by Hank Edwards
After a half hour of cardio, Mark used the free weights followed by more stretching. He felt good, better than he'd expected after the drive from Washington, DC, and he left the fitness center without a hint of nervousness. When he returned to the room, he sent Pearce a text about his morning before getting into the shower. The short response he received back gave Mark the impression that Pearce was busy, so he left him alone.
He got dressed, set the zipped-up suitcase in a corner of the closet, grabbed his wallet and phone, and left the room. Only two other guests were in the hotel coffee shop, and he sat at a window table and lingered over coffee and a croissant. Since Pearce was busy, Mark sent Calvin a text and let him know he was in Detroit. Moments later, his phone buzzed with a call from Calvin, and Mark smiled as he answered.
"Hi there," Mark said.
"What are you doing here in town?" Calvin asked. "Is everything okay?"
Mark laughed. "Yes, everything is fine. I just needed to do this, you know?"
"Needed to do what? Put yourself in the crosshairs of a serial killer?" Calvin asked.
"No," Mark replied. "I needed to be here to do whatever I can to help."
"Okay," Calvin said, but by his tone, Mark knew he didn't understand or, most likely, agree with Mark's actions. "What did your hunky agent husband have to say about it? He does know, doesn't he?"
"Oh, he knows," Mark said. "And he's not my husband. Not yet, anyway. He was, shall we say, agitated?"
"Mm-hm."
"What is this? Are you two working together or something?"
"If you're referring to us being worried about you and not wanting anything bad to happen to you, then, yes, we're conspiring to keep you alive and well. We apologize from the bottom of our cold and ruthless hearts."
Mark rolled his eyes. "Gee, thanks."
"You're welcome. So where are you staying?"
"With Pearce at his hotel."
"Very nice," Calvin said. "Unless it's like one of those X-Files motels where they always stuck Mulder and Scully."
"Um, no, it's not like that. It's much nicer."
"Good to know our tax dollars are good for something," Calvin said. "I suppose since it’s after noon you've already had lunch?"
"Nope. Just a cup of coffee and a croissant so far."
"Perfect. I'll come down there and take you to lunch."
"You don't have to work?"
"Bitch, please. I'm very important around here. I can come and go as I please."
Mark laughed, and it felt so foreign and so good he wanted more of it.
"That would be awesome. When can you come?"
"Now you sound like most of my Grindr dates," Calvin muttered. "How about an hour?"
"Perfect. I'll be waiting outside the main lobby."
"How about you wait inside?" Calvin suggested.
"Oh for God's sake, Calvin. Morgan's not going to grab me off the curb in broad daylight."
"All right, but I'm going on record as having suggested you wait inside the hotel."
"Noted."
"I'll see you in an hour. And I'm paying."
"What? Why?"
"Because I have two jobs and you have none. Any more questions?"
Mark grinned. "Not right now."
"Good. I'll see you soon."
Mark disconnected the call and sipped his coffee as he watched the people and traffic pass by. He caught himself scratching at the tiny scar on the inside of his left elbow and lowered his hand. The hard part was done, he'd taken a big first step and driven hundreds of miles on his own, something he hadn't thought he'd ever be able to do again. Now he was here, in his hometown, with a gun in his bag and sharing a hotel room with Pearce. What could be safer than that?
Over brunch he would ask Calvin for any ideas he might have on how Morgan was getting in touch with his victims, and then make sure that Pearce talked with Calvin as well. He wished he could have a look at the case files and see some of the details, but maybe it was best if he just thought about the possibilities without having that depth of knowledge. Maybe in that way, he could approach the case from a different angle than Pearce and his partner.
He hoped he'd get a chance to meet Agent Perrin at some point along the way. He was interested in seeing the man in person after the brief and fuzzy image of Jake he'd seen in the video clip as well as Pearce's description of him: He could do porn. But probably, like, lazy straight guy porn, you know? Some hip thrusting, some breast fondling, and then the screwed-up expression for the money shot.
