by A J Sherwood
Mr. Lawyer finally spoke up. “You’re out of line, Detective.”
The politician swallowed hard, skin paling to an unhealthy shade of grey. “H-how do you know…?”
“Because I’m a detective, and I happen to be good at my job,” Borrowman bluffed with a bland tone, leaning his forearms against the table. “I don’t care about your love life, Mr. Sinclair. I want to know about Marsha Brown. When did you two break up?”
Another speaking glance with the lawyer, and the older man gave Sinclair a go-ahead jerk of the chin.
“Two weeks ago,” Sinclair admitted heavily, eyes skirting around the room, unable to meet Borrowman’s gaze. “She broke it off when I wouldn’t agree to divorce my wife. I have…reasons…for staying with her.”
“Ambitious reasons,” I informed Donovan, unable to keep the commentary to myself. “The wife is strongly connected to his ambition and career lines. They’re almost inseparable.”
Donovan let out a low whistle, staring at Sinclair through the glass. “That’s not a very good reason to stay married.”
“Tell me about it.” I shut up to listen to Borrowman’s next question.
“—did you have any contact with Ms. Brown at all?”
“No. Well, I take that back. Once. She’d left something in my car, and my wife nearly found it, so I had to hide it and get Marsha to swing by and pick it up. She wasn’t happy with me, so it was a quick in-and-out on her part. That was, ah, Saturday? Saturday before last, I stopped by to let her in the office after my son’s ballgame. I didn’t have any contact with her after that.”
“What time exactly was that?” Borrowman pressed.
“I’m not sure. David’s game ended at 3:00 or somewhere in there, it’s a twenty-minute drive to the office, so somewhere around 3:30?”
Donovan clicked open the channel for me and I gave him a quick smile. He was learning how to read me, if he knew I needed that channel open. “Truth, but he’s evading. Press it.”
“And you didn’t see her, text her, anything after that?”
“No.”
Something wasn’t quite right there, the line still jumping like a frog in a hot skillet. “Truth, but again, he’s evading.”
“What about someone who knew Ms. Brown? Did you speak to someone who knew her, or speak about her after that point?”
“No.”
“Lie,” I sing-songed. “Total lie.”
Borrowman leaned in even further, tone going a little menacing. “Mr. Sinclair, you’ve been very truthful so far. Please keep that streak and don’t try to keep secrets. Who did you talk to about Marsha Brown?”
For the first time, dots of perspiration formed on Sinclair’s forehead. He was too accustomed to politics to let his expression change, or to openly fidget, but on the inside he squirmed. “Our affair was a secret, why would I speak to anyone about it?”
“But you did speak to someone. Who? Why?” Borrowman pressed.
Silence.
“Mr. Sinclair, right now you’re just a person of interest, but I can get a warrant to search your office and home if I need to.”
“Detective,” the lawyer growled warningly. “You do not get to threaten my client.”
Borrowman ignored him. “I think you’d prefer that I avoid doing that, as I’m sure your wife will wonder why, and I’d have to tell her. Being an honest officer of the law and all. Will you answer my question?”
Closing his eyes, Sinclair sat for another minute before finally croaking out, “My secretary found out about the affair two weeks ago, the same day that Marsha and I broke things off. She threatened to expose me unless I agreed to keep her with me during the next campaign. She’s been embezzling funds, so I had to cover all of that up so she wouldn’t get fired.”
Ah-ha, hence that grey line. “Truth. Borrowman, that’s his only dirty secret, I think.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair,” Borrowman said smoothly, back to his usual genial self. “One last question, if I may. Before the news announced Marsha Brown as a missing person, did you even suspect something was wrong?”
“No, I had no idea. She was moving to California; I thought it natural that I hadn’t seen or heard from her.”
“Truth,” I assured Borrowman through the walkie-talkie.
“Thank you. Stay in town, I might have further questions, but for now you’re free to go.”
Donovan lowered the walkie-talkie and turned it off, his eyes on me once more in that way of his. “So that’s what you do?”
