by Josh Lanyon
Chapter Nine
Justin woke the next morning with the sun streaming through his bedroom window. He’d forgotten to close the blinds last night. Ugh. He rolled over and realized he was alone. The cats were already up and about. Not an unusual occurrence when he overslept; their automatic feeder was set to seven o’clock, morning and evening. They were in the kitchen, crunching kibble.
It took him a moment to remember what day it was. Sunday. He didn’t have to be anyplace; he had all day to chase the story of yesterday’s rocket failure.
Besides, he’d told Agent Marcotte he’d be home today…
He mentally kicked himself. Forget that guy. He’s gotta be straight. He’d had a crazy dream last night, where Marcotte had been the one who escorted the reporters to the ITL Causeway, and he’d invited Justin to ride in his truck with him. Justin had accepted, but then nothing else had happened.
He sighed and climbed out of bed.
In the kitchen, Elton and Bernie were sitting by their bowls as expected, washing their faces. Elton ignored him, but Bernie rubbed against his legs, purring. He reached down to scratch the cat’s ears. “Hey, buddy. Time for breakfast for everyone, huh?”
He filled and started the coffeepot, poured a bowl of cereal, and checked Twitter while he ate. There was a ton of speculation about the explosion, but all official channels were maintaining silence. As they would.
And no one had mentioned Roy Shaw’s name.
When the coffee was ready, he poured a mug and carried it to the driveway, where he retrieved the newspaper. He sat on the stoop, dumped the paper out of its plastic wrapper, and searched for his story. He’d filed it last night, just before the deadline.
Apparently it had been a slow news night elsewhere in the world. Enrique’s photo of the explosion was front and center, above the fold, and Justin’s story was right beside it.
He grinned. Above the fold. He scanned the story, noting the minimal edits with pleasure.
God, he loved his job.
He scanned the rest of the sections as he drank his coffee, then decided he’d mow the lawn before starting his research. It was beginning to look shaggy compared to the neighbors’.
He donned his steel-toed boots—his dad had always been adamant about wearing steel-toed boots to mow—then opened the garage door to extract the mower. He paused, gazing at the garage. His car wouldn’t fit because all his dad’s woodworking equipment was still in the back. Justin couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it. He kept thinking he’d learn to use it someday…
But not today. Justin poured gasoline into the mower, fired it up, and headed for the backyard.
He cruised back and forth across the lawn, propelled by the earworm of Cher’s “Believe,” which was accompanied by fantasies of Agent Marcotte, despite Justin’s efforts to quash them. Justin advised himself out loud—“Forget that guy, will ya?”—then tuned out Cher and turned his mind to the problem of Roy Shaw.
Marcotte had mentioned that the man they found didn’t die in the explosion. And AFOSI certainly wouldn’t be asking questions about a natural death. So he must have been murdered.
If the body was even Shaw’s. But if Shaw was missing…it must be him.
He made a mental list. First, investigate Skyose and see if I can ferret out Roy Shaw’s scoop. One of Justin’s valuable contacts was a University of Central Florida librarian, Valerie DeSoto, who would do research for him when needed. He’d email Valerie, then dig into his own company’s newspaper archives and see what he could find.
Who would have wanted Roy Shaw silenced? Justin thought that depended on what Roy’s secret was. Find the scoop, find the killer.
He started daydreaming again. He’d help Agent Marcotte solve the case, and Marcotte would be so grateful that—
His thoughts were rudely interrupted by the sight of a car pulling into his driveway. An unfortunately familiar face was behind the wheel.
Clay Garrett, his ex.
Justin had met Clay Garrett at the University of Central Florida, in freshman English. It had been a good match for a while. But a couple of years after they’d graduated, while Clay was in law school, he’d joined the Log Cabin Republicans.
