[5: AND THE BRUISES ON MY THIGH]

THE SHAKING, HOLLOW-EYED HOTEL front desk manager was more than happy to give them access to the security footage from the night before. Malcolm propped his hip on the edge of the manager’s desk in her small back office, the ill-lit room crammed with file cabinets and too many people as he and Seong-Jae wedged their way in to watch the bank of screens while the woman—Martinez, per her nametag—flipped through hours of recorded footage on a bank of black-and-white CCTV monitors.

“Mr. Wilde booked and paid for the room,” she said, her voice shaking as her dilated, jittering eyes darted over the fast-forwarded footage. Shock, Malcolm thought. She was in shock, her body running on adrenaline to keep moving, cortisol flooding her brain. “He came in alone. I remember that. There wasn’t anyone with him.”

“The suspect likely waited outside,” Malcolm said.

“Stenson has not identified any of the cars in the lot as belonging to Wilde,” Seong-Jae said, peering at his phone and swiping his thumb over the screen. “Did you see how they arrived?”

She bit her lip. “I saw them get out of a black car, but I think it was an Uber?”

“There.” Malcolm pointed at one of the monitors, tapping his nail against the screen. “That’s them. Going into the room.”

The front desk manager hurried to stop the video, freezing it on a high angle image of Logan Wilde leaning on a young man with his arm around his waist. In the starkness and shadows it was hard to make out much, save for the gleam of leather pants; the young man wore sunglasses even at night, obscuring much of his face, and the dark hair fountaining over his brow and shoulders in a Bettie Page cut was a little too big to be natural, skewed off center.

Malcolm scrubbed his hand through his beard. Fuck.

Wilde with a man, the two of them tangled up, leaning in for a kiss.

This was the second time in two months he’d had to see queer victims torn apart this way, portraits of hate painted in blood and body parts.

“Wig and sunglasses,” Seong-Jae said. “I doubt this will be useful in identifying much.”

“Play it forward,” Malcolm muttered to Martinez, and watched as Wilde and the suspect disappeared into the room, closing the door. “At least we know we’re dealing with a young white male, early twenties or so. Five foot eight, five foot nine.”

Seong-Jae arched a brow. “You just described half of the Baltimore metro area.”

“But that rules out the other half.”

An irritated look cut toward him. “Your brand of cynical optimism is immensely annoying.”

“And yet you’re stuck with me.” Malcolm leaned forward, jabbing at the screen again as the room door opened in fast-forward quicktime; the timestamp read over two hours later. “There. Stop it there.”

Martinez stopped the video as the suspect emerged again—alone, this time wearing a hoodie pulled up over the wig, sunglasses still hiding his face…but a splash of something dark on his cheek, something the monochrome video painted black but that Malcolm’s imagination painted red.

“So we’re putting time of death at just after eleven fifteen PM. Keep rolling,” Malcolm said grimly.

The video jerked forward again. The suspect moved off one camera—then reappeared on another one, this one from a more distant angle, covering the entire parking lot. Shoulders hunched, he scurried quickly across the lot; Seong-Jae frowned.

“He is moving swiftly, but not furtively,” he murmured. “He does not look over his shoulder, or look around. He is not concerned with who may be close by, or who sees him.”

“Which is pretty strange. Like he doesn’t give a damn if he gets caught,” Malcolm said—then tensed as the suspect stopped on the curb, milling and waiting, only for a black, fairly new-looking Ford Focus to pull up, its tail lights flashing. The Focus stopped, and the suspect dove into the back seat, closing the door behind him. “Stop it again,” Malcolm asked, and the video froze just as the Focus started to pull forward and away from the curb. He leaned in, squinting at the screen and the blurry white rectangle of the license plate. “Can you make out the plates?”

Seong-Jae crowded in close to him, narrowing his eyes at the screen—but not without tossing out, “Did you forget your reading glasses again?”

