by Josh Lanyon
“Jesus. Will…”
“Christ, Tay,” Will groaned from deep in his chest, and sudden wet warmth spread between them.
Taylor closed his eyes, feeling that pulse of warm seed spilling from him, waves of sweet, soft relief washing away the earlier tension and strain.
They lay there for a few moments, shattered, dazed, not minding the hot stickiness gluing them together. Just one of the things that glued them together. When they stopped twitching and trembling, they shifted a little, getting more comfortable, still cradling each other as they tumbled into their separate dreams.
Chapter Three
“In addition to increasing employee accountability, we’ve encouraged our staff members to consciously foster an environment of loss prevention…”
Was there anything more boring than department-head meetings?
Will resisted the temptation to look at his phone as yet another Webster Fidelity manager rose to defend at length why their department did not need some outsider analyzing their security risk and offering unnecessary advice.
The fact that CEO Harvey Reid had kicked off this already very long meeting by reassuring everyone present that American Eagle was not out to “get” anyone, that they were being hired as a preventative measure and solely in an effort to keep up with changing times, seemed to have no effect on “the team.”
It didn’t help that Taylor had not made the meeting.
In fairness, Will hadn’t thought he would. He appreciated that Taylor wanted to be there.
But Taylor’s absence underscored the fact that American Eagle had two consultants and WF had five locations, from San Diego to Yreka, each needing to be personally visited and assessed for possible security threats so that separate and specific contingency protocols could be created—oh, and that Harvey Reid wanted it all done before Webster Fidelity closed for the week between Christmas and New Year’s.
Maybe they shouldn’t have gone into the Private Eye biz after all, because when Will considered the list of services they ostensibly offered their clients, he felt a kind of alarm he had never experienced either in the Marines or in the DSS.
Whose bright idea had this been again?
Oh, right. His.
Also in the column of things he was not thrilled about was the realization that he was going to have his work cut out acting as a buffer between Taylor and Todd Kohl, WF’s pompous and pugnacious head of security.
Kohl was in his forties, short, pudgy, with thinning red hair which he tried to disguise by sweeping it forward in a swoop of bangs that looked like a donkey’s forelock. His favorite things in life appeared to be his impressive-sounding gun collection—wasn’t that a weird thing to mention when first being introduced?—and hunting monster elk. He had never served in the military, and seemed a little defensive about it. In fact, Kohl seemed a little defensive about everything, starting with why CEO Harvey Reid had felt it necessary to hire American Eagle.
Kohl and Taylor were going to be oil and water. Or maybe oil and firewater. Maybe it was just as well Taylor was missing this meeting.
It was clear there would be plenty of other interminable meetings ahead.
Will’s phone vibrated on the wooden conference table like a knock-knock-Fate-calling! moment, and ten pairs of disapproving eyes turned their laser beams his way. Thinking—hoping—it might be Taylor, Will reached for his cell and saw David’s contact profile photo flash up.
His gut twisted in nervous response, which just the thought of David gave him after Paris. Not David’s fault, but the memory of what Taylor had suffered during those forty-eight hours half killed Will. Remembering Taylor’s mocking smile at dinner the night before—and the sight of that Christmas card strategically positioned against the coffee maker…oh, hell no.
He did not have the energy for that.
He rose, nodding apologetically to Reid, and stepped into the hallway. The truth was this meeting was for Webster Fidelity employees, to give them a chance to vent their frustrations and fears. He probably shouldn’t have been present anyway.
On the elevator ride to the lobby, he checked his messages, but other than the now two messages from David, there was nothing of interest. Meaning no word from Taylor yet.
What part of keep me posted did Taylor not understand?
Will reached the lobby, nodded at the portly security guard, who promptly sucked in his belly, and went out through the revolving glass door—which, by the way, needed to be changed out for a ballistic-resistant high-security revolving door.
It was a gray day. The air felt dull and heavy, tainted with smog and car exhaust. A couple of strands of wan white Christmas lights spanned the width of the street, and that was about it for striking a festive note. Spring Street, in the heart of Los Angeles’s financial district, was known as the Wall Street of the West with good reason. It was also a historic district with over ten buildings designated Historic-Cultural Monuments by the Los Angeles Cultural Heritage Commission. A lot of the original Beaux Arts facades remained virtually intact, making the district a popular shooting location for production companies filming period pieces. There were no film crews present that day, but a number of Asian tourists with cameras and a walking tour led by a guy in a fedora passed him as he phoned David back.
David picked up within two rings. “Will, good to hear from you.” David greeted him in that deep, sexy growl of a voice. “How are you?”
“Good,” Will said. “Actually, great. Sorry it took so long to get back to you, David.”
“It’s a busy time of year. How’s your better half?”
That was David having a little joke because he did not consider Taylor to be Will’s better half. Not in any way, shape, or form. They all knew he believed Will had made a serious mistake in choosing Taylor over him. And as much as Will liked David, that made it hard to stay friends.
It was a shame too, because Will shared interests with David that he didn’t share with Taylor—and since when was there a law that a gay man couldn’t have a close same-sex friend?
