Chapter 11 #4
This surprising observation made Hayes laugh boisterously.
It was the understatement of the century, clearly.
Of course, he hadn’t known. All he’d had to go on before their initial meeting at the Nebraska jail was a bare bones file, and a quick phone conversation with Gill, who’d simply stated, “He’s a straight shooter.
A little—unconventional, and abrasive, but loyal and courageous. He’ll have your back.”
“I knew everything I needed to know when I bailed you out of that jail cell.” That day was a classic example of the craziness of life with Beckett. “We should get going.” He wasn’t sure what to do next, but standing on the side of the road wasn’t on the list.
“I want to break into my brother’s loft.” Beckett’s casual tone was just like the one he used when planning what he wanted for dinner.
Hayes hummed thoughtfully and nodded.
“You got your lock pick set with you? Or do we have to swing by the house?” He’d never actually seen Beckett pick a lock, but he’d heard plenty of stories about his exploits from his military service buddies.
“You’re not going to try and convince me not to?
Tell me I’m being ridiculous? Talk me into just letting this shit go?
” Beckett was still nestled against Hayes’ chest, looking and sounding exhausted.
No spark and none of the usual oomph that were unique to Beckett.
Just sharing his innermost thoughts and feelings.
Hayes found it somewhat disconcerting, and wondered if he should have raised those very points from the outset.
Then again—get him to let go of what? Franklin was dead.
Hard to deny that because of the goddamned video.
“Don’t shut me out, and I’ll go anywhere you want to go,” Hayes said, because it was the absolute truth.
Beckett took a deep breath and then pulled back to look up at Hayes.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, carefully masking his feelings and burying them deep inside. He stepped away, forcing Hayes to drop his arms. Rubbing his hands together enthusiastically, he abruptly returned to his usual confident, troublemaking self as he smiled with wicked intent.
“Now, let’s go commit a felony!” he declared before marching back to the car as though nothing had happened.
Hayes snorted in disbelief at this miraculous turnaround, wondering exactly what was going on in that hamster-wheel brain.
Having little choice but to follow that incredibly fine ass, he just hoped like hell they didn’t end up sharing a jail cell.
Once had been enough for this lifetime, thank you very much.
Surely, someone in the family must have a key to Franklin’s condo.
Yet—here they were, breaking in like common thieves.
Hayes hadn’t bothered to mention that there were probably much easier ways.
However, it was a safe assumption that the illegality of breaking in gave Beckett a thrill, which in turn distracted him from his grief.
Hayes figured that was as good a reason as any to let this all play out as Beckett’s mood had improved considerably since devising this plan.
“You still haven’t told me where you learned to pick locks,” Hayes said. It wasn’t really a question, but it was close enough.
“And I don’t know where you learned to do that thing with your tongue—” he retorted, looking up to waggle his eyebrows at Hayes flirtatiously. “Mystery keeps the relationship alive,” he stated resolutely, like it was a universal truth.
“Sure as hell wasn’t part of the SEAL curriculum,” Hayes mumbled to himself while keeping a lookout for anyone entering the hallway.
“The tongue thing?” Beckett asked distractedly while focusing on the task of manipulating the pins in the lock.
“Picking locks,” Hayes repeated impatiently.
“That’s ‘cause you Navy pansies are too dramatic for sneaky entrances. Always kicking down doors and using C-4—” Beckett criticized with an arrogant smirk as he listed what he felt were obvious flaws in SEALs tactics.
“Well, this wasn’t in the C.U.N.T. handbook either, so I’m not buying it,” Hayes said, shaking his head.
Franklin lived—had lived—on the 3rd floor of a condominium building.
It was a nice place that had once been an old factory but had recently been converted into high-end condos.
They’d had to lie their way into the building, but once inside they jumped into the fancy elevator and had gone directly to the 3rd floor.
Franklin owned the condo at the end of the hallway.
There were only four condos per floor. So, although the likelihood of getting caught was low—it would be damned hard to explain exactly what they were doing if anyone did spot them.
“Are you asking because you’re curious, jealous, or turned on?
” Beckett asked as he straightened up, his tools still in hand, a familiar glint of teasing humour in his eyes.
It had been a long two days since Hayes had seen that expression, and it filled him with a considerable measure of relief to see Beckett returning to normal.
