The Two Gentlemen of Altona (Playing the Fool, #1)

by Lisa Henry

  “Less comfortable accommodations can be arranged.”

  Henry swung his legs. “So am I in protective custody? Or under arrest?”

  “Could go both ways.”

  “Mmm. I love going both ways.” He saw that little muscle twitch in McGuinness’s jaw again. Delightful.

  “If you help me out with Maxfield, maybe you can stay out of prison. Got it?”

  He swallowed. Wasn’t going to let McBaldstone know how much the idea of jail bothered him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  McGuinness folded his arms, spilling a few drops of coffee onto the tile. “How long did you stay with Gloria Maxfield?”

  “Would have been two months this Saturday.”

  “And what exactly were you doing there?”

  “She was helping me with my studies.”

  “Your studies,” McGuinness repeated. His arms were huge. The rest of him was big and not in the best shape, but his arms were well defined. Not that that was at all relevant to their conversation.

  “Italian poetry. She’s got quite a library on the second floor.”

  “Where do you study?”

  “Jordan.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Check the roster.”

  “You can bet I will. Let me guess: Gloria was helping you with tuition?”

  “She offered.”

  McGuinness rocked on the balls of his feet. “You didn’t know who she was.” He didn’t say it like a question.

  “I didn’t know who she was related to, no. Do I look crazy?”

  “You sound like a scumbag.”

  “I prefer ‘opportunist.’” Henry flicked a piece of lint off the cot. “Look, did Gloria complain about me?”

  “Gloria’s busy trying to deal with the fact that her nephew shot someone in her kitchen.”

  “You talk to Gloria. And you check the admissions list at Jordan. I’m there.”

  “No.” McGuinness stepped forward, letting his arms fall to his sides. More coffee spilled. “You’re here. You’re right where you deserve to be. And you’re mine for however long it takes to put Dean Maxfield away. You got it?”

  Henry leaned forward. “Do you think you could get my arresting officer back in here for a second?”

  McGuinness’s dark eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “I’m kind of hungry. And Rob had donuts.” He gave McGuinness what he hoped was a three-legged-cat-in-an-ASPCA-ad look. “Please?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You want a donut? Rob’s nice. I’ll bet he’d give you a donut.”

  “I do not want a donut.”

  “Watching your figure?”

  McGuinness rolled his eyes. “You’re the second criminal to make fun of my figure in the last three days.”

  “Was the other one Dean? Because he should talk.”

  “That’s what I said. Guy’s all flab.”

  “Sing it, sister.”

  McGuinness looked at him sharply.

  “Anyway, I wasn’t making fun,” Henry hastened to add. “I just wondered. Because of your resistance to donuts. And the decaf.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your coffee. It’s decaf, right?”

  McGuinness shook the dregs in the styrofoam cup. “How do you know?”

  “It smells like shit, and you look half-dead. And you’re holding that cup like you’re throttling a chicken. How long have you been off the real stuff? Two days? Three? It gets better.”

  “Do you ever shut up?”

  “Rarely. May I make a recommendation?” McGuinness didn’t say no, so he went ahead. “Teeccino.”

  “What?”

  “It’s an herbal coffee substitute. Mediterranean and absolutely delicious. It’s got a unique fiber that—”

  “Save it,” McGuinness snapped. “We’re not talking about my diet. We’re talking about you scamming Gloria Maxfield.”

  “I thought we were talking about me watching Dean Maxfield shoot a guy.”

  The foam cup finally cracked. Brown sludge spattered the floor.

  “Uh-oh.” Henry lifted his feet to keep them from getting wet. “I hope you’ll tell Rob that was you and not me.”

  McGuinness snapped his fingers. “Get up. I’m taking you back to Indianapolis.”

  “C’mon, really? Before breakfast? We’ll stop for something on the way, right?”

  “Shut the hell up.”

