by Tinnean
Well, he didn’t—not yet, anyway.
Or did he think I was going to criticize Adams? In that case, he’d be wrong. I didn’t belong to any of the factions that tended to second-guess around the water cooler the activities of other agents, and if I pissed and moaned about someone, it would be to their faces.
Adams already knew what I thought of him. He made it a point of being elsewhere when he saw me coming.
“Matheson, we’re in WBIS headquarters. If there’s a safer place to speak plainly, I don’t know of it. Now tell me in words of one syllable: is the geek dead?”
“Yes, sir. I also left a suicide message on his monitor.”
“Interesting touch.” I’d seen a copy of it. I’ve betrayed those who trusted me, and I can’t live with myself any more. I’m sorry. Nice and vague. “More importantly, Huntingdon security assures me the authorities bought it. You did a good job.” I got to my feet and crossed to where the printer was hissing quietly and the features of the young woman were gradually being revealed. “I have another job for you. This is Diane Coyne.”
“I’ve… uh… I’ve never canceled a woman, sir.”
“You won’t be now. This is a simple tail.”
“Yes, sir.” He looked relieved. And then his expression was wiped smooth.
“Her father, Alvin Coyne, is a personal friend of Senator Franklin. That’s why she was given the position of junior intern.”
He met my eyes. “And that’s why she can’t simply vanish.”
“Yeah.” I took the paper from the tray and handed it to him, and he studied the picture. Her hair was a mousy brown and her eyes a pale blue. The large-framed glasses she wore made her look like a myopic Minnie Mouse.
“Is she well?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“What I mean to say is someone should have told her lavender-tinted lenses don’t go well with her complexion. And she really should eat more too. She looks as if she hasn’t had a decent meal in ages.”
I didn’t laugh, although he had that right. I cleared my throat. “I want to be kept aware of her activities until she boards a jet bound for home. Senator Franklin is having someone in his office work on getting her out of the Capital, ASAP. In the meantime, I want to know if she meets with Daren Curtin.”
“Daren Curtin, sir?”
“He’s one of the ones who’re behind this plot to make the WBIS lose our funding. Howard’s keeping an eye on him. Okay, now, I’ve already sent her file with all the pertinent information to your computer. You have my cell phone number. Get going.”
“Yes, sir.” He rose, wincing again as muscles pulled, but his gait was smooth as he left my office.
This delegating really had something to say for itself.
I grinned. And I hadn’t thought of Quinn in that entire length of time.
IV
IT WAS later than I realized by the time I finished going over the files for Josephson’s op, which was nothing more than a simple response to a request for aid. The files themselves held nothing out of the ordinary, and I began to drum my fingertips on my desk.
There was nothing to account for his delay in reporting in.
I pulled up his file from Personnel. After some extensive digging, I found that he’d had an official reprimand for doing something like this back when he’d first been recruited; a woman had been involved. That was eight years ago, though, and his record had been squeaky clean—well, for a WBIS agent—since then.
Still, if he’d gotten involved with a woman once, there was nothing to say he hadn’t again.
The Mossad didn’t usually work with the WBIS, just as the WBIS didn’t usually work with the other intelligence organizations, but this was the new millennium and the times, as The Boss was fond of saying, they were a-changin’.
After sending the Mossad an e-mail, with my demand for information couched as a thinly veiled request, I decided I’d done as much as I could for one day and shut down my computer.
Putting on the Ritz was finally open, and I returned the tux. The little man was there—didn’t he have a life?—and he tried to talk me into buying a tux. I thought he was going to burst into tears when I said “no,” so I wound up promising him I’d be back in a week or so.
And since it wasn’t too far from Putting on the Ritz, I stopped at Beau Brummel’s as well, to replace the pajamas I’d bought for Quinn. I’d liked how he looked in them, but I’d liked even more how he looked after I tore them off him.
A glance around as I entered showed a different staff, mostly young men who were in their early twenties.
“May I help you, sir?” One of them, who looked like he should have been in a fraternity, approached me.
