Free Fallen Angels 03 - Envy by J.R. Ward Page B

him, she stared across the table.
    Jim looked down. Three big articles. One on a new school districting plan. Another on emerging minority businesses. And a third on . . .
    The nib of Eddie’s pen pointed to the last article.
    “I believe I have completed my part of the agreement,” she drawled.
    The headline read: “DelVecchio Execution Scheduled . ”
    Jim quickly skimmed the article and thought, Shit, that was the soul?
    Just as Devina went to retract the pen, he flashed out a hand and locked a hold on her wrist, keeping it in place.
    The nib of the Paper Mate was actual y on a name within the article—and it wasn’t the DelVecchio serial kil er guy. It was the man’s son . . . Thomas DelVecchio Jr.
    A detective on the Caldwel police force.
    Jim glanced across the table at his enemy and smiled with his incisors. “Tricky.”
    Her lashes lowered demurely. “Always.”
    Done with her and the time suck, Jim got up and took the pen with him. “Enjoy my waffles, sweetheart.”
    “Hey, how wil I finish my crossword puzzle?”
    “I’m sure you’l find a way. See you soon.”
    Jim stalked out of the diner and beelined for his wingmen. When he came up to the bikes, he held the Paper Mate up to Eddie.
    “Your pen.” As the angel went to take it back, Jim held on to the thing. “Metal casing around the nib. Next time, give the bitch a Sharpie.”
    As Jim went to sling a leg over his hog, Adrian asked, “What did she say?”
    “Looks like we’re going into the land of cops and robbers.”
    “Oh. Good.” Ad mounted his own bike. “At least I speak the language there.”

CHAPTER 6
    W hen Reil y walked into HQ, it was through the back door and down the cinder-block hal way that dumped out into what was supposed to be the newly renovated, inspiring and uplifting lobby. Unfortunately, the bronze statue of Lady Justice with her scales and her sword was a modern interpretation of the classic Greco-Roman prototype, and the blindfolded goddess looked like melted cheese. Old, brown melted cheese.
    The circular walk around her and the spotlights shining down from the open loggia above just provided greater visual access to the hot mess. Then again, most of the police personnel, district attorneys, and defense lawyers striding through were too busy to worry about the decor. Headquarters had a lot going on: The secured dropoff and central processing for arrests was to the right, along with the jail itself. Records was to the left. Up at the top of the curving stairs were the offices for Homicide and Internal Affairs, as wel as the squad room and locker room. Third floor was the new lab and the evidence lockup.
    Reil y hit the stairs two at a time, passing a couple of col eagues who were going slower than her. But as she stepped off on the second-floor landing she lost her momentum. The wide-open area up ahead had a bank of desks where the pool of admin support people worked. Front and center among the young men and women? Brittany spel ed Britnae, a.k.a., the Pneumatic Office Hottie.
    The blonde had a hand mirror up and was running her fingertip under one heavily MAC’d or Bobbi Brown’d or Sephora’d eye. Next move was to fluff the curls. Last was to smack her lips and pout.
    Al the while, she was bending forward and flashing her double Ds to. . . herself.
    Evidently pleased with her paint job and landscaping, Britnae turned her wrist and checked one of those little itty-bitty watches some women wore, the kind that had linked bracelets and tiny mother-of-pearl faces.
    She probably had baskets of bangles, and dangly earrings that hung from a little stand, and a closet ful of pink stuff.
    Reil y’s closet looked like Marilyn Manson’s. Assuming he’d been reborn as an accountant. And she didn’t do jewelry. Her watch? Casio. Black and shockproof.
    Three guesses who Britnae was getting ready for. . . and the first two didn’t count: The girl had been panting after Veck since the day he’d come through that door two