Justin had been aghast. Clay attempted to mollify him by claiming that his membership was solely for networking purposes. But as the years passed and Clay became more deeply involved in local politics, it grew more difficult for Justin to ignore the elephant in the room. On the night of the 2016 election, Clay’s delight in the outcome had collided head on with Justin’s horror. They’d had an epic shouting match. After eighteen years of gritting his teeth, Justin was over it. He packed that night and drove to his mom’s empty house in Cocoa Beach.
Ever since, about once a week, Clay would text him:
Hey, babe, have a good day.
Hey, babe, happy birthday!
Hey, babe, just thinking about that time we went to Cedar Key for the weekend.
Justin never replied. Besides, he absolutely loathed the term babe. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to block Clay. Justin hadn’t dated much since the breakup. Between his crazy work schedule, his dumpy body and plain features, and the paucity of out gay people in conservative Brevard County, he hadn’t connected with anyone. He’d tried online match sites, but had posted a realistic photo of himself, and no one had swiped right.
So he hadn’t blocked Clay. And he despised himself for it…for the realization that someday he might just be that desperate.
He muttered, “Fuck my life,” and stopped the mower. Clay bounced out of the driver’s seat of the Prius—that was new—and ran toward Justin. “Oh my God, babe! I saw your article!” He threw his arms around Justin and tried to hold him. “How awful for you!”
Justin pushed him away. “Cut it out. It was just a rocket explosion. Now you’ve got grass stuck to you.”
“I don’t care.” Clay brushed at the grass impatiently. “What happened? Do they know yet?”
“Of course not. It’s way too soon. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was worried about you. And I thought…” Clay waved his hand at the sky. “It’s a gorgeous day. We can get Publix subs and go to the beach.”
“No. I am not getting anything or going anywhere with you. In case you’ve forgotten, I broke up with you, and since then your fucking president has made life more dangerous than ever for us. And it’s partly your fault.”
“I know, babe. That’s what I came to tell you.” Clay dug into his pocket and produced a voter registration card. “I’ve changed parties! See? I’ve quit the Log Cabin. I even bought a Prius! Now we can be together again!”
“Clay, that is not—” Justin stopped as his attention was drawn to another vehicle pulling up to his house. “Oh, shit.”
Agent Marcotte stepped from the cab of his truck and crossed the lawn to them. “Hi, Mr. Harris. Is this a bad time?”
“No. It’s perfect timing. Clay was just leaving.”
Clay bristled. “Who’s this?”
“Special Agent Marcotte is with the Air Force. He’s investigating the rocket explosion yesterday.”
“Why does he need to talk to you?” Clay squared off to Marcotte. “I’m his attorney. He’s not answering any questions.”
Marcotte raised an eyebrow, and Justin groaned. “For fuck’s sake, Clay, shut it.” To Marcotte, he said, “He’s not my attorney. He’s a contract lawyer for Disney.”
Marcotte seemed to be trying not to laugh, but Clay wouldn’t quit. “Since when does the Air Force have special agents?”
Justin said, “He’s the Air Force equivalent of NCIS. He’s a cop, Clay, and I’m gonna ask him to arrest you for trespassing if you don’t leave.”
Clay turned back to him. “Justin, babe, I’m serious. I’ve had enough. I’ve seen the light, and I’m a changed man. There’s no barrier to us being together now.”
Justin gritted his teeth against the hated babe. “The barrier is that I don’t want to be with you anymor
e.” He pointed to the voter registration card. “You’re a Democrat now. You can do a lot better than me. Please just go and have a nice life before I have to get a restraining order.”
Clay pointed at him, high points of red on his cheeks. “You’ll be sorry. You’ll never find anyone like me. You’ll never find anyone living in this backwater town, hanging out with the other sad-sack space nerds. And when you change your mind and come crawling back to me, it’ll be too late.”
“It’ll be too late for all of us, because that’ll be the day hell freezes over. Goodbye, Clay.”
Clay stomped to his car, slammed the door, and peeled out…to the extent that a Prius could peel out.
Justin said, “Agent Marcotte, I’m really sorry you had to hear any of that. Why don’t we go inside?”
