by Gregory Ashe
“Gray, if you lie to me right now, we’re done. I’ll go to Cravens, and I’ll ask her to put me with Moraes or Carmichael; you can go with the other one. That’s my plan if I get so much as a twitch on my bullshit meter. Do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand that I love Emery and I’m going to marry him?”
An ugly flush moved behind the freckles, and Dulac said, “Yes.”
“Do you understand that nothing is going to happen between you and me? No more jokes about threesomes or foursomes. No more innuendo. If you’ve got the slightest hint of a fantasy that someday we’re going to be more than partners, then we need to work with different people.”
“Dude!”
“It’s unprofessional, but that’s just scratching the surface. It’s a violation, too. I don’t know how you got some of those pictures. Did you steal them? Jesus, Gray. Maybe I don’t want to know. But the bigger problem is that it’s affecting what we do. And the people we do this for, they deserve our best efforts.”
“It hasn’t affected our work.”
“You’re taking fake sick days.”
“I am sick. And anyway, it doesn’t matter because you and Hazard solved it. Like you always do.”
“You know this part of the case, getting all the pieces in place for court, this is as important as the rest of it. Making sure everything is done correctly. Making sure everything is airtight. Right now, look me in the eyes and tell me you understand everything I’ve just told you.”
“I understand, dude, but—”
“But what? Jesus, Gray, I’ve taken your side every time someone talks shit about you, and then I have to find out about this from your boyfriend? I don’t have time for this; I’ve got enough trouble keeping my own boyfriend.”
Dulac shrank back into the sofa and nodded. “Ok. I understand.”
“Those pictures—”
“No. Please, God, no. I’ll just leave town or get hit by a train or throw myself in the river so I never have to look you in the face again. But please don’t talk about that.”
Anger leeched out of Somers, and exhaustion filtered in to take its place; he’d been up most of the night with Hazard, and now this. He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, Gray: I want both of us to think about this. I’m not trying to be an asshole, but it’s just too weird. I think it’d be better if we worked with other people. I won’t say anything else to Cravens besides that. You’re a good detective, and you can do good work. I just don’t think you should do it with me.” He took a step toward the door. “Take the day. Come back tomorrow. I promise I won’t say anything to Cravens before we talk about this one more time.”
Dulac had his head in his hands; Somers waited for some kind of acknowledgment, but nothing came, and he moved toward the door.
“Bro, I . . . oh my God. It’s over, ok? Hold on. Just hold on. That stuff with the pictures, it’s over.”
Somers turned back.
Gray was scrubbing his face with both hands, and then he launched up from the sofa and began to pace. “I made an asshole of myself when we met, you remember? At that dorm? And then you were so cool about it. You’re cool about everything, in fact. And you’re hot. And Jesus Christ, I’m burning up, hold on.” He toggled the lock on the sliding door, yanked it open a few feet, and slumped against the glass. The spring air worked its way slowly through the room; on his next breath, Somers tasted grass and fresh mulch. “If you ever tell Emery this, I’m going to lose my shit, bro. Honest to God: lose my shit. Well, I’ll probably be dead, so it won’t matter. Yeah, I kind of had a thing. Just at the beginning. Just for a few months. I swear to God.”
“Gray—”
“No, dude. I swear it. I told you: you were so nice to me, on top of being this smoking older detective, and I just, like—”
“Older?”
“And then,” Gray said, spinning away from the sliding door, “there was this night at your house, and we ordered pizza, and you were giving me this back rub, and I thought, maybe, you know.” He lifted one shoulder. “And then I met Darnell, and you and Emery got engaged, and I realized it wasn’t going to happen. The end. I will swear that on my mother’s grave.”
“That doesn’t explain the pictures.” Somers stopped. “And you said you had lunch with your mom last week, so you can’t swear on her grave.”
“Bro, it’s a figure of speech.” Dulac bit his lip. “Most of the pictures, I got online. When I was just, you know, interested.”
