by Elle Keaton
Beto
* * *
“Don’t let them hurt Troy.” Quinn’s voice was quiet, but Beto heard the words loud and clear. He had no reason to believe Quinn, but he had every reason to suspect Troy Bakker being alive was not what had been planned by whoever had left him in that condition. How had they—assuming the men Quinn was afraid of were the perps—found out Bakker was here? Or was it coincidence? Beto had learned long ago there were few coincidences in police work.
He’d left instructions for the charge nurses not to allow visitors, at least until Troy regained consciousness. If he did. At this point the best protection Beto could offer was spreading the truth: that Bakker was in a coma, visitors restricted to those authorized by Beto or his team.
Quinn shivered and burrowed against his side, clearly trying to get himself under control. Beto let his arm sit where it was, slung protectively across Quinn’s shoulders like it belonged there.
Don’t get involved, Beto.
I’m not involved. He knows more than he’s telling.
You always were a sucker for the underdog.
A person didn’t fake the expression of fear that had crossed Quinn’s elegant features.
“Tell me what’s going on. Why are you here?”
Carsten stepped away, eyeing him. “I’m here to see my friend.”
The urge to strangle Quinn vied with the urge to protect him, to wrap him in his arms and keep him safe from the evil in Skagit. The feelings made Beto irritable.
Because you’re involved already. Quit thinking with your dick.
That was you, Jerry, who had dick for brains.
Beto shook his head against his dead partner’s opinion.
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on. Why was your roommate attacked and left for dead?”
As he spoke, Beto started down the corridor, keeping his arm around Carsten so he was forced to either walk with Beto or jerk away. He came along. About thirty feet down the hallway was a single restroom. Beto pushed inside and locked the door behind them.
Fluorescent lighting was never flattering, but Carsten looked terrible. He was pale even for a Caucasian man, dark circles under his eyes accentuating his pallor. The cap and hood over his head didn’t hide his blond hair; it had slipped out from underneath, lying against his sweatshirt in a tangle.
“You look like shit. And why aren’t you wearing a raincoat?”
“Thanks,” Carsten muttered. “What are we doing in the bathroom?”
“I’m trying to get you to tell me what you know about why your roommate was found close to death on the side of the road.”
“I don’t know anything,” Carsten said stubbornly.
Beto wanted to bang his head against a wall.
“Okaaay.” He drew the word out so Carsten would know Beto knew he was lying. Carsten dropped his gaze. “Who were those men?”
Carsten looked up again. Beto forgot what he was doing for a moment and stared back into his eyes. They were ice blue, like a wolf’s eyes.
Dios, what was wrong with him?
Dick brain.
“Well?” Beto shoved aside inappropriate thoughts of Carsten naked atop Beto’s cerulean blue sheets, curled up against Beto’s body.
“I don’t know who they are,” Carsten whispered as if the men might hear them through the bathroom door, “but I recognize them from … from a few years ago.”
Beto cocked his head to the side, waiting for more.
“I really don’t know who they are, but they’re killers. I haven’t seen them since that one time. I didn’t know they were here, uh, in Skagit.”
Carsten looked away now, staring at a wall or maybe looking into the past.
“They tried to kill me—they think they did kill me. Or, I dunno, maybe they didn’t know I existed, but if I’d died it wouldn’t have mattered to them.” He shrugged against the thought of his own death.
“Why?” Beto asked.
“Why what?” Carsten returned to the present.
“Why did they try to kill you—or why do you think they tried?”
Carsten’s mouth opened and shut. His lips were slightly chapped where he’d been chewing on the bottom one.
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t say, or won’t say?”
Beto knew he was pushing hard, and this conversation was obviously upsetting Carsten. Mierda, when had he switched to Carsten instead of Quinn? Jerry’s voice was notably silent. A cart clattered by outside the door, someone talking as they walked past but their words indecipherable.
