Chapter 11

Chapter

Eleven

T he rest of Friday afternoon was uneventful. Jon got Arlington PD to send him the surveillance for all the businesses nearby both motels. He’d been meaning to get the footage from the Pentagon Motor Inn for a while, and he was happy they already had the new video for Taft’s scene.

He also delved into Arlington’s traffic cam system to try and find a vehicle, but that seemed premature. He had no idea what timeframe to narrow his focus on.

Sutherland called him into his office toward the end of the workday, when people were starting to clear out. A frisson of unease zipped up his spine, but he squashed it. Did Sutherland know something about him and Tracey? Had he let something too obvious slip? A lingering look or errant touch that lasted too long or seemed too familiar?

Stop it.

There was no reason for Ron to suspect anything. In his experience, most straight people wouldn’t clock a queer relationship in their midst—especially in a professional setting—until it jumped out and became too obvious to deny, like if he and Tracey held hands in front of them. Most of their coworkers wouldn’t bat a single eye at his and Tracey’s interactions.

However, if he couldn’t school his visceral reaction to a mundane summons to the boss’s office, they’d be caught sooner rather than later.

He rapped a knuckle on the open door. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yeah, Anderson. Come in and have a seat. Shut the door, would you?”

Shit. It’s like that.

Jon obeyed, then crossed to the chairs in front of Sutherland’s glass-topped desk. The boss didn’t stand or otherwise give away anything in his expression, so Jon channeled the Ice Man.

“What can I do for you?”

“First of all, how’s the case going?”

This was known territory, but Jon remained somewhat tense. “Slow, sir. We have forensics links between three of the five cases. Unfortunately, the person they belong to isn’t in any of our databases. We’re still piecing together the latest victim’s final days to establish where the killer crossed his path. With all the victims, we’ve hit a roadblock with Smoldr.” Jon cleared his throat. “It’s a gay dating app.”

Sutherland gave a small smile and swiveled his chair slightly from side to side. “I’m aware of Smoldr, Jon, even if I’m not one of its target users.”

Jon acknowledged the point with a mildly sheepish tilt of his head. “We’re looking into who the victims could have been in contact with through the app, but one of its features is disappearing messages. It’s completely discreet for people who don’t want to broadcast their conversations, but it means we have no usernames for those they’ve arranged to meet close to their times of death. Smoldr will not provide data unless the search warrant specifies an individual username. Perry and Tracey have put feelers out with people in the gay clubs to try and find information that way, since the LGBTQ+ community talks and does their best to keep each other safe, but no one has a name.”

“I see.” Sutherland frowned. “We’ll compel Smoldr to comply. That’s the point of a search warrant.”

Jon shook his head. “That’s just it, sir. They have precedent on their side. They’ve fought the scope of such search warrants in court before, citing the privacy of users who ultimately aren’t involved in our cases. Their argument is that due to discrimination against marginalized communities, they’ll not disclose any user identities other than the specific one we know to be in contact with our victims during the relevant window of opportunity. They won’t give us access to everyone the victims have talked to through their app, even if we narrow the conversations by date. They want a specific username only, and then they’ll provide that user’s identity and account details. Their arguments have been upheld in court as a violation of the privacy of other users. Judges cognizant of potential discrimination suits have begun requiring more specific search warrant parameters before they’ll sign off on them.

“Because of the disappearing messages, we don’t have a username. Either the two D.C. victims had that feature enabled, or the perp is deleting the conversations from the victims’ phones.”

Sutherland scribbled a note on a pad of paper beside his keyboard. “I’ll see if I can’t get something moving for you. What else?”

“I’ve received surveillance footage and traffic cams for the two D.C. cases, but that was only today. I want a face to splash across the media. If we get that, we’re less reliant on Smoldr. The autopsy on the latest victim will be conducted today or tomorrow. I’ve put Sarena on it. His family is estranged, but we’ve interviewed an emergency contact with a line on the victim’s rehab sponsor and a lawyer who might have a will and address, so we’ll try to get into his life from those angles.”

“Good, good.” Sutherland leaned forward, his chair creaking as he laced his fingers together beside his keyboard. “Listen, Anderson. The reason I called you in here is to speak to you about something incredibly important. People up the chain have noticed how you’ve kept this team chugging along nicely for the last few years despite some pretty difficult times. The others look up to you. You’re a natural leader.”

Pleasure sizzled through him at the praise. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the feedback.”

“Oh, it’s more than feedback, Jon. The brass has taken note of your dedication, leadership skills, and ability to inspire under tremendous pressure. They’re especially pleased with how quickly your newest protégé has bounced back after his harrowing experience with the sniper case in St. Louis.”

Jon swallowed. “I don’t deserve credit for that. Credit Smith and his determination to heal quickly and be an outstanding behavioral analyst.” He hoped Sutherland didn’t notice the slight catch in his delivery, where he’d almost used Tracey’s first name. He’d better watch it.

“You’re right. Smith is to be commended, and so is Mercado after her Agent Involved Shooting therapy. But you are the team lead who gives them the room to recover in the way that’s best for them. I understand you’ve even invited Smith to your home to facilitate his healing and make it easier for him to get to and from work while he’s still not cleared to drive.”

Jon cleared his throat. “Until just the other day, yes, sir. It seemed easier, what with him owning a three-story townhouse that he hadn’t had a chance to fully unpack. He’s back home, though I’m still giving him rides.”

Sutherland wagged his forefinger in his direction. “That’s what I’m talking about, Jon. Your team can count on you. You may seem young for the position, but you’re dedicated, relentlessly talented, a great mentor, honorable, and exactly the kind of agent the Bureau looks for in a leader. Your track record leading Unit 4 speaks for itself.

“I’m going to be honest.” Ron stood, rounded his desk, and shifted the chair beside Jon’s to sit and face him without a barrier. “I’m not getting any younger, and retirement is more attractive by the day.”

That was and wasn’t a surprise to Jon. Ron mentioned spending time with his wife with more frequency the last several months than in all the years they’d worked together. There may have been a time Jon wouldn’t have pegged Ron for retirement, but he supposed everyone reached that point sooner or later. “I can understand that, sir. You’ve led a dedicated career.”

