L.A. Heat

by P. A. Brown

  Saturday, 10:30 pm, Piedmont Avenue, Glendale

  DAVID CARESSED THE tone arm of the Victrola windup phonograph. It felt like warm silk. He carefully lowered it on Gene Greene’s “Alexander’s Got a Jazz Band Now” and listened to the opening whisper of scratchy words. The old jazz tune filled his small living room.

  David lived on the flats in Glendale, off Lexington, near enough to the 134 for him to hear the steady hiss of freeway traffic day and night. The house was a small brick and wood-sided bungalow, one of the thousands that had been thrown up after the Second World War.

  On the muted TV screen atop the bar between the kitchen and living room the Angels blew a pop fly and the Boston Red Sox took the lead in the bottom of the ninth. David shook his shaggy head and shut the thing off, not needing to see the final humiliation.

  The Victrola wound down and traffic sounds flowed back into his tidy space. He slid the 78 off the spindle and back into its protective sleeve.

  This time he pulled out his newest acquisition from the oak cabinet: Chuck Berry’s

  “Oh, Baby Doll.” He laid the platter on the turntable and finished his beer while the song played. Once it ended, he ran the tips of his fingers across the wood cabinet one more time. Satisfied the refinishing job wasn’t going to get any better with more work, he put the music away and closed the Victrola. Glancing at the wall clock, he debated turning the late news on, finally deciding he didn’t need any more bad news.

  A pale shadow slipped out of the kitchen and followed him into the bedroom. David rubbed the small Siamese’s head. The cat purred, a warm sound that took away his stress.

  “Rough day, Sweeney?” The cat butted against his hand when his fingers slowed down. The phone rang. He stared at it while it rang twice more before he gently pushed the cat aside and answered it. It was Martinez.

  Saturday, 11:30 pm, Northeast Community Police Station, San Fernando Road, Los Angeles

  Flanked by the two uniformed cops, Chris reluctantly entered the police station. His Dockers scuffed the faded linoleum floor; overhead fluorescent lights washed the color out of his Diesels and left his skin looking wan and sickly. A little like he was feeling.

  When the cops had first shown up at the Nosh Pit to take the report on his vandalized SUV, he had expected them to write up the incident and leave him with shallow promises to look into it. Instead, after nearly twenty minutes of standing around talking on their cells, he had been invited to the police station.

  The building smelled of sweat, stale food, and despair. A low hum of suppressed rage buzzed around him. Puke-green walls were plastered with yellowing posters and community bulletins. He glanced left at Officer Dale McEwen, the bull-necked cop who had been the first to arrive at the scene. The man’s creased face desperately needed a shave. His rubbery lips were in constant motion, as though he kept a conversation going under his breath.

  On his right, McEwen’s partner, Orren Bulkowski, kept glancing at Chris with open contempt.

  They passed through an open area, then into a second, this one labeled DETECTIVES.

  Several of the ancient desks were occupied, and Chris felt eyes on him as he threaded his way through the room. McEwen led him through to the back, where a bear of a man, six-four at least, climbed to his feet. He looked like a taller, heavier version of Tommy Lee Jones. His hair was a mass of tight dark curls touched with gray. A light smattering of old acne scars gave his face the rugged look of a TV cowboy. A thick mustache framed his full mouth. His brown eyes had just enough green to make them interesting. Chris figured him for around forty.

  “Detectives Laine and Martinez will take care of you now, sir,” McEwen said. His partner snorted and the two turned away. Chris watched them strut out of the room; glad to see them go, wishing he could follow.

  Saturday, 11:40 pm, Northeast Community Police Station, San Fernando Road, Los Angeles

  “Christopher Bellamere?”

  When David called Bellamere’s name the victim’s head snapped around, his face a mask of growing confusion and fear. David caught his breath; the light filtering through the vertical blinds fell on the face of the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

  “Yeah?” the victim asked. His eyes darted from David to Martinez, then back to David. “What’s this about?”

