“I need you to come down to the station, to make a formal statement. I can send someone out to get you if you like—”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll drive myself. Will I have to go to court?”
“I won’t lie to you. It depends on the D.A., and whether a suspect is found, and it all makes it to court. But I’m sure someone from the prosecutor’s office will be in touch with you if it becomes necessary.”
David watched her stiffly remount her horse and urge it back onto the trail. They broke into a fast trot before they were out of sight. He very much doubted she would ever ride this peaceful trail again.
Out of the corner of his eye, David saw a white Pontiac Firehawk, splattered with debris from the previous night’s rain, pull up beside the LAPD crime scene van. It was driven by a lithe, dark-skinned Latino man, with that young urban scruffy beard thing going on. Chris, always quick to adopt new fads, had tried it once, until David complained that it was like kissing five o’clock shadow, all day long, and he reluctantly shaved it off.
The Latino climbed out of the low-slung car. He surveyed the scene of controlled chaos with dark eyes, taking in everything in a sweeping glance, before he shrouded them with a pair of Ray Bans. He looked like he just stepped out of GQ, sharp creases on his wool dress pants and sedate black and blue tie. He wore his gold detective’s badge on a chain around his neck. David caught a glimpse of his Beretta nine under his LAPD blue nylon wind breaker. Incongruously, he wore a pair of hand-tooled black and blue Tony Lamas boots instead of the usual military gear most new detectives favored. David wouldn’t be surprised if he had a closet full of Levis and Stetsons at home. He was a tall man, though not as tall as David’s six-four,
6 P.A. Brown
dark-skinned, with high cheek bones. His eyes were dark and dangerous. Too dangerous for David’s taste.
The guy was going to spell trouble.
Already the eyes of the two female SID criminologists kept straying his way. David had heard rumors about the guy, even before he was assigned to Northeast; he’d ignored them at the time, like he ignored all the trash talk around the squad room.
In the stories the guy was a wannabe actor. David had heard—
and dismissed—the story about his involvement with a producer’s wife that had ended messily. The tabloid press had been all over it. Maybe the guy had a problem keeping his dick in his pants. Maybe he was only guilty of bad judgment. He wouldn’t be the first. Cops and badge bunnies went together like chili and fries.
David extended his hand and introduced himself. Might as well give the guy the benefit of a doubt, he didn’t like it when people jumped to conclusions about him. Being one of the few openly gay detectives carried its own baggage. “Glad to have you on board.”
“Thank you, sir,” the detective said. “Detective Jairo Garcia Hernandez.” He pronounced it Yairo. “Most gringos call me Jerry.” His smile was all teeth and David knew he was being tested by the new D.
He’d nip that one in the bud before it went south. “I think I can handle Jairo.” He gave the word a Spanish lilt. The guy wasn’t going to catch this gringo ignorant of the language.
Good looking or not, he was just another rookie D.
Jairo saw the Rolex on his wrist and whistled. “Nice watch.
Your wife give you that?”
“No, I’m not married,” David said. Deciding to make small talk, he ventured, “You?”
“Yes.”
“How’s that going for you?” Cops loved marriage; so many of them did it so often.
L.A. BONEYARD
7
“Fine.” Jairo grew defensive. “You gonna tell me that’s gonna change? Already got that from my smart-ass sergeant first time I showed up for roll-call.”
“It’s hard,” was all David said. “Marriage is a work in progress.”
“So you were married? She divorce you?”
David shrugged. He finally slipped the Rolex off and tucked it back into his inner pocket, over his heart. It would be safer there, away from nosy rookies. “It’s complicated.” Then he saw Jairo had noticed the plain gold band he wore on his left ring finger. The gold band Chris had given him following the first year they had lived together. He closed his hands into fists, but made no attempt to hide the thing. What was the use? He was almost as notorious in the LAPD as Mark Fuhrman.
Jairo’s disingenuous eyes widened. “You’re the... you’re him.”
David saw something glitter on the ground at the entrance to the crime scene, and crouched down to study it. It was a bottle cap. Still, he signaled a photographer over to take a picture. Sometimes the littlest things proved useful. Sometimes they were just litter. All around them crime scene techs were placing evidence flags, and doing their best to catch everything, before the skies opened up. He was glad to see that the victim’s hands had been bagged, covering the ring he had seen earlier.
