Fallen Angels 03 - Envy (8 page)

Just before he went in, he palmed up seventy-five cents and grabbed a
Caldwell Courier Journal
from the dispenser box outside. There was nothing about last night on the first page above the fold, so he flipped the thing over, looking for an article—

And there was his name. In bold.

Except the reporting wasn’t about him or Kroner. It was something on his old man, and he quickly avoided the piece. He hadn’t kept up with the charges, the trial, the death row sentence, anything that had to do with his father. And gee whiz, when he’d been taking criminal justice, he’d been sick the day they’d covered the case.

The rest of the first section was clear, so was the Local, and natural y, there was nothing in the Sports/Comics/Classified caboose. The lack of coverage wasn’t going to last, however: Reporters had access to the police blotter, and the story was probably on the television and radio news already.

A homicide detective so prominently associated with the mauling of a psycho? That shit sold papers and justified ad prices.

Pushing open the glass door, he went into the Riverside’s cacophony with his face buried in the nonheadlines of the Sports section. The place was packed, and as loud and hot as a bar, and he studiously didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he scanned around for a free stool at the counter or an empty booth along the edges.

Nothing was vacant. Damn it. And he wasn’t about to join a table of CPDers. The last thing he needed was a lot of questions from his col eagues.

Maybe he should just go on to HQ and hit the vending machine—

“Morning, Detective.”

Veck glanced over to the right. The fine Officer Reil y was sitting in the booth closest to the door, her back to him, her head cranked over her shoulder to look up at him. There was a cup of coffee in front of her, a cel phone in her hand, and a whole lot of no-nonsense on her face.

“Care to join me?” she said, motioning across her table.

h="1em">She had to be kidding. There were about a dozen members of the force staring over at them—some more surreptitiously than others.

“You sure you want to be seen with me?”

“Why? Do you have terrible table manners?”

“You know what I mean.”

She shrugged and took a sip from her cup. “Our meeting with the sergeant is in about twenty minutes. You’l be lucky to have a seat by then.”

Veck slid in opposite her. “I thought in Internal Affairs you guys always worried about propriety.”

“This is just two eggs over easy, Detective.”

He put his newspaper aside. “Fair enough.”

The waitress came over with her pad out and her pencil ready. “What’l it be.”

No reason to look at a menu. Riverside had every omelet, egg, and toast known to man. You wanted pie for breakfast? A BLT? Cereal, oatmeal, pancakes? Fine, whatever—just order quick and eat fast so someone else could get a seat.

“Three scrambled. Hard. White toast with butter. Coffee. Thanks.”

The waitress smiled at him, like she approved of the efficiency. “Comin’ up.”

Annnnnd then he was alone again with Reil y. She’d had a shower and changed into a professional skirt-and-button-down combo. The jacket that went with the outfit was folded neatly beside her on top of her coat. Her dark red hair was once again pul ed back from her face, and she had just a little lipstick on for makeup.

Matter of fact, as she put down her coffee cup, there was a half-moon of pink where she’d put her mouth. Not that he was looking for details on her lips.

Real y.

“I have a preliminary report from the field,” she said.

Huh . . . those eyes weren’t just green, as he’d assumed before. They were hazel-ish, made up of a unique combination of colors that merely appeared green from a distance. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I have last night’s prelim.”

“And?”

“No other weapons were found in the area.”

He kept his relief to himself out of habit.

And before he could comment, the waitress put down his coffee and Reil y’s breakfast: a bowl of oatmeal with a side of toast. No butter.

“Is that whole-wheat?” he asked.

“Yes, it is.”

Of course it was. She probably had a light salad for lunch with a protein, and one glass of wine, if that, with a dinner that was al about root vegetables, gril ed chicken, and a low-glycemic-index starch of some kind.

He wondered what she thought of the heart attack special he’d ordered.

“Please don’t wait for me,” he said.

She picked up her spoon and added a little brown sugar and cream. “You want to know what I think happened?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“It was a wild animal attack and you got knocked in the head in the process.”

