For most captains, that light swung to big cases and political hot topics that might fall into their laps.
The attention would be on Evan for an entirely different reason.
“Evan?”
He turned at the sound of his name, coming face to face with a welcome sight: Casper Vaughn, a friend from GOAL—the LGBT police organization—and a bit of relief from the strangers swarming about.
“Casper, hi,” he said, shaking his hand. “What are you doing back here?”
“PR liaison.” Casper gestured toward the badge on the lapel of his expensive navy suit. “I’m moving over to Midtown South.” The smile on his face was wide and grew wider as Evan realized what that meant.
“Thank God,” Evan muttered.
Casper laughed, clapping one hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine. I’ll take care of you.”
“Why’d they move you over from…,” Evan started then clamped his mouth closed. Oh, right.
“It’s fine with me. I like the idea of trailblazing our way through Midtown South. You and I are on the front line.”
“Of matinee traffic jams and street closures due to filming,” he said dryly.
Casper, who always looked like he was ready to step in front of a camera, reminded him of an even more polished version of Shane. A Harvard-educated beach bum. Older, broader, but still brimming with charm and direct eye contact that eventually made you want to blush a little. When he winked and leaned in like he was sharing a secret, Evan wasn’t surprised by the intrusion into his personal space.
“With your authoritative presence and my ceaseless sparkle, we are going to make such a great team, they’ll be moving us somewhere better in no time.”
Of course Casper saw that as a good thing. Evan, on the other hand, knew that meant more serious crime, more victims, more intensity, and making statements in the middle of chaos and anger. But he didn’t pop Casper’s balloon just yet.
“I’m counting on you not to let me make a fool of myself,” Evan said with a smile, ducking back a half step. Casper’s aftershave had started to tickle his nose.
“No worries, Evan. I’m going to make you look great.” That wide smile stayed in place, even as Evan heard someone calling in the distance that they were ready to get started.
“Are you coming to the reception afterward with Tony?” Evan asked, readjusting his hat.
A somber veil fell over Casper’s expression. “No. Uh, Tony moved back to Chicago two weeks ago.”
Evan stopped mid-wrinkle-inspection. He’d seen them—last month? At the GOAL fundraising meeting?—and everything seemed fine between Casper and his friendly partner, who worked for an advertising agency in midtown.
“What?”
“Tony and I split up. I haven’t really told anyone.” Casper looked around, clearly uncomfortable. “It wasn’t pretty,” he said with a grimace. “It’s been eleven years, you know? How do you make that announcement?”
Evan had no clue, because when he’d experienced a breakup like that—breaking up with Matt all those years ago—he’d told no one, not until those horrible few weeks nearly knocked the last bit of life out of him. And then only because his depressive grief threatened to derail his entire life, a fact his friends and his boss at the time couldn’t overlook as he fell apart. Evan just hadn’t been able to hide it anymore.
Evan knew what it felt like to miss someone so badly you thought it might actually kill you.
“I’m so sorry,” Evan murmured, moving closer to Casper, touching his arm gently. “For both of you.”
Casper’s pale blue eyes got shiny, but he threw that smile back into place and hitched his shoulders back into perfect posture once again. “Thanks.”
“Cas….”
“No, it’s—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be getting into this right now. This is your big moment, and I know your whole family is out there waiting to see you sworn in.”
The brief stutter in Casper’s expression was worse than tears, but Evan also understood stoicism in the face of emotion because you knew damn well if you started, you weren’t ever going to stop.
“Find us at the reception. You have a lot of friends out there. I’m sure everyone would be glad to see you,” Evan said.
“We’ll see. And anyway, you and I will be getting a lot of time together come tomorrow.”
Evan nodded and gave Casper a little salute before heading over to where a woman in a headset was lining people up.
Time to become Captain Evan Cerelli.
Chapter 2
MATT LEANED back in the comfortable leather chair, letting it creak against his weight. It was “his” chair, for when he made the drive up to work with Jim in his fancy-schmancy garage office. Most folks might just throw some yard sale finds in a concrete-walled bunker, but no, Jim had money and people who knew how to spend it.
And it showed.
The walls were painted a rustic tan, with stylish black curtains on the two windows. One looked out at the tree-laden property and the other faced the pool and patio. When the weather was nice, Matt brought the twins up and let them loose on the understated luxury of upscale rural living, which meant they sat in the pool or the hot tub until he had to bribe them to get in the car. The furniture—from the huge overstuffed leather couch to the matching recliners and vintage tables—begged you to stay a few hours more. Work, nap. Catch a game on the huge screen on the far wall.
Plus the double-wide stainless-steel fridge over in the house always appeared full, as if by magic, tempting Matt’s stomach and luring him away from his desk at times other than Jim’s enforced lunch hour.
“You know the rules, young man,” Jim would say as Matt threw a vintage throw pillow in the shape of a pug at his head.
Today Matt and Jim were working on end-of-the-month billing and their schedule for the rest of March. “All the invoices are out, we have the installations scheduled.” Jim thumbed through a stack of papers from the middle of their shared desk, which was the approximate size of Matt’s old studio apartment.
“Wow, we’re efficient.”
