Glowering, I went into the bathroom, closed the door behind me, and dutifully turned on the shower to play my part. It didn’t hurt that the running water would drown out the sound of my using the facilities. I could see his point. The room reeked of sex, and our clothes were flung about everywhere.
If they had casual questions, the agents could have called or e-mailed. No, this was an interview. About the shooting? I hoped not. Maybe it was a good thing to take this meeting onto neutral ground. That didn’t keep me from resenting like hell the need to hide.
I couldn’t hear much over the water; just the murmur of voices. Finally John opened the door. “It’s safe to come out.”
I shut off the shower, followed him into the main room, and watched him finish getting dressed. “What’s this all about?”
“I dunno.” He was lying—studiously buttoning his shirt, not looking at me. “I deflected them, for now. We’re meeting them in the lobby.”
“Must be important if they’re chasing us down on the weekend.” I waited, giving him the chance to come clean with me. He didn’t. What did I expect? The Great Wall of Flynn. I don’t know where the words came from, but they made sense and the wall was firmly in place. Nothing had changed between us, after all. I realized I wasn’t being entirely fair—after all, he’d been on the verge of telling me something important—but I was pissed at the intrusion into our time together.
“Look, I have a rough idea what they might be interested in.” He abruptly looked up and locked onto my gaze. I couldn’t turn away. His expression was beseeching. “You’re going to have to trust me on this one. Best you not know too much, just now. That way you can answer truthfully.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” Because I would do whatever it took to get him out of it. Lie, if necessary. Shoot my career in the foot. All he had to do was ask.
Smile Number One made a brief appearance, blinding me with its brilliance, and then dimming as though eclipsed. He crossed toward me in swift strides, took hold of my face with both hands, and kissed me within an inch of my life.
“Who are you and what have you done with John Flynn?” I asked when I could catch my breath again.
His grin was a shade rueful. “I deserve that. But I want you to know, you’re right. I couldn’t do this without you. We’ll be okay.” I wondered if he was trying to convince himself as much as me.
We finished getting dressed and headed downstairs to meet our fate.
OUR FATE, as it were, turned out to be a couple of tight-lipped FBI agents. Of the two, the woman seemed a shade friendlier.
“Agent Parker, Agent Flynn. I’m Agent Drover.” She had determinedly blonde hair in a businesslike bob and wore pink lipstick. She and her partner were dressed in nondescript suits, though she wore a skirt and heels. Her partner was a tad on the plump side, and I caught myself sucking in my gut as we shook hands. “This is my partner, Agent Harris.”
Introductions performed, I cut a sideways glance at John and decided to take the lead. “I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m famished, and the Alexander serves a great buffet. Can we talk over breakfast?”
Agent Harris perked up like an elderly spaniel at the mention of dog biscuits, but Agent Drover nipped his hopes in the bud. “This won’t take long. Perhaps we could take a seat here in the lobby?” She indicated the Jane Austen furniture, and we dutifully trooped toward it. She wanted to take command of the situation and dictate the terms of our interaction. So be it. If John was willing to let her, I would hear her out.
We each took seats on rather hard couches facing each other across a coffee table. John and I were on one side and our interrogators on the other. I was determined not to let them take the upper hand. “What brings you out on a Saturday morning? What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until Monday?” I didn’t mention the fact that they’d obviously gone to the trouble of tracking us down.
Harris and Drover exchanged glances. She cleared her throat. “Agent Harris and I are used to working odd hours. Sometimes we forget that there’s such a thing as a weekend.” She smiled. I was supposed to be disarmed.
I raised an eyebrow instead.
“Agent Drover and I specialize in stolen works of art,” Harris said.
“What does that have to do with us?” I frowned and shot a glance at John. I noticed that Harris and Drover shared glances again as well.
“You took possession of a small artifact from Nancy Glover, one of the curators at the Carter-O’Neill museum.” Drover opened a thin portfolio, drew out a photograph, and passed it across the coffee table to me.
