by Layla Reyne
“Well, well, aren’t you two becoming the FP regulars?” Susanne greeted them.
Carter smiled, wide and easy, charm turned up to ten. “Don’t ask how many return trips I had to make on Saturday.”
“I can’t help that you gave them away to that gu...” Lincoln caught himself and corrected. “To Jeremiah.”
“Isn’t he the cutest thing?” Lydia said. “I had him in Psych 101 a few years back.”
“Is he?” Carter said. “I hadn’t noticed.”
That sounded better than it should, and Carter’s green gaze made Lincoln blush hotter. Real or the cover? his mind debated again. Carter had turned on the charm so effortlessly. Maybe this was an extension of the same. But that heated gaze, the smile before Susanne and Lydia had joined them, and Carter’s leg sliding next to his, certainly felt real.
“Excuse me, ladies.” A busboy shoved an arm between Susanne and Lydia and dropped a bread basket onto the table.
Carter snagged a steaming biscuit off the top and took a bite. “Wow,” he said, face wrinkled in disappointment. “Barry’s really are better.” He held the biscuit out to Lincoln, but Lincoln had turned his attention to Lydia, a misplaced detail registering. “I thought Jeremiah went to UVA for undergrad?”
“He started here,” she answered. “Then transferred to UVA as a junior, before coming back to Apex for grad school.”
Why would Jeremiah say otherwise? Lincoln supposed it wasn’t uncommon for someone to refer to the university they graduated from as their alma mater, but Jeremiah seemed proud of his affiliation with Apex U. Why would he minimize his freshman and sophomore years here?
“You weren’t kidding,” Lydia said, jostling Lincoln out of his thoughts and back to the great biscuit debate. “These aren’t even up to Trudy’s standards.”
The harried waitress who’d earlier taken their order snuck into the gap between Susanne and Lydia and slid two plates onto the table. “Because she ain’t here today either.” The dark-haired waitress righted herself, hands on her narrow hips. “Showed up at five and the place was still dark. On the first day of school, no less. Fine day for them to pull their hippie shit.” Lincoln worried there would be a duel to defend Barry and Trudy’s honor, but Susanne and Lydia just laughed, and the waitress thawed, bussing each of them on the cheek. “The muffins are on fire, though. Cranberry orange.” She turned to Lincoln and Carter. “I taught Trudy how to make ’em.” Then back to Susanne and Lydia. “What’ll it be, ladies?”
“Two bowls of oatmeal, please,” Susanne said. “And another order of muffins.”
“Coming right up.” The waitress scurried back to the kitchen, and Susanne urged them to go on and eat, though she and Lydia didn’t move away from the table.
Lincoln suspected they were claiming it for after he and Carter left. Which was fine with Lincoln; they needed to get a move on. He dug into his French toast, not wasting more time.
Carter, however, was slow to attack his hash. “Hippie shit?” he asked the table hawks.
“Barry and Trudy like to wander,” Susanne explained. “Ginger is Trudy’s sister. She bitches but she knows how to run this place, even if she does burn the coffee and can’t bake a biscuit to save her life. But her muffins are great.”
Accurate, on all counts, Lincoln could attest, as he bit into one of the delicious muffins.
“She’s used to it,” Lydia added. “Unfortunate on the first day of classes, but it’s also not the first time.”
“You know,” Carter said, pushing up from his chair. “I’m going to go call Larry right quick. Need to find out if he still wants me there today and where there might be, after the station fire. Can you get this boxed up for me?” he said to Lincoln. “And a bag for the muffins?”
“Of course.” Lincoln wasn’t exactly sure what Carter was on about, but he trusted his partner’s case instincts. Something didn’t smell right, and Carter had caught a whiff too.
“I’ll grab you the to-go stuff,” Lydia said. “I worked here all through school. I know where everything is.”
“Nothing’s moved?”
“Trudy’s a creature of habit.”
But she and Barry were prone to random absences? To wild travel hairs? How did that work?
