Martinez warned.
“We’re not asking him to divulge her last confession or anything privileged. We just want to know who her friends were.
Who she hung out with.”
Martinez snorted. “I don’t think the Nancy Scotts of this world ‘hang out’”
“Her acquaintances then.”
“That he might give up. But you, my friend, are at a distinct disadvantage, not being of the faith. It won’t score you any brownie points.”
“They don’t score many with me,” David said. He was a little shocked at his own words. It was the fi rst time he had ever disrespected any religion.
“Getting feisty are we,
mijo?
That’s not like you.”
David refused to answer. His foot was already fi rmly in his mouth. He didn’t need to wedge it in further.
They drove down West Glenoaks Boulevard onto Brand and swung into a near empty parking lot. David braced himself for an interview he wasn’t ready for. He really didn’t want to talk to a priest who probably knew exactly who and what he was.
52 P.A. Brown
Wednesday 8:10 am, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles
David was a breakfast man. Chris, on the other hand, was happy if he had access to a fresh pot of coffee.
This morning even the coffee left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Unbelievable. David had pulled another vanishing stunt.
This time the car was gone.
He’d gone back to work. No doubt with Martinez’s encouragement.
Oh, he knew all the excuses. They were short staffed, Martinez would be overwhelmed. Overworked. Chris wouldn’t like it if David had to patrol alone. Unmarked or not, cops looked like cops no matter what they drove.
The phone rang. It was David.
“Well, at least you call,” Chris said, all too aware of how snippy he sounded.
David sighed. “I have a job to do, Chris, and that’s all there is to it. Des called. He wants us to go for dinner tonight.”
“I know. Don’t change the subject.”
David grunted.
“Fine, we’ll go to dinner and see his surprise.”
“What surprise?”
“Des didn’t tell you?” Chris snorted. “He has something to show us. He wouldn’t say what.”
“Maybe he has a new boyfriend. About time, you said so yourself.”
“Sure, but... would he do that and not tell me?”
“Let me see... Des want to one-up drama queen Chris? What do you think?”
“Drama queen? I am not a drama queen. You really think he could have found someone?”
L.A. BYTES
53
Years ago, Des had been brutally raped and endured the torture of watching his lover murdered by the killer David was pursuing. It had taken months of therapy for Des to recover from the trauma and even longer before he’d have anything to do with a man again. There had been a brief fl ing with Trevor, a man Chris thought was all wrong for him, but that, thankfully, hadn’t lasted. Since then, Chris had set Des up with a few of his friends. He knew Des hated being alone; his nature was to be part of a couple.
“Maybe he’s tired of your matchmaking,” David said.
Chris bristled. “I don’t match-make. I just knew a couple of guys I thought might interest him, that’s all. And you’re still trying to change the subject.”
“Okay.” Chris could hear David shift around. “I’m a cop. I’m going to stay a cop. That means the hours are lousy, people I do business with aren’t exactly stellar characters and the pay sucks, but you knew all that when you opted in.”
“Jesus, you make me sound like an email campaign.”
“Sorry, but I don’t know how else to say it. I love you, Chris, but I’m not changing my life for you.”
Chris knew David had too much integrity for that kind of compromise. It was one of the things he loved about the man, but Jesus, it wasn’t easy. David’s job scared him spitless.
In the end all he could say was, “I love you too.”
Wednesday 9:50 am, Carillon Street, Atwater, Los Angeles
Except for some strategizing about how to handle the coming interview, David and Martinez didn’t talk much on the way to Nancy Scott’s apartment. What was there to say?
Alice, the deceased woman’s friend, came through the front doors of the apartment building fi ve minutes after they pulled into the parking lot. Martinez followed David out of the Crown.
At the slam of the car door Alice looked over at them. Her gaze
54 P.A. Brown
darted around the cypress-lined parking lot before settling on David.
“He’s not here yet?” he asked.
“Would you offi cers like to wait inside? The boy should be along shortly.”
“Do you know his name, Mrs. Crandall?”
“Adam,” Alice said. “Adam Benjamin, though I’m afraid I don’t know his last name—I assume he kept his father’s patronymic, though I don’t recall if Nancy ever mentioned it.”
