“Hey!” the guard called again, voice louder, closer.
Carter rotated his face toward the guard, hiding Lincoln from view, just in case. “Work,” he said, his own voice strangled, much like his erection, hardening more every second he remained pressed against Lincoln. “Doing some consulting work for the chancellor on the labs upstairs.”
“This don’t look like consulting work,” the guard said, only a few feet from them.
Lincoln’s chin landed on his shoulder. “We’re newlyweds. Thought we were the only ones in here.”
Jesus Christ. Lincoln really was going to kill him.
The guard had a few choice curses for them too, including “Because students fucking like rabbits isn’t bad enough.”
Carter reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a paper bag. “How about some biscuits for your trouble?”
“Are those?—”
“Barry’s, from Flour Power.” He tossed the greasy bag to the guard, wished him “Good eatin’,” then, snatching up Lincoln’s messenger bag with one hand, grabbed Lincoln’s hand with the other and hauled them out the exit door before the guard could question them further.
Outside, the lingering pink on Lincoln’s cheeks made Carter want to crowd him up against another wall. But Lincoln wrenched his hand loose and snatched away his bag before Carter got the chance. “You better run back by the café on your way home from the station.”
Did he even realize what he was saying? Or how domestic that sounded? How much it made Carter’s chest warm and ache at the same time? He covered the burning desire with a smirk, and returned a “Yes, dear.”
That got him a middle finger, then Lincoln’s backside as the professor strutted off toward the library. The laughter—and warmth—stayed with Carter all the way back to the car.
Carter parked next to a giant black F-350 and peered through his windshield at the Apex police station. It stood at the center of the modest government complex, post office to its left, town hall to its right. All the buildings were trimmed for winter: frosted windows, silver tinsel, and the same Welcome, Winter and Welcome Back, Students banners that were all over town and campus. But where winter looked cold on the gray Gothic campus, it looked warm and inviting here. Each of the single-story brick buildings had wraparound porches with old-fashioned rocking chairs, and smoke was puffing out of the chimney of the police station. The only visible connection between the government complex and the university were the decorations and the Apex-blue gutters and downspouts that trimmed each building, together with a front door to match.
The one on the police station swung open, and a de-floured Barry, dressed in jeans and an ugly knit sweater, emerged onto the porch, waving a hand at Carter. Carter checked the calendar app on his phone. His meeting was with the current Apex police chief, Lawrence Petticoat, not the former one. He and the chief were supposed to be nailing down the particulars of the survival course Carter was scheduled to teach. Secondarily, and more importantly, Carter needed to assess the police force that might help or hinder their case. Resources, staffing, likely reaction should their cover be blown voluntarily or involuntarily. With Barry here to grill him some more, Carter mentally prepared himself to shield against the latter. He really didn’t want to go another round with the ex-chief yet. They’d handled him well enough this morning, and Carter anticipated another grilling when he dropped by Flour Power later for more biscuits, but here, now, this was an unscheduled interrogation he wasn’t looking forward to.
Climbing out of the car, Carter plastered on a smile and spoke first, aiming to direct this conversation where he wanted it to go—to a swift end. “Just the man I needed to see. What do I have to do for another to-go bag of biscuits? My husband’s a fan.”
The big man on the porch laughed, hearty and full. “Talk to my brother, Barry. He got all the cooking genes.”
“Wait? You’re not Barry?”
“Nope, I’m Larry.” He extended his hand once Carter reached the top of the steps. “Lawrence Petticoat. And sounds like you already met my brother Barry, short for Bartholomew.”
“Carter Polk.” He returned the handshake. “I thought Barry’s last name was Cousins. That’s what the back of the menu said. ‘Proprietors: Barry and Trudy Cousins.’”
“Took his wife’s last name.”
“My bad for assuming, and my apologies for the confusion.” He jutted a thumb over his shoulder. “You looked so similar from back there.” Up close, standing level with the other man, Carter could detect the slight differences. Larry’s eyes were more green than blue, his stomach not quite as round as Barry’s, his gray beard trimmed, and he had a couple more inches of height.
“Typical mistake,” Larry said. “We were born close together. My oldest brother, Harold—everyone called him Harry—he was first. Nine months later, Barry. Another nine months later, me.”
“And you decided to follow in your middle brother’s footsteps?” He eyed their surroundings as Larry led him into the station. “Not your oldest brother’s? My husband’s taking over for him at the library.”
Larry paused at the end of the reception desk, moved aside a snow globe and tinsel, and lifted a portion of the counter like a bar flip, the hinge creaking, in need of a shot of WD-40. They passed through, and Larry lowered the flip and his voice as if to tell a secret, no matter that it appeared he and Carter were the only two people in the station. “Don’t mean to speak ill of my late brother’s profession, but if we’re being honest, libraries freak me the heck out. All that quiet, all those dusty old books, and they’re always so cold. Can’t have a nice fire like here.” He laid a hand on the wooden mantel above the stone fireplace that took up most of one bullpen wall. “I only want to go in that place if a crime’s been committed.”
“They were never for me either,” Carter said truthfully. He much preferred to be outdoors, and a library was the antithesis of outdoors. But there was one good thing to be found in the library. “Until I met Lincoln.”
“That’s your husband?” Larry said. “The one taking over for Harry?”
“That’s right. His research is on migrating Blue Ridge populations. The archives at Apex U were a major draw.”
“APD’s good fortune, then, since it also brings you to town. Been meaning to do survival training for the team here.”
“How many we talkin’?”
“Well, there’s me.” Larry pointed at the largest of the three private offices at the other end of the bullpen, the one in the center with a blue-ribboned wreath on the door, then at the smaller office to its right decorated with a snowman. “Deputy Chief Franklin Petticoat. Cousin, my dad’s brother’s grandkid. He’s technically off duty until the end of the month—paternity leave—but he’ll come in for the training.” Then at the reindeer-graced office to the left. “Detective Josephine Lang.” And finally to the cluster of desks in the center of the bullpen area, each with a snow globe like the ones that dotted the reception desks. “Plus three duty officers. Training for the other support staff would be optional.”
