by Mary Stone
“Oh…” Bree lifted both eyebrows. “The night Kilroy nabbed me? Yeah, I remember that night.”
There was a hint of self-deprecation in Noah’s chuckle as he reached for a menu.
“It’s fine, Dalton.” She laughed. “That’s not even the first time I’ve been kidnapped. I used to work in organized crime, remember? Way back in the day, back when you were probably still in grade school.”
“Really?” He glanced up from the menu. “You’ve never mentioned that. Looks like we’re learning all sorts of new stuff about each other tonight.”
“I guess so.” Bree snickered. “I’ll make you a deal. You tell me more about your tattoo artist sister, and I’ll tell you about some of the crazy shit that happened when I worked in organized crime in Baltimore.”
“Baltimore?”
“I told you, it was forever ago. Twenty years, my friend. I was in Maryland for about five years, and then I came here. And let me tell you, organized crime is something else. Completely different animal, and definitely not for the faint of heart.”
He gave her a “you’ve got to be shitting me” look.
Bree laughed. “Not that any of what we do is for the faint of heart, but the work from organized crime can follow you home if you’re not careful. I never went undercover or anything, but I knew some people who did. That work, that’s either something you’re cut out for, or you’re not. There’s not really any middle ground.”
“All right, I hope you know what I have to do now.” With a clack, he tapped his menu against the polished tabletop. “I’ll have to start making jokes about The Wire when we’re at work.”
As she laughed, Bree didn’t bother to conceal the disbelief from her tone. “You’ve seen The Wire? That doesn’t really strike me as your type of show.”
“I’m not sure how to take that.” He paused to feign a contemplative look, which made him look even younger. “But, to answer your question, of course I’ve seen The Wire. It’s the best show of all time. Why? What did you think I watched?”
She thought about it for a good ten seconds. “Honestly, I’ve got no idea.” Bree’s smile widened as she spread her hands. “Like you said, we’re learning all sorts of new stuff about one another tonight.”
As she watched him laugh yet again, Bree figured she would give him a rundown of her entire FBI career as long as it kept his thoughts away from the desolate rut in which he had been stuck for the last few months.
The Richmond FBI office was sparsely populated at the evening hour, and the only person SSA Aiden Parrish passed on his way to Max Osbourne’s office was Sun Ming. Even three months after she had taken a bullet to the shoulder, one of her arms still rested in a blue sling.
She and one other agent from their office had responded to the request for aid on the night Douglas Kilroy was shot and killed. Their assistance hadn’t been requested in the rundown church outside McCook, but at the site of a mass shooting turned hostage situation.
One of the two assailants had been shot and wounded in the firefight, but not until after he fired off a round that hit Sun’s left shoulder. Cop shows on television made gunshot wounds to the shoulder seem superficial, but complete recoveries were rare, and quick recoveries were rarer still. Even after extensive physical therapy, Sun would be lucky to regain full use of her arm.
Between Sun’s injury and Winter’s absence, he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that they would never recover from that fateful night.
For the past three months, he and Noah Dalton had set aside their differences to search for any trace of Justin Black’s whereabouts. The investigation had been tedious, but at the beginning of the week, their diligence finally paid off.
They’d been given a tip just a few days ago, and it was exactly the break they’d been needing. A new grandmother who had been out of the country for the past six months to stay with her daughter and new grandbaby remembered seeing Douglas Kilroy at the same storage building they utilized.
After finally gaining entrance to the storage site, they scoured The Preacher’s meager possessions. They hadn’t found much, but they’d discovered an indication that a high school aged boy had been under Kilroy’s care for an unspecified number of years. Aside from the fact that the kid existed, they had pitiful little else to go on, but Aiden had become so accustomed to uncovering nothing that the vague piece of information seemed monumental.
Max Osbourne’s door was open as Aiden approached, and he paused to rap his knuckles against the metal frame. The Special Agent in Charge of the Richmond Violent Crimes Task Force’s eyes snapped away from his two computer monitors and up to Aiden. “Parrish. Come in.”
