By the Book, page 17
Ben bit back any number of puns on protective detail and went instead for what he should have thought of when he’d first woken up. “So, where’s my laptop?”
Marshall stilled, and Ben immediately knew he didn’t have it, even before he said, “I haven’t had word from the fire department yet.”
This was bullshit. “We had a deal.” He needed that laptop. He was absolutely sure it held the answers to what he was looking for. It was also the only thing he had left of his old life at the moment. But that last one was incidental. Point was, he needed his laptop to finish this, get back to his life. And get some distance himself, so he could figure out the puzzle that was Marshall, and decide what he wanted to do about the man.
“They’ll let me know as soon as they’re done with it, if indeed they found it.”
“The deal was, you were going to get it.”
“No, Mr. Coyne, I said I’d see what I could do. And I made it very clear to the fire department that it’s instrumental to this case. What in the world is on there that you need it so badly?”
Shit. He needed to dial it back. Marshall didn’t know about the accounts mirror Ben had made for himself, and Ben would like to keep it that way. That unauthorized copy was very much against the law.
“All my files are on there.” Think faster. “You know? To find a new job?”
Lame. But how was a guy to think straight when faced with those stubbled jaw lines?
Apparently Marshall thought it was lame, too, because he looked disappointed. Good. What had he expected? Did he have a suspicion? “Well, I’m keeping my fingers crossed for you that they find it. And that it still works.”
Crap, true, it could have been busted in the blast. Or the hard drive could’ve been damaged. Or come unplugged. The laptop was useless to him without the hard drive.
He looked up, and straight into Marshall’s eyes—again—who’d been watching him. Nothing even remotely soft or needy in them now. Cool, slightly narrowed. What? Was Ben back on Marshall’s suspect list? Dayum, those lips were ripe for kissing. Ben’s mind seemed to know only one track this morning.
That throat, though—no tie this morning—especially when Marshall was dry swallowing like that. Mhmmm, yeah. This cat-and-mouse game was starting to get hot. To pounce, or not to pounce? Who was the cat, and who the mouse? There were different levels to this game, for sure.
They stared at each other until the gurgling of the coffeemaker drew Marshall’s attention, and Ben lost his opportunity, but could breathe again.
* * *
Agent Reid came around eight with more shopping bags, and Ben spent the morning cleaning the bathroom, and then the kitchen. Since they had a working, and now sparkling—well, almost—stove, he’d asked for fresh vegetables and meat. Dairy and eggs were already in the fridge. He was done with TV dinners. Taking charge of his immediate surroundings gave him a modicum of control back that had been sorely lacking in his life of late.
Marshall had markedly stayed out of his way, mostly on the couch with his phone and his radio, or prowling around the apartment, and, once, outside the building, like a sleek, powerful cat. Big cats could be tamed, though, couldn’t they? To a point?
There was only one pan and no pots, but the oven worked and looked mostly unused, meaning mostly clean, so Ben chopped up some carrots, onions, and potatoes and dumped them on the cookie sheet alongside the two steaks Reid had brought, topped all with a bit of oil, salt, and pepper. That was pretty much the range of their condiments, but it sure beat that cheesy bowl that was forever seared into his memory. The cooking had calmed him down somewhat—no more thinking of big cats for now—and soon the aromas of baking steak and veggies pushed the smells of stale neglect and sharp cleaners out of the kitchen.
Ben heard Agent Reid come back just as he balanced the food out of the oven with the help of some folded up towels. The agents’ voices stayed in the other room for a minute, then Reid came into the kitchen, sniffing the air. “That smells amazing,” he said. “I wish I could stay for dinner, but I just came to drop something off for you. With best regards from the Boston Fire Department.”
Ben spun around to Reid holding out Ben’s laptop with the external hard drive resting on top. It had acquired a few scratches, but seemed to be in one piece.
“Is it still working?” Ben asked as he took it. So Marshall had indeed kept his word. Good to know.
