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Butch glanced over. “I mean, that’s her, right?”
“Yeah, for real.” Well, this was—surprise!—actually a news flash that he cared about. “Goddamn it, we’re going to have to start all over again if someone killed her for being a cop.”
“The leaks in the department to the press were always for shit. Don’t these reporters have any common decency?” Butch’s Boston accent thickened with all his pissed-off. “If that woman’s in the hands of any of the dealers she was going after, they’re going to see this and kill her. Assuming she’s not frickin’ dead anyway.”
The newscaster continued to drone on. “One of our reporters caught up with CPD Chief Stanley Carmichael, while he attended a gala event at the home of—”
“Pause it, wouldja?” V asked. “I want her picture.”
As Butch hit the remote, V took out his Samsung and snapped a close-up of the screen. The image of the missing officer was shitty, all pixelated, but he could sharpen it up later. Besides, he never forgot a face.
He never forgot anything.
“Okay, got it. Thanks.”
Butch hit the button again, and V zoned out as things cut to a female reporter in a red suit shoving a microphone into an older guy’s face. As a stream of tuxedos and gowns parted around the confrontation, the police chief lifted his palms and shook his head, all no-comment. And then there was a close-up of the reporter as she summed it up for viewers who had just seen exactly what had happened.
Back to the studio, and now there was another cut. To a news brief where—
Homicide Detective José de la Cruz—according to the scrawl at the bottom—was standing at a microphoned lectern making a statement about the male officer who’d been found in the Hudson River.
A reporter cut through the scrum of questions as he concluded his remarks. “What about the female officer who is missing?”
José looked at the woman. “I’m not prepared to comment on—”
“So you’re not denying there is another missing officer—”
“No,” the guy said firmly. “I’m not commenting on rumors. Any other questions.”
As the news desk reappeared on-screen, the anchor stoked the flames of conspiracy theories and Butch muted it all with a look of disgust.
While V lit up another hand-rolled, his roommate eased back and got pensive. Then he looked over and—
“No,” V muttered. “The answer is no.”
“How do you know what I’m going to ask?”
Vishous exhaled a stream of smoke. “Because I’m your fucking roommate, that’s how.”
Lucan woke up in the Executioner’s bed. As his eyes struggled to focus, he nonetheless located Rio immediately. She was sitting about ten feet away, her back to him as she bent over the table and scribbled on something.
Before he could say her name, she seemed to sense his stare.
Straightening, she looked over her shoulder. “Hi.”
Getting up from a meal that had been brought in by someone, her brows were drawn and her hands fidgety as she came across to him. For a moment, he took her in as if it had been weeks since he’d seen her, noting her pale face, her determined jawline, her strong body in the wrinkled clothes she’d had on for how long now?
She was beautiful to him, in a way that had nothing to do with her physical appearance.
Clearing her throat, she said, “How are you—”
“Hungry.”
“Oh, I got this.” She seemed excited, like helping his recovery was a test she wanted to pass. “Here.”
She moved so fast as she reached for the tray that she spilled some Coke he assumed she’d been nursing, swiping the can with the back of her hand. With a curse, she mopped things up with a shirt that was draped on the back of a chair—and then she got the tray and brought it over, setting it on the floor by the bed.
Kneeling down, she took a can of Sprite and popped the top.
“How did you know?” Damn, his voice was rough. “That I’m not a Coke fan.”
“I had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right. It’s all we got.”
He struggled to sit up, and when he did, she gave him the soda and started plumping the flat pillows he’d been resting on—although she didn’t get very far with pouffing, and not because the bedding was for shit.
“Are you . . .”
Lucan finished the sentence for her. “I’m okay now.”
Her eyes ducked like she didn’t want him to know she’d been worried about him. “I guess the gas or whatever it was backfired on you.”
“Gas? What are you talking—oh, right.” Jesus, he forgot that she didn’t know his true nature. “Yeah. Flames.”
Fuck. What a mess this all was.
“That was so scary,” she murmured. “I thought . . . well, it doesn’t matter. It worked out.”
Time to change the subject. “Where are Apex and Mayhem?”
“Just outside the door.”
Thank God, he thought as he took the Sprite to his lips—with surprisingly sturdy, steady hands, as it turned out. Guess he hadn’t lied to her about being better. And when the test sip went down just fine, he gulped the whole thing on a oner.