“Not my senior football picture. I know that wasn’t printed anywhere.”
“The Wahredua Courier—”
“I told you what I was going to do if you tried to bullshit me. I know they never printed that picture.”
Gray swallowed and tucked his chin. “I, uh. I went to the high school. Told them I was putting together slides for a work event. They let me have whatever I wanted.”
Wiping his mouth, Somers tried to choose his next words carefully. “You realize how batshit insane that sounds?”
“Bro,” Dulac said, and he was crying again, wiping his face with hard dashes.
“You sound like a stalker, Gray. Like you’re obsessed.”
“I know. When I figured out, you know, you weren’t interested in me, it was like I was waking up from a bad trip. I couldn’t believe how fucking stupid I’d been. But it’s over. You’re marrying Emery. I get it. I swear to Christ, it’s over, and you’ve got nothing to worry about. I was going to delete the pictures, but then I thought maybe I could do something with them for the wedding, you know, like some kind of surprise. Honestly, I’d kind of put it out of my head until Darnell found them. Dude, you’ve got to forgive me. I’m so fucking embarrassed I want to die, and you’re the best, and we’re a fucking amazing team, and I want to learn as much as I can from you before Hazard puts you in diapers and feeds you mush.”
Sighing, Somers said, “I’m not that close to retirement, Gray.”
“Um, yeah,” Dulac said, a hint of his old smile creeping out. “I was talking about this weekend. I just figured that was one of your kinks.”
“Goodbye,” Somers said. “Maybe take a few more sick days.”
He was at the door when Dulac caught him; the younger man reached out, as though to grab Somers, and then pulled back.
“Dude, so, are we like, you know? Ok?”
“No. I don’t know. This is really weird, ok? I need some time to wrap my head around it.”
“I swear, John-Henry. I fucking swear it: this is done, and it’s not going to be an issue, and I’m not a fucking psycho.”
In the hallway outside the apartment, a woman was telling someone to hurry up before they missed the bus.
“Did you apologize to Darnell?” Somers asked.
“I texted him a million times. He won’t reply.”
“Did you explain the pictures to him the way you explained them to me?”
“No, he . . . he wouldn’t even let me talk. He was really, really mad.”
“He was really, really hurt. Drive over there, fix this shit you’ve gotten yourself into, and figure out how to keep him in your life. Today, Gray. Tomorrow, I expect you back at work.”
“Yeah.” A huge smile split Dulac’s face. “Yeah, dude. Totally.”
“And Gray?”
“Yeah, yeah?”
“Delete those pictures. Every copy. Every backup. And don’t do anything this fucking weird again. Am I clear?”
“Bro,” Dulac said, “you’re so clear you’re like this huge, shimmering diamond floating in a perfectly clear sky.”
Somers shook his head. “I get the worst goddamn partners,” he muttered as he let himself out into the hall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
APRIL 2
TUESDAY
11:35 AM
HAZARD SPENT MONDAY with his mom; Somers came back that night, and things were better, even if they weren
’t great. On Tuesday, Somers drove to Wahredua at the crack of dawn. Hazard got back into bed after seeing him off. He drifted, not quite falling back asleep. When he rolled onto his stomach, he smelled Somers’s hair on the pillow, and his eyes got hot and stinging as he tried to process Somers driving the hours here and back these last few days just so they could share a bed. Hazard tried to do what he usually did: brick away the emotions before they could overpower him. Something had changed, though. He visualized a leak in a dam, a jet of water that had forced its way through a crack, shooting forward with the pressure of the water behind it. Was he going to be like this for the rest of his life, crying because he smelled a pillow or because the water in the shower was too hot—that was yesterday—or because he couldn’t find the creamer—that was before Somers left that morning.
In the kitchen, his mom was moving around, accompanied by the clatter of dishes and then the burble and hiss of the coffeemaker. Hazard dried his face with the sheet, but he just lay there, not ready to get up.
