by Elle Keaton
He knocked on the car window and Micah’s green eyes caught his, a bee to honey. Just like that, a little frisson of anticipation ran up his spine.
Typically, people either judged Adam for being a gay cop in a culture that still struggled with sexual identity (mostly he raised his inner middle finger to those types) or, if they found out who his father was, they expected Adam to be a secret subversive, a counterculture spy. This faction was also disappointed with Adam’s life choices.
Adam wasn’t ashamed of his father, quite the opposite. Regardless of their differences he was proud of his father’s talent, but Adam had purposefully chosen another path. Besides he couldn’t draw stick figures with any accuracy. He was a regular gay guy with little to no artistic talent who at one point in his life believed he had an obligation to speak for and protect those who were unable to do that for themselves. Now he was a jaded asshole.
Yet here was Micah. A beautiful, shy man who took Adam’s breath away and seemed to want him back. Which scared the living crap out of him. Adam had no idea what the hell he’d thought he was doing by going back to Micah’s house with him. Again.
He couldn’t catalogue what was so compelling about Micah. It was more than his looks, though they didn’t hurt, especially the soft, dark hair that curled like crazy and fell across his eyes when he ducked his head. Klutzy as hell, and damn funny when he finally relaxed.
Micah padded into the living room, a cup of coffee in each hand. He looked sheepish. “I know it’s ridiculous that I spend so much time and money at the Booking Room when I have a machine at home.” Adam realized he was being handed an actual latte. “But I work from home and the walls tend to get pretty close. Go ahead and sit on the couch, it’s clean.” He reddened. “I mean, the cat sleeps there, but I vacuumed it, so no cat hair.” There was no good reason for that simple statement to make Adam imagine Micah naked on the couch. And yet. Shit.
The cat in question had left the room the minute Adam arrived, still not a fan. Micah sat across from him in a big overstuffed chair. He balanced his latte on the extra-wide arm, tucking his feet under himself. Adam knew Micah had zero idea how sexy he was. It was a thing that seemed to happen.
“What did you want to ask me?” Micah’s voice cut over Adam’s imagination.
“Right.” He leaned forward again, elbows on his thighs. He wanted to know how much Micah remembered about his dad’s cases, if he had ever heard of Mitya Matveev.
At that moment, his phone started to vibrate in his back pocket. He looked at the incoming phone number and grimaced.
“I need to take this; it’s Summers.” His voice was sharper than he intended, but then again it was Jack. He watched Micah sip his coffee as Jack informed him that Mr. Abrahams had died in the ambulance. He’d gone into cardiac arrest and they had not been able to revive him. Well, fuck. Also, Jack and Parks had been at the house to inform the Mr. and Mrs. Abrahams that the most recent body had been identified as Jessica Abrahams. Fuck even more.
Twenty-Two
They both needed a break from the gruesome events earlier that day. By mutual agreement Adam drove them to the Beaver for dinner and a couple drinks after hanging up with Summers. They could talk about Matveev later. The news about Jessica Abrahams didn’t surprise Micah as much as Adam expected.
“I tried to report her missing a few days ago. Obviously, I didn’t try hard enough, but the officer at the desk said I couldn’t report an adult who wasn’t a family member. That I couldn’t prove she was endangered,” Micah muttered after a long sip of cider. “Officer Parks, I’ve never liked him.”
“If it makes any difference, I am reasonably certain she’s been dead since sometime last week,” Adam told him.
“I guess. I’m trying hard not to feel like I failed her. After so many years she finally made contact. On the other hand, she was ten years younger than me, was Shona’s irritating friend…maybe she didn’t feel she could until it was too late. I mean, like, maybe coming to me was some sort of Hail Mary? I’m not making sense.”
Adam left Micah half asleep on the couch in the early hours of the morning with his laptop open to his email. The man needed some uninterrupted sleep, and the only way he was going to get it was if Adam wasn’t in his bed.
