Frowning, he noted that several items on his desk were misplaced. The stapler now sat perpendicular to his desk organizer, when it had been lined up in parallel before. His silver Cross pen was no longer in its case in the drawer, but lying out on the desk in plain sight, which meant that he couldn’t blame it on Oliver jumping up there again to look out the window. Shrugging it off, he realized that Flynn must have needed something stapled and had borrowed his pen to make a notation as well. It irritated him, however, and he put everything back the way it was. He made a mental note to supply Flynn with some pens of his own.
Oliver, he discovered, was over by the front door, smelling a well-worn pair of track shoes and curling his lip. The track shoes hadn’t been there the night before. Special Agent Profiler must have gone out running this morning.
“You better not piss on those,” Jerry warned the cat. “But feel free to puke in them if you like.”
He tightened the belt of his plush red bathrobe around his waist and padded into the kitchen. Oliver followed, plaintive little cries punctuating his fear that Jerry would forget to feed him. Jerry quickly opened a can and placed the food in the clean dish, setting it down on the mat once more. Damn it, he forgot to clean the mat last night. He didn’t shred the junk mail either. That’s what comes from having visitors over. He started the coffeemaker, noting that since it was just a two-cup model, he wasn’t likely to get his second cup until they reached the office today.
Mechanically, he set about making breakfast, his mind on what to do about Flynn. The simple answer was to take him to headquarters and turn him loose. Flynn was a big boy; he could take care of himself. He’d sit in on the Marsden interview with Flynn. He’d run whatever errands Flynn needed him to do. Flynn could find his own place to stay—it was none of Jerry’s concern. In a few days, this new lead would pan out to nothing as usual, and Flynn would head back to Quantico. Jerry didn’t need to knock himself out on this one.
He broke six eggs into a small glass bowl, dropping the shells in the disposal and stirring the yolks with a fork. He added a quarter cup of milk and some salt and pepper while the skillet warmed on the stove. As the oven preheated to 350 degrees, he cooked four slices of bacon in the skillet. Once they were done, he drained the grease and added a cup of frozen peas to the bacon, jumping back at the spatter when the cold peas hit the pan. He let that heat through for a minute and then poured the eggs in on top. Deftly sprinkling the egg mixture with a handful of shredded sharp cheddar, he cooked it until the edges of the eggs began to set. He then transferred the entire pan to the oven and set the timer for twelve minutes.
Oliver was washing his face with one white-mittened paw when he suddenly looked up and slunk out of the room. Jerry could hear the sound of movement in the living room. “There’s coffee in here if you want it,” he called out.
He sensed Flynn’s presence behind him before he heard him speak.
“Something smells good in here.”
Jerry turned to say something offhand but then completely lost track of what he’d intended to say. Flynn was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing a towel slung low around his hips so that his hipbones showed. The hair on his chest was not too much, just right in fact, tapering down his long torso until it disappeared beneath the towel. He was drying out one ear with another towel, his hair standing up in startled spikes. On the chain around his neck, he wore a simple, tiny silver cross, the kind that a preteen girl might wear. His left shoulder bore the ugly, puckered mark of a bullet wound, the shiny scarring of skin suggesting that the wound wasn’t all that old. Jerry knew from his record that Flynn had been shot in the line of duty about six months ago, but the record didn’t say much more than that.
Flynn had shaved, but his jaw still held the suggestion of a beard. It was probably as close as he ever got to being smooth-cheeked. A hint of soap and the smell of clean, damp skin and aftershave wafted in Jerry’s direction before being lost to the smell of coffee and bacon. The combination of odors struck Jerry viscerally with a little bolt of lust that surprised him.
“Breakfast will be ready in a minute,” Jerry said tersely, turning away to get a second mug down from the cabinet.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Flynn said, slinging the towel in his hand around his neck.
Jerry shot him a look. He wondered what kind of game Flynn was playing here. He obviously was aware that Jerry had checked him out; it was evident in the little smile that played around his lips. Was this his way of saying he was so secure in his sexuality that it didn’t bother him? Jerry suspected that was the case.