Carsten stared at Beto for a minute, his wolf eyes—no, not wolf eyes; his eyes reminded Beto of pictures he’d seen of glaciers floating in the sea off Iceland. Eons to freeze that solid and create an unreal shade of blue.
When Carsten spoke, his voice was low, measured. “Have you ever been afraid?”
“Afraid how?”
“Afraid for everything, afraid that your next breath could be your last and there was nothing you could do to stop it from happening? You were utterly powerless?”
“Are you afraid now? Of me?”
Carsten shook his head. “No. I gave up being afraid. But those men out there, they are part of why I used to be afraid.”
Beto couldn’t say what made him lift a hand and stroke Carsten’s cheek. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, his skin rough under Beto’s fingers. Beto traced the line of Carsten’s chapped lower lip with his thumb, barely breathing, drowning.
He dropped his hand, feeling like a creep. “My apologies; that was incredibly unprofessional.” He shook his head. “You confuse me.”
“And you always touch people who confuse you?” Carsten asked quietly.
“Mmm, I have a track record of not making the best choices when it comes to—”
“Men? Sex?”
“All of the above. But we’re not here to discuss my problems. I need you to tell me what your roommate and you are involved in. It’s the only way I can protect you.”
“Protect me?” Now Carsten’s tone was mocking. “Nobody protects me, I protect myself.”
“Was Bakker protecting you?”
“No. Can we be done with this now? I probably didn’t recognize those guys—it was a mistake. Am I allowed to leave?”
“I’m not keeping you here.” Beto knew when he’d lost. Carsten was afraid, regardless of what he claimed, and nothing Beto said or did right now was going to change that. He had recognized those two men, and Beto needed to find out who they were.
“I’ll do what I can to keep your friend safe.”
Carsten didn’t reply, as if he didn’t place a lot of faith in Beto’s efforts. He opened the bathroom door and peeked out, first looking one way and then the other, before darting toward the elevators.
That went well.
* * *
Troy Bakker was still alive. Barely. The nurses assured him they’d kept visitors away. Yes, there had been a couple of men who’d said they were relatives, but they’d been told no visitors until he was stable.
“We can’t always be here, though. This is a busy floor, Detective Hernández. Our job is to care for the patients, not guard them. If there really is a threat to this patient, that’s something for you and your colleagues to handle, not us.”
* * *
Out in the waiting area, Beto dragged his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number he’d only called a few times since he’d been in Skagit. The point was to work unnoticed, not bring the entire PNW team of federal investigators to the attention of the men they were so very close to taking down.
“Hola,” Natalia Gómez answered. She and Beto had both grown up in Southern California and found their way to the FBI. Different tracks, same results.
“Hola. I can’t chat long, but I need protection on someone here in Skagit—at St. Joseph’s. I suspect he’s linked to our investigation somehow.”
“That’s all you’ve got, a suspicion?”
Beto turned so he was looking out the
window into the parking lot. He didn’t see a sign of Quinn.
“Yeah. Troy Bakker—possibly the son of the Bakker who founded that megachurch out in the county.”
“The same Bakker whose name keeps popping up?” He could hear Gómez processing that information.
“Sí, the same. I found Bakker, Troy, by the side of the road two nights ago—it was pure chance.” Beto told her about how the dog had led him to the body.
He heard a long sigh. “What aren’t you telling me?”
There was a reason why Gómez had climbed the ladder faster than he had, but Beto wasn’t ready to tell her about Carsten Quinn.
“All right, we’ll have him moved to a more secure room with a guard, but you know as well as I do that doesn’t always work.”
“It’s a start. Also, can you have someone grab the surveillance feed from the hospital entrances?”
“Why?”
“Somebody tried to get into Bakker’s room today, and I want to see if I recognize faces.”
“I’ll have Nate or Weir do it.”
After clicking off, he made his way back to the elevators and down to the parking lot where he’d left his car. It had been one fucking long day. He was ready for bed. Thoughts of Carsten Quinn chased him into sleep.
