8 – Mr. Hurricane

Sometimes hunkering down against the press felt like trying not be seen.

They still had a bunch of Dennis’s business cards, which Dylan would hand out to any of the press that came to the door. Anything Roan said would have to be filtered through “his attorney”, which was total bullshit. Dennis would just put them on hold until they hung up. But it was just his way of getting rid of them while leaving the dirty work to someone else. Hey, he could work being a weasel if he had to. They also had unplugged the phone, so only people who had his or Dylan’s cell numbers could call (not a big list, certainly not press).

Which meant he fielded calls from Dee (asking if he’d emptied several bullets in the bastard, which he hadn’t, which wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear – he was only the first of many who would ask him why he hadn’t unloaded a full clip into Switzer. The answer that it wasn’t actually necessary seemed to please no one), Fiona, Holden, Dennis (“How many of these idiots am I handling? You should really pick one to talk to, control the spin the Eastgate PD are gonna put out about Switzer …”), Gordo, Dropkick (“I always knew you’d shoot a cop, but I thought it would be Sikorski …”), and Jay (“If I autopsy him, I’ll save you something to hang on your rearview”). Holden said he’d be by later, but he was willing to come through the back so no one caught a “man whore” coming to their door. Roan told him he didn’t care.

By about six, things had tapered off, and Dylan was suggesting dinner, which Roan was in no mood for. Maybe it was all the hard caffeine, or maybe it was the fact that he killed a man, but he had no appetite. He needed to eat something if he wanted to pop a pill though, so he was considering toast when there was a rather loud knock at the door, and a voice bellowed, “Hey Roan, it’s me!”

Dylan jumped slightly at the sound of the booming bass voice, looked at him and mouthed, “Who’s that?”

“I do believe that’s the client, Grey Williams,” he told him, and walked over to the door. As soon as he unlocked it and opened it, Grey shouldered his way in and grabbed Roan in a huge bear hug. In fact, he lifted him off his feet as he came in the door. He remembered to kick the door shut behind him.

“You got the motherfucker!” Grey crowed happily, shaking him like a cat might shake a mouse in its jaws. “Fucking awesome man! You shot the fucker!”

Good lord – he was all muscle. Did he shoot steroids in his eyeball? “You’re crushing my ribs,” Roan wheezed. Grey actually was; he had a vise grip around his waist, like he was giving him a reverse Heimlich, and his arms felt like stone. It was like being crushed by marble.

“Oh, sorry.” He put him down and let him go, but not before giving him a big kiss on the cheek. He then gave him a goofy, happy grin. “You shot the fucker!”

“Only because I had to,” he pointed out. “It wasn’t because of Jamie.”

His smile faded a bit, but his eyes were still big and bright, as if feverish. “I know. Sorry about his wife. At least you got the kids out, though.”

“It was the one good thing about it all,” Dylan commented.

Grey looked at him as if noticing him for the first time. “You the boyfriend?”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “The name’s Dylan.”

Grey either missed the implied rebuke or ignored it entirely. He walked over to Dylan with his hand out. “I’m Grey Williams. I bet you know that.”

Dylan shook his hand, showing some kindness. “I do.” From the way Dylan grimaced, Grey must have not held back enough on the grip.

“You guys have lifetime tickets for all the Falcons home games,” Grey announced, looking between them. “As long as I’m on the team. Good seats too. If I get picked up by the Preds I’ll make sure you get tickets there too, although I guess that means you’d have to come to Nashville.”

Roan shrugged. “Might for Arnott.”

Grey smirked, and Dylan asked, “Who?”

“Jason Arnott, the team Captain. Wouldn’t kick him out of bed.”

Grey laughed at this, and Dylan looked curious. “Really? This guy I gotta see.” And Dylan went and picked up Roan’s laptop, sitting on the sofa to have a Google.

“You follow hockey?” Grey asked him.

He shook his head. “My husband was a fan of the Canucks, but he watched enough games that I picked a few things up. One of which was Jason Arnott is perhaps the handsomest hockey player I have ever seen. He looks like he could have been a movie star in the ’70’s.”

Grey got a quizzical look on his face that made him look about sixteen. “Husband? You were married? So, you guys are divorced now?”

“No, I’m a widower. He died.”

“Oh, fuck. Sorry dude.”

Roan shook his head. “Wasn’t your fault.”

“Oh,” Dylan said, in a meaningful way. “Yeah, he’s definitely your type, Ro.”

That made him chuckle. “He is, huh?”

“Dark haired, manly, solidly built, big – holy fuck, six four? They’re making you hockey players bigger these days, aren’t they?”

“Only the goalies are short,” Roan told him, shooting Grey a slight smirk. He grinned back, apparently getting that Holden had reported the aggressive vibe he got from “Tank” Beauvais.

“He’s a bit older than you go for though,” Dylan said, teasing him. “Thirty four? Man, he’s almost a grandpa in your books.”

“Yeah, very funny,” Roan replied darkly, as Grey did actually chuckle. His manners finally kicked in, and he asked Grey, “Wanna drink? We have sodas and bottled teas, juice.”

“Umm, got diet?”

“Diet cherry Pepsi.”

“Fine, I’ll take one of those. Thanks.”

“I didn’t take you for a diet soda drinker,” Dylan told him, as Roan retrieved one from the fridge.

“I’m on a training regimen,” he replied. “I’m watching my sugar intake.”

“Always smart,” Dylan said. Roan handed Grey the can and sat on the sofa beside Dylan. Grey sat on the love seat across from them, his muscular frame making it look more like a chair. “So what kind of diet are you on?”

Grey shrugged a shoulder as he gulped down half the can. He put it on the coffee table as he said, “Mainly high protein, but I generally carbo load on game days.”

That probably explained why he felt more like a statue than a Human being. “I’m going to be turning the bulk of the investigation over to Holden,” Roan told Grey, deciding to just get it out of the way. He had a sneaking suspicion subtle wouldn’t really work with Grey anyways. “The fact that I shot and killed Carey Switzer in his future former home will mean I will be the star of the shit list at the Eastgate PD for the next hundred years or so. No one will talk to me, except to call me a few choice names.”

“But isn’t he just your street guy?” Grey asked, still confused.

“Is that what he told you?” Grey just nodded, and looked momentarily like a golden retriever. “He is, but he has a way of cozying up to people that can get results. I’m not very good at cozying.”

“Probably because your idea of cozying is usually punching someone,” Dylan pointed out sardonically.

“Not always,” he protested. “Sometimes I just cuss them out.”

“Or scare the shit out of them,” Dylan countered.

Grey stared at him with a crooked half smile. “Sure you never played hockey?”