“Oh. Right. Never mind. This is how you always start the day. What’s in the oven?” Flynn looked amused, something subtle in his eyes that suggested it was at Jerry’s expense. He also looked completely comfortable there in his stupid towel with his hairy legs and his bare feet.
“Frittatas,” Jerry said crisply. He blamed the heat of the oven for the flushing of his face.
“That’s some egg thingy, right?”
Jerry found his gaze drawn to a single bead of water dripping from one of Flynn’s sideburns, making its way in a crooked line over his collarbone. He swallowed before speaking. “Philistine. Yes, some egg thingy. Best eaten hot. You’d better get dressed.” He cleared his throat.
Flynn gave him a little half smile and left the room. Jerry watched the way the damp, soft terrycloth of the towel clung to his ass as he walked away. He took a sip of coffee and made a face as he realized he’d forgotten to add cream. Yep. It was going to be a long day.
THINGS didn’t go much better once they reached the local field office for the bureau on Golden Gate Avenue. Jerry had been immediately pulled into answering questions on various cases in which he’d been assisting in data collection. Flynn had wandered apparently aimlessly from desk to desk, chatting up personnel and catching up on the local gossip since the last time he’d been there. Jerry had tried watching him out of the corner of his eye but soon gave up as he’d been plunged into the intricacies of tracking down suspects and confirming or disproving different statements.
“No, no, that’s not me anymore,” Jerry was saying into the phone when a shadow fell across his desk. He scowled up at Flynn, who was eating almond M&M’s out of a packet. Flynn looked pointedly at his watch and back at Jerry again. Jerry held up a finger to signal “wait.” “No,” he said again. “I’ve been reassigned. If you want to talk to someone about El Capitan, you need to talk to Special Agent Fielding here locally or Special Agent Kavanagh. You probably want Kavanagh—he’s in charge. No, he’s with the LA bureau. Right. Okay.” He hung up the phone. It rang again before he could speak. Rolling his eyes, he answered it.
“Parker here. No, Charles, I told you before I can’t run the analysis. Look, I got the data for you. It’s just a matter of plugging in the numbers. Hang on a sec.” Jerry placed his hand over the end of the receiver. “Where’d you get those?” He asked Flynn suspiciously, indicating the M&M’s with his nose.
“Your desk drawer,” Flynn said, continuing to eat them placidly.
Jerry frowned again, noting it had little effect. “No, goddamn it,” he said into the phone. “What part of ‘I can’t do that’ don’t you understand? I’ve got to go. I’m late for an interview. Oh, very funny. Don’t give up your day job.” Jerry hung up the phone and turned on Flynn. “Those were mine.”
“Yep,” Flynn nodded, crumpling up the little empty bag and tossing it in an exaggerated overhand into a nearby trash can, making a little “he scores” gesture with his fingers when it went into the can. “It would seem that you have a lot of people willing to pay you tribute.”
“Tribute?” Jerry said slowly, not sure if Flynn was taking a pot shot at him.
“Sure. I’ve been watching you. Everyone wants your expertise.” Flynn gave him a little smile. “And they’re willing to bribe you to get your attention first.”
“Yeah. My expertise,” Jerry said bitterly. He straightened his
tie and stood up, making sure his desk was in order with a quick glance. When he met Flynn’s gaze, he was startled to see what might have been compassion on Flynn’s face, but it was gone before he barely registered it.
“The museum’s not all that far. We can walk,” Jerry said as they entered the elevator. “It’ll be easier than trying to find parking.”
“No problem,” Flynn said agreeably.
The sky had cleared of fog, and the day was turning sunny and pleasant. Flynn stepped out into the warm sunshine and immediately slid on a pair of aviator sunglasses. “You guys have your weather backward here,” he said, glancing around at the passersby on the street. It had to be in the upper fifties. People were carrying their coats or doing without them. “‘The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco.’”
