“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.
“I know you’re going to think I’m fangirling, but I just can’t believe you’re willing to take this case. The gay detectives! This is so exciting!”
“Well,” North said with a sidelong glance at Shaw, “there might have been a miscommunication. I’m interested in hearing about the job you want us to do, but I have to be honest and tell you we’re very—”
“Very interested,” Shaw said. “Very excited about a chance to do some work with the LGBTQ community.”
Yasmin nodded. Then her mouth widened into an O. “You mean us! Oh, right. Yes, that would be great. I mean, you’re gay! It would be fantastic.”
“Right,” North said with another of those sidelong looks. “We’re definitely gay.”
“And you’re boyfriends,” Yasmin said, clasping her hands.
Another of those sidelong looks. Shaw discreetly rolled his chair back a few inches and kicked North in the ankle. “Why don’t you tell us,” Shaw said, ignoring North’s murderous glare, “what’s going on? You mentioned death threats. Against you, in particular? What’s been happening?”
“Well, I don’t care what anyone says: we can’t cancel the con. We can’t. I won’t. I’m not going to let some pathetic nobody terrorize us into ruining a wonderful time for hundreds of people.”
“You’re talking about the…” Shaw checked his notes, which he now saw were written on the back of a Jack in the Box receipt. “Queer Expectations Convention? Is that right?”
“Yes. The premiere gay romance literature convention in the world.”
“The only,” North coughed into his fist.
But Yasmin had heard him, and she shook her head. “Oh no, there’s another. Gay Romance Literature. Very…hoity toity. Noses in the air. Not like us; we just want to have fun.”
“And this con, Queer Expectations, it’s being held in St. Louis this year?”
“That’s right.” Yasmin squirmed to the edge of her seat, snow pants crinkling. “A few weeks ago, I started getting emails. ‘I’m going to get my revenge.’ ‘You’re all going to pay.’ That kind of thing. Then the physical letters started showing up. They had the words cut out of magazines, you know. They said the same kind of things. I brought them, in case you want to see them.” She gestured to a folder on her lap. “And I checked in at the hotel Monday; Tuesday morning, I had another one. Someone had slipped it under the door while I was asleep. It’s crazy. The whole business is insane. And of course, someone leaked it, and our guests are going wild. We already have a lot of people who suffer from anxiety, and this is going to put them in the ground. It really will.”
“I’m not sure,” North said slowly, “what you want us to do. This sounds like something you need to take to the police.”
“I tried! They’re not interested. Actually, if I’m being frank, they looked at me like I’m crazy. Very homophobic. It’s probably because we’re in Missouri.”
“The Metropolitan Police aren’t always my favorite people, but they wouldn’t ignore a credible threat.”
“But they did. I mean, they are. They talked on and on about being careful and keeping an eye out for anyone strange or unfamiliar. It’s a romance convention! We’re all strange! And we love it that way. I tried to explain to them that something horrible is going to happen, but they just won’t listen.”
“Did the messages you received have any specifics?” Shaw asked.
“Like what?”
“Well, anything, really. Any details.”
Yasmin made a face, opened the folder, and spread a half dozen pages on the desk. They were all as she had described them: cut-out words pasted onto copy paper, spelling out a variety of threats: I’m going to get you, No one is safe, Watch your back. Shaw sighed and looked at North.
“Oh no,” North said. “You’re the one who opened this particular door to Batshit Land.”
“The problem,” Shaw said, “is that even if the police wanted to help, there’s nowhere for them to start. You might be the intended target, but you might not—this one says, ‘I’m watching all of you.’ There’s no sign of when or how someone might be in danger. We’re even making the assumption that this is connected to the con. You’re giving the police a black hole of possibilities, and they’d need limitless resources in order to even try to make a difference.”
“But they can’t do this. You’re not allowed to threaten people.”
“You’re right; harassment is against the law, but it’s a misdemeanor. Unless you can give them a viable suspect, they just don’t have the resources to run down something like this.”
Yasmin stared at them, mouth agape, her breath stirring invisible eddies with the smell of cigarette smoke. “Fine. Fine. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? I’m going to hire you: private detectives. Gay private detectives.”
“If I have to hear about how gay I am one more time,” North said to Shaw, “I’m going to shit a unicorn.”
“We’re not gay detectives,” Shaw said to Yasmin. “We’re detectives who happen to be gay. And this isn’t a gay detective agency. It’s a detective agency that helps the LGBTQ community.”
“Or anyone who can pay.”
