Authors: Rhys Ford
Hey baby girl, smiling at me so wide.
Much too young for what you have in mind.
Come see me in a few years, and then we can talk.
I’ll show you how to scream, scream yourself blind.
—Keep Walking
T
HERE
were only so many ways Miki could say he didn’t know, and after talking to at least five cops, he was pretty sure he was done. The first one to respond had been a walrus-mustached man who looked more like he’d belong to Jim Rose’s Freak Show, swallowing swords, than wearing a uniform.
He wasn’t amused when Miki pointed that little fact out to him.
By the time Kane got there, he’d already been chewed up and spit out by four more officers, each more suspicious than the one who’d questioned him before. The final cop was another detective, a skinny Asian woman who flared her nostrils at Miki when he admitted he tossed his cookies before calling Kane.
Explaining why he didn’t dial 911 but instead called his own detective earned him all kinds of filthy looks, and refusing to let them go into his house, where Dude was slamming himself against the glass to get at the cops outside, didn’t gain him any friends either.
Miki practically threw up again in relief when Kane’s SUV pulled down the long asphalt drive in front.
He’d never really seen the man in full cop mode. Wearing faded jeans and a black leather jacket over a white button-up shirt he left open at his throat, Kane still screamed cop when he got out of the car. His boots crunched on the specks of gravel the pavers left behind at the edges of the asphalt. His badge glinted when his jacket moved to his stride, broadcasting his Inspector rank to the cops around him. Nodding once at Miki, Kane then barked out a few questions, hammering at the uniforms in succession until it appeared one of them gave him what he asked for.
Fuck, the man was sexy. Even his wayward dick knew it, and Miki was more than willing to agree with it.
Kane’s face didn’t betray a single shred of emotion as he inspected the contents of the plastic bag. Instead, he queried the man documenting the evidence. The only time Miki could see Kane losing any bit of his stern countenance was when one of the cops asked him about Miki having his cell phone number.
“That’s personal,” Kane responded smoothly, but his eyes sought Miki out when he said it, and they burned through him, a sizzling blue heat that promised more than hand-holding and whispers if ever he got the chance. “See if we can get some prints off the digits. Mark off the homeowner’s purge, and see if there’s any other trace in the area. I’m going to talk to St. John.”
Miki stood to the far side of the garage, hugging himself as Kane approached him. The cop’s fingers ghosted over his bare forearm, and he ducked his head, smiling at the touch. “Don’t kiss me. I puked. Apparently I throw up when people leave dead bodies or parts of dead bodies near my house.”
“I’d kiss you anyway, but I’m on duty,” Kane said solemnly. “Okay, that and you puked. How are you doing?”
“Okay, I guess.” Miki waved at the battalion of cops that seemed to be cluttering up his sidewalk. “I’m thinking of opening up a doughnut shop. It seems like I’d get steady business.”
“Your sense of humor’s still crap,” he replied dryly. “So I guess that’s good, since nothing’s changed.”
“Were there really… um… you know… in the bag?” He’d heard one of the techs whispering about what Miki had thought was a gizzard. “The guy said it was—”
“They’re kidneys. I know what they looked like, but the tech said they’re cow kidneys,” Kane cut him off with a shake of his head. “Don’t throw up on me again. You’re going green.”
“Dude, they looked like someone’s balls,” Miki muttered. “I’m kind of freaked out. The fingers… I could sort of handle… okay, I didn’t, but the other shit? That’s too fucking much. Do you think they’re Carl’s? The fingers, I mean?”
“We’ll see,” Kane promised. “Where were you going when you found them?”
“The grocery store. I’ve got nothing in the house.” He shrugged. “There’s dog food and ramen, but that’s about it.”
“Okay, tell you what.” Kane reached for the piece of paper Miki still had clenched in his fist. “I’m going to leave them here and go grab what’s on your list. You go inside and wait.”
“And do what?” Miki pursed his lips. “I feel like I’m in some damned slasher flick, man. I’m sure as fuck not going into the shower. I’ve seen that movie. It did not end well for that chick.”
“First, go brush your teeth,” Kane advised. “I won’t be long. I’ll come back and cook you dinner. We’ll figure out what to do after that. If you don’t give the cops any shit, I’ll even bring you cake or something.”
