by Kim Fielding
Jeremy stared for a moment or two, remembering when he’d run his fingers through that brown hair, when that mouth had been opened in laughter, when he’d watched those eyelashes flutter in ecstasy. Then Jeremy set the photo on top of the others and pushed them gently back to Frankl. “It’s him.” He was pleased his voice didn’t waver.
Frankl sighed again. “Yeah. One of my guys thought he recognized him. And the jacket he was wearing, it had your name on the label.”
Jeremy’s favorite pullover looked like a lot of other gray hoodies, so in order to avoid mix-ups at the gym, he’d used a Sharpie to scrawl J. Cox on the inside.
“Were you two still together?” Frankl asked. “I thought I heard—”
“We weren’t. We broke up five years ago. I hadn’t even talked to him until last night.”
Frankl’s sad eyes sharpened. “You saw him recently?”
“He showed up at my place last night. He, uh, he was pretty banged up.”
“The ME said those wounds were a day or two antemortem,” said Frankl thoughtfully. “What happened to him?”
“He didn’t tell me, and honestly, I didn’t want to know. He was pretty desperate. Refused to go to a hospital. So I patched him up a little and let him crash at my place overnight. I gave him some money and clothes in the morning. He told me he was going to go stay with his sister in California.” It was the last statement that made Jeremy’s eyes sting and his throat feel thick. He’d never really expected Donny to head south and get his shit together, yet an optimistic corner of his heart had hoped exactly that—had wished for Donny to be clean and safe and happy. Now those wishes were dead.
Jeremy closed his eyes and bowed his head. “He was a good man. He fucked up so much, but deep inside….” He couldn’t finish the sentence, but he was grateful for Frankl’s nonjudgmental silence. No way did Jeremy want to lose his composure in front of a cop in the middle of a fast-food restaurant.
After taking a deep, shuddering breath, Jeremy looked at Frankl. “Willamette or Columbia?” he asked.
“Willamette. Boater found him this afternoon, caught up in some debris near the Fremont Bridge. But shit, Cox. I shouldn’t be telling you this. You’re the last guy we know of who saw him alive.”
Jeremy wanted to weep from pure exhaustion. “Am I a suspect, Captain?”
After a long, steady look, Frankl shook his head. “No. I guess you could be, but…. Look. We all know Donny Matthews had been associating with some real scumbags. We busted Donny a couple of times, you know?”
Jeremy hadn’t known that, but he wasn’t surprised. “Did he do time?” he asked, worried because prison was not a good place for an ex-cop. Then Jeremy remembered that it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore, at least from Donny’s point of view.
“Nah,” Frankl said, shaking his head. He took another noisy pull of his soft drink. “It was minor shit and nothing stuck. But some of his buddies were into bigger stuff. Jesus. I’ve been on the job almost thirty years, and when I see what drugs do to people, I still want to weep.”
“Yeah.” Jeremy had wept over it in the privacy of his home. Not just over Donny throwing away their future and his own promise, but over the men and women whose lives lay in wreckage. And especially over the children—the kids like Toad who never had a chance.
But even as Jeremy’s throat constricted again, he thought of Qay Hill. Drugs had damaged him too—Jeremy could see that in the tenseness of his shoulders and the lines on his face. But Qay had survived and, as far as Jeremy could tell, was waging a damned hard fight to get somewhere. It was good to remember that not everyone lost that war.
“How did he die?” Jeremy asked quietly.
“Gunshot. What kind of weapons do you own, Cox?”
“None.” He wasn’t a fan of firearms, and he’d turned in his sidearm when he resigned from the bureau. “Murder or suicide?”
“Unless he figured out how to shoot himself twice in the back and then dump himself in the river, I think murder’s a pretty safe conclusion.”
In the back. Had Donny been running from someone, or was he taken by surprise? Was he scared, those last minutes of his life, or did death claim him unexpectedly? Had he died quickly?
God, Donny. He’d shared Jeremy’s bed for years. At one time Jeremy had known every inch of Donny’s body, every sound he made. He’d known that Donny had a secret thing for Disney movies and could never pass a dog without stopping to pet it. He’d known that Donny’s father was a macho, abusive asshole.