  Henry regarded him sympathetically. Yeah, this guy needed a sugary caffeine hit immediately. “A headache, right? And the shakes? I read somewhere that quitting caffeine is worse than quitting heroin, but I don’t know if that’s true or not. I mean, is it purely anecdotal evidence? And even if it’s not, even if it’s proven, it doesn’t mean that we should all take up heroin instead, does it?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Coffee and heroin,” Henry said. “The very comparison implies a value judgment, don’t you think? Which seems disingenuous, because obviously heroin is much worse.”

  “I was going to cuff you for the drive back, but I think I’ll have to gag you too.”

  “With food?” Henry showed McGuinness his most winning smile.

  “Get up,” McGuinness ordered.

  He paddled through the coffee toward the door. “So, just to clarify, am I under arrest?”

  “You are currently in the custody of the Dayton PD.” McGuinness held up a pair of cuffs. “They are transferring you to my custody. If you don’t give me any more shit, those charges may be dropped.”

  “If and may,” Henry mused. “An ironclad guarantee if I ever heard one.”

  McGuinness cuffed him.

  Mac tried very, very hard not to reach out and steal Henry’s donuts. Henry sat with the box on his lap—a farewell gift from the boys at the Dayton PD—and ate them all the way back to Indianapolis. And made pointed little pleasurable noises as well, each one of which translated as, Fuck you. I have donuts and you don’t, nah nah nah.

  Mac hadn’t paid much attention to Henry Page’s face the night he’d passed himself off as a detective at Mac’s crime scene—too focused on his ass. Mac was pretty sure Henry hadn’t been wearing the glasses then. He was wearing a pair now, though, that made him look like the earnest student and Romantic poet Gloria Maxfield thought he was.

  Lina had taken a look at one of the poems sweet little Toby Seacoal had “written” and announced it was a fairly poor translation of an aria from Saint-Saëns’s Samson and Delilah. Which was exactly the sort of shit that Lina knew without even having to look it up. She was wasted in the Indianapolis field office.

  “Do you need those glasses?” Mac finally asked him, when he was sick of counting down the miles with nothing but Henry’s theatrical donut-eating noises and the clink of his handcuffs to listen to.

  Henry licked frosting off his bottom lip. “Depends.”

  Mac pretended he hadn’t watched the progress of Henry’s tongue. At all. He concentrated on his irritation instead. There was no such thing as a straight answer from this guy.

  “They don’t really help me see any better,” Henry said at last. “But they are quite useful.”

  “For looking like an accountant?”

  “Oh no, I’d never be an accountant. All that math.” He shuddered.

  “For what, then?”

  Henry sucked the tips of his fingers. “Guy out in Tucson told me they were hot. Said I’d get lucky more often if I wore them.”

  Mac gripped the wheel a little harder. “And has it worked?”

  Henry pulled his lips off his pinky with a smack. “So far.”

  “What were you doing in Tucson? Besides getting lucky?”

  Henry leaned back and jingled the cuffs. “You know, I like small talk, but I have a feeling anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law.”

  “This is all off the record.”

  “Well in that case, I was in Tucson getting lucky. At cards.”

  Mac gripped t
he wheel tighter. A truck sped past them. “So what’s your specialty, Henry? Sweet talking old ladies out of their disposable income? Playing dress-up? I know you’re lousy at stealing cars.”

  “Never tried stealing a car.”

  “You were picked up for driving a stolen—”

  “Borrowed. I took it for a test-drive. Lost track of time.”

  Mac shook his head. “I’ll bet your grade school teachers wanted to beat the shit out of you.”

  “Nah. They loved me.” Henry wiped his hands on his jeans. “I’m decent at dress-up, I guess. I look good in costume.” He glanced out his window, and Mac snuck a peek at the back of his head. Thick, tousled dark hair in need of a wash. He probably looked good in anything. “The thing about conning is, there’s not really much deceit involved. You’d be surprised what people are willing to give you or do for you when they like you.”

  Mac grunted.

  “Do people like you?” Henry asked, turning to him.

  He didn’t answer.

  “People like me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Aww. Gimme a chance.”

