Page 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rav wakes to an empty apartment. The blanket is folded neatly on the sofa, and the empty water glass has been placed in the sink. Mo was supposed to call, but he must have phoned his client instead. Rav is surprised Vale didn’t wake him, but maybe he couldn’t wait to be out of there. Or maybe he was just half asleep. Trace evidence would seem to support the latter theory: he finds Vale’s knit hat on the kitchen counter, and the youth organization T-shirt hanging from the back of the bathroom door. Most intriguing, he finds a little black notebook jammed between the cushions of the sofa. It’s dog-eared and worn, held together with a hot-pink rubber band. Rav is burning with curiosity, but he leaves the elastic where it is. Instead he opens his laptop and pulls up the email containing Vale’s phone records. He finds the number, enters it into his contacts, and sends off a text.

You left some things here.

Guessing you’re not too worried about the orange T-shirt but you also left your hat. And a little black notebook.

This is Rav by the way.

He hits send on that last one before he catches himself, and he cringes. That’s what he gets for texting before his first cup of coffee. This is Rav. Not Detective Trivedi but just Rav , as if they’re friends or something. “Idiot,” he mutters, tossing his phone onto the sofa while he gets ready for work.

He spends the next two hours trying not to check his phone every five seconds.

Will wanders into the office sometime after 8:30 (Rav is not looking at his phone) with a thermos-sized coffee and a poppy seed bagel. Rav gives the latter some serious side-eye. He does not approve of poppy seed bagels in the workplace. He himself never eats them—what if he were to meet the love of his life with a little black seed stuck in his teeth?—and he hates the mess they make. He’s explained all this to Will, but admittedly Rav has hundreds of pet peeves and it would be superhuman to keep track of them all.

“Damn,” Shepard says around a mouthful of bagel when Rav fills him in on the events of the previous evening. “Good thing we’d pretty much crossed him off our suspect list, or you’d be in hot water.”

“To put it mildly.” Rav frowns and flicks an errant seed off his keyboard. “As it is, I’m guessing the LT won’t be pleased.”

“You’re gonna tell her?”

“I think I’m obliged.”

The look on Will’s face says it’s your funeral . Rav is inclined to agree, which is why he’s putting it off. He buries his nose in work, not looking at his phone until a little after noon, at which point he caves, refreshing his home screen in case he somehow missed a notification.

He fires off another message. Fair warning, if I don’t hear from you soon I’m putting these things on eBay.

He’s just hit send when his desk phone rings. “Trivedi.”

“Hi, this is Grace Kim. Not sure if you remember me…”

The private investigator. “Of course,” Rav says, motioning Will over and putting her on speaker. “Has your colleague turned up?”

“No. That’s actually why I’m calling. I filed a missing persons report like you said, but that was a week ago, and I haven’t heard anything.”

“I’m sorry, but missing persons isn’t my beat. Would you like me to check in with the case officer?”

“That’s okay. I just thought maybe something had come up in your murder case that might provide some closure.”

Rav glances at Will. “How do you mean, closure?”

“I’ve got Chris’s family calling me, and his clients. Nobody’s heard from him, and…” There’s a wet-sounding sniffle. “I guess I’m pretty well braced for the worst.”

Shit. “I’m sorry to hear that, Ms. Kim. I wish there was something I could do. If anything comes up on our side, we’ll certainly let you know.” He hangs up with a sigh. “I fear that’s not going to turn out well.”

“Speaking of things that aren’t gonna turn out well.” Will tilts his chin in the direction of the lieutenant’s office. She’s standing in the doorway, motioning Rav in.

“Wish me luck,” he says, rising and buttoning his jacket like a man about to receive a death sentence.

As usual, Howard doesn’t beat about the bush. “I’ve just had a call from the mayor’s office, looking for an update.”

“On the Vanderford case?” Rav squirms a little. “I didn’t realize they were following this one.”

“The Vanderfords are old money, and they’ve got friends in high places. City Hall’s been on my ass since this thing started.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were dealing with that.”

“It’s part of the job. I deal with the political bullshit so my detectives don’t have to.” She sits back and folds her hands on her desk. “So. Anything new?”

“Nothing promising.” He goes through some dry details about the estate, plus a couple of other business-related angles they’re looking at. “We’re still waiting on forensics. In the meantime, the strongest motive we can find is that business with the Nicks and their master recordings. Jack Vale is the only band member without an alibi, but we have nothing on him or the bodyguard, and—”

“Why are we still talking about Vale? I thought we’d put him aside.”

“We have, but that’s not quite the same as exonerating him.”

She frowns. “What’s with the dance? Do you think he’s our guy or not?”

Rav hesitates, but his gut is firm on this one. “No. Frankly, I’m not sure I ever did.”

“Then move on .”

“I will. I have.” He squirms some more. “Look, there’s something you should know.” Bracing himself, he tells her about yesterday.

