his partner if things were going right.” The conflict on Bails’s face was plain to see. “Or worse . . . what if we just don’t know what he’s really been doing? I tell you, I couldn’t sleep last night—I was trying to reconcile what I believe him to be . . . with what he might actually be. If that makes sense.”

Reilly heard Veck’s voice in her head: I want to make everything perfect for you.

And he had. He’d said the right things. Done the right things.

Thrown his cigarettes out for her—or at least had done so in front of her.

She’d fallen in love with him in four days.

Fortuitous accident? Or by design?

Except where would it get him? He’d been the one to argue for suspension . . . unless that had been a deliberate stance? She’d certainly taken care of championing his case and his reputation—which had more credibility than his doing so, didn’t it.

Bails’s voice drifted over. “You can’t trust him. I’m learning that now.”

“Just because he didn’t tell you about what happened when he was younger?” she heard herself say. “And besides, keeping a sealed record to yourself isn’t illegal.”

“I think he planted evidence. Sissy Barten’s earring, specifically. To make it look as if Kroner was responsible.”

She didn’t bother to hide her recoil. “What? And how?”

“He went up to her bedroom, didn’t he. The day you two went over to the Barten house. He told me you were downstairs when he did. And he was in the evidence room yesterday morning—I talked to Joey, one of the crime scene investigators. He said Veck had been by—and he could have planted it then.”

“But he said he’d found the earring in and among the evidence.”

Bails rubbed his eyes again. “I checked the preliminary log of the items from the truck, the list that was made right after we got the vehicle. There wasn’t any notation of an earring shaped like a dove. That’s what I was double-checking right before I came and saw you two this morning.”

So that was why he’d looked poleaxed.

She shook her head. “But what does he have to gain?” Unless . . .

Oh, God . . . what if he’d killed her. What if Kroner had somehow seen something in the course of his own evil work at that quarry?

“You’ve read the report on Sissy’s body, right?” Bails said.

“Of course.” She’d spent all morning on it—and the conclusion that she’d first come to when the body had been found was now inescapable: None of the victim’s wounds matched those of Kroner’s other killings—and that kind of change didn’t happen, typically. Usually, the method and the fixations didn’t alter.

“So you’ve got to know she wasn’t defiled by Kroner. And maybe, after you add it all up . . . maybe Veck did it.”

Good heavens, she couldn’t breathe. Sure as if there were hands around her throat. “But . . . why?”

Although that was a dumb question to ask, she feared.

“How much do you know about Veck’s father?” the detective said. “His murders?”

“Just what I studied in college.”

Bails refocused out the front window. “Did you know that his father’s first victim was bled out by the neck and wrists—having been hung by her feet. She’d also been marked up just like the Barten girl is. On the stomach.”

Reilly reached for the handle and shoved open her door. It wasn’t just for the fresh air. It was because she was seriously going to throw up.

“I’m so sorry,” Bails said, his voice raw.

“So am I,” she croaked, although that didn’t begin to cover it.

As she stared at the pavement, she knew she had been snowed. Big-time. And of course Veck had made the effort. She was his advocate at headquarters, the one who was supposed to vet him carefully and yea or y him to keep on the force: He’d wanted to keep working, and she’d been in the position to make that possible.

“Thank God for you,” she choked out. Too bad she couldn’t look at Bails—she was just too mortified that she’d been played so well. “Thank God you said something.”

CHAPTER 36

“So how ’bout you do some talking first.”

As Veck spoke in a low voice, he kept an eye lock on Heron. The two of them had ducked around the corner of the apartment building and were standing in the shadows next to a scrubby bush.

Jim’s stare was dead on and his voice was church-bell deep. “You know everything. All the answers you want?” The man put his forefinger on Veck’s chest, right over his heart. “It’s inside you.”

Veck wanted to hit that one back with a racket full of Whatever, a-hole. But he couldn’t.

“My father wants to see me,” was his reply, instead.

Heron nodded and took out his cigs. When he tilted the pack forward, it was all Veck could do not to take one: “Nah, I quit.”

“Smart.” Heron lit up. “Here’s the way it works. You’re going to find yourself at a crossroads. There’s going to be a decision you’ll have to make, an action to be taken or not, a choice between polar opposites. All of what you are and what you have been and what you could be will be measured on your decision. And the consequences? They don’t just affect you. They affect everyone. This is not simply life and death—it’s about eternity. Yours. Others’. Do not underestimate how far this goes.”

As the man spoke, Veck felt the two sides of him begin to split. One half was utterly repulsed. The other—

Veck frowned. Blinked a couple of times. Looked away and looked back. As God was his witness, he could have sworn that there was a shimmering glow over both of Heron’s shoulders and around his head.

And the bizarre illusion gave this whole nightmare credibility. As did the fact that the moment he’d wanted the guy, the fucker had been right behind him . . . and then there was the no-prints issue down at the quarry . . . and the light show that had happened in the stairwell at the Barten house.

Veck put his palm up to his sternum and rubbed hard at the dark shadow in his chest. “I never volunteered for this.”

“I know how that feels,” Heron muttered. “In your case, you were born to it.”

“Tell me what I am.”

“You already know.”

“Say it.”

Heron exhaled slowly, the smoke rising up through that golden glow. “Evil. You are evil incarnate—or, at least, half of you is. And in the very near future, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, you’re going to be asked to pick one side over the other.” The guy pointed to himself with his smoking hand. “I’m here to try to get you to choose wisely.”

“And if I don’t.”

“You lose.”

“Right then and there?”

The man nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. “And I’ve seen where you end up after that. It’s not pretty.”