When his phone rang, he checked the screen, thought about ignoring it, and then answered.
“Emery?” Darnell said.
“I’m not with John and Dulac.”
“I know.” Darnell cleared his throat. “I’m very sorry about your dad.”
Hazard squeezed his eyes shut and nodded because his throat was too tight. Then he remembered it was a phone call, and he forced himself to say, “What do you need?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. I tried calling John-Henry, but he’s not answering.”
“If this is about Dulac—”
“No,” Darnell said, the word clipped. The line sounded like it had gone dead; from the living room came the whir of the vacuum starting up.
“Darnell, I don’t know what you want.”
“I have it. You know. The thing John-Henry brought me. It’s ready.”
“What?”
“That external hard drive,” Darnell said, the words a whisper. “The encryption was decent ten years ago, but nowadays it’s—”
Hazard sat up fast. “You have the hard drive?”
“John-Henry didn’t tell you? He asked me to—”
“And it’s decrypted?”
“Yeah. I didn’t look at it, though. I figured you might not—”
“Don’t look at it.” Hazard glanced around the room; no clock. He peeled the phone away and checked the display. “I’ll be there by one. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t let anyone else get close to that data.”
“I work from home,” Darnell said. “But I was going to run an errand—”
“Don’t go anywhere,” Hazard said, and then he disconnected the call. He dragged on jeans, an AC/DC t-shirt that smelled clean, and socks and sneakers. Grabbing keys and his partially destroyed wallet, he jogged down the hall.
His mom was stirring creamer into a mug. “Morning, muffin. How’d you sleep? I didn’t even hear John-Henry leave this morning; I could have slept through the resurrection, I think. Where are you—”
“I have to go, Mom. It’s for a case. It’s important.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back tonight.”
“Bunny, you don’t have to come back. I’m fine, really.”
“I’ll be back tonight,” Hazard said again, and then he sprinted out the door.
On the drive back to Wahredua, he pushed the Odyssey as much as he dared, careful to slow down on stretches of highway he knew were speeding traps and taking risks when he thought he could get away with it. Slowly, the rolling farmland grew hillier, and more and more often, freshly planted fields of alfalfa, wheat, and corn were broken up by limestone bluffs bristling with oaks and pines. It was twelve fifty when he turned off the state highway onto a gravel road. It was twelve fifty-six when he parked in front of Darnell’s trailer.
When Darnell opened the door, the big man looked like he’d been in a car wreck: the deep hollows under his eyes made Hazard think of being hit with an airbag. As he let Hazard in and gestured down the hall, he said, “Did Gray say anything—”
“That’s John’s department,” Hazard said, pushing past Darnell. “Ask him.”
An expensive-looking desktop computer was set up in Darnell’s office, with two massive displays set at an angle on the desk. Hazard dropped into the chair, opened the File Explorer, and waved at the door.
“The unencrypted data—” Darnell began.
“I see it. Give me five minutes.”
“That’s technically a work computer,” Darnell said. “I really shouldn’t leave you alone—”
“Out,” Hazard said.
Darnell lingered in the doorway for a moment, dry washing his hands, and then the big man moved out of the room.
First, Hazard sorted the data by file type: videos, then pictures, then documents, then spreadsheets. He was interested in the spreadsheets—who wouldn’t be?—but the possibility of an incriminating photo or video was too strong a lure. The photographs were either innocent (Sackeman and various friends and family) or the kind of pornographic material that, in the twenty-first century, was the blackmail equivalent of farting in public: the kind of voters Sackeman was courting wouldn’t bat an eye at a few titty pictures on the hard drive. Hazard needed something more . . . exotic.
He found it in the videos, which were much more interesting. When the mask came off and he recognized Sackeman’s face, Hazard smiled. He double checked that the files were safely stored, disconnected the external hard drive, and took it with him.
“You didn’t make any copies?” Hazard said when he got to the trailer’s front room.
