“Just a second,” Shaw said.
“What?”
“Just a second. I’ve got to, um, clean up first.”
North studied him, kissed him, and fell onto his side. Swatting Shaw’s thigh, he said, “Hurry, mister. Now who’s being mean?”
Shaw did what he needed to do. Perched on the toilet, he suddenly felt hyperaware that none of the guys in the books he liked ever had to deal with this situation. When he’d finished, he opened the door and called to North, “Just gonna take a quick shower.” He stepped under the hot water, found the bar of hemp-milk soap he’d stashed so that he didn’t have to use the chemical-laden Irish Springs stuff that North bought in bulk, and cleaned himself up. His hair looked like a cumulus cloud after he toweled it, but North seemed to like his hair more the longer and wilder it got, so he left it the way it was and padded into the bedroom naked.
North was asleep on the bed, jeans still around his thighs, the puppy curled up in the crook of one arm. He yapped at Shaw once.
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Shaw muttered as he walked around to North’s side of the bed. “You got exactly what you wanted.”
“Shaw?” North mumbled.
“Let’s get you out of these,” Shaw said, helping North free of the jeans.
“Just give me five minutes. Gonna fuck you…” He made a sleepy noise. “…can’t walk.”
Sliding under the covers, Shaw found North’s hand and squeezed it. Then he kissed him. By the time he was reaching to turn off the lamp, North was asleep again. And in the morning, when Shaw woke, North had already left for work.
Chapter 3
“SHE DOESN’T LOOK like a romance author,” Shaw said, studying the picture on the website. It showed a woman still on the young side of middle age, trim, her hair in a severe black bob. She had a cigarette holder in one hand, a wisp of smoke artfully photoshopped into the image, and she wore elbow-length gloves. “If anything, she looks like Audrey Hepburn. Or a flapper. Or Audrey Hepburn playing a flapper.”
It was Wednesday, and although Shaw had taken Sunday off (North hadn’t), Monday and Tuesday had been nonstop with the work Aldrich Acquisitions sent their way. It wasn’t just the investigations that kept North and Shaw busy; it was the paperwork. Shaw’s father had mostly kept out of the arrangement, at Shaw’s insistence, and although Haw was a reasonable woman, corporations still apparently required massive amounts of paperwork, documentation, and evidence—all of it carefully organized and presented. After their first job, North had insisted on doing the paperwork himself.
Today was a paperwork day. The Borealis offices occupied the main floor of the house Shaw owned in Benton Park, and they consisted of two main areas: the outer office, where Pari pretended to be an administrative assistant and where Truck and Zion occasionally completed reports for the part-time jobs they did for Borealis; and the inner office, where North and Shaw worked. The inner office had seating for clients and two desks, placed side by side in the center of the room. North’s was immaculate: a large, high-definition computer monitor, a lamp, and a stacked chrome inbox-outbox combo that looked like something Don Draper might have used. Shaw’s desk did not quite reach the level of immaculate, although it was definitely cleaner than it had been. It currently held a series of four Twinkies that had been dissected to various degrees and pinned open against their cardboard sleeves; volumes one, three, and six of the Encyclopedia of Environmental Analysis and Remediation, a Vitruvian Man coffee mug full of water and green onions, and the LP for The Best of Gallagher, which was currently being used as a plate for a piece of a child’s birthday cake. Shaw didn’t remember who the child had been, but the cake still looked edible.
“North?”
North was typing something in a spreadsheet, checking figures against a page he held.
“North, I think she might be lying.”
“Hmm.”
“I think she might be lying, the woman who called us. She doesn’t look like a romance author at all.”
“Uh huh.” North pecked at the keyboard.
“North!”
“Look at this. It’s the middle of February, and we’ve already billed more than we did in the whole first quarter of 2018. And that’s not even counting jobs like last night.”
“North, I’m trying to tell you something.”
After one last, lingering glance at the spreadsheet, North looked over. “That’s her?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you: I think this is a ruse.”
“A ruse.”
“A con.”
“A con.”
“A scam.”
North sighed. “Ok. Let’s hear it.”
“She doesn’t look like a romance author at all.”
“And just because I feel like my life won’t be complete until I hear this: what is a romance author supposed to look like?”
“Well, you know.” Shaw gestured vaguely. “A corset. Fishnet stockings. Stiletto heels. Would it kill her to wear a bustier?”
“I don’t—”
“Or one of those vinyl bodysuits. And maybe a whip!”
“I think you’re thinking of a prostitute—”
“Sex worker.”
“—or dominatrix.” North pointed to the screen. “This lady just looks like she has too much time on her hands, and maybe she likes playing dress-up.”
“Says the man who just ordered an adult Naruto costume—” Shaw cut off at the noise North was making. “I mean, right, yes, whatever you were saying.”
A knock came at the door, and a moment later, it opened.
“Ms. Maldonado is here to see you,” Pari said, all sweetness and light with a prospective client standing behind her.
“Thank you, Pari.”
“And Truck asked me to tell you that hir job is taking hir to East St. Louis.”
North nodded; he was obviously trying not to make a face. “Please remind hir that we only reimburse legitimate expenses.”
“Ze knows,” Pari said, her smile turning brittle.
“That means—”
“Ze knows. We all know.”
“All right,” Shaw said. “Great. Thank you, Pari. Thanks so much. Ms. Maldonado?”
A soft voice answered, “Yasmin,” and then the woman and Pari traded places, and Yasmin Maldonado moved into the office. She had a skunk stripe of gray roots where her hair was parted, and she looked thinner than she had in the picture. She wore a MICHIGAN IS FOR LOVER’S sweatshirt, snow pants that crinkled every time she took a step, and ratty Reeboks. The only thing consistent with the picture was the smell of cigarette smoke that moved with her.
They took a few minutes getting her settled, exchanging introductions, and her eyes roved around the office before settling on the LP with its slice of birthday cake. With what looked like a great deal of effort, she dragged her gaze up to look at North and Shaw.