Fallen Angels 03 - Envy (29 page)

When had he even been here last? Nigel wondered.

No jamb upon which to knock.

“Colin?” he said quietly.

When there was no reply, he repeated the name. And did it once more.

There appeared to be no light glowing within, so Nigel summoned a beacon upon his palm, cal ing up a glow for his eyes. Reaching out, he pul ed the tarp aside and led with his hand, the il umination penetrating the dark interior.

Empty.

And indeed, if one didn’t know better, one would think there had been a robbery. There was so little inside. Yes, yes . . . just that field cot with a steamer trunk at its foot. Some leather-bound books. An oil lamp. For the floor, there was not even a woven rug, but merely the grass of the lawn.

Bertie’s and Byron’s quarters, which were on the opposite end of the wal , were as luxurious as Nigel’s own, just kitted out to their individual tastes. And Colin could have had more than this.

Colin could have had the world.

Turning away, Nigel left the tent and went around to the stream. There were towels hanging from tree branches and a set of footprints on the sandy shore.

“Colin . . .” he whispered.

The sound of his own mournful voice was what pul ed him up short.

Abruptly, his desperation shocked him and recast his decision to come here in light of the reality of the war: he thought of Jim and Adrian and their weaknesses, weaknesses that were being exposed and exploited by the other side.

He himself was weak when it came to Colin. Which meant he had an unprotected flank.

On a burst of speed, Nigel wheeled about and rushed away, his feet carrying him through the night as he pul ed his robes and pride back about him.

The destination of his own quarters was one he must not stray from again.

He was not Adrian. He would not be lost . . . as Adrian was. And he would not be compromised by his emotions as Jim was.

Duty cal ed for such isolation and strength.

And heaven could afford nothing less.

T
he fol owing morning, Veck sat at his desk, and stared over his Starbucks mug at Bails. The guy’s mouth was moving at a fast clip, his face animated, his hands motioning in circles.

“—the whole goddamn thing blew out.” Bails paused and then waved in Veck’s face. “Hel o? Did you hear me?”

“Sorry, what?”

“The entire first floor of Caldwel Bank and Trust at Trade and Thirteenth is in the fucking street.”

Veck shook himself into focus. “What do you mean, ‘in the street’?”

“Al the glass of the lobby windows was blown out. There isn’t anything left but the steel frames. Happened sometime before midnight.”

“Was it a bomb?”

“Damnedest bomb anyone’s ever seen. No damage in the lobby—wel , some of the waiting area’s chairs had been blown back, but there’s no evidence of a detonation—no ring of impact. There was some weird paint on the lobby floor, sparkly shit that looked like fingernail polish, and the place smel ed like a florist’s. But other than that, nothing.”

“Officers on scene check the security tapes?”

“You better believe it, and guess what? The system flickered off at about eleven and stayed that way.”

Veck frowned. “It just went dead?”

“Dead. Even though no power surge in the neighborhood was reported. The lobby lights appear to have been fritzed as wel , although no other electricals, or systems, were affected in the place—including their alarm and their computer network. It’s just too fucking weird. How do you lose your vid and nothing else?”

Veck’s nape went tingly on him. For chrissakes, where had he heard that before . . .

“So yeah, it’s weird.”

“That’s one word for it.”

Bails tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Hey, are you okay?”

Veck turned to his computer and cal ed up his e-mail. “Never been better.”

“If you say so.” There was a pause. “Guess your partner’s going in with Kroner.”

Veck jerked around. “She is?”

“You didn’t know?” Bails shrugged. “De la Cruz texted me late last night. I wanted to go back in there again today, but IA is getting the next crack at him

—no doubt to tie you up in a pretty bow of not-the-perp ribbon.”

Fucking hel . The idea of Reil y anywhere near that monster made his blood run cold. “When?”

“Now, I guess.”

And what do you know, his first instinct was to get over to St. Francis at a dead run. Which was no doubt why she hadn’t stopped in this morning and told him where she was going.

