Footsteps in the Dark

by Josh Lanyon

“You’re too nosy for your own good. You know that, right?” The way he said it, it didn’t sound like a deal breaker. More of an annoyance. I could work with that.

  “It’s a feature, not a bug.”

  “Says you,” he chided.

  Before unlocking my door, I reached awkwardly for something else to say. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too.” He held my gaze a moment longer before he stepped down the stairs.

  My problem was that envelope.

  Rick had been unhappy about finding it and upset by what it contained.

  Why didn’t the techs find it? Had they simply missed it? Because I could think of another reason—maybe it hadn’t been there.

  Much as I hated to do it, I called Dillon Kimble’s cell.

  “Hello, Lonnie. This is a nice surprise. What can I do for you?”

  I swallowed, hard. “Guess who’s cooking gumbo tonight, cher.”

  Chapter Eight

  Dillon showed up at exactly eight p.m., wearing a bespoke suit and carrying a bottle of impressive wine.

  He probably knew a lot about wine. It was obviously important to him that I acknowledge this fact, so I did.

  Factory featured an impressive wine list, but the place wasn’t called Factory for nothing. I built the entire menu around elevating the food of working men and women from all over the world—sandwiches, street foods, soups, and hearty stews—because I preferred them to haute cuisine. I liked to drink beer or whiskey, rather than even the finest of wines.

  “Mmm… Smells fantastic in here.” He grabbed my shoulders and air-kissed both my cheeks. I didn’t stop him.

  “Thank you. It’s been a while since I made gumbo. I’d forgotten how much I like the aroma.”

  The holy trinity of celery, onions, and peppers perfumed the air, along with garlic, cayenne, and the rich, nut-brown aroma of a dark roux. I kept gumbo on the menu at Factory along with a lot of other deceptively humble dishes. I could have had someone on my staff send it over, but I’d decided an afternoon of cooking something low and slow would feed my spirit.

  By the time I led Dillon to the table for two in the kitchen, I felt relaxed and happy. Pleasantly social.

  “Sit here. I’ve got some work to finish up, and then I’ll join you.”

  “Sure, babe. Hey.” He startled when Pepper clicked over to sniff at him. “When did you get a dog?”

  “I didn’t. I’m fostering Pepper for a bit. She belonged to the guy next door. The one that got—”

  “Dead?” His eyes widened. “Is this a dead guy’s dog?”

  “Yeah. I don’t think what he had is contagious, though.”

  “Can you put her somewhere while I’m here?” He wiped his hand on a monogrammed handkerchief. “I don’t fancy cleaning drool off the suit.”

  “Nowhere she won’t cause massive trouble.” I wondered if he was afraid of dogs. “Love me, love the dog.”

  “I don’t love either of you. I’m here for the food.”

  I had to commend his pragmatism. “Since this is a command performance, consider the dog part of the act.”

  He pursed his lips. “You called me.”

  “I promised you dinner.” I smiled sweetly. “And dinner you shall have. You can live with a little dog drool.”

  He grimaced and turned away from her.

  I opened the wine and let him do the wine-snob ballet. He swirled, and sipped, and oohed. I tasted it. The vintage was as good as I expected it to be. I got a Fat Tire beer for myself.

  He didn’t help me bring things to the table. He wasn’t the kind of man who rolled up his sleeves to help chop and stir. Maybe that’s why I didn’t click with him.

  Dillon wanted everything served up—drink, food, sex. He wanted to receive, not participate, and I liked people who dug into life with everything they had. People who cleaned fish and mixed meatloaf with their bare hands.

  It was with a sense of irony and amusement that I set a bowl of rice before his majesty and spooned my richly flavored gumbo over the top. “There you go. Dig in.”

  “God, you’re amazing.” He audibly breathed in the aromas. “And fried okra? I’m going to have to take an extra spin class.”

  “I made hushpuppies too.” I uncovered the basket with a flourish. “You’re probably going to have to buy the gym.”

  “Not to worry. I have a Peloton.”

