Paternity Case

by Gregory Ashe

  “Anything else?”

  “You get sick in the car, you’re cleaning it up.”

  “I’m not going to barf, Hazard. Jesus Christ. Like it would matter anyway.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Look, we’ve got to talk about what Jeremiah said.”

  “You don’t like my car.”

  “If Jeremiah’s telling the truth—and I’m not convinced he is—then it changes things. Someone uncuffed Stillwell earlier than I thought. Maybe as soon as I left him alone.”

  “I’ve had this car since college. It’s paid off. It runs.” Hazard fiddled with the climate control. “The heat works.”

  “Will you forget about the damn car? I don’t care about the car. I’m talking about our case. This case. Somebody shooting my father.”

  “I heard what you said. I’m not deaf. Someone uncuffed Stillwell early. Then he waited.”

  “Yeah. Why the hell did he wait?”

  “Because whoever hired him told him to wait. That’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Why? Why not turn him loose?”

  “Because the killer was waiting for something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, Somers. If I did, we’d be finished. I’m more interested in the gun.”

  For a moment, Somers raised his hand and peered out at Hazard. “Huh? What gun? Stillwell’s”

  “Exactly.”

  “Exactly what?”

  “What gun.”

  Somers let out a slow, controlled breath, like a man trying to blow out a burning fuse. “How about for us idiots? Could you start at the beginning?”

  “Where did Stillwell get the gun?”

  “I don’t know. You saw where he lived. I’m sure there are plenty of guys in Smithfield who can sell you a hot piece, no questions asked. Or the killer might have provided it. We still don’t even know why Stillwell brought the gun. Those emails, the ones we read on his computer, they didn’t say anything about a gun or about killing.”

  “Yep.”

  “For the love of—” Somers lifted his hand again. His eyes looked a few degrees below murder. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t think Stillwell took a gun to the party. I don’t even think he was hired to kill. Or, I should say, I don’t think he knew what he was being hired to do.”

  “So where did he get a gun? My parents don’t keep them in the kitchen cabinet, you know.”

  Hazard ignored the jibe. The old, familiar rush was taking over. He turned into the Crofter’s Mark’s underground parking, easing the VW out of the slush and cold and into the ventilated structure. This was how it always felt, the quickening thump in his chest, the nervous energy like he could get up and dance—yeah, he thought as a picture flashed in his mind, dance, and he saw himself grinding up on Somers—and the feeling that he had the edges of the puzzle. That was how it always started: edges first, moving in. This was why he became a cop. This was why he was a good detective. Not the physical conditioning. Not the weapons training. Not even—or at least, not only—the desire to do something good and meaningful. This: putting together the pieces. Finding order and pattern in chaos. Assembling truth.

  “That’s the other question,” Hazard said, guiding the VW into a parking spot. “Once we know that, we’ll have our killer.”

  “So you’re saying—what?” Somers had dropped his hand. He was still pale, his brow still slick and shiny with sweat, and he was obviously trying to think through what Hazard had been driving at. “Someone said that Stillwell had a gun, but he didn’t?”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “Why?” Somers shook his head, wincing. “No, I see it. That way, everyone believed he already had a gun. Everyone would believe that Stillwell had come to the party armed. Just like we did. Even after we read the emails, we assumed that he had brought a gun. If you’re right, though, then it’s more complicated than that.”

  “Too bad Jeremiah doesn’t remember who shouted gun.”

  “Doesn’t remember. Or doesn’t want to remember.”

  Hazard grunted; those words came close to his own thoughts.

  Somers spoke again, his voice thoughtful. “Jeremiah told us that the sheriff, his son, and my father were the ones who grappled with Stillwell. And Mayor Newton was right there. In fact, Mayor Newton was the one who took the bag that Stillwell was carrying.”

  “You’ve still got a hard-on for Newton?” Hazard shrugged. “It could have been any of them. Just because Newton had the bag doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Unless Newton took the opportunity to put something in the bag. Remember, Jeremiah said that he saw the bag near the TV room. It was on the floor, as though someone had discarded it.”