“Guess we’ll have to ask him, won’t we?” Martinez said.
They followed her into her tidy apartment. She vanished into the kitchen; David heard the banging of pots and pans, then the clatter of pottery.
David and Martinez stood awkwardly in Alice’s living room, eying the beige nightmare surrounding them. Even the paintings on the wall were leeched of color; they were soft, bland pastels.
David gingerly parked himself on a beige sofa, one of two that faced each other across a blond wood and glass coffee table.
Martinez took a seat opposite him. His herringbone jacket and puce shirt looked as out of place as the Marlboro man at a society wedding.
Alice returned bearing a wooden tray holding a Russian tea service. It looked old and well used.
He had a feeling Alice didn’t entertain much.
“Tea, offi cers?”
She poured three cups, gently stirred in milk and handed David a cup, then Martinez. The tea was weak; the milk cut whatever bitterness it might have had.
David took a sip then put the tiny fl owered cup on the glass coffee table. Alice set the tray down and sat facing them in a gently worn easy chair. Her peach-colored dress pulled up to reveal two skinny, veined legs held primly together. She clasped her hands in her lap and leaned forward.
L.A. BYTES
55
David instantly knew that she and Nancy Scott had performed this ritual after every Wednesday for as long as Scott had lived here. He also knew something else.
“The boy came here, didn’t he, Mrs. Crandall? He picked his mother up here,” David asked.
Alice nodded, her orange hair bobbing precariously on her tiny skull. “Every other Wednesday he’d pick his mother up here.
We liked to have our tea and Bible reading. Smiling like he always did, but his eyes fair creeped me out.”
David knew he wasn’t going to make any friends with this upcoming interview. But his gut told him Adam was dirty. He’d come to trust his gut over the years.
When the doorbell rang, David and Martinez stood at the same time. They followed Alice, who opened the door to a slender youth in black jeans and an even blacker T-shirt. The same youth in the photos in Nancy Scott’s place, only a couple of years older.
Short, dark hair framed a thin face, emphasized by eyes two sizes too large. Put ten pounds of muscles on his skinny frame and he would have been one little hottie, as Chris would say.
“Adam. God bless you, boy,” Alice said. “Right on time.”
David stepped forward as the boy entered the apartment.
“Adam Scott?” he said.
Adam froze, his black eyes looming large in his narrow face.
He darted a question at Alice, then stared bug-eyed at David.
“Yeah,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Detective David Eric Laine,” David said. He fl ashed his badge, hoping Adam wouldn’t ask too many questions right away.
“We’d like to ask you few questions, if we could.”
Martinez introduced himself.
“Questions? Sure... what’s this about?” Adam edged into the room, keeping Alice between him and the detectives. He seemed unable to take his eyes off David. “Where’s my mother?”
“Benny—”
56 P.A. Brown
The kid winced at Alice’s use of the nickname.
“I’m sorry,” David said. “I thought you said your name was Adam.”
“It’s not Benny,” Adam said. He threw Alice a dark look.
David could see what the woman meant about his eyes. They were cold.
She opened her mouth to speak and David cut her off before she could say any more. “Thank you, Mrs. Crandall. Is there someplace we could speak to Mr. Scott privately?”
Not hiding her disappointment, Alice led them into her kitchen. “I’ll stay in the other room until you tell me you have fi nished.”
David indicated Adam should sit. The boy took the chintz-cushioned chair facing the stove. Martinez pulled a similar chair up beside him and plucked a mint from the glass bowl on the table.
David leaned against the stove.
Adam had to rotate his head ninety degrees to take in both of them. He fi xed his gaze on David. “You’re that gay cop, aren’t you?”
David had heard that question, or similar, less polite ones, enough times to show no outward reaction. He shared a brief glance with Martinez who did not look pleased.
Most gays, when they came out, had the luxury of choosing when and to whom they revealed their secret. David had been outed to the whole world when a violent psychopath tried to destroy Chris. He’d been in the public eye ever since.
“What’s this about?” Adam asked.
“We’d just like to ask you a couple of questions about your mother.”
