“Detective Palomo.” Somers shook her hand, trying to ignore how Dulac was gripping his shoulder, standing next to him like they were fraternity brothers. “Sorry you had to get started while I was on vacation.”
“On your fucking honeymoon, bro.”
“Congratulations,” Palomo said.
Somers smiled. “Thank you. How are you settling in?”
“Good, sir.”
“She’s a fucking hard-ass, John-Henry. I mean, Chief.” Dulac squeezed his shoulder in what might have been an apology. “She’s fucking hardcore.”
“Sounds like you two are hitting it off,” Somers said, but he looked a question at Palomo.
“Of course,” Palomo said in a tone that might have meant anything.
Before Somers had to respond to that, another dust cloud drew his attention. A moment later, the familiar outline of the Odyssey came into view. The minivan bounced along the ruts; Hazard was normally a careful driver, and Somers tried to catch sight of his husband behind the windshield. The glint of the November sun on the glass made it impossible. Then the angle shifted, and he glimpsed him: the massive shoulders, the dark hair that he had grown out long and wavy after leaving the force, the glitter of eyes the color of straw stubble. It was hard not to see all the ways Hazard and Colt looked the same, and Somers had to drag himself away from the thought. Behind the van, at the turn-off, cruisers kicked up more dust as they barreled down the road.
“I asked for two cars,” Somers said. “Please tell me someone didn’t get overexcited.”
“We’re just here to say hi,” Dulac said with a crooked grin. “I wasn’t going to let my best bro, I mean, like, the chief come back from vacation and not say hi. Besides, we’ve got a follow-up about fifteen minutes from here. It’s, like, barely a detour.”
The tilt to Palomo’s head suggested otherwise.
The minivan reached them first. Hazard parked behind Dulac’s Impala; when he got out, his face was a thundercloud, and Somers ran fingers through his hair and tried not to sigh. Again.
“My man!” Dulac shouted, hurrying toward Hazard.
Hazard prevented any possibility of a hug by stiff-arming the detective, which just made Dulac grin wider and clap him on the arm.
“Bro, have you seen John-Henry’s ass? I mean, the chief’s ass. Have you seen it? In uniform, I mean? It’s grade A.” Dulac clapped Hazard on the arm again, trying to keep up as Hazard walked toward Somers. “And you’re tapping that, man. You are getting that ass. Fuck yeah!”
“John,” Hazard said in a tight voice, casting a hard look at Dulac.
“Gray, cool it. In fact, just leave him alone, please.”
“Is this because he’s got that kid now?”
Up the hill, the deputies were laughing openly now. Maybe about something else, Somers told himself. Sure. Maybe. The November sun seemed too bright, and Somers raised a hand to shade his eyes. The tangle of weeds and prairie grasses in the field looked whited out by the light. He had to blink to bring Hazard’s face into focus.
“Apparently the whole fucking town knows,” Hazard said.
“Dude, it’s totally cool,” Dulac said. “You dropped a load in a chick. It happens to the best of us. Like, you were probably just this kid yourself, you know, probably still figuring things out, jacking it to hot dudes, totally convinced you were straight and you were only looking at those long-dicking videos because you were curious about their technique, and then there’s this party, and a girl comes up to you—”
“Shut. Up.” Hazard bit off the words, but otherwise, his voice was cold and empty.
Dulac froze with his mouth still open. He closed it slowly, rubbed a hand over his lips, and took a step back.
Palomo was almost smiling.
“Why don’t you guys take off?” Somers said as the Wahredua PD cruisers coasted to a stop. Dust rolled in on the air displaced by their arrival, and Somers fanned a hand in front of his face. “It’s getting crowded,” he nodded at the line of vehicles from the sheriff’s department, “and we don’t want to overstay our welcome.”
This meant another hug from Dulac for Somers—which he returned—and an attempt at a hug for Hazard—which he parried.
“Bro,” Dulac whispered a little too loudly. “We’ve got to hit St. Taffy’s soon. We need to talk.”
“I was barely gone two weeks.”
“Right, man. Totally.” He leaned closer. His voice dropped even more. “But, like, a baby Emery?”
To judge by the rumble from Hazard, the whisper still wasn’t quiet enough.
“Goodbye, Gray. Detective Palomo, please let me know if you need anything.”
Palomo nodded. Her face resumed its stony lack of expression as she followed Dulac to the Impala.
When Somers checked on his husband, Hazard was staring at him.
“What?” Somers asked.
Hazard pointed at Dulac executing a three-point turn in the Impala. “You have to lock that down.”
“He’s excited to see me again. He’s like a puppy.”
“He’s not your friend anymore, John. He’s not even your partner. He’s a subordinate.”
Somers put his hands on his hips and turned to study the two cruisers.
“Did you hear me?” Hazard asked.
“I know what he is, Ree.”
“Then act like it.”
Turning, Somers met his husband’s eyes. “Really? You want to pick a fight with me today?”
After a moment, Hazard broke their gaze and shoved his hands into his pockets. The breeze tumbled a wad of paper towels out of the field and into the ditch at the side of the dirt drive. “It’s been a shit morning,” he said, his voice barely audible.
Somers took a deep breath. Then he nodded. “Colt’s staying?”
“My options were a residential facility or a group home.”
“You got him enrolled at school?”
“He can’t sit around the house all day, John.”
“Right.” Somers forced himself to soften his voice, and he reached out and tugged on his husband’s arm until his hand came free from his pocket. Then Somers laced their fingers together and squeezed once. “We’ll figure it out.”
Hazard released a heavy breath and, a moment later, squeezed back.
Two uniformed officers were getting out of each newly arrived cruiser. From the car closest to Somers emerged Ron Gross, potbellied and balding, his uniform trousers too short and exposing white athletic socks. His current partner was a kid almost a third his age, a skinny guy with dark hair in spikes and a constant barrage of blackheads across his nose. Yarmark had been one of the previous chief’s hires, and he’d been the only exception to the parade of douchery—a series of escalating confrontations with Somers had helped straighten him out.
Paul Norman was climbing out of the second car. He’d been partnered with Gross for literally decades, and like many married couples, the two men had come to resemble each other. Neither Norman nor Gross had been pleased when Somers had broken up their partnership in order to pair them with rookies. Norman’s partner was a new hire, and Somers wasn’t sure how he was going to work out. Dusty Keller had the build and swagger of a man who thought eating whatever he wanted and lifting weights constituted the peak of physical fitness. If he didn’t break out of the tough-shit persona soon, Somers was going to have to deal with him personally—probably by kicking him to the curb.