some sense into the sonofabitch.
But what a waste of knuckles that would be. Fidiot had the anarchy symbol scratched into his forehead. Try reasoning with that.
“It’s him! It’s him!”
The crowd tightened up and rushed at the truck.
“What is wrong with these people,” Veck muttered as he gunned it, prepared to turn them into hood ornaments if he had to.
“This is what she does,” Jim said out of the thin air.
“Who’s ‘she’?”
“Exactly what we’re going to try to get out of you.”
No time to follow up on t size. He turned in to the lane that law enforcement used and stopped at the gatehouse. Looking up at the guard, he put the window down and flashed his badge and creds. “DelVecchio, Thomas—Jr.”
In the background, the crowd was chanting his name—or his father’s. Both of theirs, actually, and how frickin’ efficient.
The guard’s eyes dropped to the ID, and came back to Veck’s face. There was a measure of distrust in that stare, but he’d no doubt been holding the hard line against the loonies for the last week.
Still, the guy hit the gate switch and the iron bars rolled back. “Stop as soon as you are clear. I’m going to have to search your vehicle, Detective.”
“No problem.” And good call not to do it on the outside. God only knew how long that crowd would stay put.
Veck followed protocol, idling into the compound and putting the brakes on the moment his rear bumper was on the far side of this first barrier. When he got out, he took Heron’s pack of Marlboros with him and put them to good use, lighting up while the gates reclosed and the officer crawled around with a flashlight.
As he smoked, he knew the angels were not far. He could sense them hovering, and he was glad they had his back—especially as he stared through the bars at the crowd of crazies. The energy in those nutjobs was the kind of thing that made him grateful for what separated the bunch of them.
“You’re free to proceed, Detective,” the officer said, his attitude dialed down. “Go up to your first left and park by the door for security purposes. A guard is waiting for you.”
“Thanks, man.”
“No smoking indoors. So you may want to take your time.”
“Good tip.”
Back in the truck. Pausing at the second gate. And then they were in the facility proper.
Maximum-security prisons were nothing like they were in the movies. No age-washed stone walls with gargoyles eyeballing your ass. No steeped-in-history, Al Capone–laid-his-head-
This was the very modern business of keeping people like his father isolated and out of the gen pop. This was about bright xenon lights at night, and video cameras, and computerized monitoring. There were still guards with guns, and enough barbed wire to run a circle around the whole city of Caldwell, but procedure was executed with pass cards and computers and automated cell doors.
He’d been in a number of these places, but never this one: As soon as his father had been sentenced, a letter had been hand-delivered to the frat house Veck was living in at college as a senior. He should never have opened the damn envelope, but he’d never suspected his father could get someone to sneak the note out of jail. Retrospect? How fucking naive.
Then again, at least it had told him where
So yeah, there was a good goddamn reason Veck didn’t work in Connecticut, and had gone into the police force instead of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. No out-of-state for him, thank you very much.
And yet here he was.
As promised, the moment he got out of the truck, a reinforced door opened wide and a guard met him and led him into the sparkling clean, well-lit environs. As an officer of the law, normally, he would have been allowed to keep his badge and cell phone and weapon, provided he didn’t go into the cell blocks, but he wasn’t here in an official capacity, and that meant everything got checked in.
While he was turning his phone over, he saw that the thing had a couple of messages. Clearly, the trip down had taken them into some no-service areas, because he hadn’t heard it ring, but he wasn’t going to stop and listen now. Whatever it was would be waiting for him when he got out of here. Besides, he had a feeling what they were about. He was no doubt going to get assigned another IA person—oh, joy. And Bails was probably checking in on him. The guy did that, especially if he’d texted and Veck didn’t reply.
After he’d signed in and given all his stuff to the guard, he was taken down a series of halls with not much more than footfalls between him and the prison officer. But what the hell were they going to talk about?
Yup. Big hurry to have that one.
About a hundred yards through the prison’s maze later, Veck was shown into a visiting area that was the size of a small cafeteria, and made up like one as well, with long tables that had seats on both sides. The thing was lit like a jeweler’s display case, with great panels of fluorescents screwed into the ceiling, and the floor was a speckled brown, the kind of thing that hid dirt well, but was kept buffed and shined anyway. There were no windows, no plants, and only one mural of what appeared to be the Connecticut statehouse.
Although the bank of four vending machines did add a little color.
“He’s being brought over now,” the guard said. “We’ve put you both in the contact visiting area as a courtesy, but I’m going to have to ask you to keep seated with both hands on the table at all times, Detective.”
“No problem. You care where I park it?”
“Nope. And good luck.”
The guy backed up and stood against the door they’d come through, crossing his arms and focusing on the bare wall across the way like he had a lot of experience with the pose.
Veck sat at the table in front of him and linked his hands together on the smooth surface.
Closing his eyes, he felt the presence of the two angels. They were to the left and the right of him, standing much as the guard did, still and watchful—
The door at the far end of the room opened without a sound . . . and then there was shuffling.
His father came through the jamb with a smile on his handsome face, and shackles on his wrists and ankles. In spite of the fact that he was in a baggy orange jumpsuit, he was elegant, with his dark gray hair brushed back off his forehead and his ambassador attitude out like a royal flag.
But Veck didn’t give a shit about those kinds of appearances ; he looked to the floor. His father threw a shadow, all right, a single shadow that pooled around his feet like black ink. The fact that it was darker than any other on the linoleum seemed logical in the new paradigm.
“Hello, son.”
The voice was as deep and grave as Veck’s own, and as he lifted his eyes to his father’s, it was like looking in the mirror—twenty or thirty years from now.
“No greeting for me?” the elder DelVecchio said as he came forward with tight little steps, the guard who brought him in riding his ass so close he might as well have had another jumpsuit on his back.
“I’m here, aren’t I.”
“You know, it’s a shame we have to be chaperoned.” His father sat down across from him and put his hands on the table . . . in the precise position Veck’s were. “But we can keep our voices low.” The planes and angles of that face eased into an expression of warmth—that Veck didn’t buy for a second. “I’m touched that you’re here.”
“Don’t be.”
“Well, I am, son.” The saddened shake of the head was so appropriate Veck wanted to roll his eyes. “God, look at you . . . you’re so much older. And tired. Work been tough? I’ve heard you’re in law enforcement.”
