Don't Look Away (Veronica Sloan) (2 page)

She should have known his mind was still a few steps back. In her pants.

“You know, just in case you forgot, partner, I’m here for you in any old way you need, including giving testimony about how much of a woman you are.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Cut it. We’re past that shit.”

“I know, I know,” Mark said, his voice low. No longer laughing. “Can’t say I don’t think about it, though.”

“Stick to your strippers, Daniels. One freebie a life is all I give.”

Her words weren’t exactly true, since she still occasionally had a sex-only date with an old lover, just as a mutual stress reliever. But Daniels didn’t know that. Nor would he. Because though he laughed and mouthed-off and flirted with her, deep down she knew—had always known—that he’d never stopped thinking about what had happened between them that October day in 2017. The entire world had changed in one sweep of the minute hand on a clock and they’d fallen into each other’s arms to sob over the horror of it. They’d reached out to grab anything that felt human and alive. She’d needed a pair of arms around her shoulders and he’d needed a pair of legs around his waist and they’d both needed to fuck away the reality of the day.

It was a miracle their partnership had survived the crazy, unexpected sex in the squad car. Maybe if she hadn’t fallen right out of public hell into personal one, with the discovery of just how
much
she and her family had lost in the tragedy, it would have been a problem. But because of that, Mark had segued right into concerned partner and friend, so they’d skipped the whole we-had-sex-and-what-are-we-going-to-do-about-it bullshit.

Ronnie was incredibly grateful they’d moved past it, and wouldn’t let anything happen to disrupt their partnership again. Not even Mark’s seemingly inexhaustible need to try to get under the skirt of any woman in his line of sight.

Besides, if she ever did take him up on it, he’d probably back up so fast his ass would come out his stomach. No way would Daniels risk their working partnership, not when it was so good, the pair of them having the highest case-closing percentage in the precinct.

“This is weird, like science fiction weird.”

She thought for a minute Daniels was still talking about
them
. But seeing the way he’d craned forward in his seat to stare out the reinforced windshield, she knew what he really meant.

Because it
was
weird. Surreal, almost, to drive into what had once been a bustling, traffic-laden area overflowing with tourists and politicians, buses, dog-walkers—and see no pedestrians. No cars. No vending trucks hawking ice cream or cheap souvenirs of the good old U.S. of A. made in the good old Republic of China.

Now there were primarily military vehicles and soldiers. Bulldozers and front-end loaders buzzed around the dozen construction sites dotting the entire area surrounding the reflecting pool. Overlooking all was a long, raised, enclosed, horizontal tube through which thousands of tourists passed every day, making the pilgrimage. A bunch of them were in there now, looking like bug-eyed fish in a tank as they stared through the Plexiglas while slowly rolling along the flat people-movers.

Science-fiction-like indeed. Sometimes, she still couldn’t quite believe this wasn’t a post-apocalyptic dream from which she’d awaken to find the country she’d known early on the morning of October 20, 2017. 

Slowing for her turn, she spared a glance ahead and up, unable to prevent a gasp at the close-up, head-on view of the Washington Monument.

Her stomach rolled and rebelled. Her whole body clenched and she blinked several times to convince her brain she could handle it. She’d seen the structure as it was being rebuilt, catching glimpses of it out of the corner of her eye from across the Potomac when she went down to Virginia to visit her mother. She just hadn’t been this close in so long. Not since that day.

Here…this was the place where her world had died. Everyone had one particular place that tortured them about 10/20. This was hers.

It was beautiful, though, she had to concede that. Tall, straight, inspiring. Ringed by American flags and fronted by a big, new bronze plaque from yesterday’s ceremony, it was brilliantly pale against the cloudless, blue summer sky.

The structure proudly proclaimed that monuments could be rebuilt and America could not be kept down. As the organizers of yesterday’s patriotism-personified Independence Day event had hoped, the simple obelisk was a vibrant symbol of all that was right with this country.

Still, she hated it. Loathed it with every fiber of her being.

