Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood 9)

“One other thing.”

“What.”

“I think we’re dating now.” As V barked out a laugh, the cop shrugged. “Come on . . . I got you naked. You wore a damn corset. And don’t get me started about the sponge bath afterward.”

“Fucker.”

“To the end.”

As their laughter faded, V closed his eyes and briefly shut his brain down. With his best friend’s big barrel chest up against his own, and the knowledge that he and Jane were tight again, his world was complete.

Now, if he could just keep his sister off the streets and out of the alleys at night . . . life would be frickin’ perfect.

FORTY-SIX

When José pulled up to the Monroe Motel & Suites, it was pretty clear that the only thing new around the place was the crime scene tape that had just been wrapped around the far end. Everything else was wilted and sagging, including the cars that were parked by the office.

Heading past the lineup of beaters, he went all the way down to the last room on the row and pulled his unmarked in diagonally to the other CPD units.

As he put the sedan in park, he looked across the seat. “You good to go?”

Veck was already reaching for the door handle. “You’d better believe it.”

When the two of them got out, the other officers came over, and Veck got surrounded by a whole lot of backslapping. In the department, people thought the guy was a hero for The Paparazzi Incident—and that approval roll wasn’t slowed in the slightest by the fact that the guy always brushed off any attaboys.

Staying tight and cool, he just jacked up his slacks and took out a cigarette. After lighting it and inhaling, he talked through the exhale. “How we doing here.”

José left the kid to get up to speed and ducked under the tape. The broken door to the crime scene had been shut loosely, and he nudged it open with his shoulder.

“Shit,” he said under his breath.

The air was choked with the smell of fresh blood . . . and formaldehyde.

At that moment, the photographer’s flash went off and the body of the victim was spotlighted on the bed—as were the specimen jars on the bedside table. And the knives.

He closed his eyes briefly.

“Detective?”

José glanced over his shoulder at Veck. “Yeah?”

“We have the registration on the truck. Illinois. Owned by a David Kroner. It has not been reported stolen, and guess what—Kroner is a white male, thirty-three years old . . . unmarried . . . on disabili—fucking hell.” Veck’s convo stopped altogether as he came to stand by the bed. “Jesus.”

The flashbulb went off again, and there was an electronic wheeze as the camera recovered from the effort.

José looked at the coroner. “How long’s she been dead?”

“Not long. She’s still warm. I’ll give you a better idea when I’m done here.”

“Thanks.” José walked over to the crappy bureau and used a pen to push around a thin gold ring, a pair of sparkly earrings, and a bracelet that was pink and black.

The tattoo that had been cut out of the victim’s skin and relocated to the specimen jar next to her was pink and black, too. Probably favorite colors of hers.

Or had been.

He continued to wander around, looking for things that were out of place, checking the wastepaper baskets, peeking into the bathroom.

Someone had clearly disturbed the killer’s fun. Somebody had heard or seen something and busted the door open, causing a fast departure out this back window above the toilet.