  Hazard shrugged.

  “It still could have been Newton,” Somers said.

  With another roll of his shoulders, Hazard opened the door and got out of the car. “I’m not saying it wasn’t him. But why force us to look into it? No, don’t answer. We’ve already gone round and round on that. I’m willing to keep an open mind.”

  As they rode the elevator to the top, Somers leaned against the mirrored wall. He looked wrecked. The mirrors threw back hundreds of John-Henry Somersets, stretching off into every direction, and all of them looked like they’d spent a couple of hours being dragged behind a garbage truck.

  “You know what I’m thinking about?” Somers said, breaking the silence between them.

  “No.”

  “You know what I’m still thinking about?”

  A warning prickle ran up Hazard’s spine. He wasn’t normally attuned to the subtle clues that people gave off—at least, not the way Somers was. But he was attuned to Somers, attuned like a goddamn lightning rod in a thunderstorm, and something in Somers’s voice, something in the thousands of cues of his chest, his hands, his jaw, something told Hazard that whatever was coming next was going to hit like a mother.

  “Homo economicus,” Somers said. He looked up. His eyes looked deeper than ever, bottomless blue, so deep that Hazard felt dizzy. “We don’t do anything because it makes sense, do we?”

  “Some of us do.”

  “You?” Somers laughed, and the sound was so genuine, so warm, that it was almost worse than if Somers had sounded cruel. “Yeah, I guess so, Ree. You’re all brains. It’s all analysis with you, calculus, planning. It’d be adorable if it weren’t so goddamn annoying.” He softened the final words with a smile. That smile could have softened steel. It could have softened the Himalayas. “The rest of us, though—hell, I’m not even talking about the rest of us. Me. I just keep fucking things up.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No, I mean—” Why was this so hard? “You’re not thinking clearly. Get some rest. We’ll pick up again in a few hours.”

  “Is that why we came home? So you can sober me up?” Somers played with the buttons of his shirt, undoing first one, then another, exposing the hollow of his throat, the firm line of his chest. Another button. And then another. The curve of his undershirt came into view. His fingers tugged at the thin white fabric, drawing it down, revealing the first swirl of the dark ink that marked his chest and arms. Hazard could follow that ink with his eyes. He wanted to follow it with his mouth. With his tongue. He wanted to trace the lines of muscle underneath. He remembered how Somers’s skin tightened at his touch, and he wanted to feel it again.

  The elevator dinged. The doors opened.

  Neither man moved.

  Somers had drawn the collar of his undershirt down further, exposing the trench that ran between his pectorals, his fingers moving lazily over smooth skin. He drew his lower lip between his teeth. His pupils were blown, his eyes lazy, and Hazard suddenly knew that this was what Somers would look like during sex, that this staggering beauty would be complemented by touch, by breath, by heat. Hazard wanted to take a step forward. That’s all he would need:
one step, and then momentum, momentum that had been building for twenty years would take over. His knees flexed. His weight shifted.

  And then the moment had passed. Somers dropped his hand, and he smirked and said, “You know what, though? You’re not as rational as you think.”

  Hazard flushed. He knew what Somers would say next: a mocking comment about how easy it was, child’s play, really, to seduce Hazard. Rationality. Analysis. Calculus. Fuck all that, the rest of Hazard’s hormone-drunk brain was saying. Fuck everything but this moment.

  Instead, though, Somers said, “Nico.”

  Shaking his head, mute, Hazard waited.

  “You and Nico. There’s nothing rational. That’s what Jeremiah made me realize. I keep looking for something rational, some reason the two of you are together. That’s not it, though. It’s not rational. Maybe it’s not supposed to be. You and—” His smirk hooked at the edges. “You and that baby.”

  “Screw you.”

  “He’s a toddler. I’m surprised he doesn’t still have a curfew.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  Together, they made their way to the apartment. Inside, the afternoon sun brightened the wood, gave it a gleam. The air still smelled like Somers’s cologne from the night before, and Hazard’s heart thudded like it was falling downhill—like it wouldn’t stop until it hit bottom.

