Paying The Piper - 2. Chapter 2

Quent made his way back down the vast expanse of manicured lawn toward the body, taking notice of how the activity was finally dying down around the crime scene. The body itself was being bagged, getting ready for its long trip to the coroner’s office in the next town over.

Farther's Run didn’t have a coroner. It didn’t have a medical examiner. It didn’t really even have a police force, but it did have Quent. For most people, that was enough, but in this case, outside assistance was necessary. Quent stopped a few feet away and watched the EMS boys lift the body bag into the ambulance, a deep frown marring his features. He hated anything that disturbed his routine. A dead body lying on the front lawn of the town’s most prestigious resident, who also happened to be his best friend, qualified as a disturbance. A big one. He wanted desperately to believe this had nothing to do with Cale, but chances were it did. Angus, Cale's father, had attracted trouble like no one he had ever met, and his son was no different.

Brushing his black hair from his eyes, he turned toward his car, wanting nothing more than his quiet apartment with its generous supply of whisky. Before he'd taken two steps, though, a beefy hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned to find Rob Skinner – his part-time deputy and full-time pain in the ass. Quent glared at him, but Rob either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and threw a brief glance over his shoulder, drawing Quent's attention to the figure standing behind them. "Hey, Chief. There’s…um…someone over there who wants to talk to you."

Quent raised an eyebrow and squinted through the gloom to where Rob was pointing, then groaned audibly. "Not now," he muttered. He stalked toward his car with single-minded purpose, refusing to acknowledge the man who was even now running up behind him and calling his name.

"Quent! Goddamn it, Quent!"

Steve Mullen, brother to the deceased and constant thorn in Quent’s side, stumbled up to him. "I want to know what’s going on," he demanded, eyes damp and voice scratchy. He reached up and grabbed Quent’s coat sleeve. Quent turned and shot him a withering glare that would have had even Cale running for cover. Steve didn't even blink. "What happened to my sister?"

"She’s dead, you imbecile! Take your hands off of me! I'll discuss it with you when we have more details. Right now, I know as little as you do."

Steve was furious, which made his skin an unattractive pinkish color. It contrasted rather unflatteringly with the man’s red hair, Quent thought. Sweet Christ, was every Mullen in his town cursed with that god-awful color?

"Well it just so happens, Quent, that I know more than you do for once," Mullen spat.

Quent jerked his arm away. But he did stop and turn to Steve. His appearance – the bloodshot eyes, the mussed hair, the dirty, mismatched clothing – spoke of angry grief. It also reeked of one too many vodkas at The Little Bar, the town’s most popular pub. Quent pulled up straight and looked down his nose at Steve. "What are you talking about?"

Steve laughed, a harsh sound completely devoid of humor. "Oh, so now you want to listen. The great Quent wants to know. What could poor white-trash Steve Mullen have to offer? What—"

Quent reached across the short distance separating them and grabbed a handful of Steve’s collar. He twisted it sharply in his fist and hauled Steve close. "I don't have time for your hysterics, Mullen. If you know something that would help the investigation, I suggest you divulge it now."

Steve sputtered and twisted helplessly in Quent’s grip. Quent finally released him and Steve stumbled backwards. Hate poured from his eyes as he stood and wheezed. "You’ve always hated us, Quent. Why go out of your way to help a Mullen now?"

"I’m not going out of my way, idiot. I’m doing my job. Now tell me what you know." Quent took a menacing step toward Steve, who finally appeared to understand how serious Quent was. He gulped and stumbled back a few feet.

"Fine. I was with her tonight over at The Tin Man. She was talking to that new guy. I saw him give her some money. She left, and then he left. Now she’s dead. You do the math!"

Quent’s eyes narrowed in speculation. Could that be all this was? A trick turned bad? Frankly, it was a little too neat for his tastes, and the method the killer used to end young Cynthia’s life didn’t indicate that is was simple rough sex play that had led to her death. Far from it. Still, it was a lead and it was more than he'd had two minutes ago.

"The new kid staying over at the Stahl place?" he asked.

Steve’s eyes grew wide and Quent sneered at him. "Believe it or not, I do know some of what goes on in this booming metropolis of a town you call home." Quent practically spit the last word. "Is that the person to whom you are referring?"

"Well, y-yes."