“No, thanks. I know what I’m looking for.” The drawer that had contained those pajamas had another pair in his size. I found myself stroking the black silk. Jesus, it was soft.
Maybe I should buy an extra pair.
“That style is very popular.”
I could imagine why. I stared at them thoughtfully for a minute, then looked to see if there was another pair in his size.
Kismet.
“I’ll take two. They won’t need to be wrapped this time.”
“This time?” He took them to the register and began ringing up the purchase.
“Yeah. I’ve bought a pair here before.” I was surprised my credit card didn’t whimper—yeah, I had to charge it this time. If I’d known I was going to do this kind of heavy-duty shopping I’d have hit my bank. Seriously, who carried seven hundred bucks in his wallet? Except maybe Donald Trump?
But hell, Quinn was worth it.
“Oh. Your boyfriend must be something special!”
“Excuse me?”
“Well….” He folded some tissue paper into a medium-sized shopping bag with the blue and silver Beau Brummel logo embossed on it and put the pajamas in it. “I can tell these aren’t your size, and a man certainly doesn’t buy something like this for his father! I wish I had a boyfriend who would think of something like that for me. I could get him such a great deal with my employee discount.”
In spite of myself, I found myself asking, “Then why not buy them yourself?”
“It wouldn’t be the same.” He pushed the credit slip across the counter toward me. “If you’ll sign here? Thank you, Mr. Wells.” He handed me back my credit card. “If… uh… if it doesn’t work out, maybe you’ll come back? We could go for a cup of coffee?”
“I’m too old for you.”
“Oh, I like older men! Besides, you can’t be more than twenty-five!” He flirted his lashes at me. “Thirty, tops!”
“Sorry—”
“Please! Say you’ll at least think about it?” I shook my head, and his lower lip thrust out in a pout. “I hope your boyfriend appreciates you!”
I thought about the way Quinn blew me, took the receipt and the bag, and started to walk out.
“Come back and see us soon!” he called after me. “Have a nice day!”
V
I WENT to my apartment, and after packing the sword in the trunk of my car, I returned to five and examined my rooms more thoroughly. Fortunately, my computer had escaped unharmed.
Although… Quinn had been here. I didn’t want to think he might have tried to fuck with it, but hell, he was CIA, and how much could you trust a spook? But when I turned it on, it gave no sign of anyone having gone near it since I’d shut it down the other night. I supposed I should mentally apologize to Quinn for thinking the worst of him…. Okay, sorry, Quinn.
As long as I didn’t have to say the word to his face.
I pushed it out of my mind; I had a shitload of stuff still to do. I made a list of books, videos, and music I’d need to replace.
And yeah, it was depressing, but fuck it, they were only things. What bothered me the most was the fact that Pretty Boy had been seriously hurt, simply because he was my friend.
He’d been in the hospital for a few days, and he was doing better, but he was still i
n pain—“uncomfortable” they told me, which made his condition fair. I wasn’t going to be happy until it was upgraded to good.
I called a Pizza Hut near the hospital and ordered a couple of dozen pizzas with assorted toppings to be delivered there. Not only did I expect Pretty Boy to have visitors—he was well-liked among the rent boys—but the nursing staff treated him well and had lived up to the promise of getting him a private room.
The crowd in his room ebbed and flowed for most of the afternoon, but began thinning out around seven thirty, since they’d have to start getting ready for the evening’s work. As they left, each one made a point of stopping by to thank me, not for the pizza, but for what I’d done for Pretty Boy.
“Hey, getting him a hospital room—”
“Not the room. Any of us could have called in favors. For what you did to the bastard who put him in this room.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah. Thanks anyway.”
“Y’know—” My cell phone rang. “Vincent.”
“Matheson, sir. I’ve finished shopping.”
“Yes?” Was he falling back on Adams’s teachings? I scowled at my phone. “Our sick friend would love to see what you bought.”
“Yes, sir. I’m on my way.”
“We’re going to have company.” I put my phone away.