“Taylor’s fine.” Will remembered Taylor was currently in Carpinteria with his college boyfriend, and suddenly couldn’t think of anything to add.
David chuckled, a warm, friendly sound. “That’s a little terse. I won’t ask. How’s the new business venture?”
David was a perceptive guy. Maybe too perceptive. Will admitted, “Things are different in the private sector, but we’re figuring it out.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute. We should catch up one of these days. In fact, that’s why I called. I’m having a little Christmas party this weekend—just a few good friends, nothing extravagant—and if you and MacAllister don’t have any plans, I’d love you to come. You could spend the night. The guest room is ready and waiting.”
Uh, yeah. That room was going to have a long wait, because this get-together was never going to happen. Will could imagine Taylor’s reaction to learning of David’s invitation. His ears rang just thinking about it.
“It sounds like fun,” he said regretfully. “Unfortunately—well, no, actually, fortunately—we just landed a huge contract, and we’re going to be working right through the holidays.”
David responded, and Will heard the disappointment but not the words because all at once he registered a silver Honda Accord parked across the street. The driver held a pair of binoculars, and the binoculars were trained in Will’s direction.
His first thought was this might be some security threat to Webster Fidelity, but even as the possibility formed, he remembered noting a silver Honda Accord following him off the freeway and onto Spring Street.
Granted, Honda Accords were one of the most popular cars in LA County, but Will was trained to recognize potential vehicle surveillance, and while he was a few months out of practice, he wasn’t that much out of practice.
Nor was it the first time he’d been tailed in the past month, though it was definitely not Stuart Schwierskott behind those field glasses. It might be
another operative from Schwierskott & Associate.
“If you ever need to talk,” David was saying.
“Thanks, David.” Will was no longer listening. “Have a Merry Christmas.” He disconnected, turned, and went back inside Webster Fidelity.
Through the tinted glass windows, he observed the driver of the Honda Accord for a few seconds. There was too much traffic and street activity to get a good look, but he had the impression the driver was male, middle-aged, and probably Caucasian. Frankly, not much of a guess given that middle-aged Caucasian males dominated the security industry.
He didn’t want to leap to conclusions. This guy was not necessarily a pro. Even if he was, there were plenty of people inside and outside this building. Will was not by default the target of surveillance. In fact, a nondescript guy in a nondescript car was not by default conducting surveillance, even if he was holding a pair of binoculars. He could be another tourist, a location scout, a jealous boyfriend.
If he could get a look at the car’s license plates—
In the midst of this thought, the driver of the Honda Accord pulled away from the curb and merged into the flow of late morning traffic.
The meeting with Webster Fidelity’s department heads was followed by another, briefer but equally dull meeting with an alphabet soup of top-tier executives, which was followed by lunch with Todd Kohl, head of security.
And if all that wasn’t enough of a recipe for indigestion, all Will had heard from Taylor since he’d left for Ashe’s Carpinteria beach house that morning were a couple of cryptic messages promising to keep Will updated. Updates promising updates were not actually updates, in case MacAllister didn’t know it.
Anyway, Kohl’s ego had taken a bruising over the hiring of American Eagle. Webster Fidelity did not have an actual Chief Security Officer—that role would be taken on at least temporarily by American Eagle—and Will spent a fair bit of time and money on a nice lunch and a lot of schmoozing.
Midway through the meal he realized there were going to be a lot of lunches like this in his future, and nearly lost his appetite.
Kohl was never going to be their ally, but not having him as an enemy would be a good thing. Will wasn’t sure he had achieved that objective by the time he and Kohl walked out of Nick and Stef’s Steakhouse, but détente had to start somewhere.
By four o’clock he was on the freeway headed back to Ventura, trying to decide whether to phone Taylor or not—and feeling aggravated over his uncertainty—when he noticed a silver Honda Accord lurking several cars back.
“Are you for real?” Will muttered, eyes on his rearview mirror.
He amused himself for a few miles by speeding up and slowing down, and each time, the Honda surged forward or fell back, always preserving a safe distance behind a wall of cars that made it impossible to make out the driver or license plates. Of course, it was always possible this manoeuvring was not maneuvering at all, was merely coincidence, but that was not very likely.
Will considered getting off the freeway and then getting back on just to be sure he wasn’t letting his imagination run away with him, but if he did, the tail would almost certainly know he had been made, and Will would lose whatever element of surprise he had.
Assuming he had any.
He thought it over and then, instead of phoning Taylor, phoned Stuart Schwierskott.
A few weeks earlier, Schwierskott & Associate, a Southland private investigation company, had been hired to conduct surveillance on him and Taylor. Schwierskott had followed them to Oregon, though Taylor had made him almost immediately.
In return for their keeping quiet about his botching the job, Schwierskott had told them everything he knew about who had hired him, which turned out to be pretty much nada because Schwierskott & Associate had been hired by a third party, Gently, Fallis & Landreth, a legal firm better known for their schlocky TV ads than their ethics.