She had to look away, concentrating on the site coming into view as she turned left onto State. It was a cement monster, rising out of the barren ground, encircled by scaffolding and surrounded by bulldozers and other heavy equipment. Taller on each end, with months worth of work still to be done in the center, it gave the appearance of an enormous, open-jawed beast, ready to snap up and devour anything above it, from a low-flying plane to an entire nation’s dreams.

The east side—the only portion of the structure not completely destroyed in the blasts—was farthest along. Congress had decided to repair and re-build from that point, rather than demolish what was left of the famous landmark and start from scratch. They said it was to maintain a link to the historic past. Personally, Ronnie figured seeing the last of it torn down would have been bad for public morale or something like that.

Whatever the reason, when all of this was finished, the east wing would be the famous one, the historical one. Not the west wing.

“It hurts to look at it,” Daniels whispered, sounding serious for a change, almost wounded.

She nodded silently, understanding his reaction, and mirroring it. Because even after almost five years, seeing the decimated remains of the White House, where the president of her country had died, was still painful beyond imagination.

“She’s been dead for about eighteen hours.”

Ronnie didn’t really need the young, inexperienced-looking Secret Service Uniformed Division officer standing with them at the crime scene to tell her that. Any one-day rookie on the D.C.P.D. could figure out how long the victim had been dead. It took a simple swipe of a hand-held scanner across the upper right arm of any law-abiding citizen to get the basics. Name. Age. Address. Criminal record. Vital statistics. Time of death. Right on down to doctor’s name and a list of allergies.

She wondered if this woman’s mentioned an allergy to big fucking knives.

“So you have found her ID chip?”

The kid nodded. “It took a while, but we got it.”

Excellent
. The mandated Citizen Identification Program might have caused riots when the government had tried to initiate it for all Americans during the crazy, violent days before 10/20/17, or B.D.C. as a lot of people called it. But Ronnie, as a cop, had been all for it. And
after
10/20, the protests had pretty much disappeared. Everyone had numbly stood in line to let some government nurse stick a needle as thick as a kindergartner’s neck in their arm and inject them with the chip.

After all, who didn’t want their remains identified if they were the next to be attacked? If the things were good enough to be used for dogs and cats since the nineties, proponents had argued, why not people?

She wondered if there would have been more protests had the average guy on the street known Uncle Sam was going to use that data chip in his arm to track so much more than his name and vital statistics. Things like where he went on vacation, since the chips had replaced passports two years ago. How much money he made, since they were routinely used to identify customers in any financial transaction. Even how often he went to the can while on the job, that whole bodily function element.

No, they weren’t perfect. But for the most part, Ronnie appreciated the nasty little buggers because they sure made a cop’s job easier. Though, she had to admit, in this case it might have been tricky scanning the victim’s chip. Because Ronnie wasn’t entirely sure which part was the upper right arm.

God, what a mess.

“Have you requested a full data printout on her?” she asked, trying to remember if the young Special Agent had introduced himself as Bailey or Boyle. She had barely spared him a glance when he’d greeted her and Daniels at the bottom of the stairs and led them around the edges of this death chamber. Being in the sub-basement of the under-reconstruction White House was distracting enough, even without the murder they’d come here to investigate.

“Yes, of course.” The guy stiffened, getting defensive, like a porcupine flaring his quills. Or like a federal officer who had to let mere city cops onto his turf. Ha, like anybody had ever considered the Uniformed Division guys anything more than private security guards for the White House back when it had actually been in use.

So much for every person in law enforcement being part of one big happy family now, all crammed together in the same department of the federal government. Given the way his lips were clamped shut, she suspected Bailey/Boyle hadn’t gotten that memo, and that he wasn’t happy about this situation.

Well, wasn’t that just too bad for him. Ronnie somehow suspected the poor woman lying in pieces all around them wouldn’t appreciate some agency asswipe slowing down the investigation of her murder because he wanted to protect his territory.

“So, uh, Agent Boyle, where might the report be?” Ronnie spoke slowly, her annoyance rising at having to lead him through what should be a routine report. He practically was a kid, so young and fresh she could almost smell the detergent used at the Glynco academy on his uniform. And he was standing here, mute, taking up space instead of going into the basics like any street cop would have done within ten seconds of her arrival on scene.

