Walk a Mile Page 7

  There seemed to be a lot of things on the Do Not Discuss List. Their relationship, the murder of Flynn’s sister, his mother, the reunion, the shooting that had left Flynn with the scar on his shoulder, the death of his former partner…. Shit. They had more things they couldn’t talk about than things that they could.

  Flynn turned to look at him, eyes unreadable behind his dark sunglasses. He withdrew his hand from Jerry’s leg. When he spoke, his voice was aloof. “The soundproof booth? Really?”

  Jerry stuck out his tongue. “There are some things you don’t need to know. Not if you don’t want an overblown ego.” He was aware he was working the smug attitude, but he hoped Flynn would take the comment for what it seemed to be—a musing on the sex the night before. Which it was. Just not in the form Jerry was suggesting.

  “Uh-huh.” Flynn didn’t sound convinced. His focus returned to the Beltway traffic in front of them.

  “How much time did you spend at Quantico?” Jerry asked, more to keep his thoughts from giving him away than anything else. He took a careful sip of his coffee. “I thought you were based at the main Bureau in DC.”

  “I worked with the BAU a fair amount. I probably spent more time at Quantico than on Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  Jerry nodded to himself. The Behavioral Analysis Unit did the job the average person thought of as profiling, though it didn’t limit itself to serial killers, which was Flynn’s specialty. It also dealt with anything from high-profile terrorist threats to school shootings and everything in between. If Flynn’s old bosses knew about the telepathy, they’d be fighting among themselves to get him back on one of their teams.

  If someone didn’t kill him first.

  Yeah, keeping the telepathy thing a secret? Good call.

  “I gotta warn you,” Flynn suddenly drawled. “We might run into one or two people at Quantico who don’t like me very much.”

  Jerry was surprised. Back home at the Bureau, and just about everywhere else they went, Flynn seemed to be universally liked. It was that Irish charm he could turn on and off at will. Though, come to think of it, Jerry could see where Flynn’s impressive case closure record along with his looks would make some coworkers jealous. He could be a pig-headed jerk too, a real lone wolf when it came to working his cases. In fact, in the first fifteen minutes after they’d met, Jerry had decided he loathed Flynn.

  Flynn snorted. “Do me a favor. Don’t ever volunteer to be a character witness for me, okay?”

  “Oh, come on,” Jerry protested. “What was I supposed to make of you that first night? There you were, the impossibly hot FBI guy, flying in to take charge of one of the highest profile serial killer cases of our time, and the Bureau had me acting as your chauffeur and general dogsbody. Not really inclined to make me think well of you, so give me a break.”

  “Well, you see how that turned out.” Flynn’s irritation grated in his voice. “A copycat murder, no sign of the real Grimm Fairytale killer, and an agent saddled with telepathy. I was a pathetic mess. If you hadn’t been around to keep me grounded, I’d have probably jumped off a building.”

  “Don’t say that.” Jerry was sharp.

  Flynn shrugged. “It’s true. You’ve made such a big deal of me finding you when DeShano left you for dead in the trunk of your car, but I’m telling you, it was all self-preservation. I had to find you. I don’t think I could have done this alone.”

  Did Flynn get as much from their relationship as he did? The idea flustered him and he spoke lightly in self-defense. “Whereas I think I’ve steered you wrong from the very beginning. We could have handled this whole thing differently. A stint on the major talk shows, some time on the Psychic Friends Network, and you’d have been set for life. Hell, you could’ve had your own television show by now.” Jerry leaned back in his seat, waving a hand at the passing scenery. “After all, Amy was terribly impressed when you solved Spike’s behavioral issues.”

  “Funny.”

  “Available for consults. Your Chihuahua peeing in the house? Call John Flynn. Cat terrorizing your home? John Flynn is your man!”

  “You’re starting to push it, you know.”

  “John Flynn, Siamese Hunter.”

  “And to think, when I met you, I didn’t think you had a sense of humor.”

  “Oh wait, I know, you could have started a one-man Psi-Corps, like in Babylon 5.”

