Broken Protocol (Smoke & Bullets)

by A. R. Barley

  Dante put the last few details into his report, dotting every i and crossing every t. The case was thin enough. He wasn’t going to give the captain a reason to show them the door. He pushed the file across to Finn. “What do you think?”

  Finn read the entire thing. His fingers tapped against his desk. He slid his chair back to give him a few more inches of space and read it a second time. “You going to show this to the captain?”

  “Yup.”

  “Can I come too?” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m your partner and this is affecting my tribe. If you need backup, I’m going to be there.”

  Dante frowned. His partner might be sincere, but he was still green enough to make a leprechaun jealous. The captain wasn’t exactly known for his kindness to new detectives. Finn’s support could do more harm than good. On the other hand, it would be a good learning experience for him.

  “Keep your head down and your mouth shut unless Grady asks you a direct question,” he said. “And don’t argue. No matter what happens. Just ‘yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir.’ He’s the captain, and you’ve been out of uniform for less than a month. You ain’t shit.”

  His cell phone buzzed and he picked it up in case it was important. Luke: You left.

  Dante thumbed open the messenger program and responded quickly: Work. Figured you wouldn’t rob me blind if I let you sleep.

  I’m eating the rest of the Indian.

  Guess I was wrong.

  Next time you can make me pancakes.

  There wasn’t going to be a next time. Dante stuffed his cell back into his pocket, ignoring the follow-up buzz a few seconds later. “Let’s go.” He tucked his report under his shoulder, collected his partner, and headed into the captain’s office. A few minutes’ awkward conversation and he’d be able to work the case the right way, with department resources.

  At least that was the idea.

  Captain Grady didn’t see it the same way. “Don’t you have actual cases to work on?” The captain had a heavy white mustache, a scar on his cheek, and damp spots under his arms. According to the stories, he’d been a good cop when he was younger but he’d lost his edge. He didn’t like taking risks. “This thing you’ve got here is a dog. It needs to be taken out in the woods and shot.”

  Dante balanced easily on the balls of his feet. He might not wear a slick suit and work in an office with doors, but he’d put in enough time on the job to have his voice heard. “I think the matter is worth investigating,” he said a little louder than he’d meant. “Sir.”

  “How’d you hear about this anyway?”

  “I got a tip from Luke Parsons—”

  “Charlie’s kid?” Grady blinked twice. “He’s a cop? What precinct is he working out of?”

  “Luke’s a fireman.”

  “Your brother’s a hose monkey?” Grady laughed. “Firefighting’s the second-most honorable profession involving a brass pole, and the first one cost me my damn marriage.” He turned to glare at Finn. “You agree with your partner? Think this case has merit?”

  “Yes, sir.” Finn still couldn’t hide his emotions worth a damn. At least he’d managed to remember Dante’s advice about arguing. “If you read the files, there’s a definite pattern.”

  “We’re talking about a couple muggings, not a murder spree.”

  “Muggings that target a vulnerable minority, sir. The violence is escalating with each encounter. This week it’s broken noses and busted lips, but he’s got a gun. It’s only a matter of time until he uses it. Then it won’t be a mugging. It’ll be a hate crime.”

  “A hate crime.” Grady considered for a long minute. “That’s some imagination you’ve got.”

  This conversation was going off the rails, and Dante couldn’t do a damn thing about it. All he could do was stand there and watch as their last chance of getting the captain’s blessing crashed and burned along with Finn’s career.

  “Of course it’s a hate crime,” Finn said. “They were targeted because of their sexuality.”

  “Hard to be sure.”

  “Yeah, or maybe it’s just hard to care.” Finn’s lips were twisted in an expression somewhere between disgust and contempt.

  The captain’s mouth was half-open. His face was beet-red. A vein bulged on the side of his face. “Get out of my office. Now.”

