The Hitchhiker Murders

Chapter 1-2

“First stop, Andrew’s apartment?” Quinn asked after Mrs. Taylor left.

“Yep, but not for a couple of hours. Presuming his roommates hold normal jobs, they probably won’t be home until sometime after five.”

“Or they’ll have left by then, if, like Andrew, they’re restaurant workers.”

Brent snorted. “With our luck…”

“So grab your jacket and let’s move.”

“Yes, bossman.” Brent ducked when Quinn took a swipe at him, only to find himself being hugged by his husband.

“You know this is a democracy. You can always say no,” Quinn said, giving him a fast kiss.

“I never say no to you,” Brent responded. “Well, almost never, after the first couple of weeks.”

The two men had met when they’d been students at UCD, working on their bachelor degrees in criminal justice. Brent was a year ahead of Quinn and had taken the younger man under his wing—and into his bed two weeks later when they discovered there was an undeniable attraction between them.

Right after graduation, Brent had applied for and received his private investigator’s license—as had Quinn a year later. They moved in together and set up their business. At first it had been called Collins and Brannon Investigations.

Then, late one evening after celebrating the successful conclusion of their first truly difficult case, Brent had gotten down on one knee and asked Quinn to marry him. Quinn gleefully accepted.

In 2010, there were only a few states where gay marriage was legal. Luckily, New Hampshire, where Quinn had grown up, was one of them. They flew out, after ‘warning’ Quinn’s family why they were coming. The wedding was all they hoped it would be, thanks to Quinn’s parents. The party afterward was a rousing celebration lasting until early the next morning. When it was over and they had recovered, Quinn and Brent returned to Denver—married men and ecstatically so.

Brent paused at Milly’s desk to tell her where they were going, asked her to send Mrs. Taylor the form she needed to fill out, and then he and Quinn headed to the garage where they parked their car.

Quinn wondered, as they pulled up in front of Andrew’s residence, if Mrs. Taylor considered the place a big step down from her home. It wasn’t actually in an apartment building. The address was a small house in a less than classy neighborhood at the edge of the downtown area. While the lawn was mowed, the bushes in front of the front porch were in definite need of trimming, and the paint on the porch uprights was beginning to fade.

There were four mailboxes by the front door. Two were for the ground floor, the others for the second floor—one of which listed three names, Brown, Wilcox, and Taylor.

“Best bet, the house is broken into units,” Quinn commented with a smirk.

“No bet.”

Beside the mailboxes was a row of buzzers, with names below each one. Brent pressed the one for Taylor and company.

“Yo,” a disembodied voice answered after a short wait.

Quinn gave Brent a thumb’s-up before saying, “I’m looking for Andrew Taylor.”

“Not here,” the voice replied.

“I’m here on behalf of his mother. May I talk to you about him?”

“You are.”

“I mean face to face.”

There was a long pause, then he was told to take the stairs at the end of the hallway up to the second floor, and the buzzer sounded to unlatch the front door. When they got inside, a light smell of pot greeted them. It got heavier as they walked up the stairs. A young man—Quinn guesstimated he was barely out of his teens—waited for them in the upper hallway.

“You didn’t say there were two of you,” the guy said.

“You didn’t ask. Which one are you? Brown or Wilcox?”

“Wilcox. Mike Wilcox. Who are you?”

“Quinn and Brent Collins,” Quinn replied. “We’re private detectives, hired by Mrs. Taylor.”

“Just like on TV, huh? You might as well come in, since you’re here.” Mike opened the door right behind him.

If asked, Quinn would have admitted he was surprised when they entered the apartment. The living area was neat, with decent if not fancy furniture. Three doors led off it to—Mike showed them—the kitchen and two bedrooms.

“This one’s mine and Vick’s,” Mike said about the bigger one. It had two beds with a dresser between them.

Andrew’s bedroom was sizably smaller, and not nearly as neat. Clothes were piled on the only chair, and the bed had obviously been ‘made’ by pulling the spread over tumbled sheets. A bong stood on the small dresser along one wall. No real shock in Quinn’s opinion, since Mrs. Taylor said Andrew was open about indulging.