  “By definition, I don’t really think you can have a one-man corps. Also, wouldn’t that make me the creepy bad guy then?”

  “Only if you start chanting ‘the Corps is our father, the Corps is our mother.’”

  “I won’t do that, then. At least, not until you least expect it. I’ll time it so it freaks you out the most.”

  The sound of the Imperial March blared tinnily from Flynn’s phone.

  “That’s your mother,” Jerry pointed out.

  “Yes, I know.” Flynn’s voice had that gritty edge to it. He tapped the Bluetooth and Darth Vader’s theme abruptly ended.

  “You can’t just keep sending her to voice mail and texting her later. Eventually, you’re going to have to talk to her.”

  “Like you talk to your mother?” Flynn turned his head in Jerry’s direction, his sunglasses shielding his eyes. It gave him a cold, alien expression, as though he was more insect than man.

  “My mother doesn’t want to talk to me. She washed her hands of the Abomination and disowned me a long time ago.” Jerry didn’t mean to sound as sharp as he did but he couldn’t take it back, either.

  “I have nothing to say to my mother right now.”

  Jerry tried not to sigh too loudly. “She probably just misses you.”

  That observation was met with dead silence.

  “Maybe she has something important to tell you. Maybe she’s not very e-mail savvy, or she just wants to hear the dulcet tones of your melodious voice.”

  That, at least, got a snort out of Flynn.

  Jerry laughed, and hoped it didn’t sound relieved. “So what are these loose ends at Quantico you need to tie up?”

  Flynn accepted the change in subject without comment. They talked cases for the rest of the drive.

  THE FBI Academy at Quantico was every bit the self-contained community Jerry remembered from his training there. Reminiscent of the town in which he’d grown up, that had been a blessing back in those days when he’d been trying to figure out who he was, making the transition from small town to big city less traumatic. Dormitories, a library, gymnasium, and classrooms were all in one area. Jerry had found little reason to wander outside the confines of the community the first year he was there. Heck, it even had its own fake town, where some of the training exercises were held. Looking back now, Jerry realized his propensity for keeping his head down and his nose to the grindstone probably wasn’t necessary for someone with his memory retention. Neither his diligence to completing his studies nor his way of acing all tests had endeared him to his classmates, so it was interesting to watch Flynn in action.

  The prodigal son returned to the fatted calf.

  Jerry had always found it a little unfair that the son who’d stayed home and worked hard never got the kind of recognition and honor the son who’d run off and thrown away his inheritance received. Maybe the Good Son’s party had been the following week, and the Bible hadn’t mentioned it.

  Up until relatively recently, being gay in the FBI got you classed as a security risk and was grounds for being fired. Even now, he knew his sexual orientation probably held him back. Also, getting ahead and receiving recognition in the FBI was sometimes more about who you knew and which cases you worked than about true merit, and Jerry wasn’t known for playing nice with others.

  Did Flynn worry at all about how his relationship with Jerry might impact his career? Automatically the thought went into the soundproof booth, Jerry shutting the door on it before it had scarcely popped into his mind.

  He let Flynn handle the introductions and sat back to observe quietly as Flynn caught up on the status
of several cases he’d worked on. Watching Flynn move through the cubicles and meeting rooms was fascinating. It was like watching an alpha wolf returning to the pack after a long hunt. Former coworkers greeted Flynn with delight, breaking off from their work to lean back and chat with him, or stand up and drag him over to meet someone else. He followed in Flynn’s wake, feeling a bit like a remora tagging along after a shark as Flynn made his circuit.

  Without warning, Flynn lightly slapped him on the back of the head.

  “What was that for?” Jerry couldn’t help but feel slightly hurt by the action.

  “For being an idiot. Remora, my ass.” Flynn glanced at him sideways and shook his head.

  They’d had to rehash the events of the flight the night before. Jerry was relieved that the FBI had viewed their actions on the plane in a better light than the authorities at the airport. It shouldn’t come down to the Agency against the local police, or any other branch of intelligence and security for that matter. But it often did. Back to that territory thing again. A bunch of little dogs with their hair standing up in a ridge along their backs as they circled each other and sniffed asses.

