Envy

including some with autopsy photos. And doing a side-by-side comparison between Sissy Barten and Suzie Bussman told her what she already knew: The method and markings were the same.

What a way to pay homage to your father. God, even the names were eerily similar.

Reclining deeply into her chair, her eyes went back and forth between the two halves of the screen—and she found herself praying that they found enough to nail Veck. All they had to go on right now was the planted earring, Kroner’s statements with regard to the quarry, and the fact that Veck had been in the Barten house. Then again, everyone had approached the case as if Kroner had done it. No one had been looking at Veck—and that was changing now. His desk, computer, and locker had already been searched and everything in them seized. His home was being cased. And as soon as he showed up, he was going straight into interrogation.

Although maybe he’d gone on the run—

Reilly jerked up and wrenched around in her chair.

Her heartbeat roared in her ears, drowning out the sound of the heat coming through the ceiling vents, and the whirring of computer equipment . . . and the creak she’d heard behind her.

Glancing to the ceiling, she looked at the security camera in the far corner. The red light on its belly was slowly blinking, the lazy cycle of flashes telling her it was operational.

“Who’s there.”

Of course no one answered. Because there was no one there.

Right?

She listened to her own breathing for a while, and then thought, Okay, this is bullshit. She was not going to be bullied in her own goddamn department.

Bursting out of her chair, she marched down the lane of empty cubicles and checked the conference rooms and offices. On the trip back, she went all the way to the main door, pushed it open, and looked down the hall both ways.

Pivoting quickly, she half expected to find someone behind her.

No one.

Cursing under her breath, she returned to her desk, sat down, and—

When her cell phone went off, she jumped and put her hand to her throat. “Oh, shut up.”

Hard to tell whether she was addressing her BlackBerry or her adrenal gland.

Grabbing the thing and accepting the call, she barked, “Reilly.”

“How’re you doing.”

At the sound of Detective de la Cruz’s voice, she took a deep breath. “I’ve been better.”

“Sarge called me.”

“What a mess.” Apparently, that was her new theme song.

“Yup.”

There was a long pause, filled by the same kind of silence that had marked the drive back from the hospital for her and Bails: What the hell happened was all over the line without a word being spoken.

“Did anyone tell you the other part of it?” she asked.

“That you and Veck were . . . ah . . .”

She had to grimace. “It was incredibly poor judgment on my part. I thought I knew him, I really did.”

“And that’s the rub, isn’t it.” This was said with the kind of exhaustion that came from personal experience. “In the end, you can only really know yourself.”

“You’re so right . . . and I’m glad you called. When this gets out—and it’s going to—”

“All people are going to do is think he’s an asshole. And that’s a best-case scenario for him.”

Killer was the other word they would be batting around, no doubt.

“You’re going to get through this,” de la Cruz said. “I just wanted you to know you can call me if you need anything.”

“You’re being really . . . kind.”

“Partners are tricky shit. I’ve been through a few.”

Bet you’ve never slept with one, though, she thought. “Thanks, Detective.”

After Reilly cut off the connection, she stared into space. God, had that story about Veck finding his mother murdered even been true? Or had it just been another way to play on her emotions?

Well, there was one way to find out . . .

It didn’t take long for her to locate some amateur blog entries that covered that particular chapter in DelVecchio family history. She read all about how Veck had discovered the body, been questioned, and been cleared of any involvement based on the physical evidence: Although his fingerprints were all over the house, there had been none on the victim; there also had been no blood under his nails, on his clothes, or in and around his bathroom or bed.

Sissy Barten’s body was the same: no evidence to tie him to the killing.

Then again, Veck was a detective who knew exactly what to do to leave nothing behind. Which made her wonder about his mother. And worry.

God . . . what if he got away with this? The threshold for being fired for planting evidence was so much lower than that of a successfully prosecuted murder charge. He could be out of a job, but free on the streets. And if he was building on his father’s foundation of slipping out of the hands of law enforcement, then it could be years before anything stuck to him.

Disgusted with so much, and apparently looking for more to get sick about, she went to Facebook and typed in Thomas Delvecc—

She didn’t have to go any farther than that to find a line of results. Idly going from page to page, she stared at the fan clubs Veck had spoken about.

At least he hadn’t lied on this one.

The largest group had twenty thousand members, and she went to the wall and looked at the lineup of photographs on the top and then the postings that ran vertically. All about the execution. All about the adoration.

She sat back and just stared at the screen.

It was a long time before she shut her computer down and grabbed her coat.

“Who is the ‘she,’ ” Veck demanded from behind the wheel of Heron’s truck. “The one that my father went on about?”

As Jim sat beside the guy, he didn’t look over. They had at least another hour before they were back in Caldwell, so there was plenty of time to frickin’ chat it up—but he wasn’t in a big hurry to talk about the weather, much less Devina and Sissy.

She wants you to know she suffered.

That demon was such a bitch.

Veck cursed hard. “Damn it, one of the pair of you had better get talking. And if you don’t want to tell me about the chick, then you’d better fucking explain that exorcism reference.”

Jim tapped the tip of his cigarette out the crack of the window, and decided to tackle the latter rather than the former. “You’re not our first trip through the park. The first soul we saved—we did it by serving Devina an eviction notice.”

“Devina?”

“Devil in a blue dress, buddy.”

“Is she the one who suffered?”

“We wish,” Adrian muttered from the back.

Jim couldn’t agree more on that one. “Here’s the way it works. Devina is a demon—and if you need more of an explanation about that, think of collective wisdom and you’ve got a pretty good picture of it. She gets into a person and gradually takes over, influencing their choices and decisions. Eventually, you get to your crossroads, and you have to pick. Depending on the way you go, what you follow, what action you take—that determines where you’re going to end up. And downstairs is a roasty, toasty fucking place, if you get what I’m saying.”

“Hell.”