“Mark Twain,” Jerry said, by way of identifying the quotation. No wonder Flynn hadn’t minded coming to California in January. Flynn just smiled at him, and Jerry felt like he’d passed some sort of test, which was just stupid. He tried to put Flynn’s little look of approval out of his mind as they walked.
The Black Eyed Peas began to sing “I’ve Got a Feeling,” and Flynn pulled his cell out of his pocket. They stopped, letting the pedestrian traffic flow around them. Jerry made a questioning face at the ringtone. “Old girlfriend,” Flynn said as he answered the phone. “Never bothered to change it.”
Jerry wondered about a person who could listen to a song that should have reminded them of a failed relationship but did nothing about it. And yeah. Girlfriend.
“This is Flynn,” he said into the phone. He raised an eyebrow at Jerry. “Ms. Marsden. We were just on our way. I see. This really won’t take…. Right. Very well. We’ll be there. Yes. Goodbye.”
“She wants to reschedule,” Jerry said.
“Yes. She says something has come up with the newest exhibit. She sounded harried, not frightened.”
“But it bugs you all the same.”
Flynn shrugged, re-pocketing his cell. Jerry noted with a little pang that he didn’t even have it in a protective case of any kind. “Any time a witness tells me they might be able to identify a killer, and then they delay making a statement, it concerns me.”
“So, we just go down there and demand to see her anyway.”
“On the basis of what?” Flynn looked both amused and frustrated. “It’s not like she’s refusing to talk to us. She’s just rescheduling, that’s all. She wants us to come to the museum after closing tonight, around eight p.m.”
“So, now what?” Jerry glanced at his watch. He supposed it was back to the office for him, or maybe help Flynn find someplace else to stay.
“I want to see Inspector King.” Flynn was decisive in his declaration but then looked immediately at a loss.
“What?” Jerry raised an eyebrow of his own.
“Well,” Flynn hesitated. “I suppose we should take her something. Flowers seem inappropriate though. And she doesn’t strike me as a candy sort of woman, always providing she was allowed to have it in the first place.”
Jerry felt a grin split his face. “I have just the thing. Come with me.”
IN SIMPLE letters, the marquee above the door read, “L-Space.” On the narrow window, a sentence stood out in an ornate font. “A good bookshop is just a genteel black hole that knows how to read.”
Flynn gave him the lightning-flash glance of someone who got the joke before they stepped out of the bright sunshine and into the darkened store. It took Jerry’s eyes a few seconds to adjust. The musty odor of books assailed his nostrils. Paperback novels were stacked haphazardly from floor to ceiling in plain wooden bookcases. The sun streaming in through the streaked windows highlighted dust motes roiling in the beams of light. Despite an itching desire to place everything in better order, Jerry breathed in the atmosphere and let out a happy little sigh.
Flynn shot him a little sideways glance.
The guy at the counter, a thin, student-looking type with glasses and a mop of dirty-blond hair, looked up at their arrival. “Jerry,” he called out. “I was just getting ready to phone you. Your order came in.”
“That’s great, Daniel,” Jerry said as they approached the counter. Flynn had pocketed his sunglasses and was looking around rather bemused. Perhaps he wouldn’t pay too much attention to Jerry’s book order. Yeah. Right. “I need to add to it though. We’re on our way to visit a colleague in the hospital, and I was hoping to bring a copy of The Daughter of Time.”
“Oh, good choice,” Daniel said, coming around the counter and giving Flynn an appreciative once-over that Jerry desperately hoped Flynn hadn’t noticed. “Our best bet would be to check the paperback mystery section.”
“You don’t have your inventory on computer?” Flynn questioned, with that ubiquitous raised eyebrow again.
Daniel led the way. “What would be the fun in that?” he asked with an engaging grin over one shoulder.
Jerry met Flynn’s glance with a little shrug, and they followed Daniel as he wound his way through the labyrinth of bookcases to the back of the store. The room opened up there into a small space, with several comfortable chairs on a thick area rug and a table with a coffee urn and mugs nearby. The unpainted wooden shelves were labeled with the neat, handwritten tag Mysteries and divided by the letters of the alphabet.
