Hunter swallows tightly and lays a gentle hand over hers. “I won’t stop looking for him,” he says, knowing he should never promise things to victims’ families like this. “And when he get him, you’ll be one of the first to know about it.” It’s bad enough the woman has gone four years without her daughter’s killer being brought to justice. Hunter won’t simply brush her off now.
Mrs. Anders lets out a shaky breath, her eyes bright. “Thank you for your time, Detective, I appreciate it.” She forces a smile as she leaves, nodding her head at Hunter.
“That was Melissa Ander’s mother, wasn’t it?” he hears Stephen ask from behind him.
Hunter sighs. “Yeah. Someone leaked a rumor about the return of the Scholar to the papers.”
Stephen shrugs. “So he knows we’re paying attention. So what?”
“You know how this city got when the first story broke, you really think we need another panic on our hands?”
“If he doesn’t think we’re paying attention, he’ll get frustrated, and that can never lead to anything good.”
“Frederic is gonna shit when he finds out—”
“Luckily Frederic’s not my boss.”
“Not anymore, but he’ll make your life more difficult.”
Stephen opens his mouth with what’s no doubt a scathing retort, only Alyssa calls, “Hunter, we just got a call—another body’s been found.”
All the anger about the press fades instantly. “Where?” he asks, ignoring the way he and Stephen basically say the word in unison.
“Apartment in Hyde Park. The roommate just came home and found him.”
“Now who’s paying attention?” Hunter mutters, glaring at Stephen as they rush out of the station.
~
“I don’t get it, I only just went to class this morning and he was fine...” Greg Phillips, the victim’s roommate, lights his third cigarette in the last fifteen minutes. His hands are shaking as he paces the tiny living room.
“Did you notice anything strange in the last few days?” Hunter asks. “Any people hanging around, or weird phone calls?”
“No,” Greg says, hugging his left arm to his chest and taking an unsteady drag. “No, Hunter was fine. He was great, in fact—he’d just finish his first draft of his dissertation. We were going out for drinks tonight to celebrate.”
The victim’s name is Hunter Barton, a grad student studying psychology at Loyola. Hunter can’t help but notice that Hunter is nearly the exactly same age as Melissa Anders was at the time of her murder.
Stephen asks, “What was Hunter writing his dissertation about?”
“Um, something about serial killers, profiling, shit like that. He wanted to be a police consultant.”
Hunter rubs a hand over his eyes. Bingo. “Do you happen to have a list of all of Hunter’s professors, TAs, anyone he might have been working with on his research?”
Greg looks a little overwhelmed for a moment. “Yeah, I think there’s a copy of his class schedule somewhere, one sec.” He disappears down the hall just as Mohammed comes back from examining the body in the kitchen.
“Died of strangulation,” Mohammed says, like he knows Hunter and Stephen expect it. “Murder weapon was most likely synthetic rope.” His mouth thins out before he adds, “Also, this was tucked into the victim’s collar.” He hands Hunter a folded piece of paper with Hunter’s name printed neatly on the outside. The paper looks very much like hotel stationery.
“Ah, a love note,” Stephen says in a deadly serious voice.
Hunter pulls on gloves and unfolds the thing with a sickening clench in his chest. He can feel Stephen standing close behind him, chest nearly pressed against Hunter’s shoulders to get a better look.
“‘Samantha Brown vs. Todd Brown, 1999,’” he reads out loud.
Stephen immediately pulls out his Blackberry. “It was a custody case,” he says a minute later. “The case changed a lot of rulings in Illinois family court concerning divorced parents taking their children out of state.”
“Why that case?” Hunter says. “It doesn’t make any sense, he’s just screwing with us—”
Stephen suddenly grabs his arm. “What if...he means us?”
“Your narcissism is showing, Stephen.”
Mohammed snorts.
“I’m bloody serious here, what if the custody battle in question is this case and—and we’re the couple? I left the state, and in the process this case was essentially split between us.”