Sweetcheeks looked interested.
“Matheson is coming up.”
“Oh, yeah? Cool.” His casual attitude was spoiled by his next words. “Do I look okay?” He ducked into the bathroom that was connected to Pretty Boy’s room and began to fuss. “My hair’s such a—Paul, you’re too sick, but Spike could have told me!”
Spike grinned and bounced on the balls of his feet. “You should have seen him yesterday, Vince. His boyfriend called—”
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here! And he isn’t my boyfriend!”
“Maybe not yet, but soon.” Pretty Boy smiled as well as he was able. “I’ve never seen him like this, Vince. I’m glad.”
“Yeah.”
“And when are you going to get a boyfriend?”
“Jesus, Pretty Boy. I’m too old for that bullshit.”
“No, you’re not. You’re alive, aren’t you? You need to find someone who’ll keep you warm on those cold winter nights.”
Involuntarily, an image of Quinn flashed though my mind. Damn, and here it had been a few hours since I’d thought of him. “I’ve got an electric blanket that does the job just fine, thanks.”
“But it can’t kiss you.”
I growled at him.
Sweetcheeks came out of the bathroom. “Do I look presentable?”
Fortunately, that distracted Pretty Boy. “You look great; you always do! He’s gonna take one look at you and want to gobble you up!”
Sweetcheeks preened.
Pretty Boy suddenly grimaced. “Shit. I’ve got to pee.”
To my surprise, Spike glared first at Sweetcheeks and then at me. “I’ll help you, Paul.” He waved his hands at us in a shooing motion. “He doesn’t need an audience in here. Wait outside.”
“Okay. When did they remove the Foley?” I asked Sweetcheeks as we stood out in the corridor.
“It must have been yesterday, after I left.” He smoothed a hand over his hair again, then brushed it down the front of his shirt and the seat of his pants. “Um… Thanks for giving Wills some extra time this morning, Vince. We both appreciated it.”
I really didn’t need to hear about my agent’s love life. “Are you done yet, Paul?” I called into the room.
“Almost.” A few more minutes, and then, “You can come back now.” He was slightly out of breath. “Where’s the remote, Spike?”
“I’ll put the TV on for you,” he called from the bathroom. The john flushed, water ran, and then he came back out with the plastic urinal, which he hooked to the side rail of the bed. “Entertainment This Week?”
VI
THE show was in progress—Mary Hart was one fine babe, and I’d leaned back against the wall to enjoy the scenery—when Matheson walked in. He was wearing jeans that hugged his hips and thighs like a second skin and a Georgetown U sweatshirt, and his hair was slicked back with some kind of goop. He looked about eighteen.
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t realize his room had been changed.” He smiled at Sweetcheeks, then turned to me, displaying the numerous bags he was weighed down with before putting them in a chair Pretty Boy had been encouraged to sit in for a while during the afternoon. “We spent most of the day at Union Station Store, sir.”
So they really had been shopping. I was pleased that he’d followed my unspoken orders. Surprised, but pleased. Maybe he would turn out to be a decent senior special agent.
A resident came in to examine Pretty Boy, and we were told to make ourselves scarce.
“Matheson. With me.” I nodded toward the far end of the corridor. “All right. What did you learn?”
“Senator Franklin got in touch with her while she was having dinner with the demon spawn.”
“With who?”
“Sorry, sir.” No, he wasn’t, but tough shit if he resented an assignment like this one. It went with the job. “Daren Curtin.” In low, terse terms, he detailed how the day had gone. “He must like her, Mr. Vincent. I mean, in spite of using her. They were going to have dinner at B. Smith’s, and he bought her the twenty-ounce porterhouse steak with the works. That’s one expensive dinner!”
“He probably bought it for her in hopes of keeping her softened up.”
“Probably, sir. It would sure as hell soften me up!” He realized he’d spoken aloud and started to choke. He didn’t offer any excuses, though. He was learning. Once he had himself under control again, he concluded, “After the senator contacted her, she had the waiter box it so she could take it home. De—uh… Curtin looked ticked, to say the least. Wouldn’t you be, Mr. Vincent?”
