Lover Unleashed

Moving quickly, he swiped over the floor and then grabbed the load of damp-and-weighty and took it in to the hamper in the bathroom—which made him wonder who the hell did the housekeeping here? Maybe it was Fritz . . . or maybe V did the Merry Maids routine himself.

Back in the main room, he took a second to double-check that all the evidence was gone except for the glass and the spoon . . . and then he went over to see if V was still asleep . . . or in that semicoma.

Stone. Cold. Out.

“I’m getting you what you really need,” Butch said softly, wondering if he was ever going to breathe right again—his chest seemed as constricted as V’s had just been in reality. “Hold tight, my man.”

On his way to the door, he got out his cell phone to dial—and dropped the damn thing.

Huh. Looked like his hands were still shaking. Go fig.

When he eventually hit send, he prayed that the call would be—“It’s done,” he said roughly. “Come over here. No, trust me—he’s going to need you. This was for the two of you. No . . . yeah. No, I’m leaving now. Good. Okay.”

After he hung up, he locked V in and called for the elevator. As he waited, he tried to put his coat on and fumbled with the suede so badly, he gave up and slung it over his shoulder. When the doors dinged and opened, he stepped inside, hit the button that had a P on it . . . and went down, down, down, falling in a controlled, seamless way thanks to the little metal box of the elevator.

He texted his shellan instead of calling her for two reasons: He didn’t trust his voice, and in truth, he wasn’t ready to answer the questions she would inevitably and fairly have.

All ok. Am going home 2 rest. I love you xxx B

Marissa’s response was so fast, it was pretty clear she’d had her phone in her hand, and been waiting to hear from him: I love you too. Am at Safe Place but can come home?

The elevator opened and the sweet smell of gasoline told him he’d reached his destination. As he went over to the Escalade, he texted back: No, really am fine. You stay and work—I’ll be there when you’re done.

He was taking out his keys as his phone went off. Okay, but if you need me, you are the most important thing.

God, she was such a female of worth.

Right back at you xxx, he typed out.

Canning the SUV’s alarm and unlocking the driver’s side, he got in, shut the door, and relocked.

He was supposed to get driving. Instead, he put his forehead down on the steering wheel and took a deep breath.

Having a good memory was an overrated skill set. And as much as he didn’t envy Manello and all the erasing, he would have given almost anything to get rid of the pictures in his head.

Not V, though. Not that . . . relationship.

He would never give the male up. Ever.

THIRTY-EIGHT

“Here, thought you might like some coffee.”

As José de la Cruz put the Starbucks venti latte on the desk of his partner, he parked his ass in the seat across the way from the guy.

Veck should have looked like roadkill, considering he was in the same clothes he’d had on when he’d Mission Impossibled that car hood the night before. Instead, the SOB somehow managed to seem rugged instead of ratty.

So José was willing to bet the six other cups of half-drunk java around the computer had been brought by various ladies in the department.

“Thanks, man.” As Veck palmed up the newest offering of hotand-steamy, his eyes didn’t budge from the Dell monitor—fair guess that he was searching the missing persons files and pulling out women aged seventeen to thirty.

“Whatchu doin’?” José asked anyway.

“Missing persons.” Veck stretched in his chair. “Have you noticed how many eighteen-to-twenty-fours have been listed recently? Men, not women.”

“Yup. The mayor’s pulling together a task force.”

“There are plenty of girls as well, but Christ, there’s an epidemic going on.”

Out in the hall, a pair of unis walked by and both he and Veck nodded to the officers. After the footsteps faded, Veck cleared his throat.

“What did Internal Affairs say.” Not a question. And those dark blues stayed locked on the database. “That’s why you’ve come, right.”

“Well, and also to deliver the coffee. Looks like you were taken care of, though.”

“Reception downstairs.”

Ah, yes. The two Kathys, Brittany spelled Britnae, and Theresa. They probably all thought the guy was a hero.

José cleared his throat. “Turns out the photographer already has some harassment charges pending against him because he’s got a habit of showing up in places he’s not welcome. He and his lawyer just want to make it all go away, because another trespassing-into-a-crime-scene thing is so not going to go well for him. IA has taken statements from everyone, and bottom line, it’s a simple assault on your part—nothing aggravated. Plus the photog says he’ll refuse to cooperate with the DA against you if it comes to that. Likely because he thinks that it’ll help him.”

Now those peepers shifted over. “Thank God.”

“Don’t get too excited.”

Veck’s eyes narrowed—but not in confusion. He knew exactly what the hitch was.

And yet he didn’t ask; he just waited.

José glanced around. At ten o’clock in the evening, the homicide department’s office was empty, although the phones were still ringing, little chirping noises springing up here and there until voice mail ate the callers. Out in the hall, the housekeeping staff was all about the rugsuck, the whirring of multiple vacuums coming from far down the way, by the CSI lab.

So there was no reason not to talk straight.

José shut the main door anyway. Back with Veck, he sat down again and picked up a stray paper clip, drawing a little invisible picture with it on the desk’s fake wood top.

“They asked me what I thought about you.” He tapped his temple with the clip. “Mentally. As in how tight you are.”

“And you said . . .”

José just shrugged and stayed quiet.

“That motherfucker was taking pictures of a corpse. For profit—”

José held up his palm to cut the protest off. “You’ll get no argument there. Fuck it, we all wanted to beat him. The question is, though—if I hadn’t stopped you . . . how far would it have gone, Veck.”

That got another frown from the guy.

And then shit got real quiet. Dead quiet. Well, except for the phones.

“I know you’ve read my file,” Veck said.

“Yup.”

“Yeah, well, I am not my father.” The words were spoken on a low-and-slow. “I didn’t even grow up with the guy. I barely knew him and I’m nothing like him.”

File that one under: Sometimes You Luck Out.

Thomas DelVecchio had a lot of things going for him: He’d gotten straight As in his criminal justice major . . . top of his class at the policy academy. . . . His three years on patrol were spotless. And he was so good-looking he