  “No,” Hazard said when Somers opened the fridge.

  With the door open, Somers hesitated, his hand inches from a bottle of Bud Lite. Something dark—something furious, Hazard thought, like Somers wanted to hit him—darted across Somers’s face, but then he cocked his head and smiled. He snagged a water bottle instead and shut the fridge.

  “Not all of us can be rational all the time,” Somers said, popping the cap. He drank deeply. His throat bobbed in time with the swallows. Hazard felt himself starting to sweat. It was a water bottle. Just a water bottle. Lord, what could this man do if he really tried to turn up the heat? “Some of us,” Somers said, lurching towards his bedroom. “Some of us just have to shit on everything now and then.”

  “Try not to shit on this case.”

  Somers raised the water in mock-salute.

  “Two hours,” Hazard said. “Then we’re going back out.”

  “Aye-aye.”

  “Get some sleep.”

  Rolling his eyes, Somers shut the door to his bedroom, leaving Hazard alone.

  Hazard thought about going to his room, but instead he stretched out on the couch. Not because of the refrigerator. Not because of the beer. Not because Somers might try to sneak back out. Not for any of those reasons, he told himself.

  Kicking off his shoes, he squirmed on the sofa; he was a big man, and the cushions flattened under him. Something dug into his hip. Hazard fished out his mobile phone, tossed it on the coffee table, and flopped onto his side. Damn. There it was again, a block pressed against his hip. He fumbled through his pockets again, and again he retrieved a phone, but not his.

  Turning Hadley Bingham’s phone over in his hands, Hazard found himself suddenly overcome. Not by grief, not exactly. He hadn’t known Hadley. He’d seen her only once, the night she died. But the feeling persisted. It resonated inside him. It seemed to start with the glass and plastic that he held, and it reverberated through him like some sort of exotic poison, African tree frogs, something like that. A poison that entered through the skin.

  Hadley Bingham had died, and the thought tumbled inside Hazard. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Not grief, no, definitely not grief. He had to remind himself of that. For Emery Hazard, who mistrusted—

  —poison—

  —emotions, this sudden surge of feeling was uncomfortable. It was worse than uncomfortable. He tossed on the couch, as though trying to rouse himself from a bad dream. He had the sinking feeling that he might be sick.

  But he’d felt this way before, hadn’t he? He’d felt it a long time ago. There was a blank space in his memories, a spot carefully effaced. But Hazard was afraid that if he looked too closely, he’d see what had once been there. Those weeks after Jeff’s death. The weeks when he’d been close to dying himself. Not because of grief. Jesus, it sounded so archaic. Grief. Like he was some melancholy Renaissance poet. No, not grief. But he remembered, in those weeks after Jeff had put the shotgun in his mouth, Hazard remembered something like this feeling. Like looking into the stars and seeing only the empty spaces between, feeling that emptiness inside, letting it grow.

  Hazard punched at the phone’s screen. It flickered to life, displaying a photograph of a teenage girl, an arm around her shoulders. It was Hadley Bingham, and the arm around her belonged to a man. Or an older boy. Who could it be? Hazard focused on the question, trying to hedge out the memories. He wasn’t going to think about those days after Jeff had killed himself. He wasn’t going to think about—

  —the black space—

  —the stars, or anything stupid like that. He’d learned, hadn’t he? He’d learned the hard way what it meant, leaving yourself—

  —vulnerable—

  —open like that, yes, open, that was the right word, like leaving the door to the apartment open, and anybody could just walk right inside? Anybody could go through the papers on his desk, anybody could nab a beer from the fridge, anybody could rifle his dirty laundry. And that was stupid; nobody did that, not anymore. What did you do? You locked things. You locked the door tight. That wasn’t just safe; it was smart.

