The lack of enthusiasm was deflating. When Cloister retrieved the memory that had been itching at him, he was sure it meant something. Maybe he’d been wrong. Except in his gut, he didn’t believe that. It had been years since he read Birdie Utkin’s file, but there was a reason the Hartley case reminded him of it.
“They never found Birdie,” he said.
“That’s sad,” Javi said. “It doesn’t mean it’s anything to do with this case.”
He paused expectantly, as though he were waiting for Cloister to say something else. There was probably an argument to be made that would at least get Javi to look at the cold case. Cloister couldn’t put it into words, though. He just knew there was something linking Birdie Utkin and Drew Hartley beyond the fact that they were both gone.
“Fine,” he rasped. A snap of his fingers brought Bourneville to her feet. She yawned to show off sharp white teeth and left a smudge of black fluff on the coarse carpet. “I shouldn’t have wasted your time, Agent Merlo.”
He took a step toward the door.
“Wait,” Javi said. He sounded irritated… or frustrated. “You’re jumping to conclusions, Deputy Witte. I’m not saying there’s no connection between the cases, but you’re the one with the hunch. Convince me.”
Cloister didn’t want to. His hunches were usually to do with whether to take upstream or down during a manhunt, and he never had to justify them. Then he heard the distinctive sound of a metal cap being screwed off a glass bottle.
“Have a drink,” Javi offered as Cloister turned around. He pulled two cloudy glass tumblers from a drawer, tilted the bottle over them, and filled each two-thirds up. “Convince me.”
It wasn’t the whiskey that convinced him to stay. For once it wasn’t even the thought of that poor lost kid. Cloister stayed for the dark look in Javi’s eyes and the smug smile on his mouth when Cloister took the glass. He stayed because he was a glutton for punishment.
“To Saul,” Javi said as he tapped the base of his glass against Cloister’s. Whiskey sloshed against the curved sides of the tumblers, and they gave the flat clink of cheap glass. When Cloister looked askance at the toast, Javi shrugged and lifted the drink to his lips. “His bottle.”
They both tossed the whiskey back.
It burned like straight white spirits and had an aftertaste that mixed pine car freshener and sour honey. Cloister held it in his mouth for a second, desperately not wanting to give offense, but then he spat it back into the glass. The taste of it lingered in his mouth and throat like a film of grease.
“That’s—”
“Rank.” Javi grimaced around the taste. He scrubbed his hand over his mouth. “New plan. Go somewhere with good whiskey, and you can convince me.”
IT TURNEDout that “somewhere with good whiskey” was the red-brick and plate-glass loft Javi was renting nearby. One wall had been completely replaced with glass, giving a ridiculously good view over the derelict factories and freshly renovated boutiques that filled the neighborhood.
Cloister sat in one of the elegant leather chairs, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, and sipped his glass of whiskey. It was smooth, with a hard, smoky bite, and definitely better than the paint stripper Agent Saul Lee kept hidden in his desk drawer.
Under the blurry comfort of whiskey, guilt gnawed persistently at the pit of Cloister’s stomach. A little boy was lost, and what was he doing? Drinking whiskey and, he kinda suspected, being seduced. His conscience would make him pay later, but for the moment, he dulled it with another drink of whiskey. Sometimes you just had to find a way to live with living.
“So you’re drinking the whiskey,” Javi said as he walked out of the bedroom. He glanced to where Bourneville was snoozing on a tossed-down towel, curled up in a fuzzy black comma. “And your dog has made itself at home. Are you ever going to get around to trying to convince me, or not?”
The suit was gone. Javi had changed into loose black sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. His feet were bare, and his hair was damp and starting to curl around his ears. It should have looked like he’d loosened up, but he still managed to look intimidatingly severe.
And fucking hot.
Cloister shifted in the chair, and his balls tightened with the reminder that it had been a while since he’d… anything. An insomniac with issues could burn a lot of bridges in a short space of time. The slow-building interest ofthoughtsharpened tohopedhe was getting seduced.
It would probably help if he answered the question instead of sitting there like an idiot. He shifted in the chair to ease the tug of denim across his cock.
“I’ve got a name and a gut feeling,” Cloister said. “Not sure how to sell that to you.”
Javi walked over and leaned against the window, long, lean, and silhouetted against the night sky. He lifted the tumbler to his mouth and took a slow sip.
“You make it relevant to my interests,” he said. “You explain how doing what you want gets me something I need.”
“Like what.”
Javi considered him over the rim of the glass for a second. His gaze lingered on Cloister’s thighs and then the width of his shoulders. Then he shrugged and tilted his head back against the glass and drained the last of his whiskey. “That’s what you have to work out.”
Javi pushed himself off the window to get a refill. He lifted the bottle and tilted it toward Cloister in mute question. There was only tinted water left in Cloister’s glass, but he shook his head and nursed the dregs.
“It’s enough to merit a look,” he said. “Just pull the case file from storage and have a look. What do you have to lose?”
