Painted Blue - 14. Chapter 14

"Maybe it's a snake," Mandy said over Chase's right shoulder.

"No, it's not curvy enough," Caceda disagreed over his left.

"It could be a giant purple flying penis for all we know from that," Bartlet grunted.

Chase squinted at the blown up image on his screen. Tim had done the best he could with the frame of the tattoo, but only the faintest edge of it had even been visible.

"It's old," he said, tracing his finger along the outline. "You can see the greening of the edge here. Other than that . . ."

Caceda leaned into his back, her breasts pressing into his shoulder blades. "Don't think we'll ever know from just this." Her voice was unnecessarily close.

Chase flicked his eyes up to meet Spenser's from across the hall. He was staring hard at the older detective. Chase cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, sitting up straight and effectively brushing Caceda off.

"We're not going to figure it out staring at it anyway." He pushed himself out of his desk. "You get any leads on the murders at county?"

Caceda frowned, following him to the break room. "I haven't even gotten a findings update." She winked at Spenser on the way by and his original sour expression broke into a dopey grin.

Chase shook his head and made for the coffee pot. "You make him half retarded, you know."

Caceda leaned back on the counter with a predatory smile. "Jealous?"

He scoffed, emptying a packet of sugar into his cup. "Just surprised you kept him around this long," he mumble into his coffee before taking a long appreciative drink.

"Do you have any idea how rare it is to find a guy who's good at anal?"

Chase snorted hot coffee straight up his nasal cavity.

Caceda threw her head back and laughed loudly.

He winced, fingers closing on his nostrils. "Damn, that stings."

"Not if you do it right."

He gave her a dumbfounded look. "Christ's sake, woman." He snatched a handful of napkins and mopped coffee off his shirt.

Her laughter drifted off and she considered him with a tipped head and a smile.

"Grab a drink with me tonight."

A pang of panic leapt into Chase's throat. He only stood for a moment, napkin in hand as he pinched his nose. "Um."

Her lilting laugh returned. "You really know how to make a girl feel wanted."

"Weren't we just talking about the guy you're seeing?"

"We were." She went for a cup of coffee, rich dark hair slipping from behind her shoulders. "Truth is," she started, "Cagg is worried about you. Said you refused a unit on your place." She leveled a look at him over the Styrofoam cup, dark eyes obscured by steam. "Told everyone to keep an eye on you."

He rolled his eyes and scoffed, stuffing the wad of napkins into the trash can. "I don't need a babysitter."

"Maybe not. But I'm not going to be the only one to ask. I just got to you first. So—" She pursed her lips, a manicured nail tapping the side of her cup. "You can have a drink with me, or you can be stuck with Bartlet and his hooker stories."

Chase winced. "You win."

She bit her lip for a moment, nose wrinkling with amusement. "Delightful."

Sergeant Boswell was in the office-hall when Chase emerged with his coffee and a disappointing bagel.

"Too late, sucker, I already have a date."

Boswell stared at him in a moment of confusion. "For Saturday?"

Chase frowned. "What?"

He held up the clipboard in his hand and wagged it at the detective. "Pumpkin Fest? This is the first year you haven't harassed me the minute this thing hit my desk."

Chase winced. "Damn, I forgot." The annual fall festival had always been one of the many sources of good overtime pay for Chase. "What's left?"

"Midday traffic."

The detective groaned. There were few things quite as miserable as standing out on muggy pavement in thirty pounds of gear, directing a bunch of pissed off motorists bitter about the delay. Add in the fact that—fall be damned—it was almost never below seventy five degrees midday this time of year.

"This is what happens when you sit on a CID desk too long, you get soft," Boswell grunted.

"Right," Chase laughed, reaching out to pat the bit of belly that always managed to hang out of the bottom of Boswell's vest. "This must be all that patrol muscle."

"That's the sergeant muscle," the older man huffed. "I'm too old for all those washboard abs you kids are in to these days. And now I can never retire because you're over here warming a seat."

It was no secret that Chase had been Boswell's pick to succeed him. That dream had been shattered with his hip bone. They bantered about it every now and then, but they both knew that door had closed a long time ago.

"You never know, I might decide on some downward mobility," Chase mused.

"Downward mo—!" Boswell's cheeks reddened. "Boy . . ." he stopped short and merely shook a finger, which made Chase laugh.

The sergeant aggressively scribbled on the clipboard. "Traffic! Ten to three!"