Miki let Kane lead him to the door connecting the garage to the warehouse, but he got one last mutter in before closing the door behind him. “Better be good fucking cake, because I’m getting sick of all the extra cops showing up when I only wanted you.”
H
E
WAS
still grinning at Miki’s words as he unloaded the groceries from the back of the SUV. The garage was still open and empty. The GTO would probably be gone another week or so, and only Dude’s stolen treasure remained, a forlorn pile of nonsense spread out and picked through by technicians looking for any clues to Shing’s murder.
Even though he’d spent nearly two weeks with Miki at his shop, Kane had never been inside the converted warehouse. Instead, they talked either in the garage or on the front stoop, sometimes not realizing they’d been outside for a couple of hours until Miki tried to take a step and his leg refused to bend. They talked about ordinary things, even Miki’s band mates, but never about Shing or Carl. There was too much pain in Miki’s voice when he said their names. It was the one tender, raw spot Kane avoided poking at.
Coming through the garage, Kane spotted the chamois he lost to the dog a while back. Shaking his head, he walked through the garage and tried the door to the house. It swung open when he turned the knob, and Kane sighed heavily.
“Why don’t you lock the door, you fricking idiot?” he grumbled, and shouldered his way in, clutching the bags in his arms and shutting the door with his foot. Taking a look around, Kane was dumbstruck by the high-ceilinged living room.
“Spartan” seemed like too fancy of a word to describe the place. “Empty” came closer, but Kane still didn’t think it captured the echoing desolation of the large space.
A big-screen television dominated one wall, a tangle of wires hanging down from connections to lead to an array of gaming systems and players. Sitting a few feet opposite of the screen was an enormous, battered sectional Kane would have tossed out to the curb years before it reached its current state. Bed pillows and a quilt lay piled up on one end of the L, and a metal storage locker between the TV and the couch was mostly clean except for a couple of game controllers, remotes, and a bunch of dog-eared spiral notebooks. Sprawled out upside down on the other end of the couch, Dude snored loudly, his furry body twisted into a pretzel and his feet twitching as he slept.
“You are the shittiest watch dog ever,” Kane said to the sleeping dog. “Of course, your master should lock his damned doors.”
An archway separated the living area from an equally barren kitchen. A hallway led to the rest of the warehouse, and Kane peeked through an opening in the wall, expecting to find a dining room, but discovered a mattress set sitting on the floor and tucked into a corner. A mound of pillows were scattered around into a nest on the bed, and the linens were in a twisted pile at the foot end of the mattress. An upended milk crate did duty as a night stand, its faced-out interior stacked with books and more beaten-up notepads.
Kane found Miki in the bathroom, sitting partially submerged in a half-f large marble tub. The cop didn’t recognize the music coming out of the sound system set up into the ceiling, but the oddly constructed melody seemed to soothe Miki, who’d laid his head back against a rolled up towel and closed his eyes.
He studied the unaware man, letting his eyes roam over Miki’s exposed slender body. Soap bubbles hid anything below Miki’s hips, but a hint of fine hair ran from Miki’s navel to the cloudy water. His muscled arms were stretched out to anchor himself against the tub’s rim. The tattoos on Miki’s arm were uneven splotches on his ivory skin, the edges faded and almost transparent in places where the ink had run thin.
The man’s nipples were a startling plum on his slightly developed chest, splashes of color compared to Miki’s pallor. A dip under his sternum formed a deep shadow on Miki’s belly, and his torso was lightly scored with two old scars, one running straight down his ribcage from below his left armpit. His Asian blood showed in his near-hairless skin. Miki’s arms were bare, and his pits held only a ghost of fine strands in their hollows.
His face was fully exposed, his dark hair falling back from his cheeks and jaw to rest on his shoulders and the towels. The man’s strong, triangular chin was as baby smooth as the last time Kane saw him, without even a hint of a beard. Miki’s mouth was slightly chapped, either from the pervasive San Francisco chill or his bad habit of chewing on his lips.
Either way, Kane wanted to feel their slight roughness on his skin. Barring that, he settled for clearing his throat and scaring the hell of out of the dozing singer.
“What the fuck?” Miki flailed and caught himself before he slid into the water.
“Door was open,” Kane said innocently. “I let myself in.”
“Fucking hell,” Miki swore again. “You trying to kill me?”
