Josh Lanyon - The Mermaid Murders

Jason looked up in surprise.

“I know you didn’t want to go in there. I know it wasn’t easy for you. We needed to know what we were dealing with, and you got that intel.” Kennedy was making an observation not offering sympathy.

“He’s in better shape than I expected from someone kept in solitary confinement for that long.” Jason couldn’t hide his bitterness.

“He’s a survivor.”

“I never believed in the death penalty until I joined the Bureau. Even after Honey, I used to think there was probably something salvageable in everyone.” Jason’s smile was twisted. He hid it behind his glass.

“No,” Kennedy said. “Unfortunately not.”

“Is it true the number of serial killings have increased over the years?”

Kennedy took his time answering. “What has increased is the number of random acts of violence. Once upon a time you could almost guarantee that in most homicides the victim knew or was at least acquainted with his or her killer. That’s been changing for a while now.”

“And that’s what I like best about the ACT,” Jason said.

Kennedy raised his glass in salute.

After that the conversation moved into neutral channels. They talked about generalities. Not about the case so much, though ostensibly that was the reason for staying in Boston and meeting for dinner. And Kennedy, as expected, did not reveal much of himself.

Music was always a safe topic of conversation though, and Kennedy admitted he was partial to Mendelssohn.

“Mendelssohn? I thought the serial killers were the ones who were supposed to listen to classical music and swill Chianti.”

“You couldn’t pay me to swill Chianti. Swill is the right word. But I like classical music. Also George Winston. I’ve heard him in concert a few times.”

“George Winston? My parents love George Winston.” What Jason was actually thinking was you go to concerts ? He couldn’t picture it.

Maybe some of that showed because Kennedy said dryly, “Yes, I listen to music. And, I know this will amaze you, the pictures hanging on the walls of my apartment are not crime scene photos.”

Jason marveled, “You have an apartment?”

“Smartass.”

Jason laughed. “What kind of art do you like?”

Kennedy looked briefly and uncharacteristically self-conscious. “I’m sure my taste isn’t up to your standards. I collect paintings by an artist by the name of Redmond Granville.”

Jason stared. “Redmond Granville?”

“Yes?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Uh, no.”

“Redmond Granville is a key figure in California Impressionism. I did my thesis on Redmond Granville. I love that guy. In fact, I helped LAPD recover Seascape at Twilight .”

Kennedy looked taken aback. His expression changed to amusement after Jason had babbled on for about twenty minutes about California Impressionism and Granville’s role in establishing the movement, but the fact was Kennedy was very easy to talk to.

Or—Jason remembered the dinner at the Jade Empress—at least he was when he wanted to be. When he wasn’t in the mood to be civil, a glacier was more congenial.

It was getting late and the restaurant had emptied out when Jason, emboldened by a night of locked gazes and quiet conversation—not to mention a couple more drinks—said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Go on.”

“Why is the governor of Wisconsin so mad at you?”

Kennedy smiled, but it was not the smile Jason had been seeing over the past few hours. It was the kind of smile that made your scalp prickle.

“I don’t like incompetence,” Kennedy said. “I especially don’t like it from someone who’s in a position of authority.”

“Right.”

“As you’ve noticed, I don’t get called out to the cases where a happy ending is possible. Not everyone understands that. Including some of the people who ask for my help.”

It was not exactly an answer, but Jason thought maybe he understood what Kennedy was really saying.

“You’re still the one they call for.”

Kennedy gave him a strange look. “Yes,” he said. “However, I can’t afford another Wisconsin. I can’t afford anything but success here.”

The overhead lights flashed once, twice, picking out platinum glints in Kennedy’s pale hair and an enigmatic gleam in his blue eyes.

The waitress appeared. “Last call, gentlemen.”

Kennedy gave Jason an inquiring look. Jason shook his head. “I’m good.”

“I’ll have another,” Kennedy said.

Once again, he had guessed wrong where Kennedy was concerned. Jason had figured Kennedy was too controlled to risk going over the legal limit—even if they were only walking back to their hotel. Maybe drinking was a necessity when you had seen the things Kennedy had.

When you gaze long into the abyss…the abyss asks you out for cocktails?

With the arrival of Kennedy’s final whisky sour, the conversation abruptly shriveled and died. Kennedy downed his drink in a couple of grim swallows and looked unsmilingly across the table.

“Ready?”

“Yep.”

They walked out of the restaurant in silence, crossed the parking lot. The night was humid and scented with cooling car engines and warm rubber. In continuing silence, they stepped into the hotel elevator. But then their rooms were on the same floor, so what was there to say?

The elevator rose, and Kennedy stared bleakly at the closed doors. Jason stared at the ceiling. He was going to have a headache in the morning. In fact, he was probably going to have a headache before he finished brushing his teeth. Assuming he bothered to brush his teeth.

The elevator lurched to a stop, the doors slid open, and they started down the hall.

And seriously. What the hell with that black, red, grape, and lime green swirl-pattern carpeting? Maybe art did represent the best of humanity, but the people who came up with hotel décor belonged on Kennedy’s side of the crimes-against-mankind spectrum.

“So are you married or involved or what?” Kennedy asked suddenly, brusquely.

Jason threw him a quick look. Was Kennedy…? Not possible.

He’d asked though. Was it general curiosity, or was he really, truly about to suggest sex?

Now that would be funny, right? Hard-ass Senior Special Agent Sam Kennedy was so drunk he’d propositioned Jason .

Except Jason didn’t feel like laughing. He was ridiculously nervous, his heart pounding so hard he felt like he was going to smother. There was no way Kennedy would—but why else had they both stopped at Kennedy’s room door?

Why else would Kennedy be watching him—his eyes gleaming in the shadows—waiting for Jason to answer?

“Uh, no,” Jason said. “None of the above.”

“You want to come in?”

Bewilderingly, yes. Jason did. So much so it actually hurt. He wanted Kennedy’s arms around him, Kennedy’s mouth on him, Kennedy’s cock inside him. Or his cock inside Kennedy. Either was almost too exciting to contemplate. In fact, he wanted Kennedy so much he was in danger of saying it aloud.

Instead he managed a terse, “Why not?”

Chapter Twelve

Of course there were plenty of excellent reasons why not.

Jason managed to block them all out as Kennedy unlocked his door and let them both inside his room.

The lights were out. The room smelled like all hotel rooms. The only landmark was Kennedy.

The door swung shut, the deadbolt slid home, Kennedy’s arms closed around Jason.

Jason was conscious of Kennedy’s muscular length backing him into the door, the alcohol-scented heat of Kennedy’s breath on his face, the speedy expertise with which Kennedy’s long fingers unbuckled Jason’s holster—clearly he had plenty of practice in disarming lovers—before turning his attention to Jason’s shirt buttons.