“Tey, Tey, Tey,” Daniel was muttering to himself. “Hmm. I have Miss Pym Disposes and Brat Farrar…. I could’ve sworn…. Here it is!” Daniel was triumphant. He looked like an archeologist that had just made an important discovery. “The Daughter of Time. I knew I had a copy.”
“I’ll take them all,” Jerry said. Who knew how long King would be laid up? He had copies of all of these books at home, but this way King could keep them if she liked.
“This friend of yours wouldn’t by any chance be a cop, would he?” Daniel’s eyes lit up at the idea, brimming with humor.
“As a matter of fact, she is,” Jerry conceded.
“Cool.” Daniel grinned and then flushed with embarrassment. “I mean, not cool that your friend is in the hospital, but you know what I mean.” He gave a helpless little shrug, palms up in apology.
“Mind letting me in on the joke?” Flynn’s drawl caught both their attentions.
“DOT is about a cop who is laid up in the hospital,” Jerry began, wondering why he sounded like a lecturing professor and how to stop it. “One of his friends, a historian, brings him several famous unsolved cases and asks him to take a crack at solving one from his bed. Of course, this was written back in the fifties, so no internet….”
“And the author rather likes her hero more than can be justified thus far,” Daniel added with a grin toward Jerry.
Jerry snapped his fingers and pointed at Daniel. “Yes, exactly. But still”—he faced Flynn again—“it’s a good read. He chooses to look at Richard the Third and the princes in the tower. What do you think? Will she like it?”
Flynn nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Not too chicklit, yet not too much like her day job either. She’ll probably have fun picking holes in the plot as well.” He flashed a brief smile at Jerry. “Good choice. But you don’t have to buy them. They’re on me.”
They made their way back to the counter, where Jerry tried not to feel pleased over Flynn’s remarks. Since when did he need this guy’s approval, anyway?
Flynn flicked a glance over the stack of books that Jerry received from Daniel as they were checking out. “War and Peace?” he asked with a smirk.
“Didn’t Jerry tell you?” Daniel asked cheerfully. “He’s reading all the classics of literature. The Greeks, Romans, Russians, French, English—oh, that reminds me, I did find a used copy of volume eleven of Durant, and I’m having it shipped in.” He handed Jerry his change. “I’ll let you know when it arrives.”
“Durant?” Flynn asked as they hit the sidewalk again. He paused to put on his sunglasses one-handed. Jerry felt the comfortable weight of the books in the canvas bag that Daniel had lent him,
with the admonishment that he bring it back next time. They began walking back to the field office to pick up the car.
“The Story of Civilization. I bought a used set before I realized it was missing the last book, and it’s hard to find someone who wants to sell just one volume.”
“What book are you on?” Flynn asked. Jerry could tell what he was thinking. Flynn probably assumed that Jerry was one of those people who filled his shelves with literature that he never read.
“Five. The Renaissance. Though to be honest, I thought I’d never make it through volume four, The Age of Faith. It took me almost a year. I kept falling asleep.”
“You’re an odd duck, Parker,” Flynn said with a smile that made the comment seem friendly, rather than an insult.
“HOW long until dinner?”
Flynn’s voice startled Jerry, and he looked up from his leaning position in front of the open refrigerator to see Flynn standing in the doorway of the kitchen, dressed for a workout, a faded navy FBI Academy T-shirt over silver nylon track shorts. Jerry closed the fridge, thinking about what he had available for dinner. For someone who seemed to care less about food, Flynn was doing a good job of finishing up the leftovers. Jerry would have normally eaten them this evening; now he was looking at making something new.
He glanced at his watch. “About an hour,” he said. That would give them plenty of time to clean up and head back over to the museum to keep their appointment afterward.
“I’m headed downstairs. I see you’ve got a gym in the building.”
“A small one,” Jerry warned. “A treadmill, a Nautilus, and some free weights. That’s about it. You’ll need a passkey. I have a second one in the right-hand drawer of the computer desk, all the way at the back. You might as well keep it as long as you’re here.”
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