“My infected status would making me iffy for a game schedule. I’ll still be working your case, I’ll just be more behind the scenes. So you can continue to contact me, and I’ll give you updates. Meetings will probably be best done here, since I’ll probably have media camped out at my office until all of this blows over.” It wasn’t that he wanted to be in the backseat of his own investigation, but now he had a visibility that was a real hindrance to a working detective. And as much as the Eastgate PD would be shaken up and happy to throw Switzer to the wolves, he wasn’t stupid enough to think that meant he would be off the hook. They’d hate his fucking guts for the rest of his life – he killed a cop. No matter that it was a cop who was rotten to his very soul, he’d broken rule one of the handbook for cops: no eating your own, whether it be shopping them to Internal Affairs or blowing their putrid stinking head away.

But didn’t they expect that of him? He was a kitty fag, and never quite one of them anyways.

Grey finished his soda and went to use the bathroom, and it was then that Holden showed up, appearing at the front door just for the hell of it. He must have just come from a gig, because not only was his hair still damp (he smelled like hotel shampoo), but he was wearing a tight white, red, and black Lycra shirt that no decent Human being would ever wear outside of a marathon, along with his usual tangle of about six necklaces (Roan was able to make out a silver wing, a piece of rock, and what could have been a frog amongst the pendants). On top of that was tight jeans with strategic holes, a black leather jacket, and black Converse sneakers that didn’t quite match the rest of him. “Costume party?” Dylan asked.

Holden just gave him a razor blade grin. “Yep. I went as a badly dressed whore. I won first place.” He then looked at him, and asked, “So did you empty a clip into him?”

“No.”

“Shoulda emptied a clip into him.”

Grey came back from the bathroom, and they all sat down and discussed how this was going to continue. The problem with Holden not actually having a detective’s license wasn’t brought up, because for the moment nothing could be done about that, and besides, he didn’t know if he could get Holden officially licensed for anything. He seemed to like being unofficial.

Roan was going to follow up on Jasmine’s roommate, leaving Holden to follow up on Michael Brand, which was actually the harder thing. From what Roan had been able to discover, Brand was a non-entity; while he was briefly partnered with Switzer, he’d been partnered with a cop named Wilson for much longer, and while Switzer’s story got uglier the more you dug into it, Brand could be argued not to exist at all. It wasn’t so much that his record was clean more than a record for him hardly existed; he could have been a made up personage. Except a photo existed of him with an ill suited mustache, so he was probably real, just unremarkable.

Roan knew that Holden would have to investigate under an assumed name, and he confirmed that, although he also added he’d never been arrested anywhere near Eastgate. Grey asked him jokingly, “Been arrested a lot?”

Holden shrugged, settling back on the couch. He was sitting on his right side, so Roan was wedged between him and Dylan. For some reason he couldn’t name, it made him feel uncomfortable. “Just a couple times, for the usual.”

“The usual?”

“You know. Loitering, solicitation, resisting arrest. Petty stuff.”

Grey chuckled as if Holden was kidding, and Holden had flashed him his big, sly smile, so it was easy to see why Grey thought he was joking. He wasn’t, of course, but it was better Grey never knew that. Yeah, he seemed cool with gays, but a gay prostitute? There was no way of telling how he’d react to that. Most people’s reactions to sex workers wasn’t positive, and often led to very weird questions. Roan wasn’t even sure he could honestly answer the question of why he had a hustler as his assistant: he was the king of liars, and the dirt he could find on people was extraordinary. He was honestly a born detective; if this was the ’50’s or ’60’s, he could have been a real life Sam Spade. Only flamingly gay. Yeah, maybe that wouldn’t have worked.

Grey had to go, as the team were traveling to Spokane for a game (what a thrill), but they exchanged cell phone numbers and worked out the best time to call. As soon as he left, Roan got up and got a microbrew from the fridge. He felt funny about drinking in front of a client, but especially a client on a regimen. It seemed like taunting.

Holden also sighed and shucked off his jacket, revealing that the spandex shirt was sleeveless, and he had a henna tattoo on his right upper arm, a sort of vague flaming phoenix shape. “When did you get the henna?” Roan asked.

He could feel the alcohol settling in his stomach, transfuse into his bloodstream, and he decided to have that toast. He found the loaf of sourdough in the cupboard, and then wondered why Dylan always had to get the unsliced kind. Goddamn it, he had to go for a guy with hippie tendencies.

“Before I got here. I have a friend who’s trying to branch out into body painting, and she’s been recruiting test subjects. That’s why I was late. She said it would take her ten minutes, and it took her almost thirty.”

Dylan put the laptop on the coffee table, and leaned out to look at it. Dylan helpfully turned towards him so he could have a better view. “Pretty nice. But it usually takes a while to set, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, but putting on the jacket I probably made it crumble early.”

The bread was crusty, but as Roan bit into his ragged slice of toast, he realized the interior was soft as a pillow. So maybe there was a reason why he bought the bakery bread instead. Damn hippies, being right about some things.

Holden looked at him, still standing out in the kitchen, and asked, “Was there something you wanted to tell me about Brand now that the client is gone?”

He shook his head, washing down his toast with a gulp of beer. “No. I got nothing on Brand. I mean nothing. It’s really weird.”

“Think he’s hiding something?”

Roan scowled as he thought about it, and was forced to shake his head. “It’s possible, but if so, he’s hidden it well. The only blip on the radar is Jasmine naming him as one of the cops that assaulted her. Otherwise, he’s honestly nothing. There’s a couple of possibilities. One, Jasmine mistook Brand for another cop. He does have that bland kind of everyman face.”

“Could she have made a mistake like that?” Holden countered.

“People do. Everyone thinks eyewitnesses are reliable, especially when it’s you, but the truth is memory is always funny, especially in a high stress situation. Your mind can sometimes fill in gaps that are missing without any intention of doing so. Your brain wants to see a pattern.”

“What’s possibility number two?” Dylan asked.

“He’s the quiet, gray man he appears to be, but that one night he snapped. He’s been good ever since, but that night he totally lost it.”

“More likely if he’s super repressed,” Holden said. “When they go, they go big. They’re bombs waiting to go off. The only trick who really seriously tried to kill me was a good Baptist boy who couldn’t understand why he wanted dick so much when he was married to a good woman. Just couldn’t handle his own sexuality and reconcile it with his religion.”

“He tried to kill you?” Dylan asked, surprised.

He just nodded, as if it was something that happened all the time. “He gave me fifty bucks to suck my dick, then he freaked out, sobbing and slapping himself in the head, and then out of nowhere – okay, probably from under the car seat – he pulls out a pistol and says we have to die because we’re wicked.”

Dylan seemed really engrossed in the story. “What happened?”

