Ghosted

Chapter Eleven

Archie rose quickly, ungracefully. He steadied himself on the edge of the side table.

Beau, holding a white bag of takeout, paused in the doorway. His brows drew together.

“What are you doing?”

Archie nodded down at the chair, said without emotion, “I think someone is trying to frame me for John’s murder.” He added, “Someone who doesn’t know John was shot.” It was more question than statement because, belatedly, he realized how much he had got wrong that night.

Without a word, Beau set the bag of food on the nightstand and joined Archie at the window. He stared down in silence at the tactical knife partially tucked behind the seat cushion.

Finally, he said, “Well, well. That’s convenient.”

Archie glanced at his profile. Beau’s expression was set and stern. His gaze met Archie’s. “John wasn’t shot.”

Archie said nothing. He was still processing.

Beau said in that same flat voice, “John was stabbed.”

“Stabbed.” Archie repeated. His voice sounded strange. But stabbing someone to death was very different from shooting them. It was more personal. It seemed—maybe this was not logical—more violent.

As this terrible understanding sank in, he realized what it was about the crime scene that had niggled at him: no smell of gunpowder. Even outside, the distinct scent of smokeless propellant usually lasted ten to fifteen minutes.

But yeah, this was why they hadn’t ever asked him about his weapon. Hadn’t asked to see it, hadn’t asked if he even had it with him. He didn’t have it. His pistol had been collected as evidence in Wyoming and sent to a ballistics lab for analysis.

Such a weird mistake to have made. Having lived for months with the constant threat of gun violence, so many goddamned guns, having been shot himself, he had jumped to the conclusion that John had been shot.

Beau was saying, “A clean, direct stab to the heart that caused rapid internal bleeding and death.”

Archie was very still, remembering, reliving those last moments with John in the dark shadows of the gazebo.

Beau, watching him, said, “I assumed you knew that, but then I started to wonder. It was dark in the gazebo and you were...tired. I tested it this afternoon. Once I realized you didn’t know how John died, I was pretty sure you were cleared of any involvement.”

Archie did a doubletake. “ Pretty sure...”

“But you’re smart and careful and you’ve been working undercover, which means you’re a convincing liar when you need to be.” Beau knelt, pulled out his phone and snapped a couple of photos of the knife peeping out behind the cushion.

Archie moved out of the way, returning to the bed and sitting down on the edge of the mattress. He said nothing. His thoughts were going a million miles a minute.

Uppermost was the realization that he would be arrested. He could not see a way around that. Regardless of what Beau privately thought, he would have no choice after this. Which meant, among other things, Archie would have to rely on Beau solving John’s homicide. He wanted to believe Beau was up to that challenge. That Beau would not be influenced, consciously or unconsciously, by his old bitterness and resentment.

Even if Beau did solve John’s homicide, even if Archie was officially cleared, he knew this would damage his career, probably irreparably.

Unless Beau was able to find the real culprit very quickly, Archie would be suspended pending the trial’s eventual outcome—and that could very likely take years. That would be true whether or not he managed to score bail.

Numbly, he watched Beau take out a pair of blue nitrile gloves and an evidence bag. Beau carefully drew the knife out from behind the cushions. He dropped it into the evidence bag.

“Beau—”

Maybe Beau mistook that for a plea. He said abruptly, “I said I thought you were unaware. I didn’t say you were out of your mind, which you’d have to be for this to be believed.”

“Gee. Thanks? But that’s not—”

“Shut up. I need to think.”

“There’s nothing to think about,” Archie said. “You’ve got to call it in.”

Beau didn’t reply, studying Archie in an odd, considering way.

But he had to know Archie was right.

Still. Archie closed his eyes. He felt like he’d been running an obstacle course since the night John had been murdered, and now he’d come to a wall that there was no getting over or getting around.

This was the end of the road. His road, anyway.

He opened his eyes as Beau turned back to the armchair. Beau’s expression, as he studied the path from the window, was the same he used to have back when he was doing game tape analysis of an opposing team’s strategy.

He said abruptly, “If I call it in, it’s your career.”

“It’s your career if you don’t.”

