Because didn't this fandom need a coffee shop AU colliding with a gumshoe AU? No? Ooops.
And also because conversations with Snapdragon83 and Dylan Cruca frequently devolve into the writerly equivalent of "Hold my beer and watch this." I accept full blame for my questionable judgment, lol.
Will probably be longer than I planned and will likely take me months to finish. I apologize in advance.
The only thing that made Monday bearable was coffee.
Well, coffee and a chance to flirt with the gorgeous barista at his local coffee shop.
As he neared the shop, though, he saw that the door to "The Pour House" was propped open. Which might have made sense on a crisp, spring morning, but today was a hot, still, humid summer day that was already miserable at barely eight in the morning.
The former cop that still lurked inside Kurt Weller didn't like it when things seemed off.
He resisted the urge to quicken his step and instead did a slow, thorough visual sweep of the street. Nothing out of the ordinary. He only had to put one foot in the door before the wave of stifling heat—worse inside the building than out—made it clear what the problem was.
Behind the counter, Jane was fanning herself with a paper menu. The barista was tall and slender, with the most amazing green eyes he'd ever seen. And he almost stopped in his tracks when he realized she was wearing a tank top. He'd never seen her in anything other than long sleeves before. He'd seen the tattoo on her neck and the ones on the backs of her hands before, but he realized now they traveled all the way up her arms and, judging by the ink visible above the low neckline of her tank top, across her chest as well.
He wasn't usually drawn to tattoos, but on Jane, they were sexy as hell.
There was no one in line, so he made his way to the counter. He'd never have admitted it, but he tried to time his visits with the lulls in the morning rush, when he might be able to chat with her for a few minutes. He'd also tried all manner of fancy coffee drink combinations—on her recommendations—instead of his basic black coffee.
"Good morning," she said with a weary smile when he reached the counter. "Yes, the A/C is out. No, we don't know when they'll be here to fix it. And yes, I can make whatever you want iced instead of hot."
He couldn't help but grin.
She'd wrapped a headband of some sort around her head, holding her hair away from her face, but the tendrils that had escaped were forming damp curls that clung to her temples. He had the urge to reach up to brush away the drops of sweat that were beading up along her hairline.
"Rough morning?" he asked instead.
She rolled her eyes. "Tons of fun. What can I get you?"
"Large black," he said. "Iced."
"Bless you." She moved to the espresso machine. "You want an extra shot, so it's not too watered down?"
"Please." He leaned against the counter and watched her work.
There was an economical grace to her movements. She moved quickly, but the motion was always fluid, never abrupt or awkward.
He was pretty sure that "efficiency" wasn't supposed to be a turn-on, either.
She filled a plastic cup with ice and set it on the counter while the espresso brewed.
"Nice ink," he said.
He'd meant it as a compliment and was surprised when her shoulders stiffened. She relaxed them almost immediately. "Thanks."
But the cop in his head knew her smile was forced.
"What do they mean?" He kept his voice even, conversational.
She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, brushing away the sweat droplets that glistened on her skin. "I have no idea."
That stopped him. Tattoos were a pretty personal thing, and most people picked something that held some sort of meaning for them.
"You just liked the way they looked?"
"Someone did." She poured the espresso into the cup.
Someone else had decided she needed so many tattoos? Kurt wasn't sure if it was his inner cop or just what his sister would call his "overprotective male behavior" that was more concerned.
"Here's your coffee." She set the cup on the counter in front of him, but before she could turn away, he held out a business card.
"I'm a private investigator. If you want some help figuring out what they mean."
Green eyes regarded him warily, but she took the card.
"Have a good day, Jane. Good luck with the air conditioning."
###
The door was closed to the café the next morning, and the familiar arctic blast hit him when he made his way inside. There were two people in line at the counter. A woman followed Kurt through the door, and he waved her to go ahead of him.
When he finally reached the counter, Jane flashed her usual smile. "How are you?"
"Good. It's cooler in here today."
"Thank God. They didn't get here until three, but whatever it was didn't take them long to fix." She turned to the espresso machine. "Large black coffee?"