“As soon as I saw that gun coming up, I knew this fucker had gone from batshit to psycho, so I grabbed his wrist as he brought it around and forced it up towards the ceiling. He had that crazy strength, you know, but he was still a wiry little string bean; I had almost fifty pounds on him, slightly more than half of it muscle. He pulled the trigger and the gun went off; the bullet went through the top of the windshield, not shattering it but putting a pen sized hole in it. I knew I wasn’t getting out of the car until he let go of the fucking gun, so I punched him as hard as I could in the gut. He retched and lost enough of his grip that I was able to yank the gun away and threw myself out of the car. I aimed the gun at him and he sped off.”

“Jesus.”

“I know. The coda to this I found out a couple days later that he was the guy they found dead on the freeway. He deliberately rammed his car into a concrete barrier at sixty miles an hour. I recognized the car. Found out his dad was a Baptist preacher, and hey, mine was an Evangelical preacher. Same diff, really.”

“What’d you do with the gun?” Roan wondered.

“Pawned it to a guy named Burn. I didn’t need to ever get caught with a gun.”

That made a name float up from the recesses of his mind. Oh sure, he’d forget his ATM PIN number, but he remembered this. “A/K/A Anthony Morretti?”

“Yeah. Know him?”

“I arrested him once.”

“Huh. Small world.”

Roan shook his head, sure the beer was getting to him more than it should have. When was the last time he ate? He couldn’t remember. “Or we have a case of the Jim Jones effect here. Brand fell under the sway of a man with a more forceful, charismatic personality, and did something he wouldn’t normally do.”

“How are we ranking them by likelihood?” Holden asked.

He could only shrug. “I’d have to know more about the guy. All I know is he’s a very average cop, thirty five, married with two kids, lives in Kent. He could be anyone.”

“But we’re on the same page here, right? Switzer killed Jasmine.” It wasn’t a question. The look on Holden’s face was resolute.

Roan sighed. “A rapist who can kill his family with no remorse? Yeah, he’s easily capable of murdering anyone else. He’s certainly vaulted into the most likely category. But tomorrow I’m gonna call Jay, see if he can find out if the same gun that killed April killed Jasmine as well. If I can get a ballistics match, I’ll be happy to declare him a fucking murderer twice over.”

Holden’s look turned skeptical, his eyes narrowing as he studied him. “You actually think there’s a possibility he didn’t?”

“I want to prove it. I’m happy to pillory him as king asshole of the world – well, duke; I suppose Dick Cheney is king – but I want to make sure he actually did it. What if we stick it to him, and the actual murderer gets away with it? I wouldn’t be happy with letting someone slide on a charge this big.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed, as if he was being a deliberate pain in the ass. “Do you always have to make things so difficult?”

“I ask him that all the time,” Dylan said, not without some affection.

It was a fair cop, he supposed. But it wasn’t like he enjoyed being difficult …

Oh, who the hell was he kidding? Of course he enjoyed being difficult. He just wasn’t about to admit it.

 

7 – Helpless

Roan was kind of surprised Shithead wasn’t Switzer’s middle name, because it should have been.

A little digging turned up a ton of maggots. Switzer was considered something of an asshole even within the Eastgate department, but according to Kevin (yes, he called him, but he didn’t mention Holden’s idea about setting him up with his IT guy) Eastgate PD was known as a swaggering boy’s club, and the Chief there, Charles  Horne, was either a friend or relative of Switzer’s (it wasn’t clear which; he’d heard different stories).  According to Kevin, the Eastgate PD was probably one of the more corrupt precincts in the entire state, but with a very high crime rate and a low budget, most people were content to look the other way. It was a perfect storm of ennui and bureaucrat clusterfucking. A lot of the cops that ended up at Eastgate were bounced from other precincts, often as discipline problems.

As for his personal life, Switzer was in the middle of a messy divorce with his wife April. She was claiming he was abusive and had been harassing her through the use of his cop friends; he was claiming she was a sex addict and a poor mother, and wanted sole custody of their two kids, Zachary and Ashley (seven and five, respectively). What little he’d been able to turn up seemed ugly and awful. He was inclined to believe April, and Switzer wanting the kids? Pure power play and vindictiveness on his part. If he was a little despot, he’d want to control every fucking thing. Maybe he loved his kids, and Roan rather hoped he did, but possession of them would only be a tool to hurt his wife. He’d seen guys like Switzer too many times to think anything they did was ever as straightforward as it seemed.

Kevin knew someone at the Eastgate PD, and it was through her that he got word that Switzer was technically on leave from the department, mainly while investigation of his supposed use of other cops to stalk his wife was going on, but this same friend said it was known that Switzer was still hanging around on Carson Street, which was part of his old beat. It was also three blocks away from where Jasmine lived and was killed, which was a hell of a coincidence. So he got everything he could on this guy, and prepared to track him down.

He felt like a good fight today.

He showered and dressed, going for a casual wardrobe of jeans and a t-shirt, leather jacket and leather boots. He grabbed his Vancouver Canucks baseball cap so he could hide his hair (that was the problem with having such a distinct shade of reddish-brown) and found a pair of absurdly black sunglasses in his top drawer. Undercover wear, only he didn’t think he’d have to be too inconspicuous.  He thought about it for a long minute before grabbing his Sig Sauer and his belt holster. He doubted he’d have to use it, but best be prepared. He was glad Dylan was still asleep and didn’t see him put it on, or grab his gear bag containing his camera with the telephoto lens and the directional mike.

He decided to take the GTO, and drove out towards the Eastgate precinct, wondering if the whole place could be rotten. If this was the ’60’s or ’70’s, maybe, but cop shops had gone a long way towards reform for a very good reason: nobody liked a bad image. And through allowing corruption, racism, sexism, and homophobia to run rampant, it diminished everyone and everything associated with law enforcement. They’d come a long way, but you had to be pretty naïve to think you still wouldn’t run into these types. Hell, wasn’t it one of those “bag a fag” stings that caught Larry Craig? Taxpayer money spent on trying to catch consenting adults having sex, while you had a less than fifty percent chance that the guy who broke into your house and stole your stuff would ever get caught. Fucking amazing some people’s priorities.

He knew from Switzer’s DMV file (okay, so technically he shouldn’t have been able to see that …) that he was driving an ‘02 Ford Ranger, and he’d just turned the corner on Carson Street when he saw a black Ranger just pull out into the intersection up ahead. He confirmed two of the letters on the plate matched Switzer’s, and decided just to follow him and see where he went.

If he was honest with himself, he had no idea why he was following Switzer, except he wanted to start some shit. He was away from Carson Street, so he couldn’t catch him in the act of trying to extort sex from a prostitute … unless he was going to do this same shit on another corner. Surely his beat didn’t start and end at one. Okay, now he had a reason beyond simply starting shit with King Asshole.

