by Elle Keaton
Why was he still thinking about Carsten?
Because something about him confused Beto. Carsten was absolutely hiding something, there was no doubt of that. He’d lied when Beto asked him about Troy. If they were merely passing friends, why would Bakker’s only comprehensible words while they waited for the ambulance to arrive have been a hoarsely whispered, “Watch Carsten.”
When Carsten opened Troy’s apartment door that day, Beto’d had to hide a jolt of surprise—he hadn’t expected to find the mysterious Carsten behind the first door he knocked on.
* * *
Because brains are weird, and Beto figured his was maybe weirder than most, he dreamed about his father that night. Not his father as he’d discovered him to be after his death but before, when his mom was still happy. Before the world fell apart for both of them. The dream was at once comforting and disturbing. He didn’t want to be reminded that there’d been a time when he hadn’t understood betrayal.
Morning came too soon, or not soon enough. Beto was glad to shake off the dream, but he knew it would linger all day. The rain let up enough that he could venture outside without fear of drowning, so he snapped the leash onto Freya’s collar and took her for a long walk before heading to the station. He and Jorgensen had a lot of work to do.
He poked his head into Nguyen’s office, but she wasn’t there yet—or she was in a meeting somewhere. Dickson was at his desk chatting with Stan Getty, of all people. They stopped talking to watch him as he made his way across the room. Privately he gave them both the finger before stopping at the break room for coffee, if it could be called that. He’d worked in three different offices—one even in a different state—and all the coffee tasted the same. Warm piss water.
* * *
Jorgensen showed up twenty minutes later, looking the worse for wear. From the state of him it was possible he hadn’t slept at all; he had dark circles under his eyes, and his short hair was sticking up in random spots.
“What happened to you?” Beto asked as he stirred creamer into his coffee.
“I was at a down-tree scene last night.”
Beto frowned. “Why? We weren’t on call.”
Jorgensen shrugged. “I was driving by and stopped to help out.” He looked uncharacteristically shifty. “I ended up being there longer than I intended.” He began to shuffle file folders around on his desk with no real purpose that Beto could see. Hmm. He’d only been partnered with Jorgensen for a few days, but this wasn’t typical behavior.
Jorgensen was generally well liked, even by the assholes. He wasn’t moody or a princess or a jerk like Dickson. Sure, some had hated on him when he passed the detective’s exam, whispering favoritism, but Beto knew Nguyen wouldn’t pass somebody because they were pretty or were related to the old chief. In fact she’d probably looked harder at Jorgensen because of his connections.
Jorgensen kept playing with the files. Beto looked at him more closely. Jorgensen’s T-shirt was on inside out, and his dress shirt was misbuttoned so his collar rode high on one side. Something was going on with him.
“Do you want real coffee and a doughnut? We could head across the street.” He knew how much the younger detective enjoyed apple fritters. “A doughnut will help you get whatever is bugging you off your chest.”
The younger man groaned, muttering, “Why would I have anything to get off my chest? Of course I want a doughnut, but they go right to my belly.” He sat back in his chair and rubbed his flat stomach through his shirt to make his point. Beto saw no evidence of extra weight on him. “Not the Booking Room,” Jorgensen added.
“Whatever, come on, we’ll hit a drive-through on the way. Ya know,” he said after gulping down half his crappy coffee and putting his coat on, “there’s nothing wrong with you. There are plenty of women who’d like you as you are.” Since Jorgensen wasn’t looking at him, Beto waggled his eyebrows in appreciation. “They’d even be happy to make sure you don’t leave the house with your shirt looking like that.”
Jorgensen looked down at himself, his cheeks flushing as he groaned again. Beto shook his head. “Come on.”
His partner was silent as they made their way downstairs and out to the parking garage, their footsteps echoing across the concrete. Beto unlocked the car and slid behind the wheel, planning where they would head after getting coffee.
Jorgensen contorted himself into a pretzel as he stripped his shirts off, turned the undershirt right-side out, and put himself back together again.
“I’m a mess.”
Beto guided the cruiser out of the parking garage, taking a right and another right to get onto Steele. Instead of responding, he let the silence in the car build. Jorgensen continued to straighten his shirt out; finally he stopped and stared out the window for a few blocks.
“Would it bother you if your partner was gay?”
His voice seemed overly loud. Beto stopped breathing for a second. He turned his head so he could see his partner’s face. Jorgensen wasn’t someone who hid emotion well; his brow was furrowed, and his eyes darted back and forth. He was trying hard not to look at Beto. The silence in the car was heavy between them. Beto’s heart thudded.
“No.” He quickly looked Jorgensen—Soren—in the eyes and somehow without flinching added, “I’m gay, so no, it wouldn’t bother me.”
“I’m gay,” Soren said.
“I kind of figured that, kid.”
“I’ve never told anyone before. I mean, it never seemed to matter, and if I wanted to be a police officer it sure seemed better to not say anything. Not that it’s anybody’s business.”
“It’s a big moment, coming out.” Beto wished his coming out had been in a quiet, safe place with someone who understood what he was going through.
“I didn’t just wake up today and realize I’m gay; I’ve always known, I guess.”