In his mo-hell room Adam showered and tried not to think about Micah. Failed. Tried not to think about sex with Micah. Failed. Not to think about how it felt waking up in the same bed with Micah. Failed. Having coffee with Micah. Micah thoughts were wearing a groove in what was left of his brain. With the shower water flowing across his shoulders and lack of sleep fogging his common sense, he couldn’t keep images of Micah at bay.
Trying to simultaneously soap up and ignore his semi-arousal proved to be impossible. He gave in and began to stroke himself. He hadn’t been this sexually connected to someone since he was sixteen and figured out what sex was supposed to be like for him. In his mind’s eye he saw Micah’s green eyes, lids heavy, dark with desire. He was looking at Adam, watching him from the other side of the shower curtain as he pleasured himself. His cock jerked in his hand and he could feel his balls start to tighten.
Adam wanted to do things, more things, with Micah and to Micah. He wanted to smell him all over, rub his nose in Micah’s armpits and again in the thatch of dark hair around his cock. Adam wanted so much. He chased the feeling for a few moments, stroking himself up and down, a little turn at the top, feeling the veins pulse, thinking again about how he wanted Micah to touch him back, to stroke his cock and bite his nipples hard enough to hurt a little. Imagining Micah’s soft tongue surrounding his nipples with velvet sent him over the edge. He came so hard he got come on his chin and almost slipped on the shower tiles.
Adam turned into the spray, glad he hadn’t given himself a head injury. Out of the shower, he dug around in his duffel for clean clothes; his casual uniform of jeans and a dark-green Henley. Laundry needed to be done soon; his seven days of shirts was going on eight, but the green one didn’t smell. He lifted his arm, sniffing again; it didn’t smell too bad. It was nice not to wear suits every day as he had for the past decade.
The town started to wake up. He’d hardly slept. His brain kept churning, unwilling to let his body rest. Car doors were slamming and he heard the clatter of feet going down the metal staircase toward the motel parking lot. Sirens in the distance again. A couple bickering as they went to their car, about who had to do the shopping that evening. Normal things. It was the day before Thanksgiving.
The laptop sitting on the counter by the tiny coffeemaker pinged. No doubt he was being raked over the coals for something. When he checked, though, it was the results of background checks he had ordered. Nothing surprising; no obvious red flags.
Jack Summers: thirty-five years old. Which Adam knew because he was thirty-five as well. Divorced for a year, debts spread out reasonably evenly over three credit cards. He probably paid one down and then charged it right back up. His credit wasn’t great, but he wasn’t currently late on any bills. Looked like he still lived on the hill, probably in his parents’ old house. The house had been paid off but was now mortgaged to the gills. He’d been with SkPD for ten years, although he had been passed over several times for promotion.
Natalia Verdugo: single, thirty-three. Maybe they had gone to high school together. Head facilitator at the Center House for teens. Didn’t spend beyond her means. Owned her car and had a house on the north end of town. Had previously been employed in L.A., where she also ran a teen center. Graduated from UW after getting a four-year scholarship. If she had family, it was distant relatives. No boyfriend, or girlfriend. She didn’t travel or throw her money away at the tribal casinos; paid her credit-card bill each month. Very bland.
Still, Adam was curious as to why she had stopped him to have a drink.
Micah Ryan: thirty-four, single, gay. Only surviving member of his immediate family. Financially well-off, credit great. He lived in his parents’ home, which was paid off. Likely from the life-insurance p
ayout after his parents and sister were killed. Worked freelance web design as well as selling articles to various online magazines. As Micah had told him, he’d never even had a parking ticket.
Jessica Abrahams: twenty-two, chronic runaway. Several food-service jobs lasting a few weeks to maybe a month or two. No known permanent address. No credit cards, no monthly bills. Almost as if she hadn’t existed.
Adam wanted to pound his head against the table. He might as well order background reports on the entirety of SkPD, or the entire city and county.
What he needed was some useful information. A scuffling sound came from the breezeway outside his room door, and then someone was pounding on it.
“Jesus Christ, I’m coming, you don’t have to knock the fucking door down!” Adam yelled at whoever was trying to batter his door in.
The door almost hit him in the face when he turned the handle. Adam stepped back barely in time to avoid a bloody nose.