Except after ten minutes, he knew he was kidding himself. Switzer went out onto the freeway going south, so far out of his area he was crossing jurisdictions, but Roan decided to follow him anyways. After what Holden and Kevin had told him, and what he could find himself, he just wanted to sit this guy down, talk calmly and rationally, and then beat him so bad his grandkids would be born dizzy and bleeding from the eyeballs. Some people were such pieces of shit you had no idea why they existed, except to make misery for others. Did they get enjoyment out of that? They must have, because there was simply no other explanation for their hideous behavior towards their fellow human beings.

When he saw Switzer was taking the Federal Way exit, he realized he must have been heading home. Or was it to his wife’s home? The divorce petition and subsequent stories about it did mention their Federal Way home, but it didn’t mention who was living in it. Roan assumed it was April and the kids, but maybe not. Maybe she decided there were too many bad memories and left for her mother’s or something. It certainly happened.

Confronting him at home just might be ideal. If he was as big a douchebag as he suspected, he probably had evidence laying about, just assuming no one would find it and that he was untouchable. Bullies with badges always thought they were untouchable.

He parked just up the street as Switzer pulled into the driveway of an unremarkable two story house,  white with grayish blue trim, a large spreading oak providing some shade over a well tended lawn. He watched Switzer get out of his truck, carrying a shopping bag with a bright blue ribbon trailing out of the top. A birthday present? Was it one of the kids’ birthday today? Well shit – maybe he didn’t live here.  So where did he live?

A quick glance at his notes showed that he had no fucking clue. So maybe if he followed Switzer when he left, he might lead him to the place he was staying. What if he was crashing with one of his cop buddies? Didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to beat on the guy first anyways. He’d provoke Switzer into taking a swing at him, and then everything after was self defense as long as he didn’t kill him.

Yes, okay, that was very weaselly of him. But working the system every now and again wasn’t a bad thing, especially if you could use it against a dickwad like this guy.

Roan was settling into a long stake out, seeing what reading material he had in the car (he always stashed a couple of paperbacks in each car, on the off chance he’d have a lot of time to kill somewhere), when he heard a woman scream, “No!”

There was an astonishing amount of emotion packed into that one syllable word: fear, hatred, rage, desperation, sorrow. Every internal alarm Roan had was going off, and he was already lunging out of the car as he heard the gunshot.

Just one, a small pop muffled by both distance and being inside a house, but that was followed by screaming children and a man yelling at them to “Shut up!” He had his Sig Sauer out, safety thumbed off, and in his other hand he had his cell phone. He’d already punched up 9-1-1, and as soon as the operator picked up, he said tersely, “Shots fired, 154 Sycamore Drive, Officer Carey Switzer’s house.” He then dropped the phone on the front lawn as he took the gun in a two handed grip and ran towards the front door like a charging bull, intending to break it down whether it was locked or not. It would make him an instant target, but he didn’t care – in fact, that’s exactly what he wanted. Drawing Switzer’s fire would mean the kids were clear.

And he knew this scenario, didn’t he? Before he caught the scent of blood, before he burst through the wood framed door, he knew Switzer had just killed his wife, and now he was either going to kill the kids or kill himself, or all in sequence. He had either picked a bad day to follow Switzer, or a good one.

He exploded through the door shoulder first, wood splintering from the frame as he allowed his sense of smell to immediately orient him towards the rank stench of blood and flop sweat, the keening wail of frightened children, and he brought his gun up at the same time Switzer leveled his police issue Beretta at him. “Drop the gun now!” Roan shouted, focusing on him and shoving everything else to the side. In his peripheral vision, he was aware there was a woman laying on the living room floor, only her legs visible to him from where he stood, and the kids were cowering in a corner behind Switzer, the little girl behind the little boy. The shopping bag Switzer had brought had been tossed casually on the sofa.

Switzer was a solid but chunky man, probably hard fat, but there was some doubt as to whether he could pass a department physical now. His round face was ruddy and plump, his hair a thinning bird’s nest of strawberry blond, his eyes just pissholes in snow, curiously hot and hollow. There was some wetness on his cheeks, but they were angry tears. “They’re mine,” he shouted angrily, skin flushing. A tear was suspended in his close cropped mustache like a bead of silicone. Somewhere a clock ticked loudly, the only noise beyond the whimpering kids.

Roan nodded, as if declaring children property was the most natural thing in the world. “Drop the gun, Carey, and we can work this out.” How crazy was he, how far gone? If he could be reached through talk, Roan wouldn’t have to execute him in front of his own kids.

He was aware enough to realize he was talking to a strange man with a gun, but not sane enough to think it through. “Get out of my fucking house.”

“Put down the gun and I will,” he lied.

Switzer’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He stank of sour fear, of alcohol, chemicals indicating something more prescription, and emotions too hard to categorize correctly. It was chemical imbalance, exacerbated by the introduction of other chemicals. “You’re him, aren’t you? The one she was fucking.”

“No, Carey, I’m a private investigator -” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the little boy looking towards the gaping hole of the front door and tensing, like he was going to make a run for it.

Sadly, Switzer noticed it too. “Get out of my house!” he roared, swinging the gun back towards the kids.

Roan squeezed the trigger, and a hole exploded in Switzer’s chest, blood spraying out the back and splattering the sofa. The little girl screamed again, and Carey fell like a toppled redwood, hitting the floor on his side, the gun bouncing out of his hand on impact. Roan edged inside, gun aimed down at the floor, and went to check on April.

As soon as he saw her splayed face up on the floor, clots of brain tissue splattered out on the butterscotch carpet behind her, he didn’t bother checking for a pulse. Switzer got her with an almost point blank shot to the forehead; her head resembled a partially deflated basketball, lopsided in a way it never should have been, the neat little round hole like a third eye socket in her forehead misleadingly dainty for all the damage the exit wound did. She may have been pretty once, but you couldn’t tell anymore. There was the stench of death, but it was almost smothered by blood and cordite and fear.

He didn’t check Switzer for a pulse, just kicked the gun farther out of his reach. Even though his ears were still ringing from the shot, he could hear faint sirens outside.  He looked at the kids, and holstered his own gun. “Zachary, Ashley, why don’t we go outside and wait for the ambulance, okay?” He needed to get them out of the house. They didn’t need to keep staring at their dead mother, or watch their father bleed out on the carpet.

The kids had the glassy, hundred yard stare of shock victims, which was understandable. From the sharp ammonia scent, one or both of them had pissed themselves, but that too was understandable. Finally, Zachary asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m Roan McKichan, a private detective. I was investigating your dad. I’m sorry I didn’t begin sooner.”

