Lover Unleashed - J. R. Ward [95]
With his body itching for a conflict and the sounds of the heels of his band of bastards behind him, Xcor smiled into the night. This was going to be—
Rounding yet another corner, he halted. A block up on the left, there was a gaggle of black-and-white cars parked in a loose circle around the opening of an alley . . . rather as if they were a necklace about the throat of a female. He couldn’t read the patterns on the doors, but the blue lights atop their roofs told him they were human police.
Inhaling, he caught the scent of death.
Fairly recent killing, he decided, but not as juicy as an immediate one.
“Humans,” he sneered. “If only they were more efficient and would kill each other off completely.”
“Aye,” someone agreed.
“Onward,” he demanded, proceeding forth.
As they stalked by the crime scene, Xcor looked into the alley. Human men with queasy expressions and fidgety hands stood around a large box of some kind, as if they expected something to jump out at any moment and seize them by the cocks with a taloned grip.
How typical. Vampires would be delving in and dominating—at least, any vampire worth his nature. Humans only seemed to find their mettle when the Omega interceded, however.
Standing over a cardboard box that was stained through in places and big enough to fit a refrigerator in, José de la Cruz flicked his flashlight on and ran the beam over another mutilated body. It was hard to get much of an impression of the corpse, given that gravity had done its job and sucked the victim down into a tangle of limbs, but the savagely shaved-off hair and the gouged patch on the upper arm suggested that this was number two for his team.
Straightening, he glanced around the empty alley. Same MO as the first, he was willing to bet: Do the work elsewhere, dump the remains in downtown Caldwell, go trolling for another victim.
They had to catch this motherfucker.
Clicking off his beam, he checked his digital watch. Forensics had been doing their nitpicking job, and the photographer had clicked her shit, so it was time to take a good look at the body.
“Coroner’s ready to see her,” Veck said from behind him, “and he’d like some help.”
José pivoted on his heel. “Have you got gloves . . .”
He paused and stared over his partner’s broad shoulder. On the street beyond, a group of men walked by in triangular formation, one in the lead, two behind him, three behind them. The arrangement was so precise and their footfalls in such synchronization that at first, all José noticed was the militarylike marching and the fact that they were all wearing black leather.
Then he got a sense of their size. They were absolutely huge, and he had to wonder what kind of weapons they were packing under their identical long coats: The law, however, forbade police officers from strip-searching civilians just because they looked deadly.
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