“One of ’em,” I agreed with a shrug. “Let’s go get our invoice and—”
Borrowman stuck his head inside, leaning into the room without actually entering. “Bane, Mr. Havili, good job. I’m so happy that worked. Normally the walkie-talkie goes dead half-way through, which cramps my style.”
“It’s a problem,” I agreed, remembering many an interrogation that had been interrupted because I’d gotten a little too close to the equipment. Like a game show host, I spread both hands to indicate Donovan. “But we now have a solution.”
Borrowman clapped, and Donovan gave him a bow, then me. “Thank you, thank you.”
“I’ve got to go, I have other things to follow up on,” Borrowman informed us, “But we should have lunch at some point so I can get to know the new guy. I’ll email the invoice to Accounting, Bane, no worries.”
“Ah. Alright, sounds good. In that case, Donovan,” I turned to my partner with a smile. “Let’s go to the next item on the agenda.”
3
Nashville housed more than one correctional facility, of course. I’d been in and out of all of them at some point in time. But generally, when we at the office said ‘the prison,’ we meant Riverbend Maximum Security. That was where we ended up, more often than not. It sat west of North Nashville, on a huge plot of green fields and soft, tree-covered hills. Very picturesque—at least, the land surrounding the area was. The buildings had been built in the 80s, replacing the hundred-year-old predecessor, the Tennessee State Penitentiary. It looked very…beige. The walls, roof, signs, all of it were the same color, making it an eyesore against the green, rolling hills the compound sat on.
I enjoyed my color palette, hence why I was decked out in a baby pink dress shirt, white vest, and dark wash jeans. I tried not to dress in a stereotypical fashion—it usually just called trouble down on my head—but looking nice and being gay shouldn’t be synonymous, dammit. I wasn’t bumming around in jeans and a white shirt with a hole in the hem just to look ‘macho.’
Besides, Donovan wore a dress shirt with jeans and he pulled off macho swimmingly. Well, alright, the muscles likely had something to do with that. Just shifting and walking emphasized his muscles under clothes that weren’t even that tight. Donovan exuded masculinity like a cologne. Me? I had a swimmer’s build—not skinny, not built, just…me. No way I could match Donovan in the macho department.
For that matter, I didn’t imagine many men could.
I had to say, sitting in close quarters with a man so clearly alpha male made my libido perk up. I did have a weakness for men like him. It was something about the confidence, the way they seemed larger than life and comfortable in their own space that appealed to me. Okay, fine, and he had a nice build. I wasn’t blind.
The drive out to the prison was not a short one, as our office resided more towards downtown, and Nashville traffic could be accurately described as a ‘turtle moving through frozen molasses in a snowstorm.’ We had plenty of time to chat, which was good, as I had a lot to catch Donovan up on.
As we sat in traffic, he asked, “Even indoors you keep your sunglasses on. I’m assuming there’s a reason?”
I mulled over the best way to respond, then stole a glance at him. “Just how much do you know about psychics?”
“Not a lot, about as much as the average Joe, I think,” he admitted. “I know there’s different types, that some types need an anchor, that some need tools to do their deal, others don’t. That’s about it.”
/> “That’s enough to understand my explanation, at least. So, I’m the type that doesn’t need tools, as you’ve seen, but I am the type that should have an anchor. But I don’t. And my shields are lousy; I’ve never managed anything more than a basic shield. So these,” I tapped the sunglasses on my face with a finger, “are kind of my shield. Living energy is very demanding to look at—it’s like every person is a neon sign. Imagine being surrounded by thousands of them on a regular basis.”
Donovan winced. “How often do you get migraines?”
I mock-applauded him. “You’re quick. About once a week, although the glasses seriously help. I’ve learned to take a break midday, just sit and meditate with my eyes firmly closed in a dark room, and that helps take the edge off.”
A worried line drew his brows together. “That’s seriously not good, man. What can I do to help?”
Without conscious direction, I smiled at him, wishing we were close enough that I could bear-hug the stuffing out of him. I really did like this man and hoped we could become friends. “Be you.”
“Bane,” he growled, frustrated.
“Havili,” I responded teasingly.
