Unspeakable Words

by Sarah Madison

  “Where’d you get those?” Jerry frowned.

  Flynn just grinned at him as he turned off the music, pulled off the earbuds, and replaced the jar in Jerry’s desk.

  They rode down in the elevator with Fielding, who tried to pick Jerry’s brain without appearing to do so, and Jerry was amused by his antics. Flynn, however, was smoldering quietly in the corner of the elevator by the time the doors opened.

  “Oh, come on,” Jerry said as they got into the car. “I know Fielding doesn’t like me and would like to make me look bad. There’s nothing new there.”

  “Fielding doesn’t simply dislike you,” Flynn said sharply. “Seriously, you watch your back around him. He has a thing about faggots.” The way he said the word, it was clear the emphasis was Fielding’s, not his.

  Startled, Jerry shot him a look. Flynn’s face was grim as he stared out the window of the car.

  The museum interviews proved to be a bust. They’d spent most of the morning covering old territory.

  “Anything?” Jerry asked when they broke for lunch. They were eating sandwiches in the warm sunshine outside a small deli.

  “Oh yes,” Flynn said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Too much, in fact. The new curator thinks this is her chance to finally put the Weir on the map. The security guard is afraid he’ll lose his job because we got in through the back door, though he’s almost certain that he locked it that night. The woman from art restoration thinks someone has been borrowing her things without permission, and the information lady thinks she can get a better job somewhere else where people aren’t stupid enough to get murdered. And everyone seems to think I’m gorgeous.”

  “What?” Jerry choked on his drink at the last bit, narrowly avoiding spraying Flynn.

  Flynn looked morose. “Yes. Everyone. It was even worse at the bureau. I seem to be everyone’s favorite fantasy.”

  Jerry felt his face turn red.

  “You know,” Flynn said casually as he balled up his sandwich paper and bounced it off the rim of the trashcan for two points, “sometimes the very fact that you’re thinking ‘soundproof’ is a dead giveaway.”

  Jerry opened and closed his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “Oh, relax,” Flynn said, standing up. “It’s just weird, you know? The idea that people who don’t even know me are picturing…. Well, you know. Okay. So much for Marsden’s coworkers. Now, let’s move on to the family.”

  After they’d spoken with Marsden’s mother and her boyfriend, Flynn looked drained.

  “Need a break?” Jerry suggested as they returned to the car.

  Flynn shook his head slowly. “Though they didn’t say anything, both Mrs. Marsden and the boyfriend immediately thought of Marsden’s ex-boyfriend when you asked if there was anyone in her past that she might have had trouble with or was afraid of. I think we should go see this guy. Neither one wanted to bring the ex into it, though. Apparently she stopped seeing him over a year ago.”

  “Huh,” Jerry said. “Why the heck didn’t they bring that up before? Did you get a name?”

  “Michael DeShano. He’s with a gallery downtown in the art district. Near Geary Street.”

  “There’s a lot of galleries near Geary Street,” Jerry said. “Do you know which one?”

  Flynn shook his head.

  Great. They could always go back and ask. It would save them time.

  “And potentially tip our hand,” Flynn vetoed the plan without discussion. “We should be able to locate him without too much difficulty. If not, we can always head back to the bureau and do a search for him.”

  “PEOPLE don’t really buy this kind of shit, do they?” Flynn said as they left the third gallery they tried. The paintings on the walls were the kind of modernist work that Jerry didn’t really see the value in himself. If someone was going to put all that work into a painting, then he’d at least like it to look like something recognizable.

  “Exactly,” Flynn said as though he’d spoken. “I’ve seen more impressive works produced by a friend’s third-grade daughter. You seem to know a lot about art and this area, though.”

  “I used to spend a lot of time down here,” Jerry said repressively.

  “Okay, I get it,” Flynn said, throwing up his hands as though warding a blow. “Soundproof.”

  At the fifth gallery, they’d heard of Michael DeShano.

  “Oh no, darling,” said a woman dressed in black, with black lipstick and bright-red earrings. “He’s not with us anymore. You want the Crenshaw gallery.” She gave them directions.

