by Layla Reyne
“Oh, good, you’re here,” said the younger of the two women there. She shouldered a bag and came around the end of the desk, hand outstretched. “Poppy. Wanted to meet you both before I had to run. Jeremiah said you were tasty, and he wasn’t lying.”
Carter chuckled, Lincoln’s ears turned bright red, and the older woman chided, “Poppy.”
“What, Mawmaw, it’s the truth.” Poppy smiled brightly at them. “Don’t mean to be rude, but I gotta run. Need to swing by the student union before my first class. Mawmaw will take good care of you. She’s been the reference librarian here for forty years. Be seein’ you!”
She disappeared out the door before either of them could get a word in, including their own names. The deep sigh behind them drew Carter around, and the Mawmaw, taken together with the similar lines of nose and mouth between the two women, suggested they were related.
“Pardon my granddaughter,” the woman said, confirming Carter’s speculation. “Apparently the manners still haven’t kicked in yet, despite my best efforts the past twenty years.”
“It’s no trouble, ma’am,” Carter said, all manners kicking in. Forty years at the hub of Apex’s campus—this was someone they needed to know. And the mix of exasperation and fondness for her granddaughter in her voice and expression made Carter want to know her more.
“Carter Polk,” he said. “And this is my husband, Lincoln.”
“Molly Watson. We’re so happy to have you.” She took each of their hands in both of hers, lingering longer with Lincoln’s. “Especially you. Poor Jeremiah has been so underwater with those archives since Harry passed. He does what he can, but he can’t do it all.”
“I hope I can help him out,” Lincoln said, sounding earnest, even as his toe tapped a rhythm on the floor out of Molly’s sight.
Carter wasn’t so oblivious. To Lincoln’s discomfort as he played the cover with Molly, with Ryan on Saturday, and even at the church, underlying the stage fright. Lincoln did not like leading these people on. Which gave Carter some hope that Lincoln wasn’t leading him on with that kiss last night or the one in the FP parking lot this morning.
“You’ll certainly be more helpful than Poppy, or Brandon. He—” she curled her fingers in air quotes “—works in the afternoons.” Not a trace of fondness this time.
“There an issue with Brandon?” Lincoln asked.
“He’s a nice enough kid but not the most dependable. He’s getting a PhD in physics and is well on his way to absent-minded professor.”
Carter smiled. “I have some familiarity with that.”
“Hey!” Lincoln backhanded his abs.
“You two are so cute,” Molly said with a smile. “Ah, young love.”
Lincoln’s toe tapping stopped. So did his breaths. Until Carter laid a hand at this back and he made a hilarious gulping sound. “Say thanks, honey,” he teased Lincoln. “She called you young.”
Molly laughed out loud, warm and jolly, and Lincoln glared, fiery and unamused. Back to himself again.
“Even cuter,” Molly snickered. “You two go on. I’ll buzz you through.” She waved a hand at the security pylons, their lights turning from red to green. “And if you need anything, just holler. I’m at extension 542.”
“Thank you, Molly.” Carter ushered Lincoln through the turnstile, but on the other side, Lincoln paused, his light brown eyes beckoning Carter to go ahead. Following his partner’s cue, Carter continued on around the corner to the elevators and called the cab.
Back in the lobby, Lincoln was apologizing to Molly. “Sorry I got flustered. I’m not always the best around new people. Nerd,” he said sheepishly, and Carter could imagine the self-deprecating shrug to go with. “But it’s really nice to meet you, and I look forward to working with you.”
Lincoln was unintentionally better at this than he thought—because he was fundamentally a good man—and Carter was fairly certain Molly had a new favorite. She fawned some more, shushing him and again repeating her offer of help. When Lincoln caught up to Carter, he was noticeably more relaxed, put back at ease by telling as much of the truth as he could. Carter held open the elevator doors for him. “Good work.”
“Forty years at Apex U. She’s a good source.” He leaned against the back wall of the elevator cab. “And a nice lady too. I was just caught off guard...by the...” He couldn’t say it, and it was possible his face was going to catch fire right there.
