Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

“Odell,” Ian replied, and I heard the bite in his tone.

He turned his head, blew the smoke away before crushing the butt on the step. His gaze locked with Ian’s a moment before he offered his hand.

Ian shook quickly, and the grip wasn’t warm, not like when he met Barrett the night before and held on and gripped his shoulder.

“Come by the house after the cemetery. Greta and her mom are cooking, so you know that’s gonna be good.”

Ian squinted at him.

Odell cleared his throat. “And the major needs a word.”

“What does Delaney need with me?”

“The fuck do I know. He just said whoever saw you first needed to make sure you showed up at Eddie’s place.”

Shifting on his feet, Ian bumped me with his shoulder. “We’ll have to call a cab and—”

“Nah, man, you can ride with me and Bates. We’ve got room for you and”—he tipped his head at me—“your friend.”

“Miro.” Ian breathed out my name. “This is Sergeant First Class Pete Odell. Odell, this is my partner, Deputy United States Marshal Miro Jones.”

We shook fast, his gloved hand in mine, and then it was done and he was back to dissecting Ian.

“Nice flash,” he said in an odd, strangely menacing way, like a dare and a put-down all together.

“Some of our forces are more special than others.”

Odell tipped his head at the beret on Ian’s head. “The beret says it all, right?”

“I would hope so.”

I hated the modulated flat tone Ian was using because it was so alien, so not the passionate man I knew and loved.

“You followed through on the other, too, huh.” Odell smirked, the condescension crystal clear in his tone when he spoke. “Did the whole marshal thing.”

Ian nodded.

“You in the Reserve now?”

“I am.”

It was not the most stimulating conversation I’d ever heard, but when you were talking around the elephant, it was difficult to think of what to say.

“All right,” Odell wrapped up, leaning in to kiss Rose’s cheek. “We’ll see you at the cemetery, and then we’ll all follow you home.”

Rose nodded and then she and her sister rejoined the priest, who was glaring at Odell.

“What’s with him?” he snapped.

“You put a cigarette out on the steps of his church,” Ian responded dryly. “He probably thinks you were raised by wolves.”

The glare Odell gave Ian should have been scary, but he grinned after a moment to take away some of the obvious hatred.

Bending down, Ian picked up the crushed butt and told the priest he’d take care of it.

“Thank you, my son.”

“You always were a suck-up, Doyle.”

“You’re just mad ’cause you’re going to hell,” Ian responded, his voice flat, emotionless.

“Just come on,” he muttered and turned to walk down the front steps.

Ian grabbed my arm and yanked, so I didn’t even have time to say anything before we were following him.

Odell had mentioned a Bates, so I assumed that was who was driving the white Chevy Tahoe he led us to.

“He’s a marshal now, and this is his partner,” Odell said, disgust in his voice as he got into the SUV.

“Oh, Doyle,” the man said, and he, unlike Odell, seemed happy to see Ian. “You look good. Special Forces agrees with you, I see.”

He was handsome himself, probably my own almost six feet, with dark-brown eyes with lines that said he laughed often.

“Hello, partner,” he said, offering me his hand over his shoulder. “Tyler Bates.”

With his name now confirmed, I shook quickly. “Miro Jones.”

“Good to meet you.”

And that was it until we got to Graceland Cemetery and Arboretum at the intersection of Clark Street and Irving Park.

The drive was oppressive, the day outside gray and cold and wet, inside only the sound of the heater running. I wanted to touch Ian, to comfort and reassure him, but he was leaning against the door, looking out the window, and didn’t seem to need the closeness.

“How the hell is Rose affording this?” Odell asked Bates, looking around and giving a low whistle.

“The family has plots here,” Ian answered, and Odell turned in the seat to look at him.

“How the hell you know that?”

Ian shrugged. “He told me a long time ago. His mother wanted him here with the family, but there was no place for Rose.”

“That’s shitty,” Bates chimed in.

“I’m betting Rose didn’t have a say,” Ian concluded.

“Man, I knew we should’ve skipped this and gone right to the house,” Odell groused.

“We’re pallbearers, man,” Bates reminded him. “We ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Of course, since this was the Sunday before Thanksgiving, we got five inches the night before. It was cold, trudging to the graveside, and the crunch of the packed snow was loud as everyone moved off the shoveled and salted paths to the white-covered grass. Outdoor carpet had been laid down and a canopy put up along with chairs, but there were only so many and the rest of us ended up fanning out.