Probably, but I couldn’t see Quinn putting out just because I’d bought him an expensive dinner. He was a classy guy, and he’d either put out or not because that was what he wanted to do.
“Anyway, the senator is having her flown home tomorrow. I followed her back to her apartment, and she’s there now, packing.”
“All right. Good work.”
“Was there anything else…?” He gazed wistfully down the hall to where Sweetcheeks and Spike were disappearing back into Pretty Boy’s room.
He had done a good job. “Take the rest of the night off. I’ll have another agent keep the girl under surveillance.” I pulled out my phone and hit a number.
“Winchester.” He was a newer recruit, and fortunately Sperling hadn’t had the chance to ruin him. This would get his feet wet.
“It’s Vincent.”
“Oh, Mr. Vincent! It’s an honor to hear from you! I didn’t know you had my number! I’ve been hoping—but I didn’t think—this means so—oh! Do you have something you want me to do?”
“Yeah. Take a breath.”
“Yes, sir!”
I felt like rolling my eyes. “I want you to take over a surveillance job.” I gave him the address. “Got it?”
“Yes, sir. I’m on my way.” In the background I could hear him stumbling around, dropping things, swearing, picking them up. “This is such an honor, sir!”
“You said that before. Winchester?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You can hang up now.”
“Oh. Yes. Um… good-bye!”
I laughed and shook my head. Had any of the WBIS agents ever been that young?
Matheson was still beside me. I gestured toward Pretty Boy’s room, and he followed me back in.
The resident was saying, “… and I’m sure your doctor will be very pleased with your progress.” She made some notes in the chart at the foot of the bed, said a brief, “Good evening, gentlemen,” and she left.
I went to the bed. “I have to leave, Pretty Boy. I’ll be in sometime tomorrow to see you, but I have plans for the afternoon, so I’ll
probably be in late.”
“No, Vince, that’s okay. You’ve been taking care of so much; it’s all right if you miss a day. If there’s anything I can do to repay you….” He grabbed my wrist and held onto it. “Thank you. Thank you!”
“You’re welcome. If you really want to do something for me, keep an ear out for a vacant apartment. That fuck of a complex manager is throwing me out!”
“I should have realized you’d need to look for another apartment. They get kind of testy when you blow up their rentals!”
I scowled at him. “I did not blow up my apartment.” Where the fuck did people get that idea? “And stop laughing; you’re going to pull that tube in your side.”
“Okay, but just so you know, your old apartment above us is for rent again, if you want to take it for a while.”
“It’s empty, or are you going to evict someone?”
“It’s empty. It’ll just take some time to get it in shape again. That artist skipped out on us. Artist, my ass. Con artist is more like it!”
“I’ll—”
Matheson interrupted me. “Mr. Vincent, is it all right if I leave now?” He was trying to keep his expression blank but wasn’t doing a good job.
“No. Spike and Sweetcheeks will need a ride home.” What the fuck had put that bug up his ass? If it had to do with the job, I would have been curious about it, but since he was staring at a spot beyond my shoulder and avoiding Sweetcheeks’s suddenly worried eyes, it didn’t much matter to me.
Matheson opened his mouth, and I raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t going to suggest I drive them home, was he?
“Yes, sir. I’ll drive them.” But it was grudging, and he still looked pissed.
Tough. I turned back to the man in the bed. “I’ll most likely accept your offer, Pretty Boy. It took me a long time to find what I was looking for the first time. And DC is even more crowded now. Thanks.” Dammit, I was touched by his kindness. A glance at my watch told me I needed to get moving if I wanted to get to the Olde Towne Pastry Shoppe before it closed. “I want to stop at my place and pack some things.” No way was I going to tell them I needed to pick up dessert because I was having dinner with a CIA spook, especially with another WBIS agent in the room. “You have my number if you need me. Matheson, why don’t you display your booty?”