He regarded her for a second. "I never order black coffee."
She shrugged. "That's what you drink, isn't it?"
He didn't like to be easy to read, but he said only, "Maybe you should be the private investigator."
A small smile flickered briefly across her lips as she took his money and counted out his change.
"You're good at what you do, aren't you?" she asked, moving to fill his cup.
Kurt shrugged. He'd been a damned good cop. He supposed he was good private investigator. Or at least he paid his bills on time.
She wiped her palms on the black apron she wore, in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. "I'd like to hire you."
He almost dropped the cup she handed him.
"Not for the tattoos. I'm looking for someone."
He opened his mouth to reply, but she kept going. "I know what you charge. I can afford it."
He closed his mouth before he could say something really stupid like he didn't care if she could pay him or not.
He should ask her for more information before he agreed to take her case. But really, it didn't matter what she said. It probably wasn't trying to photograph an unfaithful husband, and more importantly, it was an excuse to spend time with Jane.
"What time are you done work?"
###
The sign outside the door read, "Kurt Weller, Private Investigator." Jane had researched him last night, his card propped on her nightstand.
He'd been a cop. She knew she should stay away from the cops, but from what little she'd been able to find about his police career, he seemed to have left the force under some sort of shadow.
She'd decided that could work in her favor. The last thing she wanted to do was bring any attention Shepherd's way from the police.
She didn't want to bring any attention her own way, either from Shepherd or the police. But she'd gone as far as she could go on her own. There was no way she could find Roman by herself. She needed help from someone who had greater resources than she did, someone who could be discreet in his inquiries without leading straight back to her.
Someone she could trust.
She didn't trust easily. Life had taught her that not many people could be depended upon when the chips were down. But life had also taught her to follow her instincts, and her instincts told her to trust Kurt Weller.
She sucked in a breath and opened the door to the office.
"Can I help you?"
Whatever she'd expected, it hadn't been a bright and modern office. Or the dark-haired receptionist who regarded Jane with a suspicious look that only deepened as her gaze rested on the tattoo visible on Jane's neck.
Jane straightened her spine. She'd had plenty of practice being looked down on for the tattoos. She wasn't about to take any grief from this woman. "Jane Kruger," she said coolly. "I have an appointment."
The receptionist didn't look impressed. One perfectly-groomed eyebrow rose and hovered for a moment before she pushed a button on her phone. "Ms. Kruger is here."
A moment later, the door behind her opened, and Kurt Weller emerged from his inner sanctum.
He was wearing the same chambray button-down shirt he'd had on when she'd seen him that morning, but he seemed somehow larger than he had in the café. More solid.
And just as good-looking. But she pushed that thought away, blaming it on her nun-like lifestyle of late.
"Jane." He stepped around his assistant's desk. "Did you meet Tasha? This is Tasha Zapata, my assistant."
The brunette nodded at Jane, her assessing look not letting up one iota. Knowing how much the agency charged, Jane was pretty sure that the women who came through the door were more likely to be wearing pearls and heels than tattoos and cargo pants. She returned Zapata's look with one of her own, refusing to be intimidated.
"Come on in." Kurt stepped aside to follow Jane through the door to his office, his hand brushing lightly against the small of her back as he followed her through.
Jane tried to ignore the shivers the casual touch ignited. That wasn't why she was here. And she'd learned her lesson about allowing someone to get too close. She knew better now. Right?
His office was also bright. And modern, not in the stark-and-metal sense, but in the simple lines and lack of fussy adornments. There was a framed geometric print hanging on the wall beside the door that she thought might have been by Klee. Direct and straightforward, rather like the man waving her into a seat in front of his desk.
She sat down and was mildly surprised when he took the chair beside hers, rather than across the desk. "So who are you looking for, Jane?"
"My brother." She reached into the small knapsack she carried in lieu of a purse and extracted her sketchbook. She pulled two photographs from their shelter within the pages and handed them to Kurt.
"We were orphaned when we were very young. He's the only family I have. He disappeared ten years ago." She nodded at the first photograph, which showed a young man, handsome in spite of the scar that split his eyebrow and continued down his cheek.