"Yessir!" Chase saluted as Boswell walked off with a shake of his head, smile concealed behind the white bristle of mustache.

The call came in from the linguistics department in the late afternoon.

"It's actually quite interesting," the cheerful, British female voice continued. "You can usually get spot on with where a person is from. There's bits out of London where you can narrow it to the neighborhood."

Chase rubbed his sinuses, phone loosely against his ear. "What about the guy in the clip?"

"Right," she took an audible breath. "The accent most people hear is received pronunciation. It's what you hear on the news and most actors. It's acquired later in life by most, and intentionally. Usually you can see bits under it, but he didn't use a lot of the telling words. He particularly gave himself away on 'expecting', 'associate' and 'habitual'. The way the syllables went into his palette was very Scouse."

"Scouse?"

"Mm," she hummed. "Likely Liverpool. Most of you lot know it from The Beatles. But he's got bits in there from all over. I'd say an older gent who gets about a fair deal. Must've left Merseyside by his twenties."

Chase jotted notes. "Would you mind emailing me a copy of your findings?"

"Right away," she said. "If you get me longer pieces I can start trying to work out a lot more."

"Like what?"

"Education. Likely occupations. Things of that sort."

Chase twirled his pen. "I'll definitely let you know if we get any more."

"Kansas, right?" she asked.

There was a confused pause. "Pardon?"

"Your accent," she clarified.

The awkward sense of being caught off-guard sent a small twinge of alarm through Chase. "Um, yea."

"It's that relaxed, flat tone," she said with an audible smile, her accent shifting to mimic the familiar Kansan lilt. "Like the land, yea?"

"Right, so, thank you for your help. We'll be in touch." He hung up before the awkwardness could progress.

Chase hadn't thought about Kansas for a long time. It had been over fifteen years since his parents divorced and he and his mother left the state. Had he really kept the accent after all these years?

He had been staring at his hand on the cradled receiver, lost in thought when the ping of the email from linguistics came through. It included a thorough breakdown of word usage, intonation and pattern analysis.

Chase managed to bury himself in work and lose track of time. That is, until a hand suddenly smoothed across his shoulder blades. He arched away from the touch with a cringe, shooting a look back at Caceda.

"That's a good way to get shot, detective."

She raised a brow at him. "I would lay you flat before you got a hand on your gun, sweetie."

"Get a room," Bartlet grumbled from his hunched position at his desk.

"I'm trying to," Caceda said. "But Chase seems to have forgotten our date."

Chase looked at the clock and sighed. Thankfully, Spenser had already left, so he was spared the death glare. He did, however, get quite the look from Mandy as he stood and pulled on his jacket.

Chase hadn't been to a proper restaurant in months. Unless sports bars with decent food didn't count, then he still hadn't. If the second neon green margarita in front of Caceda was any indication, the venue had been for his sake.

Chase dunked a fried chicken strip into honey mustard as Caceda talked.

"We had to get FD out with an acetylene torch to get the idiot's dick out of his radiator grill.”

“Do all of your patrol stories involve penis?”

“Not just patrol stories,” she quipped, tongue lapping a few crystals of salt from the rim of her glass as she took a sip. “What was that one with you and Wesley and the male prostitute?”

Chase winced. “Oh god, can we not?”

She laughed. “Bet you never searched someone without gloves again.”

Chase let the chicken drop from his fingers with a scowl. “I'm done.”

“So soon?” she taunted, leaning forward on her elbows.

Chase was fairly certain that her shirt had been buttoned up much higher at work. What was it about cleavage that made it so distracting? It definitely wasn't sexual, at least not for Chase. And yet he caught himself staring. So did she.

He cleared his throat and took a slow pull from his beer, fixing his eyes on the TV across the room. Basketball or something.

“How'd your date the other night go?”

His attention focused back on her blankly for a moment. “Oh. Uh, yea. Fine.”

She rested her chin in her palm, dark eyes regarding him obliquely. “So it's not serious?”

He paused for a heartbeat of indecisive panic. “Look, Caceda . . .”

She faced him squarely with a smirk. “Ooh, it is serious.”

“I'm gay,” he managed to blurt out.

“I know.”
“It's not that I don't—what?” His frantic speech was cut short.

She laughed loud enough to pull the attention of the neighboring booth. “I've known for two years.”

“Why didn't you ever say anything?!” he hissed. “I thought you were flirting with me!”

“Oh, I was.” She flashed her teeth. “I wanted to see how far you'd let it go.”

