by Gregory Ashe
When the car had nosed up against the curb, Somers reached over and turned the keys, killing the engine. Then he looked at Dulac.
“What’d you text him?”
“Huh?”
“After Mr. Right left your bed, what’d you text him?”
“Dude, I’m not a rookie. I know how to get ass.”
“Phone.”
A blush crept under the constellation of freckles. “Come on, man. He’s totally nutso.”
“No. I’ve had to listen to four hours of the Gray Dulac and his teen heartthrob show. I’m invested. I’m going to figure this out.”
“He’s not a teenager.”
Somers raised an eyebrow.
“Ok, he’s nineteen. But he’s about to turn twenty.”
“Phone.”
“It’s not that I don’t want your help. It’s really awesome of you. But I don’t even think I’m into this guy anymore.”
“Phone.”
“I mean, I just don’t want you to get embarrassed. Like, dating has changed a lot. Back in your day—”
“Gray. Phone. Right now.”
He unlocked the phone and handed it over.
“Snapchat or actual texts?”
“Both.”
“Your last ten texts are to Hottie1, BubbleButt77, TwinkMaster1000, ninja_fuck—”
“Ok, dude. Jesus. You don’t have to say it like that.”
“Which one is he?”
“Hottie1.”
“This is a lot of dick pics.”
“Yeah, well.” Gray’s cheeks were bright, but he held his head defiantly. “I told you things were different.”
Somers scrolled through the messages until he reached the end and then tossed it back in Dulac’s lap. “Ok. I know what happened.”
He opened the door and got out of the car.
Dulac scrambled after him like a cat shooting out of a burning building. “Dude,” he shouted, sprinting around the car and toward the sidewalk. “Dude, what? He’s got an STI, right? You could tell from the pictures. Oh my God, I knew that little fucker was lying. I knew it.”
“What? Jesus Christ, Gray. You’re not using protection?”
“Dude, I was rubbered up, but you know those things aren’t a hundred percent. What did he have? I knew that fucker was lying.”
“It’s not an STI, for the love of Christ. Pull yourself together, ok?”
Somers kept walking; December was settling into truly frigid temperatures, and the world looked frozen, ready to crack in the bright sunlight. Somers’s breath plumed and trailed behind him.
“So, like.”
“I’m probably wrong.”
Dulac’s steps rang out next to Somers. “But, like, I want to know anyway. Just in case.”
“No, I’m definitely wrong. Things were different back in my day.”
“Ok, ok. I get it. I’m twenty-six. You’re thirty-five. That’s not a big difference. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I’m thirty-four.”
“You’re almost thirty-five. Your birthday is next week.”
“I’m throwing you a life preserver and you just keep throwing it back.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, you’re totally thirty-four.”
“Back in my day, you had to hitch the horse to the buggy before you could take a nice young man out on the town.”
“Ok, ok. I’m sorry.”
“You had to put on your garters and wash your face in the horse trough and make sure you carried your musket in case a redcoat patrol came through town.”
“What time period is this? Garters?”
“If you were very, very lucky, and you took out a naughty boy, maybe he’d be so bold as to show you his ankle. Or his elbow.”
“I’m an asshole. I’m an entitled, oblivious, selfish, stupid asshole.”
“The age thing. Talk about the age thing.”
“You are not too old. You are the perfect age. I cannot wait until I’m thirty-five so I can be just like you.”
Somers stopped walking.
“Thirty-four. Dude, I meant thirty-four.”
Somers started walking again.
“Dude,” Dulac moaned, drawing the word out into fifteen syllables.
“Fine. It’s simple, actually. You are a fuckboy.”
Several cars rolled past, and on the other side of the street, a man emptied a trash can into a dumpster, producing a long series of clatters and booms.
“Uh,” Dulac said. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are. You. Are. A. Fuckboy.”
When they reached the street that separated campus and the college, Somers bounced on his heels and waited for an opening in traffic.
“Dude.”
“The day after you hooked up with Hottie1, what was your first message to him?”
“Hold on. I’ll check.”
“Don’t bother. You sent him a dick pic and said, ‘Missing that tight ass.’”
“Yeah. Well, I was.”
“Oh my God.” Shaking his head, Somers jogged across the street. The mixture of old and new architecture sprang up around him, and he headed toward the glass spaceship building. In the December cold, with the quarter almost over, campus looked abandoned: an old woman pushed a cart full of books along the sidewalk, her scarf snapping behind her in the breeze. But otherwise, Somers and Dulac were alone. And the emptiness made it too easy for Somers to think about the last time he had been here for a case, when he and Hazard had come looking for three men who had been kidnapped. They had found the men, but they had been too late.
“I was telling him I liked him,” Dulac said. “I don’t get what the big deal is.”
“The big deal is that you’re always ‘spitting game,’ as you like to put it.”
“Uh, yeah. That’s the whole point.”
“When Hottie1 didn’t respond to your dick pic, what’d you do next?”
“I played it cool for a while. That’s rule number one: never let them know how interested you are.”
