by Morgan Brice
“Wow,” Ben said. “I think we stepped in it, without meaning to.”
“Yeah. I’m just not sure who to blame, because Chason and Cafaro died a long time ago.”
“Ambrose didn’t, relatively speaking. Susan was right—those people he named in the letter might have a lot invested in not being called to account.”
“Running me over seems like a messy way to handle it.” Erik shifted his weight and grimaced. “Sorry. Stiff—and not in a good way.”
Ben gently peeled back Erik’s shirt and caught his breath at the red skin just beginning to mottle in darker shades. “You really slammed into that parked car.” Erik’s bruises looked almost as bad as his own from hitting the window seat.
“Beats being roadkill. Although it means an extension on that rain check. I can’t think of a position—top, bottom, or side—that wouldn’t hurt.”
Ben stroked his fingers through Erik’s soft hair. “That’s all right. I can wait. You’re worth waiting for.” When had he gotten downright sappy? With Erik, apparently, because Ben sometimes didn’t recognize the words that came out of his own mouth.
“Sorry,” Erik said.
“Shh. You’re safe. That’s what matters.” If the van had hit Erik, they’d have had this conversation in a hospital room, assuming Erik was able to talk at all. Knowing that he’d almost lost Erik, before they really had a chance to get started, made Ben’s heart ache.
“I don’t know what to do,” Erik said in a hushed voice. “I’m new in town. I don’t know how much we can trust the cops. Dorchester—that guy shows up every time there’s a problem. It’s spooky.”
“It’s a small police force,” Ben reminded him. “So odds are good you’d see the same cops over and over. It’s not like a big city where there are precincts.”
“I don’t think he likes me.”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like me,” Ben replied. “It’s been a long while since I was a beat cop, but we always were suspicious if the same people kept showing up. It usually meant trouble.”
“I just feel like this is one of those times where you can’t stuff the genie back into the bottle. We didn’t start out looking to cause problems or dig up dirt. The dirt kinda chose us. But we can’t un-know what we know. So if someone is afraid of old secrets coming to light, their best bet is shutting us up. Permanently.”
If he hadn’t heard Erik talk about his old job, Ben might have joked about him watching too much TV. But Erik had a point, Ben reluctantly conceded. He just wasn’t sure how to keep them both safe.
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Inventory. And there’s one more person Susan wanted me to talk with. She’s got an…unusual…perspective.”
“What kind of unusual?”
“She’s a witch.” Erik tensed as if he was waiting for Ben to laugh.
“You mean like Wiccan? My neighbor in Newark was in a book club with a couple of Wiccans. Or you mean rhymes-with-bitch?”
“According to Susan, more of the ‘eye of newt’ variety.” Erik kept his voice low, although it was just the two of them. “In the art community, there were always pieces and relics that people said were cursed. Like the Hope Diamond. We’d have never admitted it to a reporter, but everyone who had been in the business for a while took those stories seriously. The piece that was being handed over in my last sting was said to have supernatural power. And look what happened.”
“You think something we’ve found might be cursed?”
“Well, the clock is definitely haunted, and so is the skeleton. Given the Commodore’s bad luck, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask Alessia and see what she says.”
Ben believed in ghosts. He didn’t have to stretch his imagination far to accept that Erik could see things from the past when he touched certain objects. That was just like a different kind of haunt. But witches? Maybe it was his Catholic upbringing, but the idea made him uncomfortable.
“Do you think witches are real?” Ben asked.
“I think that some people have abilities that aren’t easy to measure. Superstitious people slap labels on what they fear. But I promise to end the interview if Alessia wants to sacrifice a goat and read the entrails.”
Ben chuckled. “Good. I guess there’s no harm in seeing what she says. I’m more worried about you being out and about.”
“I can’t stay locked in here forever,” Erik pointed out. “And even if I did—someone’s tried to break in once. Next time, they’ll know what to do differently. If they figure out I’ve seen Ambrose’s letter, it’ll be worse.”
“Just…be careful. Take your gun. You said you had martial arts training. What kind?”
