Sloe Ride (19 page)

“I don’t know that for sure. Ye’ve got nothing here but threads and mirrors. Maretti’s the captain down over at Southern. He’s not going to let go of something easy.” Donal chewed on his upper lip in thought, pacing a few feet of carpet. “If ye had more than a few maybes, he’d go for it, but right now, Kane, ye’ve got nothing.”

“Just a gut feeling. And a few nibbles,” Kane admitted. “Kappelhoff’s death wasn’t pretty, Da. And I’ll be the first one to tell you I stared down into what was left of him and saw my baby brother. I don’t want that to be real. I don’t ever want to find Quinn like that. I never want Quinn to become one of mine.”

His odd brother, Quinn.

Of all of Kane’s siblings, Quinn was the one he and Connor were closest to. As much as he loved to get a rise out of Kiki and Riley or put the younger ones’ backs up with a well-placed verbal jab, Quinn was the one brother he felt as if he’d had a hand in raising. Through all of the tears and stuttered thoughts, Quinn’d kept pushing through his childhood, racing toward an adulthood where his body matched the brain too tightly packed into his skull.

Despite the years, Quinn’s deep green eyes still held a wide-eyed wonder as bright and shiny as the day he’d opened them for the first time, and a two-year-old Kane declared the wrinkly pink larva his best little brother.

“Gut feelings don’t convince captains to give up cases.” Donal finally settled down at the cabinet, where he poured himself a shot of amber whiskey. “If I could, I’d be shipping him off to Ireland. That’ll take our
breac
out of anyone’s reach.”

“He wouldn’t go,” Kane murmured, resting his hip on his da’s desk. “For as smart as he is, he’s plenty stupid where it counts.”

“That’s the truth of it,” his father agreed. “Like yer mother in that.”

“The only thing of Mum he’s got ’sides his eyes.” He sighed, wondering if he could trust Miki to drive them home if he got sick-drunk with his father. “The problem is I don’t have anything connected, but it’s there, Da. It’s right there. I can feel it. If I felt like I had the time, I know I can connect Kappelhoff and everything else. There’s just too many small things to chase down, and Quinn’s itching to run loose in the fields.”

“Yer brother’s never run loose in any fields.” Donal chuckled. “He’d sooner sit and collect bugs. Ye need to find me something solid I can bring to the table, son. Or there’d be no arguing it. Why’d this one move up to murder? What happened?”

“Unless things have been happening, and Quinn’s not said shite about it.” Kane stiffened at a knock on the door, relaxing only when Connor slid in, then shut the door behind him.

“Are we talking about Q-bert? He’s right pissed at the moment. Mum’s got him cornered in the kitchen. I figured it was safe to find the two of you while she’s got him in circles.” Con nodded to his father’s glass. “It’s bad enough to get hammered at four in the afternoon? And can I get in on it?”

“Just seemed like it would lubricate the conversation,” Kane replied, handing his brother the bottle and a glass. “Considering I’m trying to convince the captain here to throw his weight behind my craziness. Da’s just brought up a good point—fast escalation between blowing up cars to killing Kappelhoff. I think Quinn’s either been hiding stuff from us—”

“Or he’s as oblivious as he’s always been.” Connor put the bottle up, then sidled in next to his younger brother on the edge of the desk. “Quinn’s intelligence doesn’t extend out to simple things like walking around a bad neighborhood and hiding his wallet, but maybe one of us can pry something out of him? He might have dismissed something before, but now—this asshole got his car. That’s enough to piss a man off.”

“He likes cars,” Donal spoke up. “Notice that, did ye? Cars and fire, but with Kappelhoff, he went a different route. Uglier. More personal.”

“Just now.” Kane nodded. “Sure, Kappelhoff is an escalation, but for what? If I knew what Quinn did to get this guy’s notice, I could chase that down and find him.”