Jack Summers and the heavyset blond cop Sara had scolded the week before filled his entranceway. They were both in full gear, their uniforms bristling with every sort of weapon they were allowed to carry. Adam stepped back further, and they pushed into his space.
“What the fuck, Jack? It’s, uh, nice to see you too. Done with your paperwork on Abrahams?”
“Drop the act, Klay.” Jack’s face was grim.
Adam read the other guy’s badge. Jorgensen seemed to be backing Jack up, although his body language was more hesitant. Adam moved into the seating area where the superbly ugly green couch barely fit against the wall.
“Have a seat. What’s going on?” He hoped for once his laptop had gone into sleep mode so they wouldn’t see the background checks.
“We’re not sitting, Klay. We’re taking you to the station. But if you don’t come voluntarily, well, that’s why I brought Jorgensen.” Jorgensen had the grace to look embarrassed.
“What the hell for?” He was incredulous.
“We’ll talk details at the station. At this point you’re coming in voluntarily or in cuffs.”
Adam wasn’t pleased to learn he was right that, Jack enjoyed throwing his weight around. This was going to end now; then he would figure out what the hell was going on.
“How about I call my boss for you?” He grabbed his phone from the coffee table before Jack could stop him. Glancing at it, he saw he had missed three phone calls and several texts since 7:30. Which was about when he recovered from his shower and began working.
He quickly hit redial. Jack reached over to try to grab his phone, but Jorgensen stopped him with a hand on his arm. Jack was shaking with rage. The phone only rang once on the other end before Mohammad picked up.
“Adam.”
“Situation here. Seems like someone has the bright idea to take me down to the station.” He was furious. Jack made another move toward him. As if Adam would let Jack touch him.
“Go. I will have it sorted out. You really couldn’t keep your nose out of things, could you?” Mohammad said.
“Moham—”
“Adam, please do not further antagonize local police.”
After their aggressive entrance into his room, Summers and Jorgensen now stood impatiently waiting for Adam to get his coat and shoes on. Which he did as slowly as possibly, only to antagonize the guy. Jack looked angry and overdressed, his face was red and there was a vein pulsing at his temple. If nothing else the guy needed a lifestyle change to help lower his blood pressure. Jorgensen looked uncomfortable, but wary. Seemed like someone maybe had more brains than Adam gave him credit for.
Jack’s phone rang and Adam heard a high-pitched voice through the speaker. Adam was so glad not to be on the receiving end of whatever Jack was hearing. He sniggered. That vein started to pulse even harder. It was kind of gross. Jack hung up and left as abruptly as he had barged in, leaving the door wide open and Jorgensen staring after him.
“I’m sorry, Klay. I didn’t know he was going to go postal like that.”
“Stop, you’re giving postal workers a bad rep comparing them to Summers.” Adam smiled to show no hard feelings.
The kid’s phone rang. After he answered, he listened silently and then handed the phone to Adam.
“Mr. Klay, this is Lieutenant Nguyen. Let me make this quick. I apologize on behalf of my department about what happened. Mohammad Azaya got off the phone with me and I understand you are not a suspect, but in fact federal law enforcement. I also understand and appreciate why you are in Skagit right now; my condolences. In light of everything, would you be willing to come and talk with me in my office?”
“Yes. I’ll come by.” Adam was wondering what everything” was, but knew she wouldn’t elaborate over the phone. He wished he could have heard what had to have been the world’s shortest phone call between her and his boss.
“Sooner, rather than later.” Her voice was clipped.
“Is now soon enough? Your guys have already interrupted what I was working on.” He heard a tiny sigh.
“Thank you.” She hung up.
He looked at Jorgensen, who had been staring at the door pretending not to listen to Adam’s half of the conversation.
“Lemme get my stuff together. You can ride back to the station with me.” They both heard the squeal of tires as Jack gunned it out of the parking lot.
Twenty-Three
Thick, acrid smoke rising from the flame-engulfed minivan had Micah’s eyes watering profusely. He tried covering his mouth and nose with his sweatshirt, but the smoke still made him cough. Breathing was difficult. He understood, now, how they had died. How painful it was. Doctors and emergency responders had tried to tell him it had been quick, painless. They had lied.