  But Hazard’s eyes had drifted away from the phone and the picture of Hadley Bingham and the arm across her shoulders, and he was looking at Somers’s door now, and he was thinking, Yeah, a lock, a lock on the damn door, and it didn’t help because the only person that Hazard really needed to keep outside, the only one who went through Hazard’s life rummaging and poking and upsetting everything, he lived here too. He had a key. Somers had always had a key, even back in the worst times, even back when Mikey Grames had held a knife and cut three shiny lines into Hazard’s stomach. Even then, Somers could have opened the door and walked right on in whenever he goddamn wanted. Why? Because Emery Hazard was an idiot. And Somers would do what he always did: he’d walk in, stay just long enough to turn things upside down, and then he’d leave. Like he had at Windsor last month. Like he had at Halloween. Like he had all those years ago in the locker room, nothing but one kiss between them, and here Hazard was, a grown man, and he couldn’t forget it. Most days didn’t want to forget it.

  And worst of all, here Hazard was, mooning over Somers like—like—like that same damn Renaissance poet. Gripping the phone more tightly, Hazard swiped at the screen again. That arm. Who did that belong to? One of the boys at the party, he guessed. He wasn’t sure why—the boys had been kissing each other, and the kisses hadn’t been brotherly—but it had been in the way the bigger boy had been looking at Hadley. He’d been kissing his buddy, but his eyes, his eyes had been only for Hadley. And he’d been angry. Angry enough to plan a murder? Maybe. Hazard would need to talk to the boys and see.

  A knock interrupted his thoughts. Slowly, Hazard swung his legs off the couch and made his way to the door. He hesitated, stood to the side, and reached for the .38 that he’d hung by the door. This was his home. It was the middle of the afternoon. It was a nice building in a nice part of town. But something about this case, the way it wormed through the department, through the mayor’s office, through the richest families in town, it made Hazard’s skin bugger.

  “Yeah?” he called through the closed door.

  “Emery?”

  With a grunt, Hazard undid the deadbolt and opened the door. Nico stood there, shivering in spite of his boots and parka. Doubtless, Hazard thought, he was shivering because underneath the parka, Nico was probably wearing the same ratty jeans and t-shirt that he always wore.

  “Everything ok?” Nico asked.

  Hazard realized he was holding the gun. He holstered it, leaving it by the door, and locked the door behind Nico. “Fine. W
hat’s up?”

  “Nothing. Just wanted to see what you were doing.” Nico moved deeper into the apartment, shedding the parka, then the boots, trailing winter apparel across the apartment until he stood in—yes, Hazard had predicted it—jeans and a t-shirt, both of them with so many rips and tears that they’d be better suited for the rag pile. Pulling his dark, wavy hair from its bun, Nico shook it loose. He studied the apartment as though he hadn’t been there a hundred times before.

  “You wanted to see if I was screwing Somers.”

  Heat showed under Nico’s coppery skin. No answer, just a shrug. But the blush was an answer. The shrug was an answer.

  Somers would have known what to do next. Somers would have known why Nico was feeling this way. Somers would have known how to explain. Somers would have known all of it, beginning to end. He probably would have capped the whole thing with fantastic sex. Emery Hazard, on the other hand, wasn’t likely to cap anything—from the looks of it, not for a very long time. His brain moved too quickly. His brain snapped up all the details, chewed them, and spat out an answer.

  “Your buddy at The Real Beef texted you. He said something. You stopped answering my texts, so I knew you were angry. I also knew it had something to do with Somers. Then you show up here, unannounced, and say that you wanted to see what I was up to. No phone call. No text. Last I told you, I was out working.”

  “But I was right,” Nico said. Dark eyes, very dark, the darkness—

  —between those stars—

  —that edged butterfly wings. “You’re here. He’s here.”

  “He’s in his room. Asleep.”

  “Because he got wasted at lunch. I know.”

  “Your buddy told you that too?”

  Nico’s nostrils flared. “His name’s Marcus. You know that.”

  “What do I care what his name is?”

  “You’ve met him, geez, I don’t know. A lot. Ten times.”

  “What do I care about him?”

  “He’s my friend.”

  Hazard shook his head. Moving past Nico, he collected his phone and Hadley’s from the coffee table and shoved them into his pocket. “We’re still working this case.”