A Barlow Lens Read Free Page B

gate shut after Wyatt and Val were all the way through. “Beer? We’re sort of beer guys. There’s a few really good microbreweries in this area. I’ve got a good selection.” They walked around to the back of the house, and Clint waved them toward a nice slab patio with a grill off to one side. “Griff, company is here.”
    The man near the grill turned and smiled. He was more what Wyatt had expected. Early forties, he estimated, fit, with short wavy, light brown hair kept neat. Griff carried himself much the same way Wyatt was probably seen by other people. Most people who had depended at least at one time or another on their fists to stay alive had the same aura, that “you don’t want to run into me in a dark alley” attitude. Griff Diamond was no exception.
    Griff put down his spatula and strode forward. “Wyatt Harig, I’m Griff Diamond.” He gave Wyatt’s hand a hearty shake before turning to Val. “Vladimir Mihalic.”
    They weren’t questions, but confirmation Griff already knew who they were. Wyatt completely expected it and would have judged Griff poorly if that hadn’t been the case.
    â€œUh…. Val. Most people call me Val.” Val gave Griff’s hand a quick shake and inched back.
    Wyatt gave himself a mental kick in the ass. Of course Val wouldn’t know Griff would have examined any information he could on both Wyatt and Val. It made sense he’d never invite them to his home, with his partner there, unless he was completely convinced they were not going to become a safety issue. Wyatt also knew Griff was immediately sizing them up, just as Wyatt was doing to them. It was a habit. In their line of work, you had to judge people, sometimes very quickly and accurately. Wyatt had learned long ago his life could hinge on that judgment.
    If he was going to continue investigative work, and he thought that pretty likely, he’d have to clue Val into some things. Wyatt realized it was likely Clint had seen pictures of both of them and learned long ago to not let on to those sorts of facts.
    Clint reappeared with an assortment of different beers. “I brought dark ale, something that is more barley, and one that is more hops.” He held up one hand with a bottle between each of his fingers. “And these are pale ale and cider. I have about four other kinds in the house, we can go look if you want. These were all I could carry.” Clint offered them a lopsided grin and set the bottles down on a round glass-and-iron table on the patio. He had one bottle under his arm that was handed off to Griff.
    â€œThanks.” Wyatt picked out a bottle, and Val immediately followed his lead.
    â€œHow long you guys lived here?” Val asked. He looked a little more at ease as he settled in one of the chairs. One of the dogs, big and white, with kind light brown eyes, sat beside him and laid his chin on Val’s knee.
    â€œI’m sorry—” Clint took another chair and snapped his fingers. “Phoenix, don’t be a pest.”
    â€œNo, he’s not. My small dog is about this size,” Val said and patted the dog’s head and shoulder.
    â€œWe’ve been here about eight years,” Griff said and looked over at Clint, raising an eyebrow.
    â€œYeah. The big boy there was just a puppy,” Clint said. Wyatt picked up on the fact these two had been together a while, long enough that the shine had worn off the honeymoon phase of their relationship. They seemed comfortable with one another, not unhappy but maybe in a rut.
    Griff glanced covertly in their direction, and Wyatt took it for what it was. He’d invited them to his home, but he was still going to keep a sharp eye on things to ensure Clint’s continued safety. Wyatt casually looked around the yard. It was nice. There were a few small trees, probably only planted in the last year or two. Patches of flowers and a wooden fence