“Maybe I am getting old.”
“I mean, I can kind of see these lines—”
“Because that sounds like the stupidest thing in the world. This guy, you said he plays hard to get, right?”
“Oh, totally. I spotted him my first night at the Pretty Pretty, and he makes you work for it. Just getting him to let me buy him a drink, that took me like a month.”
“And so, naturally, after all that hard work and persistence, after you showed him you were genuinely interested in him and that you might be a decent guy who would treat him as more than a quick screw, you think the most brilliant move in the world is to pretend you’re not into him anymore? After the first hookup?”
“He didn’t text me back, dude. I’m not going to humiliate myself.” Dulac frowned. “Have some common sense.”
They had reached the spaceship building, and Somers pressed through the glass doors, grateful for the wall of heat that waited for them. Inside, the center of the building was open all the way to the top, with each floor encircling that empty space, using the outer walls for a mixture of offices and classrooms. Somers’s first step echoed through the emptiness. He checked the listing of offices and headed for the elevator. He pressed Down.
“Ok, so maybe I shouldn’t have let things cool off,” Dulac said. “But I didn’t make the rules to the game. I’m just playing it like everyone else.”
The elevator doors dinged. They stepped inside, Somers pressed a button, and they rode down. As Somers chafed warmth into his fingers, he said, “Next, you sent him a picture of you at the gym, shirtless—”
“To remind him, you know.”
“But the shot was angled over your shoulder and you said, ‘Got my pick of gym bunnies today.’”
“So he knows I’ve got options.”
“And then you sent another dick pic from the showers and said, ‘Wanna come out and play?’”
“Yeah, I told you: this dude is sending totally mixed signals.”
As the elevator doors dinged and opened, Somers said, “Gray, guys that want something serious, guys that want something real, they don’t want to put up with that stuff. You might have to play the game a little, at the beginning. Get them interested. But you’ve got to be honest and open too. You do this whole fuckboy routine, and these guys don’t know you, so they think it’s real.”
“So, like, it’s a sex thing? I need to learn some new moves, or something?”
“Oh my God. Ok. I am only going to say this once. Are you listening?”
“Definitely. Is this like something you and Emery do? Like, when he gets really intense like he did earlier, like, is this about spankings or something? Hold on, maybe I should write this down.”
“It’s not a sex thing, dumbass. In spite of this whole frat boy fucktoy thing you’ve got going on, you are actually kind of a sweet guy. And you’re cute. And you’re a good detective. I think you really do want a real relationship. So maybe try showing the boys at the Pretty Pretty this side of you instead of spitting game every night.”
Dulac’s face grew troubled, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So, you, like, think I’m cute?”
“Goodbye.”
“Did, um, Emery say anything? Because, not that I’m interested, but I wasn’t sure if you guys ever did anything open, you know, and—”
Somers tried to walk fast enough to leave him behind.
The campus security office was a series of three rooms with bland office furniture, a plastic ficus, and a secretary who looked like she’d been plucked straight off of Mad Men. Somers showed her his badge, identified himself, and asked for the head of campus security.
“Ms. Skalman is in her office. Just a moment.”
She pressed an intercom, and Somers half expected her to offer cocktails or a cigarette while they waited.
A minute later, though, they were standing in Skalman’s office. She was an older woman, built heavily in the hips and shoulders, her blond hair going gray. Her hand, when she shook Somers’s, was rough like she worked a trade. Her voice came from the bottom of a whiskey bottle, and it only took a few moments for Somers to remember why she had left a good impression on him.
“Our IT security team has been working on how Dennis Tonda connected with the girls he allegedly assaulted. They ran down the IP addresses that Tonda used when talking to these girls. We thought we might be able to provide more information.”
“How’d you get the IP addresses?”
“From the girls’ computers and phones. Our terms of use for the wireless network give us access to that kind of information, and the girls were more than willing to help. Unfortunately, Tonda used a virtual private network to reroute his communication; it looks like it’s coming from Hong Kong. We thought we’d reached a dead end, but then we had a lucky break.” A dry smile broke Skalman’s dour façade. “The moron used a campus computer. One of the public access terminals in the library; you don’t even have to sign in. He must have thought that guaranteed no one could track him.”
“How’d you track him to the computer?” Somers asked.
“One of the librarians recognized his picture. Our IT boys enabled the keystroke-logging software on all those public access terminals, and we’ve been waiting.”
“Terms of use,” Somers said.
Another dry smile. “Exactly. And he came back. We’ve got his user name and password for Snapchat, Instagram, Facebook. We even got the fake phone number he uses for some of those encrypted messaging apps.”
“So we’ve got a back door,” Somers said, and then he glanced at Dulac. “Don’t.”
“Dude.”
“No jokes.”
“I’m hurt.”
“We’ll be happy to provide this information to the Wahredua PD,” Skalman said.
“Great,” Somers said. “Let’s get a warrant and find out who this asshole is targeting next.”
On their way out of the spaceship building, Somers’s phone rang. It was Hazard.
