At twelve o'clock, Reilly left the station house on foot and headed into deep downtown. The day was glorious, the April sun so bright and warm that it chased away the bite of the fifty-five-degree air. She was not the only one taking advantage of the weather. People were out on the sidewalks and crosswalks in droves, clogging traffic while they strolled with sodas or ice cream in their hands, or carried their take-out to the lip of a fountain or the contour of an iron bench in the park.
After six months of icy-cold darkness, upstate New York was panting for some sign that winter's back had finally been broken - and this beautiful lunch hour was not to be squandered.
Ostensibly, she was taking a break so she could clear her head before she saw Veck again. Her strides, however, had a purpose and direction she refused to look too closely at.
The Galleria Mall was yet another downtown revitalization project, but unlike so many attempts, it had actually succeeded. Anchored by a Macy's and a shiny new Barnes and Noble bookstore, the four-block stretch of 1920s office buildings had been closed to everything but foot traffic, given an attractive, unifying face-lift, and become the locus of high-noon retail therapy for thousands of cubicons like Reilly.
Except unlike a lot of her cohorts, this was the first time she'd ever walked the stretch of Bath & Body Works, and Talbots, and the Gap... .
When she stopped in front of the next store in line, she blinked in the pink glare that came through all the glass.
Oh, no. Nope. This was not her -
A woman came out with two big bags swinging from her hands, and a smile as wide as a freeway on her face.
"Sale!" she said to Reilly. "Yay!"
Her voice was so high it was like she was breathing out helium. Although maybe that was because it looked like she was wearing a bustier under her coat.
Reilly shook her head. Sale or no sale, this was not her kind of -
Annnnnnd somehow she was in the store.
Holy. Crap. She'd never seen so much underwear in one place in her whole damn life.
Victoria's Secret was not for the faint of heart ... or the big of butt, she feared, wondering exactly how long it had been since she'd hit the gym.
High school. No ... maybe it was elementary.
Boy, all the lace was intimidating. As were the pictures of the Photoshop'd models who had been blown up to beyond life-size.
And to make matters worse, the place was packed with women who were not Reilly's demographic. These were all chippies in their early twenties, snatching up thongs and demi-cups and peekaboo somethings or another. Even the slouchy, sweatpantsy stuff looked like it was meant to be stripped off by the teeth of some quarterback -
"Hi, can I help you?"
Reilly winced. "Ah ..."
The saleswoman was a gorgeous African-American who probably looked good in every single thing that hung on the little hangers or was folded on the tables, and in comparison, Reilly felt like a pasty, freckled stretch of please-let's-do-this-with-the-lights-off.
"I'm good, thanks - "
"We're having a sale."
"Yeah, I saw someone come out of here with a couple of bags." Which, considering how small everything was, meant the chick had bought five hundred, maybe six hundred sets of stuff.
"Are you looking for anything in particular?"
Reilly was about to shake her head no, when her mouth opened of its own volition. "I want to feel like a woman, instead of a police officer. I'm just ... really frickin' tired of myself and my job right now. Do you know what I mean?"
Oh, shit, what was she saying?
And P.S., this had nothing to do with Brittany, spelled Britnae.
The saleswoman smiled. "I do. And you've come to the right place."
Reilly glanced at a tiger-print teddy and wasn't so sure about that. "I don't think I've ever bought lingerie before - nothing I own matches, and I think a couple of my bras are from the Civil War. Maybe the Revolutionary."
"Well, I'm Ralonda." She put out her hand. "And I can take care of you."
"Reilly. I mean ... Sophia." As they shook, she muttered, "Do you have a pysch degree, by any chance?"
"As a matter of fact, that's what I'm going to school for over at SUNY Caldwell."
"God, you are perfect."
"Hardly." Ralonda smiled again, flashing beautiful white teeth. "Let's get you measured and I'll bring you some things."
One hour and six hundred seventy-two dollars and forty-three cents later, Reilly left with three bags full of things. As she headed out the door, her chin was up and she found herself smiling at two girls who were peering in through the windows.
"They're having a sale," she said to them. "Better get in there. And ask for Ralonda - she's the best."