  “Like hell. And don’t expect any free donuts from my people. Thanks to you, we had to let Maxfield go. And I’m wasting a day of my life retrieving you.”

  “You request it?”

  “What?”

  “Did you ask to be the one who came and got me?”

  Mac hesitated. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Just wondering. You still seem salty about the crime scene.”

  “You were the sole witness. You bailed. You lied to me, then you bailed. Damn right I’m salty.” And speaking of salty, he would have killed for some potato chips from the office vending machine. Or one of those peanut caramel bars.

  “I wasn’t gonna hang around waiting for Maxfield’s gang to kill me.”

  “You know him pretty well?”

  “He stopped by Gloria’s now and then. There was an instant and mutual loathing.”

  “And yet you stayed with Gloria—even once you realized her nephew was a mobster?”

  “It was the middle of Toby’s midterms.”

  His grip on the wheel tightened. “I’ve been after Maxfield’s boys a long time. So if you know anything about the pack he ran with, you could make yourself extremely useful.”

  “Sheriff, I’m just here to tell you what I saw that fateful night.” Henry paused. “I didn’t have to call 911, you know. I could’ve just beat it. Really wish I had.”

  “We’d’ve kept you safe. We’re gonna keep you safe.”

  “Until Maxfield’s put away. And then what? Then it’s my brains on someone’s custom cabinets.”

  “There’s options. Witness protection.”

  Henry huffed. The air went sour in the car, and Mac tried to tell himself to be grateful Henry had shut up. But suddenly Henry leaned over and looked out the window. “There’s Chase Tower. Almost home.”

  “Is Indianapolis home?” Mac didn’t know why he’d bothered to ask. As though Henry would give him a straight answer.

  “Altona. Moved to the city when I was sixteen.”

  He gripped the wheel harder. “Very funny.”

  “What’s funny?”

  “I don’t know what you think you know about me, but this game stops now, you hear? Or I will charge you with every fucking thing you can possibly be charged for.”

  “Whoa.” Henry held up his cuffed hands. “I don’t know what I said, but I’m sorry. You wanna lick some glaze off the bottom of the box? It might help with the mood swings.”

  “I’m from Altona. Whatever else you dug up on me—”

  “I didn’t dig anything up on you. I was too busy running for my life. Can’t we both be from Altona?”

  “It’s a town of two hundred people. I’d have remembered growing up around someone like you.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. And no offense, but wouldn’t you have grown up way before I did? I mean, maybe you don’t remember me because I was still in diapers when you left for college.”

  He nearly swerved into the other lane. Two drivers honked. “How old are you?” he demanded, looking at Henry. “Twelve?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Well, I’m thirty-one. So no, you wouldn’t have been in diapers when I left. Unless you required diapers well into your adolescence. Which wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

  “Harsh, Mac.” Henry paused. “Does anyone call you Mac?”

  “Everyone calls me Mac, except my parents. But if you call me anything but Agent McGuinness, you can wash down those donuts with a few of your own teeth.”

  Henry was silent for a moment. Mac waited, on edge, for whatever the little fucker would throw at him next. “You look older than thirty-one,” Henry said finally.

  Mac clenched his jaw.

  “It’s a good thing! You look really, uh, sophisticated. Serious. Lots of frown lines.”

  “Well you look like a little kid who’s playing a game that’s way too big for him.” That was the bitch of it, as far as he was concerned. He could see why people fell for Henry—he looked like a little boy playing dress-up. Like someone who didn’t realize these were real lives he was messing with, real people he was hurting.

  He remembered the Thanksgiving his niece Cory was six. She’d dressed in shabby clothes and put her harmonica in her mouth and walked around the dinner table holding out a hat. Cory was a cute kid—always had been. She’d committed to her character so thoroughly that everyone had thrown their spare change into her hat. And the adults, in turn, had created a panhandling monster who’d tried the same trick at the next two family functions until Mac’s sister Libby sat Cory down for a talk.