  “Of course you do,” I murmured while I served myself.

  He sat with his spoon in his hand, as if debating whether to say something or hold his peace.

  I finally asked, “What?”

  “I get that you think I’m a joke, Lonnie.”

  “I don’t.” Not a joke, precisely. He was too dangerous to be a joke.

  “Yes you do. But if I’m useful to you, I don’t see why I can’t get a good meal out of it.”

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “And you cook amazing food.”

  “So maybe we’ve got something after all. Be nice, and I’ll make Bananas Foster for dessert.”

  “You’re on.” He sat back in his chair with a smile. “Tell me why you invited me tonight.”

  I leaned against the kitchen counter, Pepper at my heels. Even though I no longer kept the leash around my waist, she glued herself to me without it, which was a blessing and a curse.

  “Something weird happened today.” I told him about finding the hidden envelope in Dead Jeff’s kitchen drawer. “The thing is, it felt…orchestrated. Someone put the envelope there for us to find. I’m sure of it.”

  Dillon picked up his wineglass and absently swirled the ruby liquid inside it. “Don’t you think you’re being just a little paranoid?”

  “Maybe.”

  He frowned. “What I’m hearing you say is you’re worried someone planted evidence—”

  “And I found it, so now my fingerprints are on it.”

  “While that could present a problem”—I waited for him to make one of his routine, cutting remarks—“no one will railroad you on my watch, Lonnie.”

  “That’s…” I waited for him to say “just kidding,” but he didn’t. “Really nice of you?”

  “Like you said, we didn’t hit it off in the sack.” He stopped me before I could say there was no maybe about it. “But that doesn’t mean I’d abandon you if you needed my help.”

  “Thank you,” I breathed the words with awe. “That’s magnanimous.”

  “Still, you think I’m some sort of shallow idiot. I know.” He folded his napkin, dropped it beside his plate, and waited for me to correct him.

  “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

  His face fell. Then he sighed deeply. “See, I actually like the way you did that. Not because it didn’t hurt a little, but because you didn’t mean for it to hurt. You were just being honest.”

  “Well, yeah,” I admitted. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

  “I know.” His expression softened. “A man with money and power gets lied to every day. Some people like hearing only what they want to hear, whether it’s true or not.”

  I understood that. Sometimes I wanted that too.

  “I regret what happened between us”—his lips twisted wryly—“but never more than tonight. I wish I’d pursued you as a friend and not a lover.”

  “I wouldn’t mind giving friendship a try.” I scratched my jaw unhappily, wishing I hadn’t let the stubble grow in. Damn dog got up to mischief when I turned my back, and shaving had become a luxury. “Just know one thing. It’s never going to happen between us again.”

  “Okay.” He held up both hands. “Nothing up my sleeves. As long as you never tell anyone you friend-zoned me. I gave you the slip. Got it?”

  “Like I care what people think.”

  He gave a grin. “Maybe you don’t. Whatever. It’s the principle of the thing.”

  “Bananas Foster it is.” I went around the island and took a shallow sauté pan down from the rack. I didn’t have banana liqueur, but I did my best with what I had, caramelizin
g ripe bananas in butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, and dark rum. I dimmed the lights, tilted the pan, and ignited the liquor, giving Dillon the whole show. It was worth everything to see the childlike delight in his flame-lit eyes.

  I wanted to be his friend. What had drawn me to him, the things I’d actually liked—his sophistication and his enjoyment of fine things—seemed tedious when he used them to get into my pants. But we enjoyed this moment together without any hidden agenda, and I relaxed. Showing off became a way to make him smile.

  Dillon had an extraordinary smile.

  When I plated the dessert and set it in front of him, he rubbed his hands together happily. “As for your worry about the new evidence, you say you found it when you were invited to look for the vet bill with your neighbor, this Rick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  I tasted the dessert. Heavenly. “He’s in private security. Used to be a cop.”

  “Oh, did he?” Brows lowered, he asked, “And just how does he fit into this? How did he get along with the victim?”

  “He didn’t like the guy. Nobody did.”

