by A J Sherwood
“Sorry,” I apologized with spread palms. “But it’s not him. You don’t have any other suspects for the killing?”
“Unfortunately not. No one else saw the girl—she wasn’t dating anyone else, or even close friends with a lot of people. Everyone who knew her here has a solid alibi and no motive. I’ve hit a brick wall.” Sighing, the detective let his head slump forward, and I could see the resignation mixed in with his frustration. “I hate to say it, but this might turn into a cold case.”
“How often does that happen?” Donovan asked curiously. “How many cases go cold?”
“None, if we can help it, but unfortunately there’s too many. In the US, there’s about two hundred thousand cold cases on record.” Borrowman’s expression went grim when Donovan let out a low whistle. “We’re not happy about that. The close rate has improved since we’ve accepted help from psychics like Bane, here, but they can only help so much. If we don’t have enough leads to pursue, or any suspects, they can’t direct us much. This case is a good example. Bane can tell me who is or isn’t guilty, but he can’t magic up a suspect for me.”
“Would if I could,” I commiserated with him. I hadn’t realized the cold case number was that high. “I haven’t had many cold cases since I started working—two, in fact—but this might well be my third.”
Borrowman grimaced, running a tired hand over his face. “Hopefully not. Thanks, Bane, Havili. I’ll call you if something else crops up.”
“Sure.” With nothing more we could do, we headed out, handing in visitor badges and signing the log before stepping back out into warm sunshine. Late spring was definitely my favorite time in Tennessee, as it didn’t carry with it the sweltering heat of summer, nor the rainy days of winter. I lifted my eyes to the sky for a moment, enjoying the pleasant April weather. I couldn’t let the Marsha Brown case bother me. It would affect my work going forward, and I had too many people depending on me for my impartial observations. I had to let this go.
“Back to the office?” Donovan asked, striding for the HMMWV.
“Might as well,” I agreed, digging my keys out of my pocket. A thought struck as we moved. “Donovan. Have you met everyone at this point? At Psy, I mean.”
“Only one I haven’t seen is the IT guy.”
“Ah.” There was a good reason for that. I never went anywhere near Sho’s lair unless I could help it. He’d threatened me with death, dismemberment, and dishonor if I came within five feet of his door. But Donovan needed to know him, especially since he would be my messenger half the time for Sho. “Let’s introduce you two when we get back, then.”
As it happened, we’d barely gotten through Psy’s back door when I spotted Sho in the break room (another place I wasn’t allowed in). Hovering in the doorway, I waited until I caught his eye. “Sho. Come out and meet Donovan.”
“The new guy?” Sho brought his mug with him, idly dipping a tea bag in and out. Sho was one of the few men I knew who made me look like a giant. Half-Chinese, Half-Vietnamese, he was small boned and wiry in build, and usually wore a hoodie that swamped him like a circus tent. He was also one of the most brilliant men I’d ever met. I was proud to say we were good friends, as long as I didn’t fry his babies.
Of course, next to Donovan the giant, Sho looked almost like a dwarf as he craned his neck up and up to meet my partner’s eyes. Strangely enough, unlike most, he smiled at Donovan, completely unintimidated. “Hello. I’m Michael Sho.”
Donovan held out a hand, and I could see his delight and relief, not only in his expression, but in the way his meridian line sparked with simple happiness. “Donovan Havili. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m relieved to meet you,” Sho returned with a pointed look at me. “Maybe you can keep this one out of trouble.”
I grinned, not taking offense. I wasn’t currently in trouble with Sho, as I hadn’t fried anything in the office in six months—something of a record for me. “I wanted to make sure you two met.”
“I appreciate that,” Sho acknowledged with a dip of the head. He’d been born in the States, was American through and through in many respects, but he did have a few Asian mannerisms. Likely things he picked up from his family. Sho had a wealth of relations here. “Donovan, let’s exchange numbers. We’ll be talking to each other frequently now that you’re following Bane about. And let me see your phone. You have a good case for it? Something with EMP shielding?”