Beau’s smile was bright and bleak. “That shouldn’t worry you.”

Even with everything else going on, that still had the power to sting. “Jesus Christ, I never said my career was more important than yours. I never said my career was more important than you .”

“You may not have put it into words—”

“ Bullshit . Bullshit, Beau. I didn’t think it then and I don’t think it now. I’m not asking you to jeopardize your job or your future. I don’t want that. I don’t need that.”

Beau’s smile twisted. “Maybe you don’t want it, but you sure as hell do need it.”

Archie opened his mouth, but Beau talked over him. “As of right now, I don’t have a better suspect. There’s going to be a lot of pressure from some influential people to arrest you. For obvious reasons.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

But yeah… Probably. Judith would be leading the pack, but she would not be the only one howling for his blood. Even so. Archie said resolutely, “That doesn’t mean I need any—”

Beau scoffed, “ Maybe nothing. If you go to jail, you’re liable to be in there a while. We both know what that means.”

Archie clenched his jaw against a pointless protest. They did both know.

“Anyway,” Beau said, and he sounded almost cheerful. “This could actually end up being helpful to my investigation.”

Archie frowned. “How do you figure that? You’re not thinking someone left fingerprints?”

He, too, would love to believe that, but it seemed unlikely someone would go to the trouble of planting a murder weapon but forget to wipe their prints from it.

Beau snorted. “Neither of us is that lucky. No, I figure when a maid doesn’t turn up the murder weapon, some helpful citizen is going to place an anonymous phone call to the station, and we’re going to be ready with a trap and trace. We might even get lucky.”

That was shrewder than Archie would have expected. Maybe his surprise showed, because Beau said acerbically, “I’ll tell you something else. I don’t appreciate someone thinking I’m so dumb—or so biased—I’d swallow whole the idea that an experienced FBI agent would leave a murder weapon under a chair cushion in his hotel room.”

Ouch . Archie winced inwardly. Guilty as charged. But his moment of doubt had sprung from fear rather than logic.

He said, “Sometimes perps really are that careless. And there are cops with as much experience as you, who know that and would act accordingly.”

“Don’t bother being diplomatic. I know what you think.”

Beau was amused, but it was a sour amusement. He was wrong, though. He didn’t know what Archie thought. Not if he believed Archie thought he was stupid or callous or without principles. Maybe he did tend to forget that Beau had been a cop as long as he’d been a federal agent. And sure, Beau had his faults and weaknesses like everyone else, but stupidity, callousness, and a lack of principles weren’t among them.

Archie said neutrally, “What I think is that there’s no way you’re going to be able to keep this development from your team.”

Beau snorted. “Oh, come on. Every time Swenson opens his mouth you look like the family cat just offered an opinion.” He offered another of those crooked smiles. “And you’re right, half my team is ready for retirement and the other half is still wet behind the ears. But they’re all good people. Good officers. And I’m not the only one who’s going to think this...narrative is just a little too on the nose.

“However I have to spin this for the D.A., my team, the media, I promise you, it’ll be convincing. But I’d rather keep it quiet and uncomplicated for the time being. Better for you. Better for my case.”

Better for Archie, for damn sure.

But too much to ask from a guy who pretty much hated his guts. And more than Archie could contemplate owing that guy.

He shook his head. “I can’t let you—you’d be risking too much. I can contact my boss, explain the situation. She might be able to...”

No.

No, being arrested for murder was lightyears from a contentious interview with a former boyfriend LEO. Regardless of Deputy Assistant Director Wagner’s personal feelings, the Bureau would take swift steps to address the situation, including immediate suspension and an automatic internal investigation. Whatever was left of the Wyoming case, his case, would be handed off to other agents. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but it was how the Bureau operated. Dealing severely with compromised agents helped ensure that the FBI maintained its reputation for integrity—and public trust.

As Archie trailed to a halt, Beau said, “Sure. Or you could trust me to handle this in the way I think will work best for both.”

Archie met Beau’s steady blue gaze and then couldn’t seem to look away.

