Every Breath You Take

by Robert Winter

  “Well, if you’re sure. I won’t keep you, dear heart. I just want to ask if you’re free for brunch today.”

  “Umm… sure. Why not?”

  “Wonderful. Meet us at Mistral about eleven. It’s on Fourteenth Street between O and P. Will you remember that, darling, or should I have Terry send a text?”

  Zachary chuckled. “No need. I’ve got it, Joe. Mistral, Fourteenth Street. I’ll see you at eleven.”

  After another ten lazy minutes, Zachary rousted himself out of bed and pulled on his Speedo and some track pants and a sweatshirt. He stopped to grab a quick cup of coffee at the corner Starbucks and headed toward the nearby gym that also had a swimming pool. It was empty at that time of day, so he stashed his street clothes and towel at the side of the room and slipped into the cool water. One hundred lengths of the pool later, he felt vigorous and ready to face the day.

  By ten thirty he was dressed in nice but casual clothes and climbed into his car rather than taking the Metro. On a Sunday morning, he figured the drive into DC wouldn’t be too bad, and he was right. Traffic was light, and he found the restaurant easily. There was even a parking space less than a block away. All in all it was a positive, upbeat way to spend a Sunday. He practically hummed as he walked into the restaurant.

  Then he recalled what a bitch karma really could be. “Ah shit,” he muttered.

  Thomas was sitting at a table with Joe and Terry and another man about Zachary’s age. They had left an empty chair for him between Thomas and the stranger.

  Well, at least it doesn’t look like Thomas is here with a date.

  Joe spotted him as he entered and waved him over effusively while Thomas turned and gave him a friendly yet neutral nod. Zachary bent to kiss Joe on the cheek and then Terry, and slid into the empty chair.

  “Zachary, darling, this is Walter,” Joe said, and they shook hands. Walter had dark hair, glasses, and wore a sweater vest. He was pleasant-enough looking, if a bit nerdy. But then who was Zachary to make fashion judgments? Pleasant and nerdy was sort of how he saw himself.

  “Nice to meet you, Walter,” Zachary said. Walter turned red and choked out something polite in response.

  Thomas touched his shoulder lightly. “Good to see you again,” he said, and Zachary turned to face him. His stomach was in knots. It would have been easier if he didn’t catch a moment of heat in Thomas’s gaze when their eyes met.

  He managed to force out a banal greeting and did his best to match Thomas’s light tone. “Good to see you too. I love your shirt.” Of course he did—it was beautifully made and tailored to Thomas’s muscular body.

  Thomas glanced down as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing and then up at Zachary as he casually leaned back in his chair. “Glad you like it. Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” Thomas looked around for the waiter and ordered him black coffee.

  He remembered.

  Zachary turned away and stifled his disappointment at the thought of never again seeing the body under that fitted shirt. Minor regret swelled into a wave that threatened to drown his heart. They had shared one evening in Mata Hari and a few incredible hours alone—just long enough for Zachary to glimpse canyons and mountains in Thomas’s soul. But from Thomas’s reserve, Zachary understood he would never get to explore there.

  Joe’s voice brought him back to the present company as he said impishly, “Walter, Zachary just moved to Washington recently, and it occurred to me that you have a lot in common.”

  Zachary turned his attention to Walter and gave him a smile to help the poor guy relax a bit. “What do you do?” he asked.

  “Umm… I’m a financial analyst with the Treasury Department.” He said it in a strangled voice and could barely meet Zachary’s eye.

  “I work for Treasury as well, but I’m in human resources.”

  “Oh.”

  Well, that seemed to kill the topic.

  Things got a little easier after a pitcher of mimosas arrived, however, and everyone other than Walter relaxed a bit. Joe tried to get Walter to talk to Zachary. Apparently it was an attempted fix-up. Zachary appreciated the thought, but he had his doubts about Joe’s matchmaking skills.

  After Walter once again failed to respond with more than a two-word answer, Zachary said, “Joe, tell me more about your shelter.”