“Not a cop.” Almost a question.

“Used to be. I’m not anymore. I didn’t play well with others.” It was an attempt at a joke, but there was no laughing now. “Come on, we need to get Ashley outside.”

That was the tack to take – make the boy feel like he was taking care of his sister. He agreed with that and lead his sister towards the door. She was holding his hand so tightly that it looked like she’d cut off blood circulation. He followed them out at a respectful distance, sure not to get too close to them and spook them further, and retrieved his phone off the lawn, where he heard the tinny voice of the 9-1-1 operator repeatedly asking if he was there. “I’m here,” he told the man. “Switzer just killed his wife. I shot him before he could turn the gun on the kids. He’s still alive, but he has a GSW in the upper left quadrant of his torso. I’m Roan McKichan, a private detective. Tell the police I will be waiting out front with the children and will fully cooperate with being taken into custody.”

He would be taken in, that was unavoidable, but once the circumstances were checked out he’d be released. Or hopefully he would, at any rate.

He’d never dealt with the Federal Way PD before. Boy, they were going to love him.

****

It turned out not to be so bad.

The first cop on the scene was a big cornfed kid with a buzzcut that looked barely twenty, but he was clearly old enough to hold a rank, and he was barely out of the patrol car when he exclaimed, “Holy shit, you’re him. The guy from the news, the Grant Kim thing. I thought your name sounded familiar.” Roan assumed a beating would soon commence, but as it turned out, the guy treated him like a fellow cop, respectful and with an almost obscene amount of trust.

He recounted what happened, saying that he was looking at Switzer as a suspect in a case and was intending to follow him home and question him about his involvement (some of the questioning would be with his fists, but he wasn’t about to admit that until he absolutely had to), but then he heard April scream, followed closely by the gunshot. None of this was a lie – you could argue it was a sculpting of the facts, but he could live with that.

Neighbors started gathering before the ambulance arrived, and he wondered where they had been during the shooting. He gave the kid – whose name turned out to be Nate Dougherty; his partner was a surprisingly slight  Chinese woman named Mira Chin – his Sig Sauer, and knew he wouldn’t be seeing it until forensic was done with it. Oh, why couldn’t he have worn his Glock today? Okay, it was weird to like one gun over another for something other than technical reasons, but he did. So there.

He wasn’t handcuffed, although he rode to the station in their squad car, ahead of any press. On the way there, it was Chin who wondered why he hadn’t shot him first thing coming through the door. “He could have shot you or the kids first.”

“No, he couldn’t have. He couldn’t pull the trigger faster than me.”

Dougherty snickered faintly, and eyed him in the rearview mirror. “Little cocky, huh?”

“No. Cat like reflexes.”

There was doubt in his pale blue eyes that quickly cycled to concern as soon as Dougherty grokked he wasn’t joking. The cops were quiet for the rest of the ride in, and he was glad.

He was asked to tell his version of events several times, but he was never close to being booked, and most of the cops seemed to extend to him a curious deference. On the one hand, it made him feel old; on the other, it was kind of a relief. The adrenaline rush of the shooting had worn off, and all he wanted to do was curl up somewhere and take a nap. He was in no mood to scrap with macho bullshit cops.

A few things became clear, slowly but surely. Roan had dropped the phone close enough to the house, and had such good reception (he thought it paid to get a good phone if you had to have one of the fucking things) that the 9-1-1 tape picked up a few things, including Roan shouting to Switzer to drop the gun, as well as his response “They’re mine”. They felt the tape could be enhanced to pick up other things, none of which would probably be good for Switzer. April Switzer had talked to an officer at the station several days ago, saying she was frightened of her ex-husband, but didn’t get a court order against him for fear it would make him violent. (Sadly, sometimes these control freak assholes didn’t need a reason; the fact that you were opposing them was reason enough to go psycho.) Switzer had left a suicide note in his truck, described as “angry, rambling, and pretty bugfuck” according to a detective named Hollenbach, and it explained why his kids had to die, proving he planned to go the murder-suicide route with his entire family.  The main motivations seemed to be his anger over the collapse of his marriage, and he seemed certain his career as a police officer was over. (Was it the raping or the wife beating? There was a plethora of career killers to choose from.)

Switzer died in the ER, but a weary public defender who happened to be at the station for another client – and looked like a younger, thinner Ned Beatty with darker hair – admitted that because Roan technically trespassed, he could be charged with something. But it was unlikely because it fell within the realm of justifiable homicide, and also, “No way is anyone bringing this to trial, unless they really want to be humiliated in open court. You might want to push this to trial. Not only would no judge or jury convict you, but you’ll probably get a street named after you. And not in the bad part of town either.” Nice to know.

Press were gathering. None had been let in, but the cops were telling him if he actually wanted to avoid cameras, he’d have to leave soon, and out the back. The public defender, whose name turned out to be Andrew Gillis, said he knew a good way out, having gone out with clients that attracted more than a fair share of attention. Roan decided he’d have to bite the bullet and call Dylan. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to, that he could catch a lift back to his car and just go home and be able to tell him what happened over dinner, but that wasn’t going to happen if the “Action news team” motherfuckers were already circling the wagons.

Dylan was up when he called, which he was glad about, but he hadn’t been watching the news. That was good, and that was bad. With a sigh, Roan asked, “Guess where I am.”

Dylan’s pause seemed strangely portentous. “One day. You’re not even out of the hospital one day and you’re back in?”

“No, not the hospital.”

He gasped. “You’ve been arrested?”

He must have lived his life wrong since the first two guesses were hospital and jail. “No, not arrested. But I am at the Federal Way police department headquarters. I decided to trail one of the cops in the Hawley case, to see where he called home. He decided today to pay a visit to his soon to be ex-wife’s house and kill her and the kids.”

He was silent for a long moment, then said harshly, “Tell me this is a sick joke.”

“I got him before he could get the kids. Sadly, it seems I’m attracting press like sharks to chum. Could you come pick me up?”

He was silent again, this time for even longer. When he found his voice again, he asked, “Are you alright?”

“Unhurt. You know me, Dylan – I’m only half Human. He never had a chance.”

“The kids?”

“Surely traumatized for life. But physically unharmed.”

He sighed heavily. “I’ll be right there. Just … is he dead? The guy?”

“Yeah, just died in the hospital.”

“Good,” Dylan spat, with an astonishing amount of venom, and then hung up the phone. That wasn’t very Buddhist of him.