“Most people would say thank you,” Darnell said, rubbing under his eyes.
“Did you make copies, or didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t. You know what? Gray’s right: sometimes, you really are an asshole.”
The comment was so unlike anything Hazard had ever heard Darnell say that it made him pause and reconsider the man. “Something’s wrong?”
“No,” Darnell said, fiddling with one strap of the overall. “Is that all you needed?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll see you later.”
Hazard knew—from one of Somers’s more memorable phrasings—that sometimes he had all the sensitivity of scrap metal. He examined Darnell’s face, swore, and said, “What is it?”
“Goodbye, Emery.”
“No, tell me. What’s going on?”
“Gray came over yesterday. He . . . he tried to patch things up, and I don’t know. I’m just so upset with him that I can’t even listen to him.”
“This really isn’t my field; I’ll tell John to call you.”
“No, Christ. That’s the last thing I need. Just—you can just go. Goodbye. I’m sorry again about your dad.”
“Fine,” Hazard said. “I tried.” He reached for the door. Then he stopped. “So what did Dulac do?”
“Nothing.”
“And what did he say yesterday?”
“Honestly? I have no idea. I could barely hear him.”
“Did he damage his vocal cords? Or are you having problems with your hearing?”
“My hearing is fine,” Darnell said, giving the overall’s strap another tug. “And he was talking in a normal volume. God, is this what you’re like with John-Henry?”
“Like what?”
“Never mind.”
“So he didn’t do anything wrong, and you didn’t listen to him when he tried to apologize. Sounds like my kind of fight.”
“Yeah, have a laugh.”
Hazard tucked the hard drive under one arm. “Do you have any beer?”
“What?”
“My mom didn’t have any beer in the house. I would kill for a beer.”
“Yeah,” Darnell said, glancing at the clock over the TV. “I guess it’s five o’clock somewhere.”
He came back with two cans of Sam Adams, and Hazard popped the top and sucked the foam from his knuckles. Darnell opened
his own beer and dropped back onto the sofa. For a moment, neither man said anything. Darnell took a single sip of the beer; Hazard took a longer drink, and then a second. Through the trailer’s thin walls came the sound of birds calling to each other. To Hazard, they sounded like a species of warbler. Weesy weesy weesy. The song got softer in the middle, and Hazard found himself straining to hear it.
“I wasn’t joking,” Hazard said.
Darnell picked up his beer again and ran his thumb around the raised aluminum rim.
“When I said that sounds like my kind of fight,” Hazard said. “I wasn’t making a dig. I guess my thing is to shut down when things get really bad. Not just with John. With my . . . with everyone.”
His eyes were stinging again; he thought of that goddamn pillow, which had started everything off on the wrong foot this morning.
Darnell trailed his thumb down the side of the can.
“I guess,” Hazard said, “what I mean is, I wish I had done a little more talking. And maybe a little more listening, although fuck knows I do enough listening sometimes. John wants to talk during every commercial break. Every fucking one.” He put the beer to his lips and chugged the rest of it. “I don’t know what I’m saying; I told you this isn’t my field.”
“No,” Darnell said. “That helps.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Yeah.” When Hazard was at the door, Darnell said softly, “Thanks.”
Hazard carried the hard drive to the minivan, sat behind the wheel, and called Glenn Somerset. Then he drove to the park. There were a lot of parks in Wahredua, many with playgrounds, many where he had taken Evie to spend an afternoon. But there was only one park that he called the park: an urban block of old-growth oaks, long green stretches, and small hills. He parked farther away than usual, and he cut through a stand of willows instead of using the entrance he normally did, which was on the same street as the police station. On this side of the park, no gravel paths interrupted the trimmed fields of St. Augustine grass; he had to jump across the dry bed of a runoff ditch that the city had installed for heavy rains. By the time he got to the top of the hill, his body was warm and loose, a light coating of sweat on his forehead.