  Joe reached across the table to take Zachary’s hand and said, “My dear, it’s the most important thing I’ve ever done. We have thirty-five beds, and we try to feed these children one hot meal a day and give them a safe place to sleep. It’s never enough, but it’s vital to give them something. A bit of hope.”

  Terry smiled fondly at Joe as he removed his wire-framed glasses and tucked them in his shirt pocket. “That’s how we met, you know,” he said to Zachary. “Joe needed some financial help when he was setting up his foundation and learning how to handle donations.”

  Joe chortled. “A foundation. As if I were a blue-haired dowager.”

  “I think you did have blue hair at the time, didn’t you?” Terry asked.

  “At most it was a blue rinse, just to bring out my eyes.”

  “Is finding donors difficult?” Zachary asked. “I mean, an LGBT shelter is kind of a charged topic, I would think. Controversial and maybe risky for philanthropists.”

  Joe answered seriously, “We’ve been very fortunate on the monetary side.” He gave a slight glance in Thomas’s direction. “Actually on all fronts. I had no real conception of what I had undertaken, but many, many people gave their time and their talents, as well as their funds, to get the shelter open and then to make it run. We have something of a routine established, and steady financial support, so what I find most demanding now is coordination of the day-to-day operations. I insist that the teenagers who stay with us contribute through chores or odd jobs. But just organizing all the volunteers and finding supplies and spreading the word and putting a meal on the table…. Well, I may have taken our Lord’s name in vain more than once.”

  Zachary and Thomas laughed at that, and Thomas shot him a guilty look, as though embarrassed to share in the joke. That seemed curious to Zachary.

  Maybe this isn’t as easy for him as he pretends.

  Aloud he said, “I’d really like to get involved, Joe. I don’t have the money to be any use to you as a donor, but I’m super organized, and it would mean a lot to me.”

  “You treasure. Of course I’d love your help,” Joe said. “Terry will send you the address, so you just come by one evening after work. I’m there most days until seven.”

  Their meals arrived, and after a lull, Terry asked Thomas, “What’s happening up on the Hill?” Thomas told a funny story about a senator whose name he refused to mention but who fell asleep on-camera during a committee meeting televised on CSPAN. “To be fair, we were reviewing the semiannual Monetary Policy Report to Congress, and I’m sure the senator had stayed up late the night before reviewing the details,” Thomas finished drily, and everyone laughed. Terry commented on the financial reports he reviewed for some clients, and that finally got Walter talking a bit as the two of them chatted in the foreign language of accountancy.

  With everyone distracted, Thomas leaned in slightly to Zachary and said in a low voice, “I’m glad you’ll be helping Joe at Rainbow Space. He tries to do everything but he needs more hands.”

  Zachary answered, “I’m actually looking forward to it. I have a suspicion that you’re the reason his shelter is solid on the financial side, right?”

  Thomas glanced at him, obviously surprised he had connected the dots so quickly, but he didn’t answer the question. Instead he said drolly, “So. I think Joe has designs for you and Walter.”

  Zachary shrugged a bit. “He seems nice. Maybe a little quiet.”

  “Joe wants everyone in the world paired up, so be warned, if it doesn’t work with Walter, he’ll trot someone else out.”

  “It’s like he’s bringing the candy store to me,” Zachary said in an attempt to be light, but he saw in Thoma
s’s eyes a flash of pain quickly covered with insouciance. “Does Joe try to fix you up too?”

  Thomas shook his head. “No. He got that message a while back and finally gave up.”

  Zachary hadn’t intended to say it but found himself confessing, “I did ask Randy, like you told me.”

  Thomas looked both amused and sad. “I hope he backed me up.”

  “You mean did he confirm you’re an asshole? Yes, he did.” Thomas smiled at that. “Even so, you guys seem like good friends.”

  “We are. I’ve known him about two years. Ever since I got involved in the political life.”

  “I’d ask what you used to do before politics, but Randy also warned me you don’t answer questions about yourself.”

  “You already know more about me than…. Well, never mind.” Thomas looked a bit sheepish, and Zachary still had so much he wanted to ask. He realized he had still been hoping that the connection he felt with Thomas might go somewhere despite all evidence to the contrary.