Hunter takes a step away from him. “But that would mean he’d have to be following us—”
“And know I came back to Chicago.”
Mohammed is now watching them with wide eyes. “Bloody hell,” he whispers.
Hunter shakes his head. “No, this isn’t possible, Stephen, we don’t know—”
“He’s been watching us the whole time. This is all a game to him, nothing more. I’m getting you a police detail and you’re not leaving my sight.”
“What? Hang on a sec, you’re not going to just take away my privacy because this bastard’s leaving vague clues around for you to jump to conclusions!”
Stephen rakes a hand through his hair. “When are you going to learn that these sodding clues mean something and aren’t just random blatherings? God only knows how long he’s been keeping an eye on you, waiting for the perfect moment to emerge and mess with your head. He always was partial to you, and you never fully appreciated the gravity of that fact.”
“I never let myself get paranoid enough to believe in circumstantial evidence,” Hunter hisses. He stuffs the note into an evidence bag just as Greg comes back into the room.
“Here’s Hunter’s class schedule and his planner,” he says, handing the notebook to Stephen. “I tried to find his iPhone, but it’s missing.”
“Are you sure?” Hunter asks.
“Yeah, when he’s home, Hunter keeps it plugged into his Macbook. But it’s just gone.”
“There’s a chance we might be able to track it if it’s still on. In the meantime, you have my card, so keep us posted with anything else you might think of.”
Greg nods miserably, lighting his fourth cigarette.
Hunter trails out of the apartment after Stephen and Mohammed, only to catch the tail end of Stephen’ phone call.
“...Yeah, twenty-four seven detail. I’ll be staying with him as well for the time being.”
A flare of hot anger surges through Hunter.“Please tell me you did not just order a detail for my apartment,” he calls after him.
Stephen glances back over his shoulder. “Fine, I won’t.”
“And you sure as fuck aren’t playing bodyguard for me. Even if the Scholar’s tailing me, I can handle myself.”
“I never said you couldn’t.”
“Then call off that detail.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You’re vital to my case and I can’t afford to let anything happen to you. Your safety is of utmost importance.”
“And my so-called safety requires you to set up house with me?”
Something flickers in Stephen’ eyes, there and gone in a flash. “It’s for your own good.”
He’s always hated that condescending bullshit tone of his, like Hunter’s too dense to have any real common sense.
“You’ll be lucky if I don’t shoot you first,” he grumbles.
Stephen gives him a rueful smirk. “Occupational hazard.”
~
Even from the very beginning, Hunter never liked to look his attraction to his partner straight in the face. It was something he steadfastly ignored, like an itch just beyond his reach, save for the rare occasions when he was too exhausted to really check himself. Those were the times he’d let himself smile at Stephen a little too easily, let his hand linger a little too long on Stephen’ shoulder.
There were late nights pouring over case files, and Stephen bringing him coffee from the twenty-four diner down the street. There were early morning phone calls, checking in on each other afte
r a particularly draining day full of witness testimonies. There was Hunter defending Stephen to Frederic after Stephen made a bad judgement call and accidentally shot a suspect in the leg, followed by Stephen thanking Hunter afterward with earnest, solemn eyes and his hand wrapped around Hunter’s wrist.
“I’ll make sure you never have to do that again,” he said quietly, and Hunter hated himself for not being angrier with him. But what he really wanted, more than anything, was to slide his palm over Stephen’ neck and kiss him breathless, telling him without words that Hunter trusted him and would do it all over again.
It was completely irrational, of course. They had only been partners for six months; such blind faith didn’t come quickly or easily. There hadn’t been a “moment of truth” between the two of them, as Frederic called it—the moment when you truly learn what it means to have another man’s back.
“Would you take a bullet for him?” Frederic had asked Hunter. They were both off duty and sitting in a bar together, Hunter having finally built up the nerve to buy his captain a drink.
Hunter nodded without hesitation.
Frederic laughed ruefully. “You say that now because you’ve never done it. Come back in another six months and we’ll see if you’re so quick to answer.”
