The Trouble With Tony (11 page)

“Let’s discuss his case,” Trudy said, firmly changing the subject. “Have you narrowed down on a diagnosis?”

~16~

T
ONY
watched Brent pull out of the driveway and go off to work. Tony gave him ten minutes, just in case he’d forgotten something, and then he got out of the car.

The neighborhood consisted mostly of professionals who’d be at work by now. Still, there was a chance a neighbor would see him poking around. He gave himself twenty minutes. It would take that long for Brent to get back to the house from his office if a nosey neighbor happened to call him. Unlikely, but possible. Tony had to stick to his plan.

The White’s house was in a new subdivision in Bellevue. It was a white two-story with a farm house design. Like all the houses in the development, it looked vaguely fake, like a Lego or Matchbox version of a real house.

The backyard was entirely surrounded by a tall wooden fence. Tony found the gate unlatched. Just inside the gate, at the side of the house, were the garbage cans. He put on some latex gloves, opened the lids and looked inside.
Ya, Ma
, he thought,
this is what I do for a living
. He lifted out a few trash bags and poked through them carefully. It was unlikely they’d contain anything but this week’s trash, but he checked anyway.

The question that had been on Tony’s mind was this: What did Brent do with the wine bottle before the police arrived that fateful morning? The wine glass he could easily have washed and placed back in the cupboard, hidden in plain sight, as it were. But not the bottle.

He had to put himself in Brent’s mind. The man was a lawyer, and the crime had been premeditated. Brent would have planned it all, from registering for that conference in Portland to the final shovel of dirt of his wife’s coffin.
T’s
crossed,
i’s
dotted with fucking bullets.

Brent wouldn’t have dared leave the house to throw away the wine bottle that morning. Why? Because of the neighbors. Tony remembered how, the night Brent had brought the blondie home, he’d driven into the garage so the neighbors wouldn’t see her. So that morning when he’d come home from Portland, he would have been paranoid about a neighbor noticing that he came home, left again in the car, returned, and
then
called the cops about his dead wife. Brent wouldn’t have risked it.

Which meant he had to have hid the wine bottle somewhere on the property, at least until the police had finished the investigation.

Brent wouldn’t have put it in the trash, not that day, when the cops would likely go through the garbage. And he wouldn’t have washed the residue down the kitchen drain either, out of CSI-induced fear of super forensics taking place on the drain pipes. He wouldn’t have put it in the trunk of the car in case the police looked there. So what did he do with it?

Tony continued around the side of the house to the backyard. The fence was high. Only one neighbor’s house could peer into the White’s back yard from their second-story windows. If Brent knew that family’s schedule well enough, he might have felt safe that morning, safe to do whatever he needed to in the back yard to hide the evidence of his crime.

Tony didn’t know what he was looking for, but he looked. He checked out the garden hose cart, a storage bench, and a six-foot pine tree in the corner. Then he noticed the line of young rose bushes along the west wall of the fence.

There were ten of them, no more than three feet tall and sparsely leaved. Only a few of the buds had yet bloomed. The flowers were a deep, guilty red. The bed along the fence where they were planted was covered in pine chip mulch and had zero weeds.

Tony went over to the roses. He walked down the line of them, checking the soil for any disturbances.

At the end of the row, near the back fence, the last rose bush looked different. Its leaves had fallen off, and its stems were a sickly yellow. The mulch at its base was not as smooth and perfect as it was everywhere else.

Tony’s mouth was dry as he pulled out his phone. He took pictures of the bush and the surrounding area, and then he dialed his client.

“Mrs. White? It’s Tony DeMarco. Listen, I have a quick question. There are rose bushes planted at Marilyn’s house. Do you know anything about them?”

Tony listened to the answer.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll be back in touch soon.”

The rose bushes had been Brent’s idea. Marilyn had told her mother she was surprised he’d taken a sudden interest in the back yard. The bushes had gone in just a few weeks before Marilyn died. Tony checked his watch. He had ten minutes. He headed to the garage to find a shovel.