Ron nodded. “The higher ups and I have been discussing who we’d like to see in this office after my departure, and when the timing for that would be best. Looks like by the end of the year, someone could step in while I step out. I believe the person most qualified to lead, not just your team but all of the teams of the BAU, is you.”

For a long moment, Jon couldn’t say anything. His chest was too tight.

He loved leading Unit 4. It was fulfilling and he was thrilled when one of the others accomplished great things. How would it feel to run the whole BAU and see multiple teams in each of the five units under his supervision excel and bring justice to a larger number of cases?

That would be epically gratifying.

On the other hand, Sutherland did no fieldwork. The Family Man had been the biggest case Jon and his team had worked in years. The FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group had overseen the response, with Sutherland working as a small part from his office in Washington. The agents flooding the Gateway City had done so on orders from the CIRG.

Being in the center of things—his team were the ones to bring Jacob Finch down—was what Jon lived for. Sure, Sarena had pulled the trigger, but Unit 4’s teamwork and unwavering effort led to the man’s capture in the end.

Sutherland was a great coach, leader, and cheering section, but ultimately, he sat at a desk, signed requisitions, and made decisions. Critical decisions, but he was a paper pusher.

He didn’t catch bad guys directly.

Jon didn’t know if he could give up the immediacy of snapping the cuffs on the bad guys, of reading them their Miranda rights, and seeing their defeat when they realized he’d beaten them at their own game.

It was even better in interrogations when he used their own deviance against them, and they understood they weren’t smarter than him or his team.

Could he get the same thrill as the overseer?

“Can I think about it, Boss?”

Sutherland had been out of the field more years than Jon had been in, but he still knew how to play politics with the best of them, so not even a flicker of surprise crossed his face.

Instead, he smiled. “I’d expect nothing less. In fact, I don’t want anyone taking this job behind me who doesn’t give it the consideration it’s due.” He stood and bent over the back of his desk chair, jiggling his mouse to wake up his monitor, studying the screen. “I have meetings all day Monday. How about you take the weekend plus a day and come back to me on Tuesday morning to let me know?”

Jon stood, too. “That’s fair. I appreciate it.”

Sutherland stuck out his hand, his expression warm. “I have high hopes, Anderson. But no pressure. You do what you think is best, and we can talk more once you’ve decided.”

Keeping neutral, Jon let his hand be swallowed by his boss’s massive paw. “Will do.”

He detoured to the men’s room to compose himself before returning to his desk. Thankfully, no one was in there, so he just stared at his reflection. His eye bags weren’t surprising given his sleepless night. Otherwise, he didn’t think his inner turmoil was obvious. A splash of water on his cheeks rejuvenated him, as would a side trip to the coffee pot on his way back to his desk.

Counting it as a win when neither Sarena nor Tracey took particular notice when he sat down, he noted Perry was already out for the night.

“Did he leave?”

“He said he was running down a hunch and he’d let you know if it panned out.”

Tracey seemed better than earlier.

Jon sipped his umpteenth cup of coffee and tried to refocus on the case. The Arlington traffic cam footage had landed, and he busied himself with pinpointing the pertinent times and intersections near the motels on the nights in question.

However, there were enough cars to prevent any one of them from standing out.

No vehicles drove by multiple times or otherwise behaved oddly. None slowed to a crawl, disgorged passengers in strange locations, or otherwise called attention by driving erratically.

Damn.

“Okay, thank you.” Sarena hung up her phone and sat back, running a hand through her hair, which wasn’t in its usual ponytail or braid. She seemed rundown. They all needed a break. Two straight weeks of long days chasing old forensics reports, reading transcripts, tracking down detectives in two different states, following leads in D.C. for Wright and now their new victim—and they had the barest glimpse into who their killer could be. This guy really was a phantom.

“Anything?” Jon didn’t want to push, but God, something had to give.

“Chicago PD is convinced Malcolm Irwin’s boyfriend and Dom, Paul Wolfe, is involved in his murder. They keep trying to get him to take a polygraph, which of course, he refuses.”

“Smart.”

While non-cooperative persons of interest were frustrating for law enforcement, Jon supported people protecting themselves from false accusations. There was a reason polygraph testing wasn’t admissible in court.

Then again, thanks to his older brother being killed by police during an armed robbery, Jon had a perspective most law enforcement officers didn’t share.

Sarena was also frustrated. “Mm-hmm. So now, every time I try to speak to him, he dodges me. He thinks I’ll harass him the way the local PD did. I can’t get through. The locals have soured him, even though they’ve backed off now that Mike Kelley’s talked to them.” The liaison had gotten Chicago PD to understand this was a serial case, even without the physical evidence link.

“We had a similar problem with Dalton Lewis’s ex, Frank Robinson.” Jon shuffled through his paperwork for the file with his notes, which he passed to her. “We convinced his attorney to speak to Frank on our behalf. Maybe that’ll work for… Paul, was it?”

Sarena frowned as she flipped open the folder but hardly glanced at its contents. “I’ve tried the lawyer route. He won’t play ball.”

“Maybe you should get on a plane to go see him. I mean, Sutherland might give you hell for the expense, but Irwin’s our dark horse.”

Sarena nodded as she sipped from her water bottle. “I agree. This interview is crucial. From where I sit, Paul may have the juiciest fruit of this case.”

Malcolm Irwin was the only victim with a current partner who’d known he was sleeping with other men. They’d been in a consensually non-monogamous relationship. Paul Wolfe might be their best chance for information about who Malcolm might’ve been talking to on Smoldr. They had confirmation the meet-up was arranged on the app because Malcolm had told his partner himself. If he’d told him who he was talking to….

Sarena batted her eyelashes at Jon, then Tracey. “Any chance I could talk one of you chivalrous gentlemen into making the trip instead?”

Tracey put up his hands, palms out. “Nu-uh. As much as I love Chicago, I’m not up for airport walking, especially at O’Hare, and I still have physical therapy.”

