Chapter 4
Four
As Lincoln expected, the Wrangler was gone in the morning.
He’d phoned Susanne and sure enough, it had been towed.
She apologized profusely. “I’m so sorry,” she’d said.
“Coffee’s on me this morning, and I’ll have the tow company return it to your driveway by end of day.
” And in case he’d missed the emphasis on driveway, she’d tacked on that it was a strange car, parked at the curb in front of her house against HOA rules.
She didn’t have any option but to have it towed.
Carter had shoved a coffee mug at him, shutting up his reply about choices and the dozen other cars parked at the curb last night. “Not enough time to pick up,” Carter said as he’d rushed them out the door, leaving a mess behind. Did Carter actually know the meaning of the words?
Lincoln had been groggy enough and the coffee had been heavenly enough to distract him.
He wished he had another cup of it now to distract him from the gauntlet that lay ahead.
If the Polks’ house had been the place to be last night, Flour Power was the place to be this morning. The café was packed.
But it did look neat and well-kept in there.
Which was more than Lincoln could say about Carter’s Forester out here.
It just looked kept. A thermos in one of the cup holders.
How long had it been there? What was growing inside it?
A stack of fleece blankets in the back seat.
When was the last time they’d been washed?
File boxes in the trunk. Had Lincoln read the date right on them?
Eight years’ worth? And how many lottery tickets did Carter have clipped in the driver’s-side visor?
The car was maddeningly consistent with the state of the kitchen this morning. It had killed Lincoln not to empty the coffeepot and wash out their mugs before leaving, but after the long day and night yesterday, he’d overslept, and they were running late. Even later after the Wrangler debacle.
“Problem?” asked the smirking man in the driver’s seat. He’d ditched last night’s smart casual in favor of jeans, a blue long-sleeve Henley, and a leather jacket. The combination was likewise maddening. Made Lincoln want to—
No, he wasn’t going there. This was a cover, nothing more.
Nothing to the sizzle he’d felt when Carter had touched him last night.
Nothing to the warmth that blanketed him whenever Carter invaded his space.
Nothing to the surprising kindness that belied the smug grin.
It wouldn’t last. They were complete opposites, and Lincoln wouldn’t bring someone else into his family’s life that could hurt them.
Lincoln cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “It’s very lived in.”
“I spend more time in this car, going from assignment to assignment, than I do at my apartment. And besides, you’re still here, avoiding going in there.”
Lincoln stared out the windshield at the crowded café across the street from the university lot where they’d parked.
Occupied booths in varying shades of pastel ran the length of the plate glass windows.
The center tables were mostly claimed, and diners sat shoulder to shoulder at the counter.
He counted heads. More people than were at the house last night.
“We’re on the clock,” he said. “Ruby and Chase have twenty-seven hours left. I need to get to the library and start going through those archives. I don’t understand why I need to be here. ”
“Why don’t you want to go in?”
“I’m not the best in these situations,” he said, “if you couldn’t tell that from the party.”
“You were confident at first.”
“When I was still pissed at you, then reality intruded.”
He’d been awkward at the party, shifting foot to foot in his wet sneakers, letting Carter do most of the talking.
Stage fright compounded by an overwhelming sense of what the fuck was going on.
He had a better grip on the latter this morning, but the former would never go away.
Not unless he completely knew his role, inside and out, like when he was teaching or working on a case.
Then he could push down the anxiety with the confidence of his expertise. But a café full of strangers . . .
“I need your expert eyes in there. Like the party last night, it’s another gathering, another sample of the Apex population. You may notice something forensically or genetically relevant.”
“Or I may make an awkward fool of myself.”
“You’re supposed to be the nerdy librarian.” Carter flicked one end of the argyle scarf Lincoln had snagged on the way out the door. “Awkward works for you.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“Come on, I’ll be your designated extrovert.”
Lincoln couldn’t stop his laugh. “No shit.”
Carter flashed him a grin, then climbed out of the car. Lincoln followed, the two of them walking side by side across the parking lot. Just shy of the entrance, Carter halted Lincoln with a hand on his shoulder. “One more thing.”
“Now what?” he snapped, more harshly than intended. “Sorry.” He pointed at himself. “Requires more coffee.”
“Is that all?”
Lincoln glared, Carter smiled, crisis averted.