“I’m efficient. You charm people into giving us business,” Jim pointed out, placing the papers into the wire basket marked “completed” in his neat block handwriting.
“The perfect team.” Matt righted the chair, reaching onto the desk to get his phone. No new alerts or messages—all was right back down in Brooklyn, apparently. Evan, in full captain mode, was rarely home before nine, and the twins were midway through their freshman year of high school, piles of homework keeping them busy when they were home and not out doing sports or color guard. Once Matt fulfilled his duties in purchasing food, paying bills, and leaving cash out for the kids, he was free to roam.
Which generally meant up to Jim’s house.
“Next up.”
Matt sighed. “Lunch?”
“It’s eleven thirty!”
“By the time you’re finished setting up the spread and pouring me a beer….”
“You’re ridiculous,” Jim said, but he was laughing as he stood up. “Okay, I’ll see what Georgia left us. But you have to start working on the camera layout for Bennett’s new offices.”
“Fine, fine.” Matt lifted the lid of Jim’s laptop, waking the beast within. “Do we think he works for the CIA and all this movie and stage stuff is his deep cover?”
“No.” Jim made it to the door, then paused to shrug on his jacket against the early spring chill. “Maybe.”
“And then he could make a movie about him making movies while he was in the CIA.” Matt knocked on his head like it was a ripe coconut. “Tell Griffin this. I’ll split the profits with him.”
“Griffin. Griffin. Right. Guy with the tall hair and squinty eyes,” Jim said dryly. “I have his picture on the fridge so I don’t forget what he looks like.”
It was said lightheartedly, but then Jim ducked out, the wind and light rain rattling the walls until he slammed the door behind him.
Maybe not so much
a joke anymore.
Matt didn’t mind driving up to Dutchess County to work at Jim’s place. At first it seemed better to have him down to Matt’s home office in Brooklyn—it was comfortable and he could stay for dinner if it got too late. But quickly Matt clued in to the fact that all the domestic bliss (even if it was two teenagers and the fleeting appearance of Evan) just brought him down even further.
So Matt took the train or hopped in the car to keep Jim company at his house.
He poked around the neatly organized folders on Jim’s laptop. Things were painstakingly labeled, color coded, and there wasn’t a single cute icon in sight. Even the background was a solemn blue-gray field.
Matt knew how to replace that with a kitten, and he put it on his to-do list.
Click, click, search. He found Bennett’s folder and all the subfolders beyond. The Ames family was his business’s sugar daddy, and it showed in the range of dates listed, of all the jobs he’d done for them. Matt scrolled down until he found “Bryant Park Office ReOrg” and clicked on it.
He didn’t know what he did wrong, but the program decided to quit, Matt cursing the whole time until he could click through the whole “no, I don’t want to report it, just give me the damn file.” He went to Recently Opened on the menu and thought he clicked the right folder.
But what popped up wasn’t the office specs for Bennett’s new place. It was a collection of clippings.
Matt leaned in.
Crime scenes. Reports. Notes typed in blocks between the official documents. SCHOOL SCHEDULE. CONFIRM HE WAS ON TRIP.
Maps of the West Coast.
Coroner’s reports from almost ten years ago.
Then? A name.
TRIPP INGERSOLL.
He didn’t need to go further. Matt knew exactly what this was.
Every cop—on the force, retired, hooked up to machines prolonging the months—had one of these. Their white whale, the case that just wouldn’t leave them alone.
The ones you lost. The ones you never solved. The faces that came with you after you retired.
Tripp Ingersoll, rich college kid accused of killing a teenaged hooker in LA. A jury that wanted to believe someone with so much going for him wouldn’t do something so horrible, so he’d been walking free the past few years, much to Jim’s horror.
Then Jim made his white whale a cop’s worst mistake: he became emotionally involved with the dead girl’s parents.
Matt clicked the little X on the corner of the document, somber. He didn’t bother to open the other file; he just got up and grabbed his jacket, then headed over to the house.
JIM WAS leaning against the counter when Matt walked in, texting with Griffin in Los Angeles.
When are you coming home?
Tuesday.
It’s Wednesday.
I know. I’m sorry. But Tuesday.
Jim?
I know, okay? Maybe you can come here?
Jim? Jesus, come on. I can’t do this again.
I’ll see if I can come out for the weekend.
THANK YOU. I love you.
I love you too.
Jim tossed his phone onto a stack of mail and magazines waiting for Griffin’s return. Everything in the house felt like someone had hit Pause.
Hold off on wedding plans.
Wait to redo the guest bathroom.
Don’t make an appointment with the rug guy just yet.
Fly three thousand miles to get five or six hours of your fiancé’s free time. Sex to reconnect and sleeping in each other’s arms to pretend nothing was strained and exhausting.
Matt was still standing by the back door, and Jim reluctantly drew himself out of the pity party to look at his friend.
And then he wanted to look away because of the gravity of Matt’s expression.
THEY SAT in the living room, posh and comfortable in tans and blues. They had sandwiches and pasta salad, courtesy of the housekeeper, and beers—two apiece—on coasters.
