Touching Evil (6 page)

"Well, if there is, then you shouldn't find it alone, doofball. Tell me where you are. I promise not to turn the siren on."

Stubborn, fool man.

"Oh, God. No sirens. I'm at the corner of Atlantic and Sego."
Christ, Greg'd been moving. "It's really getting to be autumn, isn't
it?"

"It is. Gonna get crisp soon." Burning a u-ie, Artie doubled back on
himself, flipping off the SUV that tried to cut him off. He'd catch up.
And he needed to keep Greg talking. "So what are you following?"

"A tickle. An itch. I feel like an ant. Did you know they can find
chemical trails that have been tracked over? I mean, if I thought I
wouldn't lose it, I'd take off my shoes and stand here, but there's
just too much traffic. You should come down here and eat, though. There
are some neat looking places."

"I'm coming. We can get something, maybe." Not that Greg would eat
in. They'd have to get take out, and then only after he'd checked out
the containers. "Look, stay put, okay? No more wandering. Tell me why
you headed that way."

"I took out the trash. I lifted the lid and he was on it. All over
it like a stain, I could smell him. I needed to walk. I kept going back
out there and finally got my jacket."

"The trash? Did you get anything from the lid? Even a little?" Damn
traffic lights. Come on, come on. His gut was just churning. He needed
to call Leah. Get Forensics to Greg's.

"Just his hands. The last girl hurt his hand. Bit him. It's got bacteria in it now."

Serve the bastard right if he rotted away. "From your trash? What is he doing in your trash, Greg?"

"I don't know. Looking? Daring me? What's in my trash?" Greg sighed,
and Artie could almost see him rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Your life. What you eat. Where you shop. Receipts." Fuck, any cop
worth his salt knew what kind of evidence you could find in the trash.
"Your head hurt?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Throbbing like a bitch. I need a cup of coffee in the worst way."

"Figured. You sound tired." He always asked, then distracted. Then
asked some more. Greg could only do so much at a time. Nothing had ever
scared him more than when Greg had lost it on him, eyes rolling up
while that long body convulsed. Fuck. He'd honestly believed the man
would stroke out. "I bet we can get you one of those really strong
espressos with that milk stuff."

"Oh, yes. Caffeine is proof there is a benevolent deity and it
adores us. What do you want for supper? I could go in somewhere and
order. To go."

He thought about what Greg would like, would find comforting. "Hey,
how about some kind of fried chicken. Maybe some mac and cheese.
Something plebian. We can stop and get Krispy Kremes for dessert."

The hungry little groan he got made him laugh. Alice and Mitch and
their macrobiotic, all-organic, tofu-loving ways would have a cat.

Hey. That was an idea. He should give them Duke for a week. They'd
be eating grits with red-eye in no time. "Okay, I should be at your
cross street in about five minutes. Look for soul food. Oh, and I want
greens."

"And biscuits. We should have biscuits with it." The life was back
in that voice, the focus back on what it needed to be. "Did your mother
make good ones or hockey puck ones? My mother's were like neutron
stars."

"My mom made stuff you'd find in the bottom of a coal mine. But the
ones the lunch ladies made at the school cafeteria? Cheese biscuits,
man. Flaky cheddar heaven." Yeah, okay, parking, parking. Fuck. He
circled the block twice.

"Mmm ... I like honey-buttered ones. Sugar on fat on sugar—drippy enough to have to eat with a fork."

"Uhn. Fuck, yeah." There. Artie hauled the Camaro into a spot about
a block away from Greg and beat feet. He searched the streets for a
white pick-up.

Greg was standing, carefully not touching anything, hands under his
arms, just searching the street with huge, dark eyes. The man screamed
"mug me." "You're close. The car just stopped."

Then the earpiece was pulled free, phone disconnected as Greg caught sight of him. "Hey. You found me."

"I did." He always seemed to. "So where are we heading to order supper?"

Greg looked pale but composed, dark circles under his eyes, his mouth a little tense. But considering the evening crowd?

Not bad.

"Oscar's. Soul food. Quiet. Take out." Greg found a smile for him, the look apologetic. "I didn't find what I was looking for."

"That's okay. Sometimes you do, sometimes you don't." The urge to
touch Greg rode him hard, just to make sure ... Fuck it. He let his
fingers cup Greg's elbow. "You okay?"