It only took Tony five minutes to ascertain that the wine bottle was no longer buried by the rose bush. He wasn’t surprised. Brent might have hidden it there the day of the crime, but as soon as he was sure he was no longer being watched, he would have dug it up again. He would have dug it up some dark night, put it in a trash bag, and taken it away in his car. He would have tossed it in some random dumpster where it would never be found.

But maybe there was some trace left. Something had nearly killed the rose bush. If there had been drugged wine left in the bottle, Brent might have let it drain out here rather than in the kitchen sink where it might be detected. Tony took several bags full of soil samples from around the rose bush and then he got out his pocket knife and took some of the roots, too, and a few of the yellowing stems. If the lab found any trace of Amoxapine in these samples, Brent could get the death penalty.

At the twenty minute mark, Tony was back in his car. He drove away.

He had a strange sense of lightness that took him a moment to identify. He should be pissed at Brent, but he wasn’t. He even found himself humming a tune, Seger’s “The Fire Down Below.”

And then it struck Tony—he was happy. The lab might or might not find evidence to convict Brent White, but the dying rose bush and disturbed soil had been the last thing Tony needed. The last thread of wariness had snapped. Brent had killed Marilyn, Tony knew it, and he had enough to present a meaningful report to Marilyn’s parents, too, something that made him feel he’d earned his keep.

Tony pulled up the text message he’d gotten earlier from Federico’s and read it again.

Heard back from 3 guys who knew Halloran. A#1 doctor, they said. Saved a lot of lives. The guy’s a gen-u-ine saint. Buy him a beer and give him a kiss for me, would ya?

Tony had freaked out about the kiss thing at first. But then he’d decided that was just Federico’s way. They were Italian. The whole family was kind of touchy-feely like that. He didn’t mean anything by it. But it was weird how much the approval of his big brother meant to Tony. After all, Federico wasn’t saying “go be gay with the guy,” he was just saying Halloran was good people. But still. After a lifetime of never being able to discuss men with his family, it felt stupidly good to know Federico respected Halloran.

Tony made up his mind. He was going to pursue Halloran, whatever it took.
Whatever
. The guy wouldn’t know what hit him.

~17~

O
N
T
UESDAY
,
Tony sat in the chair in front of Jack’s desk. Jack wore his cool, professional demeanor with absolute determination. Trudy was right. Tony was just another patient, a man like a dozen others Jack could meet if he got off his ass to go meet them.

Okay, maybe not. Jack had been around the block plenty, and he knew Tony was special. But that didn’t matter. Tony DeMarco was not for him.

Tony was watching him with interest, as if he had something on his mind.

“Your blood work came back,” Jack said, taking a piece of paper from Tony’s file. “Your testosterone levels, white blood cell count, everything looks normal. I can’t say I’m very surprised after the other night. You definitely don’t have a physical problem.”

“I told you everything worked like a charm down there. When it’s properly motivated.” There was a flirtatious spark in Tony’s eyes.

Jack ignored it. “And I think we can safely rule out asexuality.”

“If that means I don’t like sex, yeah, we can rule that out. So what exactly is my problem? Is there a name for it?”

Halloran leaned back in his chair. “First tell me about the other night. You said you’ve only ever gotten aroused when you thought about one of your ‘Fab Four’—Derry, Martin, Jason, or Aaron. So what was it that aroused you on Friday? Did you see one of them? Get a phone call?”

Tony looked down at his hands in his lap and licked his lips. “No, Doc. There’s a new guy. Number five. I only recently met him.”

Jack should have been expecting it, but he wasn’t. He felt blindsided, a bitter ache clenching his stomach. Shit. How deep under his skin
was
this guy? And when had that happened?

But no. No, this was good. This is what he needed. Knowing DeMarco had another interest would get the man out of Jack’s head once and for all.
This
was why it was pure masochism to get emotionally involved with a patient.

He managed to sound upbeat when he spoke. “Yeah? That’s good, Tony. Is this someone you met through work or socially?

“Work.” Tony didn’t look up. He was getting that creeping red blush on his neck again. Jack wondered if he found the admission embarrassing.

“Well, that may confirm what I think is going on with you.”

“What’s that?” Tony asked, looking up at last.

“Have you ever heard the term demisexual?”

Tony shook his head.

