by Andrea Speed
He took off his sunglasses and looked around the office like it wasn’t quite what he was expecting. He had sharp brown eyes over a hawk’s beak of a nose and radiated an intensity that Tank would have recognized as a kindred spirit. His gaze seemed to devour the room in two sweeps and stuttered over Fiona as if she was an anomaly he couldn’t reconcile. Well, yeah—biker babe as receptionist. Bit of a head-scratcher to most people. (And the truth was even weirder.)
Finally, Roan placed a name to his face, even though, really, it was just the intensity of the eyes that gave him away. When you saw a man with eyes like that, he was either a serial killer or a genius. Roan figured which one you considered this man depended on your point of view. “Robert Hatcher?” Roan asked, not sure he was right.
The man’s laser gaze fixed on him, and he gave the tiniest nod in response. “Roan McKichan. I’d heard you did things a bit differently than your average investigator, but I had no idea.”
Was that aimed at Fiona? He wasn’t sure.
But then again, he had no idea what a software billionaire like Hatcher could be doing in his office.
2
Satan
Roan led Hatcher into his office and almost instantly regretted it. His eyes scudded over everything like the place was an open sewer pit and he was just trying to find the rats before they attacked him. As Roan took a seat behind his desk, he noticed Hatcher’s eyes seemed to stick on the far corner, where he had his old-fashioned file cabinet, as well as his Simpsons animation cel and a sexy photo of Paris. “I knew you kept a low profile, but I hadn’t imagined you sunk this low,” he said acerbically. He had a kind of staccato deadpan that made everything sound bitter or sarcastic.
“It’s an office park, not the gutter,” Roan replied.
Hatcher gave him a look that suggested he saw no difference. “If you say so.”
Hatcher studied the guest chair before sitting down, as if he expected to see a puddle of vomit or semen on it. Roan began wondering if he could afford to just punch this bastard. “Mr. Hatcher, I know you have security staff, so I’m curious why you’re here.”
“Ah, good, you don’t like bullshit either. I need this done in private, as quietly as possible, and I don’t know if I trust my staff not to eventually leak this to the press.” He pulled something out of his pocket and tossed it on the desk. Roan saw it was a flash drive no bigger than a thumbnail, a black, flattened oval, which he pulled the cap off of and plugged into the USB port of his computer. “That will tell you everything you need to know—and many things you don’t—about my son.”
“So this is a family issue?” He hated them, but he wasn’t going to say so now.
Hatcher sighed as if he didn’t care much for these kinds of issues either. “My son Jordan, a seventeen-year-old fuck-up who is fucking up at an advanced rate. He’s fucking up enough for two people twice his age.”
Files popped up on Roan’s screen, but he was too engrossed in the general contempt coming from his client to look. “What’s he done?”
He rolled his eyes. “Besides spent enough on nose candy to keep the nation of Columbia solvent for the next twenty years? He’s gone missing, and either he’s making a half-assed attempt to extort more money out of me, or he might have finally gotten his stupid ass in trouble. There’s an audio file on the drive, the last phone call I received from him three days ago.”
Roan looked at his computer screen and found the WAV in the files. He didn’t want to smile, but Hatcher’s open contempt for his son was almost amusing, in a sick sort of way.
The WAV was a good recording. He could hear a slightly staticky connection, and then the faintly tremulous voice of a young man, sounding either very high, very scared, or both. “Hi, um, Dad? I really fucked up. I think I’m in trouble here, could—” The connection dropped off so abruptly it was incredible. Bad cell phone? Somebody cutting a line? No one hung up.
“Did you try and follow up on this?” Roan asked, although he suspected the answer.
Hatcher dipped his chin toward his chest, a hidden, burning contempt deep within his hooded eyes. Was there anyone he liked? The world must have been one disappointment after another for him. “I did. The number was blocked, so there was no caller ID, no star 69, and talking to the phone company was a total waste of my fucking time.”
“I’d ask why you taped the phone call, but I know better.”
His eyes narrowed, and Roan could almost feel the psychic spike he was trying to mentally shove through his chest. “After some asshole tried to sue me three years ago, I find it’s in my best interest to record incoming calls. You never know when somebody’s going to try and claim you have an oral agreement with them when you don’t.”
“Fair enough. But I still don’t see why you couldn’t trust your staff security to look into this.”
This earned a tsk and a sigh. “Most of my staff hate Jordan and would happily humiliate him. Some might be tempted by money to leak it to a journalist or slap it on a blog. In case that idiot is just trying to get money out of me, it’ll make us both look bad. I’d rather not have that.”
Roan considered that, sure it was true but not sure he liked it. “I guess I shouldn’t ask about the police for the same reason. Why me?”
“I like the best, Mr. McKichan. And let’s face it—most people are too stupid to realize what you are.”
Wow—he really didn’t like this guy. He even hated his software, whatever the fuck it was. “Meaning what?”