"Thank you for the information. I’m sorry for your loss. I’ll contact you when we know something. Now stay the fuck out of my way." Quent delivered his little speech as he swung his tall frame into his car. He slammed the door in Mullen’s face. When Steve began to bang angrily on the window, Quent floored the accelerator and sped away.

**********

He stopped only long enough to pick up Cale. He suspected his young friend could use the time away from his lovely wife. The faint light of dawn was creeping across the McCoys' lawn when he pulled up to the house.

His solid two knocks on the front door brought Cale himself, still dressed in his clothing from earlier. Quent arched an eyebrow. "No butler this morning?"

"Even butlers sleep, Quent." Looking worn and tired, he ushered his friend into the house. "Have you found out anything?"

"Nothing definitive. But I was hoping you would accompany me on a little fact finding expedition."

Cale glanced to the sweeping staircase than led to the second floor. "I really shouldn’t," he mused. "As you probably can guess, things were a little tense after you left."

Quent frowned in annoyance. "Since when are your wife’s temper tantrums your problem?"

Cale didn’t answer. Instead, he ran his hands over his face and jerked his head toward the door to his office. Quent followed him in and Cale locked the door behind them.

Quent had always liked Cale’s office. It was nothing like Angus’s had been – cold and intimidating. Instead, it was comfortable and cluttered. Exactly like an office should look, in Quent’s opinion.

"I’m married," Cale began. Quent threw him a look he usually reserved for complete idiots. Cale smiled and sat back in his chair. Quent took the seat opposite and waited. "What I mean, is that I went into this knowing it wasn’t what I wanted, but I did it anyway." He sighed. "I won’t punish Elizabeth for my mistake."

"No. Instead, you’ll ignore her and avoid your bed. Excellent idea. I’m sure she’ll never notice." Quent hissed in disgust and turned his gaze toward the window.

Cale shrugged. "I do my best," was his quiet answer.

Silence reigned for several minutes before Quent conceded. "I’m here because I thought you may want to come to this next…interview."

Cale visibly relaxed at the change of subject. "How does it concern me?"

"Cynthia was stabbed to death in your front yard. It concerns you."

Cale dropped his eyes and shook his head. Quent waited. Finally, Cale sighed and looked up. "Fine. Just let me get changed."

Quent nodded and Cale disappeared out the door and up the stairs. He tried not to notice how his friend purposefully muffled his footfalls. If his suspicions were correct, something was going to give in the McCoy marriage very soon. Eight years was too long for two people who hated each other to live in matrimony.

He'd only been waiting five minutes when he heard more footfalls on the stairs. He cursed his bad luck. There was no way in hell Cale had dressed himself so fast. He was far too fastidious.

"Well, well. Twice in one day. Lucky us. Who else is allowed the pleasure of your company so often?" Elizabeth strolled into Cale’s office and perched on the edge of Quent’s chair. He resisted, just barely, from pushing her off.

"I am merely here to collect your husband. It concerns the events of last night."

Elizabeth looked surprised. "Is he a suspect?"

Quent clenched his teeth. She had asked that question with a little too much glee as far as he was concerned. "He is not."

"Why not?" Elizabeth shook her head when Quent’s mouth dropped open in shock. "Never mind." She sighed. "Husband. A word that doesn’t really apply to Cale, unfortunately," Elizabeth mused as she picked invisible lint from Quent’s coat. His hands twitched with the desire to smack her. Cale wasn't perfect, but he gave Elizabeth more leeway than she deserved.

"I don't care to listen to your prattle," he said as he brushed her aside and stood up. He'd wait in the car; Cale would find him easily enough. He stalked across the foyer, keeping his steps measured – hurried, but not rushed. He wasn't running away, he assured himself.

"Quent," Elizabeth called out just as he opened the door. He stopped reluctantly. His car beckoned from twenty yards away.

"What?" he snapped without looking back.

She paused and Quent nearly barked his question again.

"He never looks at me when we make love," she said in a quiet voice.

Quent didn’t move. In fact, he didn’t even breathe. He could think of little he wanted less than the details of Cale’s sex life. His hand tightened on the doorknob.

"Never. He never has. Not once." Her voice drifted off at the end. She sounded almost…human. For once, Quent felt a twinge of pity for her.

"Do you know why?" Elizabeth’s quiet voice asked. Quent shook his head. "Neither do I," she said.

Elizabeth turned and drifted down the hall toward the kitchen. Quent stayed rooted to the floor for several moments, considering her words. When he finally stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him, he was frowning.