“Guess you’ll have to find out,” Reid said. “Good luck with the job hunt.”
“Thank you.”
Reid hadn’t answered the question. Because he didn’t know if it worked? Did that mean he hadn’t gone through it? Him or the FBI? Or the fire department?
Maybe not. They hadn’t had a lot of time; the blast had been about twenty-four hours ago, and they hadn’t found the laptop by the time Ben had been taken to the hospital. Possibly much later than that. Or had Marshall been holding out on him?
Trying for nonchalant disregard, Ben set the laptop aside and shoveled the food on two plates. But sitting through dinner proved to be twofold torture. Marshall’s kissable attributes were only one half of it. The laptop drew Ben’s eyes like a magnet.
All things considered, it was probably a good thing Marshall paid more attention to his phone than to Ben, or to the perfectly cooked steak on his plate. Fucker.
Ben forced himself to do the dishes afterwards. One, they’d bug him otherwise, and two, they had only three plates.
Then, finally, he snatched his laptop off the counter and holed up in his bedroom. The suspense of firing it up nearly killed him, but it started without a problem, a thing of beauty. Sleuthing time.
He allowed himself to get lost in the numbers, following the money, comparing accounts. Two sizable chunks, fifty thousand and seventy thousand dollars, had been paid out to a company called Boston Consulting, but, despite the local name, the account was with an offshore bank, nothing local about it. Interesting. Even more interestingly, though, the second payment had been made on the exact day Henderson had died, the first payment only a day before that. Coincidence? Or payment for a hit?
Man, the trajectory his thoughts took these days. He tried to get back into the mind of the man he’d been three weeks ago, the man who’d thought the excess money in Venture’s bank account was just a screwup. He couldn’t. His world had been turned upside down since then; his problems had been so much smaller.
He should be scared out of his skull, but most of the time this whole thing was so incongruous that it seemed unreal, as if he was a character in a movie. When he wasn’t being patched up in a hospital and hurting like hell, that was. Or having his skull caved in. Though he still didn’t remember that part. It was a relief not to have that in his head, but also annoying that he couldn’t recall anything about his assailant.
He set the laptop aside and stretched his legs. If he’d had his phone, he would have called Greg. He needed to know that the FBI had found this, because he couldn’t just tell them. There’d be no explaining that.
Marshall hadn’t said anything, but then he always played his cards very close to his chest. A smooth, well-muscled chest, with just a dusting of hair down the middle. No! Abort. Concentrate.
Of course the FBI had found it; they must have. It was right there in plain sight. If he went and told Marshall about it, he would just compromise himself for nothing.
He tried to continue his search, but his concentration was shot. He couldn’t even focus on checking his emails. Might as well go watch the news and try again with fresh eyes in the morning.
When he opened his door, he heard Marshall say, “...disappointing. I didn’t think they’d turn out to be quite so useless. I can’t believe Sullivan didn’t keep track at all. He would have to have some insurance. Did you find anything that would indicate a second set? Shadow accounts, or something like that? Right, well, keep me posted. And go home, Greg. It’s almost midnight.”
Ben walked into the room as Marshall put his phone down. “Greg still working?” he asked, switching the TV on, feigning disinterest.
“That man is always working late.” Marshall sounded absentminded, long fingers leafing through a stack of files on the table.
Ben’s mind was racing. Did he need to tell Marshall? The call had sounded as if Greg hadn’t found anything. Which was impossible. Ben might know Venture’s system better, but on the other hand, he’d had a few hiccups along the way, to say the least. Greg should be way ahead of him.
Maybe Ben had completely misunderstood that phone conversation? Greg wasn’t some incompetent paper pusher. He knew his stuff. It had to have been about something else. Because, if Greg had found it, why would he hide that from Marshall?
No. No way. Ben was getting paranoid, and no wonder after everything that had happened. He needed about a week of sleep, and good food, and no reason to look over his shoulder.
