Busted (3 page)

“You never told me you had a twin brother.”

Alex’s smile faltered. “Um, well…”

“And he’s a cop. Jeez, when he pulled me over, I thought he was you.”

“Sorry. Did you, um…”

“I embarrassed the hell out of myself, that’s what I did. I thought you were playing a game or something. When I kissed him I think he almost shit himself.”

Alex’s head shot up. “You kissed him?”

“Well, duh! I thought he was you. Of course I kissed him,” Joe said. He demonstrated to Alex exactly what he’d done. Then he proceeded to show him where his hands and tongue would’ve gone had he continued.

Alex pulled back after a few minutes gasping for air.

“You did that to him?” He almost squeaked that out.

“Never got the chance,” Joe said. He had a sly grin on his face and both hands in Alex’s back pockets. “Want to come home with me? I’ll show you what would’ve come next.” He leaned forward and licked Alex’s ear.

Alex shuddered when he did. They were pressed together tight enough that he had no need to say anything – his erection, hard against Joe, was very clear.

“C’mon, lover,” Joe said, taking one hand out of Alex’s pocket. He left the other in, though, cupping Alex’s ass as the two made their way to the exit, and Joe’s car.

From a nook by the door Detective Russell watched them go.

Friday
morning Chris Gagnon woke up feeling like he’d been run over by a truck. He was tired and achy and his mouth tasted like something had crawled into it and died. He rolled out of bed, holding his throbbing head.

The worst part of it was the dreams were back. They’d stopped when he was eleven, after the fire that had killed his parents, when he’d left Arizona to live with his grandmother in Connecticut. They came back again when he was in high school. It used to be that drinking made the dreams stop. Alcohol deadened his brain, kept the visions away. And they’d stayed away, since college. He’d thought they were gone for good.

The dreams had started again, four months ago. This time everything had been a little fuzzy, just like real dreams. He thought they were real dreams. He’d hoped they’d been real dreams. Not last night. He couldn’t remember too much, but he remembered dancing, and sex, and Joe.

He groaned a little as he thought of Joe. Until that traffic stop the man in his dreams had been vague and faceless, almost generic. He’d worked hard to keep him faceless, to not see what had been there. Faceless was a dream. Faceless wasn’t real. There was a face now, though, and he couldn’t push it away any more.

Chris stood. He was shaky, feeling weak as well as hung over. His t-shirt felt grubby and stuck to his body. His boxers were riding up. When he shifted them he felt an uncomfortable tug in his pubes.

He’d had a wet dream. He was thirty four, and he had a wet dream. About Joe Hennessey.

He stripped angrily, tossing his dirty clothes onto the heap by the closet door. He stumbled into the bathroom and turned the shower on. It was hot and pounding, just what he needed to feel better, to wash the night away.

Chris had spent far too much of his childhood like this; too weak to get up, stuck in bed with nothing but his imagination to keep him company. It wasn’t until college that the spells had passed. He hadn’t had them since, save a few times that could have easily been the flu. Really.

Now it was happening again.

Chris was toweling himself off, feeling a little better after his shower, when he saw Toby standing in the doorway clutching a plate. Just seeing Toby made Chris’ morning better. He’d had five years of hell with Megan, five years of constant abuse and nagging, and even then, no matter how badly he felt, just holding his son made everything good.

She was gone, but Toby was there, his little man. He was a slight boy, his black hair straight and shaggy, hanging over eyes as dark as his father’s. He had Chris’ beak of a nose, his coloring darker than Chris’ easy tan and far darker than Megan’s fair skin. Echoes of Chris’ own mother, the boy looked more native than Chris did.

“I made b’kfast, Papa,” Toby said. He showed the plate to Chris. Four pieces of toast, charred black and completely covered in grape jelly, sat on it. The jelly was probably the only reason they weren’t still smoking.

“Thanks, Toby,” Chris said, trying hard to smile. His stomach was roiling, partly from the smell of burning bread, and partly from the thought that Toby had been in the kitchen. The toast made Chris think he’d nearly set it on fire. He had to force down a shudder at that thought. It wasn’t far from flaming toast to a flaming house, and he’d slept through the whole thing.

* * *

Detective Russell parked his car in one of the empty handicapped spots in front of the Maple Building. He wasn’t sure what, past the sign labeling it, distinguished it from the Oak, Spruce, Chestnut, or Birch Buildings he’d passed, but he supposed the cookie-cutter office buildings required cookie cutter names.