  “We can walk from here,” Jerry said when they reached the street.

  “She didn’t like DeShano either,” Flynn said. “He gave her the creeps.”

  “He gave Morticia the creeps?” Jerry snorted. “He must be one bad dude.”

  “Being creepy doesn’t automatically make you a murderer,” Flynn said. “But I think most women have a better instinct for that sort of thing than they give themselves credit for.”

  “You think?” Jerry snorted. “Seems to me I’m always hearing some woman saying, after the fact, how she always knew there was something wrong with that man.” Jerry did his impression of an all-knowing woman, realizing belatedly that he’d imitated Brenda Leigh.

  “Yeah, there’s that,” Flynn agreed with a smirk, acknowledging both the truth of the statement and the source material as well. “But I’m talking about the woman who instinctively is made uncomfortable by a person or a situation, even if she can’t put her finger on it. And I have to wonder if that isn’t what happened to Emily Marsden.”

  “Over a year later?” Jerry let his skepticism show.

  “Hmm, good point,” Flynn conceded. “Still, maybe she ran into him again and something about the meeting rang alarm bells for her.”

  “Jerry!”

  The voice caught him off guard. Jerry broke off from his conversation with Flynn to see Derek standing on the sidewalk in front of him. Jesus. Talk about running into your ex.

  He was wearing a brown blazer over a tan turtleneck, a brightly colored scarf carelessly thrown around his neck. Jerry had a momentary spurt of irritation for the affectation and then felt his heart sink. There was no way he could avoid speaking to him without looking churlish, and he didn’t want to give Derek that satisfaction.

  “What are you doing down here?” Derek was coy as he raised an eyebrow in Flynn’s direction, giving him the once-over. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  His blond hair was overly long and curling at the collar, and Jerry was secretly amused that it appeared to be getting thin on top. He had creases at the corners of his eyes as well. Too much time in the tanning booth, no doubt. Derek must be having a cow over that, he thought evilly. It must be harder now to catch the attention of some sweet, young ass, unless they were desperate for a sugar daddy.

  “Derek Collins,” he said smoothly, “my partner, John Flynn. We’re here on business, Derek.” John, this is the guy that I thought I loved once. Boy, was I an idiot.

  “Partner?” Derek said sharply, glancing swiftly at Jerry’s left hand and then giving a little laugh. “Oh, partner,” he repeated without explanation, shooting a sly smirk at Flynn.

  Beside him, Flynn seemed rigid with tension, like a dog with his hackles up.

  Relax. Gayness isn’t catching. Flynn gave him a wounded look, and Jerry felt ashamed when he realized that Flynn was pissed off on his behalf. That was just…. Wow. Warmth suddenly flooded him, and he was both embarrassed and comforted at the same time.

  Inexplicably, Flynn’s face relaxed, and a lazy smile appeared. “Yes, partner.” He practically purred as he placed a hand on Jerry’s arm. “Come on, Jer. We don’t want to be late for that interview.”

  “What was that about?” Jerry hissed as Flynn led him away.

  “That asshole,” Flynn growled. “I can’t believe he cheated on you with a twinkie.”

  Jerry stumbled, began to laugh, and quickly glanced back over his shoulde
r, where he saw Derek looking at the two of them speculatively. He laughed even harder and clapped Flynn on the back.

  “It’s ‘twink’ if you really want to be cool,” he said.

  “Asshole,” Flynn repeated for good measure, sounding pissed off again. “I wanted to punch him, but then I realized what would really jerk his chain.” He looked pleased with himself.

  “You’re an idiot,” Jerry said with amusement. “A nice one, but an idiot all the same.” It’ll be all over town by this evening that I have a hot boyfriend. He shot a sharp look at Flynn to check his reaction, but he merely raised an eyebrow. “Come on,” Jerry sighed, not knowing what to make of the gesture, “we’ve got work to do.”

  THEY managed to track down Michael DeShano to his office in the Crenshaw, part of a larger complex that housed several small art galleries. Jerry noted that it wasn’t all that far from the Weir by foot, and he and Flynn exchanged a significant glance as they were escorted into the office upstairs.

