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At the same time, Martin said, “I forgot to mention. Mayor Moore has managed to arrange for a private forensics company to assist with the investigation.”
Nick’s eyebrows shot up and he leaned forward. If Martin hadn’t had his full attention already, he sure had it now. “Yeah? Really? Who is it?”
“West Coast Forensics. Have you heard of them?”
“No. But that’s what the internet is for.”
Martin rose to his feet. “You look them up while I figure out dinner. I’m starving after today.” He stretched, his form-fitting t-shirt somehow barely managing not to burst at the seams. Nick had recurring dreams about that shirt and all the ways he could help Martin peel it off his body.
“Stir-fry okay?”
Nick nodded. Frankly, everything Martin cooked was worth putting in his mouth. Same with Martin’s cock. His face felt suddenly hot. He’d mostly avoided thinking about what had happened last night, but now his brain decided he needed a Technicolor replay. In slow motion.
“Yes,” he choked out, “stir-fry sounds fine. I’ll just—” he started to rise, then realized halfway up that his dick had decided to join in on the fun and games too. It was the damn shirt. It outlined everything incredible about Martin’s body. Martin’s t-shirts should always be just a tad too small.
“You okay there?”
“Yep. Just gonna grab my laptop”—he pointed to the living room as if Martin didn’t already know where he was headed—“and check out this West Coast Forensics outfit.”
Martin chose that moment to open the fridge door, bending down to see what was in the vegetable chiller.That ass. Nick’s cock twitched. Giving up on himself, Nick huffed out to the living room, erection and all, and snatched his laptop up from where he’d left it.
Back at the kitchen table, Nick opened his computer and started a search.
“Mmm, let’s see here. West Coast Forensics… Ah, here it is. The company was founded by a guy named Kimball Frye, who was an arson investigator with the ATF before that. They’re based out of Oakland, and—Piedras Island? What the hell. Anyway, now there’s a partner, Leo Zelinsky. His specialty is cold cases, used to be a cop in Seattle. They have several homicide investigators.” He kept reading, skimming through the information provided. “They also offer services and education to small police forces. Chief Dear should look into that.”
He clicked into the list of employees, wondering who would be coming to Cooper Springs.
“Awards, commendations, blah blah blah. Ohhh, who do we have here?” Nick clicked into the bio information listed next to a crap photograph of one Ethan Moore.
“What?” Martin asked over his shoulder as he finished chopping some onions and moved on to a couple of cloves of garlic.
“I found the connection. Ethan Moore. Unless I’m totally off-base—and I don’t think I am—he’s the mayor’s son. It says here he’s a forensic anthropologist. Cool, cool. He might actually be useful.”
“A forensic anthropologist. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Ithink so. I’ve worked with a few. They’re generally smart and motivated to find the truth.”
The FAs Nick had worked with in Mexico had been driven, intelligent people intent on doing what they could to bring closure—and justice—to victims’ loved ones.
“Did you know this guy?” Martin asked. “Ethan Moore?”
Nick shook his head before realizing that Martin was paying attention to the knife in his hand and not Nick.
“Nope. He has to be at least five or six years older than me.”
“Ah, yes, practically ancient, on his deathbed,” Martin interjected, his tone amused.
“Fuck off.” He raised his middle finger for emphasis. “Moore and I wouldn’t have been in school at the same time. And besides, my parents didn’t move here until I was nine, so, ya know, I was the new kid.”
Martin quit chopping, turned around, and leaned back against the counter to face Nick. “Why did your family move here?”
Nick froze. It was a perfectly innocent question, but fuck if he hadn’t managed to avoid all mention of his parents until this very second. What innocuous fact could he drag out from his well of memories?
“My dad was an engineer. He worked for some of the last logging companies in the area.”
“Was? I mean, not to pry or anything.”
“They live in Florida now. Or they did, last time I knew anything about them.”