He could feel Greg relax, lean into his hand. "Yes. I am. You didn't see his truck. and yes, I locked the doors before I left."

Lord. Sometimes he wondered what Greg would pick up from his head if
they had sex. Not that he thought about it. Late at night with his hand
on his dick and Duke locked in the bathroom. The best way to deflate a
stiffie was a Siamese cat letting you know he'd seen better.

He steered Greg toward the green and yellow neon sign that
proclaimed their target food, just shaking his head. The restaurant
smelled good—greasy and spicy and perfect. There were handfuls of
families, eating and laughing, kids giggling and bouncing in the
mismatched booths. Yeah. Perfect.

A round black lady grinned at them, grabbing menus. "Y'all want to sit?"

Artie grabbed a menu from her, smiling right back, working the charm
a little. Go him. "Can we order to go and sit and wait over here by the
door?"

"Sure, honey. Just holler when you're ready."

Greg smiled, nodded at her, let him take both menus. One episode in
a restaurant was one too many. That had been early on, before he'd
understood that Greg would let him push too hard, let him push too far.

They ordered chicken and ribs and beans and macaroni and biscuits
and yeah, even greens. They'd have leftovers tomorrow, which was good,
‘cause he'd taken a day off. "Ooh, pecan pie."

"Oh, yum. There's milk at the house to wash it down with, too." Greg
stepped closer as a rugrat barreled toward them, tripping on the loose
rug. Greg reached out, caught him instinctively, eyes going wide a
second. "Greens are not poison. He was lying. They're good."

The kid looked up, mouth open. Then he ran off hollering. "Moooommy!"

Artie cussed a little under his breath. "Sit, man. I'll stand and run interference."

"I'm sorry." Greg swallowed hard, moving back toward the chairs. He
caught a glimpse as Greg turned to look at the poster on the wall,
hands buried in the dark jacket.

"Why?" Shit. He pushed Greg a little, right over where he wasn't
touching anything but was out of the way. "You've had a rough couple of
days."

"Yes, but ordering take out should not be a traumatic experience. You'd think I could manage it without scaring small children."

"Greg, man. You're not scaring him." More like freaking him out. "So. You wanna hear what Leah and I got?"

That got him a look, a nod, the kid forgotten, just like that. Damned bloodhound. "You know I do. Anything solid?"

"We've got six runaways that fit your profile. Blonde, young enough,
yadda ya. Got uniforms doing door to doors." Beyond that? Bah humbug.

"Did you bring pictures? I didn't see much, but maybe I can help."
Maybe. Of course, that was better than a lot of people could offer.

"I have the file in my car. When we get you home." When Greg was in
a nice safe place, with his own shit around him. No way was he looking
any sooner. "Man, that smells good, huh?"

"It does. Like Sunday supper. It was a good idea, detective. Food we
can eat with our fingers." He got a full-blown smile, eyes just
twinkling. "Duke's gonna be pissed at you."

"I'll take him a thigh. He loves thighs." Duke might forgive him if
he did. And a little sliver of pecan pie. That cat had a fiendish sweet
tooth. "Anyway, he's happy as long as I leave the remote on the coffee
table."

Greg laughed, a real belly laugh that sort of filled up the place, Adam's apple just bobbing. "Game shows or infomercials?"

"Dog shows. On the animal channel. I think it makes him feel
superior." That was much, much better. Artie touched, just a bit, his
knuckles grazing Greg's hip.

"Oh, I can't blame him. It's not everyone that can say they own a
detective." He needed to take Greg over to visit Duke soon. The fucking
beast adored Greg with a singular passion. It was ... obscene. Duke
hadn't sat on anyone else's lap but Leah's husband's in five years.
Maybe Duke was gay.

Their number came up, and Artie went and paid, grabbing three big
bags of food. Hoo yeah. That smelled like heaven. "Thanks, honey. It's
gonna make a couple of really happy men."

He turned. "You ready, Greg?"

The heavy duty growl of Greg's stomach answered him before Greg's nod did. "I am starving and ready to just dig in."

"Cool." It would take them about ten minutes now that he knew where
the hell he was. The food would still be warm. "We got pie, so I'll go
get doughnuts tomorrow, yeah?"

"And I'll make coffee." Greg nodded, walked with him, steady as you please. "The good stuff."

"Anything is better than station coffee." The unspoken "except
yours" hung in the air as he walked Greg to the car, checking the
street carefully, just in case.

