Chapter Thirteen

There were many men in the city with tattoos, probably many with tattoos on their hands, and likely some depicting birds in flight. Connor took deep breaths to calm the rapid beating of his pulse as he made his way to the station he’d left only a few hours earlier. But no matter how he tried to slow his mind, he couldn’t stop the tumblers from clicking into place, opening the lock to a safe he didn’t want to look inside of.

Officer Leonard Turnbull had a small blue hawk on the back of his hand, poised in flight between thumb and forefinger. Lazy Turnbull never did anything he wasn’t ordered to do. According to Bertrand, the man who’d dumped him in the alley had been working for a depraved gentleman who liked to abuse and damage young men. So, unless Turnbull was moonlighting as hired muscle, he could have been appointed by Superintendent Higgins to help the man dispose of his toy when he’d finished playing.

The conversation Connor had overheard replayed in his mind. The last thing the unknown politician’s man had told Higgins was that he’d be called on to perform tasks that required “utmost discretion.”

Connor tried to reassure himself the coincidence was too strange. That he should hear this conversation and less than two weeks later witness what sort of tasks the politician demanded… What were the odds? About as likely as a lord and a beat cop becoming involved in a passionate affair.

His visit to the station house proved useless; Turnbull had gone for the night. Connor asked Turnbull’s best mate, Whiting, where he might find the man.

Whiting shrugged. “Not at home, that’s for sure. He and his missus are on the outs.” The man frowned. “What do you want with him?”

“Some questions. They’ll keep till I see him next.”

Connor asked a few others if they knew anything about Turnbull’s whereabouts, but if they knew, they wouldn’t share with him.

On the way out of the station, he passed the superintendent’s office, closed and empty this time of night. He considered breaking in and searching for evidence but felt fairly certain Higgins wouldn’t write down anything to tie him to the unknown politician. Best simply to act like normal and keep his ears open.

Connor stopped by the nearest pub where cops gathered after work, but no Turnbull there either. He decided to go to the rented room where Bertrand had been taken. The directions Bertrand had given were clear. Though the inn was quite far, Connor walked there, giving him plenty of time to think about what he planned to do. Even if he learned the identity of Bertrand’s attacker, did he dare arrest the man? If the situation was as he suspected, this man could be above the reach of the law.

And then, because he couldn’t go more than two minutes without thinking of the man, his mind drifted to Wickersham. Their interaction this evening had been all business, which was what Connor told himself he wanted. But, he couldn’t stop recalling how attractive Wickersham had looked with his shirtsleeves rolled up to display muscular forearms, as he held the drawing pad and pencil. His long-fingered hands had riveted Connor’s attention, since he couldn’t stop remembering what those hands had looked like grasping his cock.

“Enough now,” Connor reprimanded himself aloud and, for once, there was no one in earshot to give him a strange look. He reached the dilapidated inn Bertrand had described and made his way inside.

At Connor’s knock, a burly fellow came to the door of the ground-floor flat. He continued to chew whatever he’d been eating as he looked Connor up and down. “Yeah?”

“You have a room to rent?”

“By the week. Cash up front.”

“Is the third-floor corner room available?”

Dark eyes narrowed. “Could be. Who’s asking?”

“I thought this was a discreet sort of place. What does it matter?”

“You smell like a copper to me.” He gave an exaggerated sniff with his big nose. “Don’t want trouble here.”

“In that case, you’ll assist me. Tell me something about the man who rented that room five nights ago.”

“I don’t ask for names. I take the money and clean up the place between renters.” He started to close the door.

Connor put his foot in the opening and pulled back his jacket to reveal the nightstick he kept on him even when off duty. “I don’t want trouble either, or to investigate what goes on here. Just tell me anything you can remember about the man who rented that room. What does he look like? Has he used your place before? Did he bring a guest here?”

The Italian looked like he was considering plowing one large fist into Connor’s face, but at last he answered, “Average looking, brown hair, medium height. Talked like a swell. I never saw him coming or going.”

“You didn’t hear any yelling or fighting or see signs of a struggle afterward?”

“No,” the man answered sullenly.

“Give me the key. I want to look around.”

“Pay for a week, and you can do whatever you want.”

Connor considered using his authority to force the man, but it was easier to pay. He took the key and mounted the steps.

The hall was dimly lit and the plaster on the walls was crumbling. He unlocked a room that contained a bed pushed against one wall, a small table, and a wooden chair. Room enough to live in briefly, or to take a guest for some privacy.

Gentlemen often kept flats for their affairs in quiet middle-class neighborhoods. But for the sorts of things Bertrand’s attacker did, the privacy of this place in the seamier side of the city was better. No one would question screams or interrupt his play.

Connor studied every detail of the room, crouching to look under furniture and in corners for any shred of evidence, but the room was clean—or as clean as the landlord bothered to keep it.

He sank down on the chair and stared at the bed, picturing the details Bertrand had confided in him when Wickersham left the room to get his drawing paper. A blow to the head from behind had driven Bertrand to his knees. He’d barely been conscious when his attacker stripped and bound him to the bed before stuffing a rag into Bertrand’s mouth to keep him from crying out.

