“I need more information before I can form an opinion.” So how about lighting up another one of those bad boys and dropping your pants— “Oh, God—”
“Are you okay?” he said, leaning in and putting his free hand on her arm. “You didn’t eat much breakfast—did you get anything for lunch?”
You’re all but sitting on three bags of what I had on my hour off, big daddy.
“You know”—she cleared her throat—“I probably should eat something.”
And so help her, God, if her brain coughed up anything even remotely like whipped cream on some part of his body, she was putting in for a transfer away from herself.
“Let’s go inside,” he said, snuffing out his Marlboro on the heel of his shoe.
Good idea. And note to self: No downtime with her temporary partner. Ever.
They walked over and went through the automatic doors, passing the lineup of carts in the foyer and entering the supermarket proper.
When Veck paused and looked around, she nodded to the right. “The manager’s office is this way.”
“You shop here?”
“These stores are all laid out pretty much the same.”
As they walked together, he said, “I probably should know this one by heart. My house isn’t far from here.”
“So this is where you buy your groceries?”
“My coffee and cigarettes—healthy, huh.”
He sure looked to be in great shape. “You can always change your habits.”
“You know, I quit for a while. The cigs, not the caffeine.”
“What made you take it up again?”
“Coldcocking that photographer.”
Ahhh, so he did have emotions. “There’s a lot of stress in your job.”
“Have you ever been a smoker?”
“No, and I don’t really drink. I’m not big on vices.”
Then again, she could be working on one for shopping.
And that was the last thought she had on any off-work subject. As they went over to customer service, she put aside all distractions, her game head coming back online as she imagined Mrs. Barten’s daughter coming here to this store to help out her mother . . . only to have what should have been a routine trip for groceries turn into a nightmare.
Maybe because of Kroner.
As she got ready to flash her badge to the manager, it was dangerously satisfying to imagine Veck, or even that hard-ass Agent Heron, beating the ever-loving hell out of the guy. But that was not the kind of justice that was going to be served to the serial killer. And she wasn’t fooling herself: It would not be a surprise to find out Sissy was on Kroner’s list of victims, and that possibility was absolutely why Veck was interested in the case.
But Reilly played by the rules. Always had, always would.
First sign this poor girl was one of his victims? They were turning her case over to de la Cruz, and she was dragging Veck’s attention to something else.
Even if it killed him.
When Veck next checked his watch, it was four thirty. The manager was a slow talker, and the digital recordings from the security cameras took a while to review; there were also a bagger and two cart sweepers to interview. No new information, but damn, he and Reilly worked well together.
She knew just when to come forward, and as with Mrs. Barten, she had a way of putting people at ease—which meant they talked more. Meanwhile, he tended to scope out the environment, and assess all the things folks weren’t saying, but were showing in their faces.
Outside the customer service counter, he shook the manager’s hand, and then Reilly did the same.
“Thank you for your time,” she said to the guy. “We really appreciate it.”
“I don’t think we helped you at all.” The man pushed his square glasses up higher on his nose. “Now or before. I feel awful about the whole thing.”
“Here’s my card.” She passed it over. “Call me anytime—I’m available twenty-four/seven. And truly, you’ve been open and honest—that’s all you can do.”
Veck handed his card over as well and then he and Reilly headed for the exit.
“Have dinner with me,” he said abruptly. After all, a second shot at sharing a meal had to go better than their first. Provided he didn’t behave like a defensive asshole again . . .
In response, all he got was a slowdown in her stride and a long hesitation. And then an “Ah . . .”
Not a good sign, so he backed the invite up with a valid rationale: “We need to go through the file together in light of the four hours of interviews we’ve done. Might as well eat at the same time—and I know you’ve got to be starved by now.”
Man, check his shit out. Smooth, casual. Perfect.
He stopped at a huge display made up out of bags of nacho chips, jars of salsa, and a refrigerator bank full of cheese. “I’ll cook for you. Mexican—that’s my specialty.”
Actually, that would be comparatively so: he didn’t know jack about fiesta-anything, but considering this layout, he had more to go on than any other style of cooking: Ordering takeout was the only expertise he had in the kitchen. But come on, if he hit this setup? Nabbed a box of Tacos-for-Dummies in the Ortega aisle? How could he fuck it up?
“We should probably keep things professional,” she hedged.
“It’s not a date, I promise. You’re way too good for that and I’m not that lucky.”
As her eyebrows shot to the heavens, he let the comment stand. It was the truth and they both knew it.
“So what do you say, Officer? The only spice will be in the salsa.”
That got him a true smile, her lips curling upward. “I do like Mexican.”
“Then I’m your man.”
For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then she spoke slowly and carefully, “Okay, but where?”
“My place.”
Walking past her, he snagged a cart and raided the shit out of the nachos display. Talk about manna from above: All the ingredients were lined up, so there was no choice involved. This was just the preamble, however, and he headed for the hanging sign with MEXICAN FOOD on it.
“Are you staring at me, Officer?” he said, as he felt her eyes on him.
“I’m just . . . surprised, that’s all.”
“About what?”
Docking their cart in front of shelves full of bright yellow boxes, he waited for her answer.
“Tacos or enchiladas?” When she didn’t reply to either inquiry, he reached for a meal-in-a-box. “Tacos it is.”
Quick scan of the back. Lettuce. Cheese—he checked in the cart and decided they needed more. Tomatoes.
Roger that. “Where’s the produce section?”
“Down and to the left. But you need hamburger.”
“Yeah, good call.”
The meat counter and freezers ran down the rear of the store, and as they passed by the trays of ground beef, he snagged a flat of four percent lean organic—because she was probably an all-natural kind of eater. When they got to the land of greens and gourds, it was a case of tomato, tomato, and a head of iceberg in a bag.
“Talk to me, Reilly,” he said quietly.
“You just . . . you don’t strike me as a man who needs luck with the ladies.”
“You’d be surprised.” As he piloted them toward the line of checkouts, going by the deli and the salad bar, he felt like explaining himself for some reason. “Look, my father’s well-known for an evil reason, and people are attracted to me because of the notoriety. The women are not like you. Either they’ve got tattoos in stupid places and piercings all over themselves and dumb-ass, overdyed hair or they’re Barbies who want to ‘save’ someone or are hungry for a safe walk on the wild side. Then there are the ones who seem normal, but turn out to have pictures of my father in their purses, and letters they want me to get to him—it’s a fucking mess, to be honest. I’ve learned that I can’t trust anyone, but the good news is that I’m never surprised anymore.”
He pulled their cart into a U-serve and began swiping stuff as Reilly handed him things. “But like I said, you aren’t in any of those categories,” he finished.
“Definitely not.” She passed over the bag of tomatoes. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.”