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“Dante?”
Shit. “What?”
“Did you get a dog?” André repeated.
“How did you know?”
André shrugged. “I figure that niece of yours has you wrapped around her little finger.”
Dante rolled his eyes. “We went to the shelter a few days ago. The dog’s name is Luna.”
The server brought André’s beer over and left again, leaving them to a conversation that felt slightly stilted and awkward. Dante wanted André to himself so he could ask what he’d wanted to since the man walked in.
Are you okay?
As Dante watched André sip his lager, a realization hit him. He must have unintentionally made some kind of sound because both Vincent and André were looking at him.
“Everything alright?” Vincent asked.
“Fine, fine.” Dante nodded, gripping his half-empty pint glass. “Just wondering if I remembered to turn off the coffee pot.” Fucking not at all fine.
Both men nodded at his ridiculous excuse and Dante slid a glance at André. Did his questioning gaze linger on him a little bit longer?
Why had it takenthisencounter to realize that he and André Dear had never had a real conversation? They’d met in a bar, over a year ago now, and had gone home together. Since then, their limited conversations had occurred on the way to sex or, more rarely, after it. In his defense, being undercover for years on different assignments for the DEA meant Dante wasn’t used to talking. Talking got a person in deep trouble.
No wonder André didn’t trust him. Dante wouldn’t trust himself either. Had he really thought that André would just fall into his arms? No, he hadn’t. But obviously, he was going to have to up his game. And while being LGBTQA+ in Cooper Springs didn’t seem to be an issue, was André even out?
A few patrons eyed their table and slowed as they passed by, obviously considering approaching Chief Dear. Dante shot them his best stink eye and they found something else of interest to focus on.
Vincent kept the conversation going by bringing up the weather—a legitimate topic considering a winter storm was in the forecast and folks were battening down the hatches. Dante made a mental note to get the ladder out of the garage and check the gutters. Even if he wanted André to himself, he was glad Vincent had invited him for a beer. After years undercover and his general upbringing, it was always hard to make real friends.
Dante had almost finished his drink when Dani texted that she was ready to go home. Throwing back the last sip, he set the pint glass back down on the table.
“I’ve got to go, Uncle Duty calls.”
And more importantly, he needed some quiet space to figure out exactly what his plan was when it came to André Dear.
NINE
André
“Thank you, Chief, for not fighting me on this.”
“We need all the help we can get, Mayor Moore. I’m not ashamed to admit it.”
Mayor Roslyn Moore pressed her lips together in a grim line and met his gaze. They both knew a capital-S shitstorm was about to hit Cooper Springs.
So far, the story about the newest remains had only been picked up by a local blogger, but soon enough, state and national news would be crawling all over like flies on crap. The local gossips would be fighting to line up at the vans and share their versions of something they knew absolutely nothing about. André wanted to put them all under house arrest. But he couldn’t.
Dammit.
Regardless, he exited the mayor’s office a tad bemused but also ever so slightly more hopeful than he had been before he’d gone in. Maybe they’d solve this case. When he’d met Roslyn Moore during his interview, she’d seemed efficient and dedicated to the job she was elected for—running Cooper Springs. He was glad his impression wasn’t wrong. Moore was in her sixties, but there were no signs she was slowing down, and now she’d come up with resources that brought them even closer to discovering who the remains belonged to.
This afternoon André had learned that her son, Ethan Moore, was a top forensic anthropologist connected to West Coast Forensics. WCF was well-known, well-respected, and privately owned by ex-LEOs. André had met one of the owners, Kimball Frye, at a conference once and been impressed by his professional knowledge.
Now Ethan Moore was on his way to town to help with the investigation into the remains Nick Waugh and Martin Purdy had found. André hoped that, even if they were never able to catch the person or people who’d buried at least two people up on the mountain and possibly more, the remains might at least be identified. Then maybe there would be closure for family and friends waiting to hear from a loved one. In André’s opinion, it was never too late to learn the truth.
André paused in the empty lobby to stare at the etched-glass door in disgust. To no one, he said, “Damn glad I drove. Cats and dogs have nothing on this.” It was January, but did it have to be quite so miserable? Quite so wet? He didn’t remember Portland being this bad.