“Okay.” Marcotte trailed Justin into the house.
Justin grabbed a cold bottle of water and downed half of it. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure, I’ll take a bottle of water. So that’s your ex?”
“It’s been nearly two years.” Justin thumped the water bottle onto the counter and rubbed his eyes. “I couldn’t be with someone who supported right-wing policies. Some things are too important to compromise on. Sorry, I know you’re probably one of them.”
“A right-wing nut? No. I’m not.”
“Really?” Justin mentally kicked himself. “Of course really. Why would you say that otherwise?” He pointed his water bottle toward the front door. “I’m sorry. Clay showing up here has fried my last nerve. And it was shaping up to be such a lovely day.”
Marcotte’s expression was impossible to read. “I could help you file for a restraining order.”
“Oh, thank you, but it’s not necessary. He won’t be back. Halfway back to Orlando, he’ll realize I’m right. He can do better than me. Anyway.” Justin sighed. “I’m sorry. What can I do for you, Agent Marcotte?”
“You can call me Greg. You can stop apologizing, and you can explain to me why you think that clown will ever do any better than you.”
Chapter Ten
Earlier that morning, after updates from the rest of the team, Greg had run background and credit checks on Justin Harris and found a thirty-eight-year-old man who owned his own home, paid his bills on time, had never been married, and earned a bachelor’s degree in physics and a master’s in technical communications from UCF.
Time for another visit.
He found him in his front yard, arguing with a preppily dressed guy, who turned out to be Justin’s ex. So Justin was gay. Greg was surprised at his own relief. The ex was an asshole, and to top it all, also a lawyer. Once Justin convinced the guy to leave, he spent the next five minutes apologizing with one breath and running himself down with the next. When he finally came up for air, he said, “I’m sorry. What can I do for you, Agent Marcotte?”
Greg threw caution to the wind…although a tiny piece of his brain wondered if he had totally lost his mind or was only sleep-deprived. “You can call me Greg. You can stop apologizing, and you can explain to me why you think that clown will ever do any better than you.”
Justin’s jaw dropped. To his credit, he recovered quickly. “Pfft. You saw him. He’s a catch.”
“What I saw was an obnoxious jackass who doesn’t deserve a decent guy like you. And your verbal jousting with him was impressive.”
Justin blushed, which Greg found endearing. “I’m a writer. I use my words. And how do you know I’m a decent guy?”
“I’ve met a lot of indecent guys. I know a decent one when I find him.”
Justin seemed nonplussed by that. “Huh. Well. Thanks. Um…”
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Justin grinned. “Now who’s apologizing?”
Greg laughed. “Yeah, okay. I don’t suppose you’ve remembered anything else about your conversation with Roy Shaw.”
“No. I told you everything. Have you learned anything else about him?”
“Not much. Just that he acted as the payload liaison for Skyose.”
“No kidding.” Justin scratched his nose. “That’s odd.”
“How so? Did Shaw mention it to you?”
“No, not at all. Some of the other reporters were talking about it before the launch, just saying it’s atypical that nothing leaked about a non-military payload. Usually there’s at least a rumor. Not this time.”
“Wouldn’t that only indicate that Skyose is better than most at stifling leaks?”
“I suppose. Then there were those two Ideodax guys at the Preacher.”
Greg sat up straighter. “Who?”
“Sam Boone and Glenn Pietras.”
“What did they say?”
“I asked whether they’d release the payload information after the investigation was complete. They said probably not. They asked me if I’d heard anything about the payload, and they were happy when I said no. Boone asked for my card. He said he’d call me first if the information was ever released.”
“Do you know anything about Ideodax?”
“Very little. This was their first space venture. They’re a communications company, so the assumption would be that they were sending up a communications satellite.” Justin shrugged. “Shouldn’t be any big secret about that. Unless they’re a military contractor in disguise.”
“Not to my knowledge, but we’ll check to make sure.” Greg drained his water. “Can I ask a personal question?”
“Sure.”