The uncomfortable truth was that he wanted to trust Beau. He wanted to believe that this was a genuine offer of help because deep down Beau still cared a little bit. He wanted to say, “I do trust you.” Because, for one thing, even after everything that had happened—and not happened—between them, he did still trust Beau. If Beau had ever come to him for help, he’d have done everything in his power to help him. He wanted to believe that worked both ways.

Instead, Archie said, “Of course, it might not be the murder weapon.”

“It might not be, but I’m having trouble coming up with a useful reason for planting a knife that isn’t the murder weapon.”

Archie couldn’t think of a reason either. He was so goddamned tired. So tired, that as much as he wanted to believe Beau had the insider’s track on this situation, he just could not see any way forward.

Beau glanced at him, glanced at him again, and said, “Okay. I’m going to have a word with Scarlett. You need to change rooms.”

Archie summoned the energy to say, “Not sure there’s a reason to frame me if they’re going to turn around and kill me.”

“No? Then you’re not thinking clearly. It’s a lot easier to frame someone who can’t argue with you than it is to frame someone who can’t stop arguing to save his life.”

Archie scowled at him.

“Anyway, it wouldn’t have to look like a murder.” Beau nodded at the nightstand where a small crowd of prescription meds containers were grouped together. “I’m guessing if someone was in here planting evidence, they saw this.”

Archie’s scalp prickled at the sight of that ready-made suicide scene. Jesus.

His expression must have revealed more than he intended, because Beau commented sardonically, “ Mostly OTC pain relievers . Isn’t that what you said?”

“I’m not even taking half of it,” Archie protested.

Beau gave a short laugh. “Great. That’s reassuring.” He was shaking his head as he slipped out the door again.

While Beau was downstairs, presumably talking to Scarlett, Archie rose to...he wasn’t exactly sure. Pack? Yes, he should probably pack. He should probably see if he could find another hotel, because as a safe house, the Fraser Inn was certainly compromised. But as he got to his feet, his strength seemed to melt away, and he sank back down on the bed. It scared him, that sudden wave of weakness.

What the hell?

He did not have time for this. He had to act swiftly, decisively... Not sit here with black spots floating across his vision, cold sweat breaking out all over his body.

Maybe if he laid back, closed his eyes. Just for a minute for two.

Yes, he just needed a minute…

“Crane. Hey. Archie?” Someone gripped his shoulder, said loudly, “ Agent Crane .”

Archie’s eyes snapped open. He sat up, still half-asleep, flinched as a tall shadow loomed, bent over him — resolved itself into Beau.

Well, more accurately Beau’s frown. Which he was becoming all too familiar with.

“You okay?” Beau’s frown inquired.

Archie rasped, “Great.”

“We moved your stuff down the hall.”

Archie nodded, wiped his face. “Okay. Yeah.” He was still trying to work out what that meant as he pushed off the bed and onto his feet, relieved when his muscles didn’t give out and dump him back on the mattress. He blinked at the sight of the completely stripped room.

What the—?

Somehow, in the those few seconds...minutes...how the hell long had he been out? They—Beau and the kid?—had managed to pack up his belongings and carry them out of the room.

He’d never heard a thing.

If Beau hadn’t shaken him awake, he’d still be out.

It was an unpleasant reminder of just how vulnerable he was right now. The living, breathing, probably snoring definition of a soft target.

Beau was saying briskly, “You’re in the corner suite now. The windows face the street and there are no trees or trellis for access.”

Archie nodded. He heard the words, but it was taking time to sift their meaning.

“Tomorrow we’ll finish clearing McCabe House as a crime scene, and you can move back in. Assuming you’re staying. The house ought to provide more security.” Beau added somberly, “You might want to avoid the grounds.”

Archie repeated, “Assuming I’m staying?” He was a suspect in a homicide. Where the hell would he go?

Beau shrugged. “I don’t think Twinkleton is any too healthy for you right now.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Beau’s eyes narrowed and Archie realized that sounded more comprehensive than he intended. But, of course, he wasn’t leaving before John had even been buried. Nor while he was still the prime suspect. Nor while there were so many unanswered questions.

So many questions that he couldn’t even remember half of them.

Beau’s frown was back. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Archie said tersely, “Terrific.”

“That’s what I thought.” Beau turned to the door. “Your room’s down here now.”