  What a fool.

  He had been ignoring the rest of the table, so he returned his attention to Walter and Terry, who were debating the intricacies of governmental accounting. He was hyperaware of Thomas at his side as he talked with Joe across the table about the shelter. He could even smell Thomas’s cologne.

  Zachary tightened his shoulders and leaned slightly away. Then he asked Walter about himself. Since Walter had had a second mimosa by then, he finally seemed to relax enough to respond, and he turned to talk a bit with Zachary. They didn’t have a lot in common despite what Joe said, yet Walter’s gazes were becoming longer and perhaps a bit warm. At some point he dabbed a crumb off Zachary’s mouth with his napkin and smiled shyly.

  Zachary felt Thomas stiffen beside him, and he started to get a little angry. Thomas was the one who had said, “No dating, let’s just be friends,” and all that bullshit. Zachary was damned if he was going to pine after him.

  “Walter, would you like to get together for dinner one night this week?” he asked a little more loudly than necessary. “I still haven’t been many places, but I really want to get to know Washington.” He knew he was being childish, but fuck it. Fuck Thomas. If he was supposed to be a kid in the candy store, then maybe he’d give Walter a lick to see how he tasted.

  THOMAS FOCUSED on his conversation with Joe, but he felt every movement Zach made. It was like standing with his back to a fireplace on a cold day. Warmth and comfort were there, if he could only make himself turn around and put out his hands. But he’d be doing no favors to either of them, even though Zach clearly wanted to get to know him better. He had to shut it down.

  But why did he not want to shut Zach down? He was kind, funny, insightful. How the hell had he guessed so quickly that Thomas was a major source of funding for the shelter? Rainbow Space meant a lot to Thomas, so he was pleased that Zach wanted to help Joe there. Even though Thomas was already an adult when his parents turned their backs on him, he thought he understood the pain and terror those teenagers who found the shelter were going through. Thomas wasn’t religious, but he did believe in Joe. If Joe thought he was doing God’s work with Rainbow Space, then Thomas was on God’s side for that one.

  Somehow he knew Zach would get that. He wouldn’t think Thomas was out to impress anyone with his donations. He just honestly tried to help where it would do the most good. Like Zach seemed to want to do as well.

  Zach. He had no right even to think of him by a nickname.

  Behind him he heard Zachary ask Walter out to dinner. He supposed that was for his benefit—a way for Zachary to let him know he wasn’t waiting around, just as Thomas intended.

  But hell. Why did it hurt?

  Chapter 7

  THOMAS HEADED into the Senate office building after brunch to prepare for an upcoming negotiation and was surprised when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but it was a DC area code, so he connected anyway.

  “Mr. Scarborough, this is Detective Torres from the Metropolitan Police Department. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  “Of course, Detective. I thought I had answered your questions, though…?”

  “You did answer the questions I asked,” Torres said drily. “You told me that Brian Gallagher was a one-night stand, you had never spoken with him previously, he came into Mata Hari asking for another date, and you turned him down. Three people confirmed seeing you at the bar until eleven.”

  “Then to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” Thomas asked.

  “You neglected to mention Charles Rumson during our interview.”

  His gut clenched in reaction to the name, and Torres probably heard the sharp intake of breath. He collected himself and then said in what he hoped was a calm voice, “I can’t imagine the relevance, Detective. If you know about Rumson, then you also know he’s dead.”

  “Suicide. Yes, I found that. There were quite a few news stories about his death with pictures of you featured prominently. I guess you made for better tabloid covers. I didn’t expect you to look like a model, by the way. But it’s an odd coincidence, don’t you think?” Torres asked.

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “The restraining order Jason Scarborough took out on Charles Rumson over two years ago in Seattle recited that you had a one-night stand with him, but he then became obsessed with you to the point of breaking into your home. Now, three years later, Thomas Scarborough has a one-night stand with a man who is murdered, for no apparent reason, after he threw a drink in your face, by someone who broke into his apartment. Whoever did that took nothing, which tends to rule out robbery or even a random or drug-related break-in.