“Anyway, I’l see you. Gotta get back to work.”

instinct, Veck grabbed his phone and checked it. Sure enough there was a text that he hadn’t heard come in and it was from Reil y:
I’ll be in late today.

R.

“Fuck.”

He looked around, like that was going to do any good. Then he tried to focus on the screen in front of him.

Damn it . . . no way in hel he could sit on his ass stewing while she interviewed a madman.

And, actual y . . . this was an opportunity, wasn’t it.

Taking his coffee with him, he walked out of Homicide, hung a louie, and headed for the emergency exit. In the concrete stairwel , he went up two steps at a time, punched through the steel door, and beelined for the evidence room.

Inside, he checked in with the receptionist, did a little smal talk—like this was al just routine—and then after an appropriate chat-up, he was inside the stacks.

As a beat cop down in Manhattan, he’d spent a good deal of time handling evidence like bags of drugs, cel phones, and impounded cash—things that were used. Now that he was in Homicide, it was more about bloodied clothes, weapons, and personal effects—things that were left behind.

Heading down the long rows of shelving, he zeroed in on the back of the huge facility where the tables were.

“Hey, Joe,” he said, as he came around a six-foot-tal partition.

The veteran crime scene investigator looked up from a microscope. “Hey.”

“How’s it going?”

“Workin’ our way through.”

As the guy lifted his arms over his head and stretched hard, Veck leaned against the workstation, al casual. “How you holding up?”

“The night shift is easier than the day. Of course, after this week, both suck.”

“There much longer til you’re through it al ?”

“Maybe forty-eight hours. There’s a trio of us. We’ve been going around the clock except for last evening.”

Veck looked over the col ection of things that had been cataloged and sealed up, as wel as the massive tray of preliminarily logged items that were stil to be examined and properly bagged.

The investigator used tweezers to take what turned out to be a hair tie from underneath the magnifying sight. After he placed the black twist in a plastic bag, he took a long, thin neon yel ow sticker, and went up and over the opening. Then he made a notation with a blue pen on it, signed his initials, and tapped on a laptop’s keyboard. Final step was to pass the bag’s bar code over a reader, the beep signifying that the object was now official y in the system.

Veck took a sip of his coffee. “So I’m working a missing persons case. Young girl.”

“You want to take a gander at what we got?”

“Would you mind?”

“Nope. Just don’t take anything out of here.”

Veck started at the far end of the low-slung shelving that had been temporarily set up. None of the col ection had been given a permanent home yet, because everyone from CPDers to the FBI were going to be al over the objects.

Skipping the jars of skin samples—because Cecilia Barten hadn’t had any tattoos he focused on the multitude of rings, bracelets, barrettes, necklaces. . . .

Where are you, Sissy? he thought to himself.

Bending down, he picked up a clear plastic bag that was sealed with the signature of one of the other investigators. Inside, there was a stained leather wristband that had a skul ’s head for a “charm.” Not Cecilia’s style.

He moved on, picking up a silver hoop that had been logged in. In al the pictures at the Bartens’ house, the girl had been wearing gold.

Where are you, Sissy . . . where the hell are you?

Over at St. Francis Hospital, Reil y was al business as she strode down one of the hospital’s thousands of corridors. As she marched along, she passed white coats and blue orderlies and green nurses and casual y dressed patients and families.

The ICU she was looking for was al the way down to the right, and she took her badge out as she approached the nurses’ station. A quick conversation later and she was directed down farther, to the left. As she turned the final corner, the guard by the glass cage got to his feet.

“Officer Reil y?” he said.

“That’s me.” She showed him her badge. “How’s he doing?”

The man shook his head. “Just had breakfast.” The clipped answer dripped with disapproval—as if the guard wished the suspect would go on a hunger strike. Or maybe be starved to death. “Guess they’re moving him out of here soon because he’s doing so wel . Do you want me in there with you?”

Reil y smiled as she put her badge away and took out a smal pad. “I can handle him.”

The private security officer seemed to measure her, but then he nodded. “Yeah, you look like you can.”

“It’s just not appearances. Trust me.”

