Chapter 14
BOONE
I don’t know why I’m discussing the case with Maverick, except that he’s so easy to talk to. Surprisingly so. Maybe I’d be less surprised if I weren’t judging him based on his social media presence.
Or the fact that he was taking a selfie in the middle of the street.
Or the fact that, for a brief moment, everyone else disappeared and he was just standing there.
My own personal sun god in gold eyeliner.
Stop picturing the kiss, Boone.
Fuck, I want to kiss him again.
“Our tech guys believe the murder suspects had help, which is why we can never get any good security footage.”
“Suspects?” he asks, drawing me out. “So, it’s more than just John the Baptist?”
I nod. “We think it might be a team of people helping out the artist.”
Maverick raises his brows, and I sigh. The number of suspects keeps climbing.
“The artist is pretty consistent, using clear references to well-known paintings. But whoever’s helping them is leaving behind inconsistent clues. Like it’s a different person each time.”
“And the technical stuff…? What’s that about? Like, hackers?” he asks, and it reminds me of that WhiteHat group who helped us find the dad and the buyer in the first place.
It’s probably against department policy for me to join a group like that, but the fact that they called Joni directly about the little girl makes me doubt I’d be the first member of law enforcement to do so.
Returning my attention to Maverick, I answer his question. “Exactly like hackers. Whenever the artist hits, every camera in the area goes out. The only video we could find came from a closed-circuit system instead of Wi-Fi.”
“Still, that’s good, right? I mean, whatever was on that video led you here, I’m guessing.”
I pocket my handcuffs, shrugging. “We were able to piece together a weird angle on a black sedan, but haven’t yet worked out the make or model. After scouring city cameras for anything that would fit the description and timeline, we found a potential match in this district.”
“So you don’t even know if it’s the same car?”
I dip my chin, shifting on my feet. “No.”
“What else do you have to go on?”
I cross my arms over my chest, dimly aware that we’re close enough to touch. “One of our initial witnesses, a little girl, said the guy had a funny accent.”
Maverick stares at me, horrified. “They killed someone in front of a little girl?”
“No.” I gesture toward his building, and we resume walking, shoulders bumping against each other. “In her case, one dropped her off at the police station while the other stayed behind to kill two men who, frankly, needed killing.”
Maverick lets out a whistle, and I grimace. “Probably shouldn’t have said that.”
He shrugs, unconcerned. “Honestly? I get it.”
I wonder what he’d think about the more than two decades’ worth of unsolved cases concerning very bad people dying or disappearing without so much as a swab of DNA to go on.
Not for the first time since Joni told me about the rumors, I wonder if she was testing the waters with me.
And I wonder if I passed.
“So…yeah,” I say, needing to change the subject. “The little girl’s mom called a couple of days ago because they had been rewatching her comfort movie, and one of the characters had an accent like one of the men she saw.”
“What was the movie?” Maverick asks as we arrive at the gated back entrance. Two visible cameras triangulate on us and zoom in.
I let out a small huff, almost embarrassed to tell him. “Elf.”
“As in Buddy the Elf?” he asks, laughing as he turns to face me.
We’re awfully close, but I don’t have it in me to pull away. The fading light still fires his halo of rich black-brown curls, the tips bleeding out into caramels and summer wheat.
“Yep,” I say, a beat late.
Even though he’s looking right at me, he blinks as though he’s lost the thread. “Huh?”
He posts often about the issues he has with reading and language processing, so I’m gentle as I remind him, “You asked if I meant Buddy the Elf, and I said yes.”
“Oh yeah. That’s one of my favorite movies. That little girl has good taste.” Maverick grabs the gate with a thoughtful expression. “Wait, then what was the funny voice? Did he sound like one of the elves?”
I chuckle. “That would’ve been hilarious, actually.” Rubbing the back of my head, I answer, “But no, he sounded like the older guy. The dad.”
Maverick scrunches his nose, way fucking cuter than an internationally known influencer has any right to be.
“Like a New York accent?” he asks after a moment.
“Yeah. I asked if the man was the same age, and she said that he ‘wasn’t as owd as Buddy’s dad.’”
His eyes brighten. “Your little girl imitation is surprisingly on point.”
I touch my hand to my stomach and give him a bow. We share a goofy smile, and I remind myself that I have an investigation to continue.
“She also said the guy who walked her to the precinct had a regular accent, and her mom clarified that she meant a local accent.”
Maverick places his palm on the reader. “You’ve gotta love the way kids’ brains work.”
The gate opens, and I shuffle to the side, wondering if I’ve been standing this close to him the entire time.
Son, the thing to remember in this line of work is that it is critical at all times to maintain proper decorum. There’s a power imbalance inherent in all your dealings with the public, and the only way to keep the balance is to live by your ethics.
Something tells me Dad wouldn’t have found anything about this interaction with Maverick even remotely decorous.
At least I didn’t kiss him this time.
I shake out my hands, needing to focus. “Now I’ve gotta find some murderous art history nerd with a New York accent who’s friends with a heavily tattooed Texan.”
Maverick laughs. “You’ve literally just described, like, half of my family.”
“Exactly.” I run both hands through my hair, frustrated. “I feel like I’m describing half of everyone’s family because I’m going on less than nothing.”
Maverick’s happy expression softens, and he pats my shoulder. “I know you’ll find them, Booney. I can tell my uncle knew what he was doing when he suggested you for that advanced criminal justice program.”
Yet, with all your fancy classes in justice reform and judicial history, you still cuffed a young Black man without cause or provocation, so…
Christ, I did, didn’t I? That’s not even questionable. It’s straight up wrong.