“Do you mind answering a few questions about Andrew?” Brent asked Mike when they returned to the living room.

“Ask away.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Me? Just since he moved in here, which was a couple of months ago. He’s Vick’s friend. They knew each other in college. When he needed a place to stay, Vick said he could room with us.” Mike smiled dryly. “Of course that means Vick and I share a room now, but having Andrew here helps with the rent, so it’s worth it.”

“Where is Mr. Brown?”

“Just call him Vick, and he should be home soon. He works a day job. Me, I’m a waiter like Andrew, but not at the same place.”

“How do the three of you get along?”

Mike shrugged. “No problems really. Andrew’s a bit heavy into the weed.” He snickered. “I can get a great contact high sometimes when he’s smoking.”

“Do you know where he gets it?”

“A couple of different shops in the area. You do know it’s legal now.”

Brent laughed. “Yeah, so we heard.”

“Do you know who he was going to visit in Idaho Springs?” Quinn asked Mike.

“Like we told Mrs. Taylor, no clue. Andy just said they were some guys he met at the place he works. Customers. They’d been in a couple of times and the second time they told him about a party up in the mountains.”

“Did he suggest you and Vick come with him?”

“Naw. He did his thing, we do ours. Besides, I work weekends, so for me it was a no-go.”

The door to the apartment opened and a young man Mike introduced as Vick came into the room. Mike told him who Quinn and Brent were.

“Private eyes?” Vick grinned. “Just like on TV.”

Brent chuckled. “So Mike pointed out. Trust me, our lives are nothing the guys in those shows.”

Vick nodded, hanging his jacket on a hook by the front door. “So, you’re looking for Andy. Best bet, he ran into someone at the party he was going to who had some primo weed, got high, and is still sleeping it off.”

“After five days?” Quinn asked in disbelief.

“Yeah, good point. Maybe there was some guy who caught his fancy and…you do know he’s gay?”

“Yes,” Brent replied. “His mother told us.”

“Good, because I was afraid I might have put my foot in it.”

“Did he do that often?” Brent asked. “Go off with someone?”

Vick shrugged. “Not a lot, but sometimes.”

“Did he ever bring anyone back here?”

“Definitely not. We have a deal. We don’t bring girls here; he doesn’t bring guys. Well, not for s*x. We do have parties sometimes, but they’re pretty tame.”

Brent glanced at Quinn in inquiry. Quinn lifted a shoulder. It was their signal they had nothing more to ask at the moment.

“Okay. Thank you for talking with us,” Quinn said. “If you think of anything that might be helpful, please give us a call.” He gave each young man a business card and he and Brent left.

“Do you think they were telling the truth?” Quinn asked when they were back in the car.

“Probably. It sounds like Andrew wasn’t too forthcoming on details about this party.”

“Yeah. And he didn’t suggest they come with, even though at least one of them undoubtedly has a car.” Quinn snapped his fingers. “I’ll be right back.” He got out and returned to the porch, pressing the buzzer for the apartment. When Mike answered, Quinn asked, “Did Andrew use public transportation when he went places in town?”

“Yeah. He was the epitome of ‘bus bunny,’ unless we were grocery shopping. Then he came with whichever one of us was doing it for the week.”

“Thanks. That’s all I needed to know.”

“You bet.”

“In town, he took the bus everywhere,” Quinn told Brent after getting back in the car.

“So chances are he took one to…probably Golden. From there he’d have his choice of going up I-70 or Clear Creek Canyon Road, to get to the Springs.”

“If he knew what he was doing, he’d have taken the Canyon road, in order to avoid being picked up for hitchhiking.”

“And from what his mother said, he hitched a lot, so you’re probably right.”

“What say we stop and get something to eat,” Quinn suggested. “I am not in the mood to cook.”

Brent patted Quinn’s thigh. “When are you ever?”

“Good point.”

