Josh Lanyon - The Mermaid Murders

“He claims I froze under fire?” Jason’s voice did not sound like him.

Whoever it did sound like ruffled Manning into saying, “Erm, he didn’t quite say that. He—”

“We were never under fire—you’d certainly have heard if we had been—and I did not freeze. Kennedy can’t handle the fact everyone on the planet doesn’t think and react like him.”

Ah . He was playing Manning’s song and hitting all the high notes. Manning fully believed Kennedy was an arrogant sonofabitch who listened to nobody and believed he was the supreme authority on all matters.

His tone was almost conciliatory as he told Jason, “I realize it’s a difficult situation and, erm, Kennedy is a difficult, erm, personality. That’s one reason you were the first, erm, person I thought of for this assignment.”

Yeah. Jason was the first erm person Manning had thought of because he was geographically closest, between assignments, and too erm hungry for promotion to turn down any request from a superior. Mostly because he had been the only agent within driving distance to Kennedy—who would not have been willing to wait around in that parking lot even another five minutes, if Jason was any judge.

Manning was still talking, attempting to schmooze down Jason’s hackles, but Jason was no longer listening. He was running through the conversation he and Kennedy were going to have five seconds after Manning hung up.

At last Manning stopped blabbing and disconnected. Jason hauled on his jeans, slammed out of his motel room, and stalked down the walkway to thump on Kennedy’s door.

Annoyingly, his hair, wet from the shower, was dripping down his face. Jason brushed the drops from his cheeks just as Kennedy opened the door. Terror he might look like he was weeping spurred Jason into attack.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing telling Manning I froze yesterday? You weren’t there. You have no idea what happened. I did not freeze.”

Kennedy said levelly, as though he was used to being greeted every morning by enraged colleagues, “ I think you froze.”

“ I didn’t freeze . You weren’t even th—”

“And I think you should stop yelling the word froze where anyone can hear you.” To Jason’s astonishment, Kennedy wrapped his hand around Jason’s bicep and drew him into his motel room.

The effect of Kennedy’s large, capable hand drawing him briefly and disconcertingly close was…confusing. Definitely confusing. Coworkers did not breach each other’s personal space unless they were very good friends—or possibly about to punch each other.

For damn sure straight male coworkers did not casually manhandle each other. It occurred to Jason to wonder if there had been another reason he had been partnered with Kennedy. Was Kennedy gay?

Ha. Could cyborgs be gay?

Cyborg? Fleetingly, he was aware that Kennedy, though also fresh from the shower, had had time to slap on too much aftershave and drink several cups of motel Brand X coffee. He was wearing those reading glasses that made him look older if not scholarly. His shirt was unbuttoned and open, revealing unexpectedly ripped six-pack abs.

Kennedy shut the door and let go of Jason’s arm with an okay-knock-yourself-out salute.

“McEnroe pulled a gun on me,” Jason said. Loudly. “That’s what happened. He had the drop on me. You weren’t there. You don’t know what you would have done in the same situation. It’s speculation on your part. And this isn’t about that anyway. This is about you not wanting to be partnered with anyone.”

“I don’t want or need a partner,” Kennedy agreed. “But if I’m going to have one, he sure as hell needs to be someone I can rely on.”

“You can rely on me!” Though maybe shouting wasn’t the most reassuring means of delivering the message. “And if you honest to God thought you couldn’t, you could have talked to me. You didn’t have to go behind my back.”

He wasn’t sure if he imagined the red tinge that appeared on Kennedy’s face. “I didn’t realize you’d been shot.” Kennedy’s tone wasn’t exactly apologetic, but there was a note of something that might almost have been regret. His gaze lowered briefly to the puckered scar on Jason’s shoulder. “Under the circumstances, I don’t blame you for being gun shy, and if I’d known the reason, I’d have spoken to you directly. That doesn’t change the fact you shouldn’t be out in the field if you’re not able to—”

“I’m able,” Jason cut in tersely. “I’m not afraid. Unduly. Of being shot. I did not free—”

“And if you can’t admit there was a problem, how am I supposed to believe you’ve got it under control?”

“Christ.” Jason turned away, raking his hand through his wet hair. He faced Kennedy. “All right. Yes. Maybe I did freeze for a few seconds. It was just the surprise, the unexpectedness of finding a gun in my face.” As he made the admission, Jason realized he had fallen for one of the oldest interrogation techniques in the world: let’s work together to fix this mess .

Yeah. Right. Busted!

He finished without hope that there would be any comprehension, “I’ve been back on the job for a month, and I’ve been fine the whole time.” He tried for a lightness he didn’t feel—and Kennedy certainly didn’t feel. “I give you my word, if we end up in a firefight this week, I’ll have your back.”

Kennedy continued to study him, flinty-eyed and unmoved. And then, to Jason’s astonishment, the powerful, aggressive line of the older man’s shoulders relaxed. He said, “All right. I’ll hold you to that.”

“You’ll…”

Kennedy said, “You’re correct. I wasn’t there. I didn’t witness the incident. You’ve been cleared for duty. You believe you’ll be ready next time. We’ll go with that.”

They…would? Kennedy would?

There was a pause—a strange moment—where neither of them spoke or moved. Jason was acutely aware of an unexpected intimacy created by physical proximity and a cautious lowering of defenses. This was probably the first honest, unguarded conversation he’d had with Kennedy. It was more than that. He was intensely, forcefully aware of Kennedy as a man. A powerful man. An attractive man. A man with shoulders like a bulwark and a full, sensual lower lip at odds with the ascetic planes of his chiseled face.

What was happening? He didn’t even like Kennedy. Did he?

Kennedy broke the spell with a crisp, “Were you planning to go bare-chested today, Agent West? I’m sure it’ll be a treat for the ladies of Kingsfield, but I suggest you grab your shirt and shoes. We need to get moving.”

* * * * *

“We’ve had a couple of developments,” Chief Gervase informed Jason and Kennedy when they arrived at the New Dominion housing track.

Jason eyed Boxner who was busily handing out radios to the search team leaders. He and Boxner had parted ways the previous evening right after Jason had finished his beer. Which had been plenty long enough for Boxner to share with Jason what he and everyone else on the Kingsfield PD thought of Kennedy.

Which was interesting given Boxner hadn’t been on the force ten years ago. Maybe the idea that Kennedy had yanked the investigation of Martin Pink out of the hands of local law enforcement was the view of Chief Gervase? Chief Gervase had been forthright about needing and wanting Kennedy’s help, so more likely that was the opinion of those standing on the sidelines.

It reinforced the perception that Kennedy was a difficult personality. Good at this job—maybe even gifted at his job—but impossible to work with.

“What’s up?” Kennedy asked.