“I’m going to bed,” he announced, but barely got a grunt for an answer, because Marshall had his nose deep in some file. Ben was faking indifference enough these days to know it when he saw it. Marshall’s shoulders looked rigid, and his neck muscles stood out with what Ben was sure was the effort not to look up.
Yup, definitely avoiding Ben. Well, it was better that way. Much easier to ignore Agent Asshole than it was to ignore Nick.
* * *
Sleep wasn’t Ben’s friend, though. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Nick standing in the hallway in his briefs, as if the image had been burned into Ben’s retinas. He finally dozed off, only to wake up again after barely an hour, which started a protracted battle with his blanket, his pillow, but most of all his own thoughts. The secrets he was keeping from Marshall sat like stinging nettles under his skin, but to get them out, he’d have to cut himself open.
He finally fell into an uneasy sleep of wild dreams with bombs, and shrapnel, and Greg Elston telling him to, “Run!” while he was dueling Marshall with a competition saber.
He woke in a tangle of sheets and a pool of sunlight, heart hammering against his ribs.
Disgusted with his own subconscious, he threw the covers back and got up.
When he emerged, showered and dressed, just after nine, Marshall was sitting on the couch with a mug in his hands and an empty plate in front of him, watching the news. He wore his suit pants but no jacket, and the dress shirt was open at the throat again, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The suit porn had been bad enough, but this? This was sex on legs. Ben added naked forearms to his Dayum list.
Marshall acknowledged Ben with a nod, but kept his eyes on the TV. “There’s coffee in the kitchen if you want.”
It was the sort of coffee one could stand a spoon in without it falling over. Instant wake-up. Ben took his mug back into the sitting room, where the drone from the TV became words. “...completely destroyed in the explosion.”
The image was of a debris field that looked shockingly familiar to Ben.
“One of the victims has since succumbed to his injuries while in the hospital,” the news anchor continued.
Ben nearly dropped his mug. Gaines was dead?
“The other, a special agent with the FBI, is still in a coma.” Not Gaines, then. Somebody randomly walking by outside?
Ben turned to Marshall. “You never said there was anyone else caught in the explosion.”
For a long moment, Marshall stared into his mug, then he met Ben’s gaze.
Zing!
“There wasn’t,” Marshall said slowly.
If he was trying to tell Ben something, Ben didn’t get it. “So who died?”
“As far as the press is concerned, you did.”
“Why would they think—you told the press I was dead?” It sank in like molasses, one slow drop at a time. “I have friends who’ll see this.” In fact, everyone at the range would see this, and Liz would have a coronary. Ben started to pace in front of the TV.
“And you will get a chance to explain things to them.”
“No. Just no!”
Marshall turned the TV off. “Ben, believe me. For now, it’s better this way.”
Oh, now it suddenly was Ben again, was it? “Better for whom? For me, or for you to make your job easier? You’ve been trying to lord your father-knows-best attitude over me since the day we met, and I’ve had it!”
Agent Dreamboat looked as if he’d been slapped.
Good. Get used to it. FBI or not. My life, my rules. Out loud he said, “You keep telling me what to do, make life-changing decisions for me, and never once tell me what’s actually going on. In. My. Own. Life!”
“I’m trying to protect you, Mr. Coyne.”
Yeah, right pull back to formality when the going gets tough, and see if that helps, why don’t you? So predictable.
Before Ben could go on, Marshall said, “But since we’re talking about keeping secrets, care to tell me what you’re doing on your computer all day?”
Shit. Talk about shots in the dark. There was no way Ben could keep the surprise off his face. He could see it in Marshall’s reaction, the bloodhound-with-a-scent expression on his face.
If you can’t hide it, use the surprise. “My computer? What does that have to do with anything?”
Crossing his arms over his chest—and Jesus Christ! the things that did to his shirt-sleeved shoulders—Marshall leaned back. “Oh right, you’re just keeping your résumé on there.”