“You met somebody?” That seemed to be how it usually happened
“I think so.” Soren turned his head so Beto couldn’t see his face.
“I’m no expert on being out,” Beto said. “But you’ll probably be happier. And I know the chief will have your back—if you want her to.”
“I just don’t want people to look at me differently, to think I’m different. I’m the same person I ever was.”
Beto nodded, understanding but also knowing it was an impossible dream. People were fuckers. They judged you by who you cared for. “In my experience, most people are assholes and will look at you differently. You’ll have to jump higher, run faster, and be smarter. Mind, that’s not a high bar for you with jackoffs like Dickson.”
Soren looked back over at him. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”
“Try being gay and Hispanic. I passed the detective’s exam without missing a question, but higher-ups wanted me to take it again to prove I hadn’t cheated. Same with the physical exam: I meant what I said about higher and faster.”
“You took it twice?”
“The union stepped in and stopped that, but yeah, the idea was floated. I never knew how they found out I was gay.” As far as he knew, he’d been very careful. That had been before he transferred to his new team.
“That’s depressing.”
Beto pulled in at the Buzz-In, idling while the driver in front of them placed their order.
“That was in LA—more conservative than you’d think, although that happened nearly fifteen years ago. I think you’ll be okay. Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”
Soren let out a big sigh. Beto wondered how long he’d been holding on to his secret, worried about everything; if that was what had kept him up last night.
Once Soren was properly caffeinated and in possession of a doughnut as big as his head, Beto pointed the car east.
“Where’re we headed?”
“I thought while we had a break in the weather we’d take a drive out into the county.” The three dead girls continued to bother him. Where had they come from, and why hadn’t anyone claimed them? No one deserved t
o die scared and alone, as he suspected they had.
“Sounds good.”
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a lot to see from the highway. Beto cursed himself for imagining they’d be able to see anything from the road. Maybe a big sign, “Homicides R Us.” The winding highway didn’t always follow the river, and there were plenty of homesteads hidden behind acres of evergreens and long driveways. The girls could have been hidden anywhere. They could’ve been dumped on purpose, or somehow the rising river water had exposed them. All he knew was, none of them had been dead for long.
* * *
That afternoon, after dropping Soren at the station and picking up his own car, Beto drove slowly past the Bayern Arms. The Prius he’d watched Carsten drive away in the other day sat parked in the lot, just as it had that morning. Maybe the guy didn’t drive it much, or maybe he had the day off. But when Beto had stopped by the Booking Room, the panicked-looking manager said Carsten hadn’t been there in a few days.
“I know Sara tried to call him about a delivery. He’s usually reliable.”
Beto continued past the entrance to the apartment building, tapping the steering wheel with his thumb before coming to a decision. He swung wide for a U-turn and backtracked to park on the street.
Beto was more than a little curious about Carsten. He hadn’t had to make him and Jorgensen a special meal the other day. He could have told them lunch was over, and they would’ve made do with coffee. Instead he’d gone out of his way to get them a late lunch.
It bothered him that Carsten wouldn’t tell him what he and Bakker were involved in. He wanted to know what Carsten was hiding. It was far past time for him to have one of the team run a background check on them, except for some reason Beto wanted Carsten to share his information willingly instead.
Beto stared up at the third-floor apartment. What had Carsten so frightened? He’d almost said something at the hospital and then stopped himself.
Staring at the apartment building wasn’t going to reveal any answers to these questions, only make Beto feel like a stalker.
He thought back to the morning a week ago when he’d knocked on Quinn’s door. Aside from his inappropriate reaction when Quinn answered the door half naked, what else nagged at him? He walked himself through the apartment again.
The walls were covered with photographs of men. They were good—some color, some black-and-white, most featuring a single man or men posing together, some sexual, many not. There were a few of male-female-presenting couples. If Quinn was the photographer, he had an amazing eye. It was the apartment of a young man—or men. Their couch was obviously well used, perhaps secondhand. The table and chairs in the kitchen had also seen the test of time.
No decorations other than the photographs; no movie posters or calendars, no plants or books. The lack of books was odd on a purely personal level: Beto couldn’t bring himself to part with books, so it was hard for him to imagine someone not having any. Bakker’s room hadn’t stored anything but clothes and—
He slapped the dashboard with his open palm. There were no pictures of family or friends, for either man. Bakker had no pictures of any kind in his room. But Carsten? He was a photographer. They didn’t just come out of nowhere. The photographers Beto knew were image hoarders; they had pictures going way back. Friends, family, coworkers—no one escaped. Beto had a friend from grade school who still had pictures of them he’d taken with his point-and-shoot.
Whatever. He was fooling himself. He needed to pull up his proverbial big-boy pants and knock on the man’s door because he wanted to. There were a million reasons why a person wouldn’t have family pictures or mementos. If he wanted to know why, he needed to quit making excuses and go and ask.
Tired of playing mental games with himself, Beto got out of his car and headed for Carsten’s door.
11
Carsten
* * *
Carsten should get out of bed. But the trip from his bed to the apartment’s tiny bathroom could be measured in miles today, not feet. The headache he’d been feeling for a few days had erupted into a full-blown migraine. By the time he’d left work, Carsten hadn’t been sure he would be able to make it home from the café. Clearly he had, but the drive and getting into the apartment was a blur.
