A Barlow Lens (3 page)

“No, he's not. My small dog is about this size,” Val said and patted the dog's head and shoulder.

“We've been here about eight years,” Griff said and looked over at Clint, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. The big boy there was just a puppy,” Clint said. Wyatt picked up on the fact these two had been together a while, long enough that the shine had worn off the honeymoon phase of their relationship. They seemed comfortable with one another, not unhappy but maybe in a rut.

Griff glanced covertly in their direction, and Wyatt took it for what it was. He'd invited them to his home, but he was still going to keep a sharp eye on things to ensure Clint's continued safety. Wyatt casually looked around the yard. It was nice. There were a few small trees, probably only planted in the last year or two. Patches of flowers and a wooden fence surrounding it all completed the picture. He wandered closer to Val and stood behind him, resting one hand on his shoulder. Griff relaxed. They were finished sizing each other up.

“It was nice of you both to have us for dinner.” Wyatt used his beer bottle to point to a stack of thick, brown accordion envelopes. “Are those the case files?”

“Yeah, help yourself while I finish up here,” Griff said and flipped the burgers, then turned the corn on the cob on the grill.

Wyatt reached over Val's shoulder, set his beer down, and picked up the topmost accordion file. He pulled out some papers and began looking through.

Without taking his attention off the grill, Griff began explaining as Wyatt read. “There were three bodies, well, skeletons, found in a closed off part of the building. As you can see, one of them has what appears to be an axe through his skull. The prevailing theory is that the axe is what caused his death. He's the suspected fugitive.”

“For murder?” Val asked.

Griff piled burgers and corn on a plate and brought it to the table. “No. For—and this makes me want to giggle every time I say it—train robbery.”

“And you think one of these other people killed him?” Wyatt asked.

“It's likely. Their names are in there, all three were men,” Griff said. “Clint is a writer, and he did some research for me on the building. It was a school, and there was a huge fire. Bunch of people died, mostly kids. One of the other men taught at the school.”

“What do you write?” Val asked.

Clint smiled. “Ecoterrorism suspense. Keeps these guys in dog food.” He reached down and petted the other dog, tan with one ear that flopped over and one that stood up straight. She rolled onto her back.

“Isn't it a murder? The police won't want to look into it?” Val asked. “I thought there wasn't a statute of limitations on murder.”

Griff sighed. “The truth is this murder happened eighty, closer to ninety years ago. The police department doesn't have the resources to mount an investigation when they have living criminals to worry about apprehending. And if there was someone to arrest, what would we do? Storm a nursing home, guns blazing? My guess one of those other two skeletons is the killer.”

“Which one is Lily related to?” Wyatt asked.

“The school teacher,” Griff said.

“There were rumors after the fire that he set it,” Clint added. “And that he was involved with planning the train robberies as well. However, that was all speculation at the time. Something for the gossips of the community to… well, gossip about. I did a search for anyone who might still be alive who could have known these guys, but turned up nada.”

“That was a long shot at best.” Griff pulled a chair a little closer to Clint and sat. “But you did a damn good job trying.”

Clint smiled, and Wyatt thought he was surprised by the compliment. “Thanks.”

“Would it be possible to see the actual site? I'll need to talk to Lily as well, if she'll see me,” Wyatt said.

“I can give you her contact information if she agrees. Does this mean you're taking the job?” Griff asked.

“Probably. I'll still have to clear things with my supervisor, but I don't see why there would be a problem. Would it be alright to take these files and give them a going over, then get back to you in a day or two?” The whole time Wyatt talked he was leafing through the paperwork, putting together a plan of action.

“Don't forget the three
big
boxes of stuff from the storage locker that lady gave you,” Clint said, jerking his thumb at the house. “If I hit my foot on them one more time, they may meet the recycling bin.”

Wyatt laughed. “Even if it turns out I can't do this officially, I'm sure I can help you sift out some leads. I'd like to go through those boxes as well.”