SAC Osbourne tapped a couple keys before he turned to face the set of chairs in front of his desk. Both elbows propped atop the matte black surface, he scooted forward.
As Aiden sat, Max’s gaze never wavered. “To what do I owe the pleasure, SSA Parrish?”
The skepticism in his voice was plain to hear. Aiden and Max didn’t cross paths often, and he could already tell his request for a meeting had piqued the older man’s suspicions.
“It’s been three days since Noah Dalton contacted Winter Black. Why the hell hasn’t she shown up yet? We can’t move forward in this investigation without her.”
Aiden figured an upfront query would be less likely to put Max on edge. He didn’t know the seasoned SAC well, but in each dealing he had with his boss, he had gathered that the man appreciated a direct approach.
“You know I can’t tell you that, Parrish.” Max’s voice was flat, almost as if he had expected the question from the get-go.
“Since when are you bound to secrecy about situations like this?” He made his best effort to match the unimpressed tone, but Aiden doubted that anyone could exude quite the same blasé air as Max.
“When my agents take a personal leave of absence, I keep their reasons to myself. It’s not your business unless Agent Black wants it to be your business, Parrish. If you want to know why she’s gone, maybe you should ask her.”
Aiden barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes. “I tried. She won’t answer any of our calls. Not mine, not Dalton’s, not even Agent Stafford’s.”
“Did you stop to think that maybe she’s got a good reason for that? You’re a smart guy, Parrish. Head of the damn Behavioral Analysis Unit, so I figure out of all the people here, you’d be able to come up with a reason someone might need a break from their friends and coworkers.”
Aiden cleared his throat, pissed at the taunt and doing his best not to show it. “There are many reasons someone would isolate themselves, but at this point, it’s interfering with an ongoing investigation.”
The statement was true, but the need to uncover a new lead wasn’t the main driving force behind his adamancy to bring Winter back to Richmond. He clenched his jaw at the thought and forced himself to pay attention to Osbourne’s movements.
“Then do what you’d do with any other witness.” Shrugging, Max leaned back in his oversized chair.
“You want me to get a court order to make a federal agent come back to work?” Aiden surmised, narrowing his eyes at the flicker of amusement on Max’s face.
“You do what you need to do, Parrish. I trust your instincts. If you think that’s what you’ve got to do to get ahold of Agent Black, then you know where the courthouse is. I won’t stop you.”
In the silence that descended on the room, it took all of Aiden’s self-control not to dive over the desk and wrap his hands around Max’s throat.
A day or two after Kilroy’s death, Winter had been officially moved back to Violent Crimes. By the time he’d realized she had no plans to return to work for the foreseeable future, her personnel records were already under Max’s lock and key.
Though Aiden harbored no real malice toward Max Osbourne, he forced himself to bite back a handful of irritable observations at the man’s unabashed stonewalling. He might as well have been talking to an actual chunk of granite.
�
��Damn it, Osbourne,” Aiden nearly growled. “You can’t just tell me when she’s going to be back?”
“If I thought it’d get you out of my office, it would’ve been the first thing I said,” Max replied. “Because I was just about to leave, and my wife made lasagna for dinner. Maybe that doesn’t mean much to you, but that’s just because you’ve never had Amy’s lasagna. If that lasagna gets cold before I can eat it, I’m going to hold you personally responsible.”
“For god’s sake,” Aiden muttered.
“That’s a no, by the way. No, I won’t tell you when she plans to be back. No, I won’t tell you why she’s gone. Think of it this way. Back when you were a field agent, if you had something personal come up that necessitated a leave of absence, would you want your superior telling all his or her colleagues about it? And if they did, would you ever trust them again afterward?” Max leaned forward, pinning Aiden with a hard stare. “If you answer yes to either one of those questions, then I’m going to call bullshit.”