Uncomfortable, Jon stared intently at his monitor. “I can’t. I have some behind-the-scenes things I’m working on with Ron.”

Sarena paused, then glanced at Perry’s empty chair. “Anything interesting?”

He didn’t want to lie to her, but he was keeping his mouth shut about the promotion offer, especially inside the building. “I have to be available just in case.”

“Ugh. I just don’t want my family jumping on me for being home and not seeing them.” Her grumble was mostly under her breath, but still audible.

“Oh?” Tracey shot her a curious glance. “That’s right. You’re from Chicago. How often do you visit? Maybe they’ll let you slide this once.”

“Technically grew up in the ’burbs.” She remained noncommittal about how much she saw them, and Tracey was smart enough to get that hint. “You’re cute if you think my ma and sisters ever let me slide.”

“You know, you don’t have to tell them you’re in town, right?” Jon grinned mischievously. “This is a quick in-and-out trip. If you’re not interested in the family inquisition—I mean dinner—you can be there and back like a ninja.”

She rolled her eyes but laughed all the same. “You have a point. And I also know I’m an adult in charge of my life, so I can make plans as I see fit. You know who else I’ve tried getting to understand that? My mother. Who keeps asking why I’m not married and popping out babies yet.”

“Oh, jeez.” Jon laughed. “Those are loaded questions to ask anyone.”

“My mother is Catholic and Latina, Jon. Loaded questions are her hobby. Same with my sisters, if you want the truth.” She navigated to the requisition screen where they booked travel through the FBI’s secure portal.

Tracey sighed wistfully. “I kind of envy you having built-in playmates growing up. I wished I had siblings all the time.” He sobered slightly. “But my mom asks me those same kinds of pushy questions, and then I wish I had siblings for a whole different reason. Your sisters are probably relieved when you’re in town to take the heat off them for a couple of days.”

Sarena laughed. “I love my sisters, but I bet you’re right. They’re ducking behind me to avoid the drama.” She squinted at her screen as she scrolled flights, searching for a good one. “Hey, here’s a flight leaving tomorrow morning at ten-twenty, and I don’t think it’s terribly pricey.”

“Shoot me the requisition and I’ll approve it now.” Jon popped over to his email to await the notification so she could jump on it quickly. When it came through, he glanced at the return flight details. “What about a hotel? This return flight is on Sunday.”

With a heavy sigh, Sarena let her shoulders slump and gave him a hangdog face. “I’ll suck it up and stay with my family. Besides, if I can’t get Wolfe to talk to me, I may need some of my mother’s homemade tamales as consolation.”

“Okay that sounds so good, I wish I could go with you.” Tracey lightly shoved her shoulder.

“I didn’t offer for you to come with me.” She side-eyed him. “I asked you to go instead of me.” She tsk ed. “So no. You get no authentic Mexican food.”

“I regret everything.”

Jon approved the requisition and Sarena booked the flight. “All right, guys. If I’m working in Chi-town this weekend, I’m leaving at a normal time.” She shut down her computer and packed up her stuff. “I’m gonna throw on some Hallmark and get sushi. Have a good weekend, gents. Say ‘bye’ to Perry for me.” She hesitated. “And, uh, Tracey?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

“Wanna grab a coffee or lunch when I get back? Just a check-in.”

He seemed surprised, but smiled. “That’d be nice. Sure.”

She shouldered her bag and was gone in moments with nary a backward glance.

Jon started to pack up, too. As he shut down his computer, he peered at Tracey and around the room, which was clearing out for Friday evening. Agents working intelligence on another big case huddled around a cluster of desks, and there would be analysts staying late for other reasons. Tonight, however, it wasn’t them.

“Come on, Smith. Let’s go home. I’ll text Perry not to stay late either.”

“How can we take the night off if we’ve got a fresh murder?”

Jon waited for him to finish gathering his things. “We’ll be waiting on forensics and the M.E. to get toxicology and the autopsy findings back. Detective Holland is running down the next of kin and known associates angle for Beckett Taft. Other than surveillance video, which I can do at home, there’s not a lot we can do.”

Tracey shouldered his bag and limped to Jon’s side. “I’m going to see if I can get Curtis Donnelly on the phone tomorrow, talk to him like we have the other cold cases.”

“Good idea.” The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. The doors closed and the elevator descended smoothly. “If you’re not busy this evening, given our unexpectedly early quitting time, how would you feel about a proper date?” He was gratified to see Tracey fighting a smile in the reflection of the doors.

“You’re doing this now? At work? Someone’s going to notice.”

“Who’s here to notice?”

“True. Right now. But you’re Mr. Paranoid about cameras and Alexas everywhere, Special Agent Anderson.”

Jon fought hard to suppress a smile. “Just trying to do what you said and date you. But I’ll wait until we’re in the car to ask again.”

Tracey shook his head and walked into the parking garage when the elevator arrived at the lowest level. “The risks you take.”

They got situated in the Civic, and Jon turned to him after starting the engine. “So is that a yes?”

“Yes, Jon. A date would be fun.”

J on dropped him off at home with a quick kiss on the cheek and told him he’d be back to pick him up like a proper gentleman for a real date. “Be ready at eight.”

Tracey’s insides fluttered as he keyed in his lock code. The stairs were getting easier as he climbed to the third floor to shower. Without knowing what the date would entail, it was hard to pick clothes, but he figured a pair of charcoal slacks and a lightweight gray cable knit sweater that emphasized his shoulders and made his blue eyes more vivid would work in most environments.

He was trying to decide on an artfully mussed or sleeker hairstyle when his security app alerted him someone was at the door. All he could see when he checked the camera was the black and white image of a rose bloom.

Narrowing his eyes, he tapped the intercom. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to pick up my boyfriend.” Jon’s amusement was clear despite the tinny mic.

“You know, obscuring a recent kidnapping victim’s security camera is a bad idea.” Tracey buzzed him in anyway.

The front door closed and Jon came into the living room, holding forth the single red rose with an apologetic look as Tracey reached the foot of the steps.

“That was really stupid of me. I wasn’t thinking.”