“I’ve been calling. Why was it going to voicemail?”
“Hello to you too. We were in a basement office. What’s up?”
“I’m making some progress on the assholes who were shooting at Hoffmeister last night.”
“Great. What do you need?”
“I don’t need anything.”
“Uh huh.”
“I understand that I only have access to Wahredua PD resources when I’m a contracted employee on an official investigation.”
“Right, of course.”
“It would be helpful, though, to have some information about the casing Norman and Gross recovered.”
“Oh. You need a favor.”
“I’m also trying to track down Savanna Twilight. What address did she list when she posted bail?”
“You need two favors.”
Hazard’s voice was tight when he added: “And I’m headed out to Slick’s to follow up on Hoffmeister’s story.”
Somers waited.
“It’s not exactly an ideal place to go by myself.”
“Three favors. You need three favors.”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“That’s all you had to say. ‘John, I need three favors.’ Go on. You try.”
His voice was a growl. “I would like you to do me three favors.”
“Need. You need me to do you three favors.”
“I would really appreciate your help with three favors.”
“Need, baby. It’s one syllable.”
“John, for fuck’s sake—”
“Can’t hear you. Signal’s going out.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” Heavy breathing, like a man trying to lift a mountain. “I need you to do me three favors.”
Somers waited.
“Please.”
“Sure. Want to meet me at the station? We’re headed back right now. And you can tell me again how you need me to—”
Hazard disconnected the call.
As Somers put away his phone, he caught the amazement on Dulac’s face.
“Dude, you can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Somers asked with a grin.
“Because he’s Emery Hazard.”
“I know. He makes me very well aware of that fact every time he opens his mouth.”
“But, like.” Dulac couldn’t seem to find the right words. “He pinned me to the door with a knife.”
“I know; he likes doing things like that. But teasing him is fun. Besides, it’s the only way to keep his ego manageable.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DECEMBER 18
TUESDAY
3:31 PM
SOMERS WAS STILL TYPING up paperwork for the warrant when Hazard got to the station. He was bundled in the heavy wool coat he had taken to wearing lately, thick gloves, a scarf, a knit cap pulled low over his ears. He looked like a very grumpy bear that had been forced to wake up and go do something.
“I believe you have something to tell me.”
The bear was making a very low rumble in his chest. “Don’t push your luck.”
With a laugh, Somers spun away from the computer. “Here’s the address Savanna gave when she posted bail.” He passed a sticky note. “Here’s the casing. You can’t take it out of the bag.”
“I was fucking police at one fucking point,” Hazard said, snatching the bag.
“Technically, you still are fucking police. Well, you are fucking one police. Me. Just me, right? Not Moraes or Foley or—”
Hazard put one big hand over Somers’s mouth; he smelled like himself, with a trace of the coconut from his hair product, a hint of the alcohol and verbena in his aftershave.
“It’s a .30-06, right?”
Somers licked his palm.
“Jesus, John.” Hazard snatched his hand back and wiped it on his jeans. “What the hell?”
“Usually you don’t complain when I—”
“Stop.” But he was blushing as he turned the casing, studying it. “Let me guess: Missouri Highway Patrol won’t do ballistics until you have a suspect and a weapon in hand.”
“Bingo.”
Taking several small plastic bags out of his pocket, Hazard shook them and said, “Do you want to have a suspect?”
“Jesus Christ. Where did you get those?”
“An informant.”
“Bullshit.”
“She told me these came from the same gun that the shooter used last night.”
“Who is she?”
“Confidential.”
“Bullshit, Ree. You’re making her up. How’d you get those casings?”
“I don’t ‘make things up.’ Jesus Christ, John, I’m a grown man.”
But the red over his cheekbones had gone scarlet.
“You are a terrible liar,” Somers said. “Lucky for you, Moraes and Carmichael got the case. Hold on.” Somers grabbed the phone to call Moraes, but the detective emerged from the kitchen at that moment. Somers whistled, and when Moraes looked, Somers beckoned him over.
Jonny Moraes had grown into his new job. He’d been a uniformed cop for years, joining the department just a few years after Somers. If they’d joined at the same time, Somers wondered, would Moraes have gotten the job as detective instead of Somers? Now a detective himself, Moraes wore a cheap suit, but he managed to wear it well. More importantly, he and his partner, Carmichael, had done good work closing meth-related cases in the city and the county, working hard in the six months since their promotion.
“Bullshit,” Moraes said when Somers repeated the story about the informant.
“You’re both assholes,” Hazard said.
“Let me talk to Carmichael about this,” Moraes said, grinning. “We’ll send them to Springfield and see what those MHP guys can tell us. We might as well; we don’t have much to go on. Did your CI tell you who these belong to?”
“Andy-Jack Strout.”
“Ah,” Moraes said.
“Damn it,” Somers said.
“What?” Hazard asked.
“Andy-Jack was in holding last night; drunk and disorderly call from Slick’s, where he started a few fights.”
“In his wheelchair?”