“How did you get interested in space?”
“My dad was an engineer with the Shuttle program. Thirty-five years, from beginning to end.” Justin smiled, as if remembering. “He was busy during launches, but he took me to every landing. He said it was a miracle, every time the shuttle landed safely.”
Greg said, “It almost always did.”
“Yeah.” Justin winced. “I was at KSC with my dad, waiting for Columbia. Such a horrible day.”
“Are your parents still living?”
“My mom is.” Justin traced the pattern of the Formica with his finger. “When the Shuttle program ended, my dad was kinda lost. He built that coffee table and a few other pieces, but he didn’t really know what else to do with himself. Then just over a year later he dropped dead of a heart attack.”
“Oh no. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. Anyway, Mom remarried a couple of years later and moved to The Villages.”
“Ugh.”
“Right? Now can I ask you a personal question?”
“Turnabout, huh? Okay.”
“Where are you from?”
“Swannanoa, North Carolina. Just east of Asheville.”
“Oooh. I bet that’s gorgeous.”
“Sure is.”
“How’d you end up at Patrick?”
“With the military, you go where they tell you. I applied for Kirtland and Holloman, wanting to go west and live near mountains. So they sent me to the beach.”
Justin laughed. “It’s not that bad, is it?”
“Nah. It’s grown on me.”
“Are you in the Air Force?”
“Nope, I’m a civilian. About half of us are.”
“Why AFOSI?”
“I thought it was the best gig when I decided to go federal.”
“Oh, what did you do first?”
“I was a cop in Charlotte. A homicide detective.”
Justin made an O with his mouth.
“Yeah. I was sick of arresting fifteen-year-olds for killing each other over shoes and girlfriends.” Greg rolled the empty water bottle between his hands. He had no idea why he was spilling his guts to Justin, but it felt right. “Listen, I need to get back to base. But…would you like to get dinner later? Unless you have other plans.”
Justin narrowed his eyes. “You’re not just feeling sorry for me because of Clay, are you?”
“What? God, no. Trust me, if I didn’t want to have dinner with you, I wouldn’t have asked.”
Justin’s s
mile was tentative. “Yeah. I’d like that. We could get takeout and eat here, if you’d rather. Since I’m a witness in your case, maybe we shouldn’t be seen together in town.”
Greg grinned. “I like the way you think, Mr. Harris.”
Justin grinned back. “Text me when you’re free, Agent Marcotte.”
Chapter Eleven
After Greg left, Justin nearly had a panic attack. A gorgeous federal agent had asked him to dinner! And he’d agreed! What the fuck!
And they were having dinner here! Justin zipped from room to room, all the flaws of his house now glaringly obvious. The dated living room, the worn carpet, the harvest gold flooring in the kitchen, the dirty spots where Elton and Bernie rubbed against walls…
Justin stopped, took a deep breath, and attempted to calm himself. He needed a plan.
First thing on the list was to finish mowing the lawn. He zipped outside and practically ran behind the mower, then completed the edge trimming in record time. He dragged the pressure washer out of the garage and power cleaned the driveway, sidewalk, front stoop, and backyard patio. He washed his car, remembering the gleaming white of Greg’s truck. He ran inside, dusted and vacuumed the entire house, scrubbed the kitchen and bathrooms, and even washed out the cat box and filled it with fresh litter. He collected cat toys from all over the house and corralled them in his office. He scoured the dirty spots from the walls.
Then he stopped.
He walked through the house, scanning for anything he’d missed. He tweaked a throw pillow here, a book on a shelf there, but short of painting the walls, he’d done everything he could.
He wolfed down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then took a long shower and shaved. He started to put on aftershave but then hesitated. Greg might be allergic. Some people were.
He studied his face in the mirror, shaking his head as he always did. He needed a haircut, but his barber was closed on Sundays. There wasn’t anything he could do about all those freckles. He touched the angle in his nose, wincing involuntarily as he remembered the volleyball slamming into his face.