"Ten years?" Kurt asked. "That's a long time."
Her chin shot up. "He's not dead. That picture was taken about a year and a half ago." She pointed to the second picture, a grainy photo that had come from a security camera. The face in the photo had the same scar as the younger man, but sported longer hair and a thick beard.
"This might be more helpful." She carefully extracted a page that she had torn from her sketchbook that morning and handed it over. She'd spent hours looking at the photo, trying to translate the familiar eyes and expression into this newer, older face.
His eyebrows shot up. "You drew this?"
She nodded. "That's what he looks like now."
He didn't take his eyes off the sketch. "You'd make a hell of a police sketch artist, if you felt like giving up the coffee business," he murmured absently. Before she could respond to that suggestion, he continued, "When did you lose him?"
She drew a deep breath. She'd spent last night working out in her head how much she could tell him. Enough to find Roman. Enough not to waste the fee she was paying Weller. But not enough to reveal the things that could only do harm.
"When I was seven, Roman five, we were adopted by a woman named Ellen Briggs. She wasn't particularly maternal." To put it mildly. "We tried to run away, but because we were minors, they sent us right back to her. So when I turned eighteen, I ran away for good. Got a job, found a place to live. I went back to find Roman, to tell him I was going to try to get custody of him myself… but they were gone." She shook her head. "I looked and looked, but there was no trace of them."
Weller frowned. "So no… forwarding address? School records? Drivers' licenses?"
Jane shook her head. "We moved around a lot. Ellen was good at… disappearing. She homeschooled us, so there were never any records. Sometimes we changed names. I was born Alice Jane Kruger. When I was ten, Ellen changed my name to Remi. Roman was born Ian Kruger. I think he still goes by Roman, but I don't know what last name he's using. It changed a lot when we were kids."
"So why all the moves? What was Ellen running from?"
This was the tricky part. "I don't know exactly. Sometimes she'd just come home and announce we were leaving."
"Was she involved in anything illegal?"
Jane forced herself to shrug. "I don't know." This wasn't about Shepherd. The last person she wanted to find was Shepherd.
Fortunately, Weller didn't push. "I'll need all the addresses and names you remember."
She nodded and pulled a folded sheet of paper out of her book and handed it over to him. "That's all of them. The one at the bottom was where we were living when I left."
"So where was this one taken?" He held up the second photograph.
"About eighteen months ago, I stumbled across someone who remembered us. He said he'd seen Roman working at an office park. I started watching for him, and I saw him one day, but he disappeared before I could talk to him. That's off the security feed there." She nodded at the photo.
"He didn't come back?" prompted Weller, when she didn't continue.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I was in a car accident that night. By the time I was able to go back, he was gone, and no one there knew who he was." Even the security guard who'd been willing to help her was gone.
"Who was driving?"
"What?" She frowned at him in puzzlement.
"The accident. Who was driving?"
There was something in Weller's steady, almost unblinking gaze that made her want to fidget, but she forced herself to stay still.
"My boyfriend." Maybe. She'd probably never know.
"Were you hurt?"
She nodded. "Head trauma. I was in a coma for about a month."
He continued firing questions at her. "Broken bones? Other injuries?"
"No. I was lucky."
His chin moved up and down in a slow, thoughtful nod. "I'll need to talk to your boyfriend."
"Oh. Ah…" She swallowed. How was Oscar relevant to finding Roman? "We broke up. I don't know where he is now."
"How long after the accident?"
While I was unconscious, actually. But all she said was, "Not long."
"It's not much to go on," he said. His perceptive blue eyes studied her, and she had the unsettling feeling that he was seeing far beneath her skin, to all the things that she had to hide. "I can't guarantee anything," he said gently.
"I know. I just…" She looked down at the sketchbook in her lap. More pages than not were covered in images, memories, of her brother. "I've been looking for so long. And he's all I have."
He looked at the pictures and the pages she'd given him and then back up at her. "So… What do your tattoos have to do with your brother's disappearance?"