He remembered barely making it to the bathroom, where his stomach violently emptied itself, before crawling into bed where he lay shivering, wrapped in all his blankets. He was unsure what day or time it was now. With the nonstop rain, it was hard to know if it was day or night, even apart from the covers he was trying to disappear into. He had no clock in his room, and the battery in his phone had died. It sat, acting as a paperweight, on the little table next to his bed.
Coincidentally, or maybe that’s what had woken him and not his bladder, there was a loud knock on the front door, followed by someone wiggling the handle.
Really? Again?
“Quinn, open up.”
He couldn’t. Everything was hot and cold, too bright even though all the lights were off. He hadn’t had this bad a migraine in years.
“Quinn.” Louder and harsher. “I’m reasonably sure you are in there; your car is out front. Open up.”
Carsten dragged a pillow over his head, letting himself drift off, away from the door rattling and the detective’s sexy voice.
* * *
A gentle hand pushed the pillow aside, touching his forehead and then easing his hair back from his face. For a moment Carsten thought his mother was in the room, watching over him like she used to when he had a headache or was sick. No, that wasn’t possible. He didn’t want the touch to stop. It felt good.
“Carsten, can you open your eyes?” Not his mother’s voice. Hernández’s.
“No. Goway.”
A soft chuckle. Carsten thought he heard a hint of concern. “You’re burning up. I’m going to get a wet cloth.”
The hand left his forehead, and Carsten missed the cool touch. Soon Hernández was back, his weight pushing down the side of the bed, and then a cool washcloth was laid across his temple. It felt incredible.
“How’d you get in?”
“I didn’t break the door down, if that’s what you’re worried about. I used my cop superpowers to get the building manager to open your door.”
“Why?”
“Why did I have the manager open your door?”
Carsten kept his eyes shut, nodding even though it was painful.
“The folks at the Booking Room haven’t seen or heard from you in days, and your cell phone is dead. Your car has been in the same spot for at least the past day, so I used my detectival skills and imagined the worst.”
“Migraine,” Carsten whispered.
“I think you have more than a migraine. They don’t give a person fevers. I think you have the flu.”
“Migraine,” he repeated.
“I believe you, but you also have the flu.” His voice was unyielding.
Carsten wanted to argue, but it was like arguing with a brick wall. A really thick, tall brick wall. And it was hard to argue when you couldn’t form the right words or open your eyes all the way.
“I should probably take you to urgent care. Unless there’s family I can call?”
“No insurance. No family.” Carsten did not need a medical bill. It was hard enough to keep up with the bills he had already, and the thought of Hernández having any kind of contact with his biological family made his blood run cold. Luckily, they thought he was dead.
Hernández didn’t reply right away. Carsten cracked an eyelid partially open. Hernández was looking at him with an odd expression. Not that Carsten knew what expression Hernández defaulted to.
Finally he spoke. “Fine, no doctor, but you’re weak as a kitten. You’ve admitted there’s no family to call, and as far as I can tell no other friends. Plus I need to question you when you feel better.”
Great, the cop wanted to question him. In minutes, Carsten found himself wrapped in a blanket and bundled out and down the stai
rcase to Hernández’s car. Not a police car, a practical late-model SUV. Hernández left him alone for a moment before returning with a bag he tossed into the back seat.
“Clothes.”
Whatever abode Carsten was expecting Hernández to live in, a quaint cottage wasn’t it. Hernández’s house was cute, painted a bright yellow, defying the other houses on the block, which were boring whites or grays. The color jarred at first glance, but Carsten found himself appreciating a man who lived in a bright yellow house.
Hernández helped him to the front door. They were close to the same size, but if Carsten was going to be honest, Hernández carried most of his weight. Carsten did his best not to fall over. Once inside, they were greeted by a large, very friendly dog.
“This is Freya. She’s the reason Troy is alive. She found me and led me to him. Couch or bed?” Hernández was asking himself, not Carsten. “Bed; it’s closer to the bathroom. I should make you at least sip some soup before you pass out, but I think it would be a tight race between the two.”
Minutes later, Carsten was being tucked into a comfortable bed, the pillow and sheets cool against his skin. Hernández left the blanket from Carsten’s own bed wrapped around him, a luscious cocoon. Reminding himself he didn’t trust the cop, Carsten drifted into reluctant sleep.
* * *
Someone was arguing. Carsten could hear angry voices—or maybe only one angry voice—in another room. It took him a minute to remember he wasn’t at Troy’s apartment; he’d been spirited to the surprisingly cozy home of Beto Hernández.
How long had he been asleep? He felt a little more alert now, and hungry too. He also had to pee. Looking around, he realized he was in Hernández’s own bedroom. Even in the gloom, Carsten could tell the walls were a deep, calming shade of blue. A tall dresser stood against the wall across from the bed. There were several framed pictures, presumably family or friends, displayed on the surface. On one wall there was a collection of what looked like intricate pen-and-ink drawings, above the bed a landscape watercolor, but Carsten was too bleary to look closely.
