He started stroking Andi’s sides and thighs, his lover’s hands resting heavily on his knees, keeping the contact even though he was now fully immersed in their world. George’s old fear reared its ugly head. What if Andi decided to close the door in his face? What if he decided that staying in this house was better, easier, more peaceful than returning to George? But those were his fears, and they didn’t have a place here, not now, when Andi was warm and heavy in his arms, alive and connected to him.
Maybe one day he would slip through George’s fingers like dry sand in a desert. Maybe one day all his fears would come true. Maybe on that day, George might decide that darkness offered more peace than light. Maybe one day, Andi would master his geschenk completely. Maybe one day George would get shot during a case. So many maybes and only one absolute—here, now, in this hotel room—he was with the man he loved on more levels than he ever knew existed. And in the end, that was all that mattered.
Time went by in a trickle and a flood, the sun slowly reaching the end of her daily path, Andi slightly snoring on his chest, finally at peace, finally getting rest.
Of course, nothing that good could last forever, and the vibrations of George’s cell on the nightstand woke his lover half an hour later.
“Hnf.” For Andi, that was incredibly articulate after a nap.
George chuckled and reached for his cell. “We got an email from HappyCitizen26.”
That woke his partner up. Andi lifted his head from George’s chest. “Oh?”
“Yes. She says she’s home and we can call her anytime.”
“Should we get dressed?” Again, an astoundingly aware comment from Andi.
“T-shirts, perhaps. I’ll keep the camera angled toward our faces.”
They disentangled from each other, both putting on a T-shirt. George’s was a deep blue, while Andi’s was a washed-out green that did his skin color no favors. George had tried to get rid of this particular shirt only once and had met such fierce resistance from Andi that he’d since given up. Usually, Andi was indifferent when it came to his clothing, especially when George’s meddling didn’t cause any work for himself, but he claimed this T-shirt was the comfiest one he had ever owned, and so it had to stay. It was already thinning out around the shoulder seams, so George was positive its days were numbered. He could be patient.
Once they were both dressed, he called the FaceTime number HappyCitizen26 had sent them. George found it a little strange that she would trust them after just one email that could have easily been faked. He was also curious because of it. They were sitting on the bed again, Andi next to him, waiting for her to accept the call. It didn’t take long, and the face of a kind-looking elderly lady filled the screen. Wrinkles around her eyes and mouth told of somebody who liked to laugh, and a determined gleam in her hazel eyes explained why she had agreed to this personal contact. Without knowing her, George could tell this was a woman who suffered no fools. Living with his mother had taught him to recognize women with a spine of steel at first glance. Failing to do so could reap catastrophic results. He cleared his throat.
“Good evening, Miss?—?”
“HappyCitizen26 until I have seen some ID,” she brusquely told him. “Also, I’m recording this so don’t even think of trying anything.”
Andi leaned to the side to get their wallets and badges from the nightstand. After holding them close to the camera so HappyCitizen26 could scrutinize them, she nodded. “Hello, I’m Mrs. Davert. How can I help the police?”
“Hello, Mrs. Davert. Thank you for speaking with us on such short notice and on a weekend. We’re currently looking into a possible crime and came across your blog. You wrote something about an incident on the way to Paradise Home for the Elderly?”
“Oh, yes. Line 6, absolute nightmare. The connecting buses are always out of sync because there are so many construction sites on this tour. An outrage, really, how the city seems to be incapable of adjusting to accommodate these planned road works.”
Before she could go on a rant because she was clearly gearing up, George interrupted her. “Line 6. You wrote something about the bus driver not letting a passenger on?”
“Yes, yes, grumpy toad, that woman. Stubborn as a mule.”
“Do you happen to remember her name? The bus driver’s? Or perhaps that of the passenger?”
“Hmm, let me see.” Mrs. Davert turned sideways, and they heard the clicking of a keyboard. It took her a few moments, then she looked at them. “The bus driver’s name was Isabelle Hopper. I know because I wrote down her number and asked a friend to get me her name. I wanted to give this rude asshole, pardon my French, a piece of my mind.”
“And did you?” George couldn’t help himself, but he needed to know.
“Oh, you bet I did. I wrote her a letter because I’m a lady and wouldn’t just show up on somebody’s doorstep to yell at them. It was a very pointed letter. I didn’t mince words.” Mrs. Davert looked like a woman who had had a mission and completed it successfully.
“Did anything come of it?” George would be surprised if that had been the case.
“No.” Mrs. Davert shook her head. “It was more about the principle of the thing. The letter was a way for me to let off steam so I could forget about the incident. It’s not that I don’t have a certain compassion for people working in public transportation. They’re overworked, underpaid, understaffed, and have to put up with a constant stream of often rude and impolite customers, not to mention the violent or drunken ones. I just don’t see why she should be so rude in turn to somebody who clearly hadn’t deserved it. That poor girl was in tears!”
“A girl? You don’t happen to remember her name?” George inquired.
“No, I never asked for it. You see, the entire bus was angry, and I had already endured several hours of public transportation. I soothed her as best as I could and thanked the heavens when we both got off at the stop in front of the retirement home. All I wanted was to get home.” She sounded slightly apologetic.
“It’s fine, Mrs. Davert. Was there anything else that stood out to you about the situation? Anybody on the bus who seemed more upset than the situation warranted?”
Mrs. Davert chuckled dryly. “It would be easier if you’d asked me if anybody on that bus was in any way joyful. That would have been noticeable. Cranky is the default setting for people using public transportation in this city. Cranky or indifferent. On that day, most were cranky and happy to have an outlet. I’m pretty sure for most of them, Isabelle Hopper’s rudeness was just an excuse to let off some steam.”
“You seem to have a deep insight into human nature.” George knew her words to be true. Public outrage was seldom about the topic it initially ignited over.