He was right.
“Fine,” Aiden ground out as he pushed himself out of the chair. “I’ll make sure I tell Winter what a great job you did protecting her personal information.”
“You do that,” Max replied, looking satisfied as he linked his hands behind his head. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Good night, Osbourne.”
“One more thing, Parrish.”
Aiden had just reached the doorway, and he paused, turning back to face the SAC.
“Winter Black’s a damn fine agent, and I’ve never seen her waver in her commitment to this department. I don’t know what kind of shit you pulled to get her reassigned to BAU or to pull her into the Kilroy investigation, but if you ever do it again, we’re going to have a much bigger problem than cold lasagna.”
Aiden bristled. “I—”
Max stood, his knuckles taking his weight on the desk as he leaned forward and bulldozed on. “I don’t know what kind of personal interest you’ve got in her, but you need to check that shit at the door. You’re a leader now, Parrish, not a fucking babysitter. Winter Black is her own person, and she’s capable of making her own decisions.”
“I realize—”
Max held up a hand. “I don’t care if you did any of that underhanded shit in the interest of keeping her behind a desk so she’d be safe. Honestly, if that was your logic, then it’s a little chauvinistic, don’t you think? You’re not her keeper. Winter Black is a grown woman, and she doesn’t need a protector. If you keep trying to protect her, you’ll only stifle her. She’s going to do good work here, and you can either hold her back, or you can get out of her way.”
3
As he took a seat at the bar, Noah waved goodbye to Bree and her fiancée, Shelby. Upon Shelby’s arrival, she had wasted no time before she made her way to wrap the bartender in a bear hug. True to Bree’s word, the scene had been adorable.
Now, Shelby and Bree had decided to head home, but the return to his sparsely decorated apartment still didn’t seem appealing. He knew once he was there that he would check his phone once every two minutes to ensure he hadn’t missed a text message or even a damn email from Winter.
For the millionth time, he would walk through the last night he had seen her, from the morning briefing about Douglas Kilroy to the awkward kiss in Winter’s kitchen. From the discovery of the Polaroid of Bree to the way the work light had glinted off the spatter of blood as Douglas Kilroy’s lifeless body dropped to the dusty floor.
If Noah was by himself, not working or socializing, that damned night was the only place his thoughts ever ventured. Some called it rumination, others called it anxiety, but the feeling that weighed on him like a suit of lead was more simple. It was regret.
Regret that he hadn’t taken a non-fatal shot at Douglas Kilroy. Regret that he had held back when he voiced his affection for Winter. He hadn’t wanted to make her feel uncomfortable, but if he had known the encounter in the little galley kitchen was the last time they would be alone together, he would have done something differently.
Maybe he should have kept the thoughts to himself. Maybe he shouldn’t have even gone to visit her in the first place.
Was that the last time he would ever see her? Had she decided to move herself and her grandparents across the country, or to a different country? She’d said she would return to Richmond to help the investigation to find her brother, but in the three days since they spoke, there had been radio silence.
With one hand, he stifled a resigned sigh as he forced himself back to the present.
A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention to the bartender. As she arched an eyebrow, he didn’t miss the shadow of concern in her bright eyes.
Shit, how much of the anxious thoughts had been written on his face?
Damn it, you’re in public. Tone it down a little.
“You all right, man?” she asked. The query wasn’t tinged with condescension or skepticism but had been spoken with the same sincerity he would expect from an old friend.
Even as he thought to lie and answer in the affirmative, he couldn’t bring the words to his lips. Her question was genuine, and so was the hint of worry.
Rather than a verbal response, he shrugged.
“I hear that,” she replied, the concern still evident in her expression. “Can I get you anything? You’re Shelby and Bree’s friend, so it’s on the house. Just the first one, though. Not to sound like a jerk, I just like to be upfront with my terms and conditions.”