Mark finished his coffee and left some cash on the table before he returned to the room. He brushed his teeth and checked his appearance in the bathroom mirror, then stepped to the window and looked out on the city again. A few moments later, his gaze drifted to the sliding closet doors behind which he'd stowed his bag. The gun was there, buried beneath his clothes, and now that he thought about going out in public, even if he was with someone he trusted like Calvin, he was starting to feel the first twinges of panic.
He caught himself scratching at the scar on his elbow again and crossed his arms. It was ridiculous to consider taking the gun with him when he was just going to brunch with Calvin. Besides, he didn't have a license to carry it, and how would that look if he misjudged a situation and pulled the gun? What could possibly happen on a brilliantly sunny day, anyway?
Although it had been just as sunny back on Barbados that day he had been taken.
Mark shook his head and turned away from the window to pace the room.
He said the words quietly as he stepped back from the edge of panic: "You're safe, you're well, and they cannot harm you. You're safe, you're well, and they cannot harm you."
Reciting the familiar words helped. The tightness high in the center of his chest loosened a bit, and he was able to take longer, deeper breaths. He clenched and opened his fists several times in a row. He'd come to a stop in his pacing right in front of the closet, and he reached out to slide the door open and look in at his bag.
No, he wasn't going to arm himself. Not yet anyway. He slid the closet door shut and gave himself a single firm nod. Later he would tell Pearce he'd brought the gun with him and most likely deal with another wave of anger. But then he could lock it in the room safe along with Pearce's personal items. As it was, he didn't know the combination Pearce was using.
Mark splashed water on his face again and checked to make sure he had his cell phone, wallet, and room key card. He stood with his hand on the doorknob for a moment, took several deep breaths, then stepped out in the hall and headed for the elevators.
So far, so good.
18
"I can't look at another file," Jake said with a growl in his voice as he pushed up out of his chair.
As Jake stood and stared at the victims on the board, Pearce's gaze kept straying to the picture of Tristan Winfield they'd added. Earlier that morning, they'd interviewed Tristan's grief-stricken family, including his mother and father who had not known their son was either gay or questioning his orientation.
"Why wouldn't he tell us?" his mother had asked in a quiet, bewildered voice.
"He was afraid you'd kick him out," Tristan's younger brother had explained.
"We would never turn you boys out on the street," his mother had said, and she became so emotional she could no longer continue answering questions.
They got the first names of a few friends from Carter, Tristan's younger brother, but not much else. Tristan was nineteen and had been attending University of Michigan's Dearborn campus. He had not yet decided on a major but was interested in hotel management. While all of that was important to know about Tristan, it didn't help them get any closer to identifying his killer. Now that he had the names of Tristan's friends—Eddie, Pete, and Dan—Pearce planned to return to Danglers that night and question the staff and see if he could track the men down. It was a long shot, but it was the only shot they had at the moment.
Their questioning of Moonif Ali Kassab the day before had gotten
them nowhere, and they'd turned him over to Homeland Security for further questioning about the Kings of Rebellion. That left them back at square one, and if Jake was feeling even half as frustrated as Pearce, they needed to step back and realign their approach.
"Let's get a coffee," Pearce suggested. "My treat."
Jake turned and gave him a look filled with suspicion. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you treating?"
"Because I'm a fucking nice guy," Pearce replied, then held his hands up in mock surrender. "But if you don't want me to buy you a coffee, then I'm fine with that."
"No, I'll allow it."
"Oh, you'll allow it?" Pearce repeated. "You'll allow it? Well, thank you, Agent Perrin, for allowing me to spend my hard earned dollars on a coffee for you."
"You're very welcome," Jake said with a grin.
They were both smirking as they took the elevator to the lobby. Once they reached the street and turned toward Motor City Grinders, Jake started talking.
"Tristan matches the MO of the first three victims to a T," Jake said. "Leaving Erik Hamill as the only standout."
