Page 22 of The Evening Wolves

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Shaw said.

“Jesus, Gramps,” North said breathily as he continued grappling with Shaw. “Excited much?”

“Did you notice how he didn’t even miss a beat?”

“I could hear his ancient boner creaking to full mast all the way over here.”

“It must be really loud then because ever since the ravages of time robbed you of your hearing—” Shaw cut off with a squeal as North attempted to twist his balls off. The thick padding of the snowsuit was the only thing that saved him.

“I’m not making anyone a uniform except Theo,” Jem said. “Because everybody’s mean to us.”

“You’re not making any uniforms,” Emery said. “You’re coming with me because—and I honestly cannot believe I’m about to say this—I need you.”

5

It was past midnight, and the night had a frozen-solid quality, as though the darkness and the cold were something tangible—all razor edges that caught in Emery’s throat every time he took a breath. The Wahredua police station hunkered under the wash of sodium lights. The orangish glow seeped across the snow, an island of dirty light in the gloom. Nothing moved inside the redbrick building, as far as Emery could tell—nothing had moved in the last hour. The windows were dark except for the emergency lights. There were a handful of cars in the parking lot, but he didn’t recognize any of them. Someone would be on dispatch. A handful of other officers would be on the night shift, out patrolling or handling the calls that inevitably came in—domestic violence, noise complaints, shoplifting, vandalism. Emery guessed, though, it would be quiet. The worst nights were in the spring.

“How many people are in there?” Jem asked.

“I don’t know. Fewer than five, I expect. But if we’re lucky, only one—whoever is on dispatch.”

“One?” Jem sounded faintly disappointed. He scratched under one arm, pulling at the Pizza Hut polo.

“Would you prefer more?”

“Well, no, but—I mean, on TV, there’s always a million people there day and night, and they’re always shouting at each other, and the fax machine is screeching, oh, and Sipowicz says, ‘Put him in the tank.’”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jem’s grin flashed in the darkness. “I know. I actually love that about you. You don’t even care, do you?”

“Not particularly.”

“That’s so friggin’ dope. Tean’s the exact same way. He kept asking who the flight attendant on TV was, and I honestly didn’t have the heart to tell him it was Taylor Swift.”

“Who?”

Jem dropped back against the seat, shaking his head. “I can’t. I’m dead. Not two of you.” He sat up so abruptly that Emery glanced around to see what had alerted him, but all Jem said was “Wait, have you seen Buffy?”

“I was a gay boy growing up in the ’90s,” Emery said with disgust. “Have I seen Buffy?”

“Ok, you can’t tell Tean, but I’m pretty sure we need to kiss now.”

“Sure, we can do that. And then I’ll murder you, and I’ll have to spend the rest of the night hiding your body.”

“Or I could do, um, my thing. I guess.”

“Sure,” Emery said again. “How about we do that?”

Jem climbed out of the Odyssey and jogged around the block.

It was partially his own fault, Emery thought, for playing along. But, in his own defense, he probably wouldn’t have known who Taylor Swift was if not for John and Colt.

Emery counted to sixty. Then he got out of the minivan, checked the lot once more, and loped toward the station. He was halfway there when Jem came around the corner in his rental, a silver Malibu with Florida plates. Emery let Jem’s approach register only peripherally; he kept his focus on the building in front of him.

Breaking into the station was perhaps not, Emery had to admit, his best idea. Although he wouldn’t have gone as far as John, who, when they had discussed it again in their bedroom, had called it the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. There were logistical challenges, of course, even though Emery had less confidence in the station’s security than his husband. And there was always the possibility that Emery would be arrested for trespassing. But the reality was that they had little time and few options, none of them good. Someone had framed John using his work computer, and at the very least, Emery had to see if he could turn anything up. The alternative would have been more of what he’d been doing for the last few months—chasing old leads that took him nowhere, finding himself in one blind alley after another.

The silver Malibu rolled down the street. Then, as Jem approached the station, it began to drift toward the shoulder. The car jerked, as though Jem had caught himself drifting and overcorrected, and brake lights flashed. Predictably, the Malibu fishtailed, the rear end swinging out as the sedan slid into the thick snow at the side of the road. Jem spun the wheels for good effect, throwing up snow until the tires were sliding on ice. He turned on the hazards and got out of the car, and in the process, he even got himself tangled in the seat belt. It was, Emery had to admit, a masterful performance. He also decided he would have to keep a closer eye on any interaction Jem had with his son.

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