“Stop flirting and get going. We’re going to get caught,” he warned in an attempt to get Beckett to focus on the job instead of quizzing Hayes about his feelings.
Beckett snorted and gave the handle a push. The door of the condo swung open on silent hinges.
“Ladies first,” he said, gesturing for Hayes to proceed inside.
Hayes didn’t even bother arguing with him; he simply led the way.
Franklin’s place was exactly how he’d envisioned it: sleek, cold, and perfectly neat.
Not a single thing was out of place. Hell, it was difficult to believe anyone really lived there it was so spotless.
No used mug in the sink, no kitchen towel hanging on the oven door, no unpaid bills on the table.
It looked like an IKEA showroom—expensive and perfectly staged.
“It’s—” Hayes tried to find the right word, but failed to come up with anything complimentary about Franklin’s living space.
One of his dates had once said that his condo was excessively clean.
That he needed to give it some life and interest. Looking around Franklin’s show place of a condo, Hayes thought that, by comparison, his condo was just a step away from qualifying as a crack house.
“My brother was a posh asshole,” Beckett sighed, rubbing his forehead like he was getting a headache.
Hayes was about to agree when a flash of something brown appeared in his peripheral vision. Whatever it was had moved quickly, but there was no question that he’d seen it. He gestured for Beckett to be quiet, indicating that they were not alone in the condo.
Slowly, he crept towards the room on the left of the entryway, where something brown moved faintly through the crack of the slightly ajar door.
With one hand on his weapon, he signaled for Beckett to take cover next to the door, which was their usual entry strategy.
Then, he did a silent, three-second countdown with fingers on his left hand.
When Hayes reached one, Beckett swung around and kicked the door wide open.
“Freeze!” Hayes said, pointing his weapon at the intruder and—
“Is that a dog?” Beckett asked, stunned at the sight of the incredibly small bundle of fur.
Dog was perhaps a bit too generous a term.
Less than five pounds, the animal possessed the attributes of a stuffed toy more than any of those normally assigned to a typical canine.
With curly brown and black fur, and bright black eyes that were wide with terror, the dog stared up at them from where it cowered fearfully in a corner of its dog bed.
“Your brother had a dog?” Hayes questioned in stunned disbelief. This directly conflicted with what he’d thought about Franklin, the stoic man who maintained this perfect abode.
“That’s not a dog—it’s some kind of—alien, robot thing, right? Ain’t no way it’s real,” he declared shaking his head. However, despite his ridiculous claims, he put down his weapon and crouched down next to the dog bed.
“Hey—Gizmo!” Beckett said, baptising it spontaneously.
He slowly extended his hand towards the dog.
The little thing bounced right out of his bed, obviously recognizing the gesture as an invitation to be best friends.
The dog began yapping excitedly, running around Beckett’s feet, his tiny little behind wiggling frantically with excitement.
“Jesus,” Beckett muttered, as he struggled to keep up with its erratic movements and finally just snatched it up. As soon as Beckett snuggled him against his chest, Gizmo stilled instantly, obviously content now that he was being held.
“None of you knew about Gizmo?” Hayes asked, since Franklin had been dead for nearly 48 hours and it appeared that no one in his family had come by to collect the dog.
“No,” Beck said, shaking his head, his brow deeply furrowed as he pondered the situation. “Why’d he keep you a secret?” he asked the furry thing in his arms. The dog didn’t reply—obviously—but he did look as if he was asking, You won’t leave me here again, right?
Hayes thought it best to just walk away before he did something stupid like start feeling something for Gizmo.
Hayes had already become enamored of goddamned Pantouffle.
He didn’t need to let himself get roped into caring for a dog on top of that.
He told himself to focus on why they were there in the first place.
“I’m going to look around the office,” he said, gesturing back towards the main living area where he’d seen Franklin’s desk.
“Right—” Beckett said, gaze still fixed on the dog. “I’ll just—feed him, you know—so he doesn’t decide to nibble on us ‘cause he’s starving,” he declared, as he looked around the room, which seemed—insanely enough—completely dedicated to the needs of the curly hairball in his arms.
“Sure—safety first,” Hayes said, rolling his eyes before leaving his partner to get acquainted with the dog.
A dog. A goddamned dog. Who would have ever thought Franklin would have a pet?