As they scurried inside, Reilly marched back to the station house feeling curiously light in her shoes. Then again, maybe the slightly padded cherry red bra with matching red panties she'd put on and kept on had antigravity properties, lifting not just her cleavage, but her entire body.
Made you wonder what the astronauts had on under their suits.
As a horrific image of Buzz Aldrin in a set of hot pink itty-bitties lit up her mind, it dawned on her that walking into HQ with her VS bags and a bounce in her step didn't exactly send the right message - especially given that she was partnering with Veck for the next month.
Sneaking around the tside of the station house, she made it to her car and stashed the contraband in her trunk, as opposed to the backseat.
This time, as she went in through the back and passed by the guard in the lobby, she was painfully aware of herself, wondering whether anyone knew what she had on under her clothes. Nobody paid her any unusual attention, though, which suggested that among the numerous talents of the various members of the force, it appeared as if X-ray vision was not one of them.
First stop was her office. Quick check of voice mail and e-mail. Then it was grab a pad and head for Homicide. And what do you know, her growing confidence in the concealing properties of cotton and wool took it on the chin as she opened the door into the department.
Everyone looked up, including Veck.
Right. Now she knew why folks hated those dreams where they walked naked into a room full of people. She'd never had a nightmare like that before, and as she put her pad up to the front of her breasts, she wasn't in a big hurry to hop on that learning curve.
But then people just waved and helloed, and she nodded and helloed back while heading over to Veck. The cubicle next to him was empty of everything but a computer and a phone, and as she sat down, she kept her yellow-and-lined right where it was.
Veck eased back in his chair in a way that made his chest look huge against his white button-down. "All settled back in your office?"
"Yes. What are we working on today?"
He nodded to his computer screen. "I've found something to pass the time with. I was waiting for you to come over - thought we'd go do some recon in the field, and double-check some witnesses."
"Good. What's the case."
"I'll tell you about it on the way across town. Mind if we take your car? I've only got my bike."
"Ah ..." Surely there could be no reason for him to look in her trunk. "Sure. Yeah. That's fine."
"Thanks, Officer. Or should I call you 'Detective' for the next four weeks?"
As they stood up together and she found herself eye-to-pectoral with him, she knew it was time to kick her inner Britnae to the curb. "Reilly is fine."
For a moment, his lids dropped low, and she could have sworn that he muttered under his breath something like, She sure is.
But no doubt it was her new underwear making her hear things.
"Wait a minute - that is not a homicide cold case."
As they came up to a red light, Veck got nailed with a hard stare from his new partner ... and that was an incredible turn-on.
Shifting in his seat, and praying that the arousal he'd abruptly popped would deflate before they reached their destination, he made it his business to keep his voice level and completely groan-free. Although, for fuck's sake, if this was an indication of what the next four weeks were going to be like?
He was in trouble.
"She's technically a missing person - "
"There's no 'technically' about it. There's no body."
"If you'll let me finish?"
"Sorry." As the light turned green, she hit the gas. "But I have a feeling where this is going, and you're not getting anywhere near the Kroner case."
We'll see about that, he thought. "I got a call from one of the FBI field officers this morning. He's been working on the case of this missing girl, and he wanted to know if there was any new information. I told him I'd be happy to go back through what we've got - "
"The FBI can do its own - "
"No reason not to be collegial. Or to assume that there's a tie with Kroner."
She frowned. "What's the FBI's angle?"
"I didn't ask. Maybe it's interstate." Because maaaaybe it was part of the Kroner investigation - which was why he didn't ask.
"Just so we're clear, if there's a nexus with Kroner, we're out."
"Got it." He reached into his breast pocket and took out a three-page disposition form. "Cecilia Barten, age nineteen, missing for just over three weeks. Last seen leaving her home to go to the Hannaford supermarket on Union Avenue. Surveillance cameras picked up nothing, thanks to a power surge that knocked out the feed from the lot and from the exit of the store."
"And we're starting where?"
"Her parents' house. I just want to see if there's anything that was missed. Her mother is expecting us - hang a right here."