“Now, Simon there. Lot of rage there from what ye said was left of him. A man does a killing like that, it’s personal to a deep level. If Quinn’s done something, then why lash out at Kappelhoff and not our Quinn?” their father asked softly, his accent thickening nearly to the pea soup of his childhood. “Someone wants Quinn’s attention. Summat bad.”

“The guy warned Quinn off or is leading him to something,” Con pointed out. “Maybe killing Kappelhoff is his way of pushing Quinn somewhere? But why would that be important? Why is Quinn this guy’s target?”

“Has to be someone Quinn knows. Someone who’s known Q for a long time, because it’s been years since he’s been with Simon. Hasn’t given him the time of day since.” Kane shook his head, more confused than resigned. “Guess I better go shake baby brother’s tree and see what falls out. He might know more than he realizes. I just know I start poking, and he’s going to push back.”

“It’s because he doesn’t think it’s serious.” Connor drained his glass, hissing at the bite of whiskey in his throat. “We’ll have to corner him in without him knowing. Can’t let him wander too far without some backup. Too much of a risk.”

“Kane, if ye find out anything, ye tell me,” Donal rumbled. “I’ll see about getting Southern to let you have the truck, but ye’ve got to stitch this all together, Kane.”

“Trust me, Da,” Kane reassured his father. “I’ll do the stitching. I just need the rest of you to help me wrangle in Quinn.”

Time’s come for me, momma

Time’s come to take me away

Leave a coin on my eye for the toll

’Cause the river man needs his pay

Don’t cry ’bout the way I’ve gone

Or the mud I’ve got on my soul

I’ve lived the way I needed to live

No way was I going out whole

—Toll for the River

“S
O
THEY
think someone is trying to kill you?” Graham sniffed—as he always sniffed whenever he poured himself a fresh cup of tea. He spun a spoon of honey into the dark steep, stirring it hard enough to splash a few drops onto Quinn’s desk. Patting at the spill, he sighed. “And you
still
came to work? Is that wise, Quinn?”

“I couldn’t just stay home. It’s not even
my
home.” Quinn refilled his electric kettle with bottled water and set it to boil. There was enough room on the low bookcase beneath the window to set up a makeshift hot beverage station, and he’d grown accustomed to Graham dropping by for a cup of tea before they did their afternoon office hours. Dumping two packets of Vinacafe into his mug, he listened for the burble of the kettle. The boil came quickly, and he filled his mug, then sat down with a sigh. “And then there’s… Simon. God, I didn’t even
think
about him in months, and now he’s….”

Quinn couldn’t say it. Not out loud. He hadn’t wanted to admit the man he’d tried to fall in love with… a man he’d hoped he would find happiness with… was dead. And he’d been more wrapped up in his anger at his family for boxing him in than mourning Simon’s death.

Guilt couldn’t begin to describe how shitty he felt about it, but Quinn felt even guiltier when he realized he couldn’t quite recall Simon’s favorite foods, the sound of his voice, or even why they’d continued their relationship when Simon realized he really didn’t want to go any further than a hand job in Quinn’s office.

They’d fought small skirmishes of double-meaning words and knifelike snips where Quinn was outmatched and outgunned. It’d gotten to the point where he’d decided he didn’t really want to be around Simon anymore, and the whole thing blew up in Quinn’s face when he’d tried to talk about it.

Quinn’d been so confused and then so angry he hadn’t even cared when Simon left. He’d just wanted Simon
gone
.

Just not…
dead
gone.

A week since Simon’s death, and Quinn’d exhausted his memory and patience with Kane and his partner, going over details of his life until he’d been about to commit murder himself. The only soothing part of living in the warehouse were the times in the middle of the night when Rafe called, seemingly looking for company, but Quinn wondered if there was more to it than that.

God, Quinn couldn’t let himself hope for more than being company. Even when his chest tightened when his phone chirruped a hello and Rafe’s number flashed on the screen, or the sticky mess he made of himself after hanging up, his body thrumming and satiated as he stroked himself off in the dark afterward, he buried his longing for Rafe. It was safer that way. At least that’s what he told himself.