  For a moment it looked like Finn was going to argue. Idiot. But something about the captain’s tone of voice must have alerted him to just how much trouble he was in. Some previously unknown instinct for self-preservation must have kicked in because he bolted like a rabbit who’d just spotted a particularly ugly-looking hawk.

  “What kind of idiots are they letting into the academy these days?” Grady snarled.

  “Standards have definitely slipped.”

  “Yeah, well, you know what they call a guy who doesn’t pass the police exam?” He didn’t give Dante time to answer. “A firefighter.”

  Dante forced his smile onto his face. Unlike Finn, the captain seemed to like it. His shoulder muscles tensed as Grady slapped him on the back.

  “You were a great undercover officer. I’ve got letters in your file from the state police, the FBI. If you ever want to jump ship to the feds, I know they’d take you in a heartbeat.”

  “I’m happy here.”

  “Good to know,” Grady said. “I know coming back to the Department’s been an adjustment, and I don’t want you to think we don’t value your input. You’re doing good. Keep your head down, solve the cases you actually get assigned, and you might actually get ahead in the Department.”

  “Thank you for the advice.”

  “Uh-huh.” Grady’s mouth puckered at the edges. “If you’re going to keep looking into this mugging thing, do it on your time—or at least get your real work done first. The Department isn’t here to sponsor your pet projects. And, next time you bring it up I want an eyewitness with a description of the doer. Something rock-solid. Not this smoke-and-mirrors bullshit.”

  “Anything else?”

  “You want to keep your partner, you get that kid out of my sight. I don’t care if you have to chain him up in the supply closet—might actually do him some good—I don’t want to see him for at least a week.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dante waited patiently for the captain to nod before leaving his office.

  It took Dante twenty minutes to track down Finn at the small coffee stand across the street from the precinct. His muscles didn’t loosen up the entire time. If anything they tightened up even more. His skin was hot where the captain had slapped him on the back. All of a sudden his shirt was too small. The crisp cotton tightened around his neck, strangling him.

  Finn had gone too far—he’d pushed too hard—but it wasn’t just anger that had caused him to lash out. He was afraid. Someone was attacking gay men in New York City and eventually the names in the folders weren’t going to belong to faceless strangers. Finn could be next on the mugger’s hit list.

  Or Luke.

  Dante nodded at the barista. “Coffee, black—wait.” He held up a hand to stop her before she could pour. What had Luke been drinking the other day? “Do you have a mocha with cayenne?”

  “Sorry.” The barista batted her long black lashes in Dante’s direction. She really was pretty. Green eyes. He liked green eyes. “I’ve got some chili powder if you want something with a kick in it.” Her nose wrinkled up slightly. “It might be a little old.”

  “Black coffee’s fine.” He paid for his drink and joined Finn at a table in the back.

  “Do I need to call my union rep?” Finn asked.

  “Nope.” Dante took a long sip, letting his partner stew in his own unhappiness for a few more minutes. He’d earned it.

  “Luke really your brother?”

  Dante ignored the question. They had more important things to talk about. “You want to tell me exactly what you did back there?”

  “I lost my temper—”

  “That’s not it.”

  “I was disrespectful to
the captain, and I’m sorry about that—”

  “Calling him a bigot was a dumb move.” Dante stretched his legs out under the table and retrieved his phone from his pocket. “The real problem? You argued back after I told you not to. I’m the senior partner in this relationship. I’ve been doing this job for years, and—in case you haven’t noticed—I’m not a shit-kicker. I know what I’m talking about. If you don’t want to be reassigned, you need to listen to me.”

  Finn stared at him for a long moment. He shifted uneasily under his light blue suit. “I didn’t think you cared.”

  “Keep fucking up and I won’t.” Dante checked the home screen on his phone. There hadn’t been any more texts while he was meeting with the captain.

  He drank some more coffee. They should be talking about one of the cases they’d been officially assigned, but first... “Talk to me about the club scene. How does it work?”

  His partner stared at him for a long minute. “I know your reputation. Don’t tell me you’ve never been clubbing.”