“It’s Bailey.” His jaw tightened even more. “The data’s being downloaded right now. It’ll be finished and printed out within a few minutes.” Clearing his throat, he added, “The chip was a little...dented. And dirty. It had to be cleaned up—couldn’t get it to connect wirelessly at first.”

Reminding herself of the lectures she always got from her lieutenant to play nice or risk alienating someone she wished would be nice back, Ronnie eased her rigid stance and gave old-fashioned law enforcement camaraderie one more shot. “Pretty ugly one, isn’t it?”

Bailey, probably in his early-to-mid twenties, jerked his head up and down in one quick nod. Something flashed in his eyes—nervousness, maybe even panic—which told her he had been holding himself together by sheer force of will.

So maybe he wasn’t merely playing king-of-the-playground with his stiffness and his attitude. Maybe the kid was just too raw and fresh to be able to deal with this kind of scene without feeling...
something
. Any rookie would.

Ronnie quickly adjusted the thought—anyone with an ounce of humanity would be feeling something.

She had never witnessed this kind of carnage in a non-terrorist-related crime before. And there was a vast difference between seeing the mangled intestines of a suicide bomber strewn across the hood of a Hyundai and seeing the results of an up-close-and-personal torture session in the basement of the White House.

Whoever this woman was, Ronnie just prayed the sick bastard had killed her before he’d gotten really serious with his knife. Deep down, though, she greatly feared the victim hadn’t died quickly. This level of mutilation must have taken a long time, meaning the killer had planned enough in advance to know he wasn’t going to be disturbed.

So he wouldn’t have rushed.

Special Agent Bailey cleared his throat and blurted out, “The victim’s name was Leanne Carr.”

“Did you know her?” she asked, remembering Bailey had mentioned he was stationed here at the site.

His throat bobbed as he visibly swallowed. “A little. She seemed nice.”

Niceness, unfortunately, wasn’t effective as a defense mechanism against murderous rage. Being liked was all well and good, but Ronnie would take a Glock and a black belt over
nice
any day.

“Sometimes you just have to wonder if there is no afterlife at all, and we’re already in hell,” Bailey murmured, his voice breaking a little bit.

Ronnie nodded. “I’m sure she thought she was.”

“I don’t even want to think about what she must have gone through.” Bailey said, his tone and demeanor confirming he was on the edge of losing it.

Ronnie couldn’t help feeling for him. The rookie obviously hadn’t seen enough carnage to harden him to it and this was one wicked trial by fire. It wasn’t that the seasoned investigators, like the other Secret Service officers who had greeted them outside and led them down to Bailey, didn’t find it just as horrific. But they were better at hiding their instinctive reactions. They were able to shove their emotions way down inside, if only for a little while. Long enough to get the job done.

Eventually, however, even the most hardened among them had to take those feelings out of the deepest recesses of their minds and give them life. It was imperative to let them go before the bottled memories drove them insane.

Every cop was the same, including Ronnie. Late tonight, when she was alone, she’d mourn for this poor woman and allow herself to feel some genuine heartbreak for her. Some anger. Some humanity. Daniels would probably get drunk to try to wipe out the mental image of her last moments. Until then, however, it was time for them to do their job, spending another day being spat upon by the ugliest, green phlegm of life.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Bailey admitted. His voice was steady, though his eyelids flickered a couple of times as he surveyed the scene from the corner of the room, where they all stood. “Except maybe in some movie that seemed too gruesome to ever really happen.”

Her respect for him went up a notch. At least he was holding himself together, despite the way the crime was getting under his skin, and the fact that he’d known the victim, however slightly.

Deciding to give the man a break because she’d been so hard on him at first, Ronnie glanced at her watch. “Look, I really hate to be a nuisance, but would you mind going for the report now? This one’s going to come with a lot of heat and I’d like to know what I’m involved with as soon as possible.”

