Denial complete.
62
Mitch
“Tell me again why you agreed to do this? You sound as if you’d rather be getting your nuts cut off than working on this case.”
I laugh at my friend and former co-worker, Sasha Knight. “I wouldn’t say that, but I’m certainly realizing that this was a bad idea.”
Her loud, no-nonsense voice surrounds me in my car thanks to my hands-free device. “Hale, I know you better than you know yourself. If you were smart, you’d turn that car around and go right on home. You’re already frustrated and you haven’t even started your investigation.”
Sasha and I were on the same task force at the bureau. She’s a brilliant profiler and a full-time badass. The fact that she could read me like an open book was always uncomfortable, but tolerable since she kept most of her thoughts to herself. She’s not as edited now that I don’t work with her every day.
“I’m fine, Sasha,” I counter, lying through my teeth. “I just don’t like Hollywood types, that’s all.”
“Oh really? How many Hollywood types do you know?”
She got me there.
“None, until now.” She always did make me feel like a junior profiler.
“And you spent a total of ten minutes with the man.” I knew I shouldn’t have told her about that disaster of a meeting. “Give the guy a break. He’s traumatized.”
“Stop trying to profile him, Sasha. Even I didn’t spend enough time with the guy to make an attempt.” I turn onto the 110 and immediately hit bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“I’m not,” she responds innocently.
“Then stop trying to profile me.” Traffic crawls along at a snail’s pace. I reach over and crank up the a/c. The car suddenly feels stiflingly hot. Or it could be the suit I’m wearing
. I tug at the collar, trying without success to loosen the tie. I despise these things.
“I wouldn’t dream of doing that, Hale. But if you want some insight—”
“I’ll ask for it. Listen, Sasha, I gotta go. I’m almost there.”
I turn off the exit for the beach and make my way through the slightly less packed, but still infuriatingly slow traffic that leads to Huntington Beach.
“Fine. I’m here if you ever want to dig deep into that brain of yours, Hale.” Sasha laughs, but I know she’s serious. Her sharp eyes and ears miss nothing. Like she said, she probably knows things about me that I don’t even know.
“Right, Sasha. Bye.”
I parallel park in the miniscule driveway of an enormous white concrete and glass modern home.
“Bye!”
I disconnect the call and sit in the idling car for a few minutes, attempting to dry the layer of sweat that formed during the stressful drive. I nearly convince myself it was the traffic and not Gavin Walker that has me as tense as a prisoner on his way to the electric chair. After reading the file and the threats, Ross confirmed that Gavin is in fact gay, which isn’t known publically. Somehow, that knowledge makes my errant thoughts even more uncomfortable.
Screw it. I turn the car off and hop out, faking the attitude I need to get through this. I’ve come face to face with some of the sickest, most twisted serial killers known to man. I can manage to work with one slightly off-kilter, stunningly gorgeous, gay guitarist.
I step onto a tiny front walk, which is only steps from the street where cars pass and people walk by. Score one point in the column of ‘things that will make it more difficult to keep my client safe’.
Glancing around, I see that the homes are a stone’s throw from each other, with windows looking straight into the neighbor’s house. Another point deducted.
There are tiny alleyways between each building, including one on either side of Gavin’s. Someone could potentially jump the pathetically short fence and hide. I sigh and rub the back of my sweaty neck. Yet another point deducted.
Standing in front of the door, which is thick, solid looking, and has no window—score a point in my favor—I blow out a long breath. A quick run of my hands through my hair and a check that my suit isn’t a wrinkled mess and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I reach out and knock.
A loud clatter from somewhere inside has me instinctively reaching for the Glock I carry in a holster on the waistband of my pants. Thankfully, I don’t pull my weapon because the door opens to reveal an angry, barefoot Gavin Walker.