“We’re partners. I shouldn’t be hesitant with my answer.”
“No, but you do you know how Stephen would act in return? Would he kill a man for you?”
“Of course.” But Hunter’s mouth twitched, because Frederic was right. All the late nights and coffee runs meant nothing if they couldn’t protect each other
“You’re young, kid, and admire the faith you have in Detective Stephen. I just hope it doesn’t get you in trouble some day. Don’t get me wrong, Stephen is a damn good cop, but you’re his first partner, and sometimes that takes some getting used to, you know?”
“He’s never had a partner?”
“No, not until he started working homicide. I’ve known Stephen for a while now, and he’s always a little sketchy when it comes to following the letter of the law. Damn English.” He smirked into his glass of scotch. “That’s why I assigned you two together. You’re perfect for each other.”
Hunter felt an irritating flush. “He really is a good cop,” he replied quietly, looking down and away from Frederic.
“And you’ll make him a better one. I have faith in you.”
Five months later, Hunter was shot by a coke dealer on the run.
Stephen promptly put a bullet in the guy’s knee, deadly focus and pure fury in his eyes. Hunter watched as the guy crumpled to his knees, but then Stephen’ calm broke somehow. It was subtle, just the slightest pinch between his eyes and his mouth twisted into a tight line, and when he dropped to the ground at Hunter’s side there was something else besides anger flashing across his face.
He looked afraid.
Hunter was aware he was bleeding heavily, that there was likely a hole just above his hip spewing blood over his fingers, and yet he felt strangely calm. The pain had yet to set in; he figured he was in shock. He thought with hazy surprise, I’m twenty-six, and I’ve just been shot.
“Easy there, I’ve got the ambulance on the way,” Stephen said in a soft, soothing voice Hunter had never heard before. He slid his fingers over Hunter’s forehead, pushing sweaty strands of hair away from his eyes. The touch was so gentle, and Hunter was out of it enough to want to lean into it like a cat.
“I can tell Frederic I was right,” Hunter breathed, wincing at the ache in his side. Stephen’ hand covered his own, putting pressure on the wound.
Stephen laughed, high and shaky. “Tell him what? That cokeheads have shitty aim?”
He shook his head. Everything was growing black around the edges, and Hunter was suddenly so, so tired...
“No, that you’d kill a man for me.” Hunter smiled crookedly, eyes fluttering closed. “We’ve had our moment of truth.”
He felt something like fingers tracing carefully over his cheek, like a caress. They skimmed down the line of his jaw, and Hunter wished he weren’t slipping so quickly into unconsciousness.
“There was never any doubt,” Stephen whispered. Hunter could feel warm breath against his skin.
As the far-off wail of a siren made itself known, Hunter thought, I think I might be in love with you, right before he passed out.
~
For the millionth time, Hunter says, “This is so utterly unnecessary.”
Stephen crosses his arms, black duffel bag slung over one arm. “Frederic didn’t seem to think so.”
“You railroaded him into this.”
“If by ‘railroaded’ you mean ‘showed him evidence of a serial killer possibly stalking one of his detectives,’ then yes.”
Hunter shoves his shoulder against his front door as he turns the lock. Damn thing always sticks in the winter.
Stephen comments absently as he follows Hunter inside, “Haven’t you ever gotten that thing fixed?”
Hunter ignores him, mostly because he’s not going to discuss his lack of home improvement skills, but also because Sonny comes running into the room to greet them, tail wagging enthusiastically.
He can’t quite look away as Stephen’ face softens and a slow smile tugs at his lips.
“Oh my god, Sonny,” Stephen says, immediately dropping to his knees to hold his arms out. And like a traitor, Sonny goes straight to him, barking happily and licking at Stephen’ cheeks.
Hunter’s throat feels ridiculously tight.
“He’s gotten so big,” Stephen says, actually grinning up at Hunter, his hands scratching over Sonny’s ears.
“Yeah, he’s almost four,” Hunter replies sharply. “He’s also not supposed to slobber all over guests like that.” He puts a little more bite behind guests, feels a jolt of satisfaction when Stephen flinches.
