“Officers on scene check the security tapes?”
“You better believe it, and guess what? The system flickered off at about eleven and stayed that way.”
Veck frowned. “It just went dead?”
“Dead. Even though no power surge in the neighborhood was reported. The lobby lights appear to have been fritzed as well, although no other electricals, or systems, were affected in the place—including their alarm and their computer network. It’s just too fucking weird. How do you lose your vid and nothing else?”
Veck’s nape went tingly on him. For chrissakes, where had he heard that before . . .
“So yeah, it’s weird.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Bails tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Hey, are you okay?”
Veck turned to his computer and called up his e-mail. “Never been better.”
“If you say so.” There was a pause. “Guess your partner’s going in with Kroner.”
Veck jerked around. “She is?”
“You didn’t know?” Bails shrugged. “De la Cruz texted me late last night. I wanted to go back in there again today, but IA is getting the next crack at him—no doubt to tie you up in a pretty bow of not-the-perp ribbon.”
Fucking hell. The idea of Reilly anywhere near that monster made his blood run cold. “When?”
“Now, I guess.”
And what do you know, his first instinct was to get over to St. Francis at a dead run. Which was no doubt why she hadn’t stopped in this morning and told him where she was going.
“Anyway, I’ll see you. Gotta get back to work.”
instinct, Veck grabbed his phone and checked it. Sure enough there was a text that he hadn’t heard come in and it was from Reilly: I’ll be in late today. R.
“Fuck.”
He looked around, like that was going to do any good. Then he tried to focus on the screen in front of him.
Damn it . . . no way in hell he could sit on his ass stewing while she interviewed a madman.
And, actually . . . this was an opportunity, wasn’t it.
Taking his coffee with him, he walked out of Homicide, hung a louie, and headed for the emergency exit. In the concrete stairwell, he went up two steps at a time, punched through the steel door, and beelined for the evidence room.
Inside, he checked in with the receptionist, did a little small talk—like this was all just routine—and then after an appropriate chat-up, he was inside the stacks.
As a beat cop down in Manhattan, he’d spent a good deal of time handling evidence like bags of drugs, cell phones, and impounded cash—things that were used. Now that he was in Homicide, it was more about bloodied clothes, weapons, and personal effects—things that were left behind.
Heading down the long rows of shelving, he zeroed in on the back of the huge facility where the tables were.
“Hey, Joe,” he said, as he came around a six-foot-tall partition.
The veteran crime scene investigator looked up from a microscope. “Hey.”
“How’s it going?”
“Workin’ our way through.”
As the guy lifted his arms over his head and stretched hard, Veck leaned against the workstation, all casual. “How you holding up?”
“The night shift is easier than the day. Of course, after this week, both suck.”
“There much longer till you’re through it all?”
“Maybe forty-eight hours. There’s a trio of us. We’ve been going around the clock except for last evening.”
Veck looked over the collection of things that had been cataloged and sealed up, as well as the massive tray of preliminarily logged items that were still to be examined and properly bagged.
The investigator used tweezers to take what turned out to be a hair tie from underneath the magnifying sight. After he placed the black twist in a plastic bag, he took a long, thin neon yellow sticker, and went up and over the opening. Then he made a notation with a blue pen on it, signed his initials, and tapped on a laptop’s keyboard. Final step was to pass the bag’s bar code over a reader, the beep signifying that the object was now officially in the system.
Veck took a sip of his coffee. “So I’m working a missing persons case. Young girl.”
“You want to take a gander at what we got?”
“Would you mind?”
“Nope. Just don’t take anything out of here.”
Veck started at the far end of the low-slung shelving that had been temporarily set up. None of the collection had been given a permanent home yet, because everyone from CPDers to the FBI were going to be all over the objects.
Skipping the jars of skin samples—because Cecilia Barten hadn’t had any tattoos—he focused on the multitude of rings, bracelets, barrettes, necklaces. . . .
Where are you, Sissy? he thought to himself.
Bending down, he picked up a clear plastic bag that was sealed with the signature of one of the other investigators. Inside, there was a stained leather wristband that had a skull’s head for a “charm.” Not Cecilia’s style.
He moved on, picking up a silver hoop that had been logged in. In all the pictures at the Bartens’ house, the girl had been wearing gold.
Where are you, Sissy . . . where the hell are you?
Over at St. Francis Hospital, Reilly was all business as she strode down one of the hospital’s thousands of corridors. As she marched along, she passed white coats and blue orderlies and green nurses and casually dressed patients and families.
The ICU she was looking for was all the way down to the right, and she took her badge out as she approached the nurses’ station. A quick conversation later and she was directed down farther, to the left. As she turned the final corner, the guard by the glass cage got to his feet.
“Officer Reilly?” he said.
“That’s me.” She showed him her badge. “How’s he doing?”
The man shook his head. “Just had breakfast.” The clipped answer dripped with disapproval—as if the guard wished the suspect would go on a hunger strike. Or maybe be starved to death. “Guess they’re moving him out of here soon because he’s doing so well. Do you want me in there with you?”
Reilly smiled as she put her badge away and took out a small pad. “I can handle him.”
The private security officer seemed to measure her, but then he nodded. “Yeah, you look like you can.”
“It’s just not appearances. Trust me.”
She opened the glass door, pushed back the pale green curtain—and froze at the sight of a nurse leaning over Kroner. “Oh, I’m sorry—”
The brunette looked over and smiled. “Please come in, Officer Reilly.”
As Reilly stared into eyes that were so black, they appeared to have no iris at all, she felt an irrational bolt of terror: Every instinct in her body told her to run. Fast as she could go. As far away as she could get. Except Kroner was the one she needed to be wary of—not some woman who was just doing her job.
“Ah . . . why don’t I come back,” Reilly said.
“No.” The nurse smiled again, revealing perfect white teeth. “He’s ready for you.”
“Still, I’ll just wait until you’re—”
“Stay. I’m happy to leave you two together.”
Reilly frowned, thinking, What, like the pair of them were dating?
The nurse turned back to Kroner, uttered something in a quiet voice and stroked his hand in a way that made Reilly slightly nauseous. And then the woman came forward, growing more and more beautiful—until she was so resplendent, you had to wonder why she wasn’t a model.
And yet Reilly just wanted to get the hell away from her. Which made no sense.
The nurse paused at the door and smiled once more. “Take your ti. TrusHe has everything you need.”
And then she was gone.
Reilly blinked once. And again. Then she leaned out and looked around.
The guard glanced up from his seat. “You okay?”
The hallway was empty except for a crash cart, a rolling bin full of soiled linen, and a gurney with no one and nothing on it. Maybe the nurse had just gone into another room? Had to be it. There were units on either side of Kroner’s.