“I hit the highway next to your hotel on my way to work. How about I drop them off in the morning?” Griff reached over and rubbed Clint's knee. “Will your toes tolerate one more day?”

Clint sighed dramatically, but his grin gave away he was teasing. “I
suppose
. If I
have
to.” He stood up and collected empty beer bottles. “Another one?”

A few hours, more beer, and a dinner later, Wyatt and Val were walking back to their hotel. They took the accordion files with them.

“Do you think Lily will talk to you?” Val asked.

“I don't know. I guess all I can do is ask. If not, I'll deal with it. There is probably quite enough information in the records and whatever else is in those boxes for me to use. If I need to, I can e-mail her questions or ask Griff to interview her for me, though I'd prefer to see her reactions myself.”

“Griff is kinda… um….”

Wyatt snickered. “Dedicated?”

“Sure. That's one way of saying it. For the first few minutes we were there, I felt as if I was being scrutinized or judged or something.”

“That's because you were,” Wyatt said. He reached across Val's back and patted his shoulder a few times. “He didn't mean anything insulting, but figuring out people fast is part of the training. It becomes almost second nature. I do it all the time, even in a checkout line at the grocery store.”

Val slid his arm around Wyatt's middle and squeezed for a second before stepping away. “The difference is when you did it, I liked it, that was exciting and cool. Though, I see now your motivation was different.”

Once they were in their room, Val pulled everything out of the files and spread it across the table. “Where do we start? What do we look for?”

Wyatt smirked and shuffled the papers around, found a few that looked promising and answered, “We start at the beginning and find out how these three men were related to one another, if they even knew one another.”

 

Cleveland, Ohio—January 1927

 

T
OM
M
ANNING
stopped just inside the heavy, wooden door and stomped the snow from his boots. He shrugged out of his overcoat and waited for his eyes to adjust to the lower lighting. A shiver worked its way down his spine. There was a fire, the room was warm, but it still took his body a few minutes to acclimate to the temperature without his coat. He turned to the right where one of the large coatracks stood next to the door and added his coat to the ones already there. Taking his hat off, he shook snow from the fabric and wiped one hand over his hair. He gave his head a little shake to clear off any excess snowflakes.

A radio in one corner provided music. Despite its scratchy reception, there were a few couples swaying on the dance floor. Tom had become a regular in this particular juice joint, even though it was far enough from his small apartment in the West Park section of Cleveland that it took planning and a little time to get there. That was just fine by Tom. It made the Canary, this joint's name, safer. Most cops wouldn't bother coming this far north and west, and if they did, there'd be plenty of warning. At least Tom hoped so.

The first few times he'd come there, he had worried about who might see him. Then he realized that if someone saw him, they'd come to the Canary for the same reason. This particular speakeasy catered to a select and secretive group of men and women.

Tom slid onto a stool and smiled when the bartender sashayed over with a plate of sandwiches thick with meat and cheese on freshly baked bread.

“We got a new shipment in this week. Care to give it a try, honey?” The bartender, Billy, flipped a towel over his shoulder and put his hand over Tom's for an instant. He tipped his head at a table on the other side of the room. “He's been asking after you. I'll get you two of what he's having.”

“Appreciate it,” Tom said. He twisted on the stool to get a better look at the man at the table. The man had dark hair and was built like a bull. His big hands cradled the glass of bootleg, and that sent a spark coursing right through Tom to his balls. Beefy hands that handled a glass gently. What would they do to Tom's flesh?

Thanks to Billy and his need to be in everyone's business, Tom might just find out.

Tom had the feeling he'd seen the man somewhere else, around his neighborhood maybe or when he made his monthly journey to the West Side Market. Maybe he was one of the burly farmers who went there to sell their goods. It would be easy to tell once Tom got a better look at those hands and saw if they were callused.

