The couple stepped back from the alley just as a red Kawasaki roared out, spewing paper, grit and smoke in its wake. The driver popped a wheelie as David reeled back, nearly knocking Martinez over. Martinez grabbed his shoulder, steadying him.
The motorcycle skidded around the truck amid a fl urry of horns, screeching tires and the sharp crunch of metal on metal.
“The car,” David shouted, knowing it was already too late.
“Get back to the car.”
They had parked down Fountain, in the same direction the motorcyclist had taken. Not that it mattered. Adam, or Adnan—
if that’s who the runner was—was long gone by the time they reached the car.
They took off anyway. David darted in front of a slower moving Mazda. He ignored the horn and the fi nger they got, L.A. BYTES
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and slipped in front of a city bus. There was no sign of the motorcycle.
“You get a plate?”
“Partial,” Martinez said, already calling it in. “You remember anything about our guy having a motorcycle?”
“No, I don’t.” The motorcycle had looked familiar. But a red motorcycle? You couldn’t throw a dead coyote in L.A without hitting a red motorcycle. As evidence it sucked. They waited for yet another light to change so they could return to Adnan’s apartment.
Martinez called in a request for more bodies to come out to assist them. They wanted to secure the building before they headed back to get a warrant that would let them search it.
They were met by two uniformed offi cers. All four of them walked down the alley. There they found the green Honda, and a fi re escape. David dispatched the two offi cers to canvas the area.
When a second backup arrived he instructed them to make sure no one came or went via the fi re escape or the front door.
As they drove back to the station where they would initiate the warrant, Martinez called in a Be-On-the-Look-Out for Adam or Adnan Baruq, Baruch, or Scott, including the partial on the motorcycle plate. The BOLO simply said he was a person of interest.
They had to wait until late that afternoon to get their warrant signed by a sitting judge. They hurried back to the apartment, which they found cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape.
The four offi cers had been reduced to two, who reported that no one had approached the building all day. They found the landlord and got the key.
“Let’s see what this character left behind,” David said.
They left the two unis outside to continue watch on the back exit Adam had used to fl ee. David and Martinez opened the apartment door. A tortoiseshell kitten appeared, winding around David’s feet. He scooped her up. She butted her head against his chest and mewed.
190 P.A. Brown
“Guess we know one thing he left.”
Adam’s apartment was a narrow, L-shaped room. The only furniture was a ladder-back chair and a single bed, carefully made up with a worn blanket. The kitchen consisted of a toaster oven and a single burner hot plate.
The entire apartment was pathologically clean. Whatever Adam had thought of his mother, he had taken her neatness to heart.
David placed the warrant in plain view on top of one of the few fl at surfaces in the place, the kitchen counter, and set the kitten down on the fl oor. The judge they had found to sign the warrant had been very stringent in what they could, and could not, search for. Chocolates or any signs of drugs or chemicals were on the top of David’s list.
Martinez started in the kitchen; David pulled on a pair of gloves and began sorting through the bathroom garbage. Aside from a couple of tissues, it was empty. The medicine cabinet contained a bottle of Tylenol, a stick of Right Guard and a half-empty box of Band-Aids. He sorted through the cleaning supplies under the sink. Nothing containing cyanide. Did he really think there would be a bottle with a skull and crossbones on it? The bathtub was as spotless as the rest of the room. Even the toilet looked like it was never used. Only the kitty litter showed any sign of activity.
“You believe this guy? You think if we printed this place we’d fi nd anything?” Martinez muttered when David emerged from the bathroom followed by the cat. “Can’t believe he owns a cat.”
David pulled the top blanket off the bed and shook it out.
He followed with the sheets and fl ipped the mattress up to peer underneath it. In the shadows a darker square. A small box.
“Hello, what do we have here?” Martinez stooped down to grab the fl attened box. He fl ipped it over in his hand. “Chocolates?”
David eased the mattress back down. He studied the gold-leaf covered box inside and out. There were no chocolates left, L.A. BYTES
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but there were half a dozen of the dark wraps matching the ones David had recovered at Nancy Scott’s place.
“Looks like Mr. Clean wanted a souvenir,” Martinez said.