  “I’ve never been to a gay club.”

  “Neither have I.” Finn shrugged. “I like men. I’m not a stereotype. I meet guys at the gym or the bookstore or—fuck—online, and when I have a boyfriend we go to bars and restaurants. I don’t go to nightclubs.”

  Maybe Dante’d made a mistake warning his partner away from Luke at Smoke & Bullets. Finn went on dates at restaurants. He had boyfriends. If Luke went out with him, he’d be safe instead of searching for true love online.

  Dante felt sick just thinking about it. Anything might have happened.

  Anything still could.

  They had to find this guy.

  Fast.

  Of course, if Luke and Finn did end up going out together, Dante would be stuck listening to his partner natter on about their relationship. He’d hear all about their dates. Worse, they might end up going out as a group: Luke and Finn, Dante and some woman who wouldn’t stick around once she realized that dating a cop meant long hours, random interruptions, and an all-around bad attitude.

  Would they kiss at the end of the night?

  Luke and Finn coming together passionately. Dante’s phone slipped from his fingers. He took a deep breath. Luke and Finn weren’t going out together. Luke wasn’t interested. Probably. Hopefully.

  No one was going to be kissing anyone.

  Dante had kissed Luke. He’d puckered up and put his lips to Luke’s cheek. It had been wonderful. He pulled out a mental two-by-four and beat that thought back down into his deep lurking subconscious.

  Growing up, Dante had bounced from place to place, following his alcoholic mother and her increasingly violent string of boyfriends. Her death had almost been a relief. No more beer bottles chucked his way when he came home from school. No more fists in the night.

  Dante had left home with a smile on his face and a song. The smile had lasted right up until he realized just how hard life on the streets could be for a young boy. Beer bottles and fists weren’t the worst of it.

  Charlie had rescued him from that. The detective had tracked him down every night for a month, offering to take him to a shelter, children’s services, or—finally—into his own home. He’d treated Dante with dignity and respect. He’d taught him how to be a man.

  Dante couldn’t repay him by seducing the man’s precious son. It was wrong, a sin. Charlie deserved better than that. Luke deserved better than that.

  Chapter Seven

  Next time you can make me pancakes. The words echoed in Luke’s head as he pulled himself up onto the back of the firetruck. The blaring sirens should have been able to drown them out.

  No such luck.

  Next time you can make me pancakes. There wasn’t going to be a next time. Dante’s place might be everything kids dreamed about after watching absurd sitcoms featuring chefs and lingerie buyers living large in lush Manhattan apartments, but Luke wasn’t going back. Not anytime soon. He knew when he wasn’t wanted, and Dante didn’t want him. “I always see you,” Dante had said, like that was supposed to mean something.

  Too bad it wasn’t true.

  Dante might be family, but he hadn’t been around for years. It wasn’t just birthdays and holidays that he’d missed. It was the little things, life’s ordinary celebrations. He hadn’t shown up at Luke’s college graduation or bought him a beer when he’d joined the fire department. He’d been back in the city long enough to build a two-inch pile of paperwork on the corner of his desk, but he hadn’t stopped by to see Luke once.

  Of course, there’d been that kiss.

  Luke squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn’t going to think about the kiss. It wasn’t real. It had been a fantasy, a hallucination brought on by too much Indian food and not enough sleep.

  “You okay?” Troy nudged him hard. Between the elbow in his side and the force from the moving vehicle, Luke stumbled hard. His eyes slammed open. His leg twisted awkwardly, and he hit the bank of equipment. Damn. Pain spiked through him. Not good.

  Troy’s lips twitched up into a sheepish smile. “You don’t have to answer that.”

  Luke flipped him the bird. He shoved a hand down, levering himself back into a standing position. They hadn’t even gotten to the fire, and he was already injured. His day just kept getting better and better. Of course, waking up alone in Dante’s apartment meant it could only get up. He’d felt like Goldilocks, rummaging through the refrigerator for something to eat, and then he’d sent that stupid text.

