Plainclothes.
But he could smell it on them.
Though there was something off about the scent.
“Is this the residence of Kathryn Jansen?” the one in front asked.
“Who’s asking?” he returned.
They both pulled out badges.
He studied them closely and made a “hup” noise when they moved to stow them before he was done memorizing the badge numbers.
They seemed impatient with this, but Boone did what he had to do before he looked between them and asked, “What’s your business with Ryn?”
The one in front was spokesman.
“Is she home?”
“I’ll repeat, what’s your business with Ryn?” he said.
This time, the one behind spoke up.
“Corinne Morton was found dead last night. Homicide.”
Corinne Morton.
Cisco’s attorney.
And the person who set Ryn up for a chat with the guy.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“It was reported by her husband that Kathryn Jansen is an acquaintance and she was at their home two nights ago. That’s what this is about,” the guy in back said.
No, what it was about was that husband shared Ryn had a chat with Cisco in Corinne Morton’s house two nights ago, something Cisco asked Morton to arrange.
“Names,” Boone grunted.
“Detective Mueller,” front guy said.
“Bogart,” back guy said.
“Straight through to the living room,” he instructed. “I’ll get her.”
He opened the door farther, but stepped the other way, so he was blocking the hall to her bedroom, which had its door at the end.
Him doing this didn’t stop both men trying to see past him as they moved in.
When they were through, he closed and locked the door, checked they stopped in the living room, and turned to hoof it down the hall.
She was standing in the door, nightie gone, and thank fuck she didn’t put on those seriously sweet, but also seriously sexy-short cutoffs. She had on a pair of joggers that ended just below her calves and were camo, except the camo was tans and beiges and pinks. She’d pulled on a tight pink tank up top under which she had a bra.
She was also wearing an expression that stated flatly she was freaked.
She’d heard about her friend.
He made it to her, put a hand in her belly, and shoved her back into the room, stopping her and dipping his face to hers.
“Brush your teeth. Come to introduce yourself. Excuse yourself to make coffee. This all will give me time to feel them out and I’ll get the story,” he ordered.
“Corinne,” she breathed out in horror.
He cupped her jaw in both hands. “Brush your teeth, Kathryn. Take your time. Pull it together. I’ll keep them occupied.”
She nodded.
He should let it go.
But it was now very clear he could not let it go.
“Cisco is a bad guy,” he said gently.
She nodded again.
He touched the tip of his nose to hers and he liked it that she did not hide that settled her, before he took his hands from her, turned and walked swiftly to the living room.
He hit the room intent on making a number of points very clear.
He didn’t delay doing that.
“We were still in bed. Ryn’s gonna brush her teeth and make coffee. Then she’ll talk.”
Point 1: She’s mine.
Point 2: This means you’re on my turf.
Point 3: This is going to go like I want it to go, and if it doesn’t, I’ll stop it.
That last point was inferred, but he saw it register and didn’t like the sour feeling in his gut that they didn’t hide they didn’t like it.
He could get they wanted to talk to her.
He could get they’d want to know why Cisco talked to her.
But any cop with a possible witness who might conceivably have reliable intel on a decent lead for a homicide would not walk into a woman’s house on a Sunday morning and not like the fact her man was demonstrably protective about the fact there were cops on his woman’s doorstep on a Sunday morning.
Mag had shared with the team that Cisco told Ryn he’d been framed.
By dirty cops.
Not a one of them believed this story.
But Boone could not shake the feeling he was standing in Ryn’s dark cave of a living room.
With two dirty cops.
“You are?” Mueller asked.
“Boone Sadler,” he answered.
“How long have you known Kathryn?” Bogart asked.
“This is pertinent to your business here, how?” Boone asked back.
“He’s just making conversation,” Mueller mumbled.
“No, he wasn’t,” Boone returned.
Mueller, cottoning on that Boone was not just any protective boyfriend, started to study him a lot more closely.
Time to make another point.
“You know Mitch Lawson and Brock Lucas?” he asked.
Now it was both men focused more closely on him.
“Different shop. We’re Englewood PD. But yeah, we know ’em,” Mueller said.
“Yeah, they’re tight with my boss.”
Mueller shifted.
Bogart’s scrutiny of Boone intensified even further.
Yeah.
They also knew Hawk.
Point 4: I work for Hawk Delgado. Mitch Lawson and Brock Lucas are decorated cops on the force, they’re his closest buds, and so no shit will be eaten this morning in Ryn’s living room with you trying to show what you think are your big cop dicks.