“So you just woke up salty today. Good to know.” Malcolm squinted, but it was no use. He could make out maybe a D, maybe an eight…but even that wasn’t certain. He shook his head, leaning back. “I can’t. It’s too blurry. The data’s just not there.”

“It would seem a futile task,” Seong-Jae pointed out.

“S-sorry,” Martinez stammered. “It’s an old system.”

“It’s fine.” He flashed her a reassuring smile. “Our analyst might be able to at least pick out a partial to run some alphanumeric variants and see if we get a hit. Can you get me a copy of the video on digital?”

“There’s only tape.” She winced, lowering her eyes and fretting her hands together; her mouth was trembling. “Like I said, it’s an old system. I-I…I’m really sorry, really really sorry…”

“Hey.” He slid off the desk and sank into a crouch next to her chair, deliberately putting himself below her so she wouldn’t feel crowded or intimidated—but also so he could try to catch her eye. “It’s okay. I promise it’s okay. It doesn’t feel like it right now, when you’ve seen something awful. This is your place of work and this has probably stripped away any sense of familiarity that made you feel safe, but this is an isolated incident and although it’s frightening right now…it won’t always be. And if you want, I can put you in touch with a counselor who can help talk you through this. Okay?”

Martinez stared at him, her eyes a little too wide, before she nodded slowly, pressing her lips together. “Okay,” she whispered. “Thank you. I…I can give you the tapes, if that would help.”

“We’d be really grateful.” He reached over and squeezed her upper arm gently. “Were you on shift all night last night?”

She nodded a bit too quickly. “And this morning. I was waiting for the day manager to come in to do handovers, and I noticed Mr. Wilde missed check-out and hadn’t booked a second night. So I sent the security guard to check on him.”

“And that is who found him?” Seong-Jae asked, and she nodded again, darting him a nervous look.

“Yeah.”

“Where’s the security guard now?” Malcolm asked.

“Outside. He was talking to the blond lady?” She darted her gaze between them as if asking if they knew her; Malcolm nodded subtly in encouragement. “His name’s Jason,” she added, then tumbled forward quickly, “Listen, she won’t let any of the guests leave and they’re real upset, and the general manager’s going to be—”

“I’ll talk to the owner and make sure none of this blows back on you,” Malcolm soothed. “Don’t worry. No one’s going to bother you. If you can get us those tapes, we’ll go talk to the other potential witnesses and be back in a few to take your official statement.”

She curled her hands in the front of her smock, then rose with a nod. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be here when you’re ready. Okay.”

Malcolm offered her another smile, then gestured to Seong-Jae and headed out into the harsh, unforgiving morning light. He had a feeling that woman needed a few moments alone—and in truth, so did he.

Or if not alone, at least with the comfortable company of Seong-Jae’s familiar presence, the crow perched at his shoulder, ever-watchful, ever-waiting.

Standing on the threshold of the management office, he tucked his hands into his pockets and watched the milling chaos of uniformed officers trying to contain increasingly irritated guests. “Maybe my next talk with Lillienne Wellington should be about upgrading her damned technology,” he muttered.

“Do you think she would listen?”

“Probably not. She sounded almost disgusted to acknowledge she even owned this property. I doubt she cares what happens here.” He glanced at Seong-Jae. “She bothers me.”

Seong-Jae settled next to him, thumbs hooked into the belt loops of black jeans, gaze trained outward. “Why is that?”

“You said yourself that everything she does is performative. I keep trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but…” He heaved a great sigh. “Now and then she shows me who she is, and I can’t say I like her much.”

“Sympathy for the devil?”

“At least trying to give her a fair shake.” Malcolm fell silent, then, and looked down, staring at the toes of his polished shoes as he scuffed one against the gritty asphalt. “…another queer victim.”

Seong-Jae shifted subtly closer to him, warmth as soft as brushing feathers. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Malcolm answered bluntly. “The two worst cases I’ve seen in years, and they’re both targeting queer people.” He couldn’t stop the question breaking out from inside him like jagged shards of his heart cutting through his skin. “Why us? Why is it always us?”

