On some level, it felt great to be out doing his job, Veck thought a few hours later.
Okay, it was not great that some sorry bastard had gotten shot in the face, or that none of the neighbors wanted to say a word about what they might have seen, or that he and de la Cruz were likely wearing out the soles of their shoes for nothing. But this was normal-course-of-hard-business shit. This was not about his father or freaky, no-footprint-leaving, midnight-stalker shit.
The victim in question had been popped while parked and sitting in the driver's seat of his SUV at this twelve-building apartment complex known for its lively, illegal cash-and-carry commerce. Discovered this morning by the street-sweeping crews, there had been no drugs or cash on the body or in the vehicle, but they had found a list of names and dollar amounts on a crumpled piece of paper in the guy's coat, crack residue in a series of plastic bags in the back, and a total of five guns in the car.
None of which he'd evidently been able to get to fast enough.
Unless you assumed that the ones that had been easy-access had been lifted along with the rest of the valuables.
By noon, he and de la Cruz were well into their rounds of the buildings, knocking on doors, trying to get people who were suspicious of cops and rightfully scared of retaliation to talk.
As he went from door to door, he kept recalling the victim's frozen grimace as the kid sat slumped behind that wheel, the seat belt across his chest all that kept him upright, the facial features that had once identified him to his mother and his family and his buddies ruined to the point of putting him into dental records territory.
Thinking back to Kroner in those woods, Veck remembered his own urge to kill. The idea that he was going to take out an evildoer had made it seem more justifiable - at least, to one part of him - but did that really matter?
Hell, the motherfucker who'd shot this victim in the SUV no doubt had his or her reasons, however twisted they might have appeared on an objective moral scale. Except a murderous act was a murderous act, no matter the target's disposition.
Too bad none of that mattered to the dark side of him: That element didn't give a crap whether Kroner was a saint or a sinner - the killing, the taking had been the thing. The object of the wrath? Important only insofar as it was a target to hit.
Which was undoubtedly how his father felt about other people.
And what a happy thought that was.
As the sun started sinking, and the shadows grew longer, the warmth of the afternoon dwindled and the complex seemed even grungier. He and de la Cruz had split up and were focusing on the buildings around where the body was found, but given that there were six stories of apartments, they'd be lucky to wrap this part up by five o'clock.
Turning away from yet another no-answer, Veck hit the bald concrete stairs, descending to the lobby. The front doors were supposed to be locked, of course, but they'd been kicked open so many times, it was a wonder they shut at all.
Rubbing his face and wishing he had a cigarette, he turned to the east and headed for the last apartment building that was his responsibility. He was just at the door when his phone went off. The text from Reilly said that she was heading over to the hospital now with Bails.
Well, at least that gave him some more time to tie things up on this case.
And afterward, maybe take a little trip down to Connecticut , an inner voice suggested. To see your father.
He actually looked behind himself to see if someone was talking to him. But there was nothing except thin air and weak sunlight on his tail.
As well as the conviction that he was probably going to do just that. Soon.
With a curse, he turned back to the entrance, and as he pivoted, he happened to glance down at the cracked cement of the sidewalk.
What he saw stopped him dead.
He glanced over his shoulder again. The sun was setting right behind him, the single sun - as in one light source. And there was no huge reflective surface to throw a second illumination, no car with a lot of chrome, no stage light, for God's sake.
He looked back down at his feet. There were two shadows thrown by his body. Two separate and distinct shadows, one leading north, one leading south.
Graphic evidence of what he'd always felt - of two halves of him, cleaving apart, drawing him in opposite directions.
Look down at your feet, Thomas DelVecchio ... and then you call me when you get scared enough.
As Jim Heron's voice shot through his mind, he thought of Reilly. He'd beonfident of protecting her from any stalker, so fucking sure he could be what she needed. But all that cock and balls did not apply to this shit on the ground. He didn't understand it himself; how the hell could he fight it for her?
And Reilly was on the line. Otherwise she wouldn't have spent the night before sitting up in a chair with a gun in her hand.
I'm the only one who can help you.
God knew if Heron had wanted to hurt either of them or get aggressive he could have. Instead, all the guy had done was point them in the right direction at the quarry ... and disappear.
Decision made, Veck all but lunged for his phone. He'd saved Heron's number in his contacts for the incident report on the guy, and as he dialed it now, he prayed that the man who left no footprints would answer ... and tell him about what was at his own feet.
The sound of a cell phone ringing out loud behind him ripped him around.
Jim Heron was standing three feet away from him, as if the guy had been there all along - which he had been, hadn't he.