Roan felt like such a dumbass. He was getting a cup of coffee from the communal coffee pot when he remembered that Dylan’s dad was a troubled cop who killed his wife and himself. Right before Christmas, for fuck’s sake. No wonder Dylan was glad he was dead; it was his childhood, two point oh. The only good thing that Dylan’s dad did was not kill the kids, just his wife and himself. He’d probably brought it all back, the horror and the trauma. He should have called Holden, damn his IT nerd – he’d probably deeply upset Dylan without even meaning to.

He ended up having the disgusting cup of coffee with Dougherty and Gillis, as Gillis seemed to have an amicable relationship with the cops. They were hardly on the same side, but there was a grudging respect, and he didn’t seem like a bad guy. Neither did Dougherty, who still had a fresh faced rookie like aspect to him. Gillis asked him jokingly if he didn’t want the publicity, why he was always getting involved in these types of cases. It was an excellent question, not one Roan had an answer for either.

Dylan arrived wearing a blue hoodie, with the hood pulled over his head so his face was mostly obscured, probably so no one in the press recognized him as his boyfriend. He shoved it back, but had a pained look on his face, like he didn’t want to do this and didn’t want to be here. Roan stood and hugged him, tight enough that he could feel how Dylan’s heart was just thundering in his chest. “It’s okay,” he whispered into his neck, just below his ear. He stroked his hair, feeling the heat radiate from his skin like waves of anxiety. “It’ll be all right. I promise you.”

Dylan seemed to relax into him, holding him like he was the only thing keeping him from drowning. “It better be,” he whispered back, into his shoulder.

Roan was suddenly aware of the eyes, of people staring at them, mostly cops, some surprised as if they’d totally forgotten or just didn’t know he was gay. Finally one of the detectives said, in a mostly joking manner, “Get a room, girls.”

Dylan stiffened at this, but he wasn’t familiar with the ultra macho world of cops. Roan met the cop’s gaze and said, “We would, but your Mom’s booked the motel in advance of Fleet Week. She just can’t wait.”

Other cops began to jeer at the detective, and as he told them to fuck off, someone winged a balled up piece of paper his way, and another added, “Yeah, she does like a man in uniform, doesn’t she?” So clearly they ragged on this guy’s mother a lot. But mother insults were as big in a cop shop as they were on a street corner, so it was a good way to go. Easy too, but hey, now he was just one of the guys, gay or not.  You just had to know the language.

Gillis led them out the back way, away from prying camera eyes, although Roan didn’t relax until he was in Dylan’s homely little car. Free to talk finally, Dylan asked, “Does this mean the case is over?” He asked it with a great deal of hope.

It would have been nice. Hell, it would have been a nice vacation. But he had a sinking feeling that it not only wasn’t over, but had just gotten a hell of lot more complicated.

6 – Available

It was really disturbing to know your doctor was lying to you, and yet not be able to prove it.

Doctors, much like lawyers and politicians and detectives, got very good at lying after a while. The tells other people had often disappeared after a certain amount of time of perfecting it, of doing it for a reason you believed was just (or at least explainable or profitable). So while he was relatively sure Rosenberg was lying to him about his viral cycle being over soon, he couldn’t prove it. She also said the words he always dreaded – they were looking at some test results – but once he was awake he was cleared to go home with Dylan. She just wanted to see him again soon, which is another thing you never wanted  a doctor to say to you.

Considering he had just been through a cycle, Roan felt great. Of course it was probably all the drugs, and not being conscious after the snapping of so many bones, tendons, and joints. Always helpful, that.

But, true to form, he was ravenous, so he asked Dylan if they could stop on the way home to get a bite to eat. He had no problem with that, and they stopped at Gracie’s, the all night diner, which he suddenly remembered was the first place that he and Dylan actually had a conversation with each other. Did this make Gracie’s “their” place? He hoped not, because it was a classic greasy spoon, and as a vegetarian, there wasn’t a lot for Dylan here.

Roan was not a vegetarian, and rather glad about it. He wolfed down two cheeseburgers and split a plate of fries with Dylan, who barely had any. He seemed troubled about something, but he wouldn’t say what. He just said he was tired, as he hadn’t been sleeping well since Roan went into the hospital. It made Roan feel horrible. Had he been worrying about him this whole time? Goddamn it. It would be so much easier if he were single, then he wouldn’t have to worry about someone worrying about him. But that would be dead boring too, so he wasn’t sure how to swing that.

Dylan told him that Holden had been looking into the case for him, and that he may have accidentally offended him. He asked him how, and Dylan, oddly, shrugged diffidently, and said he wasn’t actually sure how, but he thought Holden thought he was being arrogant. “Why?” Roan pressed again, dunking a greasy fry in running ketchup. Yes, it was all very disgusting, and tasted so good it was hard to believe.

He sighed wearily. He really didn’t want to tell him. “I suggested that perhaps he had feelings … for a certain client.”

“Doug?”

“Who’s Doug?”

“The pilot he ties up and smacks around.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow at that. “Do you think he has feelings for him? He did just go to Vegas with him.”

“Did he? I didn’t know that. But, no. I mean, I don’t know, but it seems unlikely. Holden enjoys his cynicism. Emotions would ruin his cool.”

“Oh, is that the problem?”

“What?”

“He’d rather want something he can’t have, because if he actually had it, he’d have to do something about it.”

Roan looked over his shoulder, and then looked back at Dylan. “I think this conversation fell through a hole in the space-time continuum. What the hell are we talking about?”

Dylan smiled quietly, and Roan was glad to see it, even though he had no idea what they were discussing. Yes, it was about Holden, but he was sure there was a subtext he missed. “I think I’m trying to figure out Holden. I’m not doing well.”

“What’s to figure out? He’s a control freak who’s afraid of losing control, so he uses a mix of charm and aloofness to always control the situation. And I should know, as I have control freak tendencies myself.”

“Tendencies?” Dylan repeated, giving him a sly grin. “Oh sweetheart, we are so beyond tendencies.”

“Quiet you,” he mock threatened. Dylan just smiled at him, taunting him with his eyes. He knew he wasn’t going to do anything if he didn’t. Cheeky bastard.

They went home, and Roan wondered why Dylan would feel the need to try and figure out Holden. It seemed needlessly frustrating. He would never understand him, and he didn’t even want to try.

It was late, and when they got home, he wondered if it was too late to call Holden or if he was off on a client call. Or maybe just sleeping for once, although he seemed to be a true night owl. It was probably a street kid habit that he never shook, but it would serve him well as a detective.

He was going to tell Dylan he was going to make a phone call, but as soon as they were in the door, Dylan grabbed him and gave him a long, deep kiss that he could feel all the way down to his toes. Wow. He pulled back in a kind of a daze, and asked him, “What was that for?”

He cupped the back of his neck, giving him a wistful, lazy smile as he rested his forehead against his. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve only been gone three days.”