“A demisexual only experiences sexual attraction when there’s a strong emotional connection with someone. In your case, it seems like your libido is healthy enough, but you need to have that connection before you can get aroused. That’s why porn or a bar hookup doesn’t do it for you.”

Tony looked relieved. “So it has a name?”

Jack laughed. “Yes. Picky dick syndrome has a name.”

“Can you fix it?”

Jack hesitated. “I’m not sure it’s something that can or even should be fixed. But now that you know what’s going on, it should help you put aside your anxiety about ED. Maybe this new interest of yours will work out. If not, my advice would be to get out and meet people. Date. Take it slow, get to know them before attempting sex. Once you’ve made a connection, and you’re sure you have a physical attraction, you can become intimate. In the meantime, there’s no shame in using fantasies as a masturbation aid—sorry, when you ‘tenderize the steak.’”

He thought Tony would be thrilled at the news. Just having a name for something, knowing there were others like you, was often a huge relief for patients. But Tony looked anxious as he gazed down at his lap. “What is it?” Jack asked.

Tony’s spine straightened, and he sat up tall in the chair. He stared Jack in the eye. “When you did the massage, Doc… you were turned on too.”

Jack felt himself blush as Tony called him out. He steeled his face to neutrality, but his heart was thumping in his chest like a jackhammer. “It happens. I’m only human, and you’re… an attractive man.”

“Then why did you leave?”

“You’re my patient. This is about your therapy. This isn’t about me.”

Tony stood up, slowly, and took a step toward the desk. “But I wanted to touch you. The way you touched me.”

Jack swallowed. He looked down at his desk, unable to take the heat in Tony’s eyes or the sudden thundering of his own blood. “Tony… I told you, I don’t operate as a surrogate. What happened Friday was done on an emergency basis. And it will not happen again. If you want that kind of treatment, I can set you up with Michael.”

Tony was moving around the desk, slowly, and Jack didn’t know what to do. It was getting far too warm in the office, and things were sliding downhill quickly. He made a last-ditch effort to get things back under control. He leaned forward and pressed the intercom. “Loretta? I saw Michael here earlier. Can you see if he’s still around and, if so, send him to my office?”

“I don’t want to do surrogacy, Jack, not unless it’s with you,” Tony said firmly.

“Tony…. Just meet Michael. Say hello. You absolutely do not have to see a surrogate if you don’t want to. Perhaps you’d rather explore things with your, um, new interest.” Jack ignored the fact that Tony was now on
his
side of the desk. Jack opened up his file and stared at it blindly. He babbled. “However. If you do decide to proceed with surrogacy, perhaps to confirm the diagnosis, I’d recommend a slow course. Give yourself time to get to know Michael first and, uh… um.”

Tony stopped inches away. “Jack.”

Tony waited. Jack had no choice but to look up at him.

“
You
are my number five,” Tony said, looking down into Jack’s eyes. “I’ve imprinted on
you
.”

Jack felt a thrill of happiness at those words, sheer freaking delight. He absolutely shouldn’t, but he did. Tony really wanted him,
him
, uniquely. Not that it made any difference. It would still be completely unethical for him to pursue the matter. He couldn’t.

“Baby birds imprint,” Jack attempted to scoff, shaking his head.

“Baby birds and my dick.” Tony’s eyes dropped to Jack’s mouth.

“Stop it,” Jack said, but it came out way too soft and faded away into nothing.

“Can’t.” Tony leaned down, slipped a hand behind Jack’s neck, and kissed him.

It was as if Jack’s body were built entirely of tinder, bone dry from years of loneliness and feeling undesirable. And Tony’s mouth was a match. Instantly, Jack was on fire, every bit of him. Blood rushed through his body, bringing him to instant arousal. The tightly wound shroud he’d buried himself in cracked, and a younger, hungrier Jack Halloran emerged. He heard himself moan as he pushed up into that mouth, rising to his feet and throwing his arms around Tony’s neck. God, he’d missed kissing, and this kiss was definitely world-class. He devoured Tony’s mouth with lips and lathing tongue as if he had to have all of him right now, could never get enough. Tony pressed a rock-hard erection against his own aching one.