“Ah, well, no,” Donovan denied, handing the phone over. “I just make sure to put it in the opposite pocket of wherever he’s standing.”
“Hmm. That is not sufficient long-term. Trust me, we know from personal experience. I have a few cases in my office, let me see if I have one that will fit. If not, I’ll order something for you.” Sho tapped his contact information onto the screen as he spoke. “There. Sometimes Bane sees something while he’s out that needs running down. Report such things to me.”
Donovan accepted his phone, slipping it back into his cargo pocket. “Will do.”
I had a thought and asked, “Are you working on the Marsha Brown case at all?”
“No, why?”
“They’ve hit a dead end.” I quickly filled him in, because even if Borrowman used the police IT group to help him track down possible leads, they couldn’t compare to Sho. They just had too many cases to track down and too little time. Sho didn’t have that problem.
He listened attentively, took a sip of his tea, lips pursed as his almond shaped eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I can try and see if they missed anything. I’ll call Borrowman, offer another set of eyes. It sounds like he needs them.”
“We’d all appreciate it. No one wants this case to go cold.”
Nodding, he gestured for Donovan to follow him. “Let’s find you a phone case.”
As they walked towards the back of the building, I offered a hopeful prayer that maybe Sho could find something that Borrowman had overlooked. Letting a murderer go was not on my agenda.
6
By the next afternoon, we hadn’t made any progress. Detective Dick had not been the least cooperative, as expected, and refused to give us any information on the case. At Donovan’s second call to him, he stopped picking up completely. We tried swinging by the precinct, only to be informed he was working ‘outside’ today.
And likely would be the next few days, avoiding us.
We’d left multiple messages with Alice Thompson with no reply whatsoever. We hadn’t been able to locate her, either, or anyone that might know where she was staying. We returned to Belmont this morning to try and track down any eyewitnesses, and this time campus security hadn’t hassled us, but that was the only silver lining. We hadn’t found anyone willing to talk to us.
With little information to go off of, except what Chen knew, I wasn’t quite sure where to start. Our only hope was to interview Alice Thompson, but until she called us back, we were more or less stuck in waiting mode. I hated waiting mode.
“Bane,” Donovan turned to me from the passenger seat, “how about dinner? I know it’s a little early, but food will help us from falling into a funk.”
I thought it a splendid idea. “Tell you what, man, let’s head to my place. It’s only fifteen minutes from here and that way we can have pizza.”
An odd look crossed over his face. “You mean delivery?”
“No, no, I mean stone-baked pizza. I live in an old pizza restaurant I renovated. I’m not a gourmet chef, but my pizza is pretty decent, even if I do say so myself.”
Donovan didn’t even need to think about it for long. “Alright, let’s go.”
I took the next right, happy to have him come over, as the place got too quiet sometimes. My family was about the only people who regularly came over, and I liked that Donovan might be more regular company as well. My libido liked the idea of having Donovan at the house, too, but I’m a grown man. I can tell my libido to go to hell. Reaching Pizza Haven—as my niece called it—I pulled around back and parked, taking in Donovan’s reacti
on from the corner of my eye.
“You weren’t kidding,” he noted, unbuckling. His head panned one direction and then the next, taking in the surrounding dry cleaners, barber shop, and used book store. “It’s really a pizza restaurant. The other businesses are still going, so how did you get this place rezoned for residency?”
“Technically, I didn’t. I own the building, and the top floor has always been an apartment, so all I had to do was put in a petition for renovation for a non-commercial purpose. It took a little doing, but I managed it. Anyway, come in.” Hopping out—I wasn’t actually tall enough for this vehicle—I led the way to the door, letting us in with the key, then stood to the side long enough for him to pass me and locked it afterwards. I’d had a little trouble this past year with people thinking they could just walk in through the back, so I tried now to keep the door always locked.
