Footsteps in the Dark

by Josh Lanyon

  Perfect. Do you want dinner?

  Nah, still full from lunch. See you in a bit.

  Justin returned a thumbs-up and a smiley face. Then he hustled to jump in the shower.

  At 7:13, the doorbell rang. Greg was standing on the porch, holding a six-pack and a bunch of flowers. He held them out. “I come bearing gifts.”

  “And you’re not Greek, so it’s okay.” Justin took the flowers and breathed in the scent. “Thank you. These are lovely. No one’s ever bought me flowers before.”

  Greg smiled. A bit shyly, Justin thought.

  “I’ve never bought flowers for anyone before.”

  “Really? Then these are super-special.” Justin inwardly winced at his choice of words, but he didn’t seem capable of sophisticated banter at the moment. “I’ll put these in water.”

  Greg followed him into the kitchen, where Justin fished a vase from under the sink, rinsed it, and added the small packet of preservative that came with the flowers. “How was the rest of your day?” he asked Greg.

  “Fascinating. I found out what the payload was.”

  Justin nearly dropped the vase. He set it carefully on the kitchen bar, then said, “I was starting to wonder if there was one.”

  “There was. It was an early 1960s Volkswagen Beetle.”

  Justin stared. “Okay… Not as weird as a wheel of cheese, but what the hell?”

  Greg stared back, his thought processes seeming momentarily derailed. “A wheel of cheese?”

  “The payload on the first launch of the Dragon capsule in 2010.”

  “Seriously?”

  Justin tutted in exasperation. “Google it. Why did they launch a VW Bug?”

  “Ideodax didn’t have a satellite ready by the deadline. Their guys are already back in California, so we’re sending agents from Travis to question them.”

  Justin frowned. “I need a beer.”

  “Me too.”

  They uncapped their bottles and clinked them together. Justin took a drink, then asked, “Is this what Shaw knew?”

  “It makes sense. Either Shaw’s killer found out somehow that he was about to spill his guts to you, or Shaw decided to give whoever it was one more chance to come clean on his own, or else he’d tell you. Either way, Shaw and the killer must have met out there on base and had a confrontation.”

  “Why would Ideodax go along with that? Why wouldn’t they just say, We don’t have a satellite ready, launch without us?”

  “It boils down to money, as it almost always does. Both companies would have lost significant stock value if they’d made that announcement.” Greg set his bottle aside. “I’d rather not think about business for the rest of the evening.”

  “Agreed.”

  Greg reached for him, and Justin moved into his arms. They kissed, tentatively at first. The tentativeness didn’t last long. Greg was a marvelous kisser. He tasted like peanuts and beer.

  Take me out to the ball game… Justin almost giggled.

  Greg’s lips smiled against his own. “What?”

  “Tell you later.” Justin opened his mouth to Greg’s tongue, and they kissed deeply for a few minutes. Justin’s dick was straining against the fly of his shorts, and he could feel that Greg was in the same predicament. He reached for Greg’s belt buckle, and Greg groaned as Justin unzipped his fly and freed his dick, wrapping his fingers around it.

  “God, Justin…”

  “Mm-hm.” Justin dropped to his knees. There wasn’t anything on earth he wanted more at that moment than to have Greg Marcotte’s dick in his mouth.

  He kissed and nibbled his way up Greg’s dick while caressing his balls. Greg had both hands wound into Justin’s hair, but he wasn’t pulling. Or pushing. Justin arrived at the head of Greg’s dick, where he lingered for a moment, then took him in.

  Greg moaned. “Jeeeezus God, Justin, don’t fuckin’ stop.”

  Justin chuckled around Greg’s dick, which caused Greg to grip Justin’s hair more tightly.

  He had no intention of stopping. He took himself in hand, attempting—unsuccessfully—to match the rhythm of his hand to that of his mouth. So good…

  When Greg came, Justin swallowed it down and nearly came himself. It had been so long—two years—since he’d tasted another man. He lost his stroking rhythm entirely and fumbled briefly as Greg’s dick slipped from his mouth.