  David introduced himself and Martinez. Bellamere nodded, his eyes glazed.

  “Could I get your full name, please?” David’s pencil was poised over the notepad.

  “And contact information.”

  “Christopher Robin Bellamere.” He rattled off his address in Silver Lake and work and home numbers.

  David wrote everything down. “Where do you work, sir?”

  “DataTEK, in Studio City, in the Valley. Why am I here?”

  “Your sport utility vehicle was vandalized,” David said. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “What sort of work do you do, Mr. Bellamere?”

  “IT—computer support.”

  David slid a stack of photos of the vandalized vehicle across the desk. In most of them the words were all too clear: COCKSUCKER’S KILL. CARPET KILLER.

  FAGGOTS!! and finally, FAGS DIE. All in scarlet paint the composition of which was even now undergoing analysis. David doubted that this point would erase the look of outrage on the man’s smooth-skinned face.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” David asked.

  Bellamere’s face twisted into a grimace of rage. “Some asshole trashed my truck.

  Why aren’t you out looking for skinheads or some religious nut with a god complex?”

  “Any reason that type would single you out?” Martinez asked. “You piss someone off?”

  The idea seemed to puzzle him. “Not that anybody ever said to my face.”

  “Maybe they didn’t feel like talking about it,” Martinez said.

  “What time did you park your vehicle this evening?” David asked.

  “Seven, seven-thirty, I guess. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “At that time you went to... the Nosh Pit, is it? That a regular hangout?”

  “What’s that got to do with what happened to my truck?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine, sir,” David said. “Do you usually park in that area?”

  “I park wherever I can find space. This is because I’m gay, right?”

  Martinez snorted and looked away. David stared at a spot on the nearest wall.

  “You see anyone hanging around? Maybe somebody going into the alley? Or walking down the street toward it? Someone who looked out of place?”

  “You mean straight? No. Listen, where’s my SUV? Those other cops said it was being towed—”

  “It was. Our forensics people need to look it over. Once they’re done we’ll see you get your vehicle back.”

  “When’s that going to happen?”

  David shrugged. “Can’t say, sir.” He scooped up an eight-by-ten from the desk and studied it. Of the half dozen words the pricey SUV had been spray-painted with, the most prominent, and the one that had attracted their attention, were the words “The Carpet Killer,” the term the local media had pinned on the killer in the recent murders.

  Before Bellamere could say anything else, Martinez propped his hip against David’s desk and leaned over Bellamere. “Ever hear the name Jason Blake?”

  He turned at the sound of Martinez’s voice. David took advantage of the distraction to study the younger man more closely. Bellamere’s eyes were the same shade of blue as the ocean he had seen during a trip down the Baja. The color of his blond hair looked natural and it was cut short and spiked. He wore what David recognized as expensive designer clothes. The overall effect was stunning.

  Bellamere shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t—”

  “Are you familiar with Eagle Rock, sir?” David asked.

  “I’ve been there once or twice—”

  “What about San Miguel Road?”

  “No—”
/>   “Mission Road?”

  “Sounds like something downtown. Like Skid Row.”

  “Ever been there?”

  “Skid Row? I hardly think so—”

  “Let’s get back to Jason Blake,” Martinez cut in again.

  “I think he called himself Jay,” David said.

  “The name familiar to you?”

  Bellamere screwed up his face and stared over David’s shoulder.

  “Jay? I met a Jay once. You don’t think he had anything to do with this, do you?”

  David kept his voice carefully neutral. “You remember what this guy looked like?”

  Martinez stepped around to his own desk and pulled out a thick blue binder—Jason Blake’s murder book. While he flipped through it, David worked at keeping the other man distracted.

  “Any reason to think this guy might have had something to do with vandalizing your truck?”

  “No.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Not much.” Bellamere picked at the skin around his thumb. “I didn’t really know him very well.”