At the side table, I switched out to my medium shade of sunglasses, something that I try to keep in the house, as it’s perfect for the lighting in here. Normally I’d shed them altogether but with Donovan here…not an option. He still appeared incredibly bright to my vision, although after spending four days with him, I was gradually getting used to it. The price to pay for being around exceptional people was that they were literally blinding. Good people were hard enough to take, and if I lingered around family and friends, it could get a little overwhelming. But most people had something about them that dimmed their auras—not major, per se. Pettiness, self-interests, a lack of patience or empathy. Humans were rarely perfect and their auras reflected that.
Occasionally, though, you got the exceptional people. The ones who were selfless, loving, patient, incredible people. Mother Theresa and Florence Nightingale kind of people. Donovan just so happened to have the same sort of indomitable spirit to him. It made me happy to be around him, but it was hell on my eyes, and I found myself only glancing at him for short stretches to stave off a migraine.
I flicked on lights as we headed directly left and into the kitchen. “Here, take a seat, get comfortable.”
Donovan sat in Skylar’s typical spot at the bar, watching me curiously. “Considering how many electronics are in the kitchen, I’m surprised you cook.”
“Takeout gets old pretty fast and besides, I manage okay with this,” I picked up the large claw and gave it an illustrative pull. He’d been amazingly forbearing so far, only asking what was pertinent to the moment, and it surprised me he hadn’t already peppered me with a million of them by now.
“Ahh,” he answered, staring at the claw curiously. “You must be very good with that.”
“Lots of practice,” I agreed, heading for the dry ingredients in the pantry. At least there was nothing in there that required me using the claw. The pantry and I were friends. As I put yeast, flour, and Crisco on the counter, I changed the subject on him. “So your family lives here in Nashville, you said. Are they happy to have you home, or is that a stupid question?”
“I thought there’s no such thing as a stupid question?” Donovan replied, completely at ease.
Snorting, I measured out the ingredients for the dough into a big metal bowl. “Lies. I went through college and some of the stupidest people I ever met were in college.”
“Well, can’t argue that one, I was in the military, and I think stupidity sometimes breeds in the dark there.” Donovan shrugged, watching my hands as I worked the dough. “Both my parents are happy I’m home, relieved I found a job that I like, and hoping I find a nice girl soon.”
My hands faltered a little as I looked at him uncertainly. He’d said it so lightly, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. And the meridian lines didn’t help for once. I saw…sadness. Resignation. I couldn’t quite understand it. Why those emotions? Was there some sort of family drama at home that forced him to date one way, and not the way he preferred? Was there someone he missed and didn’t think he’d have again? No, I didn’t see any lingering romantic attachments.
This was one of those times where I could see the emotions clearly but could only guess as to the reasoning. I had a hunch, though. I knew people were initially intimidated by him, I’d seen that play out, but…once people got to know him better, surely that changed. He wasn’t Hollywood good-looking, admittedly, but he wasn’t ugly either. The dating world could be harsh but surely he fared better than I did.
And yet the emotions he felt now told me a different story.
Something about my expression made him pause and really look at me. “You can tell I’m not really excited about dating, can’t you?”
“Yes,” I answered, somewhat apologetic. “I don’t understand why, though. You intimidate people at first, but after they get to know you, surely they realize you’d make a good boyfriend.”
Shaking his head, he denied, “Most people don’t overcome that first impression. It’s part of the reason why I went into the Army to begin with. People like having a tough looking guy in a uniform. It didn’t help my love life any, but at least I fit in there. I was really worried about coming back into civilian life. I didn’t think any workplace would know what to do with me. You…” he trailed off, his voice going soft as he looked away. “You’re the reason it hasn’t been a disaster. I really owe you for that.”
