Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood 9)

As he stood over yet another dead girl, he wished like hell his job would go through a slow month or week . . . or for shit’s sake, even a night. Hell, a career slump was what he was really gunning for: When you were in his line of work, it was hard to take satisfaction in what you did. Even if you solved a case, someone was still burying a loved one.

The cop next to him sounded like he was on the business end of a bullhorn: “You want me to open the other half?”

José almost told the guy to pipe down, but chances were good he was talking like he was in a library. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The officer used a nightstick to push the lid up far enough for the light to stream in, but the guy didn’t look inside. He just stood there like one of those stiffs in front of Buckingham Palace, staring out across the alley while focusing on nothing.

As José rose up onto the balls of his feet and got a look, he didn’t blame the uni for his reticence.

Lying in a bed of metal curls, the female was naked, her gray, mottled skin strangely luminous in the dawn’s diffused light. Going by her face and body, she looked to be in her late teens, early twenties. Caucasian. Hair had been cut off at the roots, so close in places that the scalp was lacerated. Eyes . . . had been removed from their sockets.

José took a pen out of his pocket, stretched downward, and carefully pushed her stiff lips apart. No teeth—not a one left in the ragged gums.

Moving to the right, he upped one of her hands so he could see the underside of the fingertips. Sheered clean off.

And the defacement didn’t end at the head and hands. . . . There were gouges in her flesh, one at the top of her thigh, another down her upper arm, and two on the insides of her wrists.

Cursing under his breath, he was certain she’d been dumped here. Not enough privacy to do this kind of work—this shit required time and tools . . . and restraints to keep her put.

“What do we have, Detective?” his new partner said from behind him.

José glanced over his shoulder at Thomas DelVecchio, Jr. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He stepped back so Veck could have a look. As the guy was taller by nearly six inches, he didn’t have to arch up to see in; all he did was tilt at the hips. And then he just stared. No lurching over to the wall and throwing up. No gasping. No real change in expression, either.

“The body was dumped here,” Veck said. “Had to be.”

“Her.”

Veck looked over, his dark blue eyes smart and unfazed. “I’m sorry?”

“She was dumped here. That’s a person. Not a thing, DelVecchio.”

“Right. Sorry. She.” The guy leaned in again. “I think we’ve got ourselves a trophy keeper.”

“Maybe.”

Dark brows shot up. “There’s a lot missing . . . on her.”

“You watch CNN lately?” José wiped his pen on a tissue.

“I don’t have time for TV.”

“Eleven women have been found like this in the past year. Chicago, Cleveland and Philly.”

“Shiiiiiit.” Veck popped a piece of gum in his mouth and chewed hard. “So you’re wondering if this is the beginning for us?”

As the guy ground his molars, José rubbed his eyes against memories that bubbled up. “When did you quit?”

Veck cleared his throat. “Smoking? ’Bout a month ago.”

“How’s it going?”

“Sucks ass.”