  Dillon put his fork down. “Hm…”

  “What does that mean—hm?”

  “From what you’ve told me, the building is full of people who wanted this guy dead. And this Rick lives in the apartment on the other side of the victim. If he was around on the day of the murder…” He pursed his lips. “We can use that if they push on you. If they do bring you in again to question you about the new evidence, say nothing. Not one word. They’ll try to tell you it makes you look guilty when you don’t talk. That’s bullshit. You call the office right away, and if I’m busy, I’ll send someone to help.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And try not to worry.” For a change, he was reassuring, not boasting. “Get some rest. You look awful.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Oddly, the words warmed me up to him some more. I still didn’t want to date him, but maybe he was okay with that.

  “Want to take our drinks to the living room?” I asked. “Watch a game?”

  “I’d rather watch something with a narrative. Peaky Blinders and Penny Dreadful are my two guilty pleasures right now.”

  “Okay. I could watch either of those.” I gestured for him to go ahead. “Queue something up while I put the dishes into the washer.”

  Genuine happiness lit his features until he realized Pepper was going to follow him. He unbent enough to give her a scratch behind her ears.

  “She seems remarkably chill.”

  “Remarkably chill.” I laughed. “Right. Keep your shoes tied and your drink close, Dillon. That dog is a monster.”

  He laughed because he thought I was kidding.

  Pepper watched our newfound camaraderie with an eye toward finding something to chew. When he dozed off, I chased her away from his handmade Italian loafers, because if we were going to be friends now, I figured I ought to watch his back too. The good news was he was going to watch mine. I hoped that would be enough to keep me out of jail.

  Something sinister was going on in this apartment building. There were things about Dead Jeff that no one would talk about.

  Secret enmity. Vile behavior. Blackmail, maybe.

  I was going to get to the bottom of it all. I had to, if I wanted to get my Afghan dog and start my new life.

  Chapter Nine

  At midnight Dillon put on his jacket and gave me a platonic hug good night. I didn’t necessarily trust the change in his behavior, but he’d been pleasantly laid-back most of the evening, even drifting off a time or two.

  I’d forgotten what it was like to socialize with someone unrelated to work. My staff were my friends and family. My customers were my social network. I spent so much time at the restaurant, I forgot what it was like to share my private space.

  If anyone ever told me I’d enjoy spending time with Dillon Kimble, I’d have wondered about their sanity. But there he was, standing on my doorstep, drowsy and disheveled.

  His smile was genuine. “Night, Lon. Don’t hesitate to call if you need me.”

  “Thanks, Dillon. I really appreciate that.” Maybe it was because we’d broken bread. Shared salt. I had a deep-seated need to nurture people with food, and when I did, things always changed for me. “Let’s do this again sometime.”

  His naked pleasure shamed me. “Do I get to pick what you cook?”

  “Maybe next time, you’ll have to cook it with me.”

  He winced. “In the kitchen?”

  “You can probably be trained.”

  “I doubt it.” Heavy footsteps coming up the stairs drew my attention to the sight of Rick returning home from work. The man was mouthwatering. Dillon snorted. “Don’t tell me. That’s the famous neighbor, Rick?”

  “Yep.”

  Rick’s expression was unreadable. “Evening.” His slow once-over made me shiver.

  “Rick, this is Dillon Kimble. My lawyer.”

  Dillon extended a perfectly manicured hand. “How do you do, Rick?”

  “Just fine, thank you.” Rick held on too long, forcing Dillon to remove his hand.

  “Well.” Testosterone stung my nostrils as I rubbed my hands on my thighs. “Good night, Dillon.”

  “Night, Lon. Thanks for…everything.” Dillon couldn’t help himself, probably. He shot a grin of private satisfaction and dark humor my way and walked with fluid grace toward the stairwell. Rick and I watched him skip lightly down the stairs.

  Now that I didn’t have to worry about having sex with Dillon, his antics made me laugh. Rick was not amused. “That’s a little cliché.”

  “What?”