“People bury their hatred because it is no longer acceptable to show it on the surface…but it is still there.” For all that Seong-Jae was so very quiet, the faint edge of bitter pain in his voice was no less expressive than the ache stabbing at Malcom. Seong-Jae’s arm brushed Malcolm’s, and stayed there. “Given the opportunity to fly free, it tends to erupt in violent and terrible ways.”

“Would be nice to have a few equal-opportunity killers here and there.”

“People kill when the moment presents itself.” Seong-Jae shrugged. “It is possible the suspect is queer himself, and Wilde was the easiest target within his environment. It is easiest to enact violence against those closest to us. Most murder victims know their assailants before the incidence of their deaths.”

Malcolm turned his head to study Seong-Jae, taking in the elegant slope of his profile, sharp edges softened by the smooth gleam of golden skin, the articulation of his lips. “You think Wilde might’ve had a personal relationship with the suspect?”

“I think neither of us can rest easily until we find out.”

“Fair point.” Malcolm let himself lean closer to Seong-Jae for a single heartbeat, pressed arm to arm…then pulled away. “So let’s get to work.”

^

SEONG-JAE FREQUENTLY DESPISED CONDUCTING witness interviews, but this time was more tedious than normal when the usual clientele of the W-Suites proved to be truculent, suspicious, and overly belligerent. The number of times he had to counteract “I didn’t do nuthin’” with an irritated “You are not under suspicion” was outnumbered only by the number of times he had to answer “I know my rights!” with “you are not under arrest.”

Apparently when one was accustomed to being seen as guilty of the smallest things, one could not help one’s conditioned reactions even under the presumption of innocence.

Each rather incendiary encounter yielded little to no information. No one had heard anything, all conveniently occupied, asleep, or suffering from a particular form of amnesia. Not even the security guard was particularly helpful, evasive as if he expected to be blamed for something simply for finding the body. Seong-Jae was not surprised, but that did not stop the headache from building in his temples as he regrouped with Malcolm at the Camaro.

“Anything?” he asked, tucking his notepad away inside his coat.

“A price range for a good time, and a hell of a lot of nothing.” Malcolm leaned his bulk against the hood of the car, his weight enough to make the Camaro dip on its tires. “So. Next steps?”

Seong-Jae draped himself against the Camaro’s door, and tilted his head back to look up at the overhead railing, watching the forensics team moving busily in and out. “See if his phone is still in the room,” he said. “Check his Uber history. Perhaps it will lead us to where he and the suspect crossed paths.”

“Retrace his steps, see if anyone remembers him meeting with someone who matches our admittedly vague description.” Malcolm rumbled under his breath, toying at his beard, fingers tangling deep. “We should stop by the office afterward. Hand over anything we can find to Sade and get them started trying to find any video evidence.” His gaze drifted back to Seong-Jae, slate blue keen. “And then?”

“A search of the victim’s home may provide additional information.” He eyed Malcolm. “You are being unusually deferential to my decisions.”

Malcolm spread his hands. “You’re the boss, after all.”

“Are you attempting to annoy me?”

“Not in the slightest.” Malcolm smirked. “I’m actually trying not to, since you seem pretty pissed at me already.”

No matter how he tried to remain impassive, Seong-Jae’s eyebrow twitched. “I am neither pleased nor displeased with you.”

Malcolm just looked at him. Seong-Jae looked right back, waiting him out; he refused to pursue this further, and refused to let Malcolm bait him into losing his temper. Finally, Malcolm sighed, exasperated and low.

“You do realize by now I can tell when you’re lying?”

“Then you should realize by now,” Seong-Jae tossed back, turning away, “that I do not want to talk about it.”

“How long?” Malcolm flung at his back.

Seong-Jae paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Excuse me?”

“How long are you going to be mad at me?”

“Until I decide I am not anymore.”

“Would it help if I apologized?”