His chortle sounded closer to a cough, but he nodded his understanding. “I appreciate it. And I don’t know. There’s something like a hundred different beer taps behind you, and I’ve never seen half of them.”
“Microbrews.” Waving at the row of levers, she tucked a white towel into the back pocket of her dark jeans. “This half, the ones closest to me, they rotate seasonally. The other ones are pretty static.”
“I hate to be ‘that guy,’ but you got any recommendations?”
“I do, but I doubt you’ll like it. No one ever does.” She feigned a weary sigh.
“All right, I like a challenge. Give me one of those, then.”
“It’s an IPA.” The statement sounded like a warning.
“IPAs are all right.”
The dim light caught the pint glass as she filled it from an unassuming tap. Producing a coaster from her back pocket, she set the dark amber beer down in front of him. He could feel her gaze as he picked up the glass to take a tentative sip.
Though there may have been a flavor beyond the bitterness of the hops, he couldn’t place it. Lips pursed, he wrinkled his nose as he glanced up at her.
“I told you,” she huffed, crossing her arms.
“How do you drink this?” Despite the criticism, he took another pull. “Good lord, what is this? Was it brewed in a dirty sock somewhere?”
“Okay, first.” Rolling her green eyes, she raised a finger. “That’s rude, Agent Mulder. I don’t come into your bar and make fun of your favorite beer, do I?”
“Your favorite?” he echoed with a laugh. “It tastes like battery acid, darlin’.”
“You drink battery acid often? You know, for the sake of accurate comparison.” As she fixed him with an expectant look, the corner of her mouth turned up in a smile.
“I don’t, but with this around, I don’t know why I’d ever need to.” For the second time, he followed his complaint with another drink.
“Whatever, dude,” she chortled. “You might want to slow down on it, though. It’s nine-percent alcohol.”
“Damn, woman,” he said with a laugh. “Is that why it’s your favorite?”
“It might be.” With a shrug, she leaned against the counter at her back. “So, what brings you out to The Lift on a Thursday, Agent Mulder?”
“I have a name, you know.” He flashed her a matter-of-fact look as he sipped at the bitter IPA.
“How was I supposed to know that?”
“That I have
a name? I mean, doesn’t everyone?” He grinned and held out a hand. “Noah Dalton, not Mulder.”
“You’re just lucky I’ve never really seen much of The X-Files, or I’d be asking you all kinds of weird shit about aliens and UFOs. I’m Autumn Trent. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Agent Dalton, not Mulder.”
Her amused smile faded as her palm brushed against his. The look only lasted for a split-second, but he didn’t miss the pang of melancholy.
“Are you…you sure you’re all right?” The volume of her voice was lowered, and she kept her emerald eyes on his as she returned her arm to her side. She spoke with the same concern, the same sincerity with which she had first addressed him.
If he had not been so sure her worry was real, he might have brushed off the question.
Before he could answer, she laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “I’m sorry, I’m being weird, aren’t I? It’s just, I’m a doctorate student studying clinical psychology. So, sometimes when I see someone who looks a little bummed out, I guess I trip all over myself trying to be helpful.”
Though the abrupt change threw him off-balance, he returned her smile. “There’re worse ways to be awkward, I’d imagine. Being awkwardly nice isn’t so bad.”
“Spoken like a person who’s never been awkward a day in their life. Awkward niceness comes across as being a creep most of the time.”
“Well, you don’t look like a creep,” he offered with a shrug.
She grinned. “Spoken like a creep.”
He laughed at her seamless sarcasm, and for the next forty-five minutes, he nursed the bitter IPA, chasing it with a glass of water. The weekday crowd had all but dispersed, and aside from the occasional patron who stopped by to pay their tab or order a refill, he and Autumn were the only two occupants of the bar.
As far as conversational partners went, he figured he couldn’t have done much better than Autumn Trent. She was quick with a joke and a smile, and she employed as much sarcasm in her dialogue as anyone he knew.
He was sure Winter would love her.