Tracey took the flower, flattered and unsure how to react. “No one’s ever gotten me a rose before. I forgive you.” He pecked Jon on the lips and went into the kitchen to find something for a vase.

“Still, I should have known better.”

Finding nothing better than an empty beer bottle from the recycling, Tracey put the rose in it with some water, and then placed it in the middle of his dining table. The jaunty bloom tilted to the side, giving him a happy little wave that would be visible in the living room and kitchen. He’d have to pick up a better receptacle. Or maybe he’d get a proper vase to hold a bigger bunch. Flowers could brighten the whole space. Now he understood why his mother had a floral centerpiece on their table when he was growing up.

A stab of sadness pierced his gut.

No, he wasn’t going to think of her and taint their first official date.

He wrapped his arms around Jon’s waist. “Thank you. I highly doubt someone with nefarious purposes wanting to do unspeakable things to me is ringing my doorbell and hiding behind roses.”

Jon returned the embrace. “You’re too trusting. But we can talk about unspeakable things later or we’ll be late for our reservation.”

“We have a reservation?”

“Yes. I wasn’t chancing a scramble for somewhere nice. But we’re pushing it.” He gripped Tracey’s hand to tug him gently toward the door.

Tracey laughed. “Okay, I get the hint.” As they passed by the small table next to the door, he grabbed his wallet and keys, and followed Jon out. After locking up, he finally took in Jon’s appearance.

Black suit pants with a deep purple turtleneck under a tailored jacket. His dark hair was impeccable and his posture was confident and relaxed. Tracey couldn’t help admiring him in the low light from the moon and streetlamps.

“You look really nice.”

They got into the car and Jon leaned over the console before starting the engine. “So do you.” He tilted his face for a short but sweet kiss, and then they were on the way.

Tracey was pleased when he recognized the area. “Dupont Circle?”

“I hope you don’t mind eating in the same neighborhood twice in one week.” Jon navigated effortlessly into a streetside parking space and turned the car off.

“Not at all. I was hoping to explore more on my own, so it’s perfect.” He got out and stopped on the sidewalk, not sure which restaurant awaited them.

Jon held out his elbow and Tracey gripped it with a slight hesitation. When he spoke, it was low. “You aren’t worried about being seen?”

“Not really. Sarena’s home prepping for Chicago. Perry said he’s working on a project tonight, and Sutherland and his wife have a standing Friday night date at their country club. It’s a crowded area, and we’re not exposed for long. I don’t think anyone else will really recognize us. At least not you. You’re still new.” Jon face was fond. “We’re out everywhere but at work. Wasn’t that the deal?”

Tracey tried to relax into the moment with a big breath in and then slowly out. “You’re right. The odds are slim. Lead the way.”

They reached the Iron Gate and Jon held the door for him to enter first. It was a beautiful restaurant with high ceilings, a massive wheel-shaped chandelier over the bar, and old-world décor. The host wove them past tables of diners and through an arched doorway, down a set of metal steps, and into a sunken, bricked-in courtyard with vines woven through a latticework canopy interspersed with gentle bare bulb lighting. It was incredibly intimate and romantic.

“Your table, gentlemen.” The host indicated a two-person table in the back corner near one of the heat lamps keeping the air temperate in the early November evening. “Your server will be with you shortly.”

Tracey chuckled as Jon pulled out the wrought iron chair for him, but he accepted the chivalry with grace. “Thank you.”

Jon seated himself and their waiter arrived with dinner and wine menus. The food was Mediterranean-inspired, and Tracey’s mouth watered at the choices.

“This is amazing, Jon.” With the overhead greenery, the low lighting, and the secluded placement of their table, they could have been in a bubble. Only the waiter’s reappearance a few minutes later to take their orders reminded him they weren’t alone.

They agreed on the oysters for a first course, and Tracey ordered the bison flank steak while Jon chose the grilled swordfish for the mains. For dessert, fresh berries and cream for Tracey and seasonal cheeses and candied nuts for Jon. He also chose their wine pairings since Tracey wasn’t as knowledgeable.

Once the waiter disappeared, Jon reached for Tracey’s hand. “I found this restaurant in my second year at the BAU and use it as a recharge any time I need to remember there’s beauty in the world. I thought you’d like it.”

“I do. It’s incredible how secluded it feels despite being in such a busy neighborhood.” He supposed being below street level with no view of pedestrians made the difference. The plant canopy muffled traffic and tourist sounds.

“I thought after this, we could grab a drink or two at one of the clubs you went to with Perry the other day.” Jon sat back as the waiter returned with the first of their wines.

Tracey raised a curious brow, but waited until they were alone again to react. “Are you saying you want to go to the gayborhood, Jon?”

“Why the surprise?” He sipped his wine. “I am a gay man, in case that’s escaped your notice.”

“Well, no, but I figured the loud music and half-naked, sweaty crowd would be old news to you.”

Now it was Jon’s turn to raise his brows. “Are you calling me old?”

Tracey sputtered his sip of wine, trying to cough delicately. “Not at all. But the average age the other night was younger than I am, and you’ve got seven years on me. I would have thought you’d have more refined preferences, like a play or concert.”

“I wouldn’t object to that either, but that takes more planning than I had time for. Still, how much exposure have you had to gay clubs?” Jon extended his hand for Tracey to take again.

He did so, which alleviated the on-the-spot feeling of this conversation. “You’re forgetting my friend Suzanne dragging me out in undergrad. I think I told you about her.”

“Ah, yes. I forgot you were her wingman while she went exploring her bi side. But you were never there for you, were you?”

Tracey paused and really thought about what he was asking. “Are you insinuating I might need to go through a ho phase, Jonathan Anderson?” The color rising in Jon’s cheeks told Tracey he’d hit the nail on the head. “You are! I’m on a date with my boyfriend who’s telling me to go pick up dudes after dinner.” He couldn’t help laughing, even as part of him recoiled at the idea.

Jon took a deep drink from his wine glass. The waiter appeared to refill it, then faded into the shadows.

