He left the bureau’s drawers alone, because he wasn’t sure which one held her . . . underthings, as it were. Probably either of the top two, but he was not running the risk of guessing wrong. He was a voyeur here already, because he’d come not in hopes of finding something that helped him help her. God knew, there was nothing on earth that could do that. Instead, he’d just wanted to . . . be close to her.
Right. Fine. This was the sort of shit that Ad and Eddie were worried about.
On that note, it was time to go. Again, he didn’t know how long he’d been here. Could have been two minutes or two hours, and the last thing he wanted was Sissy’s mother feeling like she had to knock on the door to see if he was okay or whether he’d already left.
He wasn’t going to take anything, even though there was a temptation to hold on to an object, a focal point . . . something of Sissy’s. Her family had lost too much, however, and he wasn’t about to graft anything more from them.
Jim took a last moment to look around, and then he made himself leave. Out in the hall, he closed the door and listened. Sissy’s mother was in the room across the way, talking quietly, her voice cracking.
Jim took the stairs down and waited discreetly in the foyer by the front door. Leaning to the side, he looked into the living room at the pictures by the big windows. The one that grabbed him and got his feet moving was a close-up of Sissy. She wasn’t looking at the camera, but off to the side, and she wasn’t smiling. She was deep in thought, and the expression on her face was nothing girlish, everything . . . survivor.
She looked iron willed.
“She had no idea the camera was on her.”
Jim straightened and glanced at her mother. “No?”
Mrs. Barten came over and picked up the frame. “She always smiled if she knew there was a camera around. When her father took this, she was watching her teammates in a game—she played field hockey. She’d sprained her ankle and she was on the bench . . . and she wanted to be out with them.” The woman looked over. “She was tougher than she appeared to be.”
As their eyes met, Jim took a deep breath and thought, Thank God—that was going to keep her sane until he got to her.
Mrs. Barten tilted her head to the side. “You’re different from the others.”
Time to go. “I’m just like everyone else.”
“No, you’re not. I’ve met more officers, detectives, and agents in the last three weeks than I’ve seen on Cops over the course of my whole life.” Her stare narrowed. “Your eyes . . .”
He turned to the door. “Detective DelVecchio will be in touch—”
“I want to give you something.”
Jim froze with his hand on the knob and thought, Bad idea. He was too hungry for whatever she had to offer. “You don’t have to.”
“Here.”
As he turned around to give her a “no, thank you,” he found her reaching behind her neck. What came forward in her hands was a delicate gold chain.
“She wore this every day. I found it on the counter in her bathroom—she’d taken a shower and forgotten to put it back on . . . anyway, take this.”
Dangling from the chain was a delicate winged bird made of gold. A dove.
“Her father gave it to her on her eighteenth birthday. It was part of a set.”
Jim shook his head. “I can’t. I’m—”
“You will. It’s going to keep your eyes the way they are now, and our family needs that.”
After a moment, he brought his hands forward, replacing her fingertips with his own. The necklace and charm weighed nothing at all. And it barely fit around his throat. But the thing went on like a dream even though the clasp was tiny and his hands were big.
As he dropped his arms, he stared down at her.
“What are my eyes like,” he said hoarsely.
“Destroyed.”
CHAPTER 9
The Hannaford supermarket was about five miles away, but it took Reilly some time to get them over there. Between the traffic and the red lights, she was beginning to think that the pair of them were going to spend eternity in the car.
Or maybe the buzzing in her head was what made it seem like forever.
“What’s on your mind,” Veck said.
Tightening her hands on the wheel, she readjusted herself in the driver’s seat. “If it turns out that Cecilia Barten is one of Kroner’s victims, we have to let her go. Are you prepared to do that?”
“Yeah. I am.”
As she looked over, her new partner’s jaw was tight, his big body tense.
“You sure about that.” Because she wasn’t.
“Yeah. I am.”
Are you a hardheaded sonofabitch who’s likely to do what he damn well pleases even if it screws a direct order? Yeah. I am.
Just as she pulled into the parking lot and started on the spot hunt, her phone went off. “Officer Reilly. Uh-huh, yes—not a big surprise. Really? Okay, and thanks for the update. Yes, please keep me informed.”
She hung up and plugged them into a vacancy between an older silver Mercedes and a blue truck.
Twisting sideways in her seat, she said, “Kroner’s barely hanging on. They don’t expect him to live.”
Veck’s harsh face gave nothing away. “Shame. Maybe he knew what happened.”
“And the analysis is in from the samples they took off him—there is saliva residue, but the readings are not one hundred percent clear as to the source. There appear to be similarities with both cougars and wolves. Hard to say for sure, but the animal hypothesis continues to look directionally correct.”
He nodded and cracked his door open. “Mind if I have a smoke before we go in.”
So maybe he was having a reaction, after all. “Sure.”
They got out, and Veck came around to the back of the car, easing against the trunk and taking out a pack of Marlboros—as if a man like him would smoke anything else? As he lit up, she did her best not to think about all the bras and panties that were separated from the seat of his pants by nothing but some layers of sheet metal.
He was careful not to exhale anywhere near her or in a direction she was downwind of. “Bad habit,” he muttered, “but no one lives forever.”
“Very true.”
Leaning against the trunk herself, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked up toward the sun. The warmth on her face was a benediction, and she closed her eyes to enjoy it.
When she eventually opened her lids again, she was shocked.
Veck was staring at her, and there was an expression on his face . . . a sexual speculation that she was almost sure she was reading incorrectly.
Except then he looked away quick.
Not something you did if you were thinking about work.
Abruptly, the spring day’s temperature shot up into the tropical, and now she was the one staring at him. Well, “ogling” was another word for it.
As he brought the cigarette up to his lips, his mouth parted and then he was sucking, the tip flaring orange, his fore- and middle fingers briefly releasing the shaft. Oh, hell’s bells, she thought. Smoking was a deadly, nasty habit she didn’t approve of . . . so it was unsettling to realize all those old Humphrey Bogart movies had not been insane when they’d done close-ups like this. There was just something undeniably erotic about the whole thing. Especially as the smoke eased out of his mouth and briefly shadowed his laser-like navy blue eyes and his dark cropped hair.
She looked away fast before she got caught—
“So?” he prompted.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I asked what you think.”
Right. How to answer that: I think all the cherry red I’m wearing under my clothes is warping my brain. Because I’m finding the idea of straddling you against this car and riding you like a cowgirl with her hat over her head pretty damn appealing.