Bailey’s half-frown said he wasn’t sure how to take her dismissal. She certainly didn’t have any jurisdiction over the case—yet. So Ronnie gave him a smile and lowered her voice as if asking for a favor rather than ordering him to get out. “To tell you the truth, I’m not familiar with the layout of this place at all. We were brought straight here and dumped on you. I’d hate to take a wrong turn into a secure area while trying to find the base of operations. Honestly, if you don’t mind, you’d be doing me a huge favor.”

The tactic worked.

“Sure,” he said, looking visibly relieved at being able to get away for a while, without feeling sent off like an errand boy. God only knew why men had been created needing their pride stroked more than their cocks.

“We set up the terminal and communication area in a room a couple of levels up,” Bailey said. “The full work-up from her arm chip—criminal record, medical and dental records, and background check—should be finished printing by now. I’ll go wait for it and bring it back to you.” He was practically bouncing on his goes to get going.

Ronnie didn’t blame him for being relieved at the break. It would be nice to grab some fresh air that didn’t taste like construction dust and smell like blood. “That would be great.”

Without another word, Bailey spun around and walked back the way they had entered, giving the lumpy mass closest to the stairs a wide berth. He kept his eyes front, feet pistoning across the cement floor as if he didn’t trust himself not to puke if he let his gaze shift the wrong way. That he hadn’t so far was a testament to his future in law enforcement.

“Wow, Ron, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you just acted like a girl.”

She shot right back. “Aww, sorry, partner, was I stepping on your toes?”

“You finally admittin’ I’m prettier than you?”

She grunted. “You’re about as pretty as a brick wall.”

“Well aren’t we a pair, then, since most people’d agree you’re built like a brick...”

“Shut up, moron.”

Impossible to rile, as usual, Daniels merely held up a hand, palm out, in truce. “Kidding. You handled that really well. The kid looked like he was about to lose his breakfast all over the vic.” Looking around, he clarified. “Or some of her. You got him outta here just in time and had him ready to thank you for ordering him around.”

“It’s not an easy way for anyone to start the morning,” she said, rubbing at her temple where a slight headache had begun to pulse. “I don’t blame him for being glad to escape.”

She looked around, still trying to wrap her mind around what had happened. And where it had happened. This part of the building was in its early stages—already serving its purpose as a solid foundation, but not yet finished off or even divided into smaller rooms. There wasn’t a wall or nook in sight. Just bare floor, cavernous hallway, some heavy construction tools stacked in a corner, and body parts. Lots of those.

Shaking his head in bemusement, Daniels looked around the crime scene as well and whistled. “Sweet Jesus Christ in a catamaran, what a mess.”

“Definitely.”

“Want to wager a guess as to why you’n me seem to be the only ones looking ready to dive in? Where the hell’s the forensics team?”

She had no idea. Strange. Very strange.

“And where’s the blood? Doesn’t look like there’s enough for something so...drastic.”

The question had already crossed Ronnie’s mind. Because in a scene with as much carnage as this one, she would have expected to see all six quarts of the woman’s blood puddled on the floor. But there wasn’t much, except small amounts pooled around each internal organ, limb or other unidentifiable body part, and thin lines of it spider-webbing across the cement floor.

Another member of the Secret Service team, who’d been securing the perimeter, joined them right outside the yellow Crime Scene tape he’d just finished putting up. “It’s down there.”

Glancing in the direction he pointed out, Ronnie spotted a rusty drain grate about eighteen inches from a large, sinew-covered mass. Then she blinked, because the grate couldn’t be rusty. The White House reconstruction had only begun eight months ago, after years of political fighting over the project. Some money-conscious lawmakers had wanted to raze the site and turn it into a garden of mourning since no president would ever be allowed to live in a publicly-accessible location like this one again. But a lot of the country wanted the building, whether the number one guy was going to live there or not. And they’d staged a national referendum to get it.

Nice to know her fellow Americans had rediscovered their spines.

“I assume that’s the victim’s blood making it look rusty?” she asked the man.

He nodded. “Down the pipes it went. Under the ground.” 

They all thought the same thing. The spot under
this
ground was particularly damned.