Veck narrowed his eyes and took a careful visual picture of the man. The bastard seemed solid enough in his leather jacket and his fatigues. And as he exhaled smoke from his Marlboro, the shit floated over and tickled Veck's craving button.
But he wasn't real, was he.
Heart pounding in his chest, Veck hit end on his phone and the sound coming from Jim's pocket ceased.
"Time's growing short," the guy said.
And this made Veck think about his father: That note in the mail. That hourglass that was draining as they got closer and closer to the execution.
Which was coming so very soon, wasn't it.
This was it, he thought. Everything, his whole existence, had led up to this ... whatever the fuck it was.
As Veck met the man's eyes, he felt as though the movie of his life had been out of focus without his even being aware the shit was blurry. The cameraman, however, had finally woken up and gotten with the program with his equipment ... and it was a new fucking world.
Especially given the fact that the fading light of day was coming from behind Jim Heron ... and there was nothing at the guy's feet. No shadow at all.
"What the fuck are you," Veck demanded.
"I'm here to save your ass, that's what I am." The guy took a drag on his cig and exhaled slowly. "You ready to talk to me now?"
Veck stared at his own pair of outlines, both in the shape of his body. "Yeah. I am."
Reilly was behind the wheel of her unmarked as she and Bails went over to the St. Francis Hospital complex. Beside her, the detective was quiet in her passenger seat as she navigated heavy traffic and got stuck at red lights and then hit a detour that took her in the opposite direction.
"Any more of this and I'm going to start thinking someone doesn't want us talking to Kroner," she muttered.
Bails didn't even glance over. "Yeah."
More silence. To the point where she was going to ask him to just get it all out: The last thing they needed was this kind of tension when they were in front ot killer.
Bails spoke before she did, however. "I'm sorry I'm not talking. I just don't know what to do."
"About what?" When it was safe to take her eyes off the road, she spared him a quick look. The guy was drumming his fingers against the door, and staring out of the windshield as if he were searching for answers in the glass.
"I know you saw my e-mail," she said after a moment.
"If only that was the big problem." As she shot another glance across at him, he shrugged. "You know Veck and I are tight, yeah?"
"Yes."
"And you know that I've always been behind him one hundred percent. To the death. That boy is mine."
As he pounded over his heart, she said, "Okay."
"So, yeah, I saw the e-mail he sent you. I didn't mean to, but it was up on your screen when I came over to you two." He looked over. "I wasn't eavesdropping. It was just there."
Damn it.
That was all she had. Damn it.
"So now ..." His fingers stilled and he shook his head. "I don't know what to do."
"No offense, but why is it your business. And I don't mean to be a bitch, but - "
"I know things about him that you don't, and I think he's done something illegal. And given that you're with him, I don't know who in Internal Affairs to go to. Good enough for you?"
As Reilly exhaled like she'd been punched in the gut, she wanted to pull over. Good thing they were finally at the hospital and she could park in the open lot in front of the emergency room.
When she turned off the engine, she faced him. "What are you talking about?"
Bails put a hand on the dashboard and ran his palm back and forth. Then he wiped the thin layer of dust he'd lifted on his thigh. "Look, I'm a cop because I want to protect people, and because I believe in the system. I don't think a civilized society can exist without the police and courts and jails. There are people out there who just do not belong in the general population. Period."
"You haven't said one word about Veck. FYI."
"Has he told you he has a record?"
As a cold shaft shot down her spine, she forced herself to remain composed. "No."
"I didn't think so."
This guy was full of crap, she thought. "Listen, I'm sorry to doubt your sources, but there's nothing in his personnel file - and you can't lie about that stuff. All HR has to do - and did - is run his name."
"Not when it's juvie shit."
Reilly blinked. Hard. "I beg your pardon."
"He has a juvenile record. A serious one."
"How do you know this?"
"I saw the thing. With my own two eyes." Bails let his head fall back against the rest. "I first met Veck at the police academy. He was a loner who did everything right - I was the class clown. We just ... clicked. After we got out, we stayed in touch even though we were assigned to different precincts down in Manhattan, and then I latermoved up here. For all the years I've known him, he's always been tight in the head. In control. Tough, but fair. Matter of fact, he's one of the best cops I've ever met, and I recruited him to come to Caldie because I wanted to work with him." Bails cursed. "In all the time I've known him, I've never once thought he wasn't fit for the job because of that shit with his dad ... until now. It started with him nailing that paparazzi guy. Then the Kroner thing out in the woods. It's like his wrapper's coming off - but I wasn't going to say anything, I really wasn't, until - "
"Wait. Stop." Reilly cleared her throat, thinking a dose of protocol might calm the headache she felt between her eyes. "In the interest of propriety, you should get in touch with my supervisor immediately if you have anything to say pertaining to Detective DelVecchio. You were right before you started ... you shouldn't tell me these things. I shouldn't ... be in the position I'm in now with respect to him. Matter of fact, I have an appointment with her when you and I get back from this interview so that I can properly disclose the relationship to my department."