  Greg dropped to the floor, whispered, “Allow me,” pushed Justin to his feet, and sucked him down nearly to the base of his dick. Justin cried out, mumbling incoherently—if asked to repeat the words under oath, he wouldn’t remember—and thirty seconds later he was coming so hard, his eyes rolled back in his head.

  They stayed like that for a long minute, panting. Then Greg pulled Justin down to him and kissed him, and Justin kissed him back. Eventually Greg drew back, brushing Justin’s hair back from his widow’s peak. “You want to know the first thing I thought when I saw you?”

  “Hm?”

  “That you had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen.” Greg kept stroking his hair. “It’s even truer close up. Your eyes are amazing.”

  “Thank you. I didn’t have much to do with that.”

  Greg smiled. “Who do you look like?”

  “My mom, mostly. You know what I noticed first about you?”

  Greg shook his head.

  Justin tapped his shoulder. “Broad shoulders. I love broad shoulders. And I thought anyone within a half mile could pick you out as a cop.”

  “Yeah, I’d be lousy undercover.” Greg shifted. “Maybe we should get off the floor.”

  Justin allowed Greg to pull him to his feet. He had to laugh at the sight of both of them—dicks hanging out of pants, a hint of razor burn. “The aftermath of great sex isn’t very sexy.”

  Greg grinned. “The clothes are the problem. Maybe we should shed ’em.”

  Justin grinned back. “I like the way you think, Very Special Agent Marcotte.”

  Chapter Twenty

  A couple of hours later, Greg was in Justin’s bed, entirely spent. One thing about being forty…his recovery time was not what it used to be. Especially after two rounds of the best sex he’d had in years. Maybe ever.

  Both of them were lying on their backs, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, enjoying the breeze from the ceiling fan on their bodies. They were talking about movies—specifically the merits of the various Matrix films—when he noticed that Justin was gingerly stretching his calf muscles.

  “What are you doing with your legs?”

  “Hm? Oh. My calves are kinda sore. I went for a run this morning, and it had been a while.”

  “You’re a runner?”

  Justin grabbed at his waist, pulling out a fistful of skin. “That would be no, as these love handles demonstrate. I used to, but I quit when I moved here.”

  “Love handles?” Greg rolled up on his side to face Justin, frowning. “You’re not overweight.”

  Justin snorted. “It’s kind of you to say so. But I’ve been sitting on my ass eating junk food for two years. I’m overweight.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  Justin thought about that for a moment. “I suppose so. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t have gone running this morning. But I want to be healthier.” He turned his head to look at Greg. “You’re in great shape. I want to be able to keep up with you.”

  “Listen. Don’t think that you have to lose weight for me. If you want to get in better shape for your health, that’s awesome. I’ll support you one hundred percent. But I’ll take you exactly as you are.”

  Justin’s smile was tentative. “Really?”

  “Yes.” Greg brushed the hair out of Justin’s eyes. “You’re smart, beautiful, funny, a terrific conversationalist, and an adventurous eater. And you give an out-of-this-world blowjob. What else could a guy ask for?”

  Justin’s smile widened. “Naw. Now you’re just makin’ shit up.”

  “I am not. Do you honestly think I’d be lying here right now if I didn’t want
to be? If I didn’t mean everything I just said?”

  Justin regarded him. “No. I don’t think you’d be here. I don’t think you ever do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “Not when I can help it. Sometimes the job requires it…but not in my personal life.” Greg continued to stroke Justin’s hair. “One thing you learn working homicide: life can be short. One moment you’re walking down the sidewalk, not a care in the world. Twelve seconds later, you’re laid out, dying, with someone doing CPR on you, because someone mistook you for someone else. Or because you got caught in the middle of a gang shootout. Or some idiot drove up on a sidewalk. You never know.”

  Justin stroked Greg’s chest with the backs of his fingers. “And that’s why you left.”

  “That was a big part of it.” Greg sighed. “The randomness. Dead kids, for no reason other than stupidity. We’re a few steps removed from that on the federal level.”

  “But you love law enforcement. I can tell.”

  “Yeah, I do.” Greg rolled onto his back. “I love righting wrongs. I love solving puzzles. And I love weeding bad actors out of the US Air Force.”