In that moment I looked at him and saw past the meridian lines, past the aura that spoke so clearly to me. I saw the man himself and my heart ached a little. I wanted to touch him, just reach out and grab his hand in reassurance. I didn’t, partially because I had dough on my hands, partially because I wasn’t sure how he’d take it if I did. It bothered me that because of his appearance, Donovan had never really fit in anywhere except the military. This world that dealt in superficial judgements didn’t cast him in a favorable light. I looked at this man and saw someone close to perfect, but apparently no one else could see him as I did.
Now his protectiveness made sense. I accepted him, wholly and easily, and such a thing was very rare to him. He didn’t want to lose the person who made his work life bearable. No matter how difficult I was to be around, to him, I was the lesser of two evils. I instinctively understood in that moment that unless I did something absolutely terrible to push him away, he’d not break our partnership. It relieved me, selfishly so, but at the same time, I hated it. Someone as good as this man deserved the moon. He shouldn’t be thankful for scraps of kindness.
And really, he was the one making my life easier. I didn’t want him walking away. I wasn’t sure if he understood that clearly, and some part of me demanded I clarify, to make sure that he understood. “The first year that I worked at Psy, I caused ten thousand dollars in property damage. Jim assigned two partners to me, one of whom quit in the first week, the other one so enraged that he left me on the side of the road with a knife in my side.”
Donovan half-lurched off the stool, meridian lines flaring with outrage. “What?!”
“I still cause property damage on a monthly basis, because no matter how careful I am, there’s always moments where I get just too close and fry something. You have no idea how much easier work has been because you were there to run interference.” I tried to put every ounce of sincerity into my voice, to relay to him what I felt, as he couldn’t see it for himself. “Believe me when I say, it’s a pleasure to know you, Donovan Havili. I hope you stay at Psy for a very long time.”
He froze, golden eyes wide and a touch too bright. The meridian line twining about his heart throbbed in a jubilant beat, pale green with happiness and perhaps growing affection. It took him a moment to find his voice, husky and low. “I’m very glad to be here. I hope we can stay partners.”
“Trust me, I won’t be the one to break it,” I assured him with a wink, startling a smile out of him. Feeling like he needed a minute, and perhaps a change of conversation, I went back to kneading the dough as I asked, “So your parents hope you meet a nice girl. Ah, just a nice girl?”
Those golden-brown eyes narrowed a little. “So you can tell by looking at me that I’m bi.”
&
nbsp; Wincing, I focused back on the dough. Dough was safer. “Sorry.”
“Hey man, we had this discussion, nothing to be sorry for. I’m just trying to figure out all you can see.”
Risking a glance up, I found him just looking at me, not at all upset. He really meant that, didn’t he? “Yeah, I can tell sexuality. It’s pretty tightly integrated with a person’s self, after all.”
“Must be handy,” Donovan mused. “The rest of us have to look at someone’s appearance and just guess. You, for instance, confuse me.”
I cocked my head at him, not following. “I think I’m pretty obvious?”
“No, you’re really not,” he disagreed with a shake of the head. “You don’t flirt with people, you don’t even give any signal that you find them attractive, so I honestly have no idea which way you swing.”
Huh. And here I thought I was obvious. Natalie always told me I looked gay, not just because of my clothes, but the general way I looked, as well as some of my mannerisms. My Irish genes had gifted me with creamy skin, hair that ran toward blond, and my swimmer’s build left me lean. “Ah. Well, I’m gay, actually.”
“I kind of figured? I mean my gaydar tried to give off a few signals,” Donovan clarified, looking me over from head to toe in a clean sweep. “Especially with you cooking like this, for some reason the signal is stronger.”
“Domesticity always does that,” I agreed easily.
And your place has more color in it than most straight men would be comfortable with.” Donovan turned in his bar stool to really look around. I’d painted the living room a dark slate blue, and the kitchen cabinets were white on top, navy blue on bottom, with the walls a creamy color and a pop of yellow on the far wall. Yeah, I’d say most men wouldn’t go for these colors. Although if he thought this was colorful, he should try my purple bedroom.
“I like color,” I defended myself mildly.