Shaking his head while his mirth died down, Tracey squeezed Jon’s fingers. “Okay, it’s pretty clear we need to set some expectations.” He shuffled in his seat, leaning forward and getting serious. He thought they’d covered this when they’d agreed on their boyfriend status, but it didn’t hurt to reiterate. “I really appreciate you being so chill, but if you recall, I don’t even like one-night stands. That’s not the kind of person I am. Even if I’m casual with someone, it’s usually one person.”

“I remember. I’m the same way.”

Tracey recalled Brian being his friend with benefits, and tried not to think about it. But it made sense.

“Having a wild phase goes against my nature. I’m monogamous. I’d like to date only you. If you need to see other people, then that’s something we need to talk about.”

“No.” Jon’s head shake was emphatic. “We’re in agreement.”

“Okay, so I guess we’re exclusively dating each other. No opening up.” Tracey let his smile spread, warmth building in his chest. The romantic surroundings gave him butterflies all over again. “And while I know things aren’t great with my parents right now, I really would like to introduce you to them soon.”

He hadn’t thought about the words before they popped out of his mouth, but they felt right to say.

Jon nodded. “I’d like that, too. My parents are in Oregon and they tend to travel somewhere nice for holidays given how little I can get away from work. I see them when I can, and it’s often at the last minute. So when you meet them will likely be spur-of-the-moment on a random weekend in April or something.”

“Good to know.”

Their first course arrived and conversation slowed while they ate. Tracey learned he didn’t enjoy the texture of oysters, but he had a couple of them to be polite. The wine was good. He was reminded of the first time they’d had drinks together, scoping out a crime scene and trying to get a grasp on a perp. It reminded him of something he’d been wanting to ask Jon, but maybe now wasn’t the time.

A look must’ve crossed his face because Jon nudged his foot. “What’s up? You looked like someone walked across your grave for a second.”

“I have a work question, but it can wait.”

Jon studied him for a long moment. “Just this once, I’ll allow it. But one question. Then we’re back on a date.”

“Why haven’t you tried as hard to chase this perp’s psychosis as you did on the last case?”

The question seemed to stun Jon, who froze, then drained his wine again. If this rate of drinking kept up, Tracey would be calling them an Uber and they’d be picking Jon’s car up in the morning.

“I have.” He frowned into the glass, but did little more than move it in small circles, swirling the golden liquid. “This one really is a phantom. He likes them docile, pliable, and begging. He wants them to fear him, almost to the point of worship, like he has some kind of god complex. It’s got cult undertones, which is why I’m digging so hard at the conversion therapy camps. Every time we learn the victims have a degradation kink, it makes me think of the leadership of these camps. I just haven’t been talking about it as much with you. Perry’s been my sounding board, mostly. I can’t—I won’t—have that darkness affect you, especially right now. Not while you’re dealing with your mother’s reaction to your coming out.” He met Tracey’s gaze, eyes sad and serious. “Don’t be mad, but I haven’t wanted to let that part of the case touch you.”

A knot in Tracey’s gut tightened even as his heart softened. He didn’t want Jon treating him with kid gloves, but at the same time, he loved that this man had such protective instincts.

His voice was almost a whisper when he did speak. “You know you can’t keep doing that. The others will catch on, and then we’ll be out at work, too. Sutherland will get wind, and that’ll be all she wrote. One of us will get transferred to Siberia and the other will be asked to resign or outright fired. You can’t keep shielding me when you wouldn’t do that for anyone else.”

“Sutherland is tapping me to take his job when he retires at the end of the year.”

Tracey went utterly still, shock bouncing through his body like a freshly launched pinball.

“When did this happen?”

“Today.” He shook his head like he was still absorbing the new development, let alone whether or not he should share it. “This afternoon.”

Tracey sat back, drinking in Jon’s body language to anticipate what he could be thinking.

“Are you saying that by taking this promotion, you’ll be able to protect my job even while dating you? Because that has Internal Affairs and ethics panels written all over it.”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t think I’m taking it. I’m supposed to think it over this weekend and let Ron know Tuesday, but I genuinely don’t believe I want my career to go that direction.”

Frowning, Tracey straightened his cutlery and fidgeted. “It’s not because of me, is it?”

“No. I’m a field agent through and through. Supervisory Special Agent In Charge of the BAU is a desk-heavy position. I’m also not too keen on the leadership politics. I like where I am.”

Tracey sipped his wine, chewing over that answer. “You're sure?”

“That it doesn’t have to do with you? Yes. That I’m not taking it? About eighty-five percent. I have a couple of days to get to a hundred percent.” Jon paused while the server delivered their entrées and checked everything was to their satisfaction. After their first few bites and the return of relative privacy, he resumed the conversation. “I joined the FBI to catch bad guys. Can I do that from Sutherland’s office? I’m not sure. I won’t be able to put myself in the suspects’ shoes like I do forever, but I have more than the rest of this year left in me.”

Tracey smiled while cutting into his steak. “You talk like you’re an old man. You’re only thirty-five. It’s an honor for Sutherland to ask you.” He paused. “Would you be the youngest SSAIC in the BAU’s history?”

“We’re done talking about work.” Jon nudged a piece of swordfish onto the edge of Tracey’s plate. “Try this. It’s unbelievable.”

They traded bites of food for the rest of the meal, which was extraordinary. Beneath the table, Jon’s foot kept contact with his, and the whole experience was cozy and relaxing.

After finishing dessert, Tracey laced his fingers together over his stomach. “Are you sure you want drinks after this?” Jon had slowed on the wine so he’d be fine to drive, and Tracey wasn’t really feeling a busy club after a delicious, but heavy meal.

“Well, I’m not ready for the night to end.”

Waggling his brows, Tracey’s grin spread. “Who said anything about the night ending?”

After taking care of the check, Jon led Tracey up to street level. “One drink. Then we can go back to your place. I just want to go to a club with you for a little bit.”

“You are a surprising man, Jon Anderson. Okay, fine. But we have to drive. I can’t walk that far.”