Yet I remain a slut for his compliments.
“That’s very kind of you to say.” Needing something to push him away with, I throw out, “But don’t think for a second I forgot about that stunt you pulled back there.”
Maverick pouts. “It was just a street selfie.”
“I’m not talking about that—though you shouldn’t do that either.”
He rolls his eyes and closes the space between us long enough to push his thumb into that line I get between my brows.
I don’t step away like I should and instead warn him, “You can’t antagonize people like that, Mav. You’re way too well-known. That dick stain could’ve hurt you, or worse, followed you and figured out where you live.”
Didn’t mean to sound that soft.
“You’re sweet, B,” he says, brushing a kiss against my cheek. “But people already know the building I live in. It’s heavily guarded,” he says, shaking the cast-iron gate, “with lots of security cameras. And don’t forget—I actually know a thing or two about protecting myself.”
I take in his body, a not-at-all-professional glide up and down the length of him, and I know he’s telling the truth.
Maverick’s muscles are more than just pretty.
That stance he held in the street? The confidence he displayed?
That’s more than just self-defense training, or some over-inflated sense of self.
That’s dedication to a course of study. A singular martial art.
That’s knowing you can put a man on the ground.
Which should not turn me on as much as it does.
“What do you train?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He reaches out, coy and full of vinegar, to straighten my collar before leaning in. “I’d be happy to show you my moves sometime.”
Fucking hell. Abort. Abort.
I clear my throat and step back. “Are you always this inappropriate?”
“How is that inappropriate?” he asks, failing on any level to maintain an innocent tone.
“You have not changed.”
“That’s not true.” He grins, crossing his arms over his chest. “For one, I’m not sixteen anymore.”
“You weren’t even sixteen back then,” I point out. “And you shouldn’t confuse handcuffs with a come on.”
That may be more for me than him.
“I’m not confused about a damn thing,” Maverick continues, relentless. “All I’m sayin’s if handcuffs are your move, it works for me.”
I shove my hands back into my pockets, retreating. I don’t even like handcuffs in bed.
I just…
…needed to keep him close for just a little longer.
He makes his way through the gate and closes it between us. “Sorry, Booney,” he says through the bars. “Some crushes never die.”
I let my eyes find his again, shocked by the sincerity in them.
My mind returns, again, to the fistful of wildflowers.
Shaking my head, I angle to leave. “Keep an eye out for that guy in the truck and let me know if he ever comes around again.”
I’m not worried for one second about that guy.
Maverick winks at me, his smile bright. “Will do, Booney.”
I wait until he’s safely inside the building before turning back to Rainey. As I walk away, the security cameras reposition themselves, reminding me of their presence.
Which…fuck me swimming. I was talking about an active case while standing too close to a man I’d just improperly cuffed.
Because I haven’t been enough of a rookie today.
Reaching the street, confused and frustrated, I stand on the sidewalk for a beat, letting people stream around me.
What’re you doin’, man?
That question goes way beyond the Maverick of it all and spills all the way into my life.
I’m following every lead on this case, no matter how small, mostly because I’m trying to prove to myself that I don’t feel conflicted about tracking down the men who saved a little girl from a fate worse than death and then took out the drug dealer who’d been supplying Rohypnol to the town’s rapists.
Which reminds me… That Pierce guy from the night of the fountain hasn’t checked in with his parole officer this month.
Good. I hope they revoke his parole and drag his sorry ass to jail.
I turn toward the garage where I parked, thoughts churning over how relieved I’d been to recognize those pretty curls, pure brain stem when I’d pulled out my cuffs, all tunnel vision and testosterone, not a single coherent thought to be found. How easy it was to open up to him.
How I can’t stop thinking about him, no matter how hard I try.
How I completely forgot about the security cameras when he was in front of me.
Sure, I can trust Maverick to keep what I said to himself, but I hafta find a way to get those recordings erased. Thumbing open my phone, I know the answer is easy.
Just ask Maverick to help you.
I hate showing my cards though. He’ll know I was talking out of turn, showing off for him.
He’ll love it.
I open my Favorites.
Me: Hey, I hate to ask this, but if those security cameras outside your building can record sound, can you have our conversation deleted from the records?
Maverick: New phone, who dis?
I laugh at the old joke.
Maverick: Just kidding. And I stopped by security before going upstairs.
I’m surprised at his thoughtfulness, then embarrassed that his being thoughtful would surprise me at all.
I turn back to his building, looking up at the multilevel roofline, all the way to the penthouse at the very top.
Maverick: Stop looking up here, stalker.
Me: How do you know I’m looking up there?
Something flashes in the uppermost window.
Maverick: That’s me, dork.
Maverick: Also, you’re literally the worst-dressed person on the street.
Maverick: One of these days, I’m going to take you shopping and fix your hideous wardrobe.
I look down at myself, and he’s not lying. I don’t even know what he sees in me at this point, so I text him a middle finger.
He responds with a kissy face animation.
Me: And one of these days, I’m actually going to press charges.
He sends me the handcuff emoji and my face heats instantly.
God, this is so complicated.
Making my way into the garage, another series of texts comes in. Smiling, I check the screen, and my stomach clenches.
Hopper: Hey, Boone! I’ll be in town again next month.
Hopper: I know we haven’t been able to get together yet, but let’s try to make it happen this time!
Hopper: And not just because I want to pet your cat.
I can’t help but laugh.
Complicated doesn’t even begin to describe what this is.
Slipping my phone into my pocket, I resolve—again—to stay the fuck away from Rune Bash.
But as I get in my car and start it, I already know I’m going to fail.