“Will you please tell me? There has to be something.”
“Not much, unfortunately,” not without him being my anchor, at least, “but if I ever do overload myself, there’s a shielded dark room at Psy. Take me immediately there and shove me into the room with a tall bottle of water. Leave me for a few hours; it’s the fastest way for me to recuperate.”
This answer only mollified him some. “That’s good to know.”
Perhaps sitting in the sun overheated him, as he rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. I truly didn’t mean to stare. I mean, I could more or less see the scars even through his clothes, and it gave me more questions than answers. “Ah, so I’m really curious as to why you colored over your scars?”
He gave me a sharp look. “You can see under the marker, huh?” He lifted a hand to display white scars, wide and thick, chasing each other in a liquid pattern across his otherwise dark skin.
“Yeah, it’s rather visible to me. Sorry, you don’t have to indulge my curiosity.”
He waved this away, indicating it was fine, and answered, half-amused, half-resigned. “I volunteer at the local community center and teach kids boxing. Some of them knew I was nervous about the interview—mostly the scars—and told me they’d make them less scary. So they took a bunch of markers and turned the scars into flames, like something you’d see on a hot rod. Did I mention it was permanent marker?”
That was such kid logic that I had to laugh. “And you couldn’t scrub it off before the interview.”
“Tried,” he mourned. “Nearly took three layers of skin off doing it, too. Of course, when I tell them that I passed the interview, the kids will claim the flames landed me the job.”
“Well of course it did,” I agreed, completely straight-faced.
He rolled his eyes at me. I couldn’t imagine why.
We pulled up into visitor’s parking and I popped out, careful to lock the car behind me. There weren’t many prison breaks here, but still. Better not to take the chance. As we walked, I filled Donovan in. “Be careful in here. This is where they put the death row offenders. All the really high-risk male criminals end up here, although they do have rehabilitative programs too. Still, it’s a collection of really not nice people.”
His eyes sharpened on me. “How hard is that on you?”
Damn, he was quick. “It’s not…pleasant. I’ll put it that way. But you don’t have to worry about me fainting away on you. Just make sure to keep between me and anything electronic. I do not want to accidentally aid a prison break.”
“Roger.” He hesitated with his hand on the visitor’s door, regarding me thoughtfully. “Bane. How many men are in here because of you?”
He really knew how to ask the right questions, didn’t he? Honesty compelled me to admit, “I’ve lost track.”
Blowing out a breath, he gave a grim nod and pulled the door open, ushering me inside.
The visitor’s lobby had the same beige theme going on. Off-white tiles that had seen better days, dark beige walls, white Formica counter tops. I stopped at the front desk and gave the woman behind it a smile. “Hey, Ellen.”
“Oh, Jon, hi,” Ellen greeted. A mother of three, Ellen possessed a spark in her smile that made everyone feel welcome. We’d bonded over the many, many visits I’d made here. I’d accidentally fried her calculator once, sent her a box of chocolates as an apology, and we’d been friends ever since. “Who’s this?”
“New colleague, Donovan Havili,” I introduced the two of them with a wave of the hand. “Donovan, Ellen Masters. She’s the guardian of the door.”
“Among other things,” she answered with a smile that hinted at trepidation as she looked up and up to meet Donovan’s eyes. “Um, nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you,” Donovan returned with a polite smile. It looked more than a little forced.
I registered her expressions, her emotions, and internally groaned. She radiated caution, just like my co-workers had. People really judged the book by its cover too quickly, at least in Donovan’s case. If only they could see him the way I did, they’d know they had nothing to fear from this man. “Donovan’s former military police,” I tacked on, trying to soothe the fears, “so we’re happy to have him. I’m basically showing him the ropes and he’s kind enough to handle the electronics so I don’t fry anything.”
Ellen blinked behind her glasses, taking him in again, but this time with less intimidation. “Oh. Well that’s good, it’s always handy when you have someone with you. Here, let me get visitor’s badges for you. Jon, who wanted to see you today?”
“Kurt.”