Questions for another time. Susanne had glided into Carter’s vacated chair, and Lincoln had the distinct impression of being a caught fish. “So, you were amazing at church yesterday,” she said. Yep, on the hook with no escape. “How long have you played?”
“Most of my life.”
“Can we count on you to play at the next service?”
“I thought the accompanist was just sick? Surely, they’ll be recovered by next Sunday.”
“Wednesday night service,” Lydia said, handing him a to-go box and bag. “Then we can figure out about Sunday.” She and her bestie had planned this double-team, and Lincoln was fucking stuck. How was he supposed to finagle out of this?
“I’m sorry to cut this short, ladies,” Carter said, and Lincoln wanted to kiss him. Right there in the middle of FP. “I got a text from our friend Beverley back in DC. He wants to hop on a video chat and catch up.” The urge to make out died. Something was definitely going on, but first they had to get out of this pickle.
“You’ve only been gone a weekend,” Susanne said.
“And it’s only Monday morning,” Lydia added.
“We used to have coffee with him every Monday morning,” Carter said. “He’s a little out of sorts.”
Lincoln stood and held the chair out for Lydia. “He’ll be missing us.”
Ginger appeared with the two bowls of oatmeal, right on time. “We switching places?”
“We’ve gotta run.” Carter handed her a few bills. “For our tab and theirs.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Susanne said.
“For our new Monday morning coffee friends.” Lincoln tried for one of those smiles Carter so easily flashed.
It seemed to work, Susanne and Lydia thanking them again before he and Carter exited. Outside, Lincoln looped an arm around Carter’s waist, and Carter threw one over his shoulders, pulling him closer.
“Nicely played,” he whispered in Lincoln’s ear.
“Because there are people all around, watching us.” Never mind how good it also felt. “Did Beverley really call?”
“Yeah, he left a message and text to ring him back. No other details.”
“Did you get a chance to talk to Larry too?”
Carter nodded. “He confirmed what Susanne said. Barry and Trudy are prone to these spur-of-the-moment trips. Always have been, though they make them more now that Barry’s retired.”
“Interesting,” Lincoln said, something tickling the back of his mind. “Does Larry still want you to start the survival training today?”
Carter shook his head. “He’s still sorting out fire damage and fighting with O’Shea over the Stacy Weathers case. Wednesday, he hopes.”
They stopped at the side of the car, moving face-to-face, still close so as not to be overheard. “Can we take the call with Beverley at the lab? I’m running a full panel on Jeremiah’s hair sample.”
“Probably the safest place, other than the house.” As he spoke, Carter’s eyes drifted over Lincoln’s shoulder, back toward the diner.
“They still watching?” Lincoln asked.
“Yep.”
Lincoln didn’t second-guess his instinct. He closed the distance between them, lips capturing Carter’s and swallowing his surprised gasp. Carter caught on quick, lifting a hand to Lincoln’s cheek and curling the other in Lincoln’s sweater. He opened his mouth, and Lincoln snuck his tongue inside, sighing, the coffee tasting much better mixed with Carter.
It wasn’t the desperate need that had overtaken them last night, but in its restraint, it was almost as intoxicating. This didn’t feel like th
e cover. This felt very real. And Lincoln would’ve stayed there longer, reveled in it, if they didn’t owe their boss a call. He pulled back with a last peck to Carter’s lips.
“What was that for?” Carter said, the wistful breathiness of his words more charming than any smile he’d ever thrown Lincoln’s way.
“Selling the cover.” That was fifty percent of the reason he’d gone for it, what had sparked the idea. But what had lit the kindling was the lingering desire to kiss him again.
“Is that all it was?” Carter asked, correctly detecting that Lincoln had only given him half the story.
If Lincoln wanted this to be real—which again, fifty percent, because there were so many factors to consider—and was unwilling to cut off that potential just yet, he couldn’t lie to Carter now. “To be determined.”
“I’ll take that.” Carter stole another quick kiss. “But for the record, I fucking hate slow burn.”
Lincoln laughed out loud, and that, more than anything, he suspected, convinced their audience—and him—that this could be real.