“Are you going to be okay, Cox?”
Until Frankl asked that question, Jeremy didn’t realize he was rubbing his face. He let his hands drop to the tabletop. “Yes. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You cared for the guy. It’s nice that someone cares.”
“Shit. His sister. Somebody needs to tell her.”
“You?”
Jeremy shook his head. “She hates my guts. Better for it to come from you.” He fought the urge to hide his face again. “I don’t have contact info for her, but I can give you her name and town. You should be able to track her down easily.”
“Okay. That’ll work.”
Another thought struck Jeremy. “I don’t know…. Donny didn’t always get along with her very well.” And she could be a bitch, but he didn’t say that. “If she refuses to make any, um, plans for… for the body….” His voice hitched, and he wished he had a soft drink to wet his throat.
“Burial plans?” Frankl asked.
“Yeah. If she won’t make any, will you let me know? I’ll take care of it.” Because Donny didn’t deserve to end up cremated and forgotten.
“Sure.”
Wanting very badly to be in his own bed, buried in blankets, Jeremy sat up straight. “Do you need anything more from me, Captain?”
“Not tonight. We’ll probably be asking you a lot more questions, especially about last night. But that can wait. Get some sleep, Cox.”
“That’s my plan.”
The gymnastics in Jeremy’s stomach had stopped, but a giant chunk of lead had replaced them. It took a huge effort to stand, to shake Frankl’s hand, and to drag himself out of the restaurant and to his SUV.
When Jeremy got home, he didn’t go straight to bed. He considered searching his cupboards for any alcohol Donny might have missed, but he rejected the idea. Then he thought about calling Rhoda, but the hour had grown late and he didn’t want to wake her. He ended up curled on the couch, watching one of the DVDs Donny had abandoned when they broke up. This one was The Incredibles, which had always been one of Jeremy’s favorites too. He might not have been married with kids, but he empathized with Bob Parr, the superhero dad.
The movie ended, the DVD menu screen hovered, and still Jeremy remained awake.
On Friday, Donny had been alive, had been on this very couch, and now he was dead.
Jeremy shouldn’t have let him just walk out the door like that. Someone had beaten Donny, had slashed him with a knife. Jeremy should have taken him to a goddamn hospital. If he had, Donny might very well be in jail right now, but better there than in the county morgue.
Unwanted images of Donny kept flashing through Jeremy’s mind. Not the living man, but the corpse. Cold and alone, stretched out on stainless steel in that chilled room in Clackamas, all the secrets of his body exposed to the medical examiner.
What if Jeremy had given in to Donny’s drunken advances and fucked him? Would Donny be alive now? Or… shit. Jeremy could have thrown him into the SUV and driven him to California, bitchy sister notwithstanding.
There were a lot of things Jeremy could have done. Instead, he’d just stitched him up, given him cash and a jacket, and said good-bye.
Jeremy eventually fell asleep on the couch, the lights and the television still on.
Chapter Seven
QAY SPENT half of Sunday dithering over whether to study at P-Town. In the end he decided against it. Not because he wouldn’t be welcome—he now accepted that Rhoda truly did
n’t mind if he parked himself in her coffeehouse all day. But if he did go there, Jeremy Cox might show up, and then Qay would never be able to concentrate on his books. Even if Jeremy didn’t make an appearance, Qay would keep looking for him. So he stayed home, his thoughts often wandering to Jeremy.
It wasn’t just that Jeremy was hot, although Jesus Christ, he really was. Big and built, with the kind of smile that sent a heart into palpitations, and an easy way of moving that showed he was both powerful and comfortable in his oversized body. But he wasn’t a macho asshole. Instead he was unexpectedly sweet, funny, slightly self-effacing, and as willing to listen as he was to speak. When Qay had spit out a good part of the truth—a history of drugs, jail, and mental hospitals—Jeremy had barely blinked. He said he still wanted to go on a goddamn date with Qay, and fuck if he didn’t seem sincere.