  “Well enough to recognize him if you saw him again?” This time when Martinez stepped back around the desk he edged right into Bellamere’s space. He ignored Bellamere’s alarm and shoved the picture of Jason Blake under his startled eyes. “Is this Jay?”

  Bellamere stared down at the head shot, a high school graduation picture, that David had acquired from Jason Blake’s older brother. It showed a skinny youth in a blue and gold gown, a slightly dazed look on his pimply face. He had died three years after the date of the picture, just two months past his twenty- first birthday.

  “Well, Mr. Bellamere?”

  “I’m not sure...” David saw a flash of recognition in Bellamere’s eyes. “I might have met him. But he was older.”

  “No need to get defensive, Mr. Bellamere.”

  Bellamere bristled. “I know the way you guys think. We’re all a bunch of pedophiles.” He poked his finger at the picture on the desk. “If I knew him he was old enough to be in the bar where I met him.”

  “You mean where you hustled him?” Martinez asked. “Would that be the Nosh Pit?

  That your usual pickup spot?”

  “It’s a bar,” Bellamere said. “I go there to drink.”

  “You just get lucky sometimes, that it?” Martinez said.

  Bellamere stood, hands curled into fists at his side. “You really think I had something to do with what happened to my SUV? You think I pissed someone off? That I slept with the wrong person? Maybe I got some religious fanatic mad at me. Is that it?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Bellamere,” David said softly. “But if you know anything, now would be the time to tell us—”

  “What happened to this guy? What the hell is going on here? This isn’t about my SUV is it? It was never about that.”

  “He’s dead, Mr. Bellamere,” Martinez said. “Jason Blake was murdered.”

  Return to Contents

  CHAPTER 5

  Saturday, 11:50 pm, Northeast Community Police Station, San Fernando Road, East Los Angeles

  CHRIS STARED AT the Latino cop. The skin of his face felt hot and tight.

  “Murdered?”

  “Yes, murdered.”

  Chris didn’t know what to say. “Murdered.”

  “Yes,” Martinez said.

  “The message on your vehicle refers to a very specific crime,” Laine said. “And if you have any information on that crime I need to hear it.”

  “You mean that serial killer?” Chris looked sideways at Martinez. “Tell me he’s joking.”

  “I don’t do standup, Mr. Bellamere,” Laine said. “Do the words on your vehicle mean anything to you? Anything at all?”

  The air Chris was trying to breathe suddenly seemed too thick to draw into his lungs.

  He’d known plenty of people who had died over the years—it was hard to be gay in Los Angeles and not know firsthand the swath AIDS had cut through the gay community—

  but he’d never known anyone who had been murdered.

  “If I can help, just tell me how. What do you want to know?”

  “Can you think when you last saw Jay?” Laine asked. “Was it at the Nosh Pit?”

  The detective had surprisingly soft eyes. Chris always thought of cops as being tough—hardened by the world they lived in. Cynical tyrants who ruled the streets with their rules and their guns and their hard-assed attitudes.

  “Or did you and Jay go to your place that night?”

  Chris felt like he was drowning. What were they trying to suggest? He closed his eyes and opened them to stare down at the desk in front of him. “Yeah, we went back to my place.”

  “You live alone, Mr. Bellamere?”

  Chris nodded. It was no secret. He always had—well, except for that disastrous year he’d spent with Geoff before the man had moved on to greener—and younger—pastures.

  “I don’t understand any of this, detective. What have Jay and this,”—he indicated the pictures of his SUV—“got to do with each other?”

  “How many times did you see Jay?”

  “Only the once.” Chris shrugged, trying to loosen the knots in his shoulders. What was it with these guys? They never answered a question? “I saw him around a few times, but we never said more than hi.”

  “He do something to tick you off?” Martinez said. “Or maybe he just wasn’t very good in bed.”

  “We didn’t click. It happens.”

  “How often it happen to you?”

  “Not often—”

  “How many men you fuck over the last six months?”