It took them longer to find parking again than it did to drive the few blocks to the bar Jon picked. DJ’s in Logan Circle had a patio with comfortable, cushioned furniture in front of the long, narrow brick building, but they bypassed the outdoor seating to go inside.

Music thumped hard and neon lighting against red brick gave the club an ethereal, floating vibe. The bartenders chatted and mixed drinks for the handful of patrons while dance videos played on TVs mounted high on the walls. There weren’t a lot of people yet, but those there were energetic and happy.

Linking their hands, Jon pulled Tracey to the bar and ordered their drinks—Tracey’s usual Arctic Circle and for Jon, just a Diet Coke. There was a second story, but Tracey wasn’t interested in navigating stairs, especially after the few glasses of wine with dinner, and now a cocktail.

He and Jon found barstools and people watched while the crowd grew. At the back of the long room, the ceiling lights began swirling toward a small stage and the disco balls above sprayed neon refractions everywhere. The crowd got boisterous.

“Are you ready, DeeeeeJaaaaaaay’s?” a man shouted into a mic as he mounted the stage and raised a hand to rile up the crowd, who hollered back and raised drinks in appreciation.

“It’s Diva Hour and tonight’s Divine Diva is P!nk!”

The crowd roared and began bouncing in unison as the speakers erupted in one of P!nk’s classics, So What . Tracey found himself wanting to join them, getting sucked in by the enthusiasm even without wall-to-wall people. However, he didn’t think he could manage the exuberant dancing with his bad leg. It didn’t stop him from shimmying on his barstool. He shot a coy look over his shoulder at Jon, who laughed with him and joined in the seated dancing.

When the next song was Raise Your Glass , again by P!nk, Tracey understood what they meant by Diva Hour. The crowd knew all the lyrics and sang with all the enthusiasm of a stadium crowd. It was hard not to get swept up in the energy. Then, Fuckin’ Perfect slowed things down enough for him, and he might be able to keep up. So he finished his drink, slid off the stool, and pulled Jon to the edge of the crowd to join in.

His sweater was hot, and he was sweaty with the alcohol in his veins. He put his hands on Jon’s hips and did his best to let all his stressors go, losing himself in the beat, ignoring the twinge in his leg. He couldn’t do this long, but for one song, this song, he needed the closeness. It felt poetic, somehow.

Jon, to his credit, went along despite this seeming very much not his type of fun. Whatever, he chose this club, and he could deal with it making Tracey feel all sparkly and fizzy inside.

They stayed on the dance floor for one more song, Beautiful Trauma . Then his leg made itself known in a way Tracey couldn’t ignore. They had to abandon their happy, singing compatriots even though he was reluctant. Tracey had to admit, this was fun.

Jon pulled him close to speak in his ear as they peeled away from the sweating bodies. “Another drink?”

“Nah. It’s time to go.” Tracey nipped his earlobe to make his point clear why.

He felt Jon’s shiver more than saw it.

The drive to Tracey’s place was interminable, but at least the stair climb to his bedroom wasn’t too bad after the dancing. He didn’t notice much anyway as they left a trail of clothes in their wake.

T he following morning, Jon left after a leisurely breakfast of eggs and toast. After such a nice night, Tracey had the urge to ask him to stay, but he’d needed space for a reason, so he walked Jon to the door and sent him on his way with a kiss to remember him by.

Descending to his new desk in the finished basement, he spent time reviewing the Wyatt Powell murder before calling Curtis Donnelly. It went to voicemail, and he politely requested Donnelly call him back for a few follow-up questions. Hoping it wouldn’t be long, he rewatched the initial interview with Atlanta PD.

It only reinforced his opinion that Donnelly wasn’t telling the whole story.

He was so deep in his musings that when his cell rang, he jumped. Recovering quickly, he snatched the phone.

“Special Agent Tracey Smith.”

“Hi, this is Curtis Donnelly. I’m returning your call.”

“Hi, Mr. Donnelly. Thank you for getting back to me so quickly.” He drew a legal pad closer and picked up his pen.

“I don’t have more than a few minutes. Hanover Powell has just passed away, and there’s a lot to do for the funeral. What can I do for you?”

That took Tracey by surprise. “You’re helping with funeral arrangements for Wyatt Powell’s grandfather? Wouldn’t the Powells want those details handled by someone in the family?” He hadn’t meant the question to be insulting. “I mean, typically in a family as prominent as the Powells, funeral arrangements are kind of sacred, right? And Mr. Powell has been ill? I’d have figured his arrangements would have been handled already.”

Donnelly’s reply was cold. “The Powell and Donnelly families have always been close, and Wyatt Powell was more than a brother to me. His family may not be perfect, but his parents have always treated me like a son. While they may not need my actual assistance with funeral arrangements, they are grateful for my support in this rough time, especially so soon after Wyatt’s death. I’m sure you understand.”

Tracey made a note on his pad. “I’m very sorry for your losses, and for misunderstanding your relationship to the Powells. I promise I won’t keep you long, Mr. Donnelly.”

“Thank you.”

“Can you clarify Wyatt’s employment capacity with White Oak Film and Sound?”

“Oh. Yes. He was technically the Chief Operating Officer and an Executive Producer on several bigger projects.”

Interesting. “Why do you say ‘technically?’”

“What?”

“You said he was ‘technically’ the COO. Was he acting in an interim capacity in someone’s absence, or was there some type of caveat to his holding that title?”

There was a long pause before Donnelly sighed heavily. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, Agent Smith, but I don’t have time to pussyfoot around. Wyatt’s grandfather, Hanover, was a very controlling man, personally, professionally, and financially. Everything concerning the studio was approved by him. Projects, contracts, any large deals, all of it went through Hanover. The only place Wyatt had any professional autonomy was in smaller theater projects. So yes, he was ‘technically’ a C-suite executive and producer, but only after Hanover’s stamp of approval. Wyatt was essentially there to oversee that everything went to Hanover’s specifications.”

“I see.” Tracey tapped the end of his pen on the pad. “You said Hanover was a controlling figure professionally and personally? What parts of Wyatt’s personal life did his grandfather control?”

