Chapter Text
“So did you start wearing all black because you’re an international cat burglar or did you base your career choice on your wardrobe?”
David, to his credit, does not scream.
Of course he doesn’t. He’s highly capable and even more highly respected; he slips in and out of museums and penthouses without a trace. He is utterly unflappable, calm, and -
He does scream, a little bit.
When he’s recovered from his very dignified non-scream, he turns to look for the source of the voice that startled him and finds an Excel spreadsheet come to life. The guy is his age, give or take, and clean-cut in a way that David didn’t think was possible for actual human beings to be. His brown hair is cropped short and he’s dressed in a blue ensemble that David estimates cost eighty dollars max, and he’s looking at David with an openness that instantly sets him on edge.
“I’m Patrick Brewer”, he says, extending a hand. “I work for Thacker and Scott Insurance.”
David does not shake his hand. He knows of Thacker and Scott, and he knows why they have a representative here, in a quiet park in one of the nicer parts of Toronto. He knows why this guy has sought him out.
“We have a number of clients in the area”, the guy says, and looks at David expectantly.
"Mm," David says, "So you're here to investigate the recent spate of burglaries for the great and good?"
Spate, David thinks, irritated with himself. Who in real life says “spate”?
The guy - Patrick - looks thrown for a moment. David hopes he'll breeze past it, but instead he says, "Yes, our clients are very distressed by the spate in question," and fantastic, he's definitely holding back a laugh, "so I'm here on behalf of Thacker and Scott Insurance to work out where several hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewelry might have gone."
David can't read this guy at all and it's making him uncomfortable. His voice sounds close to teasing, but his words and dress sense seem far too professional for that. But he’s definitely smiling a little and his eyes, flicking over David’s face, are warm with amusement.
Then David’s brain starts working like it’s supposed to and reminds him to say something to this affable-looking man who is, presumably, about to get him sent to prison.
“Well, best of luck”, he says, “But it seems pretty careless of them to lose all those jewels.”
Patrick sits down beside David (which, no thank you) and tells him, “Thacker and Scott believes you’re responsible.” His tone is clipped, brusque, and David misses the teasing note from before. He misses Patrick’s eyes on him too: he’s sat straight-backed and confident, hands folded on top of a sensible leather satchel, his gaze taking in the park around them. It’s fall, and cool enough that the morning's frost still lingers. The leaves are turning, reds and oranges gorgeous against the cold blue of the sky.
“Oh”, David breathes. It’s all he can manage.
“You were a suspect in a string of burglaries a few years ago but it seems they couldn’t make it stick. And now you’re here, in the middle of a neighborhood suffering its own series of break-ins - they make that two strikes against you.” He looks expectantly at David.
“I don’t know what that means.”
The corners of Patrick’s mouth quirk upward for a moment.
“The police have been liaising with my firm and they’re putting together a case against you. But Thacker and Scott would prefer it if you could help us recover the missing items”, he says.
“I see”, David says, “So you're here to politely ask me to help you find some jewels, save you money, and then send me to prison? That's a hard pass.”
“Your cooperation would be noted.”
“Compelling as your offer is, I excel as a solo artist. Like Beyoncé. So you're going to have to tell your boss that you will be tracking these jewels down without my assistance”, he pauses, “Not that I'd be much help.”
Patrick's eyes are fixed on his own now. David wants to look away, to pretend this isn't happening, but he holds Patrick's gaze. His eyes are a rich brown, a few shades darker than his hair, and intense as they bore into David's.
He swallows. Patrick's eyes flick downward for a moment, away from David's, and he lets out a breath.
“You mean you didn't do it?”, Patrick asks.
“Oh, my God, imagine? I steal a diamond tennis bracelet and then sit around waiting to be arrested?” Patrick at least has the decency to look chagrined at that, and David softens a little. “No, I didn't do it.”
“Any idea who did?”, Patrick asks, and there's that gentle tugging at the corners of his mouth again, something oddly teasing in his voice that David wants so badly to hear more of that he can't help himself, can't stop himself from saying -
“Oh, you're going to have to buy me lunch first.”