"Yep," Pearce replied, stuffing his guilt over Tristan down into a deep hole within him. "We know his physical description doesn't match but can't figure out why."
"Think he was in the wrong place at the wrong time?"
Pearce thought about Mark arriving at his hotel. Was he going to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time as well?
"Most likely. But when and where and with who?"
"You seem distracted," Jake said. "Something else going on?"
He didn't want to do it, but he had to let Jake know about Mark. "I had a surprise visitor last night."
Jake frowned at him. "Did you go out to the bars? You said earlier you'd slept straight through."
"I did not go to the bars, and I did sleep straight through. However, when I woke up, I had a line of text messages waiting, some of which were from Mark telling me he was in the lobby of my hotel."
Jake stopped just outside the door of the coffeehouse, his eyes wide. "Mark flew in yesterday?"
"He didn't fly in," Pearce replied. "He drove."
Jake blinked several times as he processed that. "He drove here? On his own?"
"Yep. All by himself."
"But I thought you said he was…"
Pearce nodded. "Recovering from what happened on Barbados? He is."
"Is this some kind of breakthrough then?" Jake asked.
"Some kind, I guess."
"Holy shit. That must have been a surprise."
"In a manner of speaking, yeah."
Jake stood in silence a moment, his gaze focused on a car parked at the curb. "Wow. Just… Wow."
"I know, I feel the same way." Pearce pulled open the door and waved for Jake to precede him inside.
"So were you angry or glad to see him?" Jake asked.
Pearce stared at the order board even though he knew what he was going to get. He had needed to tell Jake about Mark's arrival, but he wasn't sure how much about their relationship he wanted to divulge. He already felt an uncomfortable sense of guilt—or something close to that—that he had told Jake about Mark's abduction on Barbados. In one aspect, it had been nice to talk about it with someone completely removed from the situation. On the other hand, he hadn't known Jake Perrin all that long, and he wasn't really sure why he'd opened up to the man so quickly.
Maybe you've been needing to open up to somebody for a while now, an inner voice whispered.
"I was angry at first," Pearce admitted. To avoid looking at Jake, he stepped up to place his order, and then waved toward him. "And whatever he's having."
Jake ordered an extra-large cappuccino with two shots of espresso. Pearce looked at him with raised eyebrows.
"You planning to sleep at all in the next couple of days?" Pearce asked.
"Not with our stalled investigation," Jake replied and smiled. "Thanks for the drink, by the way."
Pearce frowned at the total but handed over his debit card without comment as he gave Jake a surly look. "You buy the next three."
"With your plain old coffee order? Deal."
"I may be changing my tastes," Pearce said, taking his card back and moving to the other end of the counter.
"So, you yelled at him, and then you two kissed and made up?" Jake asked.
Pearce refused to look at him. "Something like that."
"No wonder you're so much calmer today," Jake said. "You got laid last night."
"Will you keep it down, please?" Pearce asked in a quiet voice as he looked around at the few people sitting nearby.
"Well, it's not like I said you got gay-laid, is it?" Jake asked. "I just said you got laid."
The barista handed over their drinks and smirked at Pearce. "Congrats on getting gay-laid."
Pearce gave Jake a stony look. "See?"
Jake sipped his drink. "Sorry."
They stepped back out on the sidewalk and walked slowly toward the building housing the Bureau offices.
"So now where do we go?" Jake asked. "We have zero leads except the three very common first names of Tristan's friends. Do we go back to the bars?"
"Most likely," Pearce replied. "A good friend of Mark's works at the LGBTQ Community Center in Ferndale, and also at a bar called the Bone Yard on Friday nights. He worked closely with Erik Hamill, too. I was thinking of meeting up with him and seeing what he knows."
"The Bone Yard?" Jake grinned and shook his head. "The names of these places."
"You gotta love the creativity," Pearce said.
"So is he a bartender?"
"Deejay."
