Chapter Nine

Morrisey sat outside the captain’s office, tuning out the shouts and making a somewhat half-hearted effort not to eavesdrop. Kind of a losing proposition, given the sheer volume. There had to be a ton of weird shit happening right now for the boss’s shouting to provide a calming sense of normalcy. People with changing faces and tails, disappearing people, gut-shot men who managed to beat the shit out of him.

Victims haunting his dreams. The only visitors he’d had all year.

The door opened, and two officers shot out—the same ones who’d laughed in the hospital. Yeah, about time they got their comeuppance. Gaskins’s shouting was not a good sign for the captain”s mood, either. Time to put on a cop face. Given a choice, Morrisey would rather face the Uber driver with a tail than deal with one of Gaskins’s bad days.

He’d been on the receiving end of the yelling too many times to count. He’d also occasionally benefitted from kind words, though always with the same growly delivery. Raising his head in defiance, he braced himself for whatever might come, and strode into the office with a shitload of false bravado—the only kind available these days. “You wanted to see me?”

Gaskins stared at Morrisey for a prolonged moment, blank cop-face armed and dangerous. “Have a seat.” Thank God his face didn’t change.

Morrisey sat. Hopefully, the humming air conditioner drowned out his audible gulp.

Gaskins assumed his usual position with his arms resting on the desk, rolled sleeves exposing his tightly corded forearms. The sun shining through the window didn’t dispel the sense of gloom in the office. The perfect setting to discuss homicides. ”I am completely clueless about what to do about you, Detective James.” The use of Detective James sent Morrisey on high alert. Regardless of what the captain called him, nothing good would come, based on Gaskins”s scowl.

Dare Morrisey ask? “What now?”

Gaskins leaned back in his chair, resting his laced fingers on the early stages of a gut. “Nothing you’ve done. Or should I say, nothing more you’ve done? Your attack caught some attention from the FBI.”

“FBI? A local crime shouldn’t involve them.” Unless they knew things Morrisey didn’t.

“It’s not you, per se.” Gaskins brushed his head with his hand. As often as he repeated the gesture, it was amazing he still had a head full of hair. “You know your reliable witness at the scene was an FBI agent, correct?”

“FBI?” Holy shit. “Why were they watching me?” Paranoid? Maybe. Morrisey considered a list of potential offenses that might earn attention from the feds.

“They weren’t. Just a matter of wrong place, right time. Anyway, given the witness’s account, backed up by forensics, you’re certain to be cleared of any wrongdoing.” Gaskins shrugged one meaty shoulder. “But, you know, procedures.”

If Morrisey hadn’t been so preoccupied with the possibility of losing his mind, he might’ve spared some anxiety for the internal investigation of a cop shooting a suspect.

“Also, you have an appointment with them in…”—Gaskins lifted his wrist, putting his watch mere inches from his nose—“…two hours. Downtown. They’d like to speak with you.”

“About what?” Feds were the last thing Morrisey needed, especially when his sanity hung by a thread and gale force winds gathered on the horizon.

“They want to hear firsthand what happened since one of their own was involved, and they already have his report. They want to fill in any gaps.”

“Can’t they come here?” How many times must Morrisey tell the story—and be laughed at? At least here would offer a slight home-field advantage, though being interviewed by the feds wouldn’t discourage the laughter.

“No. They want you there.” Gaskins gave a piercing stare, conveying more danger than verbal communication ever could. “Play nice. Make us look like team players and don’t be late. I expect a full report on your return. When you get there, ask for Agent Austen.”

No avoiding the unexpected meeting then. Morrisey rose to leave.

“And Morse?”

He stopped with his palm resting on the doorknob, looking back over one shoulder. “Sir?”

Gaskins slid a gun across the desk. “Until the investigation is closed and you get your usual weapon back, here’s a loaner. Now, go home, shower, shave, and dress the part. You still look like warmed-over shit.”