  “Do you have many of those?”

  “Not nearly as many as the Army. But we still have a few who don’t respect their uniform enough. Who think they can get away with shit on the taxpayers’ dime.” He snorted. “Not on my watch.”

  Justin laughed. “Go get ’em, Agent Marcotte.”

  “You bet.”

  One of the cats—Greg wasn’t sure which—leaped with a thump onto the bed, then walked into the narrow gap between Greg and Justin, delicately stepped onto Greg’s chest, and stared at him, his amber eyes barely visible around the ring of wide pupil in the darkened room. Greg said, “Hey, cat.”

  The cat meowed at him. Greg scratched it under the chin. “Which one is this?”

  “That’s Elton. Bernie has a narrow white stripe down the center of his forehead.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Elton.”

  Elton lowered himself onto Greg’s chest and started purring, the vibration warming Greg. He chuckled. “I could get used to this.”

  “Elton’s picky. You’ve passed his test, whatever that is.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Four. They’re littermates.”

  “I figured. Where did you get them?”

  “A neighbor in Orlando trapped ferals. She didn’t get to these guys’ mama in time.”

  Greg stroked Elton, whose purr intensified. “The contract lawyer didn’t mind you taking them when you split up?”

  Justin snorted. “Nope. The cats never took to Clay.”

  “Smart cats.” Greg turned his head to look at Justin. “You two were together for a long time.”

  “If you count from the time we met, eighteen years. So yeah. Too long.”

  “Why so long?”

  Justin sighed. “Inertia. The guaranteed availability of sex. Someone to go to the movies with. And Clay is a terrific cook.”

  Greg laughed. “Yeah, okay, I’ve known of marriages built on less.”

  “And…fear of the unknown.”

  Greg thought of Ryan. “I know what that’s like.”

  Justin changed the subject. “Do you hate cop shows? I bet most of them are completely unrealistic.”

  “Oh God. The worst. NCIS, I mean…holy shit. That is not the way it works.”

  Justin grinned. “You don’t have a Goth chick in the basement, running all your lab work for you?”

  “No. Although, I have to say, it’s made it a lot easier to explain to people what I do. ‘The NCIS of the Air Force.’ Everyone gets it.”

  Justin smiled. “What do you do when you’re not solving murders?”

  “Most of what we do falls under two headings. Drug enforcement on base and threat assessment to the space program. My partner Mindy is the drugs expert, and my partner Zach is the threat-assessment guy.”

  Justin poked Greg in the shoulder. “And you’re what? The muscle?”

  Greg laughed. “That’s right.” He rolled onto his side, dislodging Elton, and pulled Justin into his arms. “Say good night, Elton.”

  Elton meowed and curled up against Greg’s back.

  Greg fell asleep thinking, I could really get used to this.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Justin had been jolted awake at five thirty in the morning by Greg’s phone alarm. As an apology, Greg had cooked breakfast—huevos rancheros—then kissed Justin on his way out the door, promising to call that afternoon. Justin had spent the morning writing about SpaceX’s next launch, then outlining a story on Roy Shaw. He figured it wouldn’t take Greg much longer to solve the case.

  He fixed a sandwich for lunch and cleaned the kitchen, then settled on the sofa to read. An hour later, when his phone rang, he picked it up with a smile, anticipating it would be Greg. He stopped short when he saw the blocked number.

  Rats. But maybe it was a news item of some sort. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Harris, this is Roy Shaw.”

  Justin sat straight up. Had he gasped? He hoped not. Who the hell was this? His mind was racing. He couldn’t let on that he knew Shaw was dead. He said, “Mr. Shaw. You stood me up on Saturday morning.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry about that. An unavoidable conflict presented itself. But I want to meet with you now. In thirty minutes. Same place as before.”

  He doesn’t know where Shaw wanted to meet, or he’d know I can’t get there in thirty minutes. Justin said, “Tables Beach? At the covered tables?”

  “Yes. Thirty minutes.” The caller hung up.

  Justin stared at his phone in shock for a moment. Then he called Greg.

