On that note, Nigel walked over to the door. "I'm glad you are here, and I know you will guard well what is precious."
"Nigel."
He glanced over his shoulder. "Colin."
There was a long moment of silence.
When nothing further appeared to be forthcoming, Nigel looked over to the kitchen, and thought of the nature of loss: Some you chose - and could unchoose. Some was forced upon one. And ... some was permanent.
"I shall see you anon," Nigel said, before he ended things by walking out.
Chapter 40
The next morning, Reilly went into work from her parents' house on a full stomach: fresh orange juice, two homemade cinnamon buns, a cup of coffee, and a strip and a half of bacon that she had purloined from her father's plate.
As she parked her car in the lot behind HQ, every ounce of the yummy-yummy turned to lead: Veck's motorcycle was angled in against the building.
He'd obviously turned himself in and was being questioned.
Looking up the ugly rear flank of where she worked, she was tempted to turn the unmarked's engine back on and head off to ... anywhere.
But she did not run. Never had. Never would.
Getting out, she blinked in the bright sunlight, and wished that God would hit the dimmer switch: Instead of lifting her mood, the cheery-spring thing drove it down even farther into the sewer.
"Beautiful day, ain't it," someone called out.
Glancing over her shoulder, she said, "Morning, Bails."
The detective was wending his way through the cars and trucks and SUVs, and as she watched him, she squinted, the light abruptly going glare on her.
Maybe she was getting a migraine.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Not even close. You?"
As he came up, he took off his sunglasses. "Same boat." He nodded over at the bike. "So he's here."
Reilly rubbed her eyes. "Yes, he is."
"Where are your lenses?" he said, tapping his aviators. "Summer's coming, and so are cataracts."
As he put his darks back on, she tilted her head and looked up at him. The light was so bright around the guy, it seemed as if he were made of chrome.
Okay, she was losing her mind, going total gaga. Next thing she knew, she'd be wearing meat to work.
"I said ... are you going to watch the interrogation?"
Shaking herself, she murmured, "God, no. And sorry, I'm just off today."
He put his arm around her shoulders as a friend would, nothing more. "I get that. Come on, let's go in and try to pretend we're working."
"Good plan."
They walked in together, headed out to the lobby and hit the stairs. On the second-floor landing, the admin pool was not at their desks, but over in the back corner, clustered together. As soon as one of them saw Reilly, all of them looked over.
Ducking her head, she muttered a see-you-later and hurried off to her department. In Internal Affairs, she had more eyes on her, but at least here her colleagues came over, said good morning, and acknowledged the situation: awkward, but better than hushed whispers - and folks were supportive.
Then again, most people at one time or another had gotten snowed. It was an occupational hazard of breathing.
When the chat-ups dwindled, she sat down at her desk, logged into her computer and lasted about ... a minute and a half.
Out of her department. Down the hall. Into Homicide.
And as if it were supposed to happen, the first person she ran into was de la Cruz.
"I was wondering if you'd show," he said, coming forward and offering his hand.
Shaking his palm, she cleared her throat. "How's it going."
"They're just getting started. You want to watch?"
"Yes," she said hoarsely.
"Come with me." As he led her past the desks, he lifted up his coffee cup. "I just made a caffeine run, you want some?"
"I'm jittery enough - thanks, though."
The interrogation rooms ran down a narrow corridor that was entered through its own doorway, but there was a cut-through at the rear of the department, and de la Cruz held the back door open for her./font>
"There's a monitor in here."
The tiny conference room had old carpet, but a new round table - on which was a screen showing black-and-white feed from a ten-foot-by-fifteen-foot room. The camera was trained on Veck, who was sitting in a chair against the corner, and she felt a physical shock at seeing him. Man, he was big, especially looking as coldly aggressive as he was: his arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyes were narrowed and focused on the detective who was questioning him.
Kind of like the guy was a dartboard.
Reilly pulled out a chair and sat down, her legs feeling unreliable.
"Here, let me turn the sound on," de la Cruz said as he settled in and reached forward.
"... did not plant that earring as evidence," Veck clipped out. "You have video - watch the damn recording. I didn't plant the f**king - "
"But you were over by the Kroner evidence - "
"Just like every other detective in the house."
"And Officer Reilly indicated that you were hoping to find a tie to the Barten case."
Veck showed no reaction to her name. "And I did. But how does that correlate with planting something?"
The other detective - his name was Browne, if she remembered correctly - leaned in over his legal pad. "Your hand was in and out of your pocket."
"You ever hear of change? Quarters, dimes, nickels?"
"You had been up in Sissy Barten's bedroom."
"As had others. I'm not the only rep from this department who's been through that house."
"Look, Veck, just tell me what happened."
Veck leaned in as well, his face flat-out furious. "I went to Sissy's house to speak to her mother. I went upstairs, yeah, sure, but I didn't take anything out of there, and I did not plant any evidence. You've already proved that I didn't hurt Kroner. Why would I want to frame the guy - for a murder, incidentally, that I did not commit?"
"I'm not sure what we've proved with Kroner."
Veck sat back again. "You're f**king kidding me."
"Maybe you staged the attack precisely so you could put the Barten murder around his neck."
"So you think I travel with trained mountain lions or some shit? Besides, Kroner knew where the body in the quarry was, not me."
"On the contrary, Kroner mentioned the quarry. You found the body."
"No, I didn't. That was ..."
"Who?"
At that, he reached into the pocket of the fleece he had on and pulled out a pack of Marlboros.
Ah, so he'd lied about quitting as well.
The other detective shook his head. "No smoking in here."
Veck muttered under his breath as he disappeared the pack. "Look, you want my statement? It's simple. I didn't do it - the murder, the earring, any of it. Someone is trying to frame me."
"Can you prove that, Veck."
God, she could practically feel a cold rush of air as Veck bit out, "The question is more, can you prove it."
"He killed her," Reilly said roughly. "Oh, my God, he killed her, didn't he."
He knew how the system worked, knew the ways to get away with murder - he was a detective, after all. He'd been trained on the limits of the law and evidence and proof.
De la Cruz glanced over. "I'm not going to lie. This doesn't look good, any of it."
She thought back to the quarry, to Jim Heron, to Veck finding the body ... it was the perfect staging piece.
And Kroner? Veck could have gone out to those woods with the plan of killing the guy, only to have a wild animal cut him off.
Luck, after all, didn't just play in favor of the righteous.
If Kroner had died by that motel as he was supposed to, and the earring had been planted successfully, and Bails hadn't seen those juvie records, Veck would have gotten away with murder - just like his father.
And he would have killed again.
That was what psychopaths like him did.
Reilly's hand crept up to her throat. To think she could have fallen in love with a killer ... just like Veck's mother had.
"The most important thing," she heard herself say, "is that the charges stick. We can't let someone like him get loose - or it's his father all over again."
"We're going to need stronger evidence. Right now, he's technically just a person of interest."
"We have to get into his house."
"We're lining up the warrant as we speak."