Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“I’d offer you a coffee,” Cloister said. He paused as he gestured at the cup currently in use. “But…”
SSA Everett Kincaid looked pleased at the recognition of his microaggression. He sat on the step, a slight, blondish man in a polo shirt and chinos with his gun visible at his belt, and took a drink and smiled at Cloister over the chipped rim.
“I wasn’t sure how long…whatever that was would be,” he said, with a quirked eyebrow and a nod toward the beach. “It looked painful.”
“It was,” Cloister said. “That’s the point of running.”
“Most people just do it to get where they’re going,” Kincaid remarked. He squinted, lines creasing around light brown eyes, as he looked at Cloister. “It seems like someone who runs like you has more of a reason behind it.”
Cloister stripped his sweaty T-shirt off and wiped the back of his neck with it.
“I’m a K-9 cop,” he pointed out. He nodded down at Bourneville, who lay in a perfectly still “down” at his feet, her eyes still trained suspiciously on Kincaid. “I need to be able to keep up with her.”
Kincaid blinked. He fidgeted with the mug he held, turning it restively in his hand. His smile faded.
“You don’t like me,” he said as if he’d only just noticed. “I get it. You and Javier are dating, and I’m the…fly in the ointment.”
Cloister thought about that for a bit. “That’s pretty much it,” he said and took a step toward Kincaid. If he had been underestimating Kincaid, he’d have realized his mistake then. The man shot to his feet, but his gaze went to Bon as the danger first before he looked at Cloister. “Excuse me.”
Kincaid stepped to the side.
Cloister went into the trailer. He closed the door over, leaving it open a crack, as he stripped off his running gear.
It got kicked into the pile of washing, the trainers pulled off and given a once-over as Cloister tried to decide if the split sole could be patched, before Cloister went into the bathroom to give himself a quick wipe down.
Just a pass of the washcloth to take off sand and sweat.
His mom’s ghost chivvied at him to hurry up and be a good host, but he ignored that.
Guests were invited. No one had asked Kincaid over.
Once he was clean enough, Cloister pulled on sweat pants and his Sinner’s Gin T-shirt, the band logo faded to a cracked, peeling ghost on the front.
As he grabbed a beer from the fridge, his eye fell on the stack of old case files he had on the floor.
His light reading for when he couldn’t sleep, the missing cases that had fallen through the cracks.
Technically, he shouldn’t have them. No one cared, because they’d not cared when the cases were fresh, but still.
Cloister shoved the fridge shut with his elbow as he stared at the stack of manila folders.
They were where he’d left them, the same file was still on top, but something that Cloister couldn’t put his finger on said that Kincaid had thumbed through them.
That wasn’t ideal information for him to have.
Cloister popped the cap off the beer against the counter. He swept the metal disc up and tossed it into his bin as he went back outside.
Kincaid was still there, perched on the step of the trailer while Bourneville stared at him. He didn’t move. Cloister just stepped around him and jumped down to the ground. He got a twitch of Bon’s ear in acknowledgement, but she kept her attention on Kincaid.
“Go through my underwear too?” Cloister asked mildly.
Kincaid looked up at him, one eye squinted shut.
“Would that bother you?” he asked.
Cloister took a drink of beer. “Kinda,” he said. “But if you had, you’d know I don’t own any, so…”
He trailed off with a shrug. Kincaid choked on his coffee. He caught himself quickly and wiped the black liquid off his lip with his thumb.
“You are…” Kincaid stopped and tilted his head to the side. “…not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
Kincaid just smiled. He tipped the cup upside down to empty out the dregs onto the sparse grass, giving it a shake to drain it completely. Once it was empty, he set it down, rim to the dirty grass, and stood up. He brushed himself down fastidiously and pivoted away from the question.
“Special Agent Merlo said you were with him when he entered SSA Joel’s house today,” he said.
Cloister waited.
Kincaid’s lip twitched. “That was a question, Deputy.”
“No,” Cloister said. He shrugged and took a drink of beer. “It was not.”
Kincaid sighed. “There’s no reason we have to be at odds, Deputy Witte,” he said. “By all accounts, you were a good soldier and a reasonably competent K-9.”
He paused. Cloister grinned.
“If you want to get my goat,” he said as he nodded down at Bon. “Insult the dog.”
Kincaid followed the gesture. He scratched between his eyebrows with his index finger and then looked back at Witte.
“Were you with Special Agent Merlo when he entered SSA Joel’s house?” he said, enunciating the first few words pointedly.
“I was,” Cloister said.
“Why?”
“I was with him when the call came in,” Cloister said. “He asked me to come along in case he needed backup. It wasn’t clear what had happened to SSA Joel.”