Seong-Jae closed his eyes and prayed to anything logical and illogical that would listen that he might hold on to his patience for a few moments longer. “You do not even know what you did.”

“So tell me.”

Malcolm pushed away from the car and straightened, closing the distance between them until he stood at Seong-Jae’s back, close enough that there was no avoiding the intensity of his gaze. Seong-Jae remained silent. His irritation was his problem to get over, and not Malcolm’s to deal with.

As the silence stretched, Malcolm’s shoulders sagged, but there was something stubborn in that lingering look, too. “Yeah. That’s what I thought,” he murmured. “I can be sorry I upset you without knowing what I did to upset you, Seong-Jae.”

“Why?”

“Because I like how we are when we’re okay with each other.” With a faint smile, Malcolm shrugged. “Believe it or not, I like having you for a partner. That’s not something I ever thought I would say again.”

“I would prefer not to complicate things by continuing this conversation, then.”

“How would it complicate things?” Malcolm asked—but Seong-Jae gave him his back, and kept walking even when Malcolm called after him, “Seong-Jae…? Seong-Jae.”

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, curling his fingers against the rusted and flaking paint. “Malcolm…” Let it go. He glanced back one last time. “We have work to do. Come.”

And before Malcolm could call his name in that aching, entreating way again…he practically fled up the stairs.

^

LOGAN WILDE, IT WOULD SEEM, was modern enough to possess a state-of-the-art smartphone…and elderly enough to not bother locking it with a PIN or thumbprint. Making it exceedingly simple for Seong-Jae to sort through his contacts on a swift scan, but not one of the thumbnail photos next to various names matched anyone resembling the young man in the security footage.

A review of his Uber ride history, however, proved much more fruitful.

Outside room 209, Seong-Jae leaned against the walkway railing and rotated the phone in his gloved fingers so he could zoom in on the map in the trip history more clearly. He frowned. “The last pickup point shows a location approximately two and a quarter miles from here, at just before nine PM.”

“That would line up pretty well with the time they were dropped off here.”

“It would appear the pickup point is a bar called…” Seong-Jae squinted at the loading Google Maps data, then grimaced. “‘Wet Steel?’”

“Gay bar,” Malcolm answered immediately. Seong-Jae stared at him. Malcolm blinked, recoiling. “What? I’ve been there before.”

Seong-Jae narrowed his eyes, then bit back a retort and thrust the phone at Malcolm, turning away. Malcolm made a confused sound, barely catching the phone in his vinyl-gloved hands.

“Now you’re mad at me for that, too?”

“Mn.” Rather than dignify that with a response, Seong-Jae diverted the subject firmly, glaring across the street. “What are the odds that the establishment is open or at least staffed at the moment?”

“Considering it’s barely noon? Slim. Very slim.” A crinkle of plastic rose as Malcolm fished an evidence bag from his pocket and deposited the phone inside gingerly. “Let’s cover other ground, then come back for Wet Steel tonight.” He smirked. “We don’t even need to dress up or blend in this time. Though if you want to dance again…”

A sharp retort flashed to the tip of Seong-Jae’s tongue as he whipped back to snap at Malcolm…until he saw the old wolf watching him with hooded, tired eyes, his cocky smirk forced and shallow. The spark went out of Seong-Jae, and he just regarded Malcolm for long moments before looking away with a sigh.

“I can tell when you are using humor to deflect from your feelings over the case.”

“I’m just working through logistics.” Malcolm’s chuckle was flat and humorless. “That bite-mark didn’t fade for a week, you know.”

“Do not make me regret signing off on your return to active duty. What other ground do we need to cover?”

“First off, we drop these tapes and the phone with Sade.”

Previously, at the mention of Sade Marcus, Seong-Jae had managed to brush past it—but now he could not help how his jaw clenched, and he turned away before Malcolm could catch any tell-tale signs.

Apparently not quickly enough.

