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I prompt him along with a snappy roll of my hand.
“If you don’t mind, I think Finch would be right for this particular job.”
“Why him?”
He angles his jaw. “Do you really want to know, this being off the books and all?”
We might be skirting a line here, this not being an official case and all. On the other hand, Walker is a free agent—pun intended—on his own time. For that matter, Cole Fincher is no longer with the agency. Does tech work now for some corporate security bunch. Used to be a decent agent until true love knocked him out of the game. I swear, they need to come up with a shot for the whole love and marriage junk. It’s spread to epidemic proportions around this place the last couple of years.
“Do whatever you think works, Walker. But, out of curiosity, why Fincher?”
“For one, he and Evie also live in Chandor now, and two…” He grins. “Because with that baby face of his, anybody will talk to him.”
True enough. When the guy was in the undercover biz, he had to work harder than the rest of my guys when an assignment required he roughen things up. I thump my hands on the desk and stand. “Do what you have to. I trust your judgment.”
“Wow, so many compliments today. You’re making me blush.”
I swat my arm in his general direction as I pivot for the door, ignoring his laughter—which has been slightly less frequent the last week or so.
I lean on the doorframe. “How’s it going with that long-lost brother of yours?” The one Avery tracked down and handed over like a gift-wrapped present, probably the act that clinched the deal between the two of them. Grayson, the younger of the two and an injured MLB pitcher temporarily out of the game, has been staying with Tripp and Avery for a few weeks.
“Fantastic.”
There’s something in the tone. “What’s wrong?” A family reunion that isn’t all roses and sunshine? Imagine my surprise.
His expression blanks, and then he waves a hand. “Nothing. Things with Gray are great, it’s just…”
“Just?”
His face and mouth tighten. “His biological father contacted him last week.”
I feel my forehead lift. “And that’s a problem?”
“No.” His fists quietly ball.
I fall back on the silent method of eliciting information.
“Gray doesn’t remember the guy, but I do. He was a real scumbag, but he’s playing all mister nice and changed-man now.”
“And you’re not buying it?”
“No.” Dragging his hair back with both hands, he sighs. “I don’t know. He’s a fifty-year-old who looks like he’s seventy, and he’s sick, and…yeah, maybe all he wants is to know his son, but I don’t see how his presence causes anything except trouble.”
Egad, everywhere I turn it’s a blasted soap opera. “Grayson’s a big boy. He’ll handle it.”
Tripp drums the armrest of his chair. “I know. I’m not sure why it’s bugging me like it is.”
I’msure. Stirring up the past is a five-minute recipe for trouble. Reignites lousy memories and, in Tripp’s case? Maybe envy since he still doesn’t have a name to put to the bad actor who fathered him and walked away.
Most of all, I have zero doubt that snapshot on his computer represents another reason why.
Chapter 22
John
Traffic isn’t the worst for once, and since I cut out of the office early, it’s barely six when I get home. Hollie and Jacob left in a rush this morning. My hope is to plead my case with her when they return for their things.
Disappointment punches me in the gut when all I find in my driveway is Reagan’s crossover.