He brushed his face. “No bruises.”

“Could have fal en backward.”

Matter of fact, he thought maybe he had? “But no bumps. And then my coat would have been dirty al over.”

“It is.”

“Only from when I put it on Kroner.”

She lowered her spoon. “Can you verify that? How do you know when it got soiled if you can’t remember anything? Besides, your head was kil ing you last night, and P.S., you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Arguing with me about this. As wel as rubbing your temple.” As he cursed and relocated his hand to his mug of coffee, she smiled with an edge.

“Guess what, Detective? You’re getting yourself checked out at HQ right after our meeting.”

“I’m fine.” Christ, he could hear the bitch in his own voice.

“Remember what I said last night, Detective? That’s an order.”

As he sat back and drank some of his wakey-wakey, he caught himself checking out her ring finger. Nothing there. Not even a circular indent as if something
had
been there.

He wished she was sporting a solitaire and a band: He didn’t do wives knowingly. Ever. No doubt he’d been with a couple in his long history of anonymous hookups, but it had been only because they hadn’t told him.

He was a man-whore with standards, don’t you know.

“Why aren’t you suspending me?”

“Again with the negative.”

“I don’t want you ruining your career over me,” he muttered.

“And I have no intention of al owing that to happen. But there is no evidence that you were responsible for the attack, Detective, and plenty that says you weren’t—and I real y don’t get why you keep pushing me on this.”

As he stared into those eyes of hers, he heard himself say, “You know who my father is, don’t you.”

That put her in pause-mode for a moment, her triangle of unbuttered fiber goodness halfway back down to her plate. She even stopped in midchew.

But then the fine Officer Reil y recovered with a shrug. “Of course I do, but that doesn’t mean you tore up somebody.” She leaned in. “But that’s what you’re afraid of, aren’t you. And that’s why you keep playing devil’s advocate.”

The waitress picked that moment to show up with his steaming plate of cholesterol, and the arrival was a conversational lifesaver if he’d ever seen one.

He salted. Peppered. Forked up and sucked down.

“Would it help if you talked to someone?” Reil y said quietly.

“As in a psychiatrist?”

“Therapist. They can be very helpful.”

“This from personal experience, Officer?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

He laughed in a hard burst. “Somehow I wouldn’t think you’re the type who needed one.”

“Everybody has issues.”

He knew he was being a bit of a shit, but he felt naked, and not in a good way. “So what’s one of yours.”

“We’re not talking about me.”

“Wel , I’m getting tired of being up onstage al by my little lonesome.” He polished off half a piece of toast in two bites. “Come on, Officer. Spil something about yourself.”

“I’m an open book.”

“Who needs a therapist?” When she didn’t respond, he leveled his stare at her. “Coward.”

Eyes narrowing, she eased back and pushed her half-ful bowl away. He expected some witty retort. Or, even more likely, a smack-down.

Instead, she reached into her pocket, took out a ten-dol ar bil , and put it between them. “I’l see you in the sergeant’s office.”

With subtle grace, she scootched out, taking her coat, purse, and cel phone with her.

Before she took off, Veck snagged her wrist. “I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

She disengaged the hold by putting her phone in her bag. “See you shortly.”

After she left, Veck pushed his own plate away, even though there was a good egg and a half left.

Not even nine in the morning . . . and he’d already won the asshole-of-the-day prize. Fantastic—

A draft passed over the back of his neck, prickling the hairs at his nape and making him crank around toward the door.

A woman had come in, and she was as out of place as a Ming vase in the Target housewares department. As her perfume drifted over, and she swizzled out of her fur jacket, there was an audible pause in the diner’s fifty or so conversations. Then again, she’d just exposed some Pamela Anderson breasts to half the CPD.

As Veck checked her out, he supposed he should have been attracted to her, but instead, that cold shaft tickling down his spine made him want to take out a gun and point it at her in self-defense.

And how fucked up was that.

Leaving a twenty of his own, he bailed on the rest of his breakfast and hit the door. Stepping outside, he stopped. Glanced around.