They were all identical, a half dozen three story glass boxes set at ‘exciting’ angles, with sections of grass, the occasional picnic table, and a few trees. He remembered when it had all been corn fields and cow pastures. He figured it was lucky it was nearly noon, since otherwise the reflections of the sun off the buildings would’ve been blinding.

He got out of his car, straightened his tie, and strode up to the entrance. The offices of Powell Enterprises took the whole building. From what he’d found they provided payroll and human resources services for companies that didn’t want to have their own departments. They were, so far as he could tell, completely legit.

The receptionist at the front desk was young, well dressed, blonde, and aesthetically proportioned. She gave him an appraising look and a smile that made it clear she was competent if anyone bothered to notice. Most didn’t, which he bet suited the company just fine.

“Welcome to Powell Enterprises. How can I help you?”

Steve showed his badge and smiled his own professional smile. “Detective Russell,” he said. “I’d like to speak with Joe Hennessey, please.”

“Certainly, sir,” she said. She picked up the phone and hesitated for a moment. “Should I call security first?”

“I think that won’t be necessary,” he said. As he tucked his badge back inside his jacket pocket he made sure to flash his gun. Her eyes widened just a little.

She dialed a number from memory. “Joan? Could you ask Mister Hennessey to come to the front desk? There’s a police detective here to speak with him.” She listened for a moment. “No, I don’t think you should say. Just ask him to come down. Thanks, Joan.” She hung up the phone.

“He’ll be right down, Detective Russell. Would you like to have a seat?”

“No, thank you,” he said.

He only had to wait a minute before Joe rushed in. He was dressed well, in a tailored charcoal grey suit that accentuated his slender body. His copper hair was a little mussed, and he looked like he’d been running.

“Carol, what’s going on? Joan said…” He broke off as the receptionist pointed behind him. He turned and saw Steve.

“Detective Russell,” he said. His voice was flat, and surprise was clear on his face. “What brings you here?”

“If you could come with me, please, Mister Hennesy?”

“I’m not sure this is a good time,” Joe started.

“Now, please, Mister Hennessey.” Steve’s voice made it clear he was only asking out of courtesy.

Joe’s expression hardened. “Carol,” he said, turning back to the receptionist. “Could you ask Joan to reschedule my afternoon please?”

He turned back to Steve. “Do I get to ride in the front seat this time?” Steve noticed he was walking a little oddly as they left the building.

“You’re not under arrest, Mister Hennessey,” Steve said as he unlocked the car.

“Did you tell Carol that?”

Steve smiled a little. “No.”

Joe snorted. “Figures.” They drove in silence for a few minutes, into one of the dingier sections of town. Steve parallel parked in front of a ratty pizza restaurant and got out. Joe followed, feeling nervous and uncomfortable. He was very over-dressed for the neighborhood.

There was no way Joe was going to let him know that, though. Head high, move forward, keep control, take no shit. That had got him away from home, through, college, and to the job he had, and it would carry him through this, whatever it was.

“Taking me out to lunch, Detective?” he asked, fluttering his eyelashes. “I thought you were married.”

“And she’s built much better than you,” Steve replied, not missing a beat. “Your ass is too flat.”

Joe gave a little laugh. He hadn’t expected the instant come-back. “Some people are very fond of this ass,” he said, sliding into a booth. A little twinge was a reminder of last night and exactly how fond Alex was of it.

“No doubt,” Steve replied. “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

The guard Joe had started to drop was immediately back up. “Alex.”

“Yeah. Alex.”

“What about him?”

A waitress had come over to the table. She was as old and dingy as the restaurant, and looked as much of a fixture of the place as the torn vinyl booth cushions.

“Hey, Doll,” Steve said. “The regular, please.”

She nodded. “He ain’t your regular. Breaking in a new guy?”

“Something like that,” Steve said with a grin.

“What’dya have, sport?” she asked Joe.

“Uh, a salad?”

She looked at him as if he were an alien. Steve’s expression was carefully neutral.

“Salad?” Steve asked, as the waitress walked away.

“I wanted something without grease,” Joe replied, sounding a little defensive.

Steve grinned. He’d made that mistake the first time he’d come here. He’d let Joe figure it out himself when the time came.

“So what did you drag me out here for?”

“I’m curious about last night,” Steve said.

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “Last night was my own damn business,” he said. He unconsciously shifted a little in the booth. It might not have been Steve’s business, but Alex had been very affectionate, and he’d been having a problem sitting down all morning.