“You’re going to break it if you continue to do that.”

Graham’s voice shocked Quinn out of his thoughts of Rafe, sticky sheets, and warm mouths, and he patted Quinn’s thigh.

“What?” Quinn stopped rattling his spoon about his mug and looked down at his dick, its length curled up in its nest of denim and cotton. Slightly hard from his lingering thoughts of Rafe, it seemed fine.

“Stop stirring. You’re going to break the cup.” Graham leaned over the desk and took the spoon from Quinn’s fingers. “Honestly, you’re hard on the crockery, Dr. Morgan.

“Did you… still have feelings for Simon? Are you sure you should be here? I’m sure everyone would understand if you went home.”

“God, I
have
no home, Graham. I’m still at Kane’s, lodged up like an old spinster aunt under the rafters.” Grumbling felt good, especially when Graham nodded and let him ramble about, looking for a thread of something in his own brain.

His friend made clucking sounds, tiny pricks of ticks meant to soothe. “And you hate it there?”

“No—yes. But not because I don’t like them… don’t love them. I just can’t—God, I’m never alone. There is
always
someone there.” Quinn rubbed at his eyes. “And can I be honest with you?”

“Of course. Anything you tell me goes no further than me. You know that, Quinn,” Graham promised.

“I feel like a fucking shit for not… I haven’t even
thought
about Simon in forever. Sure, right after he—” The last time he’d been with Simon had been an ugly, confusing experience, and he’d gone out of his way to avoid Simon ever since. “He
hated
the shit out of me, Graham—”

“No…. Quinn, that’s not possible—”

“Oh yeah, trust me. You didn’t hear the things he said to me. What he thought of me.” Everything Quinn’d feared he truly was Simon found in his bilious pour of words, each dripping with acid and shot through with razors. “He dug into me. Threw back everything I’d shared with him. Every single goddamn fear I had inside of me, sharpened it and stabbed me with it. He stood there screaming at me, and I couldn’t… just couldn’t breathe. And now he’s dead. And it’s my fault. It’s my
damned
fault.”

“Do they know who killed him? Your ex?”

Graham’s fingers butterfly-skipped again over Quinn’s knee, a flicker of sensation he barely felt beneath his jeans.

“
Any
idea?”

“Not a damned one,” he confessed.

“Then you don’t know it’s your fault. The rest of it could be someone’s idea of a sick joke, and Simon—well, that might have been anything from a robbery to maybe someone else he hurt. You can’t blame yourself for his death, Quinn,” Graham said softly, rubbing at Quinn’s knee. “If he treated
you
as badly as that, I can’t imagine he treated anyone well. You’ll be back home soon. We’re all more comfortable in our own surroundings. That’s normal. Human nature.”

“I feel like I’m five all over again,” Quinn muttered. He liked Graham, counted on him, but the feel of the man’s fingers on him rattled what little calm he had left. Shifting in his chair, Quinn moved his leg, breaking their contact. “Can’t stay overnight at my friend’s house because I’m homesick, and the bathroom’s on the wrong side of the hallway. Everything’s off… off pattern, off routine. Off everything.”

“Once again. Normal. Especially for you. You need some steadiness in your life. We both do. We’ve talked about that.”

Graham crooked his head, angling his beak-like nose into Quinn’s face until their chins almost touched, and Quinn chuckled, pulling back.

“See, normal as ever, Doctor Morgan.”

“I hate when you call me that.” Quinn blew on his coffee.

“You hate it when anyone calls you that,” his colleague pointed out. “Even the students. Really, Quinn. You’ve earned that—”

A knock on Quinn’s office door stalled Graham’s tirade, and he stuttered, a tight-lipped Fokker Dr.I stalling out before he could crest into a full lecture on protocol and honorifics. A very familiar young woman popped her head in before Quinn could answer the knock, and she beamed when she spotted him behind his desk. Blonde and endowed with curves broad enough to bend light, her face was a study in cat-eye makeup and glittery powder.