Javi got out of the car, and the kids stopped what they were doing. They side-eyed him in his suit and then ran away before he could ask them anything.
Helpful as always. He tipped his shades down his nose and checked the address Frome had given him.
Lot 275. Old silver Airstream. Can’t miss it.
That was true enough. Javi looked up, and his eyes fell on the big silver pill parked at the far corner of the park, right next to the drop down to the beach. It was dented with pockmarks along the front and had a white plastic fence that marked off a patchy square of garden. Javi tucked his phone in his pocket, headed across the rutted lot, and tried to ignore the sweat as it ran down the back of his neck and the wind as it scraped his skin.
Up close, the trailer was spotlessly clean and echoed oddly when Javi climbed the dimpled steel steps and rapped on the door. No answer. Not even from the dog. Javi went to step back and caught himself before he tripped down the narrow stairs as his heel caught on the edge of the step. He probably should have called first. It just seemed easier not to.
And maybe he wanted to see Witte again, a sly little voice in the back of his head jabbed. Just to remind himself how irritating Witte was, of course. The voice sounded an awful lot like him when he was being clever in interrogations. Javi could see why it bugged people.
He fished his phone and the square of notepaper out of his pocket and pulled up the messages app to text Cloister. Halfway throughcall the office, a rough voice, pitched to carry, interrupted him.
“Slumming it, Special Agent?”
Javi turned around and saw Witte making his way up the stairs from the beach.
A pair of faded jersey shorts hung low around his hips, and he’d slung a wrung-out T-shirt around his neck. He was tanned the color of whiskey, and his hair was wet and honey streaked, dripping onto his shoulders. Ink scrawled up over his ribs, but the pattern was shattered by a burst of pale white scar tissue.
Javi’s mouth went dry.Sothat’swhat a bad decision looks like in the flesh.“Any news about the kid?” Witte asked as he stopped at the top of the steps. He pulled the T-shirt from over his shoulder and wiped his face on it. The dog shoved between his knees and sat down on his feet, tongue lolling out over sharp white teeth as it panted.
“Not yet,” Javi said. He lifted his hand to block the sun and squinted. “Can we talk inside?”
Witte stared at him for a second with his eyes narrowed. Then he shrugged and waved his hand at the trailer. “Sure. Let yourself in. Door’s not locked.”
Javi nudged the door open, stepped over the threshold, and ducked his head to avoid the frame. The trailer smelled better than he expected, and every surface was scrupulously clean and uncluttered. Not his idea of a living space, but he supposed it could be worse.
“We were the first two at the scene last night,” Javi said. He glanced around as he moved out of the way of the door. There was a scuffed-up MacBook on the kitchen table and a stack of books lined up along the window. An empty pot was shoved into the corner of the counter next to the microwave—the smoking gun of plant ownership for cops. He turned around to face the door as Witte hunched through it. “We’re coming up empty-handed at the moment, so I thought reviewing the initial search might help.”
“Sure,” Witte said. He scratched his shoulder absently as he shrugged. “Just let me clean up a bit. Bon Bon, stay.”
The crack of command curled under Javi’s balls and squeezed, making him bite the inside of his cheek in irritation. Witte wasn’t histype. Javi liked smart, well-read, academic types—elegant hands and easily led. Not six feet of brooding, blond, aggressively straight California redneck who looked like he cut his own hair.
Witte wasn’t pretty. He wasn’t evenhandsome. With that jacked nose and the harsh Dust-Bowl Germanic lines of his face, he was barely holding on to rugged with his fingertips.
So whatever it was about Witte that got under Javi’s skin, itwasn’tattraction.
Which was good, since Witte had ducked into the trailer’s cubicle bathroom and apparently didn’t believe in closing doors all the way. There was just enough space to catch movement, bare lines of hip, and the wet slap of a washcloth. But that wasn’t the point. Voyeurs didn’t peep because they wanted to see a naked person. It was the illusion of intimacy….
And, Javi reminded himself as he looked away, the only thing he wantedlessthan a trailer-park deputy was actual intimacy. He sat down at the booth-style kitchen table and realized that, while he hadnotbeen watching Witte, the dog had been watching him. It sat with its tail tucked around its feet and stared.
Javi looked away—he was sure he’d read somewhere that you shouldn’t make eye contact with dogs—and found his attention back on that distracting gap of door.
“Was there anything you saw up at the Retreatthe other night that seemed out of place?” he asked. The reminder of why he wasactuallythere made guilt pinch. There was a child missing, his friend’s family was under suspicion, and he was distracted by muscles and a tight ass. Irritation sharpened his voice. “Something you missed or left out of your report?”
Witte jabbed the bathroom door open with his elbow and stepped out, absently clutching a hand towel at his hip. He’d washed off most of the sweat, but sand still clung to his shoulders and knees. A scowl hinted around the corners of his mouth, making his eyes narrow.
“Are we trading notes, or am I defending my work?” he asked.
“Do you have something to hide?” Javi asked.
He regretted the words the minute they were out, but that was always too late. Witte had made him uncomfortable, and there was an unhappy little gremlin at the controls in his brain that wouldn’t settle until he returned the favor.
They missed the mark this time. Witte just shrugged.
“Course I do,” he said. “That’s why we have union reps. Do I need mine?”
“No,” Javi said. “You need pants but not a rep. Sorry. I’m tired. No one to send me home.”
