Chapter 8

A week had passedsince the incident at the clinic, and we were no closer to finding the jerk who'd done it than we had been on day one. You'd think that with so many witnesses to a crime, we'd have been right on that guy's doorstep within hours. Sadly, we lived in a huge city with a massive criminal element that made people disappear faster than new iPhones. Mack and I were running out of options and avenues, but we weren't giving up. Joe was still in an induced coma, so there was no information coming from the victim. We'd tracked down everyone in the missing photo, ran background checks, and confirmed alibis, leaving us with nothing but a list of selfless medical professionals trying to help the poor and indigent in this huge stewpot of glitz and poverty we called Los Angeles.

Oliver had touched base a few times to tug my chain about the lack of results, and a call came through when I was sitting in court testifying in a case against one Randolph Piscotty, a mid-tier racketeer that the DA and my department had been stiff as a fence post to nab. And we had. Granted it was on tax evasion, but hey, we'd pulled him off the streets. Which had opened up a bit of a tussle for power, ending with four dead Piscotty underlings discovered stacked like cordwood in an alley in Pacific Palisades. Since they were linked to the Piscotty crime family, homicide pulled us in to take a peek. It was about as you would think. Four corpses baking in the warm California sun. Just another day in the life.

So yeah, I'd been in court the last time Oliver had jangled my nerves. I'd let the call go to voicemail as the judge was glowering at me from on high. She hated cell phones in her courtroom, even if they were in your pocket. The woman had ears like a bat, and the vibration of a cell phone was like the whine of mosquito wings. I got the look, a warning about my phone, and a sniping little dissertation during the lunch break from the district attorney.

Oliver got a snide little message in return as I stuffed a taco from a truck parked a block from the courthouse in my mouth. Mack rolled his eyes as he wolfed down a burrito. The hockey player replied ten minutes later with a softly worded apology, citing his distress over his friend as the reason he kept poking me. So, being the dear heart that I am, I texted him back saying I understood, and that we were doing all we could. And then I added, because his dark eyes had been haunting me since our lunch at the steakhouse, that if I thought of anything else, I would contact him.

Hopefully, the vision of his eyes and those damned kissable lips would ease up soon. I'd worked my dick pretty hard the past few nights while old episodes of Kojak played in the background. Jerking off to the fantasy of a witness to a pretty ugly crime sucking your cock surely had to be against departmental guidelines for proper cop behavior. My brain knew that, but my prick had not gotten the memo. I'd not felt a pull to a man like this in… forever. It freaked me out, yet I couldn't clear him from my head.

* * *

Two days later,I found myself staring down at a plate of spaghetti with meatballs that my ex-brother-in-law and his son, my favorite nephew in the world, had cooked for me. Leo was out for a visit as part of the custody agreement between Bryce and my sister. Bryce and his boyfriend—the ex-hockey player for the Storm, Michael Zhang—and Leo were chatting away at the dining room table in the house where Bryce and Mike now lived. Nice place with a small yard in Glendale from where both men could commute to work.

"Uncle Jack, I helped make the meatballs," Leo informed me as a bowl of salad was forced into my hands. Bryce smiled in that hippie goody-goody way of his, but his expression was firm. "And the salad. I picked the lettuce and tomato from the garden. The cucumber, too. You should eat some. Dad says fresh greens make you smile more."

I threw Bryce a look. "I smile plenty," I replied, then grinned broadly at everyone around the table. Michael snorted in amusement. I liked the guy. He was good for Bryce, and vice versa. They seemed happy as hell. "I just have a lettuce-swallowing reflex ailment that makes me gag anytime lettuce slides down my throat. It's really a curse. The last guy I?—"

"Okay, so no salad for Uncle Jack." Bryce glared at me as he swept the salad bowl away. Mission accomplished. "Why don't you tell Uncle Jack your big news?"

"Oh yeah!" Leo nearly burst from his seat. He had so much energy. Christ, I missed being ten years old and filled with all that effervescence. I moved through my days like a zombie, all the joy of life slowly sapped from me by my job. It was hard to be perky when the first thing you did in the morning was kneel beside a body stashed behind a dumpster. No wonder so many cops were on anti-depressants. "Mom said I could spend the whole summer out here next season, so I can attend the hockey camps that the Storm sponsors. I'm getting really good."

He was. I went to all the games I could where he played. It was a juggling act since Leo lived out of state, but his father and my sister somehow made it work.

"That's really cool," I said and found that I meant it. I'd spent mostly every Saturday at the local rink watching Leo play. Of course, the sight of Oliver coming in to volunteer on occasion was a bonus. "So, the Storm. Are they doing okay?"

Mike blinked at my question. I wasn't known for my hockey love. I was more a football and basketball guy, but since the family was now part of the team, albeit in a distanced manner, it seemed prudent to show more backing for the sport.