“Let’s get them tested before we jump the gun here. We don’t have him yet.”
He pulled the nightstand drawer open. The deep drawer was fi lled with bills and receipts. A quick glance at the bottom ones showed they went back a couple of years. Since he’d been on his own? The guy was a compulsive saver. Good for him.
David sifted through the paper. A receipt for something called the Sweetheart Special from Chocolate Delights caught his eye. It was dated less than two weeks before Nancy Scott’s death.
If they could trace that box under the mattress to the chocolate Lopez had found in Scott’s body, they had Adam nailed.
He showed the receipt to Martinez. “Shows premeditation.”
He pulled out a ticket stub. Holding it up into the dim light that poured through the open window, he realized it was a parking ticket. It was dated Halloween.
“He doesn’t know West Hollywood, so he parks in the wrong place, gets a ticket. In the meantime he’s following Chris and me.”
“You really think he tried to run you over?” Martinez asked.
“Seems a little in your face for a guy like that.”
He had a point. Poisoners were usually a secretive, weasely lot.
“Most of them are women, too,” David pointed out. “They don’t all follow the pattern. I think this guy’s smart—look at his record at Caltech for proof of that—and I think he’s adaptable. I guess he considered me more of a threat than I fi gured.”
“So he follows you to West Hollywood and waits for a chance to do some major damage?” Martinez sounded skeptical. David didn’t blame him. Even to him it sounded far-fetched. Paranoid.
He shrugged and fl ipped the papers into an evidence box; they’d sort through them later. The kitten sat in his lap and batted at each
192 P.A. Brown
piece of paper. It wasn’t Visa receipts David wanted. He let his gaze roam over the small apartment. There was nothing in it that spoke of Adam’s hatred for his mother or of a father betrayed.
He got up and moved through the tiny apartment again, letting his cop eyes roam. He folded back a closet door. It held a single dark gray suit, two white shirts and a denim jacket. It smelled of cedar and mothballs. On the top shelf was a large book. He pulled it down and stared at the red and gold engraved cover.
The words
The Qur’an
were highlighted in gold and black.
He showed it to Martinez. “So he is Muslim.” He fl ipped through several pages. “English and something I’m guessing is Arabic.”
He put the book back. It wasn’t part of the warrant and couldn’t be touched.
Neither could the computer he spotted on a rollout cart tucked into the far corner of the closet. Why would anyone hide something like that in a closet? There wasn’t even a monitor, though there was a blue network cable plugged into a small blinking box. Chris had something like that. He used it to network his computers.
David’s frustration mounted as he realized they couldn’t touch it.
“We need to revise our warrant,” he muttered.
“On what grounds?” Martinez came to stand beside him.
“They’re never gonna let that thing in, not based on what we’ve got.”
Martinez was right, except... “What if he used it to research how to poison her? Maybe he even talked it over with someone in one of those chat rooms. His generation, they live on the Internet.”
His partner nodded. “That might fl y.”
“Let’s fi nish up here,” David said. “See if there’s anything else we want on the amended warrant. Then let’s go see if we can fi nd somebody who agrees.”
Sunday, 10:55 am, USC County General, State Street, Los Angeles
Des bounced into the room the next morning, bringing an energy that left Chris exhausted.
Chris knew exactly when Des saw the damage to his face. His friend stiffened and pulled back, briefl y averting his eyes. His dark face went gray. Chris had known it would be hard for Des to see him like this. It triggered too many horrifi c memories of his own assault.
“Don’t you ever scare me like that again!”
Chris captured his hand. “I’m okay, Des. They’re just bruises.”
Des recovered quickly. He waved a perfect French manicured hand at him and deliberately went all camp. “You are absolutely beastly not calling me sooner. What were you thinking?”
Chris brought Des’s hand to his face. His dark fi ngers were cool against Chris’s still tender skin. “A little ice, a cucumber masque and I’m good as new. So tell me, how’s bad boy Trevor these days?”
“Still bad.” Des managed a weak smile. “He wanted to come, but I needed to see you alone.”
At one point Chris had wanted to talk to Des about Trevor, about whether this was a good thing. He didn’t want to see Des hurt again. But this wasn’t the time. Maybe it never would be.