After that, Bertrand described abuse that went on for hours or what seemed like days. The sadist cut him, beat him, but worst of all assaulted him in intimate ways. He’d been raped by objects and left to lie in his own urine and blood while his torturer left the room for periods of time.

“He said such punishment befitted filth like me. That he was teaching me a lesson I needed to learn. I thought he’d kill me,” Bertrand said in a monotone. “And after a time, I began to wish he would.”

Connor had wanted to shake Bertrand for being foolish enough to continue upstairs with the stranger after it became clear the man wasn’t taking him home to sing for dinner guests. But mostly he wanted to kill the fiend who’d injured the young man.

He’d make this man pay for his crime, whatever lengths it required.

*

After sitting with Bertrand until his guest slept again, Avery didn’t go to bed. He couldn’t rest but anxiously awaited Connor’s return with whatever information he might have gathered. He sat in his study, smoking a cigar, sipping brandy, and adding more shading to the sketch of Bertrand’s attacker, who looked more and more familiar to him, although he couldn’t place the face. Then he simply stared into the fire, waiting, while hours slipped past.

Finally he must have dozed, for he jerked upright at the distant sound of knocking on the front door. He hurried to answer it before Greeley was awakened.

Connor stood on his front step, face in profile, watching a milk cart pass on its predawn delivery. When he turned toward Avery, Avery’s heart followed the old cliché and skipped a beat almost literally. His chest tightened, making him fear for his health before it eased. Such a reaction to the sight of a handsome man. Avery was well acquainted with lust, and this wasn’t the same thing, which was troubling.

“Come in,” he welcomed his early morning guest. “Have you been up all night? I’ll find something for you to eat.”

He took Connor’s coat and hat and ushered him to the breakfast room. Avery wouldn’t ring for a servant to bring food at this early hour. He didn’t want the interruption. Luckily, his staff was used to their master’s odd ways and occasional insistence on doing things for himself. He poked around the larder and returned with a platter of bread, cheese, and fruit.

“I didn’t wait for the kettle to heat, so there’s no tea. But I’ve poured you a glass of cold water.”

“Thank you.” Connor began to eat.

Avery sat near him at the table, close enough that their knees bumped underneath it. He gave Connor time to devour some food before questioning him. “Did you learn anything?”

“I have some ideas. I don’t want to discuss the investigation until I know more.”

“But if I know what you know, I might be able to help you.” Avery recognized the frown that told him Constable Tate disagreed, so he rushed on. “I believe you’re working on your own time and have no other officer to discuss things with. Please, allow me to be useful.”

Connor studied the slice of apple in his hand. “Did you make a sketch from Bertrand’s description?”

“I did. While I’m not acquainted with every member of society, the image looks rather familiar to me. But not knowing if my depiction truly matches Bertrand’s tormentor, it’s difficult to tell.”

“Bring me the drawing.”

Avery found he quite liked being ordered. It wasn’t something he was used to. He hopped up and went to retrieve his sketchbook from the study.

He handed it to Connor and stood looking over his shoulder at the image he’d studied for hours last night.

“This isn’t the man who dumped Bertrand in the alley, but his torturer, whose face he recalls very clearly. I feel as if I’ve met him before. Perhaps someone I was introduced to at a house party or some other gathering.” Avery glanced down at the top of Connor’s head. His hair grew in a neat circular whorl from a point on the crown. It was so lustrous and dark, Avery longed to stroke it, but he kept his hands to himself.

Connor glanced up at him. “So you believe you know this man?”

“Maybe I was introduced to him once, or he was pointed out to me but I never spoke to him.” He clicked his tongue. “I’m sorry. I can’t quite pinpoint the memory.”

“Don’t push yourself. Forcing a thought rarely produces anything. It’s when one focuses on something else that it pops into mind.”

Avery nodded. At the moment, there was only one thing he was focused on: Connor’s moving mouth. It would be easy to bend down and kiss lips that would taste of apples.

Connor’s gaze shifted from Avery’s eyes to his mouth. The desire wasn’t one-sided. Despite the serious nature of what they discussed, neither of them could avoid their attraction for long.

Avery gave up on restraining himself and dove like a seagull nabbing fish from the waves. One hot, hard press of lips. The door to the breakfast room opened, and he abruptly pulled away.

“Good morning, sir. I didn’t realize you had a guest. Is there anything I can get for you?” his housekeeper asked.

“No, Mrs. Pope. We’ve got all we need here. Tell Cook not to bother about breakfast, unless…” He raised an eyebrow at Connor. “Are you still hungry?”

Connor rolled his eyes at Avery’s stress on the word hungry. “I’ve had quite enough, thank you. I must be going home to sleep. I’ve a shift tonight.”

“Sleep here,” Avery blurted. “I’ve plenty of guest rooms. That way, when you wake, you may talk to Bertrand again.” He glanced at the housekeeper. “Mrs. Pope, prepare the green room for Officer Tate, please.”

“I—” Connor opened his mouth as if in preparation for saying I can’t or I won’t, but in the end, he gave a brief nod. “It would be more convenient. Thank you.”