“If I was trying to kill you, I would have shoved you under the water, but I don’t think there’s enough in there for you to drown in.” Jerking his thumb back toward the main room, Kane said, “I brought some steaks. How do you like yours?”
“Cooked.” Miki frowned and scrubbed at his face with a handful of water. “I’m not picky. Whatever.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” Kane paused in the doorway. “You have pots and pans, right?”
“Yeah, I think so,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t cook a lot. There’s some shit in the cupboards. I don’t know what. I only use the rice cooker and a couple of saucepans.”
“Didn’t you used to work at a couple of Chinese restaurants?”
“I washed dishes,” Miki replied. “And I know how to soak noodles before they get cooked. So unless you want to eat soapy water soup or need chow fun prepped, you’re shit out of luck for anything fancier than ramen and scrambled eggs.”
Kane whistled as he headed out, taking the memory of a soapy, naked Miki with him. The kitchen had been designed by someone who knew how to cook. Unfortunately, it was being used by someone who had little need for the restaurant-grade stove and oven. A set of Henckels knives sat pristine in a block next to a large wood-fiber cutting board. A smaller plastic board sitting by the microwave showed signs of use with light gouges in its white surface. A clean serrated steak knife lay next to it. From the looks of the scratches, Kane guessed it was the only knife Miki used.
Opening a large cabinet was enough of a culinary horror to give Kane nightmares. Stocked with what looked like a year’s supply of calrose rice, ramen noodles, and iconic blue boxes of macaroni and cheese, Kane could only stand in front of the carbohydrate cornucopia and gape. A couple cans of chili—sans beans—stood as quiet sentinels of protein with a lone can of devilled ham. The refrigerator held even less promise. Mostly, condiments and tubs of butter kept close company with takeout containers Kane wasn’t brave enough to open.
He refused to look in the freezer. There was only so much horror Kane could take in one evening.
The dog trotted into the kitchen and looked up expectantly at Kane after nosing an empty dog bowl on the floor. A thick-walled plastic water dish sat next to the metal dish, filled to the brim and set on a towel. Dude stuck his head into the water and nearly submerged himself up to his ears, drinking noisily before coming up drenched down to his neck. He shook off the excess water, then nudged the bowl again and barked impatiently at Kane.
Dangling from the dog’s new collar was a silver tag with “Dude” written on it in block letters and Miki’s cell-phone number underneath it.
“Guess you officially live here now, Dude.” Kane didn’t fight his grin as he hunted for the dog’s food. The tag sang a bright chime against the metal ring attaching it to the collar when the dog jumped in place to beg. “Now let’s see if we can get you some dinner.”
A small can of wet dog food and some kibble seemed to satisfy the terrier, and Kane returned to shuffling food from plastic bags to the icebox. Miki padded in as Kane was lifting the metal cover off of the grill on the stove, his bare feet making light shuffling noises on the tile as he walked.
“Shit, I didn’t know that was there.” Miki peered around Kane’s shoulder. “That’s like a hibachi, right? Where does the coal stuff go?”
“The briquettes?” Kane shook his head. “This is a gas stove. You don’t put… are you trolling me?”
“No,” Miki said, making a face. “I didn’t know. Dude, I told you. I don’t cook. I boil water on the stove and make scrambled eggs. I’ve got a rice cooker, a coffee machine that makes me hot water, and a microwave. What else do I need?”
“No wonder you’re scrawny.” Kane put his hands on Miki’s waist and moved him out of the way. The young man’s thin cotton pants and loose T-shirt did nothing to mask the heat coming up from Miki’s skin, and Kane’s hands burned from the contact. “Go sit down someplace.”
Miki nodded and hitched himself up onto the counter, leaning back on his hands to watch Kane cook. “Okay.”
“Really? On the counter?” Kane gave him an annoyed look. “Your ass is on a place you’re going to put food.”
“My ass. My counter,” Miki replied, shrugging. “And I’ve never put food here. Too far away from the stove and everything.”
“Raised by fucking wolves,” the cop muttered. “Stay there, and keep out of the way.”
Miki was quiet as Kane heated the grill for the steaks, but his hazel eyes watched the cop’s every move. Once in a while, Kane looked up to find the young man studying him intently, especially when Kane pulled a few potatoes out of the microwave and began to mash them with butter and milk.