It felt like swimming through a dream as he followed Beau out of the room and down the very long—brightly lit, but absolutely silent—hallway.

For the first time, it occurred to him that the reason the inn was so very quiet, day and night, was because he was one of the only guests. Maybe the only guest on this floor.

The final door, the suite door, was propped open and his belongings—not that he had many—neatly laid out pretty much as he’d had them before.

The window blinds were closed, the drapes pulled. There was a tray with a bowl of soup on the credenza with the TV. He inwardly shuddered at the sight of it. By now he was way past the point of being able to eat. He craved sleep. Nothing more.

He said automatically, “You didn’t have to go to this trouble.”

Beau made a sound of harsh amusement. “This is not trouble. You winding up dead on my watch? That would be trouble.”

“Not good for the crime stats.” Archie agreed wearily. He sank down on the side of the bed, and rubbed his face.

He could feel Beau’s steady, unblinking stare, but couldn’t summon the energy to challenge it.

After a moment, Beau said, “You’re too tired to think. Let alone talk.”

Archie glanced up. “If you want to talk, talk. Until tonight, I didn’t know you thought there was anything left to say.”

Beau’s lip curled. “Right. Is that why you never returned my phone calls? You figured I didn’t have anything to say?”

“I figured you’d already made yourself pretty goddamned clear. I got the message the first time around.”

Anyway, it wasn’t like there had been so many phone calls. Two at most.

Beau frowned, opened his mouth, then shook his head. “We’ll leave it there. For now. We’ve both got bigger problems to deal with. And, yeah, I know you hate anyone ever thinking you need help or that you don’t have everything under control, but if you do plan on sticking around, you’re going to have to take a step back from this investigation.”

Archie gave him a look of disbelief. “If I stepped back any farther back, I’d be in D.C.”

“Come off it.”

“I’m telling you; I called around to verify Azizi’s whereabouts, attended the reading of John’s will, and sat for an interview with Twinkleton’s finest. That’s the extent of my interference.”

“Not the impression you’re giving. Clearly.”

“I don’t care if it’s the impression I’m giving. It’s the truth. And you know it’s the truth because I’m pretty sure you’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

Beau raised his brows like, Oh, really ?

Archie said, “That’s the impression you’ve been giving.”

Beau’s mouth half-curved, he shrugged. “You’re not under surveillance.”

“Not officially. Not unless Scarlett’s on your payroll.”

Beau looked amused. “She does think you’re a suspicious character.”

Archie said irritably, “Well, she’s wrong. There is no one less suspicious than me.”

Beau said wonderingly, “That must be hard, you being an FBI agent and all.”

Honest to God. Did Beau find this funny ?

Archie opened his mouth, but Beau was once again all business. “The point is, somehow, you’ve managed to make yourself a target. Maybe because you’re poking around, however ineffectively, maybe, probably, because you’re a convenient scapegoat.”

All Archie heard was the word ineffective .

“And what have you managed to accomplish so far, Chief?”

“Are you kidding me? John died Saturday night. I’ve had two days—”

“The first forty-eight hours,” Archie countered.

Beau’s face darkened. “Don’t throw the fucking first forty-eight at me! You think I don’t know how crucial the first forty-eight are?”

“I’ve wondered. Seeing how much time you’ve wasted questioning me. Out of curiosity, how many homicides have you solved?”

“Three,” Beau bit out. “How many have you solved?”

Oh.

Well.

This round went to Beau. The FBI was usually brought in for specialized assistance, like profiling, forensics, or handling cases that crossed jurisdictions. The actual “solving” of a homicide would usually be handled by the lead investigative body—typically local law enforcement. It just happened that an interjurisdictional homicide had never fallen under Archie’s purview.

Archie said tersely, “What’s your point?”

“My point ? My point is…” Beau broke off. He seemed genuinely at a loss. “What are you talking about? Why are you arguing? You know you can’t be involved in this investigation. Even if you were okay—and you know you’re not okay.”

Archie’s eyes narrowed. “You worry about you, Beau.”

“I am worried about me,” Beau said. “You’re either going to get yourself killed or you’re going to fuck up my case. And neither is going to be good for my career.”