  “Getting fucked by your defense attorney.”

  Angry that he went there, I tensed. “Is it?”

  “Seems like a douche move on his part.” His tone as he backed me against the wall sounded irked.

  “Which? Fucking me or representing murderers?” Fighting for control, I breathed in sweat and cologne and pure male ego. “He and I aren’t like that.”

  “No?” Rick moved forward until his lips were inches from mine. Mm. He also smelled like night and earth.

  “We hooked up once,” I admitted. “Now we’re just friends.”

  He lifted a brow. “He knows that?”

  “I made it clear.” What would happen if I moved just that speck forward? Would he kiss me? Or back off because I called his bluff?

  Do it. My body sent me all kinds of heated messages. Try it. You need it. When was the last time you felt fully alive? How was it I could jump off a balcony four stories up, yet I choked over moving a few inches forward?

  But he was a neighbor. Goddamn, my stupid rules.

  I sighed, turning away. “Have a nice night, Rick.”

  “Don’t go.” His voice dropped low. “Look. I get that things between us went…sideways. What you did the other night? That was some stupid, reckless shit. Never mind if you fell, you could have hurt someone on the ground. Traumatized me and my friends forever. Frankly, I…didn’t handle that well.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I told you—”

  “I meant to apologize for acting like a dick the last few days, but then I got preoccupied by what we found this morning.” He pressed his lips together. “I wanted to say sorry then, but…”

  I accepted the explanation. “You did seem upset by those pictures.”

  “Weren’t you? They were fucking upsetting.”

  “I saw an envelope,” I reminded him. “I only have your word for what was inside.”

  “You think I’d lie about that?”

  “I don’t know, would you?”

  His eyes widened. “Let me get changed and come back. We can talk. I know I haven’t been totally forthcoming.”

  “Sure.” I wanted to believe he’d tell me the truth—about leaving the force, about those pictures, about everything. “I’ve got gumbo, if you’re hungry.”

  “That sounds amazing.” He stepped back. “I need a quick shower.”


  “Pepper could probably use a break before bedtime.”

  “Be back in a few.” I watched him walk to his apartment and go inside.

  Despite what Rick said, I was sure Dillon’s innuendo influenced his desire to come clean, because he’d been making himself scarce for a couple of days. God save me from Alpha males. Amen.

  Was breaking the ice with Rick a bad idea? My body didn’t think so, but my brain said yeah, duh. I found him too attractive. I liked him too much.

  I had my rules to consider.

  But I also had leftovers, and I couldn’t eat them all.

  ***

  Pepper went berserk when I took her leash off the hook by the door. We took the stairs together, heading out the front of the building toward the street.

  Since she no longer wore the hated cone collar, she sniffed her way carefully along the sidewalk. Every scent fascinated her. Every movement caught her attention, and she tried to drag me toward every sound.

  We made our way around the block in a leisurely fashion. Sometimes I had to give the leash a pull. Sometimes she was the one tugging me.

  The night was cool. Clouds had formed in the sky, promising rain by morning. Cars drove by, headlights illuminating the sidewalk around us every now and again, making Pepper’s eyes glow an eerie green.

  When she did her business, I dutifully bagged it.

  A dog barked behind a fence, startling us both. Pepper wrapped herself around my ankle, tail between her legs.

  “You chickenshit,” I accused.

  Her expression seemed to say, “What’s your point?”

  Dumbass dog. Contentment, almost happiness, filled me.

  When we returned, Rick was waiting by the door with a six-pack of beer.

  What did I want to happen?

  I didn’t know.

  I fixed him a nice bowl of gumbo, with rice and some crusty bread.

  His pretty brown eyes glazed over with appreciation while he ate. Like Chancho, Pepper rested her muzzle on his knee. Absently, he petted her soft ears.

  “This is great, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, anytime.”

  He frowned. “You made this for him, though, didn’t you? The lawyer.”

  “Yeah,” I said warily. “Dillon’s got a fetish for all things Louisiana. He loves my deceptively Cajun surname, so I made gumbo.”