"Are you okay?"
He glanced up. Reilly was standing next to his desk, a little McDonald's bag in one hand and a short soda in the other.
"No, I'm really f**king not." He shifted his eyes to the computer screen, because he knew he was glaring. "Remember that FBI agent from yesterday?"
"Heron?"
"He's a fake."
"A fake?" She sat down beside him. "What do you mean - "
"Someone broke into my house last night." As she gasped, he kept going. "It was him. Probably his two buddies, too - "
"Why didn't you tell me? And why the hell didn't you report it?"
He started rubbing his temples, and thought, Well, at least this headache was the normal stress kind. Nothing but tension -
Abruptly, he jacked around.
Except there was nothing behind him, no one staring at the back of his head or lining up a gun muzzle with his skull. It was just an empty room cut up by cubicles that were filled with computers and phones and empty office chairs.
Unfont size=ately, his instincts told him there was another layer to it all, one that, although his eyes couldn't measure it, was as real as anything he could touch and feel.
Just like last night in his kitchen. Just as it had been down by the river ten minutes ago.
Just as it had been his whole life.
"What is it?" Reilly asked.
"Nothing."
"Your head hurts?"
"No, it's fine."
Veck casually got up and walked all the way across the department to the banks of windows that looked out over the street below. Making like he was just glancing outside at the sky, he focused his eyes on the glass and braced himself.
No shadows in it.
Thank f**k. Mirrors were usually the surest way to see what was lurking, but windowpanes could do the trick.
Goddamn it, he was losing his mind.
Turning back around, he passed through what seemed like a warm draft as he returned to his chair.
Reilly put her hand on his arm. "Talk to me. I can help."
He rubbed his hair and didn't bother to smooth it back into place. "Last night, when I got home, I knew there was someone in my house. There was no obvious break-in, but it was just ..." Okay, now he was starting to feel crazy as he heard himself talk. "I wasn't sure until I went to meet with Heron. Something about the way he was looking at me ... I knew it was him, and he didn't deny it. Fucking hell, I should have expected something like this so close to my father's execution."
"What ... I'm sorry, what does your father have - "
"Like I said before, he has fans." More with the hair scrubbing. "And they've done scary shit. They can't get close to him, but I'm out in the general public and they find me. You can't f**king imagine what it's like to discover your new roommate is a devil worshiper, or that chick who hit on you at the bar is covered with tattoos of your old man's face. Especially my old man." He cursed low and hard. "And believe me, those are only the less creative examples. I should have known something like this was going to happen right now, but I don't believe in paranoia. Maybe I damn well should, though."
"You can't blame yourself about Heron. I saw his ID. It absolutely looked legitimate."
His eyes shot to hers. "I took that man into a victim's home. To meet her goddamn mother. Oh, for f**k's sake ..."
Veck shoved his chair back on a sharp push and got up. As he paced down the row of empty cubicles, he wanted to hit a wall.
And naturally, at that moment, his cell phone rang.
Reilly stayed in her seat as Veck accepted a call.
He looked awful. Stressed. Exhausted. And it dawned on her that he hadn't had anything to eat at her place last night, and probably, given how "lunch" had gone, hadn't done himself any favors at noontime, either.
"Really? Yeah, she's with me. Uh-huh ..."
As twelve kinds of noncommittals floated over, he walked around in a tight circle, frhand on his hip, head down, brows tight. He was wearing his uniform of black trousers and a white shirt with no tie, and through the pocket of his button-down, the red stripe on his pack of Marlboros showed.
The cubicles in the Homicide department, like the ones over in IA, were no taller than chest height, and as with her colleagues, the detectives here decorated their workspaces with pictures of kids and wives and husbands. A couple of the females had small plants. Nearly all had special mugs they used for coffee, and pinned up Dilbert cartoons, and ads with stupid mistakes in them.
DelVecchio's was utterly bare, the cloth-covered, thumbtack-friendly walls empty of anything but the holes left behind by the last inhabitant's life display. And she had a feeling it had nothing to do with the fact that he had just started working here. Usually, when someone new came in, putting up their stuff was the first thing they did.
Veck hung up and glanced over. "That was de la Cruz. I also spoke with Bails."
"As did I."
"So you know Kroner thought it was an animal that attacked him, and that he ID'd me as the man who came and called nine-one-one."
"Yeah, I do. And I think you should believe it."
"Believe what."
"That you didn't hurt him." As he made a dismissive noise, she shook her head. "I mean it, Veck. I don't understand why you're so persistent, even in the face of evidence to the contrary."
"People can be wrong."
"Not at a face-to-face distance. Unless you think those wounds were somehow created from across the parking lot?" When he didn't say anything further, she knew better than to beat a dead horse. "Heron needs to be reported."
"For impersonating a federal agent, yeah. But I doubt I can prove he was in my house." He sat back down and went through his phone. "At least I have his cell phone number in here."
"I'll file the report," she said. "You need to take the rest of the afternoon off."
"Nah. I'm good."
"That wasn't a request."
"I thought you were my partner, not my superior."
"Actually, if we go by rank, I am on top of you." With a wince, she wished she'd phrased that differently. "And I can also take care of the paperwork about what we did yesterday."
"Thanks, but I'll do it."
She turned to check her e-mail. "You're taking the afternoon off, remember."
When there was no response, she thought maybe he was gathering his things up. She should have known better.
He'd just leaned back in his chair and was staring at his computer monitor. No doubt he wasn't seeing anything on it. "I'm not leaving. I just want to work."
And that was when she realized he had nothing. No one to go home to. No one in his life - he'd left the "next of kin" slot unfilled in his HR file, and his emergency contact was that Bails guy. Where was his mother? she wondered.
"Here, eat this," she said, putting her Micky D's bag in front of him. "It's just a cheeseburger, but you look like you could use some calories."
His hands were surprisingly gentle as he picked up the gift. "I don't want to take your lunch."
"I had a big breakfast."
He rubbed the wrinkled part between his eyebrows. "Thanks. I mean that."
As he took out the yellow-wrapped package and made efficient work of the burger and the large fries, she found herself sliding back into step with him, even though neither of them were on their feet and walking.
But then, partnerships were like that. At times the gears interlocked smoothly. Others? It was all grind and squeal. And it wasn't always clear why or when things returned to being at ease.
Although in the case of last night, it was very damned obvious what had thrown them off.
Clearing her throat, she said, "How'd you like to try dinner again."
Going by the way his head whipped around, she might as well have dropped a bomb in his lap as opposed to the golden arches.
"You're serious," he said.
She shrugged, making like she was nonchalant. "My mother was mortified I went fast-food for lunch and is insisting I head over there tonight. Actually, I think she would have made me drop by even if I'd had roughage and tofu - the urge to cook comes over her from time to time, and as an only child, the extra mouth matters. Mom cooks big, if you know what I mean."
He fingered up three fries, chewed them down, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "You sure you want to do that."
"I asked, didn't I?"