There was another pause, and then his voice was cool as a cucumber. “I won’t bother you again.”
“I’d appreciate that. Good-bye.”
She didn’t wait for him to respond. Wasn’t interested in getting pulled into a long, drawn-out conversation where he tried to manipulate her again, or worse, dropped that mask entirely and threatened her.
Her hand was shaking so badly, it took her two tries to get the phone back in her purse.
Steadying herself against her car, she looked up at the butt-ugly back end of headquarters, and didn’t feel like she had the strength to go in there and face her boss.
But she did what she had to do . . . because that was how she was raised.
CHAPTER 37
As Veck hung up his cell phone, he stared at the screen and found it hard to believe that conversation with Reilly had just happened.
“What.”
He glanced over at Heron. The guy, angel—who the fuck cared—was behind the wheel of the truck they were all in, and his friend, comrade in wings—Christ, how could this be real?—was in the backseat of the dual cab, taking up more than half the space.
The three of them were heading for the Northern Correctional Institution in Somers, Connecticut.
“Nothing,” Veck said smoothly.
“Bullshit,” came from the rear.
First word the other man had spoken. Which meant that and the fact that he was apparently breathing were the only clues he was alive.
Jim shifted his stare over. “There are no coincidences. When we get this close to the end, everything matters.”
“It was . . .” My girl? Ex-girl? Internal Affairs officr? “Reilly.”
“What did she say?”
“She doesn’t want to see me. Ever again.”
The words were spoken factually, in a calm, deep voice—so at least his cock and balls were still with him. In the center of his chest, however, there was a big black hole of agony, as if he were a cartoon that had had a cannonball shot through him.
“Why? She give a reason?”
“Mind if I borrow a cigarette?” When Jim extended the pack, Veck took two, thinking that now was a perfect time to toss that I-quit thing right out the window.
“And the reason is?”
“Because I either smoke something right now or punch out the glass next to me.”
“Good call on the Marlboro,” came from the back. “We’re going seventy and it’s fucking cold outside.”
Veck took the lighter that was offered, flicked the Bic, and cracked the window. As he inhaled, he thought it was a damn shame there were so many carcinogens in the bastards, because sure as shit, this made him feel a little better.
Wasn’t going to last, though.
Unlike the pain behind his ribs. He had a feeling that was going to hang around for a loooooong time. Like a perpetual heart attack.
Except, man, he should have known this was coming. The woman went into Internal Affairs because she liked things that were done right, done well. Banging him? So not on that list. Falling in love with him? Don’t be f-in’ ridiculous.
“Reason?” Jim barked.
“Conflict of interest.”
“But why now? She had to know what was doing the whole time.”
“I don’t know. Don’t care, either.”
The good news was that they couldn’t fire him from his job just because she had woken up and smelled the crappies, so to speak. They were two consenting adults, and yeah, it looked bad, but she was doing the right thing and it was game over.
Inevitably, he was going to be called in for questions of the human resources variety, and he was going to be a stand-up guy and say it was all his idea. Which it had been: He’d been the pursuer, as well as the fathead with the I-love-yous.
Dumb-ass. What a fucking dumb-ass he was . . .
Not much else was said during the rest of the trip, which was fine with him. The images in his head of Reilly and him together made him not trust his voice—and not because it was going to go sad-sack cracking on him. He was liable to bite anyone’s head off at the moment.
When they got to within a mile of the prison, Jim pulled over in the town just before the institution and they traded places.
Now behind the wheel, Veck threw the truck in drive and assumed the role of what he was: a cop. “So no one is going to see you?”
Although it wasn’t as if he didn’t think the guy could go invisible. Heron had dogged him for days with nothing more than a whisper of instinct to tip that shit off.
“That’s right.”
“Just as long as—” Veck stopped talking as he looked over at the suddenly empty seat next to him. Quick check in the rearview mirror and the back was also completely filled by absolutely no big, tough guy.
“You SOBs ever think about robbing banks,” he said dryly.
“Don’t need the cash,” Jim said from the ether beside him.
“Don’t need the hassle,” came from the back.
Veck rubbed his face, thinking it would probably be better to feel like he’d gone crazy as he carried on conversations with thin air. Trouble was, he’d been dueling and dealing with this alternate reality all his life. The idea that it was an actuality and not a function of madness was nuts, but also made him feel sane.
Although . . . this was assuming he wasn’t
Then again, it was homicidal impulses and not schizophrenia that ran in his family, so he likely hadn’t lost his marbles, after all.
What. A. Relief.
Before leaving Caldwell, Veck had called ahead to the prison—not the number his father had provided, but the general line—and identified himself. It was not even close to visiting hours, but courtesies were extended in light of his professional occupation—as well as the fact that his father was going to be in a grave in about forty-eight hours. There was also undoubtedly the curiosity factor, something which Veck had no delusions about: in no time, this deathbed visit was going to show up everywhere . . . on the Internet, the television, the radio.
It was probably going to hit the Net before he even left to go back to New York State.
And what do you know.
As he zeroed in on the drive that ran up to the penitentiary’s walls, there was a small army gathered on both sides of the surrounding field.
His father’s fans.
There were at least a hundred of them, even though it was eight at night, dark as the inside of a hat, and chilly. They were prepared, however, with flashlights and candles and placards protesting the execution—and the moment they saw his vehicle, they rushed forward to the very edges of the asphalt, shouting, roaring, the din pressing into the truck even though they didn’t get close.
Clearly they’d had training on civil disobedience, in spite of their Sex Pistols style of dress and the rabid way they carried on: No one blocked or touched his vehicle, and he slowed down only to get a look at them.
Big mistake.
One of the men leaned in to Veck’s window, and obviously recognized him: As the guy hollered and pointed, the god-awful rapture that came over his features made Veck want to put down the glass between them and smack