Reilly hit the directional signal and followed through on the turn, heading into a neighborhood that was a good click or two above where Veck lived. Here, the houses were a little bigger and better planted. No cars parked on the street, and he imagined that there were newer sedans and station wagons in all those attached garages. Probably not as many minivans - although this was the land of the soccer mom, so maybe he was wrong.
"Okay," he murmured, looking at the colonials. "Four ninety-one. Ninety-three. Five ... here it is."
Reilly pulled over to the curb in front of 497. After canning the engine, they got out into the sunshine and -
The car that pulled up behind them was a gold SUV with blackened windows, and what got out of it was a whole lot of federal agent: The three men were in plain clothes, and as they came up, the one in the lead, with the dark blond hair, flashed his credentials.
"Jim Heron. We spoke on the phone. These are my partners, Blackhawk and Vogel."
"Thomas DelVecchio."
As they shook, Veck felt a strange kind of charge, and he stepped back. "This is Officer Reilly. You want to come in with us?"
The agent narrowed his eyes on the house. "Yeah. Thanks. My partners will wait out here."
Good idea. It would be hard to fit the three of those boys in a front hall smaller than a football stadium.
As they went up the brick walk to the front door, one of those seasonal flags waved casually in the spring breeze. The thing was pastel and had an egg on it that was half lavender and half pink with a bright yellow band around the middle.
Easter had come at the end of March this year. Right around the time the daughter had gone missing. No doubt the flag had been forgotten ... or perhaps they were praying for a resurrection of their own. Either way, ruination had come to this house, even though it still had fr walls and a roof: This girl was dead. Veck knew it in his bones, even though he wasn't one for prescient shit.
Doorbell.
Wait.
Wait.
He glanced back at Reilly. She seemed sad as she leaned back and scanned the windows on the second floor - and he wondered whether she was trying to imagine which one had been Cecilia Barten's. Behind her, Heron was doing an excellent impression of a statue: towering and unmoving, his eyes were focused on the front door as if he were seeing through it into the house.
Veck frowned. There was something off about the guy. Clearly not competence, however; the agent radiated a militaristic precision about everything from the way he flashed his creds to his walk to how his body settled at rest. Still ... what the fuck was it -
The door opened with a soft creak and the woman on the other side looked like she hadn't slept or eaten well in a long time.
"Good morning, ma'am, I'm Detective DelVecchio. This is Officer Reilly and Agent Heron."
Everyone flashed their credentials.
"Please come in." She stepped back and motioned with her arm. "May I get you anything?"
"No, thank you, ma'am. We appreciate your taking the time to speak with us."
The house was beyond spotless and smelled of Pine-Sol and Pledge. Which suggested Mrs. Barten cleaned when she was stressed.
"I thought maybe we could talk in the living room?" she said.
"Please."
The room was done in keepsake and heirloom, with wallpaper that had flowers on it, and two couches that did not. As Mrs. Barten sat in an armchair, and everybody else took a sofa cushion, Veck got a good look at the woman. She was in her late forties, with a lot of blond hair that was pulled back and twisted around a scrunchie, and a long, thin body that had needed the weight she'd recently lost. No makeup, and she was still pretty. Stare was empty, however.
Shit, where did he start.
"Mrs. Barten," Reilly cut in, "can you tell us about your daughter. Things she liked to do or was good at. Memories?"
Glancing over at his new partner, he wanted to mouth a thank-you.
Especially as some of the tension left the woman's shoulders and the hint of a smile appeared. "Sissy was - is ..." She collected herself. "Please forgive me. This is hard."
Reilly moved closer to the armchair. "Take your time. I know this is a lot to ask of you."
"Actually, it helps to talk about her. It takes me out of where we all are now."
In a halting voice that gradually gained momentum, stories started to roll out, painting a picture of a highly intelligent, slightly shy good girl who would never have walked into trouble if she'd seen it coming.
Yup, Cecilia Barten had most definitely been murdered, Veck thought to himself. This was not one of those drug-related runaways, or an abusive-boyfriend-gone-haywire nightmare. Stable family. Happy young woman. Bright future. Until destiny's equivalent of a car crash had slammed into her life and wiped it out.