  As usual now, Jerry took the lead, freeing Flynn to concentrate on the speaker’s thoughts. “Mr. DeShano?” he asked by way of introduction when the receptionist had left them. “I’m Special Agent Parker. This is Special Agent Flynn. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Ms. Emily Marsden.”

  “Special agents? My, my, this is an honor. How can I help you gentlemen?” He had the same smarmy don’t-want-to-look-my-age appearance of Derek. That, coupled with his attitude, made Jerry prepared to dislike him on sight. His hair was unnaturally dark and, like Derek’s, overly long at the collar. He was wearing an expensive black silk shirt that was thin enough to reveal his nipples, and it delineated muscles that could only be maintained through an aggressive gym workout. His hair was slicked back off his forehead in a fashion reminiscent of Tom Hanks in those da Vinci movies. Flynn looked ten times hotter than he did without trying.

  Flynn kicked his shin as they were taking seats in the chairs provided. Oops. He should have soundproofed that one.

  “As you may well know, Ms. Marsden was murdered last week,” Jerry opened without preamble.

  DeShano steepled his fingers on top of his desk and looked serious. “Ah, yes. I did see that in the news. Very tragic. She was a lovely woman. How exactly does this concern the FBI? Or, for that matter, me?”

  Pity you’re so broken up over her death. “We’re talking to everyone who had a connection, past or present, to Ms. Marsden. Prior to her homicide, she’d been in contact with the bureau regarding the Grimm Fairy Tale killer case. Are you familiar with that case, Mr. DeShano?”

  DeShano blew out his breath with pursed lips. “Oh my. I take it you didn’t get a chance to speak with her about that before her death. That’s a pity. I think you would have found that Emily spent a great deal of time obsessing about that case. She was overly concerned for her safety, and I can tell you that, during the time we were dating, she thought more than once that someone she knew must have been connected with the case. Really, she wasn’t quite rational on the subject.”

  DeShano smiled, making a palms-up kind of gesture that seemed to imply “women.”

  “And yet,” Flynn said, “she was obviously right to be concerned. She did indeed know a killer.”

  DeShano blinked and seemed to take in Flynn for the first time. “Ah, well, yes. Put it that way, it’s very ironic indeed.”

  “When was the last time you saw Ms. Marsden?” Jerry asked.

  “You can’t really believe that I had anything to do with her death, can you?” DeShano asked with gentle disbelief. “Really, we broke up over a year ago.”

  “That’s not what he asked,” Flynn said smoothly.

  There was a little pregnant pause. DeShano sighed. “I’m not sure when I last ran into her. You know how that goes. We worked in the same district, we moved in the same circles, we still had some of the same friends. I might have run into her at one of the local restaurants or another gallery opening. I don’t remember exactly.”

  “Where were you last Wednesday night?” Jerry could sense the tension coming off Flynn. Steady on, buddy. Don’t let him get to you. He watched as Flynn relaxed infinitesimally in his seat.

  A sly smile broke out over DeShano’s face. “You didn’t notice the signs downstairs? We had a new exhibit opening last Wednesday night. Everyone who’s anyone was there.”

  “Anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts for the evening?” Jerry smothered his initial disappointment. Flynn sat very alertly, which made Jerry think he was picking up on something. He concentrated on appearing normal, trying not to give anything away and letting Flynn do his thing.

  DeShano rolled his eyes. “Only half a dozen gallery employees here. I had to meet with the caterers and the press and the artist himself to make sure that everything was set up for the opening and that it would run smoothly. And I had a meeting with several buyers as well. Really, Cynthia could tell you more. She knew my schedule and assisted with the buyers’ meetings. She’s downstairs. You can talk to her on your way out.” He was dismissive; the meeting was over.

  “Well?” Jerry asked Flynn on their way back down the stairs to the main floor. Flynn paused on the white and silver staircase, glancing back up the way that they’d come. “He did it all right,” he said darkly. “But now we have to prove it.”