Chase stared at her agape. “That's fucked up.”

She laughed again. “Can't blame a girl for being curious.”

“What if I had let it go too far?” He frowned.

She tipped her head at him, expression suddenly serious. “You know you're gorgeous, right?” He leaned back and fidgeted. “If you ever wanted to experiment, I'd gladly show you the ropes.”

“Pass,” he said quickly.

“You've got a guy at home, is that it? Why you don't want a unit by your place.” She grinned at his expression. “What's he like?” She bit her lip excitedly.

His nose curled into a snarl. “None of your business.”

“Protective, much?” She raised a brow. “I'm not going to tell anyone. Who else are you going to be able to talk to about him?”

“What makes you think I have to talk about him at all?”

She leaned back in the booth, demeanor shifting. “Most people don't want to have to keep their relationships secret. Most people like talking about what makes them happy. Most people have friends they confide in when work gets too personal.”

“I have friends,” Chase grumbled.

“No, you don't. You have coworkers. And a woman who's so in love with you that she wrings her hands and paces the office every time you leave your desk.”

His heart sank and he looked away. “That's not my fau—”

“I'm not saying it is,” she cut in. “But you can't talk to her.”

The space between them was tense and silent as cheers rose up from the bar, the TV replaying a three-quarter court shot.

“I trust you with my life,” she continued when the furor abated. “More than anyone else. You can talk to me.” Her smile returned. “If you wanted to.”

He watched a bead of condensation trickle down the beer bottle in his hands, considering. “How did you know?”

“That you were gay? You always smell nice.”

He gave her a look.

“Seriously, you'd be surprised how much of a giveaway that is.”

He rolled his eyes.

“You also can't help checking out guys when you're drunk.”

Chase winced. “Am I that bad? Have others noticed?”

She shook her head, thick hair swaying. “I doubt anyone else was watching like I was.” She pressed the side of her forefinger into her plush bottom lip and grinned. “I thought you were hot, but I couldn't get your attention to save my life. For a while I thought you were just the married to your work kind of guy. Then I tried to figure out what your type was.”

She took a drink of her margarita, eyeing him under manicured brows. “Dark hair, slim, athletic.” She looked herself over meaningfully. “I'm just missing the penis.”

“And you have boobs,” Chase added.

She sat up straight and adjusted her bra, cleavage wobbling with the action. “Aren't they great?”

He snorted and shook his head.

“Don't act like you weren't looking.”

“I . . .” He frowned. “Don't even have a defense for that.”

“At least tell me what he looks like.”

He smiled slightly. “Dark hair, slim, athletic. Penis. No boobs.”

She leaned on her elbow. “And the sex?”

He coughed on a startled breath. “I, um, plead the fifth.” His voice cracked.

She raised a mischievous brow. “That good?”

The waiter had impeccable timing with the cheque. Chase scrabbled for it as if it were a life line.

There was an unholy noise coming from Dorian's side of the duplex. Felix was doing some sort of physical exertion that he would likely call “dancing” while mopping the hallway and didn't even hear the door open and close again.

The source of the noise was a sleek, thin device on the coffee table, schizophrenic, colorful shapes gyrating in time with the music on it's display.

Dorian strode over to the tablet and snatched it up, turning it around in his hands for any sort of off switch. Yanking out the power cord did nothing but switch it over to battery mode. He finally found a button and held it down until the demonic device flicked to dark silence.

Felix turned as the ringing in Dorian's ears died down. “Oh, hey.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

The younger man looked at the floor, mop in hand. “Mopping?”

“Just because the landlady is deaf doesn't mean the whole block needs to be. Where the hell did you get this?” Dorian waved the offending tablet.

“Spike sold it to me.”

“How? You haven't even gotten paid yet.”

“Well, no,” Felix shifted his weight. “He kind of pre-sold it to me. I'll give it to him when I get paid.”

The detective dropped the tablet back on the table with a sigh. “Haven't even gotten paid yet and already spending all your money.”

“It was just a hundred, geeze. Calm down, Dad.”

Dorian curled his nose. “Don't call me that. Your dad is a dick.”

“Yes, sir, officer.” Felix smirked.

Dorian rolled his eyes and dragged the fridge door open.

“Oh, I ate without you, sorry. I didn't know when you'd be back.”

The older man pulled out a beer with a shrug. “That's fine. Ended up going out unexpectedly.”

“Out?” Felix leaned the mop against the wall.

“Out.” The bottle cap clattered onto the counter.