“That man,” she fussed, reaching for the basket of badges on her desk. “I swear, he’d forget to tell me he’d lost his head. He’s so disorganized. Here, clip those on, I’ll buzz him.”
I obediently clipped it to my shirt collar, listening with half an ear as she called ahead for us. As I did so, Donovan leaned in to ask in a low tone, “Who are we here for, anyway?”
Reminded, I gave him an apologetic look. “We got interrupted earlier, didn’t we? We’re here because one of the inmates might be connected to another case under investigation. So the pedophile, Goddard, was convicted of three sexual assaults about two years ago. Dead to rights, he’s not going anywhere. But Kurt’s gotten word that Goddard might have done damage to a fourth kid. We’re here to see if it was really Goddard or if there’s another sicko out there hurting kids we need to track down.”
“Gotcha. Is that usually why you come to the prison? Verify if there’s other crimes they’ve done?”
“That, or I help the victims track down where the bodies are buried.” I looked around the place and sighed, feeling much older than my twenty-five years. “It’s never a good visit when I come here.”
The grated metal door popped open with a buzz and Kurt stepped out. A former cop, he’d been hurt in the line of duty and put on desk work. He’d likely have made a good detective, if his bum knee had allowed him that career choice. Now he acted as an intermediary between the stations and the prison, helping them sort out cases like this one. His craggy face split into a welcome smile, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. “Hey, Jon. Who’s your friend?”
“Donovan Havili, new police consultant with Psy,” I introduced. “Donovan, Kurt Bowen.”
Kurt, at least, didn’t immediately make any assumptions based on Donovan’s appearance and stretched out a hand. “Welcome to the madhouse, Mr. Havili.”
“Thank you,” Donovan returned, accepting the handshake.
“He’s my electronics barrier for this visit,” I joked with Kurt. “So I don’t fry your phone again.”
“Please and thank you,” Kurt drawled back. “Alright, come on through. You briefed your co-worker already? Good, good. I’ve got Goddard waiting on us in a visitor’s room. I haven’t asked him any qu
estions yet. Mr. Havili, when we go in, just make sure that Jon doesn’t touch the door. Everything else in the room is fine, there’s no electronics except the door.”
Donovan nodded reassuring. “That I can do.”
We followed him down the narrow, bland hallway. Multiple doors lined either side, all of them metal and some with chipping paint. I stayed right in the middle, not brushing up against anything, mostly out of habit. Mostly.
Halfway down, Kurt keyed open a door and stepped through. I side-stepped, waiting for Donovan to catch the door, which he promptly did, then stood in front of the lock so I couldn’t accidentally touch it. He was adapting to his role quickly, which frankly relieved me. I slipped through into the very sparse room beyond.
Prison hadn’t been kind to Goddard. I hadn’t expected it to. American criminals had absolutely no pity on pedophiles and, frankly, I was surprised to find Goddard still alive after two years. His aura, normally dark and twisted, now possessed an extra layer of inky saturation that made me cringe to look at him. He sat like a haunted animal, hunkered in on himself, eyes sunken in his head, lips cracked and bleeding from the compulsive way he kept licking them. He took one look at Donovan and hunched in even more, as if afraid the boogeyman had finally come calling.
Then his eyes fell on me and a snarl twisted his lip. “Jonathan Bane.”
“Hello, Goddard,” I greeted levelly. This man had no love of me. The police had focused on the entirely wrong suspect before I’d entered the picture and pointed them to Goddard. He still hated my guts for that. “Kurt has a question for you.”
“And so he brought his favorite freak pet in,” Goddard sneered. Then he flinched and hunched in again.
I couldn’t figure out why until I felt a warm line of heat radiating against my back. Donovan didn’t touch me, but he stood so close that I could feel every breath, like a living weapon standing near me, ready to be unsheathed and used at the slightest provocation. I didn’t even have to look to feel his protective instincts trip on. It was incredibly reassuring. In my entire life, I’d never felt as safe as I did in that moment, which was ridiculous. I’d barely known this man six hours, and yet I was absolutely sure that if Goddard lunged for me, Donovan would put him down quickly and without mercy.