His eyes were frosty and hard, two pieces of hail nestled into his eye sockets. “Meaning I know your secret, although it’s not a secret, is it? People just don’t want to believe it. After all, you’re diseased, and you’re a butt pirate. You’re not supposed to be superhuman.”
Wow. He was so glad he’d mastered the poker face while a cop, otherwise he’d have let on his shock. This guy had big brass balls, and he was as obnoxious as Rush Limbaugh denied both his OxyContin and his bucket of KFC. He didn’t know if he even wanted a client who was this much of a prick. “Only my friends can call me a butt pirate. And no one is superhuman outside of a comic book.”
“Good. I almost believed it. But you seemed faster and stronger than everyone else at Grant Kim’s perp walk because—duh—you are. People are, in general, morons, and they’re willing to ignore what they don’t like or don’t get. I didn’t get where I am denying facts simply because I don’t like them.”
“So, not a Fundamentalist then?”
“I don’t know why you are the way you are. There’s no way the virus could be responsible. But then there’s no way the virus can exist either, so we’re at a logical impasse, a place where what we know breaks down into so much noise. That’s where you are. It must be fascinating.”
“So are you hiring me ’cause you think I’m Batman, or are you hiring me to find your son?”
“Don’t be stupid. Batman isn’t superhuman. He’s just a man with gadgets. You’re more like Mystique.”
“Okay, yeah, this interview is done. No thanks.” He should have guessed a software designer would be a great huge nerd. But he hadn’t really expected this turbo-powered arrogant asshole of industry to be a comic geek. He yanked the drive out of the port and tossed it back in Hatcher’s lap.
“You’re offended by the truth?”
“The truth, breeder?” he snapped. “You don’t know me. Don’t pretend you do.”
Anger briefly flashed through Hatcher’s eyes, but it dissipated quickly, and he looked almost remorseful. For a second. He wasn’t used to taking shit from anyone, and probably hadn’t had anyone say no to him in some time. “Fine. Perhaps I presumed too much. I apologize.” He put the drive back on the desk and pulled out a wad of cash, held together with a rubber band. That he also placed on the desk. “I’ll pay in cash so no one on the staff notices the payments. I assume that’s enough of a retainer to get you on board.”
“I honestly don’t know if you can pay me enough,” Roan told him, sitting forwa
rd. “I am not one of your staff, and I’m not a peon. You treat me in any way less than respectful, and I’ll throw your money back in your face and walk. Understand?”
Hatcher nodded, but didn’t try and look humbled, which was a good thing, as it wouldn’t have worked. “It wasn’t my intention to offend you.”
“No, it was just your intention to try and intimidate me by being King Asshole. I could’ve countered with ‘No wonder your kid’s so fucked up,’ but I held back. Doesn’t that make me the bigger man?”
Hatcher winced at the son crack, which was good, as it showed he had some feeling other than contempt. “I’m sure I deserved that.”
“You deserve much worse. And believe me, I can be more of an ass hat than you can ever dream. I was a cop, remember? No one’s a bigger ass hat than a cop. So get the fuck over yourself.”
From the stiffness of his posture and rigidity of his shoulders and his jaw, Hatcher wasn’t used to people talking to him like that. But he wanted something from Roan, so he was just going to have to bend over and take it. In a manner of speaking. “Are you taking the case?”
Roan made a show of thinking about it. He really didn’t want this dick of a client, and he had a feeling there was more to his need to go outside his staff than just their hatred of Jordan. But there was no getting around the fact that he needed the money. Gay guys were supposed to be affluent, right? No kids and no wife supposedly meant more disposable income. So how come that wasn’t working for him? Yet another stereotype he couldn’t seem to live up to—that was grossly unfair. (Then again, Dylan was even poorer than he was, being a bartender/artist. He was living up to the starving artist stereotype, though, so he got a pass.) “I suppose. But any more shit and—”
“You walk. I get it.”
“Good.” He should have told Hatcher he was just lucky he needed the money, but he didn’t want to give him the upper hand. Roan reached across his desk and grabbed the flash drive again, but made sure he didn’t even look at the wad of cash. He didn’t want Hatcher to even guess he might be in this for the money.
Hatcher stood, unfolding in a manner that might have been considered menacing if Roan didn’t think he could kick his ass without having to stand up (yeah, Hatcher had a ’tude, but he also obviously had a desk job… and yet, could buy and sell Roan’s ass a million times over, so he ultimately won). “My private number is on a text file. I’d appreciate you destroying it once you don’t need it anymore.”
“I’ll wipe the drive.”
“Good.” At the door, Hatcher turned and looked back at him. He had an almost feral grin, all teeth and confidence, and Roan found it deeply unnerving. “You’re exactly the type of man I thought you would be. Good for you.”
Roan wasn’t sure how he was supposed to take that. It almost felt like an insult. So he said nothing, but as it turned out, Hatcher hadn’t expected a response—he’d already swanned off out of Roan’s office.