  “And break his alibi to boot,” Jerry agreed morosely. “Did he give you anything to go on?”

  Flynn shook his head in frustration. “Bits and pieces, mostly. But I got a clear image of him putting her in the glass case.” He hesitated, glancing back up the stairs, the memory obviously disturbing to him. “He hadn’t planned on murdering her. She surprised him. He hadn’t been expecting her that night. Though what he was doing at the Weir, I don’t know.” He fell silent.

  “And?” Jerry prompted, sure there was more.

  “He didn’t realize how easy it was to kill someone. It sickened him but excited him too. He’ll kill again if he thinks it’s necessary. It flatters his ego.”

  They began to move down the stairs again. “And there was something with those buyers that was significant,” Flynn added quietly. “Not all of them were buying from the current exhibit. He was pretty smug about that. He was very smug about the opening too. There was something about it I couldn’t quite pick up, but it amused him. He was just so full of himself and how clever he was. If only he’d thought a little more precisely about how he was so clever, we might have something to focus on.”

  “Do you want to go back and ask him some more questions?” Jerry followed Flynn down the staircase, their shoes echoing on the metal treads. “We might trigger a specific memory that we can use.”

  Flynn shook his head, his mouth a grim line. “He’ll just lawyer up. No. We’ll get a statement from Cynthia and a guest list. They’re bound to have kept a registry. We might not get a telling statement from Mr. DeShano, but someone else he talked to that evening might give themselves away.”

  Cynthia had been pleased to give Special Agent Flynn a detailed itinerary for DeShano for the evening, providing a list of guests and her personal phone number as well. “In case you have any questions.” She’d flipped a red-gold lock of hair over her shoulder and smiled at Flynn.

  Flynn had taken her information and picked up a brochure on the showcased artist too.

  “Tell me,” Jerry said, shooting Flynn a don’t let me interrupt your flirting thought as he spoke. “What does one of these pieces of artwork run?”

  Cynthia slid into professional mode seamlessly. She showed them around the gallery, perhaps sensing that Jerry was a man of artistic taste, taking the time to point out the various exhibits. “This piece,” she said, indicating a large wall mural that seemed to be made up of bits of rubbish that somehow created a mosaic when they stood back from it far enough, “went for fifteen thousand.”

  Both of Flynn’s eyebrows shot into his hairline, and Jerry had to stifle a laugh.

  “What’s this?” Jerry asked curiously of the small room off to one side,
rows of chairs facing a blank wall. As he looked around the corner into the room, he noted a laptop and a projector.

  “Ah, that is where we held the viewing of Enrico’s moving performance art, The Beginning. Very powerful. A short film that reveals the gritty underbelly of the city, exposing all its weakness and flaws, yet manages to redeem it in the end.” She sounded like she was quoting a review.

  “This movie,” Flynn said slowly. “You showed it Wednesday evening at the opening? How long does it run?”

  “Yes, it was one of our premiere events.” Cynthia frowned at him. “It’s about forty-five minutes long. Why do you ask?”

  “And everyone was here for it? No one stepped out for a few minutes? You know, maybe to smoke cigarette?” Jerry could see where Flynn was going with this, and it excited him.

  Cynthia looked at Jerry as if he’d lost his mind. “Of course not. Everyone was seated and remained so during the film.”

  “Including Mr. DeShano?” Flynn asked.

  “Especially Mr. DeShano,” she said reprovingly.

  Hah. Guess you’re no longer her favorite FBI agent.

  Flynn could barely wait until they got back on the street. “She was sure that he was there, but she couldn’t remember seeing him after they dimmed the lights, and the very fact that we asked made her start to question if he was really there or not. You realize he could have slipped out during the movie?”

  “We have to find someone who can place him elsewhere, though,” Jerry reminded him. “On the street or, better yet, at the Weir.”

  “Well, we’ve got a list of people we can interview now. Pity we can’t just call them up on the phone. This is going to take another full day of making the rounds. At least.” He paused to rub his left shoulder, the one with the bullet wound. He let his hand drop to his side when Jerry wondered again what the story behind that injury was.