Detectives in love, p.34
Detectives in Love, page 34
The woman at the reception desk greets me with a bright smile.
“Welcome to The Chronicle. Are you here to see someone?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep my voice polite and not let the anger bleed through. “Fred Collins. Is he in today?”
“Let me check,” she says, still smiling as she picks up the phone. “What’s your name?”
“Newt Doherty.”
While she dials, I just stand there, not even thinking about what I’m going to say to him. I’ll improvise—whatever comes out, comes out.
I’m deep in my head when her voice cuts through. “Sir?”
I blink.
“He’s in. Third floor. Here’s your badge.”
I take it and head for the elevators, anger settling back in my veins as if it never left. The ride up is agonizing—every second stretching too long, my thoughts too loud.
When the elevator doors open on the third floor, I step out, push through the glass doors, and walk past the guard into the open-plan office, where white cubicles stretch along the windowed wall.
I hear the guard behind me—”Sir, I need to see your guest badge”—but I don’t slow down.
Because there he is.
Fred Collins.
Leaning on someone’s cubicle, coffee in hand, grin on his face.
I move toward him without thinking. The guard is still calling after me, but his voice fades.
Fred turns when I’m close—and has the audacity to smile.
“Hey there, Newty,” he says. “That’s a surprise. What brings you here?”
There’s half a second before I reach him when his smile falters—like he knows what’s coming. I don’t hit him. I just step into his space and shove him back against the cubicle wall. It’s not violent, but I’m close, hand pressed to his chest, leaving him no room to move.
Fred lets out a panicked little noise, like I’ve pulled a gun on him.
“Hey!” he squeaks, hands flying up in defense. “What happened?”
“You tell me,” I say, pulling my hand back but not stepping away. We’re still inches apart.
“What’s going on here, guys?” says a woman standing up from one of the cubicles—a journalist, probably.
I don’t answer. All my focus is on Fred, who’s glancing around in a quiet panic, like he’s hoping someone will step in and save him.
“You bugged me the night we went drinking,” I say through clenched teeth. And when Fred meets my eyes, I know I’m right. There’s a flicker of guilt before he looks away.
“Let’s talk,” he says quickly, but his gaze flicks past me—just before a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
“Sir, you need to leave,” the guard says, voice firm. “Or I’ll have to call the police.”
I don’t even look at him. My eyes stay on Fred.
“Yes, let’s talk,” I say, daring him to handle this face to face instead of hiding behind a security guard. “Outside.”
Fred nods, and only then do I step back.
“It’s fine,” he tells the guard. “Just a misunderstanding.” Then he heads toward the elevators, and I follow, feeling the weight of every stare in the room trailing behind us.
I didn’t plan to cause a scene. But after the fight with Xavier—and honestly, the whole damn week—I don’t have any patience left. Just anger.
And I can’t say I regret it.
We step into the elevator without a word. I glance at Fred, ready to start something—but then the guard steps in after us. He catches my eye with a look that says he’s just waiting for a reason to throw me out.
I don’t give him one. We ride down in silence, the three of us, like he’s the prison guard escorting us out for yard time.
At reception, I hand over my guest badge. The guard shoots me one last look, clearly meaning: don’t come back. I ignore it and keep walking, right behind Fred, who already looks like he’s resigned to whatever’s coming.
As we step out onto the porch, finally alone, Fred turns to me and says quickly, “I can explain.”
“Yeah, you better,” I say, crossing my arms. “So it wasn’t an accident? Us bumping into each other that night?”
Fred meets my eyes, but it’s clear it’s the last thing he wants to do.
“It was,” he says. “I swear to God, it was.”
“And you just happened to have a bug on you?” I say, voice sharp with sarcasm. “Start telling the truth, or we’re going to the police.”
Fred sighs, frustrated, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Okay,” he says, shoulders sagging. “It wasn’t a complete coincidence. But I needed the money. You know how many kids I have, Newt—my journalist salary barely covers rent.”
