Paying The Piper - 4. Chapter 4

Cale rounded the corner of the house and Jim’s huge four-car garage came into view. He'd heard of the famous garage, of course. It was twice as big as Jim’s house and a never-ending source of gossip in town. He was curious himself to see what lay within, but apparently his curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied today. All four automatic doors were closed.

He walked around the side of the building and spied Quent alongside an old jeep, his hand on the hood. Not wanting to startle his friend, Cale cleared his throat as he walked up. "What is it?"

"The engine’s still hot. This is the car I heard, I think. This Drew fellow must have just got home." Quent turned to Cale. "Out awfully late, wasn’t he?" He started walking toward the wooden stairs that led up to the door of the apartment.

Cale shrugged and stifled a yawn. "Maybe he’s an early riser and craves fresh donuts."

Quent stopped and rounded on him. With his three inches of additional height, he loomed over Cale until their noses were almost touching. "If you cannot keep your childish comments to yourself, then I suggest you go home. I won't tolerate you acting like a pre-adolescent half your age."

Since home was exactly where Cale wanted to go, he almost agreed. Then he thought of Elizabeth waiting for him. "I’ll behave," he promised.

Quent sneered. He'd picked up on Cale’s line of thought, apparently. "I’m sure you will."

They climbed the stairs together, and Quent rapped on the door. Soft music could be heard from within, and Cale smiled at the familiar tune. It was one of his favorites. When nobody answered, Quent knocked louder, and a moment later, the door swung open. A slim, dark-haired young man, no older than himself, Cale guessed, stood in the open doorway, slipping a t-shirt over his head.

Blinded by all the white cotton, he didn’t at first see who was standing on his doorstep. "Sorry, Jim, I didn’t realize you wanted to get such an early st…hello."

When the head emerged through the fabric, Cale’s mouth went instantly dry, and he couldn’t help his shocked stare. Piercing green eyes gazed back from under disheveled black hair. Before he could stop them, Cale’s eyes dropped, taking in the still mostly bare torso, dark nipples and flat stomach. The other man followed his gaze, then tugged self-consciously at his shirt where it had twisted and stuck around his chest. Cale tore his eyes away, cursing his weakness. When he looked back, those hypnotic green eyes were still pinned to him, heavy with understanding. Something unspoken passed between them, and Cale swallowed heavily.

"I’m sorry," the young man said as he laughed, obviously embarrassed. He reached up and tried to smooth his tousled hair. Cale followed the movement with his eyes. "I thought you were Jim."

"We’re not," Quent said dryly. Cale noticed the other man tense at the cold tone.

"No, you’re not," he agreed in a deep voice. His eyes drifted back and forth between Cale and Quent. "Can I help you?"

"May we come in?" Quent asked in a rare show of decorum. Cale felt thrown by the polite question and it was obvious the other man did as well. That was Quent’s plan, no doubt.

"Of course," the young man said after a moment. He waved Quent and Cale through the door, then closed it behind them with a soft snick. Cale's mouth twisted up into a smile when he saw the bakery bag on the counter. The sweet smell of fresh donuts filled the air. He arched an eyebrow at Quent, who ignored both him and the telltale white bag.

In fact, he barely took three steps into the apartment before he began his verbal assault. "Name?" he barked.

"Drew Marcus." The man answered carefully, as if unsure of Quent’s reaction.

"New in town?"

Drew’s confused smile turned into a frown. His eyes narrowed. "I am," he said. He remained by the front door instead of following Cale and Quent into the apartment. "And you are?" he asked, directing the question at Quent.

"Quent. Chief of Police for Farther's Run."

Drew’s lips quirked. "Nice to meet you."

Cale was sure he'd never heard more insincere words spoken. He took a deep breath, drawing Drew’s attention, and again found himself caught by those green eyes. For a long moment, they stared at each other. Cale felt the tension that had exploded between them a moment ago swell even further. Low in his stomach, an invisible vise tightened. His pulse suddenly became deafening in his ears. When Drew smiled at him, a slow lazy smile – an inviting smile – Cale panicked. He spun towards Quent.