  “My captain expects immediate answers every time a white boy is murdered, so I have to get creative. Maybe bark up a few wrong trees if necessary. Follow me now?” she asked sarcastically, and Thomas sighed.

  “Yes, I understand. What do you want to know?”

  “Can we meet today? I’d rather go over this in person,” Torres said.

  “It’s Sunday. Don’t you have a life?” Thomas responded, annoyed. Then he realized he was better off getting it out of the way before Torres started to interfere with his work life. That was not something the chairwoman of his Senate committee would appreciate. “Fine. I have to be at Mata Hari this afternoon to go over some financial matters with Mr. Vaughan. Can we meet there?”

  “Three o’clock?”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  THOMAS PULLED his blue Maserati into the parking lot between Mata Hari and Pyramid. On a Sunday afternoon, it was typically empty except for a few people who parked illegally before heading up P Street for brunch somewhere. He was itchy and irritated at the thought of having to relive the story of Charles Rumson, both for what it had done to derail Thomas’s life and because the Secret Service investigation at the time meant Detective Torres was probably wasting everybody’s time. Images flashed through his memory—tabloid covers with his face staring out, the wreckage of Rumson’s car at the bottom of a cliff, Rumson’s parents being herded into the cemetery. He drummed his fingers angrily on his steering wheel as he stared out at the parking lot and was briefly tempted to call a tow truck on the parked cars.

  “Don’t be an asshole, Scarborough,” he said aloud. Then he got out, locked his car, and let himself in to Mata Hari. Randy had the house lights on, and a barback named Malcolm was setting new kegs of beer in place for the evening. Thomas pocketed his sunglasses as he called out a greeting.

  “Hey, Mr. Scarborough. Randy’s in his office,” Malcolm said and pointed with his head because his hands were busy.

  “Thanks, Mal. Hey, if you’re still around in about thirty minutes, a woman is coming to see me. Can you let us know when she gets here?”

  “No problem,” Malcolm said and then grunted, “C’mon, you motherfucker,” as he tried to get a keg set.

  Thomas made his way back to the office where Randy was working at his computer. He glanced up as Thomas entered and nodded toward
a hard copy of a financial statement sitting on his desk.

  “Figured it would be easier to have you read paper than look over my shoulder,” Randy said. Then he noticed the look on Thomas’s face. “Who pissed in your Wheaties?” he asked.

  “That detective, Torres. She’s coming by at three. She wants to know about Rumson.”

  Randy’s eyes went wide. “What? That piece of shit is two years in the ground. How did his name come up?”

  Thomas replayed his short conversation with Torres, and Randy shook his head. “She must be desperate for a lead. I ran that investigation on you myself when Grace brought you on board. Ten witnesses saw him drive off the cliff. The car was in Rumson’s name, and his family ID’d the body right away. It isn’t like there were any loose ends.”

  “I know. Believe me.” The burning in Thomas’s gut had turned to worry, and he was nauseated. “Randy, you don’t think it could happen again, do you? Could I have picked up another stalker?”

  Randy stood up and came around the desk to grip Thomas’s shoulders in his huge hands. “No fuckin’ way. That shit is like lightning. It doesn’t strike twice. I get that you fucked Gallagher, but I’d seen him around. He was no Boy Scout. The odds of it having any connection to you are minimal.”

  Thomas nodded, heartened by Randy’s assessment. “You’re probably right. Look. Since Torres dug up Rumson, she may want to know shit your Secret Service team found. Can we talk to her together, so maybe this whole thing gets put to rest at once?”

  Randy said, “Sure, buddy. Let’s knock out the cash flow report until she gets here.”

  DETECTIVE TORRES settled into a chair in Randy’s office and crossed her legs as she quirked her head at the bartender. “Do you have something to add to this discussion, Mr. Vaughan?”

  “I might,” Randy said. “Do you know how I met Thomas?” She shook her head, and Randy said, “Let’s get that out of the way first. I used to be the head of the Secret Service detail for Senator Grace Gilbert.”