Bails rubbed his eyes and nodded. "I'll do that ... but I also think you need to know, too. Because if anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself."
At that, Reilly stiffened. "Why would you be worried about my safety?"
He raked his hand through his hair. "See, I helped him move into his house, you know, when he got up here. He had all these old boxes that needed to go into the attic. I was carrying one of them and the bottom fell out. Fucking papers went everywhere and I started to pick them up - and there it was. His juvi record from back in the mid-nineties."
"What did it say," she managed through a closed throat.
"He had every marker for psychotic, antisocial behavior there is." Bails frowned. "You know what I'm talking about, so I'm not going to list the shit he did."
Animal torture? Preoccupation with fire? Bed-wetting?
"All of it," Bails said, as if he were reading her mind.
"But he's never done anything as an adult," she countered - except it was less a statement than a question.
"Not that we know of. And, see, that's what's been worrying me. Psychopaths are really good at pretending to be normal. On the surface, they fit in - because they make it their business to. What if this stretch of relative peace and quiet up until now ... is all he can manage? The end of the acting period and the time when the real him makes an appearance ? You can't deny that his wheels have been coming off - hell, you wouldn't be his partner if things were going right." The conflict on Bails's face was plain to see. "Or worse ... what if we just don't know what he's really been doing? I tell you, I couldn't sleep last night - I was trying to reconcile what I believe him to be ... with what he might actually be. If that makes sense."
Reilly heard Veck's voice in her head: I want to make everything perfect for you.
And he had. He'd said the right things. Done the right things.
Thrown his cigarettes out for her - or at least had done so in front of her.
She'd fallen in love with him in four days.
Fortuitous accident? Or by design?
Except where would it gehim? He'd been the one to argue for suspension ... unless that had been a deliberate stance? She'd certainly taken care of championing his case and his reputation - which had more credibility than his doing so, didn't it.
Bails's voice drifted over. "You can't trust him. I'm learning that now."
"Just because he didn't tell you about what happened when he was younger?" she heard herself say. "And besides, keeping a sealed record to yourself isn't illegal."
"I think he planted evidence. Sissy Barten's earring, specifically. To make it look as if Kroner was responsible."
She didn't bother to hide her recoil. "What? And how?"
"He went up to her bedroom, didn't he. The day you two went over to the Barten house. He told me you were downstairs when he did. And he was in the evidence room yesterday morning - I talked to Joey, one of the crime scene investigators. He said Veck had been by - and he could have planted it then."
"But he said he'd found the earring in and among the evidence."
Bails rubbed his eyes again. "I checked the preliminary log of the items from the truck, the list that was made right after we got the vehicle. There wasn't any notation of an earring shaped like a dove. That's what I was double-checking right before I came and saw you two this morning."
So that was why he'd looked poleaxed.
She shook her head. "But what does he have to gain?" Unless ...
Oh, God ... what if he'd killed her. What if Kroner had somehow seen something in the course of his own evil work at that quarry?
"You've read the report on Sissy's body, right?" Bails said.
"Of course." She'd spent all morning on it - and the conclusion that she'd first come to when the body had been found was now inescapable: None of the victim's wounds matched those of Kroner's other killings - and that kind of change didn't happen, typically. Usually, the method and the fixations didn't alter.
"So you've got to know she wasn't defiled by Kroner. And maybe, after you add it all up ... maybe Veck did it."
Good heavens, she couldn't breathe. Sure as if there were hands around her throat. "But ... why?"
Although that was a dumb question to ask, she feared.
"How much do you know about Veck's father?" the detective said. "His murders?"
"Just what I studied in college."
Bails refocused out the front window. "Did you know that his father's first victim was bled out by the neck and wrists - having been hung by her feet. She'd also been marked up just like the Barten girl is. On the stomach."
Reilly reached for the handle and shoved open her door. It wasn't just for the fresh air. It was because she was seriously going to throw up.
"I'm so sorry," Bails said, his voice raw.
"So am I," she croaked, although that didn't begin to cover it.
As she stared at the pavement, she knew she had been snowed. Big-time. And of course Veck had made the effort. She was his advocate at headquarters, the one who was supposed to vet him carefully and yea or y him to keep on the force: He'd wanted to keep working, and she'd been in the position to make that possible.
"Thank God for you," she choked out. Too bad she couldn't look at Bails - she was just too mortified that she'd been played so well. "Thank God you said something."