"They're doing well," Michael replied, his gaze flicking to Bryce, who shrugged, then passed me a container of grated cheese. "Cowboy has been a nice addition. Brings that old-school flavor to the team that was missing. Big beefy guy, plays with an edge, always ready to jump into a tilt."

I nodded, as if I knew what the fuck he was talking about. Edging in my mind had nothing to do with skates and pucks…

"Oliver. Yeah, that's nice. He seems pretty okay." I twirled some red strands of pasta around my fork. Everyone grunted in agreement. Shit. Now where did I go with this conversation? Think, Winwood. You're an expert interrogator. Just ask what you want to ask in a roundabout way so as not to arouse suspicion. "I heard that he was a widower."

"Yes, sadly, he lost his wife to cancer a couple of years ago," Michael said before passing a basket of warm breadsticks to me. "He and the girls are doing as well as can be expected. My brother and Clare are helping with the kids when they can. I think Charles said that a new nanny had arrived from New York to ease his burden. Must be hard having to balance hockey with kids when you're alone."

"Mm, must be," I mumbled around my spaghetti. The sauce was a little bland, but I'd not had a home-cooked meal since the last time I'd visited my sister, so I was not going to bitch.

I let the conversation drift to other things, less sad things for Leo to hear, and ate myself into a carb coma. I hugged my nephew goodbye an hour later, shook hands with Bryce and Mike, and slugged my way to my Riviera. The old gal was the prettiest thing I owned. A classic 1973 boat-tailed hunter-green vixen I'd found at an auction and had spent far too much on. Worth every penny, though. They didn't make cars like these anymore. I'd worry about retirement later.

"Hey, Ramona," I said as I sat behind the wheel and stretched out my legs. Yes, leg room aplenty, as well as a working ashtray and lighter. Neither of which I was using, as I was back on the patches. For Leo. I'd gain forty pounds if tonight's meal was any indication. Oral fixations, Mack would say, could be curbed by putting something other than a cigarette into your mouth. My first thought was a big fat cock belonging to a slightly older, but sinfully sexy, hockey player. Mack probably meant a stick of Juicy Fruit or a Life Saver. "Okay, baby, let's take a drive."

The .455 cubic inch V-8 roared to life. I nearly came in my pants. Taking note of the local speed laws, Ramona and I cruised. It was close to midnight. I really did not want to go home. My dingy place would seem even dingier after spending the night with Bryce and his nice little family. My dead orchid was not much of a conversationalist. Not that I wanted someone to talk to or anything like that. Sitting around a table with food, laughing and sharing the day's happenings was for those who didn't investigate crimes for a living.

Seems to work okay for Mack and all the other married cops. Just saying.

"No, no, that's… okay, yes, I guess it did, but how?" I asked as we pulled to a red light and chilled. The streets were always busy, but traffic was lighter now. A blue sedan eased up on my left to wait for the light. "What do they talk about? We can't discuss our work. What the fuck do you say to someone who lives in the uncorrupted world? How do you have a discussion over a frozen pot pie with a normal person because let's be honest here, my job ain't exactly dinner-fare-talk-friendly. Oh yeah, and by the way, sugar plum, remember that embezzler who tried to wheedle a few million from a local bank? He shot himself in front of his wife and kids. Can you pass the salt?"

I glanced over to see a couple staring at me as if I were a lunatic.

"Go about your business. Nothing to see here," I told them as the light changed. They took off to put some space between them and me. No one really understood the finer aspects of talking to yourself. I cranked up the radio—finding a classic station that played only 50s, 60s and 70s because Ramona liked those decades—and let the lovely voice of Toni Tenille guide me through the maze of city streets.

We drove and drove, passing through tough neighborhoods, then through some pretty swanky ones. I pulled into a gas station to fill up my car. Those .455 engines were gas-guzzlers. As I was idling away at the gas pump, hose in my hand, Ramona sucking down the unleaded—she had had the valve guides, valves, and ignition work done to run smoothly on unleaded—like the thirsty harlot that she was, my phone buzzed in my back pocket. I sighed wearily. It was one thing to be cruising the city because you loathed the idea of going home. It was quite another to get pinged with something that could be work-related at this hour.

When the pump kicked off, I eased the nozzle out, placed it back in the holder, and removed my phone from my pocket. Oh. Oh, okay, well, that was a nice note. Seemed the swelling in Joe Baxter's skull had lessened. He was now awake, sore and battered, but able and most willing to speak to the police. Tomorrow. I thought about texting Oliver Cowan, but instead opted to pass by his place. It was only ten minutes from where I was now. I didn't want to look too closely at how I'd mindlessly driven to the edges of Oliver's neighborhood. Better to not put a spotlight on that. With Lionel Richie flowing out of the windows, I crept into the upper-class neighborhood Oliver called home. His rental was a big place, huge in comparison to my crappy apartment, and a few lights shone through the windows of the first floor.