“Seong-Jae,” Malcolm said patiently. “I don’t know what your issue is with Sade, but we need them. They may be our only key to any real evidence in this case.”

Was Malcolm truly refusing to question that night? The stakeout at the docks, outside Huang’s warehouse, and Sade’s coincidental presence? They had not spoken of it since the night Malcolm had put Seong-Jae out of his apartment for challenging him regarding Sade’s trustworthiness, but how could Malcolm not have doubts of his own?

How could he look at Sade with blinders on, and refuse to see what was right in front of his face?

Seong-Jae forced down his thoughts, his animosity, his frustration, and said stiffly, “I do not have a problem with Mx. Marcus.”

“Remember when I said I can tell you’re lying?” Malcolm bit off. “I’d rather you said nothing than lied to me.”

Seong-Jae gave him a pointed look. Lofted one brow.

And said absolutely nothing.

Malcolm blinked, just staring back at him, lines of puzzlement wrinkling his brow, before he groaned. “I didn’t mean right now.” When Seong-Jae remained silent, Malcolm scowled. “Say something.”

Seong-Jae only arched the other brow, tilting his head.

Malcolm made a disgusted face. “…god damn it, I hate when you do that overly literal thing.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Seong-Jae pointed out.

“Asshole.”

“Jot.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” But this time Malcolm’s one-sided, arrogant smirk was an actual echo of its former self, instead of plastic and false and shallow, as he pocketed the bagged phone and loped toward the stairs. “Come on. Let’s grab those tapes and get back to HQ.”

Cara leaned out of the blood-drenched room, the white HAZMAT jumpsuit she’d pulled over her clothing streaked in crimson. “Y’all need anything else from me?”

“We’re fine for now,” Malcolm tossed back. Seong-Jae lingered, watching Malcolm’s broad back retreating, but he could not think of anything else he needed from forensics for the moment. He started to turn away, only for Cara to catch his eye with a knowing look.

“Did you tell him yet?”

“There is no ‘yet,’” Seong-Jae growled. “I am not telling him at all, and you are being disrespectful.”

“I don’t think the dead guy minds.”

“Cara.”

“Sorry. Really—I am. If I don’t laugh with some of these cases, I’ll cry.” She clucked her tongue, eyeing him sympathetically. “So you just going to bottle it up until you explode, huh?”

“I will not explode.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“You do realize you are using your outside voice?”

“Am I?” Her eyes widened in mock innocence. “It would be a shame if Mal overheard me.” She pitched her voice louder. “Hey, Mal, can you hear the names we’re calling you?”

“No, but they’re probably some variant of ‘asshole’ in one language or another,” drifted distantly up the stairs.

“See?” Cara said. “You’re fine.”

“I hate you.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“That one was specifically reserved for you.” Sniffing, Seong-Jae stalked after Malcolm.

And pointedly ignored Cara Stenson’s voice trailing after him merrily, sing-songing and almost sadistic. “See you soon, oh friend of mine.”

Seong-Jae really needed to develop better taste in friends.

^

MALCOLM FELT LIKE A COMPLETE and utter hypocrite.

Get on Seong-Jae’s case for lying to him, and then glibly brush off that he’d overheard every goddamned word.

Did you tell him yet?

There is no ‘yet.’ I am not telling him at all.

So there was something Seong-Jae didn’t want to tell him…and from the way Seong-Jae scowled out the window of the Camaro all the way back to the office, Malcolm had the feeling that confessing his own little deception would just make things worse.

What was it?

What had he done that had Seong-Jae so upset, enough that even Sten knew about it?

He couldn’t be upset about…

Not possible.

He held his tongue, and let the silence stay between them as they took the stairs up to the homicide bullpen. Seong-Jae hung back, while Malcolm ducked into Sade’s lair. It was bright as always, a rainbow of Christmas lights turning what should be a darkened hellhole into a starburst of color, with Sade ensconced in the center of tangles of wires and cables like the little spider they were. They were currently twisting their hair up into a messy bun, their abused glasses hanging from their lips by chewing teeth, as they scanned a rapidly flowing rush of text in a command prompt window, wan light reflecting off their dusky face and the sharp angles of their narrow bones.