“Right,” I say, my mouth pulling into a bitter twist. “So you decided to blow up a massive story about your old friend and cash in?”
“I swear, I thought it was just some dumb prank at first,” Fred says, his voice tightening. “He offered me money to plant the bug—basically dared me to—and I said yes. I didn’t think it’d turn into—”
“He? Who?” I cut in, frowning, my pulse already picking up again. “Who offered you money?”
“Bernard,” he says.
“Bernard?” My mouth goes dry. “Bernard Nimoy?”
Fred blinks. “Wait—you didn’t know? This was all his idea.”
“What…” I stare at him, completely thrown. For a second it feels like maybe I’m dreaming, or losing blood, or both. “Why the hell would Bernard make up a story about Xavier and me? We hadn’t even met him back then.”
“You had,” Fred says, and there’s a flicker of relief in his voice—like he thinks this new turn will take the heat off him. “He’d been following you. Saw us bump into each other that night and trailed us into the bar. Didn’t say a word at first—just waited until you were drunk and completely out of it before showing up.”
I stare at him, trying to tell if he’s lying—but he doesn’t look like he is.
“What else do you know?” I ask, and Fred looks almost relieved, like spilling more might save him.
“He’s behind all of it,” he says quickly, eager to shift the blame. “He paid me to stay quiet when I figured out he was the one who leaked the story to The Weekend Herald…”
A chill creeps up my spine. Could that really have been Bernard’s plan?
“Why?” I ask. “Why would he do that?”
Fred shrugs. “I’ve got no idea.”
I start to turn back toward the building, but he stops me, like he already knows what I’m thinking.
“He’s gone for the day. He left twenty minutes ago.”
I don’t answer. Just pull out my phone and head down the steps toward the road, dialing Xavier. My heart’s pounding, and there’s this noise in my head I can’t shut out—a theory starting to come together, not fully there yet.
The line keeps ringing, but he doesn’t pick up. I text him: Call me.
If I can’t put it all together, Xavier will. If I can find him.
My pulse is so loud it drowns everything else out as I order a cab and wait by the curb.
Why would Bernard care about Xavier and me? He’s a political journalist. What would he even want from us? None of it makes sense.
Could Fred be lying? Sure. But it didn’t feel like he was.
When the taxi pulls up, I get in, just wanting to get home and see Xavier there—maybe asleep on the couch, or sitting in the kitchen with his laptop. But the knot in my stomach says I won’t be that lucky.
The ride takes about twenty minutes. When I finally get home, I’m relieved not to see any journalists hanging around the door. I head upstairs, hoping Xavier’s inside—but when I try the key, it doesn’t fit.
I blink, confused—then remember Mr. Waverly said something about changing the lock while we were gone.
I hurry back down and knock on the Waverlys’ door. Mrs. Waverly answers a moment later.
“Hi, Mrs. Waverly,” I say, trying to keep my nerves in check.
“Oh, Newt, sweetheart, you’re here for the keys, right?” she says warmly.
“Yes,” I nod. “Thank you.”
“Come in, come in. Mr. Waverly left them for you.” She invites me inside as she heads back to fetch them.
I step into the warm coziness of their apartment, the smell of pastry and tea wrapping around me like a blanket.
“Xavier hasn’t arrived yet?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Xavier?” Mrs. Waverly echoes, glancing back at me as she heads into the living room. “Wasn’t he with you, dear?”
“He was,” I say, a tight flicker of pain and anxiety pressing at my chest. “I had something to take care of, so we split up.”
“He hasn’t come by yet, dear,” Mrs. Waverly says, a touch of concern creeping into her voice. “Have you tried calling him?”
“Yeah,” I nod, mouth dry. “He didn’t pick up. He’s probably just busy.”
“Probably,” she echoes softly. A moment later, she returns with a shiny new set of keys. “Here you are.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, trying to steady myself as a quiet, crawling panic settles in my chest.