"You know, on second thought, I think I’ll take you up on that offer to head home." Ignoring Quent’s strange look, he took a couple of clumsy steps toward the door before he realized Drew was blocking it. He stopped in his tracks. Drew’s eyes bore into him, burning but curious, and once again Cale became hypnotized, unable to look away. The silence dragged until Quent spoke.

"What’s wrong, Cale?"

Cale pulled his eyes away from Drew. "Nothing…really. The night is just catching up with me."

He heard Drew move away from the door and he breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Quent eyed him suspiciously, but nodded and jerked his head toward the door. Cale nodded in return, pivoted…and ran right into Drew, who had come up silently behind him.

"I’m sorry," Drew said and reached out to lend a steadying hand on his arm. Cale’s heart rate jumped and for a long moment he couldn’t draw a breath. A mosaic of scents drifted over him. Soap. Toothpaste. Aftershave. His panic peaked even as his body reacted to the surge of lust that broke over him. With a strangled, "No problem," he slipped by Drew and out the door.

He managed to keep his pace sedate as he descended the stairs and walked back to the car, but once behind the wheel, he realized he couldn’t leave without the keys, which were with Quent, so he hunkered down to wait. In the silence of the vehicle, his breathing sounded loud and harsh. Blood pounded in his ears. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat.

It had happened again. Usually, Cale was able to steel himself against such moments. They didn’t come frequently. Much less now than when he'd been younger. Still, they were dangerous and they threatened his way of life. Meticulously, he squelched them, evicting every sensation completely and utterly, until he felt in control. Achingly cold, but in control.

Finally, he opened his eyes to the bright morning. Like a vengeful ghost, the green grass assaulted his senses, reminding him of another shade of green. Immediately and without mercy, the forbidden feelings washed over him again, ripping away his hard-won indifference.

Cale sighed and gave in, losing himself in the memory of Drew’s eyes.

**********

Drew and Quent looked after Cale with matching puzzled expressions. Quent’s curiosity was roused. He was a trained investigator. There was no doubt in his mind about what had scared Cale; it had been something about this Marcus boy.

"Marcus," he called, jarring Drew out of his reverie. "This interview’s not over."

Drew turned slowly back to Quent. "I never suspected that it was." He walked into the living room and sat down. "I'm still curious, though, as to why you’re here."

Quent echoed Drew's movements. "Cynthia Mullen," he said once he'd sat down.

Drew gave him a blank look. "Who?"

Quent didn’t pull any punches. "Cynthia. Red-headed hooker you paid to get laid last night."

Light dawned in Drew’s eyes. "Cynthia….yes, I remember her. At The Tin Man. Last night."

Quent crossed his legs and sat back. "So you don’t deny paying her for sex."

"I most certainly do."

"So you didn’t."

"Didn’t see her or didn’t pay her?"

Quent’s temper began to unravel. He was shocked by the cool detachment of the young man across from him. As much as Quent hated to admit it, Marcus didn’t appear intimidated in the slightest.

"Either," he finally said.

Drew took a moment to answer. He crossed one leg over the opposite knee and folded his arms over his chest. "I gave her money, but not for sex."

Quent’s face took on an expression of comedic surprise. "You gave her money out of the kindness of your heart?"

Drew shrugged. "Yes."

Their eyes met and held across the short distance. Quent’s brown ones demanded Drew back down and admit to his falsehood. Drew’s managed to be both open and shrouded at the same time.

"I find that very difficult to believe," Quent finally said.

"I’m sure you do," Drew replied without blinking.

"Why would you do that?"

For the first time, Drew seemed uncomfortable. "Why are you here? You really haven’t explained that. Why should I tell you anything?"