Erik shrugged. “I’m hardly a black belt. The agents taught me some self-defense moves. A little Krav Maga, a little Systema. I liked it mostly for the workout. The agents might have been straight—but they were hot.”
Ben felt a flare of jealousy surge through him at the idea of Erik grappling with musclebound agents on sweaty gym mats. The response was so visceral, it took him by surprise.
“I trained with Tae Kwon Do and Systema. I had to be able to hold my own in a street fight,” Ben admitted. “Undercover, you know? Can’t say I’m competition-level, but I did okay when I needed to.”
“Just…text me when you head over, and when you come back,” Ben continued. “I have a meeting with the bank about the funding for our remodeling projects. But I want to know you’re safe.”
“I promise,” Erik said. “And you need to be careful, too. Whoever’s watching has to know we’re together. Heck, Dorchester knows we’re together.”
Together. Ben liked the sound of that. For how long? a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind.
They watched TV and cuddled on the couch, until both men had fallen asleep. “Come on,” Ben said when a loud theme song woke him. “You’ll be even stiffer if you sleep here. Let’s go to bed.”
Erik might not have woken completely, but he managed to walk with Ben’s guidance. Ben got him to the bed and gently stripped off Erik’s clothes, angry all over again when he saw the bruising. He rolled Erik onto the mattress and covered him, then cleaned up in the bathroom and crawled in next to him. At least this time, he thought as he drifted off, he’d remembered to bring a change of clothes.
In the morning, Ben woke up spooning Erik, not quite touching but close enough he could inhale the smell of soap, fabric softener, and shampoo that made him think about the new man in his life. He resolutely ignored his morning wood and leaned over to kiss Erik on the cheek.
“How about you get some rest? I’ll bring you some water and Advil, and get the coffee started. Then I’ll let myself out, and you can sleep in.”
“Dinner?” Erik mumbled, bleary-eyed with sleep.
Ben kissed him again. “Sure thing. I’ll get takeout again. How about lobster rolls?”
“Just want you,” Erik’s drowsy voice and tousled hair was adorable.
“Want you, too,” Ben told him. “See you tonight.”
He got a quick shower and rubbed one out, imagining having Erik writhing beneath him while they fucked. Or feeling Erik drive into him, over and over. Both fantasies got him going, since imagining a flip fuck tripped all the right triggers. He came, doing his best to muffle the way he called out Erik’s name. The real thing would be so much better, and Ben hoped their streak of bad luck and interruptions would end soon and let them cash in those rain checks.
Ben double-checked that the door was locked as he closed it behind him. His phone rang before he made it to the car. To his surprise, it was Cooper.
“Didn’t expect to hear from you,” he said as he got into the Mustang. He’d driven over, because the Chinese restaurant was too far to walk.
“Heard about you finding that skeleton. A friend downtown tells me it matches Hank Chason’s dental records. So congrats on solving an old cold case.”
Ben should have felt more excited than he did, but having had both Erik and Mo
nty confirm the identity already took the punch out of the big reveal. “Huh,” he replied. “Well, didn’t see that coming. And you can’t say it’s solved. What’s open is who killed him.”
“Everyone thought the SOB was living the good life down in the islands. Turns out he never left town.”
“Life’s a bitch.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Cooper agreed. “I might actually have a lead on who killed Chason.”
“There had to be a connection to the house,” Ben replied, putting the phone on hands-free as he drove back to the rental office. “Hard to hide covering over a closet if you were just renting the room. But so far, I can’t connect Chason to the owners.”
“It’s the remodeling company,” Cooper told him. “I pulled building permits around the time Chason went missing. And there was a permit out for remodeling at that address by a KTR Construction Company. It wouldn’t be difficult to sell the owner a line of bullshit about needing to box in some water pipes or some such and have an excuse to seal up the closet with Chason inside.”
“Hell of a smell, though.”
“Maybe the owners weren’t going to be back for months. That happens around here a lot,” Cooper said. “But here’s the kicker—KTR Construction also had contracts with the Commodore, and the ‘R’ stands for Rugieri, as in Al Rugieri, who was big in the Jersey Shore Mob at that time.”