I stared at the image. It was of a small blue-and-gray box that appeared to have some sort of markings on the sides. At first, I thought it was the same as one of the images I had on my cell phone, but it was smaller. I shrugged and handed it back. “I’ve seen something like this before. I can’t say for sure that I’ve seen this one, though.”
“Agent Parker received a severe head injury a few weeks ago. He has partial amnesia.” There was a hint of a drawl to John’s voice, which I’d come to learn was part of his shielding. So what was he hiding?
This time the glance Drover and Harris exchanged spoke volumes. Unfortunately it was in the secret language that partners share, and I couldn’t translate it. Drover replaced the photo in her portfolio. “Then do you know what happened to the artifact, Agent Flynn? It’s a matter of some concern to my superiors.”
John made a face that could best be described as “aw, gee, shucks, ma’am.” He closed one eye and pulled his mouth sideways in a grimace as he rubbed the back of his neck. The drawl was even more pronounced when he spoke. “Well, we did take possession of the artifact. Ms. Glover reported a break-in at the museum shortly after the piece arrived, and it was only by sheer chance that it wasn’t in the museum at the time. She was concerned that it was the target and gave it to us for safekeeping.”
“So where is it?” Harris asked when John said no more.
John scratched the side of his bristly jaw. He was sporting the “weekend off” look, and I think it nettled Harris. John must have thought something similar, because he gave Harris Smile Number Three. “Yeah. Well, that’s just it. We had it with us the night Parker was attacked, but somehow in the ensuing assault and subsequent trip to the hospital, we seem to have misplaced it.”
“You lost it.” Drover’s voice was flat, patently disbelieving.
John shrugged and smiled once more. Definitely a variant of Smile Number Three, the one that said, “You caught me, but you can’t prove anything.”
“What’s so important about it anyway?”
Both agents fixed their gaze on me. As expected it was Drover who spoke. “That’s a good question. For an apparently worthless artifact, there seems to be a lot of interest in it. If, indeed, it was the reason for the break-in at the museum. However, our interest it in is purely academic. We’re merely doing our job.”
My Spidey sense went nuts. “On a Saturday. You have an unusual sense of dedication.”
“We’re supposed to follow up on all reports of artwork that is unaccounted for,” Harris cut in. “Particularly when it was in the custody of the FBI at the time it was stolen.” He fixed a hard stare on John. Fortunately John’s shielding seemed to deflect all such accusatory glares. For a couple of agents that were tag-teaming us, they seemed to have a hard time deciding which one was the “good cop.” Not to mention, they seemed to have forgotten we were colleagues, for fuck’s sake. Anyone would think we worked for the local police, what with the condescending attitude.
“What can I say?” John shrugged again, reloading Smile Number Three into his armament and blasting Harris and Drover with it. “My partner had just been brutally attacked. I had to respond with lethal force. I’m afraid the last thing on my mind was keeping up with a trinket box from a museum.”
Something about the words “trinket box” triggered a faint memory on my part. I pictured a stunning woman with vibrant chestnut hair ar
guing over the origins of the box, but when I tried to focus on the memory, it evaporated. I knew the woman, though. It was Nancy. John’s ex. She’d come to see us—well, John, anyway—when I was in the hospital. I frowned and went back to what Harris had said earlier. “You said stolen. This box wasn’t stolen, it was lost. Or are you saying it was stolen originally? Before it was donated to the museum?”
“Perhaps it would be more accurate to describe this one as ‘missing.’” Drover’s smile was brittle, her pink lips thinned almost to the point of disappearing.
“This one? Are there others? That have gone missing as well?”
“You tell me.” Harris sounded particularly snide, and I was taken aback.
“Me?” I pulled my head back on my shoulders and flinched involuntarily at the sharp stab of pain as the muscles seized. Right. Gotta watch that.