There’s a full fifteen seconds of silence. Howard stares at him, fingers laced on her desk, her expression on freeze-frame. “Well,” she says. “That was stupid. If he files a complaint, it’ll be your ass.”

“I didn’t say or do anything inappropriate.”

“You’re not that na?ve, Trivedi. The optics alone could be enough to sink you. But”—she raises a hand to forestall another protest—“I understand why you did it. It was a compassionate decision made under pressure.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t breathe a sigh of relief just yet. This could still come back to bite us both. You’ll need to file a note for the record, attaching the video Vale made. In case there are questions later.”

“I’ll do that right away.”

“Good.” She pauses, eying him. “And make this a teaching moment, Trivedi. Don’t go thinking that just because you’re clever and charming you can talk your way out of anything.”

Rav nods solemnly. And then, because he can’t help himself: “But you do think I’m clever and charming?”

“Get out of my office.”

He’s walking back to his desk when he hears his phone ping , and he practically does a flying pancake for it.

MESSAGES

Jack Vale????????????????????????????????????????????????????????1m

Haha. Sorry crazy day

Rav types, Admit it, you just woke up.

The response is immediate. I wish. I’ve been with Mo all day talking to the police and the FBI about yesterday. Kind of feels like I’m cheating on you haha

Rav has to read that twice. Don’t flirt , he tells himself. Don’t flirt, don’t flirt… But his thumbs are arseholes and they have other ideas. I’m heartbroken. Never took you for the cheating type.

…

…

Vale is typing, but it’s slow. Distracted or just considering his reply?

Srsly though thanks for finding the notebook. That thing is my life

Shall I have it couriered over to the hotel?

It’s OK it’s my fault it’s there. I’ll send someone to pick it up

It’s good to have minions.

What else do they do? Wait, let me guess.

They’re the ones who sign those autographed photos you send to your fans.

Busted

What else? I promise not to tell a soul.

Pretty much everything. To be honest I’m not even a real musician

It’s all a sham

Aha. So you’re just a pretty face for the album cover.

And the photo shoots. It pays well and I get to keep the clothes

Rav laughs. He can feel Will’s eyes on him, wondering who he’s texting. They’re packed like sardines in that room, a dozen detectives sitting elbow to elbow. Rav shifts subtly, angling his phone away.

How’s Mo?

OK. Lots of stitches but nothing too serious

Please give him my best.

I will

Thank you. For everything. Really Rav

…

…

He stares at those little blinking dots until they disappear.

Inevitably, evening finds Rav strewn across his sofa, staring at his phone. He’s graduated to YouTube now. Interviews, streamed concerts, music videos. He’s watching one for a song called “Need,” and sweet Jesus . It’s a slow, smoldering track. Ominous bass line, brooding vocals in a minor key. The video is black-and-white, arty, with layered speeds and flickering light, as if a thunderstorm is building nearby. Vale is lying on a beach, soaking wet jeans slung low around his hips as the surf washes gently over him, swirling around his body before retreating down the glistening sand. The camera hovers over him like a lover, gazing down while he croons about being the creeping sensation along your spine, the gnawing need you try to ignore. His eyes are closed, face turned slightly away; with each surge of the waves, his body stirs in the sand. The song builds to a climax, a slow-motion kaleidoscope of glittering raindrops and frothing sea. The waves are up to his chin now; he tips his head back, arching up out of the water, and Rav…

Well, Rav breaks a promise to himself.

He’s in a filthy mood about it the next day. He gets up early and goes for a run—he never goes for a run—as if that’s going to curb the anxiety clawing at him. Nothing is happening the way it should. The case is going nowhere. They used to have a suspect and now they don’t, and all the while the one suspect they did have is burrowing deeper under his skin, the creeping sensation along his spine, the gnawing need he’s trying to ignore.

It’s not the first time he’s been attracted to someone he shouldn’t be. Attraction is a primal thing; you can’t control it. You can only control your actions, and he’s always been pretty disciplined about that. He’s never cheated, or knowingly been with a cheater. Never stepped over the line at work. But this business with Vale is new territory. Dangerous territory. And that’s just it, isn’t it? Vale is forbidden fruit wrapped up in an intellectual puzzle. In other words, Rav’s own personal kryptonite.

He needs to talk about this with someone or he’s going to lose his mind. The logical choice would be Ana, but she’s a cop; he doesn’t want to put her in an awkward position. He thinks about it for a second, and then he drops onto a bench and dials.

There’s a click on the line. Then: “Are you in jail?”

“What?”

“That’s the only reason I can think of that you would be calling me in the middle of the day, when you know I’m trying to sleep.”

Rav winces. He didn’t even consider the time difference. Mags has kept vampire hours for as long as he’s known her, even before she bought the club—hence her nom de guerre, Margaret Moon. It’s 12:30 in London; of course she would be asleep. “Sorry, but it’s an emergency.”

