Jason hung on to his patience. “I can see the difference between pirating copies of the latest Harry Potter and showing a bootleg print of The Gold Bug filmed in 1910.”
“Sure you can. You just want to have a nice friendly chat about borrowing a copy of your favorite movie, and then BLAMMO!”
Jason winced at that shouted Blammo. “Sorry? Blammo meaning…what?”
“You slap the bracelets on.” Pop held up his wiry wrists as though showing off his new set of handcuffs.
Jason knew better than to laugh. “That would be entrapment. Pop, how long have you been working here?”
“Longer than you’ve been on this planet, mister.”
“I’m older than I look.”
“You look like you’re thirty-four.”
“You’ve been working in the archive for thirty-four years?”
“I’ve been the night watchman here since 1976.”
“Since the early days. But you’re here most days as well. What exactly do you do?”
Pop said aggressively, “Whatever needs doing.”
“Okay, sure. What do you like best about your job?”
Pop glared, folding his arms like a genie about to take back all Jason’s wishes. “I don’t have to talk to you. I know my rights.”
Jason sighed. He just wanted to go home and see Sam. Was that too much to ask?
“You’re right. You don’t have to talk to me. It’s okay if you don’t trust me. But I’m not here to investigate film piracy or copyright violation.”
In fact, were that the purpose of his investigation, the UCLA film archive would be the last place he’d look.
“Then why are you here?”
Did it matter now?
Jason said, “Honestly? Professor Ono’s family felt the investigation into her death was rushed. I was asked to take a look. That’s all.”
Pop was silent. The thick spectacles masked his features in a Kafkaesque blankness.
“Did you know Professor Ono? I understand her office was down here.”
Jason still wasn’t sure if that had been Ono’s choice or Bern’s attempt to keep her from riling her colleagues. The more he came to know about Ono, the more he suspected it had been her choice.
Pop jeered, “Did I know her? You mean, did we socialize? A professor and a security guard? No.”
“But you must have occasionally spoken to her. Good morning. Good night. Nice weather we’re having. What did you think of her?”
“I thought she was a professor and I was a security guard.”
Jason studied Pop. Pop stared back defiantly. There were several questions Jason would have liked to ask, but it was clear that Pop was not going to answer. Not here and not now.
Maybe later? Maybe after he’d had some time to think? Maybe after they’d both had some sleep?
“Well, thanks for your time. Sorry for disturbing you.”
Pop lowered his broom. He still seemed guarded, but also a little surprised.
Not relieved. Surprised.
What had Pop expected to happen?
Jason thought about that in the elevator on his way up to the library.
Yeah, it wasn’t his imagination. Something about Pop just didn’t feel right.
Maybe Pop had legitimate reason for being afraid of law enforcement. Maybe Pop really did have something to hide.
* * * * *
Charlotte must have managed to get hold of Horace because there was no sign of the security guard when Jason parked beside Sam’s rental car in the narrow drive behind the bungalow on Carroll Canal.
He got out, and the summer night smelled of bougainvillea, warm cement, and the dank, dark scents of the canal. Telephone poles buzzed overhead, and one of the alley lights flickered on and off.
Jason unlatched the wooden gate at the side of the house and went through.
The side door porch light shone in welcome, casting a warm glow over the brick patio. Through the kitchen windows, Jason could see Sam standing at the sink, sipping a drink.
His heart rose, a wave of happiness rolling through him like high tide on a spring morning.
Sam left the window, and the kitchen door opened as Jason reached it. He stepped inside, Sam’s arms folded around him, and for a long minute they just held each other, not saying anything.
It was the best feeling in the world to have Sam’s arms around him again. To feel Sam’s heart beating against his own. To hold Sam tight. He never wanted to let go.
But of course he had to let go. He had to say something. He muttered, “It feels like forever.”
“It does.” Sam’s voice was quiet.
“How the hell are we going to do this? Go weeks without seeing each other?” He hadn’t meant to launch into it, hadn’t meant to say it at all. He had agreed to these terms, gone into this with his eyes open. He hadn’t realized how hard it was going to be.
Sam shook his head, didn’t answer.
Because what was there to say? There was no solution to this. Or at least, not a solution either of them could contemplate.
Jason expelled a long, only slightly shaky breath, drew back, and smiled. “Wow, it’s nice coming home to you.” He tried—hoped—he sounded cheerful.
Sam raised his hands to Jason’s face, studying him.
Sam’s expression was so grave, so intent, Jason’s smile grew uncertain. He was expecting, waiting for Sam’s kiss, for that hunger and heat to claim him, but instead Sam continued to cup his face.
“Your hair,” he said softly.
“Camouflage.”