This dream hadn’t happened in a while, even his dreaming self knew. The minivan had caught fire; he remembered that. He frantically tried running toward the flames, toward his family. He needed to put the flames out, but the heat and smoke prevented him from getting to them. Faces he didn’t recognize pressed against the minivan windows, mouths open with silent screams. He thrashed, forcing his feet to move, to run. He was the only witness, the only hope. Tears streamed down his face.
Micah woke up coughing violently, scraping his lungs from the inside. Heavy smoke filled his living room, piercing sirens sounded close by. A bulky figure kicked his front door open.
Micah kept trying to tell the EMTs he was fine. They insisted on taking him to the emergency room regardless. He had inhaled a lot of smoke; they wanted to run some tests. The fire had been burning for maybe ten minutes before the fire department was called. All Micah could think about was Frankenstein. He tried to ask, but the oxygen mask covered his face and the EMT wouldn’t let him take it off. Finally, he got so agitated they sedated him. Even as he passed out, Micah was angrily noting his name: Sorenson.
At St. Joe’s they set him up in an exam room. He was hooked up to all sorts of beeping machines that measured gas levels or something. The oxygen mask was still on, too. The nice nurse explained what the machines were for, but Micah was too agitated to pay full attention. He finally grabbed the guy’s hand as he chatted about what they were monitoring and croaked, “My cat?” Understanding dawned, and cute J. James exited the room with a promise to see what he could find out. Exhaustion and meds pulled Micah under again, and he drifted off into a dreamless daze.
When Micah resurfaced, Adam was slumped in the single chair he could see from the bed. They’d moved him to a different room; this one had a window. There were three beds, but he seemed to be the only current occupant. His head ached; his mouth felt like he’d slept with a rag in it. A dirty rag. His brain hurt.
Memory came flooding back. It wasn’t only smoke inhalation; he also had a monster headache from the cider last night. He groaned. Adam lifted his head, his hair sticking out in every direction, eyes red full of fear and worry.
“I hope I don’t look as bad as you,” Micah rasped and tried to swallow. “Ugh, can I have some water?”
Adam hit the call butt
on and J. James came in. He authorized ice chips only for the time being.
“The doc is being careful; you were really coughing and wheezing. They’re going to take a chest x-ray, I’m pretty sure.” Micah’s lungs chose that moment to seize up. Adam looked miserable, standing close to pat his back and hold his hand until he could get a breath again. Tears streamed down Micah’s face because holy fucking cow, it hurt to do that.
“Don’t talk. Put the mask back on,” Adam said. “I’ll try to answer your questions. First, Frankie is at the vet getting checked out. Smoke inhalation, like you. Vet thinks he’ll make a full recovery.” Micah sighed in thanks and relief. He loved that stupid, arrogant cat. “They’re not sure about your house. The fire burned hot and did some damage before the engines could get there. I haven’t been over to see it. I came straight here after I’d been reamed by my boss.”
Adam looked so worn out, but Micah needed answers. “Why? How?” he croaked.
“How’d it start, or why was I reamed?”
Micah nodded.
“Yeah, um, the fire marshal was still at the scene last I heard. But it looks like it was deliberate. Which is why they were pounding on my door.” At Micah’s raised eyebrows he continued, “I was seen leaving your place by a neighbor. You were sleeping like the dead. Ugh, terrible description. Ah, anyway. But I had some stuff to do and I knew you were tired and had work piling up. Left you on the couch and fed your cat before I took off. I got working this morning and the next thing I know the Jolly Green Giant was knocking my door down with his sidekick Blue.”
“That’s a really weird reference,” Micah whispered carefully, slipping the oxygen mask back off.
“Yeah?” Adam smiled tiredly at him.
“Why?”
“Why did I get reamed?”
Micah nodded.
“Well. Um. I wasn’t supposed to involve myself in a local investigation. I’m here to clean up my dad’s property, not to work. I know we haven’t talked about it much. But, uh, I’m a federal investigator.”