At least the chefs would know their wares were appreciated.
Out in the hallway, V kept going and got a clear shot down to the front entrance. The double doors into the dining room were closed, which meant Wrath was in session, and he was not going to interrupt because the news flash he was here to deliver—hopefully without too much noticeable self-satisfaction—was not an emergency—
“Hey, roomie.”
V backtracked and leaned into the newly redecorated little sitting room. Butch was parked on the sofa facing the TV, the soft murmur of the newscaster oddly soothing even though it was just a human talking about human shit.
Then again maybe that was why it was soothing. Didn’t affect him.
“Check this out.” Butch palmed the remote and turned up the volume. “Isn’t that your target from downtown?”
Coming over and sitting next to the cop, V looked for an ashtray to put his cig out—
Oh, Fritz, you are a gentlemale and a sailor, he thought as he found one right by his elbow.
And then he wasn’t thinking about butlers who anticipated every need before you even knew you had ’em.
To the left of the newscaster’s head, there was a black-and-white photograph of a woman who—yup, looked exactly like the one V had been trailing in the alleys in search of more of that iron-cross-stamped poison. From the short dark hair to the intense eyes that seemed haunted, she was—
“Turn it up a little louder,” he said, even though he could hear shit just fine.
“—to the CPD undercover officer who had been shot, execution-style, and thrown into the Hudson River, there are rumors that another undercover officer has gone missing. Sources tell us that—”
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.”