Chapter Two
Pulling up at the top of the arc, Jamie let the ball fly, then sprinted beneath the basket, not doubting his aim for a second. Catching the ball as it fell through the net, he started back down the court—dribbling, spinning and juking this way and that.
Layup, swish, catch, sprint to the other end of the court.
Repeat.
He’d been at it a half hour already, his usual early morning workout in the deserted YMCA a few blocks from the office. Sweat trickled from the ends of his hair down his temples, his jaw and the center of his back beneath his jersey.
The physical exertion did nothing to silence Aidan’s words from last week.
Not his parting “Impress me” shot.
The one earlier...”for a jock.”
Days later, those words still stung.
Not that he wasn’t used to them. Or the stunned facial expression when someone realized he was more than just a pretty-boy baller. It usually occurred when he spoke in complex computer science terminology that was unintelligible to the idiot who’d two seconds ago thought themselves smarter than him. Those times, Jamie relished proving wrong the person who’d misjudged him. Last Wednesday, though, he’d opened his mouth and before thinking better of it, revealed more about his interest in his new partner than he should have. Nothing like being misjudged and shot down by the man he’d lusted after for three years.
How was he supposed to work with Aidan Talley?
Jamie had wanted Aidan since he’d first laid eyes on him. Blond hair that was always perfectly coiffed and expertly dyed, hiding, Jamie knew with one look at those eyes, fire beneath. A long, toned body capped by broad shoulders, showcasing the three-piece designer suits he seemed born to wear. Rough voice that concealed an Irish brogue Jamie heard hints of when Aidan and SAC Cruz thought no one was listening. The air of confidence and superior intellect that many deemed arrogance but was the very thing that turned Jamie on the most.
He’d kept his distance, though. Aidan had been a happily married man, judging by the open displays of affection between him and Gabe at office functions. Seeing them together had been painful. Not because Jamie wanted Aidan and couldn’t have him, nor because Aidan and his husband were a study in beautiful opposites. The one pale and freckled, six foot and lean-muscled; the other dark skinned with cropped black curls, black eyes and the hulking, ripped body of a former defensive tackle. No, it hurt because Jamie wanted to be that happy, without the national media making a headline out of it.
Who was he kidding? He’d killed that dream the day he’d committed to play for one of the most storied programs in all of college sports.
“You know,” came a rough, rumbling voice from the far end of the court, “watching you move like that—” Aidan leaned against the padded pole beneath the opposite basket, giving him the same poorly disguised once-over that had seared him before “—I’d never guess you’d suffered a career-ending injury.”
Comments and speculation like that were the very reason Jamie worked out in a nondescript gym, never played in office leagues, and rarely joined neighborhood pickup games. He’d long ago tired of answering the “why’d you quit?” question. He had his reasons. He’d never tire of the game, though. His first conscious memory was from his second birthday when his dad had put a miniature basketball in his hands. The game would always be his first love. It might have also cursed him so that it was his only.
“No comment,” he said, reciting the phrase he hated yet used more than any other.
Aidan raised his hands, gold and emerald cufflinks sparkling in the morning rays sneaking through the gym’s grimy windows. Yesterday’s three-piece pinstripe had been traded for a charcoal one, paired with a starched white shirt and tie the same light blue color as Jamie’s jersey. Only a shade or two off from the little blue bottle logo on the coffee cups Aidan held in his raised hands.
Saved from office sludge; thank God.
Trotting down the court, he took an easy shot from his natural two spot. The ball swished through the net and bounced at Aidan’s feet. The other man pushed off the pole, shuffled the ball between his shiny oxfords until he got a toe beneath it, and flicked it up into Jamie’s hands.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he said with a grin.
Jamie headed back down the court. “Add soccer to the list of Irish giveaways.”
“Plenty of Americans play football now.”
Jamie laughed, despite his efforts to play it cool. “Keep ’em coming.”
Layup, swish, catch.
Circling, he was surprised to see his partner sans jacket and vest, yanking his tie off over his head. “How’d the event at the ballpark go?” Aidan unclipped the clovers, set them on top of the folded jacket and vest on a bleacher, next to the coffees, and rolled up his sleeves.
“Great. The kids had a good time, and the players were very generous with their time.”
“You played baseball too growing up, right?”
Jamie nodded, words having escaped him at the sight of Aidan stepping onto the court in four-figure loafers, hands splayed in a wordless gesture for the ball.
Expertly handling a bounce pass, Aidan wove the ball between his legs, spun and drove down the lane for a picture-perfect layup. “That’s two. Leaving your man open.” Jamie shook off the surprise and caught a chest pass from Aidan, who ran past him toward the other end of the court. “You ever cross paths with MadBum?”
Were they really going to do this—play a pickup game—with him in his sweaty college uniform and Aidan in dress clothes? By the look of his partner—standing at the top of the opposite arc, arms outstretched, bouncing on his toes—they were.
Game on.
“He was a few years behind me.” Jamie dribbled and juked, testing Aidan’s defensive moves. “Only ran into him once. Playoffs my senior year.”
“He win?”
“Of course he won.” Jamie pulled up from the wing and sank a three-pointer.