“Truth in advertising, Captain, truth in advertising.” Because Morrisey sure as hell felt like shit.

Or worse.

Showering and squeezing into a slightly tight suit—the only clean and unrumpled one in the closet—didn’t improve Morrisey’s appearance much. He just looked like better-dressed shit. Unless he made it to the gym soon or started eating actual food, his ass wouldn’t fit those pants much longer.

Regardless of how close his shave, dark follicles still tinted Morrisey’s face, threatening to sprout into a five o’clock shadow well before five. Ah, the joys of Mediterranean blood.

Or so he’d been told, not having known his biological parents.

Eyedrops didn’t clear his bloodshot eyes—a side effect of whatever the hell happened to him. The doctor said the effects would fade in time, but Morrisey preferred to earn his bloodshot eyes the old-fashioned way. If he ever summoned the courage to visit a liquor store again.

Time heals all wounds, he’d heard folks say. Bullshit. Some wounds never healed; they just sort of scabbed over and pulled if you moved wrong.

Once he’d reached a somewhat presentable state, Morrisey drove downtown to the FBI offices, rummaging through the car’s console. Crap. No breath mints. Instead, he popped a stick of cinnamon gum into his mouth that he’d had to peel off the wrapper. It might be time to throw the pack out if you didn’t remember buying the gum.

He flexed his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the industrial rock beat firing from the RAV4’s speakers. What could the FBI possibly want with him, especially since his attacker didn’t seem to be involved in other crimes? Wanting to hear an account of the attack directly from him screamed of bullshit.

Unless the FBI was having a slow week and hoped for a good laugh.

He stopped by a guard shack and handed over his lD and badge. “Detective Morrisey James here to see Agent Austen.”

The guard inspected the ID, studied his computer screen, then glanced at Morrisey. After a few moments’ scrutiny, he returned the items. “Atlanta PD, huh? I’m afraid you’ll have to leave any weapons in your car or check them here.”

They could have Morrisey’s gun when they pried the latest Agnes from his cold, dead fingers.

Morrisey must’ve appeared as affronted as he felt, for the guard gave a shaky laugh. “Thought so. Have a good day, detective.”

The gate lifted, allowing Morrisey inside the compound. Another car sat nearby, trunk and doors open, with a uniformed security guard rifling through the trunk”s contents.

Yeah, it must be a special privilege not to be searched. Morrisey exhaled a heavy breath. One hurdle passed. For a moment, he’d clung to the hope of there being some mistake and the FBI hadn”t asked to see him after all.

The three-story example of 1960s architecture consisted of red brick on the first floor and stucco on the second and third. Older than most buildings in this section of the city, it appeared to be a poor cousin next to glass and chrome high-rises. A nondescript building most folks wouldn’t look at twice. He certainly wouldn’t have. The architectural version of himself. The parking lot appeared freshly paved, though, with clearly marked parking spaces.

He perused the lot. A disproportionate number of trucks but few flashy vehicles. Then again, this was Georgia. Apart from the owner-making-up-for-shortcomings muscle trucks, nothing stood out. He’d learned long ago to judge a place by the quality of vehicles their employees drove.

One sectioned-off area held remarkably similar dark-colored cars, most likely official vehicles.

Five minutes from his appointment at ten o’clock, he found an empty visitor spot near the front entrance. He killed the engine and sat in the driver’s seat, checking his reflection in the visor mirror once more, spitting the gum into a fast-food bag, and taking a few deep breaths to calm his rattled nerves.

He reviewed the events of his attack again: the running, shooting, being attacked.

Being saved by an angel.

Would there ever come a time when he’d be over sharing the latest edition of “Weird shit that only happens to me?” Someone once said that the more times you recalled an event, the more your memory broke down. A few more tellings, and he’d probably say, “What alley?”

No use putting off the inevitable. After tucking his new Agnes into the glove box—damn, but he missed the old one—and a final nose and zipper check, he climbed out of his vehicle and ambled toward the entry.

