Although Nevin was not at all picky about his sex partners, he and Jeremy had never fucked, mainly because they were friends and Nevin didn’t want to screw that up. But neither of them minded being buck naked in front of the other. Nevin tended to throw in some gratuitous ogling for good measure, but Jeremy just rolled his eyes.

  Jeremy’s bathroom was bigger than some of Nevin’s first apartments, and the two of them fit easily into the shower for a quick rinse-off.

  Jeremy got out first and tossed Nevin a towel. “C’mon. Caffeine’s awaiting.”

  While Nevin put on the suit he’d stashed at Jeremy’s before their run, Jeremy dressed in his green park-ranger uniform. As chief ranger, he could have chosen to wear a suit, but he wasn’t the type. Besides, he looked damn good in that uniform, as he undoubtedly knew.

  After they left Jeremy’s place, they walked a half block to where Julie was parked. Nevin closed his gym bag in the trunk, and they sauntered the couple of blocks to P-Town, Jeremy’s favorite coffeehouse. Even this early the place was bustling. But despite the commotion, Ptolemy, the gender-fluid barista—dressed today in a blue button-down, black vest, and jeans—gave them a wide smile. “The early bird gets the criminal?”

  “And the park vagrants,” Jeremy agreed. “Hey, did you ever get your car fixed?”

  Ptolemy made a sour face. “Car’s dead. I’m doomed to public transportation.”

  “Only until you finish your PhD and conquer the world.”

  “And then I’ll travel everywhere in one of those obnoxious SUV limos.” Ptolemy winked.

  Because he came to P-Town often and was good friends with the owner, Jeremy had his own personal mug. It was as oversized as he was. Ptolemy filled it to the brim, then gave Nevin his usual double espresso.

  Whatever part of the gender spectrum Ptolemy expressed on a particular day, they were fascinating—brilliant and quirky and funny as hell. Shortly after they’d met, Nevin had hit on Ptolemy hard.

  “You just want to see what I have between my legs,” Ptolemy had said.

  “Darling, I’m sure whatever you have between your legs is goddamn delightful, but it’s what’s in your head that’s turning me on. Besides, I’m looking for sex, not satisfying my curiosity.”

  They had never hooked up, but after that, Ptolemy had taken a shine to him. Jeremy later informed Nevin that it was because Nevin truly didn’t care about Ptolemy’s gender or think of them as a freak. Maybe so, but it was weird—Nevin wasn’t exactly renowned for his sensitivity.

  After Nevin and Jeremy paid and received their pastries, Jeremy led the way to a table near the window.

  “What did you catch?” Jeremy asked after a few minutes of silence.

  “Don’t want to talk about it.”

  One massive shoulder shrugged. “Okay.”

  And then, as Pink Martini sang something French over the café sound system, Jeremy wolfed his breakfast while Nevin picked at his and watched a cute brunette jog by the window. “Missing persons case.”

  “Alzheimer’s or autism?”

  “No. HIV-positive for, like, twenty-something years. He outlived his friends, and his family dumped him decades ago.”

  Jeremy tsked, then sipped his coffee. “You have a photo?”

  “Nothing recent.”

  “Well, send me what you have. I’ll tell my rangers to keep an eye out.”

  Nevin nodded his thanks and took out his phone, messaging Jeremy the information. “He could have made it to Rocky Butte if he was feeling sprightly.”

  “I’ll take a look there this morning. I have a nine o’clock at Laurelhurst Park, but it shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Thanks, Germy.” Nevin didn’t hold any hope that Jeremy would find Roger Grey, but he still found comfort in knowing Jeremy was on the job. Jeremy had a quiet confidence that he could save the whole world, given a chance, and although Nevin knew that plenty of people were past saving, Jeremy made a valuable ally.

  “Hey, Nev? You don’t have to do this to yourself. Maybe the job’s taking its toll.”

  “So I should become a park ranger? I look shitty in green.”

  Jeremy rumbled a laugh. “And I honestly can’t picture you traipsing through Forest Park. You might get your suit dirty. But there are plenty of other ways for you to help people.”

  “Yeah, right. I could volunteer for Bright Hope, like the poor schmuck who reported Grey missing. Kid’s all broken up over it too.” He sighed. “And he’s the delicate type.”

