The Trouble With Tony (10 page)

Marilyn’s brown hair was spread out over her pillow, her hands soft on the covers. It looked like she would turn her head at any moment and wake up.

“Only one chocolate old-fashioned?” Mark complained, picking through the box of Top Pot doughnuts. He’d grabbed them a small interview room where Tony could look at the case file in private. The doughnuts were Tony’s price of admission.

Well, they weren’t really the price of admission. When Mark had called to tell Tony to come by the station at noon, he hadn’t asked for anything. But the doughnuts were a good way of ensuring Tony would get the same courtesy the next time he needed it.

“I didn’t pick ’em. I told them to surprise me,” Tony muttered. He went carefully through the police photographer’s photos of the bedroom and the bathroom. He stared down into the White’s kitchen sink. His pulse beat faster.

“Alibi?” Tony asked.

Mark wiped one hand on a napkin and reached over to thumb through the file. He pulled out a couple of typed interview sheets. “There,” he said. He took a big bite of a maple bar. “’Member, I gotta get that file back to archives before one.”

Tony’s eyes flickered over the burly detective. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk with your mouth full?”

Mark took another big bite, looking ornery. “Iss juss
oo
,” he said, letting crumbs fall from his mouth onto the table deliberately.

Tony rolled his eyes at this display of maturity and skimmed over the paperwork.

The statement from the bartender at Max Flax in Portland was consistent with what the guy had told Tony—that Brent was in the bar with two coworkers from about nine to eleven. After the coworkers left, Brent had hung out chatting with the bartender until nearly two o’clock. There were two more interview sheets—Brent’s coworkers confirming the bartender’s story.

“This one coworker, Charlie, he mentions that Brent looked at his phone a lot that night.”

Mark took a swig of coffee. “Who doesn’t these days? It’s ridiculous, I swear to God.”

“Yeah but he
mentioned
it, meaning it was excessive enough to be noticeable.”

Mark just gave him a hard stare.
So
?

“So was Brent checking the time, wondering exactly when Marilyn was gasping out her last? Or was he maybe waiting for a call from her saying she felt sick? Or from the police saying she’d called them? And why did he make sure he stayed up in a public place ’til two in the morning, even after his buddies went to bed?”

“Specu-fucking-lation,” Mark said gruffly. “You’ve got nothing on the guy.”

Tony dug through the photos and picked out a number of them. He laid them out on the table facing Mark: the nightstand, the bathroom, the kitchen counter, the living room coffee table, the empty kitchen sink, a shot of the inside of the garbage can, the inside of the fridge.

“Where are they?” he asked Mark.

Mark looked at the photos. “Where are what?”

“She had red wine in her stomach mixed with the pills. Where’s the empty wine glass? Where’s the bottle?”

Mark studied the pictures, one after another, his face darkening. He rubbed his chin. “Son of a bitch moved them. Before he called the cops.”

Tony nodded. “He drugged the wine before going to Portland. He arrives home, finds Marilyn, and cleans up the evidence before dialing nine-one-one.”

Tony felt a wave of rage burn through him. Not only was it cold-blooded murder, but it was a cowardly-ass way to do it. Brent had left Marilyn to drink her poison and die alone. Meanwhile, he was hundreds of miles away where he didn’t have to watch.

“You said it was usual for her to have a glass of wine at night,” Tony said bitterly. “He knew she would. He probably made sure there was only a glass or so left in the bottle, crushed up the pills and put them in there.”

“She wouldn’t have tasted it?” Mark wondered.

“Apparently not.”

Mark shook his head, his face grim. He leaned back in his chair. “Maybe it happened that way. But you’ve got a better chance of nailing Megan Fox than you do of proving it.”

Tony huffed. “Especially since I have no interest in nailing Megan Fox.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re gay, not a eunuch. I mean, fuck, I’d do George Clooney.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “TM-capital-I. What, you want to take an inventory of what I had for breakfast?”

Mark snorted. “Oh, like the idea of
any
guy having sex with George Clooney wouldn’t ring your bell. Ding fucking dong.”

“Shut up.”