There had been a case, back when they were partners, where the victim was a homeless man squatting in an abandoned hotel building. He had somehow been living with a puppy, a mix of Boxer and German Shepherd, and when his body was found the puppy was found as well, half-starved and filthy and scared.
Stephen had tucked the puppy into his jacket and fed him animal crackers as they’d surveyed the crime scene. Animal Control arrived not long after, but Stephen refused to give the dog up. He’d clung to it, wrapping his suit jacket more tightly around the puppy’s filthy body; Hunter still remembers the way his chest felt full and warm as he’d watched Stephen protect their only witness.
“We’ve got to keep him,” he’d said softly to Hunter. “He’s bad off, I’m not going to just let them throw him in a cage—”
“Your building doesn’t allow pets,” Hunter whispered, cupping the puppy’s tiny face.
Stephen had smiled sheepishly and replied, “But yours does.”
Hunter sighs, closing his eyes against the memory. “So how do you want to do this?”
Stephen makes little wuffling noises at Sonny—whose name was Stephen’ choice, the result of a mild obsession with The Godfather. “Pretend I’m not even here,” he says.
“Try again.”
“It’s not as if I expect you to cook me breakfast in the morning.” Stephen finally stands, shifting his bag to his other shoulder. Sonny winds his way between Stephen’ legs, his tail thumping against the back of Stephen’ pants.
“Good.” Hunter stands awkwardly in the doorway of the living room, watching his dog—his dog, goddamn it—welcome Stephen back as if he never left. “For the record, I can take care of myself. If I needed someone to be a bodyguard, I would’ve asked Alyssa to do it.”
Stephen raises an eyebrow, pushing past Hunter to dump his bag beside the couch. “She’s all of a hundred pounds, Hunter, and you’re telling me you expect her to fend off a mad man?”
Something hot and ugly flares inside Hunter. “She’s got deadly aim, and I trust her with my life, more than I ever trusted you.” The words tumble out in a heated rush. They’re not true, not even close, but he can alr
eady see Stephen closing himself off, that humorless smile beginning to form at the corners of his mouth.
“I see,” Stephen says, his voice deceptively even. “I wondered about you two, after all. I can see how she’d bring out the hero complex in you.”
“Don’t,” Hunter hisses, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t even try that shit with me. She’s my partner, nothing more, not that it’s any of your fucking business.”
“Of course it’s not. But she’s, what, in her first year with homicide? Fresh out of the academy?”
“Second year.”
“Oh, brilliant. Then you two have all sorts of bonding experiences, I’m sure.”
Hunter walks right up to Stephen and returns that infuriating, cocky smirk. “She’s a better cop than I ever was at her age. She knows never to mix business with pleasure, or let her impulsive side get the better of her.”
“Her loss, then,” Stephen replies quietly, and god, Hunter wants to punch him.
Or worse, kiss that fucking smile off his face.
“She’s far better off in my opinion,” he says instead.
Stephen laughs then, a dry, almost melancholy sound as he ducks his head and shrugs out of his suit jacket. “I take it you haven’t told her about us?”
“I told her enough.”
“That sounds like a no to me.”
“She knows the basics.”
“And what do ‘the basics’ entail?”
Hunter swallows. “Just that you’re a bastard who used to work with me.”
Stephen pauses in the process of draping his jacket over the back of the couch. He chews his lower lip, then slowly starts rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.
“Glad you painted an accurate portrayal of me,” he says without meeting Hunter’s eyes.
Sonny takes that moment to butt his head against Hunter’s thigh, breaking the tension somewhat. Hunter slides his hand over the smooth fur of Sonny’s neck, hating the fact that he can’t look away as Stephen pulls his tie off and opens his shirt collar.
“You know where everything is,” Hunter finally says. “Just—yell down the hall if you need something. Or if a serial killer breaks in.”
On The Hunt: Gay M/M Mystery Romance Page 3