“I still missed you,” Dylan said, and leaned in to kiss his neck. He then bit him, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to make him involuntarily growl.

He had no idea why a bite could do that to him, turn him on beyond all reason. It was probably very kinky and unsavory, but it seemed as unconscious as his growling. Roan grabbed Dylan and kissed him just as hard as he kissed him when they came through the door.

You know what? Screw the phone call. The job could wait until later.

****

Only when the sound of the doorbell woke him up did he remember he had one.

Did anyone ever use the doorbell? Roan stumbled into the bathroom for a piss and tried to remember the last time anyone used it. The UPS guy? Yeah, that must have been it. Not many people bothered.

He glanced out the bathroom window to see if it was the UPS guy again, but all he saw was a silver Chevy Cavalier parked out front. It took a moment for him to remember that was Holden’s new (well, new-ish; it was several years old) car. He sold his old one, why he didn’t know, but surely he had a reason. It was a sunny day, the rain had retreated for now, but there was a slightly opalescent cast to the air that suggested both cold and the impending return of showers. Figured.

Roan pulled on his boxers and glanced at the clock, and he was surprised that it was almost noon. Dylan was still sleeping hard, suggesting he really needed the rest. Seeing him sprawled on the bed on his stomach, the blankets pooled around the small of his back, Roan remembered what a lucky guy he was. Not just because he had a hot young guy, but because he had a hot young guy who actually cared about him. He was damn lucky he had anyone who cared about him at all, because – to be brutally honest – he could be insufferable at times. (At times? Was he being generous?)

On the stairs, he heard the doorbell again, and Roan snapped, “Knock it off!” Dylan deserved the sleep. Besides, he still hadn’t figured out the whole Holden thing yet.

He opened the door to find Holden standing there with his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side, a slightly haughty look on his face. He was dressed very casually, in jeans, a blood red t-shirt, and a black leather jacket, with his sunglasses already pushed up on his head. The only odd note was the fact that he was wearing hiking boots. “Knock it off? Who’s a grumpy pants today?” He looked him up and down. “A grumpy pants in his underwear. Are those silk?”

“Satin. Get in here before someone snaps a photo of me.” He stood back, holding the door open, and Holden came in, now looking amused. He shoved the door shut, and said, “Dylan’s sleeping, okay? I don’t want to wake him.”

“Ah. I thought you smelled like sex. Have you ever had a cycle this short? I was amazed. Think being in a coma helped?”

He sighed wearily, realizing he wasn’t up to Holden just yet. He walked to the kitchen and waved at the living room, hoping Holden would figure out for himself that was an invitation to sit. “I dunno. How’s the case going?”

“That’s what I came to see you about. I’m guessing you haven’t seen the paper today?”

He got a bottle of vanilla frappuchino from the fridge, and felt weariness settle on his shoulders like a wet cloak. His detective spidey sense was telling him bad news was incoming. “Is someone dead?”

“No, but not for lack of trying.” When Roan came back into the living room, Holden was holding up part of the paper, folded over to highlight the section of interest. The headline screamed Local Sports Star Target Of Drive-By Shooting.

“Holy shit,” Roan exclaimed, snatching the paper out of his hand and quickly skimming the article. “Grey? How is he?”

“Absolutely fine. He was just lucky I was there, and I am very calm, having been shot at before.”

Roan plopped on the sofa to read it. “Since when were you shot at?”

“Okay, not shot at per se, but I’ve been in the area when drive bys have gone down, and a drug deal went bad. I think that counts.” Holden sat on the edge of the sofa, and said, “Last time I was here, Dylan offered me tea.”

“You want tea? Go make it yourself. You know where the kitchen is.”

“You’re a sparkling host.”

“I’m a grumpy pants, remember?”

“A grumpy pants in awesome underwear. I take it, from the red foil lipstick print, it was a Valentine’s Day gift.”

“Score one for you, Sherlock.” Although Roan was reading the article, he couldn’t help but note, out of the corner of his eye, that Holden seemed to be staring at him. Or at least studying his chest. Did Dylan leave a hickey? He glanced down to see. “What are you looking at?”

“That scar,” he said, and didn’t clarify. Which one? “Is that from a bullet wound?”

Roan shrugged. “Yeah.” Well, two were, so that was a decent guess. But if he meant the scar near his collarbone or the one near his left hip, no. But he wasn’t getting into his scars with Holden. He had no idea why he considered that a form of intimacy, the true story behind most of his scars, but it was just something he didn’t like to discuss. You could get past and get over your childhood, but some things just brought it all back a little too clearly. “Unidentified friend. Is that you?”

“It is. Luckily I knew the reporter who wrote the article. I told him to leave my name out, or his wife would discover what he was actually doing when he was supposedly working late on a story.”

“Oh no, not another closet case.”

“Nope, not this time. He’s straight, to the best of my knowledge. He just visits the S&M clubs. A lot. If they had a punch card, he’d be on his second free whipping by now.”

An S&M punch card? That brought up an amusing image that made Roan smirk. “You know, having dirt on a lot of people is a good way to get offed. It’s why Danny DeVito got killed in L.A. Confidential.”

“I try not to advertise the amount of dirt I have; I try and fly under the radar. Speaking of dirt: Carey Switzer. We really need to talk about him.”

The article said that the car was unidentified – apparently neither Grey nor Holden saw it – and they were still looking for witnesses, as well as perusing tapes from nearby CCTV cameras to see if they caught anything. That told him the cops had pretty much nothing to go on. He wondered if Grey being a “local sports star” would encourage some witnesses to come forward. Roan folded up the paper and tossed it on the coffee table, enjoying a swig of sugary caffeinated goodness. “Okay, so you know Switzer.”

“He’s infamous on the East side. He’s one of those ones who wants freebies.”

That was seemingly cryptic, until you realized you were talking to a sex worker who used to hustle on street corners, and then its meaning was nauseatingly clear. “He extorted sex?”

Holden nodded, looking disgusted at the whole thing. “He’d deliberately pick up newbies, youngsters, mostly female, some male, some just street kids and not even prostitutes. He’d say he’d arrest them and bring them in, but he’d let him off if he got a freebie.”

“A fuck.”

“From the boys a blow job. But yeah, that was the deal. If you turned down his oh so generous offer, he’d rough you up, take you in, and say you were beaten when he found you. One woman claimed he planted a rock on her.”

A rock being meth, of course. Roan rubbed his eyes, and wondered if he should just track this motherfucker at home. Nowadays departments cracked down hard on this kind of shit, but bullies with a badge still existed, and when they did, they were horrendously foul little despots. They all deserved to be taken out and shot. “No one’s filed a complaint against him?”

“Not until Jasmine sued, no.”

