Page 13 of The Murder Between Us
After the pilot spoke, the flight attendants bustled through the cabin, collecting the empty coffee cups and waking the morning nappers to pull up their seats and stow their tray tables. The first flight out of D.C. was always a healthy mix between the people trying to get another three hours of sleep and those who were already overcaffeinated by 5 a.m. and who spent the three hours in the air trying to be the passenger who typed the absolute most on their laptop. Snores and keystrokes, an endless duet.
Cole passed his coffee cup to the flight attendant and tried to smile. He failed. Damn it, this was hardly the first time he’d been rejected. Why was he still upset about it days later?
Well, this was the last time he was going to think about Noah or what might have been, or imagine the night—nights—they could have had. Damn midwestern men. Damn Noah. Would it have been so hard to text him, say thanks but no thanks? That was the polite thing to do. Maybe Noah was secretly an asshole. Or not so secretly.
No more. He was done. He was done with Noah.
He shuffled off the plane with the rest of the early morning crowd, thanking the flight attendant and the pilot and ignoring the not-so-subtle eye fuck from the gay flight attendant in the first-class cabin. He wasn’t in the mood for a bathroom quickie. Besides, he was being picked up. No car on this TDY. Which was fine. He could be chauffeured around and pocket the per diem instead of renting a car he really didn’t need. Last year, he’d made more in per diem and temporary duty overtime than his base salary.
If he’d had a reason to rent a car, like driving out to see someone…
Enough. You’re done.
He thumbed through his phone, checking emails as he headed for the arrival hall. He had his carry-on and his laptop bag, and that was it. He’d learned to travel light. Whatever he needed, he could buy, wherever he ended up.
When he looked up, he spotted a mountain of a man holding a small white sign that read “Dr. Kennedy.” He waved.
The giant—easily six foot seven, two hundred and eighty pounds of solid, thick muscle—held out his massive paw. Cole’s hand was lost in his grip as he shook, surprisingly gentle. “Dr. Kennedy? Special Agent Jacob Moore.” Jacob’s voice was exactly as deep as Cole expected, like an organ rumbling in some register that was almost indefinable. He felt his voice in his bones.
Jacob’s face seemed like it was carved from clay, but by a child, with his features slightly offset and mismatched. His nose had clearly been broken one too many times, but by whom, Cole was almost scared to ask. “Nice to meet you, Agent Moore.”
Jacob waited. One eyebrow quirked up. “Isn’t this when you make the joke about me being corn fed, or ask what’s in the water here in Iowa?”
“Takes a lot more than corn to have a body like that, and if there’s anything in the water in Iowa, it better comply with the EPA.” Cole grinned. “I’m sure you’ve heard all the old jokes a million times by now.”
Jacob smiled. His whole face lit up, giving his vaguely Cro-Magnon visage a sunny, almost boyish expression. “Maybe you can hit me with a new joke, then. Something I haven’t heard. “
“If I tried to hit you, I’d hurt myself.”
Jacob kept smiling. He held out his hand for Cole’s suitcase, but instead of wheeling it, he held it in one hand as if it were a purse. “Everyone’s expecting you. I’ll swing you by your hotel, and then we’ll head to the office. Unless you need to make a pit stop?”
“I’ve been fed and watered on the flight. I’m good to go.”
Jacob chuckled again as he led Cole out of the airport and to the black SUV parked at the curb. Jacob waved to the deputy as he stowed Cole’s bag.
The hotel the local office had put him in wasn’t the worst, but it was a far cry from what Cole would have picked. Then again, he operated on a different budget, thanks to all that TDY pay he pocketed. The room was clean and comfortable, the bathroom serviceable. He dropped his carry-on and grabbed a soda from the lobby, and then they were off.
In the car, Cole pulled out his ID badge and slipped it on. Des Moines wasn’t his office, but he’d still need to badge in and out. Jacob’s gaze caught on his lanyard, and he did a double take as he looked Cole up and down. “Are you gay?”
Cole ran his hand down the rainbow lanyard that held his FBI ID and badge. “Yep.” Jacob’s badge was shoved in the center console, the lanyard faded but still sporting the logo of the Denver Broncos. “You a Broncos fan?”
Jacob sighed, the defeated, agonized sigh of a weary fan. “I am, even when they make it hurt.” He looked at Cole as he pulled to a stop at a red light. “You? Who’s your team?”
“Chargers.”
Jacob squawked. He smashed the door lock, unlocking the car, and pointed at the curb. “Out.”
“The Chargers are having a great season. Did you see their win yesterday?”
“Of course I did,” Jacob grumbled. “Considering they destroyed my Broncos.”
“Man, Herbert’s having a good season, isn’t he?” Cole rattled off the young quarterback’s stats, shaking his head as he whistled.
Jacob glared. “Are you really a Chargers fan?”
“Honestly, more of a 49ers fan, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”
Laughing, Jacob turned into the parking lot of a nondescript business park, three stories of concrete and dark glass and the obligatory pond with a fountain by the front door. “We’re on the third floor.”