"Oh, you haven't tasted Mitch's new non-caffeinated faux-coffee."
Greg shuddered, face turning, looking, searching. "I think it's made
from desiccated earthworms."

"There you go. That's gross." The Camaro looked fine, cherry-red and
chrome shining in the streetlight, but he stopped Greg all the same and
checked it over. Just in case. Then he opened the door, letting Greg
brush against him a little. No one said he was a saint.

"Thank you. It is." Greg settled into the passenger's seat with a
sigh, slipping on some thin gloves—finger condoms he called them
when things weren't serious. "I'll hold the food."

"Cool. Here goes." That holding food on his lap and driving thing?
Not easy. They got out without anyone hitting them and headed for home
... Greg's place.

"Don't touch the trash can." Greg walked well around it, balancing
the food as those long legs took the back steps. The lid wasn't there,
the top bag intact. Goddamnit. He'd bet his bottom dollar that son of a
bitch had been here when Greg left. "Come on, Artie. Come in and eat.
Don't forget the pictures."

"I got it." Grabbing the folder, he wandered in after, checking the
danger spots. There was a shiny new lock on the back door. Thank God.

Greg handed him the food, unlocked the door. "I have new keys for you. Everything but the elevator. That's the same."

Just announce it out here in the open, professor. Christ.

"In, man. In." He wanted to get the fuck out of the alley. His neck
itched. And he wanted ribs, too. With sauce. The kind you had to wear a
bib to eat.

"Got it." There was nothing like the smell of Greg's
apartment—cinnamon and musk and eucalyptus and Greg. Damn. "Come
on in. I'll get plates."

"Be right there." He dialed the precinct, got the drive-bys to come
by more often, look for the white pickup. Then Artie got cups,
silverware, leaving the folder in the kitchen when they headed out to
sit at the table, not wanting it to ruin the meal. Oh, man. Biscuits.
Damn.

Greg provided butter, honey, a bottle of hot sauce for the greens.
Damn, it looked better than take-out, dished up and waiting on that
shiny table.

Artie groaned, flopping down and digging in to fill his plate. "God, it's been a long week."

Greg nodded, stealing a biscuit first, slathering it with butter and
honey. "The store had good sales this week, Alice said. People ramping
up for Halloween. Lots of books on love spells and hexes and voodoo
dolls."

"Lord, lord. It'll be crazy that night, huh?" All cops dreaded Halloween. "Agatha wanted me to take the kids trick-or-treating."

"You should bring them here. Alice has a whole thing
planned—kid-friendly and everything. They could rest in between
hunting candy." Greg dug into the macaroni with a happy sound. "Alice
and Mitch are dressing as Cupid and Psyche."

"That's ... terrifying." Mitch as Cupid. Well, they always showed
the little guy as kinda ... doughy. "Do you really want the twins?"

"I'm staying in the office, but I'd like to see them." Greg
shrugged, took some chicken, managing to lean over just in time not to
drip on the pure white sweater. "I'll be near the elevator in case I
get tired of the crush."

"It's a deal, then." His sister's kids were trying. But, hell, he
and Agatha had been that way. "Jeez, that macaroni is to die for. Put
that place on speed dial."

"The beans are up there, too. How're the greens?" Greg was leaning now, shoes off, relaxed. Better. Much better.

"Good. A judicious use of pork fat." Artie wiggled, settling his ass
in his chair. Much, much better. Maybe they could have a slow couple of
days.

Greg reached over, speared a bite from Artie's plate, and ate it. "Oh, not bad at all. I like."

Greg stole another bite, nodding.

He raised an eyebrow. "You got a thing against taking some for
yourself?" Not that he minded, and Greg knew it. He just had to tease.

"Yes, detective. Yours tastes better." Greg grinned, stole another bite.

"Yeah? I wonder if your biscuit is better than mine..." He nabbed a bite, humming at the butter and honey taste.

"Well, of course it is! It's the perfect balance of butter and honey
and bread." Greg looked almost affronted, except for the laughter in
the dark eyes. "Now yours?" A chunk of biscuit was stolen. "Lacks
enough butter. Too bready and cloying."

"Hey, it's a cholesterol bomb either way." He added some more hot
sauce to the greens, just for Greg. "The ribs, though. They're perfect."

Feeling damned daring, he tore a bit of meat off and held it out.