I parked in the street, cut the engine, and ran my fingers through my hair.

This is stupid. Why are we even here? Why not just text the man?

I couldn't argue with myself. This was stupid. But my sandaled feet were carrying me to his front door just the same. There were flowers in a pot on the front porch, as well as a pair of tiny pink sneakers that appeared to be soaking wet. I rapped on the door softly, unwilling to ring the bell and wake the whole house.

This is beyond stupid. Jackson, what are you doing here? This is not cool. If Franks hears that you showed up at a witness's house at midnight to?—

The door opened. I stared into a pair of pretty, masculine eyes that were not Oliver Cowan's. The guy was fucking gorgeous. Short dark hair, tidy scruff, glasses, lean and wearing a silky shirt. Holding a cup of tea. I knew it was tea because the mug said so. Tea Time it read.

"Yes, can I help you?" he asked in a posh British Hugh Grant type accent.

I literally took a step back to double check the numbers beside the front door. Yep, I was at the right house.

Rattled beyond belief, I fell back on what I knew best. I removed my badge from my belt and held it up in front of his stupidly good-looking face. "Detective Jackson Winwood, LAPD Organized Crimes Division. I'd like to speak to Oliver Cowan if he's here?"

Whoever he was examined my badge closely, then glanced at me a few dozen times. When he was convinced it was my face on the card, he nodded. Only once.

"Oh, Ollie, yes, of course he's here. Come in, Officer." Mr. Brit stepped back, letting me ease into the foyer. "We're just having a cup of tea before we head to bed. Can I fetch you some, Detective?"

Bed? They were heading to bed? Together. Fuck. So my sexy hockey player was taken.

"No, thanks. I'm more of a coffee drinker." I wished like hell I had my Minnie thermos. I also wished like hell I'd not done this. I'd been perfectly happy tugging off to my personal fantasy of me and Oliver being all over each other. Now, I was faced with the reality that Oliver had this man in his life and home. It was a slap in the face. "Are you and Mr. Cowan uhm…?"

Pretty Boy gasped, then chuckled. "Bloody hell, no; I'm a friend of the family."

Uh-huh. He seemed quite at home here, with his shirt unbuttoned and his hair ruffled. I still thought maybe he and Oliver had been playing hide the crumpet when I knocked. Fucker.

Wait. What? Whoa!

I scowled at the tea-sipper, trying to clear the unwarranted dislike from my brain, when Oliver appeared in a doorway to the left of us. Seeing the man in lounge clothes made my lungs seize up. Christ, he was beautiful.

"Detective Winwood, is there something wrong?" Oliver asked, stepping up to stand beside the guy with the tea mug, who was eyeballing me over the top of his spectacles with interest. "Did you get a break in the case?"

"No, not yet, but the hospital just called to let me know that Mr. Baxter is now conscious and speaking to family and friends."

Oliver exhaled in relief. Tea Sipper gave him a hug. It took all I had to not unholster my gun and conk the Brit right between the eyes. It would be quick. Relatively painless. And would get his perfectly manicured hands off Oliver.

"That's amazing news. Thank you for coming all the way over to let us know. You could have texted," Oliver said.

Tea Man smiled warmly at Oliver.

Yep, one smack with the butt of my gun. Out cold. Him and his tea. Americans drank coffee, damn it. We dumped tea into harbors. One if by land, two if by sea and all of that. They both stared at me, waiting for a reply. Shit.

"It's all part of the LAPD's commitment to offering witnesses every available courtesy."

"Oh, that's lovely," the Brit commented.

"I know, also, if you want, I can pick you up tomorrow morning to go visit Mr. Baxter as, yet, another part of that witness courtesy we spoke of just a minute ago." I spewed out, then winced as the words hit my ear holes.

What the fuck? What the ever-loving fuck? Since when do we play chauffeur?

"No need for that. I'm sure I can manage on my own. Thank you for dropping by, Detective. Sorry for annoying you for the past week. I've been kind of worried about Joe and the whole investigation. That, on top of the move, and the girls, and our schedule has just been… well, it's been a lot." Oliver ran his hand through his hair. It looked fluffy.

Fluffy. Holy shit, Jackson, back out of this situation now.

"Understandable," I croaked and began moving backwards toward the door. Fluffy. Fuck's sake. "No harm, no foul. It's been a traumatic experience for you. No need to apologize. Thank you for your time. Sorry to show up so late. Have a good night."

I nearly fell out of the open door in my haste to get some distance between me, Mr. Brit, and Oliver Fluffy Hair. It was times like this I wished Ramona had computerized components so I could command her to run my stupid ass over.

Fluffy hair. FFS.