“I didn’t throw away my notes after the trial,” Jim said eventually, concentrating on the turkey on rye on his plate. “Then one day you get bored. You start thinking,” he murmured. “You think you’re going to do just one search, just to satisfy the curiosity, but you keep putting his name in that little box and suddenly it’s three hours later. Then it’s three days, and then…”
“Then it’s three years later. Got it,” Matt answered. He put his half-cleaned plate down on the coffee table, then leaned toward Jim, elbows on his knees. “I’ve been there. Haven’t been a cop in years, but I still think about the ones we never closed.” His voice was soft and full of pity; Jim blinked but said nothing. “But the case is over. Even if you find anything—double jeopardy.”
“I know that.” It came out snappy, even as Jim tried to rein in his bubbling anger. He knew—logic was his tether; it kept him sane and alive. “I know. He’s never going to go down for Carmen’s murder. But….”
“You think it wasn’t his first.”
Jim dropped his plate on the table, then sank back into the easy give of the sofa. He wanted to kick something, throw a chair through the big picture window on the other side of the room. When tracking Tripp’s life was a dirty little secret, he could still pretend it was insane, an exercise in frivolity. Exposing it to the real world, to another person, made it a mission. Made it possible. He wanted to ruin something in this moment of conflicted anger—he just didn’t want it to be his life.
If word got out he was trying to find another case to pin on Tripp Ingersoll, the fallout wouldn’t affect just him.
Griffin’s movie would be a magnet for bad press. All his hard work—and the memories of Ed, Delia, and Carmen Kelly—would be dragged through the muddy rehash.
He’d lose the endlessly dragged-on civil case Tripp had against him and the Seattle PD.
He didn’t care about money, but he sure as hell cared about his reputation.
And his fiancé’s. And the Kelly family’s.
“You know what I’m about to say.” Matt spoke with such seriousness in his tone that Jim couldn’t even look at him. His face burned with embarrassment.
“I know.”
“The risks, Jim.”
“I know!”
“Terrific. You know. You get it. You’re not stupid,” Matt said sternly. “Now do something about it.”
Jim leaned back to stare at the ceiling. Skylights showed the steady mist outside, beading against the glass. “I’ll delete it.”
“Jim.”
A warning word. From the first moment they had met, Jim knew Matt had his number. They had each other’s numbers. Platitudes weren’t going to work.
Jim opened his mouth, because he was going to say, You’re right, I’ll delete it and forget about him, but he knew that was a lie. For all the rationality and knowing better, Jim couldn’t forget Carmen on that slab or her parents in side-by-side graves with her within two years of her death. Carmen’s blood was on Tripp Ingersoll’s hands, but sometimes Jim felt like Delia’s and Ed’s blood were on his.
“I need to finish this. I need to see if there’s anything out there. And if there’s not, if he’s clean—” Jim choked on the word. “—I’ll get rid of everything.”
Matt sighed dramatically. “Right.” Another sigh. “I’ll help you out—we can put in a few hours during the week. It’ll go faster that way.”
Jim sat up slowly, unfolding his tightly held limbs as he moved to look at Matt. Every cell of his body buzzed with permission from Matt to pursue this, permission to be obsessed and channel his energy into something potentially meaningful. It was like a fucking gift.
“What? This way I can keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t end up doing something stupid.” Matt leaned back in the chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “But if we don’t find anything….”
Jim put his hand up. “Then it’s done.”
Matt scrutinized him like he might a perp. Jim knew that expression. “Then it’s done.”
&n
bsp; Jim’s response was an approving smile.
MATT DROVE back to the city, taking the winding country roads slowly in the bad weather. Two texts from Elizabeth came through before he left Jim’s house; the first said she was staying at her friend Star’s house for dinner so they could work on a project, followed by news that Danny had gone to the varsity baseball practice at the batting cage to “hang out.”
No word from Evan, which meant he’d be home late. Probably another meeting with Casper, a name he was already tired of hearing from his boyfriend’s mouth.
So Matt drove slower because there wasn’t a reason to hurry.
Jim’s obsession with Tripp Ingersoll poked at him, dragged him through his own memory bank. On the force, he had felt an all-consuming need to close his cases—every single one of them, no matter if the victim was innocent or anything but.
He wanted to have an ending.
He wanted to know his efforts led to justice.
He wanted the badge to mean something all the time, for each case.
It cost him his badge in the end.
The rain beat down on the windshield, obscuring his view. Matt slowed down a little more, caught in a swamp of memories.
Chapter 3
GRIFFIN DRAKE walked on shaky legs from the idling sedan in the driveway to the house. Whatever the thing past utter exhaustion was, well, he felt about two weeks of no sleep past that. The movie had wrapped, the postproduction was underway, and Griffin could finally go home.
At three thirty in the morning.
He vaguely registered the car pulling away, focused intently on the front door with its cheery pussy willow wreath that clearly wasn’t the work of his fiancé.
Shivering in the night air, Griffin dropped his carry-on and suitcase on the front steps. He needed both hands to fumble with the key and lock, taking three tries to get his fingers to cooperate.
On try number four, the tumblers clicked and the door opened.
Truth & Tenderness Page 2