  This guy was really beginning to get on his nerves. He decided it was time for some shock treatment. He liked dishing it out. Let’s see how much candor the asshole could take. “Actually I don’t fuck very many of them. I’m more of a bottom, myself.”

  “You’re what?” Then Martinez flushed a deep red and his head turtled into his shoulders.

  “Too much information, Detective?” Chris smiled. “Don’t like the pictures it conjures up?”

  He glanced at Laine and was surprised to find the other man looking back at him. If he was disturbed by Chris’s frank admission, it didn’t show.

  “I’d like to go now,” Chris said.

  “Sure,” Laine said. “Just a couple more questions—do you remember seeing Jay with anyone else? Maybe someone who came into the bar some night?”

  “I’m sorry. No, I didn’t.” Chris fumbled for his BlackBerry. “I’d like to help you.

  Really. I just don’t know anything.”

  Laine removed the pictures of his vehicle from the desk and held out a business card.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bellamere,” he said. “If you think of anything—anything at all—

  give me a call, okay?”

  “I don’t know what it is you want from me, Detective. I’ve told you all I remember.”

  A lie, but he didn’t think even this guy could remain cool-headed if Chris got into the details of the night he had spent with the young and very energetic Jay, so it was a nice lie. “But if I remember anything, I’ll let you know. Promise.” He gave Laine his most beguiling smile and was startled when the man blushed.

  He speed-dialed Des and was relieved when his friend’s soft voice answered almost immediately.

  “Hey, babe.” He turned away from Laine’s overly inquisitive gaze. He gave Des the truncated version of the night’s events and was gratified when his friend said he’d be right there to pick him up. He was damned if he’d ask those buffoons for a ride.

  Then Laine’s graceless partner was back in his face, fully recovered from his embarrassment.

  “We’ll be watching you, Bellamere. Bank that.”

  Sunday, 12:10 am, Northeast Community Police Station, San Fernando Road, Los Angeles

  They watched Bellamere as he was led away by a junior female D who was clearly interested in the good-looking young man. In disgust Martinez took the
vehicle pictures and shoved them into a folder labeled with the date and incident number. “File that one under another accommodating citizen.”

  “It might not have been so useless. We know where he works and where he parties.

  We can ask around, maybe something will stand out.” David swiveled around and began tapping away at his computer, laboriously entering the notes he had made from his interview with Bellamere. “Check with DMV, see if we can find any paper on him. See if there are any parking tickets or traffic stops.”

  Martinez nodded. Manson and Son of Sam had both been nailed thanks to traffic citations stored with the Department of Motor Vehicles that put holes in their alibis.

  Maybe they’d get as lucky with Bellamere. Even a paid-up traffic ticket could still be used to put him at a specific location at a specific time.

  “I like the way your mind works, partner,” he said. “You really think that joto has anything to do with this?”

  “Someone sure wants us to think so. Besides,” David said shrugging, “we don’t have anyone better on the table right now.”

  “Well I ain’t buying it. Look at the guy. I doubt he could pop a fruit fly.” Martinez laughed at his own joke.

  “Jeffrey Dahmer didn’t look like he could, either.”

  “Cabrón,” Martinez muttered. “I still don’t buy it.”

  David shook his head. He didn’t want to buy it either, but his reasons were different.

  He didn’t want to believe that a man who looked like that could be capable of the things he knew the Carpet Killer had done. And how stupid was that?

  “There’s no proof he’s involved.”

  “Oh dios, here comes another one.”

  David looked over in time to see an impeccably dressed black man rush over to Chris, who was standing in the corridor. The two embraced and David felt heat rush to his face as in a heartbeat he found himself wondering what it would be like to do the same. Fool.

  As though anyone who looked like that would give the time of day to someone like him.

  “Forget them.” David refused to let his thoughts linger on hopeless fantasies. “I want to talk to Jason’s brother again.”

  “Why?” Martinez asked. “He wasn’t very helpful the first time we interviewed him.”