Will had tried to get someone from Gently, Fallis & Landreth to roll over on their client, but with no luck. It just wasn’t as easy to get results without the weight of the federal government behind them.
Besides, as the weeks passed with no further threat manifesting—not even signs of continued surveillance—he and Taylor had been inclined to dismiss the incident as a case of mistaken identity.
It wasn’t like they didn’t have plenty of other things vying for their attention.
Anyway, Schwierskott, the associate in Schwierskott & Associate, owed them for not letting his old man know he’d faked most, if not all, of his surveillance reports, and Will decided to call in that marker.
“Schwierskott,” said the voice on the other end.
“Hey, Stuart, remember me? Will Brandt?”
“Brandt?” Schwierskott’s voice shot up an octave. “What are you calling me here for?”
“I don’t have your home number.”
“My…” Schwierskott’s breathing sounded like someone starting to hyperventilate. “Why are you calling me at all? I thought we had an agreement!”
“We do,” Will assured him. “So long as you continue to cooperate.”
“Cooperate how? Continued cooperation wasn’t the agreement.”
“It is now. Who at S&A is currently handling the surveillance on us?”
Schwierskott gulped audibly. “No one!”
“Eh’nt!”
“W-w-what was that?”
“That was the Wrong Answer buzzer,” Will said. “Try again.”
“It’s true,” protested Schwierskott.
“Stuart, I hate to threaten a forty-year-old man with telling his father on him—”
“I told you the truth. They yanked the account from us.”
“Who did?” Will asked.
“Gently, Fallis & Landreth. They cancelled their contract about a week ago. They were upset about what they called our lack of results.”
Will considered this grimly, watching the Honda Accord speed up to match his unconscious acceleration. Usually it was MacAllister who didn’t trust coincidences. In Will’s experience, coincidence happened. But really, what were the odds here?
“Who’s the contact person over at Gently, Fallis & Landreth?”
Schwierskott said indignantly, “How should I know? I never dealt with them. That’s front-office stuff.”
“Wait a minute,” Will said. “You’re telling me you got back from Oregon and you didn’t have any curiosity about what was actually going on? And you call yourself a PI?”
“Uh, I call myself a private investigator,” Schwierskott said huffily. “And maybe I’m not comfortable sharing that information with you.”
“I don’t know why not. I don’t care what you call yourself.”
“Hardy har har.”
“Look, Stuart,” Will said, “I’m asking for a favor. Professional courtesy, remember? There’s something hinky going on here, and by now you must know that yourself.”
Schwierskott was silent.
“If they’re no longer your client—”
“Dina Shey,” Schwierskott answered abruptly. “She’s who you want to talk to. But be prepared. She is a frosty bitch.”
“Thank you,” Will said, and he meant it sincerely. “I appreciate it.”
“Sure you do.”
Will glanced again at the Honda’s miniature reflection. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. No lie.
He said slowly, “Stuart, do you do any freelancing?”
“Me?” Schwierskott sounded startled. “Uh, well, yeah. I could. Sure. Sure, I do.”
Will considered. He was taking a chance. Schwierskott was kind of a screw-up, and even if he wasn’t—even if Oregon had been a fluke—MacAllister was liable to lose his shit if he ever found out about this.
Schwierskott was saying quickly, eagerly, “You want me to follow up with Shey? I could take a run at her. I’d be—”
“No,” Will cut him off. “No, I’ll handle that angle. This is something else—and you’ll deal directly with me and only me. G
ot that? Don’t call the office. I’ll give you my personal cell number.”
“Okay, sure.” Schwierskott sounded less certain. “This isn’t some kind of shadow op, is it?”
Will managed not to hoot at the idea of bringing Schwierskott in on something like that. “No. This is not some kind of shadow op. This is a completely routine investigation. Rockford 101. But it’s potentially sensitive. It requires discretion.”
“My middle name,” Schwierskott assured him.
This was probably a mistake. He was probably going to regret it. He was definitely going to regret it if MacAllister ever learned of it.
Will ignored the little warning voice in the back of his head. He said, “I need a complete background check on a guy named Ashe Dekker.”
Chapter Four
He had forgotten the house until it rose out of the mist like something remembered from a dream.
Nestled among the avocado orchards in the Carpinteria foothills, the Mediterranean-style mansion offered endless blue ocean vistas and inspirational glimpses of sun-gilded mountains. Not the kind of place you expected to be overrun with squatters, although the library, exercise room, and master bedroom sauna must have made a nice change for them.
There was a tall iron gate at the bottom of the grapevine-covered hillside, but it was standing wide open when Taylor passed through just before eight o’clock.
He drove up to the wide empty courtyard, got out. Though he could see the ocean, the air felt dry and warm, winter sunlight edging everything in gold. Bees hummed industriously in the yucca and scarlet bougainvillea trailing down the stucco walls.
Taylor spotted Ashe sauntering down the wide, shallow, blue-tiled steps, red coffee mug in hand, and raised a hand in greeting.
Ashe wore some kind of embroidered white tunic shirt and something alarmingly like harem pants. “Morning!” he called.
Taylor called back, “Morning.”