“You can say it, you know.” David stood up and brushed debris off his pants. “I’m the gay cop.”
Jairo flushed and looked away. “Yes, sir.”
Now what was that all about? Surely as soon as he knew who his latest senior partner was going to be, Jairo would have known all about David’s sordid “secret.” He would have found all kinds of officers eager to share the scuttlebutt about who he’d been saddled with. “That’s Detective, Hernandez.” David was already beginning to miss Martinez, his partner of ten years.
He had been reassigned to South-Central, for the next six months, to work a gang detail. They had forged a tight partnership; a partnership that even David’s abrupt outing over four years ago had not disrupted. David wasn’t looking forward
8 P.A. Brown
to breaking in the new kid, even if he was, as rumor also claimed, top of his graduating class. Good grades, like good looks, weren’t everything.
He moved around to stand beside the grave again. A tarp had been laid over the torn earth to protect against the coming storm. He thought he could still see the outline of the arm. He glanced sideways when a flash of lightning illuminated the dense brush. He almost felt sorry for the boots who was going to have to guard this site all night.
He turned back to face the grave and its nameless victim.
Jairo came up to stand beside him. David kept his eyes on the tarp, ignoring the man beside him.
“I’ll find him,” he promised.
Friday, 11:35 AM, Two California Plaza, South Grand Avenue, Los
Angeles
Christopher Bellamere reached across the black melamine table and vigorously shook Dr. Curtis R. Jantz’s hand. Jantz, the head of R&D for Microchip Interface Technologies, gestured for Chris to sit, and did the same. A young, preppy looking man appeared and offered coffee. Chris accepted, and within seconds a steaming china cup was delicately placed in front of him, along with a silver cream and sugar service. He accepted both.
After sparing a brief look out the polarized glass, fifty stories above the Los Angeles city center, looking west toward the hazy beaches of Santa Monica, and Venice fifteen miles away, he turned his full attention on Jantz. At least the storm had blown over. Maybe the weekend would be decent, after all. Nice. Go into the weekend with a new job under his belt. Now if only David would get some time off, it would be perfect. He might even be able to plan a little make-up sex to let David know he was sorry for being such a bitch.
“You’ve seen our business plans,” Jantz said. It was more a statement than a question.
“I went over them last night,” Chris said, anxious to get to the meat of their discussion, but equally anxious not to show his eagerness. The delicate dance of negotiation.
Jantz steepled his fingers, his eyes, behind a pair of Gucci glasses, pale blue and watchful. “I’ve already spoken with my partners, and they’ve indicated they’ll leave this decision up to me. I still have some concerns I’d like to address, if that’s acceptable to you.”
“Of course. We both want to know this is a good fit. I have some questions as well.”
10 P.A. Brown
“Good” Jantz pulled a slim-line gunmetal gray attaché case onto the table, and popped it open. He withdrew a sheaf of paper. “I see you’ve put some consideration into assembling a local team. I assume you’re familiar with all these people.” He held aloft the list Chris had faxed to him yesterday. “But, first, our non-disclosure agreement.” Jantz pulled out a second ream of paper. “I’m sure you’re familiar with them. Have your lawyer look them over if you’re not.”
Chris took the pages and skimmed through them. He’d signed enough such contracts, over his career, to see it was a basic boilerplate agreement, simply stating that he wouldn’t use what he learned at Microchip Interface Technologies for personal gain. Nothing hinky, as David would say. He slipped his Mont Blanc pen out of his jacket pocket, and used the nib to guide his eyes through the verbose legalese. He blinked a couple of times at the tiny print and wondered if it was time to start looking for reading glasses. Unlike David, he wasn’t ready to admit he was getting old. Maybe he should look into laser surgery. Across from him he sensed Jantz’s growing impatience.
Refusing to be rushed, he finished the first page, and glanced up to find Jantz still watching him, with an intensity that might have made a lesser man blink.
He didn’t, and after another couple of minutes he slid the papers into his laptop case. “I’ll give my lawyer a call and get back to you with these tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Jantz stood up. “I’ll have my secretary set up an appointment. Is ten good for you? I have a conference call at eight with our European affiliates.”