“Young love,” Carter teased as he crossed the cab. “Is that what all the spluttering and blushing is about?” He stopped with less than a foot between them. When Lincoln didn’t physically push or death glare him away, Carter erased the rest of the distance. One arm over Lincoln’s head, his other hand on the professor’s hip not blocked by Lincoln’s bag, Carter leaned in and whispered next to his ear, “Same drill here. When we get into the archive room, you stay quiet while I sweep it for bugs. Got it?”
Lincoln nodded, the attractive dark blond scruff he let grow another day scratching enticingly against Carter’s cheek. Carter moved to step back while he still could, but Lincoln had other ideas. Hands wrapped in the lapels of his jacket, Lincoln held him close and lifted hot honey eyes to him. “I think you’re using this cover thing to your advantage.” Yet he didn’t sound mad about it at all.
“Are you objecting?”
Lincoln’s gaze flitted to the arm over his head, to Carter’s eyes, then to his lips...and snagged there. “No,” he rasped out and curled his hands tighter. He yanked Carter into him and around, the move surprisingly coordinated for Mr. Teeters-A-Lot.
Carter fell back against the wall, partly in shock, mostly in lust. Lincoln fell into him, and Carter welcomed the heat of his mouth, the lean, hard planes of his body, the reality that far outpaced any fantasy he’d had over the past eight years. Every kiss between them was different—last night’s relief, this morning’s playfulness, this moment’s pure desire—and each stoked Carter’s need for more. As did Lincoln’s mouth gliding off his lips and down his throat, sucking and nipping at the tender skin. Carter skated his hand up Lincoln’s back and into his hair. “Fuck yes, right there, baby.”
Someone not named Carter or Lincoln cleared their throat.
Lincoln froze, and Carter opened his eyes...to Jeremiah, arms folded, foot propping open the elevator door. “There better be FP biscuits in this for me.”
“Newlyweds.” Carter shifted Lincoln so as not to be totally rude but also keeping him in a position to hide the erection pressing against his thigh and the one behind his own zipper.
“Sexually frustrated gay bachelor,” Jeremiah replied. “Have some fucking courtesy.”
Lincoln moved to Carter’s side and swung the messenger bag around to their front in another surprisingly smooth move that afforded them coverage as they stepped out of the elevator. “Biscuits not worth it today,” he said. “Barry and Trudy are out of town.”
Jeremiah’s face fell.
“But Ginger’s cranberry orange muffins were divine.” Carter dug the bag out of his coat pocket and tossed it to Jeremiah.
“My favorite!” Jeremiah grabbed one out of the bag and bit into it, moaning. Carter swore he heard Lincoln pout. “You met Molly and Poppy?” he asked around his bite.
“Yes and sounds like we might meet Brandon this afternoon.”
“Might.” He finished the muffin and wiped his hands off on his jeans. “Okay, I’m off to class, then leading two small sections this afternoon, then a study group. I probably won’t be back until tomorrow morning.” He stepped into the elevator and punched the up button. “Don’t fuck in the stacks, please. The shelves aren’t as stable as they look.”
“You sound like you speak from experience,” Lincoln said.
Jeremiah flashed them jazz hands, both hands up, fingers spread wide. “Top ten most embarrassing life moments. Last time Little Kline got any action. Wouldn’t recommend it
.” The doors slid shut on his smirking face.
Lincoln was still staring at the elevator doors as they closed. Carter propped his chin on Lincoln’s shoulder. Same as Lincoln had done at the lab yesterday. “You want to make out in the stacks with me, Professor Polk?”
Lincoln’s eye roll as he slid away was exactly the laugh Carter needed, and it carried him through the next few hours of digging through archive boxes and microfilm. For nothing. They narrowed down the box graphs considerably and focused their archives search on the window of time Baxter was a student at Apex U. They used his transcript to search for class pictures and cross-checked his name with all athletic teams and extracurricular activities. Unfortunately, there were no pictures of the Future Astronauts of America Club, and the 2009 Apex U graduating class was too big to list students by name, and the 2009 Apex U physics department too small to hold a graduation ceremony where they’d take a class picture.