“Why don’t you go talk to her yourself? She’s just down the hall.”
L.A. BYTES
57
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” David said. “When was the last time you saw her, Mr. Scott?”
Adam’s head jerked, he glanced uneasily at Martinez then at David. “My last name’s not Scott. It’s Baruch.”
“Is Baruch your father’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Where is your father, Mr. Baruch? We may have some questions for him, too—”
“I don’t know.” Adam’s eyes shifted away from David’s.
Liar.
David didn’t challenge him right then. Time enough for that later.
Adam twisted around so that he faced David. “I want to know what’s going on. Why are you asking these questions? Has something happened to my mother?”
“When did you last see her, Mr. Baruch?”
“Two weeks ago,” Adam whispered. “Wednesday—”
“Your mother diabetic?” Martinez asked.
“Yes—”
“How do you get along with her?” Martinez asked. “Old ladies, they can be a pain. You oughta meet my mother some time.”
“We got along fi ne. Is she sick? Is that why she’s not here—?”
“You last saw your mother two weeks ago today?” David asked, making sure he didn’t react to Adam’s use of the past tense. Just a couple more and he’d have the bastard. “You haven’t been back since?”
“I come every two weeks. I’m sure Mrs. Crandall told you that. Will you please tell me what happened to my mother?”
“We’re sorry, Mr. Baruch,” David said. He stepped away from the stove, aware that between Martinez on Adam’s right and his six-four bulk on the young man’s left, Adam must be feeling hemmed in. He leaned down and said, “Your mother’s dead.”
58 P.A. Brown
Adam stared at David. His head swung from side to side in denial even while his gaze never left David’s face.
“H-how?”
“That’s still under investigation.”
Adam grew pale. “You think I had something to do with my mother’s death?”
Martinez suddenly leaned forward, crowding Adam back into his chair. “I don’t know. Did you?”
“No!” Adam’s eyes were noticeably wet. “I did not hurt my mother. Please, tell me what happened.”
“Your mother was found two days ago in her apartment. She had been dead for several days at that point. We’re still looking into the exact cause of death.”
“My mother was a very sick woman. Her doctor will tell you that.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be talking to him,” Martinez said. “Right now we’re talking to you.”
Abruptly Adam stood up. His chair scraped across the linoleum. “No, you’re not. I’m going home. You want to talk to me again, call my lawyer.”
“Lawyer, huh?” Martinez leisurely pulled a candy cane striped mint out of the bowl and slipped it in his mouth. “What’s his name?”
Adam sputtered and fl apped his jaw.
“Thought so.” Martinez grinned. “I can recommend a couple of good ones.”
“My mother is dead!” Adam shouted. “Why aren’t you out there trying to fi nd out who killed her?”
David cocked his head sideways, but it was Martinez who responded.
“I don’t know as we had established she was murdered,” he said. “Interesting.”
L.A. BYTES
59
“Your mother like to eat chocolates?” David asked.
Adam’s gaze skidded away from David, then came back, trying to look fi erce. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s a simple question. Did your mother eat chocolates?”
“N-no—yes. She wasn’t supposed to, but she did sometimes.”
“Where were you Saturday and Sunday of last week—?”
“No more questions!” Adam clenched his fi sts. “When can I get my mother so I can bury her?”
“You’ll have to talk to the coroner about that,” David said.
He fi shed out a card and wrote a number on the back. “Call here.
They’ll be able to help you out.”
Adam muttered a stiff “thanks” and shoved the card in his jeans pocket, after only the briefest glance. When he stamped out of the kitchen, David and Martinez followed. They met Alice at the front door.
“All done, are you?” she asked. Her pale skin was drawn and her eyes darted between the three invaders. David noted she seemed almost afraid of Adam.
“Thank you, Mrs. Crandall.” David held out his hand, which she took gingerly. He glanced at Adam trying to edge past him to the door. “We’ll need a way to contact you.”
Adam spat out a North Hollywood address and number, then hurried out before they could ask any more questions or demand to see some ID. David stepped into the hallway to watch him exit the building. Adam reached the sidewalk and turned left, away from the parking lot. So he either wasn’t driving or he’d parked elsewhere.