Archie snorted. “I haven’t fucked up anyone’s case—or career—yet.”

“I’d hate to be your first.”

Their eyes met for a moment—pale blue to dark blue—and inexplicably, and sure as hell inappropriately, Archie suddenly remembered all the ways in which Beau had been his first.

Why? Why would that come to mind?

The odd thing was that he was pretty sure that tiny flicker in the back Beau’s gaze meant he’d had the same exact uncomfortable recollection.

Beau stared down at Archie, shook his head, and to Archie’s astonishment, sat beside him on the bed, his shoulder bumping Archie’s. After a moment, he said, “What are you doing. A.? You know I could wreck you.”

Yes. Archie knew.

Beau said quietly, “And you know I’m not going to. Why are you trying to go to war with me?”

Archie’s eyes raised, he met Beau’s serious gaze, and his throat clamped tight in a rush of fierce emotion.

Maybe Beau saw some of that emotion in his eyes because he turned his profile to Archie and stared down at his boots. He said finally, quietly, “Listen. I liked John. I respected him. And I’m going to do everything I can to get justice for him. That’s the first thing. The second thing is—whatever happened in the past, I don’t want to see you...come to grief. Not like this.” Beau exhaled. “Not in any way. Not really. And that’s sure as hell not what John would have wanted.”

Archie expelled a long, unsteady breath. He did not look at Beau. Could not look at Beau.

Why was he getting so choked up? He didn’t want harm to come to Beau, either. Never had. Never would. Was this news to either of them?

Neither spoke for a very long minute.

Beau said finally, gruffly, “I’m going to offer you a deal.”

Archie stared down at his hands tightly gripping his Levi-clad knees. His knuckles were white. So, yes, safe to say, he was not okay. He was not…himself.

Beau waited for Archie to answer. When Archie said nothing, Beau said, “If you’ll lay low for a few days, I’ll share the case file on John’s homicide with you.”

Archie raised his head to stare at Beau’s profile. “Why?”

Beau turned to face him. They were so close. So close. And for an instant Archie could see the old Beau, the boy Beau, in the man beside him, like the original work beneath a layer of hardened varnish. Those long black eyelashes, though there were faint lines around Beau’s eyes now. The once cartoonishly perfect curve of Beau’s lips, harder, less smiley. The scattered silver threads in the black crest of Beau’s dark hair. He gazed into Beau’s blue eyes, and Beau gazed back at him, as though they were both considering, comparing past and present.

Beau smelled the same though. Still using the same soap, shampoo, and aftershave. What was that aftershave called? Police or something. The name had entertained the heck out of Archie way back when.

Archie turned his face, stared across at the cheery yellow wall of closed drapes.

Beau’s tone was a little rueful as he answered. “Because, though I hate to admit it, you’re right. You’re a valuable resource. At the least, you’re an experienced investigator, and as you’ve noticed, I have a shortage of those. It could be helpful having you take a look.”

He’d been an experienced investigator that morning, too. And on Sunday. When the mere suggestion of wanting to help had been met with a hard and hostile, No thanks .

“Now that you’ve decided I didn’t kill John?” Archie’s smile was acerbic.

“Now that I’m confident you’re in the clear,” Beau agreed. “Do we have a deal?”

Archie was silent. In that silence he could feel his heart pounding too hard, hear the thump of blood banging against his temples, see the tiny tremors rippling through his muscles as he gripped his knees.

He didn’t want to give an inch, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Beau was right. Even if someone hadn’t decided he was a threat, he was getting dangerously close to collapse. It wouldn’t kill him to lie low for a day.

Did he really have a choice?

Anyway, he very much wanted to get his hands on that file.

He said curtly, “Yeah. Deal.”

“Good.” Beau studied him for a moment. His mouth twitched into an almost-smile. He rose. “Sleep tight. I’m spending the night in your former room.”

“They’ll wait for the maid to find the knife,” Archie said.

“Probably. But maybe they’re the impatient kind. We’ve got a few of those running around. Anyway, I’ll check in tomorrow.” Beau opened the door, slipped silently into the hall, and closed the door behind him.