“We were in our home last night,” Carter said, still grinning. “Displays of affection seemed appropriate. But how do you want to play them in public? Even real couples have to have this conversation.”
There was that damn kindness again, and it caught Lincoln off guard, same as it had last night. Carter was definitely flirting—Lincoln would be a fool not to see that—but he was also respecting the boundaries Lincoln had set. Like a good partner.
“L, you with me?”
And he respected that rule of Lincoln’s too.
“Sorry, you just surprised me,” he admitted.
“In a good way, I hope.”
“Yeah.” Heat climbed his neck to his cheeks. Because of the cold, that’s all it was.
Carter wasn’t buying that any more than Lincoln did, but Carter thankfully let it go. “So, where do you want to draw the line for PDA? Hand-holding, touching, making out . . .” He grinned wider, and Lincoln took back every good thought he’d had about him.
“Cocky,” he muttered.
Which earned him another smirk, except Lincoln could tell when it shifted from genuine to practiced. “We’ve been spotted,” Carter said, gaze gliding to the side. “So you’re on the clock.”
Lincoln peeked the same direction. Susanne, her wife, Jennifer, and another woman were in the pale-yellow booth, all of them watching him and Carter with rapt attention.
He held his hand out to Carter before he could reconsider.
“I think you better take this before I run away screaming. As for the other two, TBD, and no, I’m not an exhibitionist.”
Carter’s big warm hand closed around his. “Don’t knock it until you try it.”
Fucking maddening.
“So, how’d you two meet?”
Lincoln jolted at the question voiced by a Jerry Garcia lookalike who’d stepped to the end of their booth.
It was an abrupt interruption in the conversation he and Carter had been having with Susanne, Jennifer, and their friend Lydia Osler, a psychologist at the county hospital and adjunct professor at Apex U.
Carter had been skillfully extracting information out of them—about the university, Apex, and the who’s who of townsfolk who weren’t at the party.
He’d deftly directed the conversation so that Susanne, Jennifer, and Lydia did most of the talking.
Saving Lincoln from his fumbling awkwardness.
Until flour-covered Jerry crashed the party.
“Barry,” Susanne hissed.
Because that wasn’t confusing or anything.
“What?” the older man said. “Y’all been giving them two”—he waggled a finger at Lincoln and Carter—“all kinds of information, and they’ve given you jack shit.”
The women tittered and Carter chuckled. “You’ve been listening,” he said to Barry.
“Was my job for more than forty years. Hard habit to break.”
“Shrink?” Lincoln guessed.
“Cop,” Carter countered.
Barry slid a heaping basket of steaming biscuits in front of Carter. “Winner.”
Lydia reached across the table and snagged one off the top. “Barry was the police chief until a few years back.”
“And opened a café?” Carter said.
“Wife did, decades ago. Now that I’m retired and got time, if I want to spend that time with her, I gotta be here. And I make better biscuits than she does.”
Jennifer leaned in and lowered her voice. “This place is always popular, but it’s real popular on Saturdays.” She jutted a thumb at Barry.
Lincoln returned her conspiratorial whisper. “How’s that work? Apex goes without biscuits the rest of the week?”
“Trudy makes everything else better than me.” Barry patted his big belly. “Fifty years of good eatin’ and good lovin’.”
“We’ll look forward to meeting her,” Carter said, grin widening.
“You’re a slick one.” Barry narrowed his eyes at Carter, even as one corner of his mouth curved up. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
For a panicked moment, Lincoln swore the ex–top cop had seen right through their cover. His panic rose exponentially when Barry shifted his blue eyes to him. “And I want blondie to answer.”
Carter scoffed, hand splayed on his chest in mock outrage. “My answer’s not good enough?”
“Shut up, Georgia.”
Lincoln’s panic receded a little. If Carter had fooled him on the accent, then Barry didn’t know.
He suspected—he was fishing—but he didn’t know.
Time for Lincoln to pull his weight as a partner.
Except there was that tiny speed bump of having not discussed this part of their cover.
An oversight, lost in the delays this morning and the unexpected party last night.
The party. Fuck! He shifted in his seat, angling away from Barry and toward Carter.
“You didn’t tell them this story last night? ”
If Carter had, they were fucked. His only hope would be Susanne or Jennifer jumping in to tell the story for him. Which he didn’t think angry-Barry-Jerry would abide.