Silence as Dorian tipped back the beer.

“Like,” Felix frowned. “A date?”

The older man rolled his head back and let out a long sigh. “No, but now Caceda knows I'm gay.”

The teen's dark eyebrows rose on his forehead and he pursed his lips into a whistle. “The lady with the legs?

“Excuse me?”

“That's what you called her.” Felix shrugged.

The detective blinked. “What? When?”

“When you came back 'buzzed' the other night.” He made air quotes.

Dorian frowned. “Well, that's just odd. But yea, her.”

Pale eyes turned away, Felix's attention suddenly fixated on the edge of the counter top. “Do you . . .” blunt fingernails picked at the Formica counter seam, “remember anything from that night?”

Dorian paused mid-drink, lowering the bottle with a grin.

“I think I might need a reminder.”

Friday morning started with a fair amount of nerves.

The likelihood of Caceda deciding to spread his business around CID was pretty low, but still a possibility. Particularly to Spenser. Thankfully neither he, nor anyone else, so much as glanced at Chase untoward.

“Nothing,” Spenser announced, dropping Mink's phone records on Chase's desk.

“Nothing?” Chase frowned, fetching the stack and peering at it.

“Private phone and the club. Not a single unaccounted for or suspicious call. If he tipped off Marshal, it wasn't by phone. It's primarily just calls to the hospital Marsten is in and a few to his lawyer.”

Chase clicked his pen. “We still have a unit on him?”

“Day and night. He mostly just stays home, since we closed the club down for the investigation. He went by twice under supervision to get some things. Last night he jacked off with the blinds open. Pretty sure that was for Perry's sake.”

The older detective laughed. “At least it's not a boring stakeout.”

He swiveled in his chair for a moment, thinking. “Why ask for protection if he dimed us out?”

Spenser shrugged. “Cover his ass? Throw us off? Who knows. I'm getting lunch. Want anything?”

“Nah, skipping today.”

Bartlet scoffed from his desk as Spenser left. “Good idea, you've put on weight.”

Chase squinted at the older detective and his round belly. “What's that, Mister Pot?”

“I've been on this desk for eight years, boy, what's your excuse?”

“I've only gained like two pounds.” He gripped his stomach with a frown, displeased with the softness he found there. He turned his chair to face the desk behind him.

“Mandy—”

“No, you're not fat,” she cut in without looking up from her screen, an edge of annoyance to her voice.

Chase spun his chair back around. “Mandy says I'm not fat.”

“She's probably been the one feeding you,” Bartlet huffed.

“Maybe Caceda's been feeding him,” Mandy offered dryly, still typing.

They both only looked at her for a moment before Bartlet broke the silence.

“Me-ow.”

There were few things that annoyed Chase more than passive aggression. Alas, the look he was giving her was a wasted effort since she refused to pull her eyes off her monitor.

“Think I'll take lunch after all,” he muttered, shoving himself out of his chair.

Tim barely seemed to notice that he was suddenly not alone in his quiet cave of electronics. He seemed to be piecing together a badly damaged laptop. Arson, it looked like. Pale brown eyes behind loupe glasses fixed on nimble fingers as they tinkered with precise familiarity.

Chase only sat in a stool quietly until the slight tech seemed to pause.

“What was your read on the cafe op footage?”

Tim lifted the loupe attachment from his glasses and looked at Chase's feet briefly. “Read?”

“What did you think about what happened? About Marshal?”

There was a flash of dismay on the man's pallid features and he looked to the electronic guts on his desk as if for help. “I don't know. I just record.”

“He specifically avoided approaching from an angle that the cameras would catch. You went over all of the footage and never caught a suspicious vehicle? Never saw him?”

“Was very careful,” Tim muttered, flattening a wrinkle in the evidence bag on his desk. “Always am.”

“Then he walked right passed Caceda and Hernandez. He knew the sunglasses were recording.”

Tim's ego had taken an obvious blow. “Not because of me. I hid it well.”

“You did. Phone records aside, this is shit Mink wouldn't have even known.” Chase sighed and spun slowly in the stool. “If Mink didn't tell him, who could have?”

“Only people who knew enough,” Tim said simply.

“Right.” Chase frowned. “So, who knew enough of the details? Just people in house, right? LT. Cagg. You. Hernandez. Caceda. Shaw. Coms.”

“You,” Tim added.

“Yea, but I know I didn't tell anyo—” Chase stopped abruptly, staring off into space. “Shit.”