So they refocused around the gray hair theory. Using the narrowed time windows, they found two dozen pictures with multiple gray-haired persons in them, nine of which they ruled out as irrelevant. The individuals in those pictures were identified by name, and a quick records search showed two deceased and the others in locations that would make it impossible for them to be Dr. Fear.
“That leaves us with these fifteen pictures,” Lincoln said. “We need to start analyzing them for further details. See if we can use anything else in the shot to identify the individuals.”
“Before we get there, I have to ask... Do you think any of these guys—” Carter spread his hands over the fifteen photos “—look like that guy?” He pointed at the laptop screen where they had open the mug shot of Jeff Baxter.
Lincoln nudged a picture in the top corner. “Maybe this one.”
“Maybe.” Carter fell into a chair. “Not really. Admit it.”
Lincoln dropped into the chair beside him, tossed his glasses on the table, and scrubbed his hands over his face. “We were making such good progress and then...” He lowered his hands and raised his two middle fingers, flipping off the table.
Chuckling, Carter reached out and covered his hands. “The table won’t appreciate that nearly as much as I did.”
“Do we go back into the founding families search now? Or cross-check Baxter with long-term Apex U employees?”
“We do both,” Carter said. “But I’m not sure I’m ready to leave this avenue either. We wanted the gray hair to be the variant, and I think it might still be for Dr. Fear, but maybe it’s not for Jeff Baxter...yet.”
Lincoln straightened in his chair. “Hair dye.”
“Maybe.” Carter rolled his chair over to the laptop and accessed the FBI’s case log on Baxter. There were several files added since this morning, including a list of items from a search of Baxter’s place. Carter scanned down the list, stopping a third of the way down. “Yep, there it is.” He highlighted the six-month supply of gray hair dye that had been tagged to Baxter’s bathroom.
“Fuck,” Lincoln cursed. “What’s his natural color, then? Do we have a DNA panel yet?”
Carter clicked through the list of recently uploaded files. “No, but we have his NASA application.” He opened that file and a younger, dark-haired Jeff Baxter filled the page. “This is who we’re looking for.”
Lincoln groaned. “But that’s an even bigger, more generic haystack. Brown hair, brown eyes, no distinguishing features. I operate best when I can narrow things down.”
Carter turned toward him, knees on either side of Lincoln’s to contain the inevitable flailing. He needed the professor to focus, not get frustrated. Or more frustrated than he already was. “How can we best do that?”
“Maybe if we knew who some of the other people Baxter hung around with were, we can find them in pictures. If we’re lucky, another gray-haired person will be in the frame.”
“The space nerds club.”
Lincoln raised a judgmental brow.
“Sorry, sorry, but that’s an option.”
“It is. So is my new best friend upstairs. But how do we ask her about Baxter without tipping her off as to what we’re looking for?”
Carter shrugged. “Make up some excuse for how it’s related to your research.”
Commence flailing.
It was a careless comment, born out of years of undercover work and hours of mentally taxing work today that had made Carter momentarily forget his earlier observation. He grasped Lincoln’s knees before he could roll away. “I’m sorry,” Carter said. “I realize this undercover thing is still new for you and that you’re uncomfortable lying to these people.”
Lincoln stilled. “You do?”
Carter squeezed his knees. “I do.” Outside, the elevator dinged, heavy doors clanking open, and Carter heard footsteps approaching. Probably Molly. He had to make his case now, had to be the partner Lincoln needed and reframe the problem in a way Lincoln could tackle. “But let me ask you this, L... Is that bit of discomfort, the small lie you’re telling them, worth it to capture a serial killer who lives among them and who could threaten them at any time?”