As soon as the outer door closed, Fiona appeared in the doorway, holding her riding crop. “Wow, what a massive tool. I’m surprised you didn’t kill him.”
“Me too.” He nodded at the riding crop. “Were you gonna be my backup?”
“Nah, I was just hoping to hit him.”
He couldn’t blame her. He told her the next time Hatcher came to the office, she should have a whip standing by, just for fun.
He’d take his goddamn case. But as soon as he was done with it, nobody said he couldn’t deck the bastard.
3
Squalor Victoria
Roan figured that Jordan could be excused for being an asshole due to his dad. But there was absolutely no doubt that he was an asshole.
He was a spoiled trust-fund brat, from what Roan could tell. He went to a very pricey private school from which he had been suspended multiple times, for incidents ranging from bullying to being intoxicated in class (he could understand the impulse, but not a smart move). He probably would have been expelled if his dad wasn’t Robert Hatcher. He must have taken after his mother in looks, because he was lean and very tall, a string bean, with straight black hair and hazel eyes set in a narrow oval of a face. He had a strong chin, and while he was a good-looking kid now, he would probably start looking craggy in his early thirties; he had both the type of face and temperament best suited to youth. Once you were twenty-five, that behavior and face would get old fast.
The files Robert had included on his son were remarkable and creepy for their thoroughness. His son had run away before but always come home within forty-eight hours, mainly because he ran out of money. (Once, he was in a drunk tank in Enumclaw, and his dad had to go pick him up.) He ran track and was fairly decent at it, but not great; he was an also-ran more often than a star. His habit of keg standing on a weekly basis probably had a lot to do with that.
His list of ex-girlfriends was enormous, especially considering he was only seventeen. The most recent one had only a first name listed, Brittney, with question marks afterward. Robert had attached what appeared to be a grainy security camera photo (grainy enough to be absolutely useless) along with a note he must have typed himself: “White trash gold-digging whore. Eighteen, looks twenty-five, tits fake. Seeing her to annoy me.”
In a strange way, Roan despaired at this. Fake tits? At eighteen? He sincerely hoped Robert was being a catty bitch, but considering straight men seemed to know all about tits, probably not. Jesus, what kind of dirtbag bought fake tits for a teenager?
The huge problem here was he needed a last name. If he was going to check and see if Jordan had run off with this girl—a really good likelihood if he’d run away again—he needed a last name. There was no way the school—the Rutherford Academy, which almost sounded like a possible sequel to The Stepford Wives—would turn over any records. To him. He was going to have to call Robert and ask him to get the school to turn over a list of names of all the girls named Brittney who went there. That was a hideous breach of privacy, but money talked, and Hatcher had enough to scream. He would get the list; they probably kissed his ass in every manner possible.
But Roan didn’t feel like calling him just now. He’d wait until later, when there was a possibility he’d get his voice mail and not him in person. He felt he needed a few pills or a beer before he could deal with the ass hat again.
Because of his mystery (at the time) client, he wasn’t able to pick up Holden from the hospital; he’d called Dee and asked him to get him instead. Luckily, it was a break day (he didn’t have weekends off; those were boom times for the paramedics), and Holden didn’t mind as long as he got out of there.
But they would be visiting him later, as Dylan insisted it was the polite thing to do. So when he got home, he walked in to the delicious aroma of spicy cooking. “Goddamn, I hope that’s for me.”
“Sorry, but it’s for Holden. It’s a ‘Welcome home, sorry you got stabbed’ tamale pie,” Dylan replied, his voice wafting from the kitchen.
“Wow. Now that’s a specialized cookbook.”
“Very funny. Wanna drink, Krusty?”
“Beer me, bartender, and pour yourself one while we’re at it.”
“You bastard.” Dylan didn’t like being reminded he was a bartender at home. If Dyl could ever talk him into having a house party, he wouldn’t serve drinks.
Roan flopped down on the couch and closed his eyes, feeling both tired and irritated. He had to call the douche bag and get those student records. What was bothering him was the WAV file of Jordan’s last phone call to his dad—it sounded very real. Very confused, distressed, the voice of a teenager who had the sudden, terrible awareness that his best friend has been the psycho killer all along, and yet he knows if he lets on, he’s dead next. There was also that teenage boy need to be macho and cool even though he was shitting himself. You couldn’t fake that, no matter how good an actor you were.
It was very easy to believe Jordan had run away willingly, to escape his butt crack of a dad, but maybe something went wrong along the way. He hated Hatcher,
but Jordan, chip off the old douche that he was, couldn’t help who he was born to.
“Tell me about it,” Dylan said, joining him on the sofa. He pressed a pale ale into Roan's hands and lay down on the couch so his head was on Roan’s thigh. Roan took a swig of the cold beer and then looked down at Dyl, who was looking up at him curiously.
“Tell you about what?”
“What’s bothering you. That little vein is standing out on your temple.”
“Is it?” He reached up and touched it, but he didn’t know why—he couldn’t actually feel it. “Ah fuck.”