All in all, Jeremy presented the most appealing package Qay had ever encountered. But as he tried to concentrate on the tyranny of the majority, something else preoccupied him. What kept Qay’s mind wandering were memories of Jeremy Cox as a kid.
He’d been short then and slightly pudgy. With the unerring instinct of predators, the school bullies had picked on Jeremy unmercifully. Maybe they’d sensed he was queer even before Jeremy recognized those feelings in himself, or maybe it was enough that he was quiet and smart and shy. In any case, Jeremy had weathered that misery with an attitude of mixed resignation and resolve, which Qay had admired from afar. Nobody bullied Qay, but if they had, Qay would have responded viciously.
The other thing that had struck him about young Jeremy was that he’d never been afraid of Qay—at least not the way the other kids were. When Jeremy looked at him, Qay had never felt like a freak. In fact, Jeremy’s fleeting glances and adorable blushes had been Qay’s first hint that someone might find him attractive. That realization had helped him through some very dark days.
Qay hadn’t set foot in Kansas since his teens. And it had been years since he had thought about Jeremy. Mostly he avoided thinking about Bailey Springs at all.
Shit.
He slammed the textbook shut and stalked to the kitchenette. He wanted a beer, a shot, a pill… something. Instead he poured himself a glass of milk, grabbed a bag of chips, and stomped back to his slightly wobbly kitchen table. Right now Jeremy Cox didn’t matter. Bailey Springs didn’t matter. Qay’s entire miserable, fucked-up history didn’t matter. What was important was mainlining enough John Stuart Mill so that when Qay took the exam, he could vomit up enough knowledge to pass the class.
Yeah, because a C or higher in philosophy was going to make his life ever so much better.
HE DIDN’T sleep well Sunday night. For a long time he lay awake in the dark, imagining all the possible ways he might fuck up his life again—starting with failing his test so spectacularly that the community college would permanently ban him from campus. They’d hang signs in the hallways, a big red slash over his face.
Even when exhaustion overtook him, he had unsettling dreams. Nothing clear enough to remember, but he kept waking up sweat-soaked and breathing hard, the blankets twisted into a fabric prison around him.
He got out of bed earlier than usual and, after showering and dressing, gave his textbook a disgusted look and stomped outside into the drizzle. He’d never been a fan of exercise; drugs and poor eating had kept him skinny. Now that he was clean and his diet was better, he still remained lean. His parents had been slim, so maybe it was good genes. It was nice to know he might have inherited at least one good thing from them. He wasn’t a gym bunny, but this morning he needed some exercise to clear his head.
He walked without a destination in mind, first down toward the river, then through the light industrial area north of the Ross Island Bridge. Aside from drivers, he didn’t see many other people, which was fine with him. He eventually ended up very close to the Marquam Bridge, where he stared out at the gray water of the Willamette, which looked nothing like the Smoky Hill River.
When he grew tired of the view and his clothes were wet enough to chill him, he trudged back toward home. He didn’t stop at his apartment, though. Instead he continued up Belmont, where the cheery front windows of P-Town beckoned him inside. Jeremy wasn’t there, and neither was Rhoda, but the smell of coffee was welcome. Qay ordered a large cup and splurged on one of the pastries arrayed attractively in the glass case. He took a seat near a corner, under a painting of a beautiful blond man swimming naked in a pond, and sipped meditatively. He couldn’t have explained why, but he felt more at peace here in the coffeehouse than in his own apartment.
He was still lost in thought when Rhoda sat down across from him, startling him slightly. “You look a little damp,” she said, cradling a mug of what smelled like herbal tea.
Qay looked down at the floor, where his dripping coat and soaked shoes had formed puddles. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make a mess.”
“It’s only water, honey. And it’s one of the hazards of running a business in Portland, so don’t worry about it. But do you want a towel? Can’t have you catching pneumonia.”
“I’m fine,” he said, smiling shyly. He wasn’t used to being fussed over; it was kind of nice.
Rhoda tsked disapprovingly and leaned forward. “Did you take your test yet?”