“Not could. Has,” came a voice from behind them. Not Molly’s. Carter whipped around to find Agent O’Shea in the doorway. And he hadn’t come here in person to deliver good news. It was the news Carter had feared since this morning. “Barry and Trudy Cousins are officially missing.”
Chapter Fourteen
Casa Cousins was not what Lincoln had expected. It had to be one of the largest houses in all of Apex. Granted, there was still a lot of Apex he hadn’t seen, but of the parts he had, only the chancellor’s mansion on Main Street was bigger than Barry and Trudy’s place. On the other side of Lake Sardis from Lincoln and Carter’s rental, the large agro-chic farmhouse with its white-paneled walls, massive windows, and pitched slate roofs was situated on five acres of prime lakefront real estate. Most of the area was wooded, the structure hidden among the forest, except directly behind the house, the trees had been thinned to provide a stunning view of the lake.
Behind Lincoln, the back door to the kitchen opened, and his partner’s footsteps thudded across the pine deck. Lincoln braced his forearms on the patio rail, staring out at the lake. “I’d say business is booming at Flour Power.”
“You’d be right,” Carter said. “Partially.”
“Barry’s pension?”
“More like his inheritance.” Carter assumed a similar position next to him. “This was the Petticoat family land.”
That made a certain amount of sense. Best piece of real estate in town owned by one of Apex’s founding families. “Why Barry? Not Larry and Harry too, or instead? Harry was the eldest. Did he have it first, before his death?”
“Nope. Homestead was passed down, chief to chief, since their great-great-grandfather. I’d guess as an incentive to keep them here in Apex and on the force. Larry and Harry split the rest of the inheritance.”
Lincoln glanced back over his shoulder at the shiny modern structure. “This isn’t the original house, though.” His work required him to be familiar with architecture and architectural trends. Buildings, as the focus or backdrop of a picture, were another clue in dating photos. Like clothing, a building’s architecture was more useful as a backstop, and in this case, this sort of agro-chic had become particularly popular the past two decades. More simply even than architectural trends, the house didn’t show the wear and tear of a multi-generational structure.
“You’re right,” Carter confirmed. “That’s the Flour Power part of it. Trudy and Barry razed the old homestead and built this one ten years back.”
“How’d Harry and Larry feel about that?”
“That note in there makes me wonder.”
“You too, huh?” Lincoln straightened and turned around, leaning back on the rail and watching O’Shea direct the ERT team inside, two of them working on fingerprinting the patio door th
at Carter had avoided exiting out of. No disturbing the evidence.
The diagnosis—on Letter Elegant, Batch 302—had been taped to the sliding glass patio door. O’Shea had instructed it be left there for Lincoln to see when they arrived. Lincoln understood why; the positioning of the note was as important as the diagnosis itself.
“I want to hear what you think, as a field agent, before I tell you my theory.”
Beside him, Carter remained facing the lake, elbows braced on the rail, as he ticked off his suspicions on his fingers. “The Petticoats are a founding family. All of them have gray hair, and by the pictures I saw on the walls at FP and at the police station, they have been for a while. The lax follow-up of the missing persons reports. He’s the police chief in a position to know more about the goings-on here and who is coming and going through his town, including passers-through who happen to get into a car accident or other altercation. He’s old enough and been on the force long enough to be Dr. Fear.” All five fingers on the one hand were extended. “And then there’s the note.” He held out the other hand, five fingers wide.
Lincoln chuckled. “By he, I take it you mean Larry?”
Carter nodded, and Lincoln shifted back around, mimicking Carter this time. “Alternate theory.” He began counting off on his fingers. “The Petticoats are a founding family. All of them have gone gray prematurely. The lax follow-up of the missing persons reports. He was the police chief, and now he co-runs a bakery that’s the town hub.” Catching the divergence, Carter raised a brow. Lincoln kept going. “He’s old enough and was on the force long enough to be Dr. Fear.” All five fingers on the one hand were extended. “And then there’s the wandering.” He held out the other hand, five fingers wide.