“Well,” Yasmin said, “I fit both those criteria. I can pay, and I’m part of the LGBTQ community. I mean, I’m straight, but I write about gay men. I’m an ally.”
“We know,” Shaw said. “And we’re really grateful. And we’re looking forward to reading your books.”
North cleared his throat.
“We really are,” Shaw said. “I think North got a little chub just looking at the cover for Spankin’ Angels, and I really liked the description of Marcus the Marquis, especially the part about the Prince Albert—”
“What Shaw is trying to say, in perhaps the most backassward way possible, is that we can’t take this case. We’d like to help you, and I’m sorry this is upsetting for you, but you’re asking us to do something impossible. We don’t have the resources to provide security for an entire convention. Your best bet is to do what the police recommended: remind people to be vigilant, keep hotel staff and security in the loop, and immediately inform the police if anything suspicious happens.”
“What if I have a suspect?”
“You just said you have no idea—”
“We had to ban a convention-goer last year. She was way too aggressive with the men who attended. Objectifying. Sexualizing. She hired a young man, a hustler, to seduce a very well-known author, and then the police got involved because it was a vice sting. It was awful. We had to tell her she was never welcome back at Queer Expectations.”
“Why didn’t you mention this to the police?” Shaw said.
“Because…because I didn’t think of it at the time.”
“Very convenient,” North said.
“I didn’t! A friend just told me that Leslie—she’s the woman I’m talking about—Leslie is planning on crashing the con. And sitting here, listening to you, it all suddenly clicked.”
“What a wonderful coincidence,” North said.
“Exactly,” Yasmin said, straightening in her seat with excitement.
“No,” Shaw said. “He’s being sarcastic.”
“Oh.” Yasmin’s expression fell, then she brightened again. “I can pay you to see if Leslie really is in the area. That’s something you can do, right? You can just try to find her. Come to the convention. See if she’s hanging around. And if she’s not, if she’s safely back in Utah or wherever she normally is, your job is done, and you get paid. Although I really hope you’ll attend the whole convention because you’ll be our local celebrities.”
“Would you give us a moment?”
“What? Oh, yes. Of course. We can even pay you for your time at the convention. Your hourly rate. You really don’t understand—everyone will be so excited.”
When the door shut behind her, North spun in his chair to face Shaw. “No.”
“Hold on.”
“No way, Shaw. This is amateur hour. We might as well be investigating a high-school mean girls club. Samantha told Sarah who told Megan that the boys’ swim team stuffs their speedos.”
“First of all, you would know, because I remember freshman year you bragging about that water polo player and telling me, quote, ‘Turns out I like the taste of chlorinated balls.’”
North made a disgusted noise. “Shaw, we’ve got four open jobs from Aldrich right now. Four. I honestly don’t know the last time I slept more than six hours in a night, the paperwork keeps piling up, and on top of that, we’ve got independent clients who are willing to pay obscene hourly rates for us to take pictures of cheating spouses. This is a fan convention for romance readers. Gay romance readers. How are they going to pay us? In poppers?”
“Actually, that’s not a bad—”
“This is what we’ve worked incredibly hard for, Shaw. This. What we’ve got right now. We built Borealis from nothing, and it’s finally paying off. Why can’t we just enjoy that things are good right now?”
“We didn’t start Borealis to get rich,” Shaw said quietly.
“Speak for yourself, you fucking trust-fund baby.”
With a shrug, Shaw waited, holding North’s gaze.
Outside, a diesel truck lumbered past the house, engine grumbling as the driver struggled to shift up.
North let out a wild growl. “Fine. Fine. Just shut the fuck up. If you say one more fucking word, I’m going to lose my mind.”
“All I said was that you like chlorinated balls and that you might want our clients to pay us in poppers.”
“You got what you fucking wanted, Shaw, like you always do.”
“You—”
North stabbed a finger at Shaw. “Not one. more. fucking. word.”
Shaw shrugged again.
Wiping his face, North stood. He bent, caught Shaw’s hair, and kissed him. Then he gently tugged on the hair, turning Shaw’s head, and whispered, “If you ever tell anyone how easily you just made that happen, you’re going to need a truckload of poppers to handle what I’ll do to you.”
“Is that a bad thing or a good thing? It kind of sounds like a good thing.”
North scowled, released Shaw, and headed for the door. As he pulled it open, he said, “Ms. Maldonado? We’ll take the job. The contract is standard, and we do require a retainer—” North cut off, and when he spoke again, his voice was tight and hard. “I’m with a client.”
A man’s voice, familiar, carried back to where Shaw sat: “North, North, North. Is that any way to greet your uncle?”