Now, there was a much longer pause. “I apologize, Special Agent Smith, but what exactly is this regarding?”

“The FBI’s investigation into Wyatt Powell’s death, of course.”

“And you’re looking into the studio?”

Tracey’s gut was buzzing, and he followed it without knowing why. “We’ve uncovered a possible film industry connection with another case.” He lied. “I’m simply trying to understand if Wyatt and this other person ran in the same circles as the person who killed them, and where those paths may have crossed.”

“Then stick to the studio, Smith. I cannot explain to you a lifetime of family politics in one five minute phone call.” Donnelly’s tone was almost frozen.

He’s protecting his friend.

Tracey wasn’t surprised, nor would he be astonished to find some serious skeletons in the closet of a wealthy family such as the Powells. However, Hanover Powell didn’t kill his grandson, so the control he exerted over Wyatt’s personal life was probably not relevant. As convoluted and fraught as family dynamics could be, Tracey was certain Wyatt’s deadly last tryst was in spite of his family, not related to them. They weren’t responsible for his death.

He changed tactics. “Did Wyatt ever talk to you about major investors in the studio’s projects?”

“Not really. He’d talk about the projects themselves, but the money was a source he never disclosed. That would have been unprofessional at the very least, and likely a breach of contracts. He would have never compromised the studio like that.”

“So you aren’t aware of any names of men he might have routinely worked with where large amounts of investment dollars changed hands, who might also have become people he… dated or met up with for other reasons?”

“You mean hooked up with?”

“Yes.”

“No. He would have never stepped outside his marriage with anyone tied to the studio, no matter what.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because he wouldn’t have jeopardized his career, his or the studio’s reputation, his grandfather’s opinion of him, his marriage, or his family standing for a work-related hookup.”

“People have office affairs all the time.”

“Sure. People who aren’t part of the Powell-Warner dynasty. They don’t face the same pressures Wyatt did. They don’t have Hanover Powell for a grandfather.”

Tracey scribbled a few notes on his pad while Curtis spoke. Family politics indeed.

“But you’re aware he was stepping outside of his marriage. These questions aren’t a surprise for you.”

“Yes, I knew.” Curtis’s frustration was very clear, his words a rush. “I was his best friend. He told me more than anyone else. I’m sorry, Agent Smith, but I’m afraid I’ve run out of time. If you need more, you can reach out to Melanie Novak, Wyatt’s personal assistant. I don’t have her number, but she’s probably in the White Oak directory. I wouldn’t suggest trying to speak to any of the Powells this week, though. They’ll be very busy laying Hanover to rest. It would be respectful of you to let us get through this funeral in peace.”

It struck Tracey as odd that Wyatt’s best friend would want to put the investigation into his death on hold for the funeral of the family patriarch, who, from all indications, had ruled Wyatt’s life with an iron fist.

But Curtis Donnelly’s tone made it absolutely clear he was done answering questions. Tracey would get no more information from him. Maybe once Hanover Powell had been memorialized, he could try again.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Donnelly. Again, I’m very sorry for your losses.”

Click.

Trying not to be disappointed, he took several minutes to jot notes to follow up with the team for a gut check. Then he realized he had a whole day—a whole weekend—ahead of him and no solid plan how to spend it. A different kind of gut check wouldn’t hurt. He picked up his phone again.

“Hey, Gray. You busy?”

Gray’s hello was chipper, so at least he hadn’t dragged him out of bed.

“Nah. Having a lazy morning. What are you up to?”

Tracey hauled himself up the steps to the main floor for a cup of coffee while he talked. “Procrastinating more unpacking after a hot date last night.” He gave Gray the highlights, but kept the really good parts to himself.

Gray laughed in the right places and as Tracey stepped onto his back deck for some fresh air, he realized how relaxed he felt. Coming back home had been the right move.

“Hey, I want to thank you for your advice. It was a lot of pressure, being in Jon’s house, and while it wasn’t an easy conversation, I think stepping back a little has helped us out.” He watched a pile of leaves go cavorting across the grass as a breeze picked up. It was cloudy again, but not unpleasantly cold. He was comfortable in jeans and a Henley.

“Glad to be of service. How’s everything else going?” Gray didn’t directly ask about specific details, leaving Tracey to decide what he would say.

“Work’s mostly good. I wish we could move faster catching this new one, but the reports take what they take.”

“Isn’t that always the way?”

“It is.” They spoke about what Gray was up to for a while. Then, he took a deep breath. “I came out to my parents. It wasn’t the idyllic ‘we love you no matter what’ I was hoping for.”

“Really?” Gray’s shock was clear. “Now that surprises me. Your mom and dad were always so cool with everyone in our friend group, no matter who we brought to breakfast.”

Tracey smiled sadly into his coffee, which churned in his stomach. “Right? I guess when it’s their son, it’s different. Well, I shouldn’t say that about my dad. He’s been awesome. My mom’s the one having trouble.”

There was a pause. “Can I make a guess as to why?”

This should be good. “Go for it, Dr. Hewitt. Profile my mom.”

Gray chuckled. “Okay, tell me what she said so I can get the whole picture.”

Tracey relayed the conversation. Given how the memory burned, it was almost verbatim, and the words fell out of his mouth like so much ash.

“Wow, Tracey. I’m so sorry she said those things.”

“Me, too. And even if I did want kids, which I never said I did, after the way she dissed my relationship, she’ll be lucky if she gets to meet Jon now, let alone any hypothetical children. Family has more than one definition.”

“Of course it does. I believe she knows that, too, which is why I’m so surprised at what she said.” Gray was quiet for a moment. “I don’t think it’s about making her a grandma, though.”

“No?”

“No. You chucked twenty-eight years’ worth of preconceived notions out the window. Tracey, you literally blew her mind.”

Tracey clenched his jaw, only letting up when a throb set up at his temples. “My life isn’t for her to dictate, though. She raised me to become independent, and now she needs to let me live it.”

“Of course that’s true, but also, take a breath, dude. Let me see if I can word this right. Your mom, she’s the stereotypical Upper Midwest mom, right? Drove you to practices. Showed up to your games. Cheered really loud?”