“You say that as if it wasn’t important enough to spend time on it. I do keep my résumé on there.” That part at least was true. Stick to the truth. Don’t get sidetracked by the arm porn. “I don’t want to end up sleeping under a bridge because I can’t pay my rent.”
“And there’s nothing else.” The fucker wasn’t letting it go this time, was he?
Ben drew his eyebrows together, trying to make his anger work to his advantage. If Marshall could do sarcasm, so could he. “Of course there’s other stuff on there. It’s a laptop. I use it for all sorts of things.”
“But no secrets.”
“I wouldn’t blast my address or stuff like that over the internet. But I’d call that a privacy issue, not a secret. So, no.” Technically that was perfectly true. The Bilanz mirror was on the external hard drive, not the laptop itself.
A small crease appeared between Marshall’s eyebrows. “So, if I asked you to give us your laptop for analysis, you would?” He was clearly starting to doubt himself now. Take that, Special Agent For-God’s-Sake-Put-Some-Clothes-On. You’re not the only one who can read people.
Out loud Ben said, “If it was overnight when I don’t need it. I waited long enough to get it back.”
A small smile tugged at Marshall’s mouth that Ben didn’t like at all. “You’re saying, if I walk into your room right now, I can check it?”
Ben thought hard. The last thing he’d done last night was check his mail, but he hadn’t detached the hard drive, had he?
This was getting too dangerous: he had to end their game of cat and mouse right here, right now: it was too hard to predict who’d come out on top. No, wrong thought. Abort, abort. The image that had conjured up almost derailed Ben. But he was still angry enough to keep his focus. “Which parts of privacy and overnight didn’t make it through to your cop brain? Were you listening at all?”
Only one way to get this over with and hide the drive at the same time. Ben threw up his hands. “You know what? Fine. I’ll get it.”
He stormed into his room, grabbed the laptop, and pulled the hard drive cord in one quick move. Ditching the hard drive behind his pillow as he turned. Just in case.
But Marshall hadn’t moved a muscle when Ben came back and shoved the laptop at him. “Be my guest.”
Marshall took it, but didn’t take his eyes off Ben. Finally he set the laptop on the table and got up. “I believe you.”
He did? Shit. That was unexpected. It should feel better than it actually did.
Marshall came around the table, and Ben took a step back to avoid any of those accidental touches that were so hard to ignore, which made Marshall stop in his tracks. “I’m not your enemy, Ben,” he said, obviously misinterpreting Ben’s keeping his distance. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
Oh, yeah, talking of alive. “At least let my friends know I’m not dead. I trust them more than I trust any strangers at your office.”
“That’s good. There’s no reason for you to trust any strangers, not even at my office. Right now the only people aware of your continued existence are you, me, Agent Reid, and my boss. And until I know where that bomb came from, I’d like to keep it that way.”
Ben stared at him. “Wait. You haven’t told my mother?”
“Ben...”
This time, Ben didn’t have to hold on to his anger. It flooded his system all on its own. “You callous bastard!” he yelled. “Do you have any idea what this will do to her?”
“Listen to me, Ben.”
“I’m done listening to you.” He was done with all of it. He hated people telling him what to do at the best of times. Marshall and the FBI could just go screw themselves. His mother didn’t deserve this. “I’m not letting her go through this again.” He grabbed his jacket in one hand and the door handle in the other.
Marshall’s hand shot out past Ben’s head, holding the door closed.
The anger was drowning Ben. He swiveled around, ready to attack.
And found himself nose to nose with Marshall.
So close.
Ben could suddenly smell the man, and his body reacted to that despite his anger. He didn’t know anymore if they were fighting or fucking, and he didn’t care. Making his body hard, he shoved against Marshall’s chest and shoulder, turning him around and crowding him back against the door, their positions reversed. It was Ben’s hand against the door by Agent Asshole’s head now.