"Interesting." Jake nodded and stopped outside the doors of the building. "He must be pretty upset about Erik if he worked with him. Did you check to see if the police interviewed him already?"
Pearce nodded. "I looked through the file and found his name mentioned a few times, but no notes had been taken about the interview. That leads me to believe the detective didn't think he had anything useful to add."
"He may be able to provide some different information than the bartenders he works with," Jake said. "Plus he'd have a better view of how guys interact on the dance floor, and maybe he's seen someone with each of the victims."
"That's my line of thinking as well," Pearce said. "And he could have some other insights as well, with his work at the community center outside of the bar scene. Maybe the victims were abducted somewhere other than a bar."
"I like that, too." Jake looked out over the traffic flowing past, his eyes unfocused as he thought about it.
"Anyway, that's what I'm planning to do tomorrow night," Pearce said.
"Sadly, you'll be on your own," Jake said and opened the door, holding it for Pearce to enter.
"Such a gentleman," Pearce grumbled as he walked past him. "I take it you selfishly have personal plans Friday evening?"
"You are correct, on all counts."
They stepped into an elevator with a number of other agents. Pearce grinned as he looked up at the numbers flashing above the doors, then asked, "You have a date?"
"Maybe," Jake replied.
"Maybe? I'm thinking it's not a date," Pearce said. "If it was, I think you'd jump on the opportunity to brag about it. I believe you have an obligation for a family event."
A couple of the other agents chuckled, and from the corner of his eye, Pearce saw Jake flash them a dirty look.
"Out with it," Pearce said. "Which aunt's birthday is it?"
"You're an ass," Jake said.
The elevator doors opened, and they exited along with two other agents.
"Tell your Aunt Helen she looks great for her age," one of the agents called after them.
"Your mother, Pollock," Jake shot back.
"Is she your date for Saturday?" Pollock retorted, and Pearce chuckled.
Bata was waiting for them in the conference room. He stood before the map of Detroit, his arms folded as he looked at Tristan's picture.
"Agents," he said without looking around at them. "How is your investigation progressing?"
"Not as well as we'd like," Jake replied.
"What avenues have you not yet pursued?" Bata asked, and turned to face them.
"More visits to the families of the victims," Pearce replied. "Get a deeper list of their friends and acquaintances and question them. We're going to talk to staff at Danglers and try to track down Tristan Winfield's friends, even though all we have is first names."
"Tristan's phone has not been recovered?" Bata asked.
"No sign of it yet," Jake replied. "We searched the area and patrol officers walked a grid, and none of us came up with it."
"Shame," Bata said. "But consistent with the other victims." He approached and stood a few feet away, dark eyes flicking between their faces. "Seems to be a good chance to go out and pursue some true leads. There has been no further progress on locating other Kings of Rebellion members?"
"No, sir," Jake replied, and then grabbed some files off the table. "Just need to get the addresses and names."
"With this most recent murder, the national news channels have taken an interest, so this investigation will be under even heavier scrutiny." Bata looked between them. "As you are seasoned Bureau agents, I do not believe I need to explain what that means for you both."
Pearce shook his head. "No, sir. You do not."
"I expect daily updates on your progress or lack thereof." Bata nodded once, then stepped past them and left the room.
"Good thing I ordered two shots of espresso in this," Jake said as he held up the coffee as though proposing a toast.
"Kind of wish I had now as well," Pearce said.
"Grab the folders and let's get a car."
Pearce scooped up the folders and followed Jake down the hall to the elevator. All joking and humor was gone now, and they rode down to the garage in brooding silence. It didn't take long for Jake to sign out a car, and soon he pulled out of the garage into the flow of traffic.
"Where are we headed?" he asked.
Pearce opened a folder on his lap to look at the name. Thomas Dougherty, age twenty-six. Last seen leaving the bar Manjitos just before closing time on a Saturday morning. He had been out celebrating his recent promotion. Pearce's gut clenched at the picture of a handsome young man with a big smile.