* * *
Lincoln’s left hand moved from the top of the steering wheel to the center no less than a dozen times on the short drive from Flour Power to the lab. Carter was counting, and watching with unchecked amusement, as Lincoln navigated the gauntlet of the suddenly packed campus and a student body prone to jaywalking.
“The crosswalk is right there!” Lincoln shouted loud enough to turn a few heads outside the vehicle. But not enough that anyone changed their course.
“They outnumber you, L.” Carter laid a hand over his on the gearshift, and Lincoln jumped a mile, his hair brushing the roof. “And we’re almost there.”
Carter left his hand atop Lincoln’s, anchoring him inside the car, directing his possibly murderous thoughts at him in here and not at the students out there. They waited for the crowd to disperse, then rolled through the aforementioned crosswalk and turned at the next drive. The crush of students thinned out considerably, as they circled to the parking lot behind the under-construction lab building.
“There now,” Carter said, once the car was in park. “Was that so bad?”
Lincoln cut him a sideways glare. “Yes.”
Carter laughed and withdrew his hand. “I’ll drive next time.” He moved to open his door but paused, turning back to Lincoln, who was still gathering his stuff from the back. “One, grab my to-go box. Two, when we get up to the lab, let me sweep the room before you say anything.”
“You think we’re being bugged?”
“Can’t be too careful.” He’d checked the Forester last night, when he couldn’t sleep, and the Wrangler this morning.
Lincoln nodded and let Carter lead, into the building, up the stairs, and into the lab. Carter swept the lab with the scanner, then made a lap around the floor, checking to make sure no one else was up here with them.
“We’re clear,” Carter said, as he reentered the lab.
Lincoln was on the far side of the room, munching on a muffin and staring at his laptop. Carter grabbed the rest of the leftovers, then a chair from the adjacent desk, straddling it backward, and rolled next to Lincoln. The screen was full of what Carter recognized as genetic test results.
“Anything?” he asked between bites.
“It’s just a screen right now. It’s more about having a baseline of an Apex founding family member to compare other samples against, if we get them.”
“Baxter?”
Lincoln nodded. “And Clyde Weathers and any hairs ERT found at the motel. Larry too, if we can get it.”
“The latter is going to be tough.”
“You’ll figure it out.” Lincoln shot him a wink, and Carter would have leaned in to kiss the smirk off his face, if not for a notification ding alerting them to Beverley’s incoming call.
Carter tossed the empty to-go box into the trash can and shoved the bag of remaining muffins into his coat pocket. He was righting himself, as Beverley appeared on-screen, standing behind his desk. The director looked polished, camera-ready still from his morning presser, but Carter didn’t miss the way he collapsed into his chair, or the slump of his shoulders as he peered at the laptop. Carter wondered how many hours it had been since he’d slept.
“Director,” Lincoln greeted him.
“Agents, good morning.”
“Beverley,” Carter said. “What more do we have on Baxter?”
The director grabbed a folder off his desk and opened it in front of him, rifling through papers inside it. “Jeff Baxter, thirty-three, resides in Silver Spring, Maryland.”
“He’s not from Apex?”
“Depends on what you mean, Agent Warren. He’s originally from Richmond, has resided in Silver Spring for five years now. But in between, he spent some time at Apex U. Did his undergrad in physics there. He’s a rocket scientist.”
“Most physics nerds are,” Lincoln said, and Carter bit back the threatening pot-kettle joke.
The joke was on both of them. “No,” Beverley said. “He’s an actual rocket scientist. Works for an aerospace contractor.”
“He passed the psych test?”
“For his employer, yes, but not for NASA. He tried but he didn’t hold up under the stress tests. So he builds them now. Doesn’t go up in them.”
“He must have crossed paths with Dr. Fear here in Apex,” Lincoln said. “What were the years?”
“I’m emailing you his transcript, along with some other documents.”
Lincoln refreshed his inbox, and once the email from Beverley arrived, opened the attachment titled AU Transcript. Carter saw it a second after Lincoln did and echoed his curse. “He was here,” Lincoln said, slumping back in his chair. “He was fucking here the last time Dr. Fear was active.”