  “Not hard as old shoe leather, like you.”

  “Fuck you,” Nevin said without heat as Jeremy grinned.

  “I’M SO sorry about the mess,” said Manuel Ceja, looking around for someplace to put the cardboard box he held.

  “You’re getting ready to move?” asked Nevin. Open boxes crammed the office, each of them labeled in green Sharpie.

  Manuel sighed and set the box back on the chair he’d taken it from. “I love working downtown, but they’ve raised the rent again. Our grants only stretch so far, you know? I don’t pay Crystal enough, and she and her boyfriend want to get married, buy a house, have kids. You know.” He waved toward Bright Hope’s only other full-time employee, who glanced briefly at Nevin over her computer screen. She didn’t smile, but that didn’t surprise Nevin. She always looked angry about something. Maybe she had a grudge against cops.

  “Where are you moving to?” Nevin asked Manuel.

  “Beaverton.” Judging by Manuel’s tone, it might as well have been the depths of hell. “My husband’s cousin gave us a deal on some office space. It’s not as convenient, since most of our clients are here in Portland, and some of the volunteers aren’t thrilled either, but we’ve managed under worse conditions.”

  That was true. Manuel had established Bright Hope a few years earlier, when the agency’s budget came entirely out of his own pocket. He’d worked from home and without a salary. Gradually he’d been able to bring in some grants and donations, and he organized an annual fundraiser. Nevin had attended—and contributed—over the past three years. Nowadays Manuel was able to draw some modest pay, and he’d hired Crystal to handle most of his paperwork, but he clearly still operated on a shoestring.

  “I need to ask some questions about Roger Grey,” Nevin said.

  Manuel’s eyes went watery. “Of course, of course. I’m sorry about….” He waved his hands vaguely.

  “How about if we head over to Peet’s?” Not only could he get some coffee—the double espresso from P-Town had only minimally lightened his fatigue—and sit without displacing boxes, but he’d avoid Crystal’s disapproving looks.

  “Okay, sweetheart, sure. Crystal, can you hold down the fort? I’ll bring you back an iced latte.”

  She waved, apparently in acquiescence.

  Manuel was a short, pear-shaped man with thinning dark hair and a penchant for LGBTQ-themed T-shirts. Today’s celebrated marriage equality. During the short walk, he talked about the logistics of the move. The topic clearly agitated him, and Nevin knew Manuel wasn’t comfortable with change.

  “Do you need some muscle?” Nevin asked. “I have a buddy with brawn to spare, plus he’s got a ginormous SUV.” He didn’t feel guilty about volunteering Jeremy, who lived for all kinds of helping crap. He was always spending his weekends and evenings collecting supplies for the homeless or creating community gardens or tutoring kids who lived in group homes.

  Manuel brightened. “Really? I’d love if you could come help out. We’re moving a week from Saturday.”

  Nevin hadn’t actually intended to volunteer himself, but he couldn’t back out without looking like a huge asshole. “Sure.”

  The early morning rush had passed, and Peet’s was quiet. Most of the customers wore name tags on lanyards around their necks—conventioneers from the Marriott next door. They were mostly middle-aged men in suits, and as he took his seat, Nevin wondered what their gig was. Sales of some kind maybe.

  He took out his notebook and pen and waited until Manuel had a few slurps of iced tea. Nevin had ordered another double espresso, which probably wouldn’t be his last for the day. “What can you tell me about Roger Grey?” he asked.

  Manuel had more information than Colin, but little of it would likely prove useful. Roger had earned a graduate degree—Manuel didn’t know the field—but had put most of his youthful energy into activism and partying. He’d worked at a bookstore until his health became poor. Although the meds managed the HIV fairly well, he had other problems—heart disease, a fucked-up liver, some other things Manuel didn’t know the details of. But as far as Manuel knew, Roger’s mind was clear.

  “And you don’t know about anyone he might have gone away with?” Nevin asked. He’d sketched Julie and a spreading oak tree but hadn’t taken many notes.

  “Nobody.”