“You think Rugieri had his hooks into Ambrose as well?”
“Since KTR had done work in the past for the hotel, I’d say almost certainly.”
“Where’s Rugieri now?” Ben asked as he turned into his lot and parked.
“Got put away for racketeering in 2002. Died in jail a year later.”
Ben drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Cooper’s information tied all three murders up with one bow. That should have been cause for celebration. But if Rugieri was dead, then who was behind the break-ins? Or the van that tried to run down Erik?
“I wanted to pass that info along as soon as I heard about it, because I know you’re out of the game now, and figured you’d want to get back to business.”
“Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”
“And, I’ve got a tip for you, but you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Sure. What?” Ben asked.
“You know I’ve still got some friends downtown. So I was out at Abbott’s having a couple of beers with my buddies, and one of them lets slip that they’re investigating that new guy, the one with the antique shop? Apparently, he ran out on a murder rap over in Antwerp—wherever the hell that is—and the European feds have been looking for him. Dirty as all get out, but a good con man. They think he was behind a slew of art thefts. The murder rap was just the icing on the cake. I guess he figured he could con the folks in a little place like Cape May and we’d never be the wiser.”
“I’ve got to go,” Ben said, getting out of the car and nearly dropping his keys with the way his hands shook. “Let me know if you hear anything else.” He ended the call before Cooper had the chance to respond.
Ben let himself in through the back door to the rental office, barely waved to Jenny at the front desk, and closed the door to his private space. He sat at his desk, dizzy and cold all over.
No. That can’t be true. That’s not the way Erik said it all happened. Erik, an international art thief? A killer? He didn’t want to believe it. His heart refused.
I’ve known him for what, a week? Took me a lot longer than that to find out what Caleb was really like. Ben felt like he’d had too much to drink, but not in a good way. More like a bad drunk, where nightmares came true and nothing was as it seemed.
Ben hadn’t had any problems with the idea that Erik could see ghosts, or even glimpse an object’s past. But his easy acceptance of magic, witches, curses…that was out of Ben’s wheelhouse. Normal people didn’t believe in that kind of stuff outside of TV shows—did they? Ben’s head spun and his gut pitched. Had Erik played him? And all this time, Ben had been falling in love.
Ben’s phone buzzed, and he saw a text from Erik. Going to see Alessia. Can’t wait for dinner.
Ben started to respond on reflex and stopped. He needed time to think. God, he wanted to find a way to disprove everything Cooper had told him. Ben wished to hell he’d never picked up the ex-cop’s call. Then he could have gone about the day trading flirty texts with his boyfriend, had a cozy dinner and maybe some sex later.
If Cooper’s telling the truth, it was all going to crash and burn some time. Maybe it’s better to find out before I get any deeper. Deeper? Fuck that. Ben had already fallen in love with Erik. And he’d thought Erik felt the same way.
Was it just part of a con? A cover to hide from either the European agents or the Russian Mob?
Ben realized he was holding his breath and made himself breathe while he tried to get control of his emotions. Whoever had been behind the attempted break-ins, Ben knew it wasn’t the Russians. They were pros. They’d have been in and out without leaving a trace. The van attack also seemed sloppy for the Russians. If they wanted someone dead, a sniper would make it happen. Or poison. They seemed to like that. Maybe someone was sending Erik a message.
Something didn’t fit, but Ben no longer trusted his ability to be objective. He’d only intended to have a bit of summer fun, a tumble in the sack with a handsome guy. Instead, he’d lost his heart, and maybe, his mind.
“Think, Nolan,” he muttered. “Treat it like a case. Don’t go haring off on one informant’s tip. Dig a little deeper. Validate. Work your network.”
Ben still had resources as a licensed investigator. That included being able to tap into “most wanted” lists from law enforcement agencies around the country—and all over the world. It didn’t necessarily clear Erik if Ben couldn’t find his name on a list; an investigation at that level could be confidential. But it was somewhere to start.