“Sure, ten’s fine.” Chris extended his hand, and felt it engulfed in Jantz’s cool one. Back in the elevator he descended to the parking garage where his kiwi green Escape sat nose in to a parking stall. He fished out a couple of bills, parked his Prada shades on his nose and activated his BlackBerry.
Des, his best friend since their days together at UCLA, answered on the third ring. He sounded breathless, but that was Des; he always sounded like he was racing through life, eager to get from one fabulous scene to the next.
L.A. BONEYARD
11
“Oh thank God you called. I’m in such a tizzy. Clive has just lost it. Completely lost it. He put together a window yesterday with our latest shipment of Nicole Farhi,
and
he put them out with this old rag that was left over from last season! I ask you, if a little queen like Clive doesn’t know yesterday’s news from the trash what’s a girl to do?”
Chris laughed, which only incensed Des more. “Hon, you take this all way too seriously,” Chris said. “Come on, I want to take you out for a drink. Surely you can trust the store to Clive for the afternoon.”
“Not if I want to retire before I’m 50,” Des sniffed. “What are we celebrating?”
“Why do we have to be celebrating anything? Maybe I just want to have a drink with my best friend. You ever think of that? Besides,” Chris flicked on the radio and got KROQ. The sounds of Rise Against filled the cab. “I think I’m about to sign my biggest contract yet. I may be retiring before you.”
“That is so not fair. I take it you’re buying then? Koutoubia?
We can get the Couscous Royal pour Deux.”
“I haven’t signed the contract yet. Besides, I thought I said
‘drink,’ not ‘gourmet Moroccan feast.’”
“Drink. Tagine. Same diff.”
“Fine,” Chris said, knowing he’d never win an argument with Des. “Give me an hour to shower and change.”
“I can already taste that Princess Martini.”
He swung onto the Pasadena Freeway, and had just gotten off the freeway onto Silver Lake when he saw the dog at the side of the road. He slammed on the brakes when the gaunt, black and tan animal stumbled into the street, nearly going under his wheels. He threw the door open with a shout, and barely missed getting creamed himself by a pickup truck, that swerved around both of them with a blare of horn and Spanish expletives. Chris ignored the irate driver. He crouched down and eyed the shivering animal.
“What are you up to, guy?” Chris looked around, hoping to see someone coming out of one of the shabby businesses that
12 P.A. Brown
lined this area of Silver Lake Boulevard. He turned back to study the dog, disgusted to see ribs and gaunt hip bones protruding from its dull coat. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”
The animal’s stub of a tail wagged uncertainly. Chris reached into the car and retrieved his BlackBerry from the passenger’s seat. He’d have to do a search on animal shelters to find somebody equipped to help. He looked up from Googling to find the dog’s eyes staring at him intensely.
“What?”
The tail moved again.
Christ, he was losing it here, talking to a half-starved mutt, in the middle of Silver Lake, while traffic flowed around them.
Asking to get them both killed.
Another car came too close, its horn dopplering into an angry mutter as it swerved around them. From inside his Escape came the surreal lyrics from Good Charlotte singing about walking in the shadow of L A. Chris straightened.
“Okay,” he said, indicating the inside of the SUV. “We’ll settle this at my place. But don’t start thinking I’m a pushover. I’m not. You’re going to the pound.”
The dog wiggled his nearly tailless butt and despite his half-starved appearance leapt into the cab easily, settling onto the seat, as though he did it every day.
Half an hour later Chris pulled into his drive-way. David’s yellow and white ‘56 Chevy coupe wasn’t there. But then it was early. It could be hours before David got home, and if there were any troubling deaths, then he could be gone longer than that. It was probably a good thing David wasn’t home. Chris didn’t have to strain his imagination to know what David would say about him bringing this stray home.
He took the path around the side of the house, and let himself in through the locked gate to the backyard. Telling the animal to stay put, he slipped into the house, grabbed a large ceramic bowl, which he filled with tap water, and pulled a plate of leftover chicken pasta from the fridge, carrying both outside.
The dog hadn’t moved. Chris offered the water first, then slid L.A. BONEYARD
13