“And once you made entry,” Kincaid said. “It was? Clear?”
“Not to me.”
“To Merlo?”
“If it was, he didn’t tell me.”
Kincaid pursed his lips and took a step closer to Cloister. He leaned in.
“And if it came to it,” he said. “Would your account of what happened match Merlo’s?”
Cloister took a moment to think about his answer. Annoyance pinched Kincaid’s lips together, and he took a breath in through his nose. “It’s not a hard question, Deputy Witte,” he pointed out. “Or it shouldn’t be.”
“I don’t know what SA Merlo’s account of events is,” Cloister said. “I can’t see any reason it wouldn’t match, but I could have missed something.”
“Do that often? Miss things.”
“No.”
Kincaid had the grace to look amused. He glanced away from Cloister to cast his gaze over the trailer park, attention lingering on the screaming kids and the pickups.
“I don’t know what Merlo has told you about me,” Kincaid said. “But I am very good at my job.”
“He’s mentioned that.”
Kincaid blinked in surprise and flicked his attention back to Cloister. The fact he had to tip his head back made annoyance flicker over his face.
“Did he tell you what tends to happen to people who get in the way of me getting the job done?”
“Yeah,” Cloister said. “It came up.”
A thin smile played over Kincaid’s mouth. “Ahhh, pillow talk among LEOs,” he said. “It’s a genre of its own. The thing is, Deputy, we don’t have to be enemies. We don’t have to be friends. You just have to stay out of my way.”
Cloister reached and brushed a bit of leaf off Kincaid’s shoulder for him.
It wasn’t a smart move, but Kincaid apparently brought out the Witte in him.
The casual invasion of space made Kincaid’s face tighten with annoyance.
He stiffened, a muscle in his jaw twitching, and Bon broke her silence with a soft, rumbling growl.
Kincaid didn’t back off, but he did lean back.
“Call off your dog,” he warned.
Cloister gestured for Bon to settle.
“I’m a pretty big guy,” Cloister said as he lifted his beer bottle to his mouth. “People usually see where I’m standing in plenty of time to avoid me.”
Bourneville burped in Cloister’s face.
Her breath smelled like pup cup and sardine treats. He grimaced as he craned his head back and pushed her narrow head to the side.
“You know, Javi at least pretends it wasn’t him,” he said.
Bon just yawned in his face and jumped down off the passenger seat so she could sprawl out in the back. They were three hours, two crying gang-bangers, and one peeping tom into their shift. It had done a good job in settling her down from the aborted search earlier.
Cloister absently shoveled a mostly cold burger into his mouth as he took advantage of the lull between calls to get a head start on his reports.
Halfway through noting down the use-of-force against the prowler, the background noise of radio chatter and Bon’s snuffling snores tugged at his attention.
“K-9-23,” Mel said. “Respond.”
Cloister reached for the radio, his thumb leaving a greasy smear on the console. “Copy,” he said. “You need me?”
He shoved the last bite of burger in his mouth as he waited for a response.
“You need to 10-19, K-9-23. Lieutenant wants a word,” Mel said. “Switch to TAC 3?”
The burger didn’t taste great anyhow, but suddenly it was mush in Cloister’s mouth. He had to choke the tasteless, sponge-like mass down his throat, the congealed clumps of cheese making him gag, as he fumbled the channel change.
“Dispatch,” he said. “K-9-23. On 3. What—”
Instead of Mel’s familiar voice, it was Lieutenant Frome who replied, his voice clipped and irritated as it crackled out of the speakers.
“Witte. I need a word. If you’re clear, swing back to the station.”
Cloister hadn’t expected that. He hesitated for a second before his mouth cut in on autopilot.
“Copy,” he said, then asked, “Want to give me a heads up on—”
“No. Come and see me as soon as you get back.”
“Is it about Javi?” Cloister asked quickly, the words sore as they scraped out of his dry throat. He quickly corrected the question. “SA Merlo?”
There was a slight pause, and then Frome bent enough to say, “No. Clear,” before he unkeyed the mic.
Relief.
That was what Cloister felt as he leaned back in the driver’s seat. He could feel it as his chest and shoulders loosened, the sickly taste in the back of his throat just meat and carbs again.
Is it about Javi? Cloister snorted to himself. What was that about?
…
Cloister had to stop himself there. That was pathetic.
It was one thing to lie to yourself; it was another to do it so badly it looked like your first time.
He shoved the detritus of his meal back in the takeout bag and gave his hands a desultory wipe on a napkin.
The bag got tossed into the footwell for later as he started the engine and pulled out of the burger joint parking lot.