“He’s talking about the artifact that went missing during our investigation of the GFT Killer back home, when the museum curator—Ms. Marsden—was murdered by Michael DeShano.” Ostensibly John was speaking to me, but he was staring at our colleagues when he spoke. Ooooh. That was a new smile, one that to my knowledge, I hadn’t seen before. It was astonishingly sharklike. I labeled it Smile Number Six.
“The copycat killer? Ah, that—” I cut myself off. I’d been very close to saying, “that explains why I have a photo of a box like this one on my phone.” For some reason it felt like I shouldn’t share with the class. Particularly since there was something off about those two.
John’s leg casually bumped into mine. It felt like an acknowledgment of approval for my caution. Funny, one night of sex between us seemed to have cleared the air in more ways than one. I felt like I could read him again.
“You were saying?” Drover pounced on my almost-sentence.
“The box from the Weir wasn’t exactly part of the case.” John leaned back along the hard sofa and rested one elbow on the top of the seat behind us. He crossed his legs by placing one ankle on the opposite knee, and his legs fell open as he slouched in apparent relaxation and looked Drover in the eye. “But that’s why Ms. Glover asked us to temporarily take charge of this artifact. We mentioned seeing another one like it and how it had gone missing. So when there was a break-in at the museum, she called us.”
“Ms. Glover being your former girlfriend.” Drover raised an eyebrow at John and then flicked her glance over at me. Beside her, Harris sneered.
“Yep. We came down for my high school reunion.”
“Not a very happy gathering, was it?” Harris seemed determined to get in a quick jab. John merely looked at him the way a large dog looks at a small yippy one—with a slight narrowing of the eyes that suggested Harris shouldn’t push his luck, or he’d end up on his back, squealing for mercy.
“So, because you showed an interest in this trinket box, Ms. Glover just turned it over to you?” Agent Drover seemed determined to get the discussion back on topic.
“It’s not a trinket box.”
All heads turned toward me again.
I shrugged. “I might not remember much, but I remember that. Nancy said it couldn’t be a trinket box. Why don’t you ask her about it?”
“We have. Now we’re asking you.” Harris gave his jacket a couple of tugs, like he was girding himself for a war of words. “We find it highly unusual that two such artifacts have gone missing a short time after you guys had contact with them.”
Drover glared sharply at him, as though he were speaking out of school.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” I said, cleaning up my language for the benefit of Drover. “You don’t really think we’re making off with useless museum pieces, do you? What would be the point?”
“Lee’s right. I always assumed DeShano was the one who took the missing box from the Weir. After all, as an art restorer, he was in the best position to make a forgery, and we know he was copying other pieces and selling them. When we came across a similar box, while visiting Ms. Glover, I wondered if it was a copy or not.” John rolled the hand resting on his knee, and his fingers splayed in a mini shrug.
“Michael DeShano is in jail,” Harris snapped.
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t have accomplices. Or that he hadn’t already made copies and dispersed them.” I might not know what kind of game John was playing, but I knew enough to support his story.
“That would presuppose there was a market for these odd little boxes.” Drover’s smile was feline, and I had the oddest feeling we’d walked into a trap. “They aren’t famous pieces of art, so what would anyone want with a copy?”
“Beats me,” I said. “I haven’t the faintest idea why anyone would want to copy them. As you said, it’s not like they’re Fabergé eggs or anything. For that matter, why would anyone want to steal the originals?”
That seemed to have taken the wind out of their sails. Drover sighed, collected her portfolio, and folded her hands over it in her lap. “I’m afraid no one has a good answer to that question, at the moment. I don’t suppose it occurred to you, Agent Flynn, to report the fact that an artifact you had in your possession was missing?”
“Sorry.” Flynn looked properly penitent, which was to say, not very much at all. “I forgot.”
I appreciated the irony.
Drover rolled her eyes and got to her feet. Harris hastily following suit, with less grace.
“Agent Parker?”
I looked up. Drover was staring at me, one eyebrow raised.
“Did you have something you wanted to add?”
I shook my head. “I wish I did. The last month is a bit sketchy for me.” I lifted my cast as evidence.
