Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9) - J. R. Ward Page 0,61

wiped his pen on a tissue.

“I don’t have time for TV.”

“Eleven women have been found like this in the past year. Chicago, Cleveland and Philly.”

“Shiiiiiit.” Veck popped a piece of gum in his mouth and chewed hard. “So you’re wondering if this is the beginning for us?”

As the guy ground his molars, José rubbed his eyes against memories that bubbled up. “When did you quit?”

Veck cleared his throat. “Smoking? ’Bout a month ago.”

“How’s it going?”

“Sucks ass.”

“I’ll bet.”

José put his hands on his hips and refocused. How the hell were they going to find out who this girl was? There were a countless number of missing young women in the state of New York—and that was assuming the killer hadn’t done this in Vermont or Massachusetts or Connecticut and driven her here.

One thing was for sure: He’d be damned if some motherfucker was going to start picking off Caldie’s girls. Wasn’t going to happen on his watch.

As he turned away, he clapped his partner on the shoulder. “I give you ten days, buddy.”

“Till what.”

“Till you’re back in the saddle with the Marlboro Man.”

“Don’t underestimate my willpower, Detective.”

“Don’t underestimate what you’re going to feel like when you go home and try to sleep tonight.”

“I don’t sleep much, anyway.”

“This job ain’t gonna help.”

At that moment, the photographer arrived with her click-click, flash-flash, and her bad attitude.

José nodded in the opposite direction. “Let’s back off and let her do her thing.”

Veck glanced over and his eyes popped as he got glared at but good. The fuck-off reception was no doubt a news flash for the guy—Veck was one of those types women gravitated to, as the last two weeks had proven: Down at HQ, the females were all over him.

“Come on, DelVecchio, let’s start casing this joint.”

“Roger that, Detective.”

Ordinarily, José might have had the guy call him de la Cruz, but none of his “new” partners had lasted much longer than a month, so what was the point. “José” was out of the question, of course—only one person had called him that on the job, and that bastard had disappeared three years ago.

It took about an hour for him and Veck to nose around and learn absolutely nothing material. There were no security cameras on the outsides of the buildings and no witnesses who had come forward, but the CSI guys were going to crawl all around with their headgear and their little plastic baggies and their tweezers. Maybe something would turn up.

The coroner showed at nine and did his thing, and the body was cleared for removal another hour or so after that. And when folks needed a hand with the body, José was surprised to find that Veck snapped on a pair of latex specials and jumped right in that Dumpster.

Just before the coroner took off with her, José asked about the time of death and was told about noontime the day before.

Great, he thought as the cars and vans started to pull out. Nearly twenty-four hours dead before they found her. She could well have been driven in from out of state.

“Database time,” he said to Veck.

“I’m on it.”

As the guy turned away and headed for a motorcycle, José called out, “Gum is not a food group.”

Veck stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Are you asking me for breakfast, Detective.”

“Just don’t want you passing out on the job. It would embarrass you and give me another body to step over.”

“You’re all heart, Detective.”

Maybe he used to be. Now he was just hungry himself and he didn’t feel like eating alone. “I’ll meet you at the twenty-four in five.”

“Twenty-four?”

That’s right; he wasn’t from here. “Riverside Diner on Eighth Street. Open twenty-four hours a day.”

“Got it.” The guy put on a black helmet and swung a leg over some kind of contraption that was mostly engine. “I’m buying.”

“Suit yourself.”

Veck slammed the kick start down and juiced the motor. “I always do, Detective. Always.”

As he tore off, he left awake of testosterone in the alley, and José felt like a middle-aged minivanner in comparison as he schlepped over to his oatmeal-colored unmarked. Sliding behind the wheel, he put his nearly empty and totally cold Dunkin’ Donuts fister into the cup holder and looked past the tape to that Dumpster.

Nabbing his cell phone out of his suit jacket, he dialed into HQ. “Hey, it’s de la Cruz. Can you patch me over to Mary Ellen?” The wait was less than a minute. “M.E., how you be? Good . . . good. Listen, I want to