Where would he go?
Mrs. Waverly gives me a small, worried look. “Did you two have a quarrel?”
“A little,” I admit, because saying it out loud feels like the only way to shake off the dread sitting in my chest.
“Oh, boys,” she sighs, clicking her tongue. “And here I thought you were past that separate-bedroom nonsense.”
My cheeks burn at the implication.
“We are,” I say, not even bothering to pretend—there’s a strange relief in just owning it. “It’s just still…a little complicated.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you’ll be alright,” she says, taking my hand in both of hers and giving it a warm squeeze. “It’s hard to communicate when you’re feeling everything all at once.”
“I guess,” I say, feeling a sudden burn rise in my throat. “It’s just… I don’t know. First, he won’t let me go, then he shuts down and says he needs space…” I let out a sigh, unable to meet her eyes. “I know his father died, so maybe that’s why. But I hate it when he shuts me out.”
“His father, dear?” says Mrs. Waverly. I look up at her and see the faint frown on her face.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “His dad passed away recently.”
Mrs. Waverly shakes her head. “No, dear. That happened a long time ago.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“A while back—maybe a year ago—his uncle Ernest told me Xavier’s father died when he was just five. Ernest said he was keeping an eye on him because of a promise to his older brother.”
I stare at her, something turning over in my chest. Why would Xavier lie about that? Unless Mrs. Waverly got it wrong. But it doesn’t feel like she did. I sigh, too confused to get into it now, though a twinge of unease sits heavy in my stomach.
“I’ll ask him why Ernest said that,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. Then I nod. “Thanks for the keys, Mrs. Waverly. Tell Mr. Waverly thanks too, okay?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” she says, giving my elbow a gentle pat.
She walks me to the door, and just as I’m about to leave, she adds, “Newt, dear…I can see Xavier loves you very much. Even if he doesn’t always know how to show it. I’m sure that’s why he acts the way he does.”
I blink, my throat tightening. I nod and step out, heading back upstairs before I lose it right there in front of her.
When I step into the living room, I kick off my shoes and sink onto the couch without even taking off my jacket, my mind still buzzing.
For a while, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the stillness around me. At some point, I nearly drift off—my head a swarm of anxious thoughts, half-formed conversations, moments from the past week and ones that never actually happened.
I see Xavier’s face. I know he’s not here, but I hear his voice anyway: “People lie easiest when they say they’ve got no reason to.”
I sit up, suddenly wide awake, my heart beating hard in my throat. A thought pushes its way in—what if Xavier lied about his father because he didn’t want to talk about what really happened that night between us? He might have. That would be just like him. But why make up something so big just to cover a lie?
I stay there, thinking. Mrs. Waverly’s words echo in my head: “Xavier loves you very much. Even if he doesn’t always know how to show it. I’m sure that’s why he acts the way he does.”
I think back to this morning—how frustrated he was, how wound up.
“I didn’t keep you out of it because I didn’t trust you. I did it because I can’t fucking handle the thought of losing you. I don’t sleep for days if there’s a gun anywhere near you. Or a knife. Or whatever else.”
And now he’s doing it again. Shutting me out. When he said he needed to be alone, he had that same look in his eyes—hurt, even if it was only there for a second.
But what is he trying to protect me from now?
I exhale, thinking. Maybe it’s the killer who broke into our apartment. That would make sense—if Xavier figured something out, maybe he’s trying to keep me out of it while he follows the lead himself. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Or maybe this isn’t about the killer at all. Maybe it’s about Fred. Or Bernard. What if Xavier figured out Bernard was part of the scandal on his own? He wasn’t at The Chronicle when I got there—so he clearly wasn’t after Fred.
I sit there, turning the possibilities over in my head like a Rubik’s cube, trying to find the one side that makes everything line up.
I glance around the room and only now notice how spotless it is. Mr. and Mrs. Waverly must’ve cleaned up, just like they said they would. I make a mental note to thank them later. A small stack of newspapers sits neatly in the corner of the coffee table.