Two glasses thunked down on the polished wooden bar, making Tom turn his back on the man at the table. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question. “This shipment just arrived from Kentucky. I wouldn't drink more than two.” Billy winked. “Oh, and good luck.” He leaned over the bar and spoke in Tom's ear while he pushed a key over the bar with the glasses.

Tom pocketed the key, put a few more bills on the bar than was necessary for the drinks, and picked the two glasses up in one hand. The plate of sandwiches he held with the other. He carried them to the table and set the plate down.

“Mind if I join you?” Tom held up the drinks. “I thought you might like another one. And dinner.”

The man stood up; he was several inches taller than Tom's slight, just-over-six-foot frame. He held out one of those large, delicious hands and said, “Philip.”

Tom shook the offered hand, liking its warm, strong feeling. No calluses, just a slight roughness to his skin. “Tom.”

Philip looked down, scratched at the back of his head, and blushed. “I know.”

Tom slipped into the chair opposite Philip and pushed the plate between them. “Have you tried Billy's sandwiches? It's one thing I look forward to every time I come here.”

“You come here much?”

“Not as much as I'd like. But you know how it is, have to be careful. This sure isn't New York or Paris.” Tom bit into his sandwich, then sipped his whiskey. “Woo… not smooth.”

Philip laughed. “No, it sure ain't. But it does the job.” He picked up one of the sandwiches, took a bite, and chewed slowly. “You teach at that school up near West 140th.”

It wasn't a question. Tom nodded. “Is that where you know me from?” His voice stayed calm, but he had no idea how. Was it possible this was the father of one of his students? Tom wasn't naïve enough to think it not possible. He'd just prefer not to get involved if that was the case.

“I'm a cop, that's part of my beat.”

“Are you the reason this place never seems to get raided?” Tom asked.

“I keep an ear to the ground. We've been lucky so far is what I figure. No one cares about a little shack this far out.”

“Good thing for us,” Tom said. He relaxed and leaned over the table, closer to Philip. He smelled of a nice mixture of whiskey, laundered clothes, and a man who worked hard for his living. Tom rather liked it.

An hour later they used the key Billy had given Tom. Tom's chest was pressed to the wall just inside the door. Philip's arms were wrapped securely around Tom, holding them together. Philip groaned, hips bumping against Tom's ass. Tom felt how Philip's rock hard thighs tensed, then quivered. He pulled Tom back, grip tightening, hips grinding and shoving harder against Tom until his cock pulsed and Tom was filled with heat.

When Philip's breathing was a bit calmer, he pulled away from Tom and spun him so his back was against the wall. Using those big, wonderful hands, he held Tom in place, dropped to his knees, and took Tom's cock in his mouth. Tom's knees buckled as Philip sucked and swirled his tongue all over Tom's cock. He would have slid to the floor had it not been for Philip's hands bracing him and keeping him in place.

All too soon it was time for them to leave. They walked out together. The wind was howling and whipping across the walkway, and the snow fell hard enough Tom could barely see his hand in front of his face. He flipped up the collar of his overcoat and turned to the side far enough to smile at Philip.

“I'd like to meet here again,” Philip said.

Tom rubbed his hands together and buried them deep into his pockets. “Me, too.”

“We're gonna hafta be careful so no one….” Philip trailed off.

“I know,” Tom said. “I should start home.”

“I'll wait and be 'bout ten minutes after you.”

“We should go separate routes,” Tom said and sighed. He'd never traveled back this late, but it was worth it.

Philip shook his head. “Na. I'll stick behind you. Roads aren't safe this late. We'll watch out for each other that way.”

Tom nodded. No one had ever done anything like that, cared about him that much, not since he was a boy. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“I only have one night off. Meet ya here next week?”

Tom nodded. “You bet. I live on Triskett. There is a diner—”

“By the church. Best pie in West Park.”

“Yes, that's the place. I eat there most days,” Tom said.

Philip smiled. “I'll remember that.”