  Frowning, Nevin told himself not to be such a pussy. He had people. Ford was his brother. And he had friends too—Jeremy and a few others. Guys he worked out with. Sometimes they watched basketball together. Anyway, he was solitary by choice, goddammit. As long as he got his rocks off now and then, he didn’t need anybody else.

  “Detective? Is something wrong?”

  “Just thinking.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about Colin Westwood.”

  Manuel’s eyes widened and he clapped his hands to his chest. “Colin? I’m sure he didn’t do anything to Mr. Grey.”

  “He’s not a suspect at this point. But as far as I know, he was the last person to see the victim. That makes him a person of interest.” Nevin didn’t mention Mrs. Ruskin.

  “Well, I’ve known him for a couple of years. Some of my clients have rented homes from his company. And his company has given us some generous donations.”

  Sure, Nevin thought. Nice tax write-off for him. “But he also volunteers.”

  “That’s more recent.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Nothing fancy. He just visits with a couple of our clients. Mr. Grey on Tuesdays and, um… Bob and Ivan Thomas on Thursdays. He chats with them a little, makes sure they’re eating well and taking their meds. Mostly just gives them some company and brightens their day.”

  “But he went to Roger’s house the day before yesterday, and that was Saturday,” Nevin pointed out.

  “Another volunteer usually has Saturdays. She picks up his groceries too. But her car broke down, so I called Colin and asked him to take over.”

  That was interesting—Colin had apparently not planned ahead to see Roger Saturday evening. And he was doing so little on a Sunday that he could drop everything and sit around with an old guy. Didn’t rich kids do things on weekends? Clubbing? Gambling away their trust funds?

  “Colin said he and Roger were going on a picnic yesterday. Was that usual?”

  Manuel shook his head and gave a small smile. “No. I didn’t ask him to do that. I think he offered it to be nice.”

  Or to do something nefarious. Thing was, Nevin had no idea what that evil deed might be. And if Colin had done something to Roger, why would he call to report Roger’s disappearance? Like a lot of good cops, Nevin had a solid gut instinct. And while Colin might be a spoiled rich kid and the type to faint at a good old slap of reality, Nevin’s gut told him Colin wasn’t dangerous.

  He wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  Nevin had no more questions, and he and Manuel were simply nursing their drinks when Nevin’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the text from his captain. An elderly man had just been admitted to the VA hospital with bruising and broken bones. Hospital personnel suspected abuse. Well, fan-fucking-tastic.

  Nevin tucked away his notebook and pen and slid one of his business cards across the table. “Take this in case my contact info is lost in one of those packing boxes. Give me a buzz if you learn anything I should know.”

  “You bet. Thanks for your hard work, sweetie. I know you’ll do your best for Mr. Grey. Maybe he just met some hot young thing and is having one last fling.” Manuel clearly didn’t believe that any more than Nevin did, but Nevin let it go.

  “Sorry, gotta run. Another call.”

  “Of course. We’ll see you and your friend a week from Saturday, bright and early!”

  Nevin inwardly groaned.

  Chapter Five

  TUESDAY BROUGHT no additional news of Roger Grey. It did, however, deliver a nice clean bust of the fuckwad elder-abuser of the day before. The battered father was being treated at the hospital but would survive, and the fuckwad adult son was cooling his heels in jail, probably still boohooing how nobody understood what an asshole dear old dad was. Probably the old guy was an asshole, Nevin thought as he sat in front of the TV that night. This time he’d managed to stop for takeout noodles, so at least he wasn’t forcing down General Tso. But even if the father was the world’s biggest son of a bitch, that didn’t make it okay for Junior to use him as a punching bag.

  Not for the first time in his career, Nevin wondered whether the old man had slapped his son around when the son was a kid. Most of the time, abusive pricks learned their tricks at their parents’ feet. If so, it was too bad the father never did time in jail for it—but it didn’t excuse what the son had done today.

  That was one of the worst things about his job. Even when everything went like clockwork, happy endings were few and far between. People died. Families disintegrated. Beat-up little kids grew up and ended up in prison for beating somebody else.

