“May I see your hands, Detective?” When he held them out, they were rock steady . . . and unmarked with cuts or abrasions. No blood on the palms, the fingertips, the nails. “Did you assess the victim or intervene with him in some way prior to or after calling nine-one-one?”
“I took my leather jacket off and put it to his neck. It wasn’t going to help, but I did it anyway.”
“Are you carrying any weapons other than your gun?”
“My knife. It’s on my—”
She put her hand on his arm to stop his reaching around. “Let me take a look.”
Nodding, he pivoted on his boot heel. In the light from the ambulance, the nasty-looking blade holstered at the small of his back was a laceration waiting to happen.
“May I remove this weapon, Detective?”
“Have at it.”
Taking a set of vinyl gloves out of her backpack, she snapped them on and went for the dagger. As she tugged to loosen the snap, his body didn’t shift at all. She might as well have been disarming a statue.
The knife was clean and dry as a whistle.
Lifting it up to her nose, she inhaled. No scent of astringent as if he’d scrubbed it in a hurry.
As he looked over his shoulder, the torsion in his body made his shoulders seem huge, and for no good reason, she realized she was eye-to-eye with his pecs. At five-foot-six, she was of average height, but next to him she felt like she’d shrunk to miniature.
“I’m going to confiscate this, if you don’t mind?” She was going to take his gun as well, but given the injuries . . . the blade was what she really wanted from him.
“Not at all.”
As she took a plastic bag out of her sack, she said, “What do you think happened here.”
“Someone ripped him apart, and I think it was me.”
That stopped her, but not because she thought it was an admission of any kind—she just didn’t expect anyone under these circumstances to be so honest.
At that moment, an unmarked pulled into the parking lot along with two squad cars. “Your partner’s arrived,” she said. “But the sergeant wants me to lead the investigation to avoid any possible conflicts of interest.”
“Not a problem.”
“Will you consent to my taking samples from under your nails?”
“Yes.”
She shifted the pack in front again and took out a Swiss army knife, along with some smaller plastic bags.
“You’re very organized, Officer,” Veck said.
“I don’t like not being prepared. Please hold out your right hand.”
She made fast work, starting with the pinkie. His nails were cut short, but not manicured, and there was very little under any of them.
“Do you have a background in detective work?” Veck asked.
“Yes.”
“Shows.”
When she was finished, she glanced up . . . and immediately had to downshift from his midnight blue eyes to somewhere in his chin vicinity. “Would you like another coat, Detective? It’s cold out here.”
“I’m fine.”
If you were bleeding from a chest wound, would you take a damn Band-Aid? she wondered. Or would you tough-guy it until there was no plasma left in your veins?
He’d tough-guy it, she thought. Definitely.
“I want the medics to look you over—”
“I’m fine—”
“That would be an order, Detective. You look like your head hurts.”
At that moment, de la Cruz emerged from his car, and as he came over, he looked grim faced and weary. Word had it he’d already lost a partner a couple of years ago; he obviously wasn’t psyched at the retread, even if it was for a different reason.
“Excuse me,” she said to them both. “I’m going to snag one of the medics.”
Except when she got over to the two men, they were in the process of transferring Kroner onto the gurney, and it was clear they couldn’t spare even a minute. “What are his chances?”
“Bad,” the one who was bagging him said. “But we’ll do our best, Officer.”
“I know you will.”
The gurney’s supports were extended so that the thing was at waist height, and just before they wheeled away, she took a mental snapshot. Kroner looked like he’d been pulled from the steaming wreck of a car, his face mangled as if he hadn’t been wearing a seat belt and had gone through the window.
Reilly glanced back at Veck.
Lot of holes in this scene, she thought. Especially given that he believed he’d been the attacker. But there was no way to do that much damage and get cleaned up this fast in the woods. Besides, he didn’t look like he’d been in any altercation at all—there was no way you could soap-and-water away bruises and scratches.
The question was . . . who had done it?
As if he could feel her eyes on him, Veck’s head cranked around, and when their stares met, everything disappeared: she might as well have been all alone with him . . . and standing not fifteen yards away, but fifteen inches.
From out of nowhere, a welling heat boiled up in her body, the kind of thing that, if she’d been indoors, she’d have told herself was the result of standing under a heat duct. As it was, she justified the flush as being an adrenal response to stress.
Stress, damn it. Not sexual attraction.
Reilly broke the connection by calling out to the newly arrived uniforms, “Would you tape us up?”
“Roger that, Officer.”
Right, time to get back to work: That brief spike of wholly inappropriate attraction was not going to get in the way of her doing her job. She was far too levelheaded, for one thing, and for another, her professional integrity demanded nothing less. She also had no intention of being on the man’s very long list of adoring fans. She was going to take care of business, and leave the Moon Pie eyes to all the others.
Besides, guys like Veck didn’t go for women like her, and that was just fine. She was far more interested in work than in showing her legs, puffing her hair, and competing in the date Olympics. Brittany—spelled Britnae, a.k.a. the office hottie—could have him and keep him if she wanted.
In the meantime, Reilly was going to see whether or not the son had lived up to the father’s horrors.
CHAPTER 2
Under normal circumstances, Jim Heron considered himself a sore loser.
And that was with your average, everyday shit like World of Warcraft or frickin’ tennis or poker.
Not that he wasted time playing any of those, but if he did, he would have been the type who didn’t leave the controller, court, or table until he was on top.
And again, that was just about unimportant crap.
When it came to the war with the demon Devina, he was on fire, he was so pissed off: He had lost the last round.
Lost as in no win. As in out of the seven souls they were battling over, he and that bitch were now tied 1–1. Granted, there were still five more at-bats, but this was not the direction he or anyone else needed to go in.
He got defeated? That demon had dominion over not only the earth but the heavens above . . . which meant his mother and all those good souls up there, as well as him and his fallen angel soldiers, were looking at an eternity of damnation.
And that was not, he’d recently discovered, just a hypothetical used to motivate the religious. Hell was an actual place and the suffering there was very real. Matter of fact, so much of what he’d previously written off as silly rhetoric from the holier-than-thou crowd had turned out to be dead on.
So yeah, the stakes were high and he hated losing. Especially when it didn’t need to go down like it had.
He was flat-out rip-shit at the game. At his boss, Nigel. At the “rules.”
It was common fucking sense: When you told a guy he was supposed to influence some jackass at a crossroads in his or her life, it kind of helped if you frickin’ told him who was on deck. After all, it wasn’t a big goddamn secret: Nigel knew. The enemy, Devina, knew. Jim? Not so much, people. And courtesy of that informational black hole, he’d focused on the wrong man in the last round and blown it.