“Does this emergency perchance involve a boy?” There’s no need to answer. They’ve been friends for too long. “Go on, then. Tell Auntie Mags everything.”

He does.

“A suspect ? Have you lost your mind?” There’s a shrill whistle in the background; she’s making tea. He wishes he were there, in her adorable little kitchen in Chelsea, with its floral-patterned tiles and antique Shaker cabinets. How many afternoons did he spend in that breakfast nook as a teenager, dishing about his latest crush while Mags—ten years older and infinitely wiser—dispensed strong tea and sage advice? He doesn’t miss much about London, but he does miss that. Mags and her little kitchen were there for him when no one else was.

“You always did have a thing for bad boys,” she muses.

“Slander and nonsense.” It’s neither, but that’s all behind him now. Mostly. “Technically, he’s not a suspect anymore. I’m not even sure he’s a person of interest. But it’s definitely a gray area, and if I were to act on it, it might cost me my job.” Frankly, he’s not sure. Do the rules even cover a situation like this?

“What band did you say he was with? The New Knickerbockers?” He hears her typing into her phone. “Oh. Oh, I see .” There’s a pause as she studies whatever photo she’s pulled up. “Well, really, how much do you actually like that job?”

Rav laughs ruefully.

“Because honestly, given the choice—”

“This is serious.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. So you have a crush. Who could blame you? He’s very crushable. Just rub one out and be done with it.”

There’s a silence.

“Ah, we’re past that, are we? Dear me, you really are pining, aren’t you?”

“But that’s just it!” Rav springs to his feet and starts pacing. “I haven’t pined since I was sixteen! It isn’t my style. I’m remote and unattainable. I drive them to distraction, not the other way around. The whole thing is so thoroughly off-brand I don’t know what to do with myself!”

“Hold on, I need to deal with a rogue eyebrow hair.”

“ Mags. ”

“If you’re going to call me in the middle of the day, you’re going to have to accept a few interruptions. You know how little time I get away from the club.” Mags’s club, The Rainbow Room, has been the hottest thing in London ever since she took it over a few years ago. Even before, it was one of the top spots for London’s LGBTQ community. Rav used to love it there, even though he was underage back then. It was the first place he really felt seen . Using a fake ID and a fake name somehow felt more authentic than the life he led under His Lordship’s roof. Mags was the DJ back then, and she knew a lost soul when she saw one. She took him under her wing—hence those therapy sessions in the kitchen.

God, talking to her is making him nostalgic.

“Look,” she says in the vague tones of someone peering closely in the mirror, “he’ll leave town soon, right? Out of sight, out of mind. Unless… this is unrequited, isn’t it?”

“I mean, I assume so.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“There’s a vibe. I thought maybe it was all in my head, but then there was this text exchange yesterday.” He reads it to her. “Is it my imagination, or is that flirting?”

“Mild flirting, perhaps, but flirting nonetheless. Hold on.”

Rav hears her typing again. “What are you doing?”

“Looking to see if he’s one of ours.” By which she means queer. Rav doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t stop her, either.

“ Hmm . If he’s seeing anyone, he’s very discreet about it. I can’t find anything on his love life. Surprising, considering how much coverage he… Wait. Oh dear.” She starts laughing. “Type TMZ into your search bar.”

“What?”

“The gossip website, TMZ. Take a look.”

Rav does as he’s told, fully expecting to land on an article about Vale. Instead he finds…

Oh. Oh no .

It’s a picture of Rav, gun drawn, looking over his shoulder as he hustles Jack Vale into the car outside the skate park. It looks like it was taken from a long way off, probably by one of the photographers at the charity event.

My Hero! Mystery Man Identified!

Yesterday, TMZ brought you photos of this swoon-worthy savior whisking New Knickerbockers front man Jack Vale to safety following a terrifying attack outside a charity event in New York. We identified him as Vale’s bodyguard, but an unnamed source has since confirmed exclusively to TMZ that he is an officer with the NYPD, Detective Rav Trivedi. Talk about New York’s finest! A dishy detective in a Gucci suit? Yes, please!

“Swoon-worthy!” Mags crows. “What a triumph! And dishy as well. Is that suit really Gucci?”

Rav is only half listening, still staring at the image on his screen. A picture of him . On a gossip website . That hasn’t happened since he was a teenager, and it was a minor blog in London, not bloody TMZ.

Howard is going to be furious. If the media start asking questions about what a homicide detective is doing in the company of Jack Vale, they’ll connect the dots, and then there’ll be no stopping it. They’ll be everywhere , hounding, speculating.

“Your father is going to shit himself,” Mags says gleefully.

“His Lordship is the least of my worries.” Rav rubs his eyes. “I’ve got to go, Mags. This has been no help at all, but I adore you for trying.”

“Kisses,” she says airily, and hangs up.

Rav’s phone pings . It’s a text from Will, with a link to the TMZ article.

You’re famous

He sighs and braces himself for a very long day.