  “Oh, gee thanks. Now I keep seeing everyone here as Spike and his pals, complete with pink fuzzy sweaters.” Flynn might have sounded irritated, but he smirked at Jerry just the same.

  Jerry grinned. “Don’t forget the nail polish and sparkly collars.”

  “Hey, at least Spike’s not peeing in the house anymore.”

  You’re very irritating when you’re smug.

  Flynn flipped him the bird when no one was looking.

  Everyone seemed to want Flynn’s attention. Colleagues asked for his input on evidence and his opinion on case management. Any excuse to talk to him would do. Jerry had witnessed this sort of Flynn magnetism before but never to this degree. It was a weird feeling when he realized these people had known Flynn longer than he had.

  “Flynn!” A thin black man wearing tortoiseshell glasses, his short hair turning gray at his temples, walked up to them as they were talking with one of the BAU members from Flynn’s old team. He held out his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Flynn returned the handshake while his old teammate excused himself.

  “It’s good to see you too, sir. Director Zimmerman, this is my partner, Special Agent Jerry Parker.”

  Zimmerman offered Jerry a hand as well. “Parker. Henry Zimmerman.” He shot an amused glance in Flynn’s direction as he released Jerry’s hand. “You had to bring your partner with you? What’s the matter, Flynn, afraid you couldn’t resist coming back east where you belong? Needed a little moral support?”

  Crap. Zimmerman was probably joking but since a certain amount of truth lay in every joking comment, alarm bells sounded in Jerry’s brain.

  “Parker keeps me on the straight and narrow, sir.”

  “By the book, is he? You could probably use a bit of that in your life, Flynn.” Zimmerman’s smile was friendly, and there was no bite in his tone.

  “By the book?” Flynn shook his head sadly. “Sir, Parker can quote the book. Verbatim. He can even tell you what page the rule you’re breaking is on.”

  The look Zimmerman settled on Jerry was one of quiet assessment now. “I’d heard that about Agent Parker. In fact, I’ve heard a lot about the two of you, ever since last night. Why don’t you step into my office where we can have a little chat?”

  Jerry wasn’t sure the invitation included him, and he froze awkwardly in the corridor until Flynn frowned at him and motioned him to follow. He slipped inside Zimmerman’s office as though he expected the door to shut in his face. Zimmerman’s expression of disapproval was so fleeting Jerry might have imagined it.

  Zimmerman asked a few questions about the incident on the plane and the case that had taken Flynn out to San Francisco in the first place, the one that had turned out to be a false lead on the Grimm Fairytale killer. Just when Jerry was starting to relax, Zimmerman spoke to him directly. “Would you mind stepping out into the hall, Agent Parker? I’d like a word with Flynn in private.”

  It wasn’t really a request. Jerry pretended it was, however, and hoped his smile didn’t look as sick as it felt when he left the room.

  He hung about near the water cooler, deliberately taking himself out of possible eavesdropping range.

  A man with thinning blond hair, which had been combed over to disguise that fact, came down the corridor toward the director’s office, halting when he saw Jerry. For an awful moment, Jerry pictured himself looking just like this guy in ten or so years, complete with the soft belly overlapping his belt. It was a jolt when he realized this guy was about his own age.

  “Can I help you?” The man’s voice was abrupt, despite its pronounced Southern accent. There was no suggestion of friendly assistance here at all, only authoritative inquiry.

  Jerry bristled. Who did this guy think he was anyway? “Just waiting for someone.” He nodded toward the director’s office.

  Special Agent Self-Importance glanced at the badge Jerry wore around his neck and decided he really must have clearance to be there. His mouth pursed in disapproval anyway, though for what reason, Jerry didn’t have a clue. The other man was just about to continue on his way when the door to Zimmerman’s office opened and Flynn came out, shutting it behind him.

  “John Flynn. As I live and breathe.”

  Not for much longer. Jerry was startled by the force of his dislike for the man standing next to him. Maybe it was the open sneer in his words, or the Southern twang so familiar he could have been one of Jerry’s cousins.

