And this was the root of the problem they had. By all that was right and proper, it was not fair to lay the sins of the father around the neck of the son. And Veck was right: On his own psych assessments, he’d come up as normal as anyone else.
So José had taken him on as a partner without a second thought about that pops of his.
That had changed since last night, and the issue was the expression that had been on Veck’s face when he’d gone for that photog.
So cold. So calm. With no more affect than if he’d been popping the top off a soda can.
Having worked in Homicide almost all of his adult life, José had seen a lot of murderers. You had your crime-of-passion types who lost it over a guy or a woman; you had the stupid-ass department, which in his mind covered drug- and alcohol-related as well as gang violence; and then you had the sadistic sickos who needed to be put down like rabid dogs.
All of these variations on the theme caused unimaginable tragedy for their victims’ families and the community. But they weren’t the ones who kept José up at night.
Veck’s dad had murdered twenty-eight people in seventeen years—and those were only the bodies that had been found. The bastard was on death row right now, a mere hundred and twenty-five miles away in Somers, Connecticut, and he was about to get the injection, in spite of the number of appeals his lawyer had filed. But what was really fucked-up? Thomas DelVecchio, Sr., had a fan club—that was worldwide. With one hundred thousand friends on Facebook, merchandise on CafePress, and songs that had been written about him by death-metal bands, he was an infamous celebrity.
Fucking hell, as God was his witness, all that shit made José mental. Those idiots who idolized the fucker should come work his job for a week. See how cool they thought killers were in RL.
As things went, he’d never met DelVecchio, the elder, in person, but he’d seen plenty of video from various DA and police department interviews. On the surface, the guy was straight-up lucid and as calm as a yoga instructor. Pleasant, too. No matter who was in front of him or what was said to inflame him, he never wavered, never broke, never gave an indication that any of it mattered.
Except José had seen the tell in his face—and so had a few of the other professionals: Every once in a while, he’d get a twinkle in his eye that made José reach for his cross. It was the kind of thing a sixteen-year-old boy might have when he saw a cherry ride drive by or an apple-bottomed girl with a belly shirt. It was like sunlight glinting off of a sharp blade—a brief flash of light and delight.
That was all he’d ever given away, however. The evidence had convicted him; never his testimony.
And that was the kind of murderer who left José staring at the ceiling while his wife slept beside him. DelVecchio Senior was smart enough to stay in control and cover his tracks. He was self-reliant and resourceful. And he was as relentless as the change of seasons. . . . He was Halloween in a parallel universe: Instead of a normal Joe with a mask on, he was a fiend behind a friendly, handsome face.
Veck looked just like his dad.
“Did you hear what I said.”
At the sound of the kid’s voice, José refocused. “Yeah, I did.”
“So is this it for you and me,” Veck said sharply. “You saying you don’t want to work with me anymore? Assuming I still have a job?”
José went back to his paper-clip sketching. “Internal Affairs is going to give you a warning.”
“Really?”
“I told them your head was where it needed to be,” José said after a moment.
Veck cleared his throat. “Thanks, man.”
José kept moving the clip around, the little scratching noise so very loud. “The pressure in this job is a killer.” At this, he looked Veck right in the eye. “It is not going to get easier.”
There was a pause. Then his partner murmured, “You don’t believe what you told them, do you.”
José shrugged. “Time will tell.”
“Why the hell did you save my job, then?”
“I guess I feel that you should have a chance to right your wrongs—even if they’re not really yours.”
What José kept to himself was that it wasn’t the first time he’d taken on a partner who had things to work out on the job, so to speak.
Yeah, and look at how Butch O’Neal had turned out: Missing. Presumed dead. In spite of whatever José had thought he’d heard on that 911 tape.
“I am not my father, Detective. I swear to you. Just because I was being professional when I hit the guy—”
José leaned forward, his eyes boring into the kid’s. “How did you know that was what bothered me about the attack. How did you know the calm was the thing.”
As Veck blanched, José eased back again. After a bit, he shook his head. “It doesn’t mean you’re a killer, son. And just because you fear something doesn’t mean it’s true. But I think you and I need to be real clear with each other. Like I said, I don’t think it’s fair for you to be held to a different standard because of your pops—but if you have another outburst like that over anything—and I mean parking tickets”—he nodded toward the Starbucks mug—“bad coffee, too much starch in your shirt . . . the goddamn photocopier . . . it’s game over. Do we understand each other? I’m not going to let someone dangerous wear a badge—or a gun.”