“Dae Gee?”

Quinn nodded. “Definitely.”

Several minutes later they entered the restaurant. The hostess greeted them with a smile and seated them at one of smaller tables. They ordered beer then perused the menu—not that they didn’t almost know it by heart, as often as they visited.

Brent decided on Kimchee Cheegae. When Quinn chose Soon Dobu Cheegae, telling the waitress he wanted it extra hot, Brent shook his head. “You know you’re going to regret that by the time you finish.”

“Ah, but the joy while eating it,” Quinn responded.

They bantered until their meals arrived, sharing the side dishes while they waited. Brent laughed when Quinn began drinking as much water as he ate of the tofu stew, to cool his mouth. When they finished, they went next door to a recently opened ice cream shop to get cups of whiskey-infused ice cream for dessert and headed home.

* * * *

“You need a shave,” Quinn said, rubbing his knuckles over the stubble on Brent’s jaw as they got ready for bed.

“What I really need is this.” Brent wrapped his hand around Quinn’s hard erection as soon as Quinn was naked.

Quinn hissed in a breath. “What’s mine is yours.”

“I know, my love.” Brent’s arms encircled Quinn’s waist, pulling him into a tight embrace. Their lips meshed in a fevered kiss. Their c***s rubbed together as they tumbled onto the bed, chest to chest, the kiss continuing for several moments more as questing tongues explored well-known mouths.

Then Quinn slid slowly down Brent’s body, lavishing it with licks and light nips until he was facing the object of his desire.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Brent told him. “Not after what you had for dinner.”

Quinn looked up innocently at his husband. “I had ice cream afterward.”

“So I’ll end up with a burning, drunk c**k,” Brent retorted with feigned worry.

Since he knew Brent was just teasing, Quinn proceeded to take Brent’s c**k into his mouth, laving his tongue over it, eliciting deeper and deeper moans as he drew it into his throat, pulled back, and did it again.

“You’re…going to make me…forget…even my name,” Brent groaned.

Quinn released him to reply with a wink, “It’s Brent Collins. My husband and the love of my life.”

“As you are mine.” Brent beckoned and Quinn moved up so they could kiss again. “I need you—”

“In you,” Quinn said, leaning over to get the lube from the nightstand. “Legs up.”

“Your wish…” Brent pulled his legs up, avidly watching Quinn.

When his c**k and fingers were well lubed, Quinn eased his forefinger into Brent’s waiting entrance, probing until he found Brent’s gland, then stroking it slowly.

“You do like making me crazy,” Brent whimpered.

“Of course. That’s half the fun.” Quinn pushed in a second finger, stretching Brent, then withdrew them both. He was about to enter Brent when his husband pulled him down to kiss him so deeply Quinn almost came on the spot.

“I love you,” Brent murmured. “Now…fuck me.”

“With pleasure.” Quinn pushed his c**k slowly through Brent’s entrance into his tight channel, until it was fully engulfed. Then, with a rhythm born of long practice, he began to ride Brent, their gazes locked on each other as they savored the pleasure they were giving and receiving. Quinn wrapped one hand around Brent’s c**k, pumping it as he thrust in, pulled back, and thrust in again. He fought the need to come, waiting for Brent. The wait was rewarded when Brent’s channel tightened around him and, as one, they exploded.

“So good,” Brent gasped when Quinn collapsed on him. “I think…it gets better…every time.”

Quinn smiled, dropping a kiss on Brent’s lips. “You say that—every time.”

“Well, it does,” Brent protested. “Now,” he added with a deep, if obviously mock, sigh, “I guess we should go clean up.”

“Then get some well-earned sleep.”

“Yeah, because in the morning—”

Quinn put his hand over Brent’s mouth. “No business talk. We’ll deal with the morning when it gets here.” He pulled out, got up, and tugged Brent to his feet. “Shower, bed, sleep, in that order.”

Brent laughed. “Yep. I’m not sleeping in the shower. It would be damned uncomfortable.”

“No kidding.”