Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9)(69)

The one in the lead cranked his head around and José took a mental snapshot of a face only a mother could love: angular and lean, with hollowed cheeks, the upper lip malformed by a cleft palate that hadn’t been fixed.

The man resumed looking straight ahead and the unit continued onward.

“Detective?”

José shook himself. “Sorry. Distracted. You got gloves?”

“I’m holding them out to you.”

“Right. Thanks.” José took the set of latex and snapped them on. “You’ve got the—”

“Bag? Yup.”

Veck was grim and focused, which, José had learned, was the man’s cruising speed: He was on the young side, only in his late twenties, but he handled shit like a veteran.

Verdict thus far: He did not suck as a partner.

But it had been only a week and a half since they’d really started working together.

At any crime scene, who moved the bodies depended on a host of variables. Sometimes Search and Rescue handled it. With others, like this sitch, it was a combination of whoever was around who had a strong stomach.

“Let’s cut open the front of the box,” Veck said. “Everything’s been dusted and photographed, and it’ll be better than trying to tip it forward and have the bottom rip free.”

José glanced over at the CSI guy. “You sure you got everything?”

“Roger that, Detective. And that’s what I was thinking, too.”

The three of them worked together, Veck and José holding the front side while the other man used a box cutter—natch. And then José and his partner carefully lowered the panel.

She was another young woman.

“Damn,” the coroner muttered. “Not again.”

More like damned, José thought. The poor girl had been done just as the others had, which meant she’d been tortured first.

“Fucking hell,” Veck muttered under his breath.

The three of them were careful with her, as if even in her deceased state, her battered body registered the rearrangement of her limbs. Carrying her a mere two feet, they placed her in the opened black bag so the coroner and photographer could do their things.

Veck stayed crouched down with her. His face was utterly composed, but he nonetheless gave off the vibe of a man who was angered by what he saw—

The brilliant flare of a camera flash broke out through the dim alley, sure as a scream through a church. Before the shit even faded, José’s head ripped around to see who the hell was taking pictures, and he wasn’t the only one. The other officers who were standing about all snapped to attention.

But Veck was the one who exploded up and took off at a hard run.

The camera guy didn’t stand a chance. In a totally brazen move, the bastard had ducked under the police tape and taken advantage of the fact that everyone had been focusing on the victim. And in his escape, he got snared in what he’d violated, tripping and falling before he recovered and gunned for the open door of his car.

Veck, on the other hand, had the legs of a sprinter and way more lift than your average white boy: No scurrying under the yellow for him; he vaulted over the bitch and launched himself onto the hood of the sedan, pulling his weight up by the lip of the hood. And then everything went slow-mo. While the other officers rushed forward to help, the photographer floored it, and the tires squealed as he panicked and tried to peel off—

Right in the direction of the crime scene.

“Fuck!” José yelled, wondering how in the hell they were going to protect the body.

Veck’s legs fishtailed around as the car snapped through the yellow tape and came arrowing right for the cardboard box. But that son of a bitch DelVecchio not only stayed put like glue; he managed to reach in through the open window, grab the wheel, and crash the sedan into a Dumpster four feet in front of the goddamned victim.

As the air bags exploded and the engine let out a vicious hiss, Veck was thrown up and over the trash bin—and José knew he was going to remember the sight of that man airborne for the rest of his life, the guy’s suit jacket blown open, his gun on one side and his badge on the other flashing as he flew without wings.

He landed flat on his back. Hard.

“Officer down!” José hollered as he ran for his partner.

But there was no telling that SOB to stay still or even a chance to help him up. Veck jumped onto his feet like the f*cking Energizer bunny and lurched over to the knot of officers who had surrounded the driver with guns drawn. Shoving the others out of the way, he ripped open the driver’s-side door and pulled out a partially conscious photo poacher who was one last pastrami and rye away from a heart attack: The bastard was as fat as Santa Claus and had the ruddy coloring of an alkie.

He was also having trouble breathing—although it wasn’t clear whether that was from inhaling the powder of the air bag or the fact that he’d made eye contact with Veck and clearly knew he was about to get a beat-down.

Except Veck just dropped him and dived into the car, pawing his way through the deflated bags. Before he could get hold of the camera and bust it to dust, José jumped in.

“We need that for evidence,” he barked, as Veck outted himself and lifted his arm over his head like he was going to slam the Nikon down on the pavement.

“Hey!” José two-handed the guy’s wrist and threw all his weight into his partner’s chest. Christ, the f*cker was a big bastard—not just tall, but jacked—and for a split second, he had to wonder whether he was going to get anywhere with this manhandling bullshit.