“Yeah.”

“Except she didn’t like it when you went out for hockey, and it took her some getting used to you being on the team. Then, when you decided you wanted to quit, she was agreeable and told your dad not to be upset. Why?”

“It was expensive? I don’t know.”

“It was dangerous.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And when you started driving, she was constantly on you about where you were going, who you were with, if you left one place to go to another to let her know, and she wanted that app where you shared locations, right? Right when you left for college. What was it?”

“Yeah, Life360. I hated that thing. That was a fight, too. I didn’t want her watching my every move, so I deleted the app. She was pissed. ”

“Because she was worried about you. It was invasive to you, but for her, it was a safety thing. If she could see you moving around, you were fine. Did she ever give you grief for where you went?”

“Not really, but she didn’t know some of those places were bars we were sneaking into. She’d have thrown a fit.”

Gray laughed. “Probably, but also, because that was dangerous, drinking underage. Not because she was trying to control you. Not really. Then you went and got a job at the police department. She flipped again, didn’t she?”

Tracey couldn’t believe he missed the pattern. “Yeah. Until I told her I was counseling officers for psychology experience for my PhD. Then she did it again when I joined the FBI Academy and got a field agent position at the Champaign resident agency.”

“And now, on your first case with the BAU, you got held hostage and shot.”

“Jesus. Yeah.”

“Except now you’re halfway across the country, you’re almost thirty, and when she offered to help your recovery, you turned her down because you were staying with a coworker. Which she was graceful about, but she’s been fretting, right? Every time you talk, she asks about your healing process?”

“She does. And then when I came out, I told her the person I’ve been staying with is my boyfriend. She went off.”

Gray paused as if he were waiting for Tracey to draw the conclusion himself. But he couldn’t say it. Eventually, Gray let him off the hook. “She’s scared , Tracey. You nearly died. Her worst fear almost came true, and she’s been telling herself your team will keep you safe. Come to find out, your boyfriend is on your team, and even he couldn’t stop what happened to you. She’s probably terrified. Except she can’t say that because it’s too real, so she falls back on the old grandkids fight.

“Which is probably another thorn, because maybe she was always hoping you’d find a nice girl who’d want kids, who might change your mind about having a family someday. Or maybe she’s been kicking that can down the street so she didn’t have to give up hope. Except now, you’re dating someone in an equally dangerous profession— a man —and boom. Her fears are front and center. You have dangerous career, a partner who’s already failed to keep you safe once, and the family she was hoping you’d have that might be the leverage to talk you into something safer someday has just gone ‘poof.’ She blew. She’s so terrified, she’s not considering how her words are driving you away. She’s so worried about losing you to this job or this man, it’s never occurred that she could lose you because of her blindness.”

Tracey was stunned into silence. From that perspective, his mother’s reaction was clear. It still hurt, but the new angle definitely cooled his temper. After a minute, he cleared his throat and sipped his now-cold coffee.

“You okay, bud?”

“Yeah. I just don’t know what to do.”

“There’s nothing you can do but give her time. Let your dad work his magic. If I know Edward Smith, he won’t give up.”

“I have talked to him a couple times since that first call, and he’s not having much luck. She’s doubling down.”

Gray clucked his tongue. “Yeah. More time.”

“He’s mad on my behalf. So mad.”

“As well he should be. His son’s being poorly treated. It doesn’t matter to him who’s being unfair.”

That. Right there, that validation hit Tracey dead center in the chest. His breath hitched. Before he could stop it, a sob ripped free, and he doubled over, his elbows on the deck rail. He bit down on the emotion trying to escape, and his chin wobbled as he pressed his eyes into his elbow.

“Tracey?”

After a minute, he took a shaky breath and put the phone back to his ear. “Sorry. This is hard.”

“Of course it is. But you’ve got this. I know you do.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Well, I can’t fly up there to chill out with you and play video games until you feel better, so here’s what you’re gonna do. Make friends that don’t have to do with work. I don’t care how. I don’t wanna hear you don’t have time. You need a support network out there, some friends you can be honest with.”

“There’s Jon’s best friend and his boyfriend.”

“Oh, the former friend-with-benefits? Not sure that’s what I meant, buddy.”

“It’s actually fine. We talked.” He filled Gray in on the resolution of that situation. “Unfortunately, Brian’s a bartender and it’s Saturday. I highly doubt he’ll be free.”

“Then the boyfriend. Just don’t let yourself be alone.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“Then nothing. You keep busy, do your best, build a life for yourself, and when your mother comes around, she comes around. You decide then how you handle it. It’s all up to you.”

Tracey was nodding even though Gray couldn’t see it. “One of these days, you’re gonna have to come see me.”

“Or you could get on a plane, too, man. You can’t expect the world to come to you all the time.”

They were back to their usual ribbing, and Tracey loved him for it. “Yeah, well, I’m the big shot FBI agent. You’re just a 9-5 doctor.”

“Well, la-di-dah. We both put our pants on one leg at a time, Agent Smith.” Gray’s laughter rang down the line.

Tracey felt air go to the bottom of his lungs again. “I don’t want to find out what life would be like without you.”

“Same. I have to go, though. One of these days, I’m gonna get to talk to you about what I’m up to.” Gray was teasing, like he’d already forgotten part of this call.

Tracey couldn’t help a stab of guilt. “I know. I’ll call you in a few days.”

“You’d better. Or maybe I’ll surprise you.”

“I’d love it.”

They said their goodbyes and disconnected. Tracey tossed back his coffee and stared out at the yard with fresh eyes, feeling a little reinvigorated. Making a quick decision, he texted Tristan.

Tracey

Are you busy tonight?

Tristan

Nothing’s come up yet. What’s up?

Tracey

Do you want to hang out?

Tristan

Sounds great! Anything in particular?

Tracey

I just unearthed my Xbox and hooked it up. Game night?

Tristan

You’re on. It’s been a long time since I’ve done low key. 8-ish?

Tracey

Perfect. See ya then!

With concrete plans, Tracey went back inside to find the Xbox and actually hook it up.