  The corner of Flynn’s mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. “Andy.” Flynn’s acknowledgement was cool. “Parker, this is Special Agent Andrew Noffsinger. Andy, my partner, Jerry Parker.”

  Andy raised his eyebrow in a decidedly exaggerated fashion at Jerry. Obviously, this guy was not a member of the Flynn Fan Club.

  “Partner.” Andy exaggerated the surprise in his voice as well. Or maybe it was the accent. Not for the first time, Jerry thought people from his part of the country sounded ignorant and stupid. “I thought you didn’t do partners. Well, not anymore.”

  Oh, charming. There was enough innuendo in that one to be truly insulting on half a dozen levels. What the fuck did you do to this guy? Piss in his Wheaties?

  Flynn cleared his throat and smiled his quirky smile.

  “Sometimes when a good thing comes along, you can’t say no.” Jerry folded his arms and cocked his head ever so slightly to one side.

  Andy lifted his eyebrows and pursed his lips in patent disagreement with Jerry’s statement. “Some people find our boy John a bit hard to keep up with.”

  Jerry’s nostrils flared, but he kept his voice deliberately calm. “Ah. That may be the case on the East Coast.”

  Flynn snorted suddenly and turned it into a cough. His eyes were bright with suppressed amusement when he spoke. “What’s up, Andy? I’m surprised to see you here. Last I heard, you’d put in for a transfer.”

  “I was persuaded to stay.” Andy somehow made it sound like Quantico couldn’t do without him, and Flynn had been asked to leave, which wasn’t the case at all. “What brings you all the way back here to our neck of the woods? I would have thought anything you needed to deal with could have been done with a conference call.”

  Again, the implication Flynn wasn’t needed or wanted here. Even though Jerry had suggested the same thing with regards to a conference call, he seethed on Flynn’s behalf. What an asshole. I bet you collared one of his “big” cases, and he’s never forgiven you for it.

  “Well, you know how it is.” Flynn’s drawl suddenly became more pronounced. “When the brass says they’d like to see you in person, you make a point of trying to accommodate them. Besides, I had some other things to attend to on this side of the US.”

  Andy wrinkled his nose briefly, as though he’s smelled something bad. Then he smiled, obviously remembering something that pleased him. “It must be flattering to be so mu
ch in demand. Anything new on the Grimm Fairytale killer? I heard that last lead proved to be false.”

  Fucking bastard. Jerry clenched his hands into fists under his folded arms, controlling his anger only when he saw the flint in Flynn’s hazel eyes.

  Flynn’s expression hardened as though he’d stared into the face of Medusa. “No. No new leads there.”

  “Pity. I thought you were going to nail that bastard at one time.”

  Let’s do the run-down, shall we? Jerry shot the thoughts at Flynn as though he’d spoken them aloud. Mid-to-late thirties but looks ten years older. Which reminds me, we should really try to get more sleep and eat less crappy food. Probably once voted as Most Promising Young Agent, but is getting a little too old for the ingénue role, and he’s in danger of being cast as the crusty old uncle. Thinning hair, poor eyesight, bad knees. Life is starting to pass him by and he knows it. I don’t know what he has against you, but what a flaming asshole.

  Aloud, Jerry said, “The last lead on the GFT killer turned out to be a copycat, it’s true. Without a bona fide killing in the last six years, there’s very little to go on right now.” He turned to Flynn. “What did Zimmerman want to talk to you about?” Jerry could have kicked himself as soon as he asked, but he’d been too focused on diverting Noffsinger to realize Flynn probably wasn’t going to share that just now.

  Flynn shrugged in that lazy way of his that made Jerry want to slam him up against a wall and fuck his brains out. Because seriously, no one should be that hot with just a simple movement. “This and that.” He was noncommittal. “Among other things, he’d like me to run next summer’s seminar on serial killers.”

  “Oh.” Relief made Jerry volunteer when he’d normally have stayed silent. I can help with that, if you’d like. Sounds interesting. “Sounds like a big deal.”

  “Sounds like a pain in the ass and a lot of work, you mean.” Flynn’s eyebrow was expressive.