“Nice shot.” Aidan gave him a grin that did odd things to Jamie’s stomach. Distracted, Aidan got the jump on him and flew down the court, laughing. “Too easy.”
Aidan was surprisingly good. Up and down the court, he played him close. Arms and hands reaching around to try and knock the ball loose, hips bumping, each contact sent an illicit thrill through Jamie. As if the sweat-soaked, see-through dress shirt and brogue-laced smack talk weren’t enough, Aidan made him work for every shot and kept the score close.
“Twenty-one,” Jamie said, half an hour later, after sailing the ball over Aidan’s head to sink the game-winning jumper.
“Well played, kid.” Aidan jogged beneath the basket and used his toe again to launch the ball into Jamie’s hands.
“You played point?” Fast in transition, quick on his feet, and sure of hand, Aidan’s skills and six-foot stature made point guard the obvious position.
“Woodside High Tigers,” Aidan answered, as they ambled over to the bleachers and collapsed on the bottom row. “Basketball in the winter, soccer year round. Wasn’t good enough to play either for Stanford, but I kept up both in intramural leagues.”
“You’re good.” Grabbing the bottle of water he’d left two rows up, Jamie drank half and offered the rest to Aidan. “I was surprised you kept it that close.”
Aidan drained the bottle. “You’re not the first six-and-a-half-footer I’ve played ball with.”
Jamie froze, recalling the first time he’d met Gabe Cruz, the rare case of someone taller than him. Caught up in the idea of working with Aidan, Jamie had lost all his manners and forgotten to express his condolences.
“Aidan, I’m—”
“It’s Monday,” he cut him off. “Give me your report.”
“Here? Now? I thought you wanted it in writing.”
“Not necessary. Tell me what you found.”
So much for the report he’d spent hours drafting. Shaking off the annoyance, Jamie grabbed his coffee and took a quick sip, failing to suppress a small moan of delight. Even cold, it was better than any other coffee in the City.
Something that looked an awful lot like heat flashed in Aidan’s eyes, but he cleared his throat before Jamie could get a better read on it. “Today would be good.”
Determined to prove he was more than a jock, Jamie launched into his debrief. He reported what he’d learned. That the missing car’s tire tracks and the dark paint on the red Tesla’s front right fender could only be from a late-model black Ford SUV; that shards of tinted glass mixed with shattered clear had led him to search traffic and ATM camera footage for a dark SUV with tinted windows in the surrounding area at the time of the accident; that he’d found the vehicle and scrubbed the images until he got a clear shot of the VIN and plates, discovering the former scraped off and the latter stolen; that by triangulating and sequencing footage from where the SUV had been parked to where it collided with the Tesla, he’d concluded someone had radioed ahead, let the SUV driver know when the sports car hit the Geary Expressway, and the SUV had rocketed off the blocks, taking deadly aim at the Tesla. With each recited detail and corresponding conclusion, Aidan’s face grew more and more pale.
Recalling the reports he’d reviewed, how every mention of victims or persons at the scene had been redacted, Jamie put it together in seconds. He picked up the other coffee cup and held it out to Aidan, an offer to cushion the blow. “Those reports were from your accident, weren’t they?”
Taking the cup, Aidan turned his blank gaze on the court. Cold now, the liquid failed to bring any color to his blanched face. “You just confirmed it wasn’t an accident.”
“The cops ruled it otherwise? You left out their final conclusions.”
“I didn’t want to bias yours.” Aidan set his cup aside and shifted to face him once more. “They ruled it a random hit-and-run. Said I didn’t swerve out of the way fast enough.”
“Bullshit,” Jamie said, furious on Aidan’s behalf. “That accident was not random and there was nothing you could have done to avoid it.”
Aidan’s tortured gaze drifted out over the court again. “You don’t know that.”
Jamie grasped his arm and waited for Aidan to return his attention. “Look, we’re just getting to know each other, but you said it yourself, I’m good with cars. So trust me when I tell you there was nothing you or anyone else behind the wheel could have done to avoid that collision. Hell, even I couldn’t have swerved fast enough, and I smoked everyone’s ass on the road course, including my own.” Drawing a short, surprised laugh from Aidan, Jamie counted it a win. “We gonna continue investigating this?”
“Yeah.” Aidan rose, and Jamie was doubly pleased to see some of the tension he’d carried in with him gone. “Keep it off the books for now, until we know more.”
Jamie followed, getting to his feet and handing Aidan his suit jacket, vest and cufflinks. “I can set something up for us, on a different channel, so to speak.”
“I’m sure you can.”
Aidan’s wicked grin sent a shiver racing through Jamie. Thankfully, before he opened his mouth and said too much again, Aidan’s cell rang. He stepped away, taking the call, and Jamie ducked into the locker room. Five minutes later, freshly showered and suited, he came back out on the court just as Aidan hung up.
“That was Cameron Byrne. He’s here on a kidnap and rescue matter tied to one of my old cases. Sounds like we could use your cyber expertise. You want in?”
By the look in his autumn eyes, Aidan was asking about more than just the K&R case. Jamie answered both the spoken and unspoken question. “I’m in.”