She opened the glass door, pushed back the pale green curtain—and froze at the sight of a nurse leaning over Kroner. “Oh, I’m sorry—”

The brunette looked over and smiled. “Please come in, Officer Reil y.”

As Reil y stared into eyes that were so black, they appeared to have no iris at al , she felt an irrational bolt of terror: Every instinct in her body told her to run. Fast as she could go. As far away as she could get.

Except Kroner was the one she needed to be wary of—not some woman who was just doing her job.

“Ah . . . why don’t I come back,” Reil y said.

“No.” The nurse smiled again, revealing perfect white teeth. “He’s ready for you.”

“Stil , I’l just wait until you’re—”

“Stay. I’m happy to leave you two together.”

Reil y frowned, thinking, What, like the pair of them were dating?

The nurse turned back to Kroner, uttered something in a quiet voice and stroked his hand in a way that made Reil y slightly nauseous. And then the woman came forward, growing more and more beautiful—until she was so resplendent, you had to wonder why she wasn’t a model.

And yet Reil y just wanted to get the hel away from her. Which made no sense.

The nurse paused at the door and smiled once more. “Take your ti. TrusHe has everything you need.”

And then she was gone.

Reil y blinked once. And again. Then she leaned out and looked around.

The guard glanced up from his seat. “You okay?”

The hal way was empty except for a crash cart, a rol ing bin ful of soiled linen, and a gurney with no one and nothing on it. Maybe the nurse had just gone into another room? Had to be it. There were units on either side of Kroner’s.

“Yup, just fine.”

Ducking back in, Reil y pul ed it together, and focused on the patient, locking stares with a man who had kil ed at least a dozen young women across the country.

Bright eyes. That was her first thought. Smart, gleaming eyes, like you’d find on a hungry rat.

Second? He was so
small
. It was hard to believe he could lift a bag of groceries, much less overpower young, healthy women—but then again, he’d probably used drugs to help incapacitate his victims, cutting down on both the escape risk and the noise. At least initial y.

Her final thought was . . . Man, that was a lot of bandage. He was al but mummified, strips of gauze wrapped around his skul and neck, square pads taped to his cheeks and jaw. And yet even though he looked like a work in progress out of Frankenstein’s lab, he was alert, and his skin color was positively radiant.

Unnatural y so, actual y. Maybe he had a fever?

As she approached the bed, she held up her identification. “I’m Officer Reil y from the Caldwel Police Department. I’d like to ask you some questions. I understand you’ve waived your right to have counsel present.”

“Would you like to sit down?” His voice was soft, the tone respectful. “I have a chair.”

As if she were in his living room or something.

“Thank you.” She pul ed the hard plastic seat over toward the bedside, getting close but not too close. “I want to talk to you about the other evening, when you were attacked.”

“A detective already did that. Yesterday.”

“I know. But I’m fol owing up.”

“I told him everything I remembered.”

“Wel , would you mind repeating it for me?”

“Surely.” He pushed himself up weakly and then looked over as if he wanted her to ask whether he needed help. When she didn’t, he cleared his throat.

“I was in the woods. Walking slowly. Through the woods . . .”

She wasn’t buying the acquiescence and accommodation for an instant. Someone like Kroner? No doubt he could turn on the poor-me for as long as it suited him to do so. That was how psychopaths like him worked. He could be normal, or certainly convince others, and maybe even himself for periods of time, that he was just like everyone else: a composite of good and bad—where the “bad” didn’t go further than fudging on your taxes, or speeding on the highway, or maybe talking smack behind your mother-in-law’s back.

Not kil ing young girls. Never that.

Masks never lasted, though.

“And you were headed where,” she prompted.

His lids lowered. “You know where.”

“Why don’t you tel me.”

“The Monroe Motel and Suites.” There was a pause, his lips growing tight. “I wanted to go there. I had been robbed, you see.”

“Your col ection.”

There was a long pause. “Yes.” As he frowned, he covered up whatever was in his stare by looking down at his hands. “I was in the woods and something came at me. An animal. It was from out of nowhere. I tried to beat it off, but it was too strong. . . .”

How’d that feel, you bastard, she thought.