“Shit.” There was motive. His little fiefdom was threatening to come crashing down, so he takes out the only witness brave enough to say something.

“And he really hated gays. Even if he got what he wanted from a boy, it wasn’t unusual for him to beat them up anyways. Once he beat one up and ran him in, said he resisted arrest, pulled a knife on him. I can’t imagine what he’d do to a transsexual.”

“Will any of these people be willing to testify against Switzer?”

Holden grimaced, his hands tightening like he wanted to make a fist but didn’t dare. “I don’t know. It would depend.”

“On what?”

“On how much protection they’d get.”

“They’re that scared of him?”

“He’s a complete fucking asshole.”

“Well, being a bully and a rapist will get you that reputation.” He sighed wearily and dry washed his face. “What about Michael Brand?”

He shook his head. “No one’s heard of him. Switzer generally works alone.”

Roan didn’t know how to ask it, so he decided to just try and brazen it out. “Were you victimized by Switzer?”

Holden tensed, and gave him a sidelong look of disbelief. “I’ve never been a victim of anyone, Roan.”

“I’m willing to believe you’ve always been supernaturally canny, but you were a newbie kid once yourself. That couldn’t have been a great time.” And the way he tensed, the thin filament of disgust in his voice when he talked about Switzer … something about that felt intensely personal.

Holden stared at him straight on, his eyes flinty and jaw taut. “These are my people, Ro. I may not be on the street anymore, but I still feel that these are my kids, and I don’t like anyone exploiting them. Especially not prick cops with a Napoleon complex.”

Was that really it? Part of it, but Roan was sure Holden was holding back on him. Still, if he didn’t feel like talking about it, who was he to press? He didn’t want to talk about his scars either. So Roan held up his hands as if in surrender and sat back against the sofa. “Fair enough. I’ll make some inquiries, see if I can find out if there’s anyone in the department who’s heard some gossip about Switzer. Cop shops are as gossipy as any other place where there are too many people with not enough to do.”

Holden relaxed in increments. “I can tell you Jasmine wasn’t a hooker. There’s rumors of a drug habit that I’ve been unable to concretely prove. Oh, and our helpful hockey client finally remembered Jasmine lived with a roommate who may still be living in the same apartment. Can we have him tested for brain damage?”

“Wait for the checks to clear first. He give you a name?”

“Brandon something or other.”

“Wow, that’s illuminating. I should have that pared down to a few thousand people by lunchtime.”

“Too late, it’s already lunchtime. Have you two been at it all morning or what?” The usual sparkle in Holden’s eyes returned, and it figured sex was the trigger.

“No.” Not all morning. He had stamina, but at a certain point, you needed sleep. And fluids.

“You know, if you want to do a three way, I’m up to it. Couple of hot guys like you? That’s a freebie. I’m good in three ways. A couple once hired me for an entire weekend.”

Oh, the sordid things you learned about people. “A gay couple?”

He scoffed. “Yeah. I don’t do women. I have nothing against them, but ever since that one time in high school, I don’t even attempt to sleep with them.”

“One time in high school? So you gave it a try?”

“I tried. It didn’t work. Nothing screams “gay boy” like having a raging teenage hard on twenty three and a half hours of the day, and then suddenly being unable to get it up around a naked woman.”

Ouch. “If you didn’t know you were gay before …”

“Yeah, that’s an eye opener. I always felt I deserved credit for trying, but no one would give it to me. Certainly not my preacher dad. Apparently, if I prayed enough, I could’ve gotten wood.” He rolled his eyes in disgust.

“Is that how it works? No wonder I’m gay – I’m an atheist.”

“There you go. Damned from the start. What was my excuse? Oh yeah – according to my dad, my junkie mother. Gotta love hypocrites, don’t you?”

“Love wasn’t the word I would have chosen.”

“Please note the sarcasm.” There was a muted mechanical hum, and Holden reached into his jeans pocket, pulling out a very slim cell phone that Roan recognized as his “work” phone. Meaning the ones only his clients used. Holden checked the number curiously before answering. “Ben, how is my guy today?” His voice had dropped to a sexy, slinky tone, and Roan had to suppress the urge to snicker.

He got up and walked back to the kitchen, mainly because he didn’t want to eavesdrop on this conversation, but also because he was starving. The frappuchino just seemed to be pointing out to his stomach that there was a meat and starch quota not being filled here.

After a couple of minutes, where it seemed Holden was negotiating both a meeting time and a price rate (what was Ben asking for? Oh god, he so didn’t want to know …), and Roan had just pulled some croissants out of the microwave, Holden said, “Gotta roll. I’m meeting Ben at two. But I should be free by three thirty if you need me for anything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Hey, you have a closeted cop friend, right?”

Roan was careful never to mention Kevin by name to anyone in a way that might shed light on his hidden sexuality. But apparently it was known that one of his police contacts was a mutual friend of Dorothy. “Yes. Why?”

”Cause we should really conspire to hook him up with Ben. He’s a great guy, an IT nerd, a bit overweight and the beard does him no favors, but really sweet. Just lonely as all hell and a bit repressed. So your repressed guy and my repressed guy getting together could be dynamite.”

“I’m actually imagining the most awkward Starbucks meeting of all time.”

“Oh sure, studly, you scoff, but not every guy is as hot or as confident as you. Some need a push. More like a shove.”

Studly? “This sounds more like a handcuffing.”

“Ben’s not into the kinky shit. Although he could probably be persuaded if you ply him with enough schnapps and weed.”

He just hadn’t had enough caffeine yet to deal with him right now. “Bye Holden.”

That just made him grin, showing off his whitened teeth. Roan didn’t understand why anyone wanted to whiten their teeth until they looked like sunbleached bones, but there was much about current trends he didn’t understand. It probably just meant he was old. “No need to throw me out, I got the message. Be seeing you.”

“Adios.”

He’d bitten into a steaming hot croissant and was letting the pastry melt in his mouth when Holden paused and turned back. “Oh, one more thing. About the client? A bit obsessed with you.”

Roan almost choked. “What?”

“Not in a gay way, although I’m not a hundred percent certain about that. But he’s definitely fascinated by you. He asked about your scars, if you had a boyfriend, and when we were in the cop shop giving our statements, he asked if any of those cops knew you. He’s way into you.”

He didn’t know what to think about that. “Are you sure you’re not projecting here?”

“Nope. It’s your macho allure, I think. He’s in awe. And why not? You are Batman, after all.”

Roan glowered at him – Holden knew damn well he hated being called that, and seemed to enjoy him getting pissed off about it – but he finally came up with a come back. “Does that make you the Boy Wonder?”

Holden returned the glower. “I will be dead before you get me in elf shoes.”

It was nice to know Holden drew a line somewhere.