Page 4 of Flashes

Perry swung that direction. “You could what?”

The sunshine jumped, blinked in confusion, laughed. His eyes were blue, the most blue Perry’d ever seen anywhere, lakes or skies or oceans. The grey of his vest, the white of his shirt, only made the hue brighter: a simple expensive setting for twin sapphires. “Oh, I just meant this would be marvelous for that—it would look like a fall, those steps are so treacherous—and perfect for a getaway, nobody’d ever be able to follow—”

Perry took a step closer. Let his long coat swing open. Watched the young man notice the gun. “Got any plans I should know about?”

“Ah.” Those gemstone eyes evaluated the revolver, came back up to Perry’s face. “I suspect we’ve managed to start off on some sort of wrong foot, haven’t we.”

“Don’t think we’ve started anything as of yet. Why’re you planning to murder someone?”

“Why do you have a gun? Are you planning to murder someone? Right here? Now?”

“Not unless you annoy me enough.” For some reason this made the young man grin at him. Impudent. Irritating. Perry scowled. He’d been told he had a good scowl. Darkly intimidating. Lantern-jawed. Effective. “Deputy U.S. Marshal Peregrin Gardner.”

“Oh, well, then I positively shouldn’t’ve been talking about murder.” The bit of sunshine smiled more. Perry did not want to find him gorgeous, and did, and reminded himself that criminals could be extremely charming. Attractive. Blue-eyed and winsome, even.

Criminals might also stay in one of the Bell Court’s most luxurious top floor suites and dress in silk shirts and stroll out the door onto the rooftop walk as if they owned the place. It was possible.

The young man put out a hand. “Patrick Ellery. Though you might know the name P.R. Ellery, possibly.”

Perry stared at him. “P.R. Ellery.”

“Yes?”

“The crime novelist P.R. Ellery.”

“If you might’ve been wondering why I was plotting a murder on the stairs.”

“You’re too young to be P.R. Ellery.” Who’d authored multiple novels, had at least one of those newfangled moving pictures just come out based on the aforementioned novels, and wrote breathless bestselling words about thieves and conspiracies and secret societies and underworld gangsters.

They weren’t terrible. Perry had read one. Out of curiosity. Okay, two. Maybe three. He had some thoughts about the depiction of double agents in The Nine Curses of Night. Unrealistic, for one. He’d had to find a copy of the sequel just to be annoyed at it.

“Thank you very much, Marshal, I’m twenty-seven years old as of yesterday, and I wrote The Secret Serpent when I was nineteen, so it’s been a busy eight years.” Those big blue eyes were positively laughing. His voice was warm, too. California native, Perry guessed, born amid sun and sand and Tinseltown dreams. “How old are you?”

“Older than that. Being a writer doesn’t make you not a suspect.”

“If I was planning a crime, would I tell you about it in advance? Also, are you looking for a suspect? Can I help?”

Perry grumbled, “No,” and folded his arms. Shifted weight. Leg objecting, after today’s extensive patrolling around. Aches in his hip, his thigh, above his knee. Three impacts, that’d been. He wasn’t in his twenties anymore, unlike his rooftop companion. Not by a good four years.

He threw in, “And yes, you might tell me. To divert suspicion. And also still no to the rest.”

“No you’re not looking for anyone in particular, or no I can’t help?”

“Both. Go back inside and write something, then.”

“Why, are you planning to watch? To prove that I’m a writer? Also, you can call me Patrick if you want.” Patrick paused. Looked Perry up and down once more. Lingering. The sort of look that held an invitation, if a man wanted to read it so. A suggestion, an appreciation. Not subtle, either. “I don’t mind if you do want to watch.”

Perry’s skin felt hot. Shivers. Awareness. He did not tend to be obvious about his own wants—he could find ways, places, an old friend or two he knew could keep a secret—and he did not, as a rule, have gorgeous young men looking at him, alone on a wind-whipped rooftop near a perilous view, and smiling like that.

So blatant. So unashamed. Hell.

He managed, “Thought novelists didn’t like people looking over their shoulders.”

“Oh, I can write anywhere. I always did, growing up.” Patrick had ended up closer to him. Leaning back, a sinuous lounge against the railing. Casual, luscious, consequently dangerous. “My father owned a hotel—a nice one, too, a lot like this—and I grew up around the guests, the staff, everybody who came and went. I’d sit around and watch people and make up stories.”

“Don’t lean back like that. Why’re you here? Thinking about murder on a staircase? With the Senator’s visit tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to fall. I’m here because yesterday was my birthday, I wanted to get away and write for a while, and I like fancy hotels.” Patrick did a little head tip at him. Golden hair tumbled. “There’s a senator visiting? And, does your leg hurt? Honestly, seriously, not me trying to seduce you, would you like to come in and sit down? I’ve got coffee, tea, some decent whiskey that I shouldn’t admit to having…”

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