Tony focused his attention back on the photos. Mark was probably right. A missing bottle and a wine glass might work on Poirot, but it wasn’t enough to bring a case to trial. And now what? He could tell the Whites what he’d learned, but that wouldn’t bring them justice. The case would linger like a bad odor. He didn’t want the case to linger. He wanted Brent White behind bars, and he wanted a nice, fat CLOSED stamp on the file. He wanted it off the table so he was free to ask Jack Halloran if he would please, for the love of God, go out with him.

Tony was liking the guy more and more, and not just from the point of view of his dick. Tony admired the man, felt all warm and happy, not to mention horny, when he was with him. He found himself wanting to know everything there was to know about Halloran. And there was just something about the doctor that made Tony want to push through that polite, clinical shell to find the man underneath. He’d seen glimpses of it—the way Jack’s face lit up when he laughed, that blush when Tony had complimented him, the momentary hunger in Jack’s eyes the other night when he’d blown Tony’s mind with the most beautifully fucked-up hand job of his entire life.

There was no going back from that; hell no. Not for him and not for Halloran either. Dr. Jack Halloran was not as indifferent to Tony as he pretended to be. But Tony couldn’t push it, not with Marilyn lying cold and unburied between them.

~15~

“H
I
, D
R
. H
ALLORAN
!”
Michael’s voice was honey-laced sunshine as he sailed into the staff room on Monday morning.

Jack was just checking over his itinerary for the day. He looked up at the slim young man and couldn’t help a smile. “Hello, Michael. How was your trip to the islands?”

“Fantastic!” Michael gushed. “So beautiful. We stayed in this place on Vashion that had little cabins. It was kind of campy, but I love that.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “
We
? It was that kind of weekend, was it?”

Michael blushed and looked away. “No. I went with a friend. It’s… a little hard finding that special someone when you have sex for a living. Not many guys are willing to share.”

Michael was so blunt about it, Jack didn’t really know what to say. He could say something lame like,
It’s not as though you’re a rent boy
, or,
You’re a professional healer
, but everything seemed either too personal or too cliché. He decided to change the subject. “What brings you in today?”

“Trolling for work,” Michael admitted. He got closer to Jack than was strictly necessary. His brown eyes searched Jack’s face. “Hmm. Dr. Halloran…. You look better,” he pronounced.

“Oh?”

“There’s a new sparkle in your eye. Right… there.” He swiped a gentle fingertip under Jack’s right eye. Michael’s eyes grew heated as if catching a spark.

“You’re dangerous,” Jack said to him with a low, throaty chuckle. He felt a tickle of the old Mighty Jack deep in his gut. Apparently, having been roused the other night by that session with Tony DeMarco, that part of him had not gone entirely back to sleep.

“Me? I’m a kitten.” Michael batted his eyes coyly.

“You’re a kitten like a python is a snake. Stop trying to seduce an old war veteran.”

“Do you really want me to stop?” Michael probed.

“
Yes
.” Jack moved to leave the kitchen.

Michael shrugged. “Okay. Got any new patients for me?”

Jack stopped in the doorway, his smiled fading. “Maybe. I’ll let you know.”

J
ACK
needed advice. He invited Trudy to lunch. They decided to leave the office and head for a Vietnamese Pho restaurant down on Broadway. They were seated and served, the smell of plum sauce and lime redolent in the air, before Jack broached the subject.

“I need to talk to you about a patient.”

“Oh? Which patient?” Trudy asked.

“Tony DeMarco.”

Trudy raised a well-groomed eyebrow. Her expression said she wasn’t entirely surprised. “Go on then. Tell me all about Mr. DeMarco.”

Jack stirred his soup. “Last Friday he came to the clinic in the evening. I was there late and he just showed up. I could tell he was having a ‘hallelujah moment.’”

Trudy nodded. “Go on.”

“I hadn’t arranged anything with Michael yet, and, anyway, I remembered he said he was going to the islands for the weekend. I didn’t want to send Tony away empty handed. You know how it is with ED patients. So I gave him touch therapy.”

She leaned forward with interest. “Okay. And?”

Jack’s right hand trembled on the soup spoon. He switched to his left and stuffed his right into his lap. He kept his emotions carefully schooled behind his doctor’s mask. “He achieved an erection during the massage. I asked if he wanted me to leave him alone to masturbate, or if he wanted me to do it for him. He asked me to do it, so I manually brought him to orgasm. Given that he hadn’t had sex with another person since his ex left two years ago, I thought it was a positive outcome.”