"Mind if I look at the pictures over there?" Veck said when thee was a pause in the narrative.
"Please."
He stood up and went across to the built-in bookcases on either side of the bowed windows that faced the street. Two kids. The other was a younger sister. And there were shots from graduations and birthday parties and track meets and field hockey games ... family reunions and weddings ... Christmases.
He was curiously in awe at the display. Man, this was the very best that "normal" had to offer, and for no particular reason, he thought of how, growing up, his house had had none of this stuff - the happy times or the photographs to show it off. The moments that he and his mom had had to share were nothing you wanted other people to see. Nothing you wanted to remember, either, for that matter.
He reached out and picked up one of the five-by-sevens. Cecilia was standing next to her father, her arm through his, her hand resting on the back of his.
She was mostly like her mom, only a little like her dad. But the lineage was clear.
"... called home?" Reilly said.
Veck retuned in to the conversation.
"That's right," Mrs. Barten said. "She left around nine. I'd just had my foot operated on - hammertoes... ." For a moment, the woman appeared to ruminate, and he was willing to bet that she was thinking about how much she wanted to go back to the time where all she had to do was worry about the way her shoes fit.
And maybe she was blaming herself, too.
She shook her head and refocused. "I was pretty immobile. I'd given her the shopping list and ... she called from the store. She didn't know whether I wanted green or red peppers. I wanted the red ones. I was making ..." The tears came and were blinked away sharply. "Anyway, that was the last time anyone heard from her."
Veck returned the photograph to the shelf. As he went to sit back down next to Heron, he frowned. The man was staring at the victim's mother with the intensity of a film camera, like he was reading and recording every twitch of her eye and purse of her mouth as she spoke.
As Veck's radar started pinging like crazy, it was unclear whether it was about the missing girl or her sad, lovely mother or this massive man who looked like he could start a fire with that hard, burning stare of his.
"If I can interject," Veck said, "did she have any boyfriends?"
From the corner of his eye, he saw Heron's hands tighten on his thighs, cranking down tight.
"No. She had friends that were boys, of course, and a prom date here and there ... nothing serious, though. At least, not that she told me - and she was generally open about her life."
Those hands released abruptly.
"Do you have anything you want to ask," Veck said to the agent.
There was a long stretch of silence. Just before it got truly awkward, the man said in a deep, low voice, "Mrs. Barten, I'm going to bring her home to you. One way or another, I will get her back for you."
Veck recoiled, thinking, Shit, don't go there, buddy. "Ah, what he means is - "
"It's all right." Mrs. Barten clasped the base of her throat. "I'm not fooling myself. I know that she's ... not with us anymore. A mother feels the cold in the heart. We just want to know what happened and ... have a chance to lay her to rest properly."
"You will have her back. I swear it."
Now Mrs. Barten choked up - and why wouldn't she. The guy was like a warrior with the vengeance routine, more avenger than agent.
"Thank you ... all of you."
Veck discreetly checked his watch. "If you'll excuse me and my partner, we're going to head over to the supermarket. The manager said he was leaving early today."
"Oh, yes, of course."
Agent Heron helped Mrs. Barten up by taking her hand. "Would you mind if I take a look at her bedroom?"
"Sure - I'll lead you right up." She turned to Veck and Reilly. "If you need to go now, you can always come back."
"Thank you," Reilly said. "We'll do that."
"And we'll see ourselves out the door," Veck murmured.
As Agent Heron and the victim's mother hit the stairs, Veck paused in the front hall and watched them ascend together. A window on the landing above cast illumination on them, the shaft of sunlight hitting them both square on the face and acting as a beacon for their -
Wait a minute.
Veck glanced over into the living room ... where the golden rays were pouring in from the west.
Impossible. You couldn't get that effect from opposite directions, front and rear of the house.
"What is it?" Reilly said softly.
Veck swung his eyes back to the staircase. Heron and Mrs. Barten were nowhere to be seen, and the light on the landing was gone now, too, the window showing nothing more than the budded branches of the maple tree behind the house and the clear blue sky above it.
"I'm going up there," he told his new partner. "Just for a minute."