The back of his neck was stil going, his instincts screaming, particularly as he glanced at the round windows of the diner. Someone was watching him.

Maybe the chippie with the Hustler body, maybe someone else.

But his instincts never lied.

Good news was, it appeared he’d be getting his weapons back later this morning. So at least he could legal y protect himself again.

As Jim pul ed into the Riverside Diner’s lot on his Harley, some guy on a sweet BMW bike tooled off with a roar.

Adrian and Eddie were right behind him on their rides, and the three of them parked together in the far corner by the Hudson’s shore. As he dismounted and looked at the place Devina had named for a rendezvous, he thought, Wel , isn’t this special. He’d been at this very same dive with his first soul.

Guess Caldwel was a hotbed of activity for the damned.

Then again, maybe she just liked the java here and was going to tel him the soul in question was somewhere else.

Heading over to the entrance, his boys were giving him the silent treatment—not a news flash on Eddie’s part, but a miracle on the other angel’s. No way that was going to last with Ad, though

The diner was crowded, noisy, and smel ed like coffee and melted butter. Hel of a place for Devina to pick—

And there she was, way to the left, sitting at a booth and facing the door with a shaft of sunlight pouring in through the window next to her. The warm yel ow rays il uminated her face perfectly, like she was about to be photographed, and he thought of the first time he’d seen her at that club, standing under a ceiling fixture. She’d been glowing then, too.

Evil had never looked so hot, but unlike the other men, who were staring over the rims of their mugs and al but drooling like dogs, he knew what she real y was—and he wasn’t so distracted by the slipcover that he didn’t notice she threw no shadow: As bright as the il umination that struck her was, there was no dark outline on the tabletop or the Naugahyde beside her.

For a split second, he had an image of the two of them together from the night before. He’d tried to fuck her from behind on that table, but she’d insisted on doing it face-to-face. Frankly, he’d been surprised that he could get it up, but anger had a way of making him hard. At least with her.

As he’d departed that sweaty, rough scene, he’d looked around at her wal s, imagining Sissy stuck in the tangle of the damned. He prayed his girl couldn’t see out of it. God, to think she might have . . .

But enough of that. Coming up to Devina, he put a block on any thoughts of Sissy or sex with the enemy or even the game itself.

“So who is it?” he said.

The demon peered over the top of her
Caldwell Courier Journal
, her black eyes doing a quick circuit of his body and making him want to take another shower—this time with a belt sander.

“Wel , good morning, Jim. Won’t you sit down with me.”

“No goddamn way.”

The guy in the booth in front of her glared over his shoulder. Like he didn’t approve of Jim’s tone or language around a lady.

She only looks like one, buddy, Jim thought.

Devina put the paper down, and went back to her buttermilk pancakes and her coffee. “Do you have a pen?”

“Do not fuck with me.”

“Little late for that. Pen?”

As some people tried to get past, Jim and the boys had to turn sideways while Eddie outed a Paper Mate something or other and handed it over.

Devina uncapped the thing with her long, manicured hands. And then she folded the paper to the crossword puzzle.

“What’s a five-letter word for—”

“Damn it, Devina, cut—”

“—antagonist.”

“—the shit.”

“Actual y, Jim, ‘the shit’ is seven letters. Although I am, aren’t I.” Devina began careful y fil ing in a word. “I believe ‘enemy’ is the word I’m looking for.

And you’re either sitting down with me—alone—or you’re going to stand there until your legs rot off and you fal over in the aisle.”

More with the careful printing. Wonder if she was working on another word for “pain in the ass.”

Jim glanced at his boys. “I’l be right out.”

font size="3">“Good-bye, Adrian,” Devina said, with a wave. “I’l see you soon, though—I’m quite sure.”

The demon didn’t say anything to Eddie. Then again, she liked to get a rise out of people, and Eddie was as unleavened as matzo.

Which Jim supposed put him and Adrian in the hotcross-bun department.

As the two angels took off, Jim slid into the booth. “So.”

“Would you care for some breakfast?”

“Who is it, Devina.”