  Someday, Henry Page was going to meet someone who didn’t think the act was cute. Who wasn’t okay with being manipulated. Who was going to kick the living shit out of him.

  Mac only wished he could be there to see it.

  “Maxfield’s too big for me. I’ll admit that.” Henry stroked the edge of the donut box. Slowly lifted the lid. “There’s one donut left. If you eat it, I won’t tell your doctor.”

  Mac glanced at the box. “I don’t need a donut.”

  “You want a donut, though.”

  “Put it down.”

  “Come on. Eat the donut. It’s got sprinkles.”

  He glared at the donut a moment longer. Reached out and grabbed it. Stuffed half of it into his mouth.

  “Atta boy, Mackie.”

  He purposely pulled up too fast to the next stoplight and slammed on the brakes, sending Henry lurching forward.

  It was almost as satisfying as the donut.

  “So what sort of witness protection can I anticipate?” Henry asked as the elevator doors pinged open inside the FBI’s Indianapolis field office. It wasn’t at all what he’d expected. On TV, FBI offices were all dimly lit and full of glass, shiny technology, and incredibly attractive people. This place was a little disappointing. The only interesting lighting appeared to come from a flickering fluorescent panel in the ceiling. The lobby, such as it was, wouldn’t have looked out of place at a dentist’s office; a sad potted plant leaned at an angle against the counter. A path of worn carpet led from the elevator doors to the counter, and then beyond into . . . cubicles. How incredibly bland. He sighed as he stepped out of the elevator. “Is it possible to request something with a pool?”

  “Working on your tan?” McGuinness asked.

  He patted his stomach. “Gotta work off those donuts somehow.”

  McGuinness’s frown lines deepened. He’d been in a bad mood the whole drive, and it hadn’t improved when they’d hit the morning traffic in the city. The last stretch of the trip had been interminable. To McGuinness, certainly. Henry had chattered the entire way through it, wondering just how far he could push the guy.

  “Hello,” he said to the woman behind the counter. “Lovely morning.”

  The woman looked up. Her answering smile faltered as she saw his cuffs.

  �
�My point remains,” he said now, as McGuinness led him further into the disappointing office, finishing the story he’d started way back on East Ohio Street. “You can’t actually steal a cat unless it wants to be stolen.”

  McGuinness spun around. “Shut the fuck up!”

  He blinked, fighting to keep the smile off his face while all around them heads started popping up from behind cubicles like prairie dogs. McGuinness just made it so damn easy.

  “Agent McGuinness,” a woman called out. “Can I have a word?”

  The tone of her voice made it clear it wasn’t a question.

  McGuinness’s shoulders sagged.

  “Is this about the donut?” Henry asked him in an undertone. “You shouldn’t feel guilty about that. You really needed that donut.”

  McGuinness grabbed him by the wrist. “I need someone to put my prisoner in a cell, right now!”

  “Witness,” Henry reminded him. “Your witness.” He smiled at the guy who approached. Square-jawed, fair-haired. He looked like the sort of guy who’d go to church on Sunday. Early. “Hi, I’m Henry.”

  McGuinness ignored him. “Jeff, put my witness in a cell, and don’t let anyone else get near him.”

  “Sure, Mac,” Jeff said.

  “Bye, Mac.” Henry grinned, and Jeff led him away before McGuinness could snap for good.

  “Mac.” Val closed the door of her office behind them. “What the hell was that about?”

  “What? You mean apart from the fact that I’ve been chasing this little prick for days, and then spent hours in the fucking car with him while he talked my ear off?” Mac slumped in a chair.

  “He’s a witness.” Val sat down at her desk.

  “He’s a con man.”

  “A con man who happened to see Dean Maxfield shoot a man in the head.” She pointed at him. “Don’t screw this up. That’s an order.”

  Mac rolled his eyes, but his bad mood lifted somewhat. It usually did when Val pulled rank, since neither of them took it too seriously. “Okay. I’m just out of sorts, I guess, and he’s really yanking my chain.”

  “Well, this will make you feel much better, I’m sure.”