He felt naked without Agnes.

Two suit-clad men and a woman exited the building as he entered, giving him nods of acknowledgement. All looked one hundred times better put together than Morrisey. He stepped through a metal detector into a glass observation and containment area, no doubt made of bulletproof glass, tugging nervously at his suit coat. A silver vent allowed speaking to the uniformed security guard behind the desk.

The gray-haired guard sporting a walrus mustache gestured toward a tray under the vent. “IDs, please.”

Fuck. Morrisey should’ve left them out. He dug into his wallet for proof of his existence. The guard’s bored once-over clearly projected, not impressed.

”I”m here to meet with Agent Austen,” Morrisey said, managing a passably sincere smile, although the expression made his head hurt. While more accomplished than Captain Gaskins at facial expressions, not having much to smile about lately left Morrisey badly in need of practice.

He slipped his information inside the tray, then watched the tray retract with rapt attention.

The guard examined the badge and license, then slid them back through the tray. He lifted the handset on his desk phone. Morrisey couldn’t understand the words, but the brief smile at the end offered reassurance. He occupied himself returning his IDs to his wallet.

A buzz and click announced a lock disengaging, and a slender blond man opened the door. Whoa! Was this an FBI agent? Damn! So unexpected. Most agents Morrisey had met paled in comparison to how TV showed them. This man? This man left the handsome actors gasping in the dirt.

“Detective James? Glad you could come. Follow me, please.” The man shook Morrisey’s hand. Electricity zinged between them from the palm-to-palm contact. Morrisey couldn’t pull away if he’d tried. “I’m Agent Farren Austen,” the blond vision announced.

Sincerity, with underlying sorrow and a double helping of loneliness.

Golden blond curls framed flawless pale skin on an oval face, guileless wide blue eyes down-turned somewhat at the corners, and a generous mouth some might think wide, but that seemed to suit this stunning Adonis. The man”s suit perfectly fit his slight body, accentuating all the body parts Morrisey believed should be accentuated: broad shoulders and a trim waist. When Austen turned, Morrisey added a firm, rounded ass to the list of attributes. The man couldn’t be taller than five feet ten.

Wait a minute! Morrisey stopped in his tracks. ”You were at the scene the night...”

Farren Austen flashed a megawatt smile. “Under the circumstances, I’m flattered you remembered me. You were quite… distracted.”

Absolutely no chance of Morrisey forgetting. “I’ve got some pretty odd memories of that night, but you, I remember.”

Austen led Morrisey to a bank of elevators. Most had only “Up” buttons. Austen stopped at the last one, pressing “Down.” Down? What little Morrisey had found about the building hadn’t mentioned sub-levels.

“After you.” Austen gestured in Morrisey”s direction as the doors opened. Two men stepped off.

Morrisey jerked back, slapping a hand onto the wall for support. His heart raced. The men stared, as did Morrisey. For a split second in time, he swore he saw…

Austen and the two men exchanged knowing glances. “C’mon,” Austen said, “being late won’t put us on the boss’s good side.”

Morrisey got into the elevator, heart pounding a rapid staccato beat. His stomach dropped at the sudden plunge downward. How many damned subfloors were there? The buttons gave no sign. The barest hint of cologne emanated from Austen, something clean and crisp, reminding Morrisey that he’d forgotten to put any on. He possibly overlooked deodorant, too. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be here too long—or sweat too profusely.

“Do you like movies, Detective?” Austen’s manner remained casual, yet some hidden meaning lurked in the words.

Morrisey used to snuggle up in a blanket with Craig, watching movies on Netflix—or not watching movies. Sometimes they switched to porn channels. Chances were, Austen meant nothing with “Do Me, Daddy” in the title. Heat filled Morrisey’s face. “Some? Why?”

Thank God Austen couldn’t read Morrisey’s thoughts, or he’d never have managed to so casually ask, “Have you by any chance seen the movie Men in Black?”