As Jim went to sling a leg over his hog, Adrian asked, “What did she say?”
“Looks like we’re going into the land of cops and robbers.”
“Oh. Good.” Ad mounted his own bike. “At least I speak the language there.”
CHAPTER 6
When Reilly walked into HQ, it was through the back door and down the cinder-block hallway that dumped out into what was supposed to be the newly renovated, inspiring and uplifting lobby. Unfortunately, the bronze statue of Lady Justice with her scales and her sword was a modern interpretation of the classic Greco-Roman prototype, and the blindfolded goddess looked like melted cheese. Old, brown melted cheese.
The circular walk around her and the spotlights shining down from the open loggia above just provided greater visual access to the hot mess. Then again, most of the police personnel, district attorneys, and defense lawyers striding through were too busy to worry about the decor. Headquarters had a lot going on: The secured dropoff and central processing for arrests was to the right, along with the jail itself. Records was to the left. Up at the top of the curving stairs were the offices for Homicide and Internal Affairs, as well as the squad room and locker room. Third floor was the new lab and the evidence lockup.
Reilly hit the stairs two at a time, passing a couple of colleagues who were going slower than her. But as she stepped off on the second-floor landing she lost her momentum. The wide-open area up ahead had a bank of desks where the pool of admin support people worked. Front and center among the young men and women? Brittany spelled Britnae, a.k.a., the Pneumatic Office Hottie.
The blonde had a hand mirror up and was running her fingertip under one heavily MAC’d or Bobbi Brown’d or Sephora’d eye. Next move was to fluff the curls. Last was to smack her lips and pout.
All the while, she was bending forward and flashing her double Ds to. . . herself.
Evidently pleased with her paint job and landscaping, Britnae turned her wrist and checked one of those little itty-bitty watches some women wore, the kind that had linked bracelets and tiny mother-of-pearl faces.
She probably had baskets of bangles, and dangly earrings that hung from a little stand, and a closet full of pink stuff.
Reilly’s closet looked like Marilyn Manson’s. Assuming he’d been reborn as an accountant. And she didn’t do jewelry. Her watch? Casio. Black and shockproof.
Three guesses who Britnae was getting ready for. . . and the first two didn’t count: The girl had been panting after Veck since the day he’d come through that door two weeks ago.
Not that it was Reilly’s business.
Before someone booked her for being a creepy-ass stalker, she hurried along to the IA division and went to her cubicle. Pretending to be alert, she signed into her computer, but as she went into her e-mail, everything had been translated into a foreign language. Either that or her brain had forgotten English.
Goddamn DelVecchio.
Calling her a coward? Just because she wanted to keep things professional? He didn’t know half the hell she’d been through. Besides, she’d been trying to help him . . .
Made her want to feed the guy his breakfast with her size nine.
Getting with the program, she called up the report she’d filed via e-mail early this morning and double-checked her work, going through the whole document from beginning to end.
When her phone rang, she reached for the receiver without having to look up. “Reilly.”
“Thomason.” Ah, the lab upstairs. “Just wanted you to know that I think Kroner’s injuries were the result of teeth.”
“As in . . .”
“Fangs, specifically. I met up with the medics last night at the ER and was there as Kroner was intubated, stitched up, and transfused. I had a good look at those neck and facial wounds. When a knife is used in an attack like that, you tend to get very clear boundaries on the lacerations. His flesh had been torn—which was what I saw when that tiger ate that trainer last year.”
Well, that sealed the deal, didn’t it—and made her worried about what might be loose in those woods. “What kind of animal are we talking about?”
“That I’m not too sure of. I took some tissue samples—God knows there were plenty to go around—and we’ll find out what kind of saliva was left. I’ll tell you this, though: Whatever it was? We’re talking big, powerful . . . and pissed off.”
“Thanks so much for calling me this fast.”
“No problem. I’m going to catch a couple of Zs and get back to work. I’ll be in touch.”
After she hung up, she typed out an addendum to her report, hit ctrl-P and then sent the document as an attachment to the sergeant on e-mail. Gathering her file and cell phone, she went to stand by the printer as the pages licked out of the machine.
At least she had some evidence to back up what she’d told the sarge before breakfast this morning.
On that note, she thought about the diner. She probably shouldn’t have asked Veck to join her. He was right; it did look bad, but more to the point, they could have avoided that unpleasant exchange. Which had hurt, actually.
Not that it should have. Casual comment over coffee when he was being inappropriate? Shouldn’t have bothered her. At all.
Or maybe it was just her being allergic to the word coward.
Yeah, that was it.
Veck went through the lobby of headquarters like a cold draft, shooting around people, rushing across the floor. He hit the staircase and took the stone steps two at a time.
When he got to the second-floor landing, he headed left, but he wasn’t going to his office. Internal Affairs was where he was—
From out of nowhere, something pink and blond stepped in his path. “Hi!”
As he looked down at the girl, he thought . . . now he knew what tornadoes felt like when they came up to a trailer home: absolutely nothing. He’d just as soon mow her over to get to Reilly, if that was what it took.
“Hi!” she said again, like a one-note bird.
Man, too loud, too cheerful, too much flowery perfume. And what was with the lip gloss? Any more of that shit and she could give her own car an oil change.
“Hey. ’Scuse me—I’m late.”
Unfortunately, she decided to take up ballroom dancing with him, jogging right when he did, and then left. When he stopped, she took a deep breath, or arched her back, or maybe hit some kind of air compressor, because suddenly she became Jessica Rabbit with the cleavage.
If she showed any more breast tissue, she’d be getting a goddamn mammogram.
“So,” she drawled, “I was wondering if you want some coffee . . .”
Tea . . . or me? he finished in his head for her.
“Thanks, but I’m late for a meeting.” Sidestep.
Counterstep. “Well, I could bring it to you?”
“No, thanks—”
She put her hand on his arm. “Really, I don’t mind—”
The fine Officer Reilly picked that moment to come out of IA. And what do you know, she didn’t hesitate or show any change of expression—but then again, why in the hell should it bother her that he was getting the come-on from someone?
As she passed by, she nodded at him and said hi to his nemesis.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, beyond done with the delays.
“I’ll come see you later,” Britnae called out.
“Reilly,” he hissed. “Reilly.”
The woman he was actually after stopped in front of the sarge’s office. “Yes?”
“I really am sorry. For what I said. That was out of line.”
Reilly switched her file over to her left arm and smoothed her hair. “It’s okay. High-stress time. I understand.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Wouldn’t matter to me if it did.”