  On Wednesday, still no word on Grey. Nevin tracked down anything he could find on the guy. Some minor arrests in the sixties and seventies, mostly for antiwar and gay rights protests. A bust for public indecency that was the result of a bathhouse raid—not that a bathhouse was very public, but the cops hadn’t cared. A DUI in the early eighties and a fine for possession of a couple of grams of weed in the midnineties. Nevin wondered whether the pot had been recreational or a way of medicating some of the HIV symptoms. In any case, while Roger’s rap sheet told an interesting story, it didn’t shed light on his disappearance. Nevin did the paperwork to pull in some other details, like phone records and insurance info, but he wasn’t optimistic that he’d learn anything useful.

  Other cases came and went over the following days. He filled out his usual mountain of paperwork. At home he watched some old Westerns, the stupid ones where the stoic good guys wore white hats, the women were hardworking and virtuous, and the savage Indians wore feathers and talked mainly in grunts. He cringed at the stereotypes, yet something about these movies comforted him. Their simplicity, maybe. And the white hats always won.

  He did some drawing. Nothing serious, because he wasn’t very good. But he sketched a couple of cityscapes and a scene from P-Town, with Ptolemy in a floaty sleeveless blouse and her favorite ethnic earrings, finessing the espresso machine.

  And Nevin thought about solitude. As far as he could tell, Roger Grey had been vital and fascinating, yet he ended up alone, relying on charity for food and companionship.

  And what about Jeremy Cox? Jesus, Jeremy was anyone’s wet dream of a man: buff, handsome, smart, kind. Maybe he was never a Boy Scout, but he was certainly the embodiment of their motto. It had been several years since he’d gotten rid of his douchecanoe boyfriend, yet here he was, alone. Nevin suspected Jeremy hooked up with men now and then, but if he did, the sex didn’t seem to make him happier and he never talked about it.

  Then there was Colin Westwood. He was cute. Didn’t seem like an airhead. He had money. So how come he hadn’t found anyone to split his wedding cake with?

  If men like Jeremy and Colin were doomed to remain single, it was a good thing Nevin wasn’t in the market for a relationship. He just felt sorry for those other guys. That was all.

  ON FRIDAY night Ford parked his truck near Nevin’s apartment and they took the light-rail downtown. They visited several bars, and while Ford drank Coke, Nevin got increasingly wasted. They ran into Katie, a girl Ford used to date. She must not have harbored a grudge, because she took him back to her place. Nevin didn’t mind—he and Ford had a noninterference agreement under those circumstances. No cockblocking allowed. He knew that Ford would show up to reclaim his truck eventually, either later that night or sometime in the morning.

  Remaining at the bar, Nevin dug out his phone and tapped on Grindr. Less than an hour later, he was in a room at the Benson Hotel, getting blown by a bear from Cleveland. The guy wasn’t all that talented at it, but Nevin was too drunk to care. He caught a taxi home.

  His phone woke him up on Saturday morning. He wouldn’t have answered it, but he thought it might be Ford wanting to be buzzed in to the building. It ended up being Jeremy.

  “How about a run?” Jeremy asked, sounding so fucking chipper that Nevin wanted to shoot him. “Or some time at the gym?”

  The thought of moving even as far as the bathroom made Nevin ill. He groaned. “Not today.”

  There was a pause. “You sound hungover,” Jeremy boomed. “How much did you drink last night?”

  “Fuck yourself with a cactus,” said Nevin. Then he felt slightly guilty because Jeremy’s ex was a drunk, which naturally made the big guy sensitive about the issue.

  Jeremy was quiet for a moment. “Do you want me to leave you alone to feel miserable in peace?”

  “Yeah. I….” Nevin rubbed his face with his free hand, which didn’t help his headache and nausea but did at least demonstrate he had some fine motor control. The motion jostled a thought loose too. “We’re helping Bright Hope move shop a week from today.”

  “Shoot, Nevin. I can’t. I’ve got this hike scheduled. Maybe I could reschedule, but—”

  “Never mind. It’s my bad. Should’ve asked you first. We can manage without you.”

  “You sure?”

  Jeremy sounded distressed, and Nevin imagined him sitting in his loft, upset with himself for not being able to meet a commitment he’d been clueless about. Such a softhearted twit of a man. He’d spent years dealing with some of the foulest messes humankind could shit out, and yet he still believed he could make the world smell like roses.