  Maybe he could sneak into the police station and delete it while Dante was on break. No one would notice, except a hundred-plus trained law enforcement officers.

  Shit. There was no taking it back, especially not when Dante had probably already seen the damn thing. Luke just needed to cross his fingers and hold his breath. If he was lucky, Dante would interpret the text as playful. Pancakes were important in the Parsons household. They were Sunday mornings and surprises. Maybe it would remind Dante of the children they’d been so many years ago.

  Or he could see it as flirtatious.

  Something fluttered low in Luke’s belly. He hadn’t been flirting. Maybe. Probably.

  It was confusing. Somewhere between the hot food and the warm surroundings, fantasy and reality had warped. The man he’d spent his formative years dreaming about had smiled at him, and Luke had completely lost the plot.

  Then there’d been the kiss.

  It was real.

  It hadn’t been a fantasy. Luke’s imagination wasn’t that good. He might dream about good deeds and rough sex, but soft lips? Tenderness? Not a chance.

  “Dude.” Troy gave him another nudge.

  Luke blinked twice. What the hell? Except the sirens had stopped blaring and the truck had stopped moving under his feet. Around him the air was full of noise and movement. They’d arrived at their final destination and he didn’t even know what was on fire. Damn. He’d missed the captain’s rundown while he was obsessing about the situation with Dante. He gave his helmet another tug. “I’m following you.”

  “Yup.” Troy’s lips tipped downward. “Are you sure you’re okay? We’re supposed to be going in.”

  “I’m not going to let a building fall on you,” he promised. “Alex is like my best friend. He’d kill me if I let anything happen to your pretty face.”

  “Fuck you,” Troy said. “I’m your best friend.” He pushed past Luke and clambered down onto the street. His long legs stretched out, leading the way over to a gangly apartment building with smoke spewing from its upper reach. His equipment was already in place, but he flipped down his faceplate and adjusted the tank on his back. “Some asshole decided he wanted to violate his lease and light up in his apartment.”

  “That’s a lot of smoke for a cigarette fire.”

  “Yeah, well, his neighbor had an oxygen tank.”

  Fire and compressed air were an explosive mixture. Luke hustled to catch up. “Anyone know how many people are home at this time of day?”

  “That’s what we’r
e going to find out.”

  After that things got serious fast. The apartment building was over a century old, and the years hadn’t been kind. If the cracked mirrors and glitzy gold trim in the lobby was anything to go by, the last renovation had occurred in the ’70s. The floors were chipped avocado Formica. The hall ceilings were textured. There was an out-of-order sign on the elevator that was old enough to drink.

  “Damn.” Troy shoved open the door to the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. Stupid giant. Luke’s legs burned as he followed him up. His thigh ached from the stumble in the truck. There’d be at least one bruise when he peeled off his pants. Not that it mattered with the trouble still raging overhead.

  Late one night after a hard shift and one too many beers, Troy’d explained that he liked to listen to the fire. He swore up and down that he could actually hear the fire’s path in the crackling flames and creaking structures. Luke didn’t know if it was true, but Troy definitely had a gift for picking his way through the inferno.

  For Luke, the fire was a math problem. Every spark and flicker was another point of information on the graph paper in his head. He charted it all like a complex equation, and the farther it got from zero the worse things were.

  The higher up they got in the apartment building the more the number in his head grew. People passed them on the stairs, clutching at their most important belongings. A man held on to his computer like it held the answers to life itself. A blonde coed clutched at a sputtering cat. A sleepy-eyed woman with short ginger hair shouldered a heavy duffel. “Ms. Eva make it out?” she called on her way by.

  “Friend of yours?” Troy asked.

  “My great-aunt. Top floor, apartment 804. She’s a hundred years old if she’s a day. Mean as spit.” The woman didn’t sound particularly worried, but for a brief moment her eyes connected with Luke’s. She was crying. “She never leaves her apartment.”