Instead he said, “I hope I’m not going to have to fend off a jealous Trevor now. I don’t think I’m quite up to that.”
Des’s laughter this time was more spirited. “Oh, nothing like a little bit of the green-eyed monster to bring out the best in a man. Trevor will be just fi ne.”
194 P.A. Brown
With that Des became more businesslike. He opened the bag and handed Chris a bundle of magazines and toiletries. Chris glanced at the latest issues of
The Advocate
and
Out
and grinned.
Des was always trying to politicize him. So far he had resisted, but Des was nothing if not stubborn.
He stared at the rest of the stuff and burst out laughing.
Along with the miniature bottle of mouthwash, toothpaste, a new toothbrush and a comb, Des had included a small compact, face cleanser, a tube of cover-up, tweezers and a bottle of Aramis. He laughed harder when he held up the avocado masque.
“Great minds.”
“I fi gured David would bring your razor later but you need a toothbrush now,” Des said, fussing over the gifts like they were tiny treasures. “And I know how important it is to look your best after this kind of thing.”
Chris threw his bandaged arms around Des’s slim shoulders.
He awkwardly patted his best friend’s back, feeling hot tears track down his neck.
“Come on, hon, it’s not as bad as that. It looks worse than it is.”
“You scared me so much.” Then he burst into tears. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You’re not going to lose me. What a silly idea.” Chris squeezed his arm and pressed his mouth against Des’s neck, tasting the salt of his tears. “Thank you,” he whispered. “You really are a sweetheart.”
“Of course I am.” Des sat up and hastily wiped his face. “All the queens in Beverly Hills say so.”
“Oh, they say it in more places than that.” Chris laughed at the pleased expression on Des’s fi ne-boned face. “You’re a legend around town.”
“Now you’re being silly.” Des glanced at his watch and sighed.
“I wish I could stay but I’ve got a new shipment of Kenneth Coles coming in. If I’m not there, heaven knows where Clive will L.A. BYTES
195
put everything. The boy has no common sense. If he wasn’t such a cutie I’d dump his pretty little ass tomorrow.”
“You just know all your butch customers love him.”
Des sniffed. “I’m going to have a talk with David after this is all over. Someone needs to put a leash on you.”
“He might like that more than you think.” Chris raised his bed. “Listen, you won’t get me a phone, fi ne, I can live with that. But can you lend me twenty? David won’t be back till late tomorrow and I can’t stomach the crap they try to serve me in here. They tell me I’ll be able to get up tomorrow, so I can hit the cafeteria.”
“Sure, hon. I can do that.”
Chris shoved the bill Des dug out of his wallet and tucked it into his bedside drawer. Des leaned over and kissed him. He smoothed his hand over Chris’s beard stubbled face.
“You take care, hon. I love you. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Like I could.”
Five minutes after Des left, Chris was on the phone again.
The delivery boy who dropped off the Blackberry two hours later was all smiles at the twenty Chris slipped him. He was only too happy to plug the device in.
Sunday, 2:50 pm, N. Vermont Avenue, East Hollywood
David and Martinez got their amended warrant and returned to Adam’s apartment with one of the station techs and a woman from animal control. David helped her secure the kitten, and slipped her his card before she left, “If the cat’s not claimed, give me a call.” She nodded and left.
This time they did a full search and left with several computer disks and burned CDs as well as the hardware.
David was fi nishing up when he realized Martinez was no longer in the apartment. He found him on the fi re escape
196 P.A. Brown
crouched over a battered steel box. A mist fell, a gray pall hung low over the city; the winter rains had started early.
Martinez looked up. “You better see this.”
He handed David a sheaf of slick photo paper. David remembered seeing a stack of the same paper beside the printer that had also been in the closet. He took the pictures gingerly.
The fi rst image was clearly taken with a telephoto lens at night and it was hard to make out who was in it. The next picture cleared up their identity. It was Chris and him leaving Santo Coyote, a restaurant on Melrose. He tried to remember the last time they had been there. Wasn’t it before this mess started? It had been a celebration of Chris’s latest contract with Ste. Anne’s. It had only been for a week, but Chris thought it would be extended.