“No. Class is at four.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“I’m glad one of us has confidence in me,” he said with a small chuckle. And then, because he didn’t really want to think about the exam anymore, he changed the subject. “You seem to be here all the time. Owning a coffeehouse must be exhausting.”
To his surprise, she laughed. “Exhausting? Darling, I’m living my dream. Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious.” Still smiling, she flapped a hand at him.
“But….” He looked around. P-Town was a pleasant place to be sure, filled with the lovely smells of coffee and pastries and the friendly burbling of conversations. It was an attractive space too, with cheerily mismatched furniture, whimsical paintings, and warm lighting. But it was still just a café.
“Oh, I know,” Rhoda said. “Most people dream of fancy mansions, exotic travel, worldwide fame. But not me. I’m a homebody who prefers eclectic and comfy to expensive, and I’m sure I’d get super bitchy if I had to deal with paparazzi. I work seven days a week in my obscure little corner of the world, and I couldn’t be happier.”
She looked happy, Qay thought. Even when she’d been railing about new construction and people’s front garden choices, she’d clearly been enjoying herself. She wore contentment the way someone might wear a favorite sweater.
“How did this get to be your dream?” he asked.
It must have been the right question, because she beamed and patted his hand. “I used to work one of those soulless corporate jobs. I made decent money, but every moment in the office was miserable. I just counted the minutes until I could go home—and once I got home, I dreaded going back to work. I even hated the clothing I had to wear. Dull and colorless and uninspired.” Today she had on a bright dress printed with an assortment of pies. Her hot-pink cardigan matched her stockings, and her gold shoes each sported a large metal strawberry.
“I like the clothes you wear now,” Qay said sincerely. They were as bright and quirky as she was.
“Me too. While I toiled away in my dungeon, I fantasized about doing something else entirely. I wanted a business of my own so I could dress however I liked and decorate to my taste. I wanted a place where interesting people would come, stay awhile, and chat. I’m a busybody, Qay, and I adore hearing life stories. So when I came into a little money, I opened P-Town.” She sighed, her smile slipping just a little. “The original plan was for my husband to run it with me, but he died less than two years after we opened.”
“I’m sorry.”
Rhoda shrugged. “Eh. Sometimes the fates fuck with us. But I showed ’em! ’Cause even without Tim, I went on. I get up every morning and I can’t wait to get to work. If I walk out of her
e and get run over by a truck, well, at least I spent the last years of my life doing exactly what I wanted to.”
After a moment of thought, Qay nodded. “I get it. Not all dreams have to be glamorous. And I’m glad for yours. I like this place. I feel welcome here.”
“And you are, honey! Because that was a part of my vision too. Some of my regulars drive Mercedes, and some of them can barely scrape together enough change for a cup of coffee. You see those two gals over there?” She pointed at a pair of gray-haired ladies seated near the window. “They do cat rescue. They meet here every Monday to strategize where to park their newest bundles of fur. That man over there in the suit is a judge who drives across the river at least twice a week to have his sack lunch here. The blond guy reading the newspaper is a musician. He plays here twice a week. Some of my customers seem truly ordinary, and some, well, they’re stranger than you could imagine. But every one of them is interesting, and they all feel at home here. I feel like I spend my days in a large and slightly profitable living room!”
Before he could answer, she stood and grabbed his cup. “Be right back.”
He watched as she made her way across the floor, greeting nearly everyone she passed. She paused for a minute or so with the cat ladies, both of whom, Qay now saw, wore sweatshirts printed with pawprint motifs. When Rhoda finally returned, she carried not only his refilled mug, but also a pitcher of cream and a plate containing an oversized cookie. “Salted caramel and brown butter,” she announced as she set everything on the table.
“But I—”
“I need your input. A new bakery dropped off a bunch of samples this morning. I can’t carry everything, but I’m considering expanding my cookie offerings. They have some interesting flavors. With my waistline, I can’t afford to try them all, and both of my on-duty baristas are vegans, so I’m temporarily deputizing you.”
“Do I get a badge?” Qay asked.
