Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9)(43)

But not forever, that was for sure.

Sooner or later, that male was going to talk to her. He had to or she was going to . . . God, she didn’t know what.

Her love wasn’t going to survive forever in this vacuum, though. It just couldn’t.





FIFTEEN


The fact that José de la Cruz hit a Dunkin’ Donuts drivethrough on the way into downtown Caldwell was one hell of a cliché. Collective wisdom had all homicide detectives drinking coffee and eating doughnuts, but that wasn’t always the truth.

Sometimes there wasn’t time to stop.

And man, screw the television shows and the detective novels, the reality was, he functioned better on caffeine and with a little sugar in his bloodstream.

Plus he lived for the honey dips. So sue him.

The call that had woken him and his wife up had come in at close to six a.m., which considering the number of nighttime ring-a-dings he got was almost civilized: Dead bodies, like live ones with medical problems, didn’t play by nine-to-five rules—so the nearly decent hour had been a novel benediction.

And that wasn’t the only thing going his way. Courtesy of it being a Sunday morning, the roads and highway were bowling-alley empty, and his unmarked made excellent time in from the burbs—so his coffee was still pipin’ hot as he piloted himself down into the warehouse district, pulling rolling stops at the red lights.

The lineup of squad cars announced the location where the body had been found even better than the yellow warning tape that had been wound around everywhere like ribbon on some f*cked-up Christmas present. With a curse, he parked parallel to the brick wall of the alley and got out, sipping and walking his way over to the knot of grim-looking blue unis.

“Hey, Detective.”

“S’up, Detective.”

“Yo, Detective.”

He nodded at the boys. “Mornin’ all. How we doing?”

“We didn’t touch her.” Rodriguez nodded over to the Dumpster. “She’s in there and she’s had initial photographs taken by Jones. Coroner and the CSI types are on the way. So’s the man-sogonist.”

Ah, yes, their faithful photog. “Thanks.”

“Where’s your new partner?”

“Coming.”

“He ready for this?”

“We’ll see.” No doubt this grungy alley was plenty familiar with people tossing their cookies. So if the greenhorn lost his proverbial lunch, s’all good.

José ducked under the tape and walked over to the Dumpster. As always when he approached a body, he found his sense of hearing grew almost unbearably acute: The soft chatter of the men behind him, the sound of the soles of his shoes on the asphalt, the whistling breeze off the river . . . everything was too loud, like the volume of the whole damn world was cranked up into the red zone.

And of course, the irony was that the purpose of his being here, on this morning, in this alley . . . the purpose of all the cars and the men and the tape . . . was perfectly silent.

José gripped his Styrofoam cup as he peered over the rusted lip of the bin. Her hand was the first thing he saw, a pale lineup of fingers with nails that were split and had something brown under them.

She’d been a fighter, whoever she was.

As he stood over yet another dead girl, he wished like hell his job would go through a slow month or week . . . or for shit’s sake, even a night. Hell, a career slump was what he was really gunning for: When you were in his line of work, it was hard to take satisfaction in what you did. Even if you solved a case, someone was still burying a loved one.

The cop next to him sounded like he was on the business end of a bullhorn: “You want me to open the other half?”

José almost told the guy to pipe down, but chances were good he was talking like he was in a library. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The officer used a nightstick to push the lid up far enough for the light to stream in, but the guy didn’t look inside. He just stood there like one of those stiffs in front of Buckingham Palace, staring out across the alley while focusing on nothing.

As José rose up onto the balls of his feet and got a look, he didn’t blame the uni for his reticence.

Lying in a bed of metal curls, the female was naked, her gray, mottled skin strangely luminous in the dawn’s diffused light. Going by her face and body, she looked to be in her late teens, early twenties. Caucasian. Hair had been cut off at the roots, so close in places that the scalp was lacerated. Eyes . . . had been removed from their sockets.

José took a pen out of his pocket, stretched downward, and carefully pushed her stiff lips apart. No teeth—not a one left in the ragged gums.

Moving to the right, he upped one of her hands so he could see the underside of the fingertips. Sheered clean off.

And the defacement didn’t end at the head and hands. . . . There were gouges in her flesh, one at the top of her thigh, another down her upper arm, and two on the insides of her wrists.

Cursing under his breath, he was certain she’d been dumped here. Not enough privacy to do this kind of work—this shit required time and tools . . . and restraints to keep her put.

“What do we have, Detective?” his new partner said from behind him.

José glanced over his shoulder at Thomas DelVecchio, Jr. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“No.”