Chapter Sixteen
Sam phoned a little after ten on Thursday night.
“Hey. How was your day?” His voice had that smooth two-whiskey-sours timbre.
Jason pressed Send on the final email of the day, and admitted, “More busy than productive. How was yours? Are you still in Wyoming?”
He’d had not-quite twenty-four hours to sort through his feelings after that strange phone conversation with Sam Wednesday night, and he had come to terms with the reality that, despite their relationship, he was no more privy to the inner workings of Sam’s mind than anyone else.
It was a little jarring to face that fact, but Jason had gone into their relationship with his eyes open. Sam was who he was. Jason was who he was. Compromise was the name of the game.
“As a matter of fact, I’m on my way to LA.”
“LA?” Jason couldn’t hide his surprise. But then he remembered. “Right. The task-force-cum-symposium.” It made sense. The LA Field Office had headed the original Ripper investigation.
“Do you have plans for dinner tomorrow night? I think we should be able to wrap things up in time for us to grab a meal together.”
Now there was a concession. That was the first time Jason could remember Sam hoping to wrap work up early so he could dine with Jason.
Jason’s happiness faded. “Hell. I do have plans.”
“Of course you do,” the whiskey sour said. “Something you can cancel?”
“Unfortunately, no. It’s work.”
“Well, damn.” There was a little bit of that Wyoming cowboy in Sam’s voice, though Sam had never been a cowboy. “Any chance of an after-dinner drink?”
As if there was a question that Jason wanted to get together?
“We could meet back at my place? I should be home not much after midnight.”
“Late hours for a work meeting,” Sam commented.
Jason didn’t laugh, but that was kind of funny. Sam knew full-time agents worked fifty-hour workweeks and were on-call 24/7, including weekends and holidays. Safe to say, more than a few evenings were spent away from home and the fam. Hell, Sam’s workweek was more like seventy hours.
Sam was not insecure, but every so often he showed an unexpected flicker of jealousy, so it was better to get everything out on the table.
Jason explained about the invitation from Alex to attend the cinephile club as his plus-one, and why he felt this social gathering could be important to his case, especially following Alex’s comment about something being awry with the club even before Georgie had made her allegations against Eli Humphrey. The ringing silence on Sam’s end of the conversation was a little unnerving, but he managed—barely—to stop himself babbling about the vital work film preservationists did or admitting he’d much rather have dinner with Sam. The more he talked, the more he sounded like he was feeling guilty about something, which he was not.
Or at least, should not.
“That’s quite the coincidence,” Sam drawled at last, and Jason was in no doubt as to which coincidence Sam was referring to.
“I guess it is.” He added honestly, “It’s a lucky coincidence for me.”
“I see that.”
“So? Tomorrow night at my place?” There was no reason to be nervous, but Jason had the sudden uneasy suspicion that Sam was going to change his mind about hooking up.
Which made no sense. They were not teenagers struggling through their first crushes. And yet, he braced for bad news.
“Tomorrow night,” Sam said. “I’m looking forward to it.”
The relief was surely as silly as the nervousness had been, but real all the same.
“Are you spending the weekend?”
“The symposium runs through Saturday.” Sam hesitated. “I might be able to wrangle Saturday night. I can’t promise.”
“Even getting Friday night is…so great. I was thinking it was going to be weeks before I saw you again.”
For some reason, the sincerity of that seemed to catch Sam off-guard. “Yeah. I miss you,” he said gruffly.
When they’d first settled into the rhythm of nightly phone calls, Jason had tried to push for FaceTiming, but Sam had resisted, saying he preferred to close his eyes and listen to Jason’s voice. That it felt closer somehow. It wasn’t possible to argue with that, but this was one of those phone calls where he’d have liked to be able to see Sam’s face. To see the expression in his eyes.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” Jason said. “I love you.”
Sam said so quietly, so seriously, Jason’s throat tightened, “I love you, West.”
The dial tone that followed was the loneliest sound in the world.
It wasn’t until later, as Jason was on the verge of sliding into sleep, that he remembered Sam hadn’t said a word about why he’d decided to go hiking at Vedauwoo.
In the end, Jason didn’t have to chase Professor Bardolf down.
When he walked out of the ARCS elevators Friday morning, he found Bardolf pacing up and down outside his office.
Spotting Jason, Bardolf put away his pocket watch and called, “Hey, I want to talk to you.”
Jason, who’d been on the phone with Charlotte, warning her to make sure Horace made himself scarce that evening, dropped his phone in his pocket. “Good. I want to talk to you too.”
“Pop says you’re a cop.”
“Pop?” Jason swore inwardly. Right. Pop MacIntyre. The geriatric security-guard-slash-maintenance-man-slash-resident-busybody. Jason’s suspicion had been right: Pop had eavesdropped on at least part of Jason and Bern’s conversation.
“Pop heard Bern promise complete cooperation in your investigation. What exactly do you think you’re investigating?”
God. Damn. It. Bardolf was making zero effort to keep this conversation confidential. They could probably hear him upstairs in Powell Library.
“Why don’t you step inside my office and we’ll talk about it?”
“You’re damned right I will!”
Fortunately, it was still early, and no other employees had arrived yet. Even Pop was conspicuous by his absence.
All the same, whatever was left of Jason’s cover was now officially blown.
He unlocked his office door, and Bardolf charged past him, snarling, “The fact that Bern would agree to work with the cops against his own colleagues!”
Jason flicked on the light. “Have a seat, Professor Bardolf.”
“This isn’t a social call.”
Today Bardolf wore a leather vest, tall, fringed moccasin boots, and a wide brimmed hat with a braided band. All that was missing was his rootin’-tootin’ six gun.
“Suit yourself.” Jason set down his case, took the chair behind the desk, and leaned back. He studied Bardolf quizzically. “Do you have some reason to be afraid of the police?”
Bardolf mimicked Jason’s polite tone. “No, I don’t have some reason to be afraid of the police. I want to know what the administration is up to, planting a cop on the faculty. This is a blatant violation of Academic Freedom.”
“I’m not a cop.”