  Greg sounded surprised but pleased to hear from him. “Hey, what’s up?”

  Justin poured out what the caller had said. “Whoever it is knows that Shaw was going to meet with me, but he doesn’t know where. It must be the killer, right?”

  “Or someone who’s involved… Okay. You did good, meeting at Tables Beach. We’ll head up there right now.”

  “What if he sees you all?”

  “He won’t. He clearly doesn’t know that you know Shaw’s dead. Keep up the pretense as long as you can.”

  “Okay. I’m scared shitless.”

  “I’d be worried if you weren’t. Pretend you’re still mad at him for standing you up that morning. That’ll help cover your nervousness.”

  “Okay.”

  “My whole team will be there. We’ll see you soon.”

  “Okay.” Justin said goodbye and spent the next fifteen minutes pacing in an attempt to forestall a panic attack.

  Then he picked up his keys and wallet and headed out.

  He hoped it wasn’t the last time he’d see his house.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Greg had spent the morning coordinating with local law enforcement in an attempt to locate Lyle Briggs. He hadn’t returned to his hotel room or the Skyose offices, and hadn’t contacted Cabo Barnes. His open-ended return ticket to New Mexico hadn’t been used yet, and there wasn’t a record of him having taken another flight. Greg supposed that Briggs could have rented a car, intending to drive to New Mexico. It didn’t matter. He’d be found soon.

  He’d spoken to Russell McCarthy at Holloman, who’d executed the search warrant on Roy Shaw’s office and had come up empty. He’d also received the forensics report on Shaw’s car. They’d found no one else’s prints and no evidence of anyone else having been in the vehicle. Another dead end.

  When Justin called, Greg had just ended a phone conversation with Roy Shaw’s wife, updating her on the “search” for her husband. It pissed him off to have to deceive her. He wasn’t sure how she’d react when she learned that Roy was dead, and he was glad it wouldn’t be his job to tell her. That news would be delivered in person.

  After the emotional conversation with Mrs. Shaw, he was delighted to see Justin’s name on his caller ID. “Hey, what’s up?”

  Justin’s words chilled him. He tried to sound
calm and reassuring, but he was as scared shitless as Justin was. He said, “My whole team will be there. We’ll see you soon,” then said goodbye and ran to Vernon’s office. “Sir! A man claiming to be Roy Shaw has arranged a meeting with the reporter Shaw initially contacted.”

  Vernon didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the hallway and shouted. “Everyone! In the hallway, now!”

  Mindy, Zach, Tom, and four 0083s scurried into the hallway. Vernon outlined the situation. “First, get everyone else out of the area. Mindy, Zach, you’ll be near the volleyball net.”

  Zach said, “I’ve got a Frisbee in my truck.”

  “Perfect. Abbott, Kaminski, you’ll be at a picnic table. Pretend to be on your phones. Tom, you and I will be at another table, playing chess. Greg, take your rifle and find a spot to hide yourself with a line of sight to the impostor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Vernon clapped his hands. “Let’s move.”

  The agents scattered. Vernon packed his chess set. Zach and Mindy changed into shorts and T-shirts. The others untucked shirts and pulled them over their waistbands, hiding their sidearms.

  Greg hustled to his truck. He’d cleaned the rifle after firing it at the gator, so it was ready. He loaded it automatically, the motions second nature, with only one thought in his head.

  If the bastard moves on Justin, I’ll kill him.

  He sped to Tables Beach, parked, and scrambled across the dunes. He found a concealing spot among the sea grape and dune grass, wriggled on his belly to the top of the dune, and poked the barrel of the rifle through the vegetation.

  He was ready.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  When Justin pulled into the parking lot at Tables Beach, it was about a quarter full. Scanty for a midsummer’s day. He got out and looked around. He didn’t see anyone that was obviously law enforcement, but Greg’s truck was one of the vehicles in the lot.

  AFOSI was here. He breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  He approached the tables, which were partially occupied. At one, two men were playing chess. At another, a young couple in shorts and T-shirts were on their phones, ignoring each other. There was another couple nearby on the grass, tossing a Frisbee back and forth.