His phone buzzed with a new text. It took effort not to respond, but Ben needed distance. Just for a while, he told himself. If I’m lucky, I can prove Cooper’s wrong, and have it all straightened out by dinner. And then I’ll beg forgiveness for not answering.
He didn’t want to think about what the outcome would be if he found out Cooper was right. No matter how much Ben liked Cape May, he couldn’t stay, not if it meant running into Erik and not being with him. If Cooper’s right, Erik probably wouldn’t be here. He’d be in jail, somewhere in Europe. Just the thought of that made Ben’s chest tighten.
Ben thought it had hurt when Caleb left him—and it had. But now he could see that he and Caleb had been drifting apart for a long time. Too many undercover assignments, gone too long from home without being able to stay in touch, too many lonely nights. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that Caleb walked out. Almost all the undercover cops he knew were either divorced or never-married. Straight or gay, they got by on one-night stands and hookups. It was a lone wolf existence.
If Ben had been a lone wolf at one time, he’d finally decided he wanted a mate. A pack. And wouldn’t it be just like fate to dangle what he wanted and jerk it away?
Focus. The sooner you know, the sooner you can deal with it—either way, the voice in his head told him.
Keeping busy kept Ben from feeling the pain. He ran a background check on Robert Pettis, the old guy who had owned Trinkets, and one on Erik. Just for the hell of it, Ben ran a check on Cooper, too. After all, he’d only had Tony Basalmo’s word that Cooper was a good guy. Then Ben remembered the conversation this morning, and did a search on Officer Dorchester, too.
The reports would take a few hours to process. Ben resisted the urge to pace. A news update dinged on his laptop, and Ben glanced at the headline, then stopped and stared.
“Cape May man found murdered in gangland hit,” the crawl at the bottom of a grainy video clip read. Ben turned on the audio.
“Justin Kramer of Cape May was found dead by authorities in Wildwood, who say the man’s death may be gang-related,” the anchor said. The video showed a dark parking lo
t by what looked like an abandoned shopping mall. “Police haven’t released details, except to say that Kramer did not appear to be the victim of a random robbery. If you have any information—”
Ben toggled off the audio and stared dumbfounded at the screen. Justin Kramer had sold the box of Commodore Wilson memorabilia to Erik. Right before his house was broken into and set on fire. No wonder Justin ran. But whoever was chasing him had apparently caught up.
He did an internet search on “Justin Kramer” and found plenty of hits, all of them completely mundane. The man’s Facebook page had a collection of memes, funny videos, and pictures of the beach. Justin hadn’t posted often, but his most recent posts had talked about coming to Cape May to deal with his grandfather’s house. None of his photos in the past year showed Justin either with friends or a date.
The guy just couldn’t get a break. Got stuck with the short end of the stick, cleaning out the old man’s house, tried to sell off a little junk, and got whacked for his trouble.
One of the search results was a link to eBay. The auction listing was for a “box of assorted memorabilia from the Commodore Wilson Hotel.” Justin had posted a minimum bid at one hundred dollars. Bad photos didn’t make the box’s content look appealing or valuable. The listing had closed without any takers.
That’s got to be the same box he sold to Erik. Justin never went through it. So he wouldn’t have found the Ambrose letter. Nobody should have guessed that letter was in the box. Back in the day, people must have carted stuff away by the truckload at the bankruptcy sale. But if somebody was tracking down loose ends, anyone with a search engine would know about the auction.
Did Justin sign his own death warrant when he uploaded the listing?
Thankfully, Jenny seemed to be dealing with the phone calls and whatever walk-ins came through the front door. Ben knew he couldn’t handle any of that. Not until he knew for sure whether Erik was for real.
Ben ate at his desk, scarfing down the protein bars he kept in his drawer without actually tasting them. He didn’t have an appetite. Usually he drank the coffee from the welcome area, but today he dug into the stash of Mountain Dew that he kept under his desk. He felt like he was back in Newark, in the bullpen, tracking a case.