The top one is The Chronicle, which is why I pick it up. The front page is all about Minister Craig and his lover—looks like the print version of Bernard’s article I read this morning. I feel that same twist of anger flare up, knowing now he was trying to pull the same thing with Xavier and me.
I stare at the photos of the two men. The setup looks eerily familiar—almost identical to the pictures of Xavier and me from The Weekend Herald. The bastard really just copy-pasted the whole thing.
And that’s when I freeze. My heart slams in my ears, adrenaline flooding my veins so fast it’s blinding—because I finally recognize the man in the photo. Minister Craig’s advisor.
I’ve met him before.
I shoot to my feet, the floor seeming to tilt under me, everything crashing down all at once.
The man in the photo is Christopher Hill.
The witness in the Bridge case.
And before I can even figure out why this strange coincidence matters, my gut already knows. Something’s off.
Everything slows. I drop the newspaper and just stand there, frozen, my mind racing. Time feels suspended—I don’t hear the cars outside, or the wind against the windows. Just silence, and that rising certainty in my chest that something’s gone terribly wrong.
Suddenly, my mind sharpens. The buzzing swarm of thoughts starts to settle, each snapping into place.
Cormac Bridge’s murder.
Christopher Hill.
The scandal with Minister Craig.
Ice wraps around my heart. My breath turns shallow. That low, creeping anxiety shifts—into something colder. Stronger.
Fear.
I fumble for my phone, hands unsteady, and call Xavier. It rings. And rings. But he doesn’t pick up.
Dozens of details flash through my mind, snapping into place like puzzle pieces.
The party on Hickory Road… I can see it now—myself standing there, like I’m watching from the outside.
“Just about how you got ahead thanks to our gay Foreign Minister.”
It’s all connected. Everything.
“I’ve heard a lot about you from Chief Willand, Mr. Ormond.”
It used to feel like half the pieces were missing. But it was only one—one that tied the entire picture together.
“I mostly cover politics, but sometimes crime, so we talk pretty often. We go way back.”
One person.
“You must live nearby to be a regular here.”
“Just down the street.”
One link.
“Got a big scoop. Front page material.”
A scoop. A murder. A scandal.
No—
A scandal.
“You hear about Minister Craig’s latest mess?”
A murder.
“All Farewell Security homes come with an option for hidden cameras.”
“You think they’re connected to his death?”
A scoop.
“But why would anyone do that? Are they trying to distract us?”
Minister Craig’s scandal.
Cormac Bridge’s death.
Xavier Ormond and I—headline fodder, a frenzy for every journalist in the city.
The story about us was never the point. It was a distraction.
“What’s a Kansas City Shuffle?”
“A Kansas City Shuffle is when everybody looks right, you go left.”
CHAPTER 17. SCOOP
As I head toward the Shorewitch Police Department, I try to convince myself that Xavier could be anywhere—just walking around, sulking, maybe chasing some lead that has nothing to do with Bernard Nimoy or the Bridge case. Maybe he only now got to The Chronicle and is talking to Fred the way I did.
But my gut says that’s not it. He figured it out back at the pub. And pushing me away was him trying to keep me out of it. Keep me safe. From Bernard.
I called Willand first, tried to explain everything and asked him to send someone after Bernard Nimoy, but he started asking questions and eventually told me to come in—probably figured it was too much to make sense of over the phone. So now I’m on my way, very annoyed I have to waste time on this. I tried Fred, but his phone’s off, so I texted asking for Bernard’s number. Thought about messaging Ernest too but figured I should talk to Willand first—no point panicking the older Ormond until I know more.
As I sit in the back of the cab, phone in hand, checking the screen every ten seconds, all I can think about is how much I hate taxis—and how Xavier and I really need to buy a car once this case is over. We’ll drive to cases together and go home after. The thought gives me a bit of comfort—makes me believe there’s going to be an after.