Quent reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a couple pictures of Cynthia. He held back the yearbook photo and handed the other across to Drew. It depicted how she'd been found a few hours ago – disemboweled and very dead. Grime dotted her naked body and dark rivulets of dried blood decorated her face and torso where the knife had entered her body again and again. Quent was at least happy to see the Marcus boy wasn't unaffected. He blanched, then went a bit green before handing the picture back to Quent.

"Last night?" he asked.

"Sometime early this morning," Quent replied. Drew nodded and stood unsteadily from the couch. He took a step toward the kitchen before turning back. "Would you like something to drink?"

Quent shook his head and Drew went to pour himself a glass of water. When he returned, he gulped down the liquid in three large swallows. "Now I understand why you’re here," he said quietly.

"Glad to know those college courses taught you something about leaps of logic."

Drew glanced up sharply. Then his face relaxed. "I assume you’ve already been to see Jim about me."

Quent nodded and rose from the couch. He began to circle the room, randomly picking up objects, obviously of personal value, and putting them back down. This drove most people crazy, but a glance at Drew indicated that he couldn't have cared less.

"Can we get to the point, then?" he asked Quent. "You think I had something to do with this. You want to hear what Cynthia and I talked about. You want to know if I have an alibi for last night."

"Three for three," Quent said as he examined a paperback book that had been tossed onto the windowsill.

Drew sighed deeply. "There’s not much I can say. Cynthia seemed like a nice girl. She did proposition me, but I wasn’t interested. She gave me a sob story about really needing the money. About how much she hated hooking. How no one in this town would help her. How her brother was a nutcase. She asked for twenty dollars. It seemed a low price for a little piece of mind."

Quent snorted. "How do you know she didn’t turn around and blow it all on drugs?"

Drew shrugged again. "I don’t for sure. Just my intuition."

"Your intuition?" Quent scoffed. When Drew nodded, he rolled his eyes. "Why weren’t you interested?"

Drew rolled the empty water glass between his hands and stared at Quent. "She’s not my type," he answered after several seconds.

Quent walked past a cluttered desk and ran his fingertips over some scattered papers. Drew didn’t even twitch. "And just what is your type, Mr. Marcus?"

"Why is that relevant?"

"Because I say it is."

Drew smiled wryly and stared down into his glass. "Blond," he replied.

Quent didn’t comment, but he did frown. "Then?" he asked.

"I came home."

"Alone?"

"Yes. It was about one-fifteen when I got here. I stayed in the rest of the night."

Quent bent over to examine a stack of music CDs. "Can anyone confirm that?"

"I just said that I was alone." Anger leaked into Drew’s voice. "Unless you’d like to interview Jim’s cat."

Quent congratulated himself for getting under the kid’s skin. "Don’t get smart, Marcus," he threatened.

Quent’s circuit of the room ended and he once again folded himself into the chair opposite from Drew. He pulled out a small notebook. His demeanor didn’t change, but his voice took on a less confrontational tone. "Did you see anyone else threaten her?"

Drew shook his head. "No."

"Anyone take any undo interest in her?"

"You mean besides the half dozen drunken married men sitting at the bar?"

Quent’s eyes drifted up from his small notepad and met Drew’s. "Yes. Besides them."

"No."

Quent nodded and examined his notepad thoughtfully. Of course, there was nothing of consequence written on it, but he was determined to make this Marcus kid squirm. After three minutes, however, he gave up. Drew hadn’t so much as scratched his nose. He merely stared at Quent.

"Is this job with Stahl going to take long?" Quent asked.

At this, Drew did move. He leaned back against the sofa and rattled the ice in his empty glass. "Don’t worry, Mr. Quent. I’m not going anywhere."

"Just so we understand each other," Quent said as he stood.

"Perfectly," Drew answered. He didn’t seem inclined to rise from the couch so Quent showed himself to the door. One backward glance at Drew revealed that the kid hadn't moved at all. He was staring blankly at the opposite wall, empty water glass in his hands.