* * *
A few days later, Beto stopped in his tracks on his way to his desk. A large pink box sat on his station, beckoning like a siren. He enjoyed doughnuts as much as the next cop, but he generally wasn’t on the receiving end of a gift box of confectionary delight. The SkPD locals tended to look down on the LA detective who’d been hired in as new blood, and there was nothing to celebrate: The body from the river had not been identified; Troy Bakker was still unconscious. About the only good thing going on was the dog. He really enjoyed having her at home.
He eased the top open and looked inside. The thought of having to go for a run in the rain made him shut it again, and he shoved it across to the empty desk to deal with later. Who would buy him doughnuts? His employment was ostensibly part of an effort to diversify the SkPD, and not everyone on the force was happy about it. He was generally not a part of the “Hey, you need a coffee?” crowd. When and if they found out he was actually a Fed, well, he was sure the reactions would be even more negative.
The bullpen was quiet as Beto glanced around. A quiet bullpen meant something was going on; there was always some kind of conversation or keyboard clatter. He made out shadowy forms in Nguyen’s office, but there was no yelling; whoever was in there wasn’t in trouble. Leaving his rain parka on the back of his chair, he headed to the coffee station.
Dickson was sitting at his desk on the other side of the room. Beto had made an enemy there. In hindsight, he should have held his temper and talked to Nguyen, but Dickson had driven him to the breaking point, and now the two of them were going to have to work in the same space until one of them left—and it wasn’t going to be him. Or at least he wouldn’t be going the same direction as Dickson.
Coffee in hand, Beto made his way back to his desk. He’d spend the rest of the morning doing paperwork. He’d check in with St. Joe’s and see if Gómez had come up with the surveillance tape. And he had a dog to walk.
The sight of someone sitting at the desk opposite his had him stopping short for the second time that day.
What the fuck. The mystery of the doughnuts was solved: They were intended for Jorgensen.
Soren Jorgensen, the newest minted and youngest detective on SkPD, was emptying a banker’s box of belongings into and onto the no-longer-empty desk across from Beto’s. The box of doughnuts had been pushed to one side; everyone at the station teased Jorgensen about his doughnut habit.
Jorgensen was another specimen, much like Carsten Quinn, who been spawned by that reckless Norse god. He was a bigger model than Carsten, easily six four, broad shouldered, with white-blond hair he kept cut close to his scalp. Jorgensen continued to unpack the box while Beto watched.
The caffeine caught up with him.
“No, no, no. No fucking way.” He ground the words out quietly, but they still carried across the pen. Dickson snickered, as did a couple other useless SkPD officers.
Jorgensen looked at him, mild reproach in his clear blue eyes. Again, a different blue from Carsten Quinn’s: Jorgensen’s eyes were warmer. Beto gulped his coffee. The hot liquid scalded his tongue and burned his throat. Nothing less than he deserved, he supposed.
“Chief Nguyen,” Jorgensen paused to let the chief part sink in, “requested you catch me up on the cases you’re working on.” Beto wondered what else she’d told the young cop.
He didn’t want to show Jorgensen any cases, or the ropes, or bond with him. He wanted Jerry back. They’d been a well-oiled machine, knowing each other so well they sometimes didn’t have to speak. Their success rate had been high because they were good investigators who worked well together. On and off the streets.
It wasn’t Jorgensen’s fault, Beto told himself. He was merely the last detective left standing. Dickson and his cronies, and probably Jorgensen himself, thought Beto was pissed about Jorgensen being assigned as his partner. Nothing could be further from the truth. Jorgensen, Beto was nearly one hundred percent certain, was one of the clean cops on SkPD, but Beto didn’t have time to train him. Not while his real investigation was starting to heat up.
Beto set his coffee cup down on his desk. Jorgensen eyed him warily. Beto picked up his parka from where it was draped across the back of his chair and pulled it on. He’d talk to Nguyen about this later. “Let’s go for a ride.”