“And was Mr. DeMarco pleased with that outcome?”

“He seemed to be.”

“And have you spoken to Michael?”

Jack knew what she was saying. One time was one thing, but if Tony needed any further hands-on therapy, it should be Michael who provided it. That was not part of Jack’s job description any more.

“Not yet. I’ve outlined a possible surrogacy plan, but I need to go over it with Tony. I’ll e-mail a copy of it to you as soon as we get back to the office.”

“Okay. Now why don’t you tell me what the real problem is?” Trudy looked like she already suspected, and Jack felt ten ways the fool. But he had to be honest and tell her.

Jack swallowed. “I’m very attracted to Tony.” He met her eyes, embarrassed. “And I’m pretty sure he wants more from me than a doctor-patient relationship. He asked me to go hiking with him. I turned him down.”

Trudy took a careful spoonful of soup as if letting that sink in. “And you knew this when you gave him massage therapy?”

“No. I mean, yes, I thought he was attractive the first time he came into my office, but I had it under control. Looking back, I guess I was deluding myself on that score,” Jack admitted ruefully.

“Did he touch you during the massage?”

Jack felt himself blushing. “No. Nothing unusual happened except that I got aroused. I didn’t let him know.” Jack shook his head in frustration. “The problem is now I’m… I’m developing feelings for him. I find myself thinking about him a lot. And the other night I had a dream about him. It was not R-rated.”

That was an understatement. The dream had been torturously long and erotic. By the time Jack had forced himself awake, a quick twist of his hand had been all it took to finish the job.

“Well, that has to beat dreaming about the war,” Trudy said philosophically.

Jack felt relieved that she could have a sense of humor about it. “Well, there is that.”

They ate in silence for a few moments. Trudy looked thoughtful and serious. Jack started to regret having talked to her about it, but he knew he needed to hear what she had to say. Finally, she spoke.

“Jack… as much as I would love for you to meet a man and start dating, I can’t encourage this. You know it’s never a good idea for a doctor to have an affair with a patient, and for a sex therapist, the danger is tenfold.”

“I know.”

“We provide care for a patient’s most intimate problems, a sympathetic ear. We talk about sex. That makes the patient vulnerable. To take advantage of that would be unfair and ultimately a very bad idea for everyone involved.”

Jack gritted his jaw. “I know that, I do. But… if two people who are right for each other can meet in a bar, why can’t they meet in a doctor’s office?”

Trudy studied his face worriedly. “You do realize how frightening that is, what you just said?”

Jack felt a flush of guilt and embarrassment. Way to go, Jack. The one woman in Seattle who’s willing to employ you, and you just told her you couldn’t be trusted not to bone your patients.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ve never had this problem with any other patient, I swear.”

“I believe you.” Trudy seemed to be trying to figure out what to say.

“But….” Jack sighed. “It’s so difficult for me to relate to people after the things I’ve seen. People exist here in this orderly little world where the worst that can happen is that your Starbucks gets cold before you finish it. But the reality I was in for eight years… it had a deeper level of meaning. Half the time when I meet people now, I feel like I’m trying to relate to a spoiled child.”

“And you think Mr. DeMarco is different?”

“He was a police officer, shot in the line of duty. It’s not the same, but….”

Jack had given up on his soup and his right hand was on the table. It was shaking. Trudy covered it with her own. “Look. If you really think you two have something, my advice is this—finish his treatment. Let him do what he needs to do with whomever he needs to do it with to get healthy. If surrogacy is indicated, assign him to Michael. Down the road—
way
down the road, after he’s no longer your patient—you can see if there’s really something there.”

“Right,” Jack said with a nod of his head. “No, that’s… that’s exactly right. Thanks.”

It was good advice. It was the right advice. And it made Jack feel like shit. Jack wasn’t sure he could bear passing Tony off to Michael. And if Tony DeMarco moved on and got healthy, what would he want with broken Jack Halloran?

No. There was nothing for it. He had to kill his attraction to Tony as brutally as possible. It just wasn’t going to happen. Jack felt his chest constrict with disappointment. But if there was one thing life had taught Jack, it was how to live with disappointment.