Carter scooted his chair closer to Lincoln. “This helps us narrow down the archives and searches, and now we’ve got at least one face to look for in the pictures. We need to see who else is in those pictures with him.”
“You’re thinking he attached himself to Dr. Fear when he was here? Developed a fascination with him?”
Carter nodded. “That fits with our copycat profile.”
“Also fits with Baxter’s pattern of behavior,” Beverley said. “Check that second attachment. Harassment reports from two former colleagues.”
Lincoln opened the file. Complaints lodged by a physics department professor at UMD, then by a work supervisor at his first employer, post-NASA flameout. Men who were older than Baxter, in both cases. Also experts in their field.
“Was he trying to replace Dr. Fear?” Carter asked.
“Transference.” Lincoln hummed. “But this is all still years before Baxter made a kill.”
“Unless he made other lesser ones that didn’t get Dr. Fear’s attention. Or law enforcement’s.”
“So he went looking for a bigger, flashier target,” Lincoln said, following Carter’s train of thought. “The agent who tried to catch Dr. Fear.”
“Kirk posited that too,” Beverley said. “O’Shea’s looking into it.”
“Have him look at missing meth addicts in and around Apex,” Carter suggested. Like Stacy Weathers, they were a population of ready-made victims. Easy to lure, easy to disappear. “There’s a mountain of meth-related missing persons cases, and Apex PD seems to turn a blind eye.” Which Carter intended to investigate himself. Maybe Baxter or Clyde Weathers knew more about that situation.
“We need to question Baxter,” Lincoln said. “And I need a DNA panel on him.”
“Good luck, on both counts. He lawyered up.”
Carter cursed and moved to shove back, frustration boiling over.
Lincoln’s foot on the base of his chair kept him in place. “We’ve got a lot to go on already. A ton more than we had last night.”
“There’s more in the email too. What we’ve got so far
on Baxter, together with Kirk’s interview notes. He got some info out of him before the lawyer showed, advised him not to talk anymore, and buried us in motions.”
Carter continued to stew as Lincoln wrapped up the call. Thumbs drumming the top of the chair, he pushed out from under Lincoln’s foot and spun in the aisle. Yesterday’s feeling of being disconnected from the action of the case had multiplied. He felt trapped here, in this lab and in Apex, while so much of the case was progressing elsewhere. Granted, he logically knew it all led back to here, but a part of the investigation was effectively cut off to him. He couldn’t do his job, couldn’t do what he was good at, from two hundred fifty miles away.
Lincoln interrupted his mental spiral, rolling into the aisle to face him. “I know you’re frustrated.”
“If we’d been in DC, I could have questioned him. Gotten eyes on him and tried to get the answers we need to catch Dr. Fear.”
“I know it’s not ideal, but O’Shea’s a good agent, and Ollie and Beverley are the FBI’s best. They’ve got their eyes on 2020 Jeff Baxter. They need us to get eyes on 2005 to 2009 Jeff Baxter. Guess where the best place to do that is.” Lincoln tilted his head toward the window, and the library visible two buildings over. He made an exaggerated motion that direction, then hilariously waggled his brows. “You catch my drift?”
Carter couldn’t help but laugh, his mounting frustration washed away by the humor in Lincoln’s words and gestures and the excitement in his eyes. They were investigators, with more than a few good leads to follow up on now. They had what they needed right here, in the Apex archives, and there was no better person than Lincoln Monroe to find the missing piece. And Carter was determined to prove he was the agent to help him do it.
* * *
The short walk from the lab to the library was much easier, albeit less entertaining, than the drive from Flour Power. Class change was over, and the sidewalks weren’t as packed. Still more people around than on Saturday, but not the crush of earlier. The library was a similar state. Not as deserted as when Carter was last here but not bustling yet either. He expected that would change as the day went on, more students drifting in to study and hang out after and between classes. In any event, the front desk was now staffed and ready to greet them—the students, and Carter and Lincoln.