“Do I get to drive?” Jorgensen grabbed a practical-looking rain jacket from his own chair.
“Don’t push your luck.”
* * *
“Where’re we going?” Jorgensen asked as he buckled his seat belt. They were going to need a bigger car assigned to them now that he had the Hulk in the passenger seat.
“I need to check on something at my house, then St. Joe’s.”
“Okay.”
Beto appreciated that Jorgensen didn’t ask why they were stopping at his house, just accepted that was where they were headed. Soren was quiet on the drive; he didn’t pepper Beto with questions or, as Dickson had done, share with him what a great cop he was as well as god’s gift to the women of Skagit.
As usual, Freya was delighted to see Beto. He felt bad leaving her alone, but she seemed to be fine as long as he checked on her and she got somewhat-regular walks. He’d promised her he’d check on her today. She welcomed Jorgensen with a wiggle and hand kisses. The radio he’d left on in the background was talking about how the rain was back and the river waters were rising again and what people needed to do to stay dry and safe.
“What’s her name? She’s beautiful.”
Dammit, the kid was going to get on his good side through the dog he didn’t own. Maybe he should see about some sort of dog door?
“Freya. She showed up the other night.” He didn’t tell him about the dog probably belonging to Troy Bakker or that he’d stopped by the Bayern Arms to question Carsten Quinn. Or that he’d seen Quinn at St. Joe’s. Nguyen might think they’d work well together, but Jorgensen was still going to have to earn Beto’s trust. Even if he was a clean cop; even then there were secrets.
Soren knelt down to Freya’s height. “What a sweet dog! You’re amazing!” He gave her enthusiastic ear scratches, and Freya rewarded him with big doggy kisses across his cheeks.
Beto let Freya out to do her business and checked her bowls.
Jorgensen stood and glanced around. “Nice place.”
Beto tried to look at his house with a fresh perspective. He was proud of the work he’d done to make it a place to come home to. If he was going to be alone, it might as well be in a place he enjoyed. The first thing he’d done was paint the interior. Nothing was better than a fresh coat of paint; instead of beige, the living room walls were now a pale green. The tiny kitchen he’d painted deep crimson, and his bedroom was ocean blue. Beto might not like to
wear color, but he liked to look at it.
Artwork he’d collected over the years hung on the walls. He generally bought unknowns, though some had since become, if not household names, at least established artists. Again, he tended toward bold colors and strong lines. His collection was something else Jerry had teased him about.
The thought of his dead partner made his heart clench. Jerry’s death had left a gaping hole that still hurt.
Jorgensen was watching him. Beto realized he’d never responded; he’d been lost in thought.
“Thank you, I like it.”
Jorgensen opened his mouth to say something, but both their phones started to buzz. Two cop phones going off at the same time was never good news. He let Jorgensen take the call while he filled Freya’s water dish. They never made it to St. Joe’s.
9
Carsten
* * *
Carsten hadn’t slept well since the cop had come by asking about Troy—certainly not since he ran into Detective Hernández in the hospital. Only recently had it occurred to him that he and Troy didn’t have a backup plan. Would he be able to finish what Troy started? The waste of humanity who had Skagit under their thumbs, who lured street kids and other vulnerable young people with promises of a better life but instead made it a living hell—those shits needed to be taken down.
It was Troy who’d come up with the plan to begin with. Since the supposed authorities weren’t able to do anything about the men and no one was safe until they were gone, he and Carsten would do it themselves. Too many lives had been lost or ruined already. There was no more time, and they were the only ones with the knowledge. Troy was the only one with the knowledge. Though if anything happened, Carsten knew where the evidence they’d gathered was hidden. Six months in, Carsten had only seen Troy a few times, conversations too short to be anything more than proof of life. And the detective’s visit had shattered Carsten’s carefully built illusion of safety.
He couldn’t think about that right now. And he couldn’t stop thinking about it. So instead he thought about the new guy.