“Little spider,” Mal said, knocking on the doorframe. “Got a fun toy for you to play with.”

“Unless it’s battery-operated,” Sade murmured without looking back, “you can keep it.”

“More than I needed to know.”

“I didn’t say that for you.” Sade tilted their head back upside down against the chair’s back, looking up at him with a wicked smile as they plucked their glasses free and tossed them on top of the keyboard. “I had a feeling Yoon was right behind you, and I just wanted to see that face.”

Malcolm peered over his shoulder—and sure enough, Seong-Jae’s face was transfixed in a look of utter distaste, his upper lip curled, yet it was mingled with utmost confusion, as if he simply didn’t know how to process the input Sade fed him.

“Be nice to my partner,” Mal said dryly. “He’s still not quite inoculated to you yet.” He patted the parcel under his arm, a number of video tapes hastily wrapped together in a spare plastic bag, the plastic crinkling and rustling. “Besides, you’ll want this. Old school tech.”

Sade’s eyes widened in mock wonder. “How old school?”

“I’m pretty sure these tapes are older than you are.” He leaned in to pass the bundle over; Sade flexed their fingers in a grabby motion, then snatched them up and into their lap, ripping the plastic away like a child at Christmas.

“It’s like a treasure hunt,” Sade crowed gleefully. “Ancient relics of the elders. What do you need me to do?”

“Suspect is on tape entering room two-oh-nine with the victim at just after nine PM, recorded exiting just after eleven PM, wearing a wig and sunglasses. We’re trying to get an ID on him, and maybe track down some video.”

Sade frowned. “Video?”

“Yeah. We think he recorded the murder. If it’s uploaded anywhere, you can find it.”

“Such faith,” Sade said dramatically. “ID on the victim?”

“Logan Wilde.” Malcolm passed over the bagged phone. “Sten can get you details, but you’ll probably find more here. We’ve also got a Ford Focus picking the suspect up on the curb, this year’s model, but plates are indistinct.”

“…don’t ask me to enhance the resolution, Mal.”

“I’m not that much of a dinosaur.”

“Nah, dinosaurs aren’t as fuckable as you.” Sade tilted their head, tapping a fingertip to their lower lip, while at Malcolm’s back Seong-Jae made a spluttering sound. “Though they are in some crowds, but I don’t think you’re ready for that initiation.”

Malcom held both hands up. “I don’t want to know. We’re going to go chase leads.”

“Good. I can’t work with you hovering.” Leaning forward, Sade peered past Malcolm. “You could at least say hi, Detective Yoon.”

Seong-Jae fixed Sade with a stone-faced stare. “Hi.”

“I’ll win you over sooner or later.”

“Probably later,” Mal snorted, and turned away—but then stopped. Fuck. Fuck, he was here, he had to do this…might as well do it now. His gut sank, and he glanced back. “Hey. Can we talk for a minute?” He caught Seong-Jae’s eye, and mouthed I’m sorry before saying, “Alone.”

Seong-Jae cocked his head, then sighed, stepped forward, and brazenly dipped his hand into Malcolm’s suit jacket to retrieve his keys from his breast pocket.

“I will wait in the car.”

“Thanks.”

“I knew it.” Sade swung their legs, their feet not quite touching the ground in their rolling chair. “You’ve been trying to get me off by myself to have your filthy, lurid way with me.”

Malcolm tried to find a smile, but couldn’t. “Not today, little spider,” he said, stepping inside Sade’s lair and closing the door behind him. “I’m in no mood.”

“Good, because holy fuck I thought Yoon was going to stab me. So tell me.” Sade’s playfulness fell away as if he’d taken off a mask, leaving a thoughtful regard, tawny brown eyes gleaming in the reflected lights of the room. “What’s on your mind?”