She pursed her lips. “Right, then. Well, I appreciate your assistance, gentlemen.” Her tone suggested we’d been less than helpful, which I suppose was true. Then again, it was hard for me to believe that they couldn’t have waited until Monday. Or that John didn’t know more than he was saying.
“I hope we haven’t interrupted your weekend plans.” Harris’s comment was delivered with a smirk, and I felt threatened by it, which I suppose was the point.
Drover pulled out a card and handed it to John. “If you think of anything new, I would appreciate it if you’d contact us.”
John murmured something noncommittal, and we stood and shook hands with our Bureau colleagues. We watched in silence as they crossed the lobby and left the hotel. I breathed a sigh of relief, though for what, I wasn’t sure.
John asked, “Breakfast?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Then we check out and you take me back to the rental place, so I can turn in the overpriced luxury car. It’s costing me a bloody fortune.”
“Now, that’s more like the Jerry I know.” He guided me by the arm toward the dining area. “If you really feel you need a car, we can get you one from the motor pool.”
“Yes, a nice, plain little four-door sedan.” If I could hear the disappointment in my voice, surely he could too. “One that screams ‘government issue.’”
“Remind me to reintroduce you to Top Gear,” he said. His smile was full of sly promise. “You’ll thank me later.”
Chapter Eight
WE DIDN’T talk about the missing artifacts over breakfast. You’d think we would, but we didn’t. That’s not to say I didn’t try. Once we loaded our plates with food from the phenomenal buffet and took our seats, I brought up the subject. Twice.
John wasn’t having any of it. “Oh, man, this coffee is great. Think we can buy some to take home with us?” He closed his eyes over the mug cradled in his hands and inhaled the rich aroma with a blissful look on his face.
“Fine, I get you don’t want to talk about it here, but we’re going to have to talk about it sometime.” I gave him a dirty look. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was mocking me with the whole coffee-orgasm thing. “I may have amnesia, but I’m not stupid. There’s obviously more going on here than you’re telling me, if the interest of our colleagues is anything to go by.”
He set down his mug, r
eached for the maple syrup, and poured a healthy amount on his stack of pancakes. “Give me a little time, okay? There are a few things I need to check out.”
“About the artifacts?” I watched as he forked syrup-covered pancakes into that lush mouth of his and realized I left out the sensation of food in our little sexcapade. I’d have to invest in some whipped cream and chocolate before the next session.
John choked on the pancakes and hastily reached for his orange juice to wash them down. I enjoyed the face he pulled at the tartness of the juice coming behind the sweetness of the syrup. Served him right, the greedy bastard. He should know better than to wolf his food.
“That’s what you get for taking in more than you can swallow,” I said and wickedly enjoyed the flush that spread across his cheekbones.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m guessing this is what it’s going to be like between you and me from now on, right? All innuendo and double entendres?” He ducked his chin to give me a sour look from under his hair.
“And demands for sex when you least expect it. Demands with which you’ll comply without protest. In your mother’s basement. In the backseat of your car. In the elevator at this hotel….” I smiled into my coffee, envisioning John in the elevator, face and hands pressed up against the mirrored glass, jeans around his ankles—and me fucking him from behind.
A small, stifled sound made me look up. John was watching me with dilated pupils. I focused briefly on the flare of his nostrils and then dropped my gaze to my plate and hummed innocently as I buttered my toast. Oh, this could be fun. Hard to believe just one night of play in the bedroom had reduced him to my willing slave, but the evidence was before me. John unobtrusively rearranged himself under the table and then kicked me on the shin when I sniggered.
Not that I wanted him as my slave. I was willing to give John whatever he wanted in bed. To play whatever role he needed me to play. No questions asked. But there was no way I could belittle him or humiliate him, even if I believed for an instant that’s what he wanted. Call him on his shit? Yes. That was totally different. But act like a pharaoh and expect him to grovel like a slave in chains before me? No. Not happening. Though the chains part could be fun.
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