The faintly terse note—the implication of official censure on discussion—worked well enough. The florist muttered an abashed apology and took Jacob’s order.
“And where do you want the flowers sent?”
Jacob gave her Clayton’s address, told her to bill the office, and hung up while she was distracted by the phones going behind her. He clicked the screen off, looked down at Fozzy, and gave him a poke in the side to make him grunt and open his eyes.
“Not that you seem worried,” he said. “But let’s get you walked and back to your owner before I go to grab myself some brunch.”
THE CHEAPcanvas lead stretched taut from Jacob’s fist to the catch on the dog’s collar—notquitelong enough for Fozzy to reach the scattered pastry crumbs.
“She said she doesn’t want him back,” the barista said apologetically as she flicked the drooping crest of her mohawk back from her face. “He wasn’t even her dog, but when she broke up with her boyfriend andhewanted the dog….” She let her shrug convey every single bad decision ever made during a breakup.
Jacob gave up on trying to reel Fozzy back in and let go of the lead. The dog disappeared under the table and licked noisily at the ground.
“Well, she can’t palm him off on me,” Jacob said. “Just give him back to her when she comes in.”
“She quit,” the barista said. She held up her hands before Jacob could say anything. He could see letters tattooed on the crease of her palms. “I’ve got a parrot. He hates dogs.”
“So do I,” Jacob said. “Look, just give him to whoever wants a free dog.”
“I can’t keep him here,” she protested. Over her head the menu—artistically chalked on an old-school chalkboard—advertised chai, vitamin water, and Chinese lily tea alongside the lattes and Earl Grey. Gluten-free scones and triple white-chocolate macaroons were the sole confectionary on offer. “Dogs aren’t allowed. I’ll have to get someone to take him to the pound.”
Jacob shrugged. “At least he’ll get four hots and a cot,” he said. “I don’t want a dog.”
He ignored the barista’s distressed look, left the coffee shop, and let the door slam behind him to make the bells jingle. He got halfway down the street before the hook in his atrophied conscience found something to sink into.
How was he going to explain it to Simon? He’d probably had a dog when he was a kid, and Jacob could imagine the expression of chilly disappointment on his face when Jacob explained Fozzy’s fate. He’d probably go and find the damn thing and adopt it out from under the needle.
Jacob stalked back to the coffee shop. The bells jangled their warning of return and made the barista look up from behind the counter. Relief hit her face, and she quickly made a brusque excuse to whomever she was talking to and hung up.
“Oh, God. Thank you,” she said. “I was going to try to get someone to take him, but dogs need space, you know? Youhavechanged your mind?”
It was a dog. It was Christmas. Either his nephew or Simon’s niece could get a puppy from Santa this year.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll have a chocolate orange latte to go… and the dog.”
She spooled in Fozzy from behind the counter and wrapped the leash around her hands until he waddled out, dripping water from his beard.
“Coffee’s on the house.” She grinned at him as she held out the lead. “Thanks. I’d have felt like shit if anything happened to him. He’s a nice dog.”
He took the dogandthe coffee to go.
THE WAITERat the Iron Cactus was tall, young, and either gay, bi, or vain enough that he’d take flirting where he could find it. It helped that he was agog at the opportunity to be involved, however peripherally, in a murder investigation.
Dark hair flopped in Andy’s face as he leaned over to look at the image Jacob flashed on his phone. Harry Clayton stared seriously out of the screen through the heavy black-framed glasses he’d worn before he went for contacts. It was from a Google search, but it looked enough like an official ID to pass.
“That’s him,” the waiter said as he tapped the screen with a finger. Chipped black nail polish retreated toward his cuticles. He glanced up and gave Jacob a sliding, conspiratorial grin. “I’m a computer sci major, so when I recognized his name, I made sure I was working that night. Thought we might get talking.”
“Did you?” Jacob asked. He angled the phone so it looked like he was recording the conversation. Andy believed he was being interviewed by a reporter from the San AntonioExpress-Newsabout the recent tragedy. Jacob had considered cop, but that needed a bit more prep time. People were more forthcoming with police—even when they were lying—but too many police shows meant they wanted badge flashes and business cards. And saying you were a cop was an actual crime.
Andy pouted and shrugged. “He wasnotinterested in small talk,” he said as he straightened up. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Not with me anyhow.”
“Hard to imagine,” Jacob said, eyes flicking appreciatively to Andy’s arms. It was a fairly safe area. Even if Andy wasn’t gay, most guys didn’t mind if you checked out their muscles. It was when you slid lower that the homophobia started to creep in. They were nice arms too, although not as nice as some. Back to the topic at hand. “He’d booked a cruise, hadn’t he? Was it for a work party or…?”
“No. I mean, she was in the business. They were talking location-tracking algorithms when they came in. But it was a date, y’know? She was wearing a ‘look at my boobs’ dress. Clayton was flashing his Silk card around like we might have missed it.”
“First date?”
“Naw,” Andy said immediately. “She was in flats. With that dress? She knew he was short, and twitchy about it. That’s at least a couple of dates in, and I actually had the feeling it was a special occasion or something? An anniversary maybe?”
