by P. A. Brown
“MR. MCGILL?” DAVID held his shield in one hand while he extended the other to Peter McGill, the Brooks Brothers-suited CIO of DataTEK. “Detective David Laine.
Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
Martinez had been called into court for a morning arraignment and David had opted to interview McGill alone. “Yes, well.” He ran a hand through his thinning, rust-red hair.
“I try to help the local authorities when I can.”
McGill’s office held a massive mahogany desk and four leather chairs. Prints of snowy forests occupied by deer and elk hung from beige walls. Behind the desk a large double window looked east, toward the San Gabriel Mountains; the snowless peak of Mount Wilson lay behind a brown haze.
“I’d like to ask a few questions, Mr. McGill. Background information on one of your employees. Just routine stuff.” David opened his notebook. “You have a Christopher Bellamere in your employ?”
“Yes.” McGill frowned. “Has Bellamere done something?”
“There was an incident involving his vehicle and I’m investigating. How long has Mr.
Bellamere been employed by your company, Mr. McGill?”
“Chris started six years ago.”
“Good employee?”
McGill’s frown deepened. He played with a monitor-shaped paperweight.
“Christopher’s performance has always been up to company expectations.”
That sounded too carefully phrased to be good. “Does Mr. Bellamere have trouble fitting in?”
“He’s not a rule follower. His... lifestyle leaves much to be desired.”
Bingo.
“How would you characterize his behavior in the last few weeks?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Has he been unusually anxious? Expectant? Did he seem preoccupied?”
“No, not at all...”
“Is Mr. Bellamere available to speak to us?”
McGill still seemed puzzled by the whole conversation; he frowned. “He won’t be in until this afternoon—”
“I’d like to see Mr. Bellamere’s work space, if that’s not a problem.”
“You mean his cubicle? I suppose that can be arranged.” McGill picked up his phone and punched in three digits. “Tom? Could you come to my office for a moment?”
A few minutes later a blond, preppy-looking man strode into McGill’s office. He stopped when he saw David. “Detective,” McGill said. “This is Tom Clarke, one of our senior IT people.”
“Mr. Clarke.” David extended his hand. Tom shook it vigorously. “I’m making some inquires into a fellow employee. Mr. McGill thought you might be able to help me.”
Tom looked from David to McGill, one eyebrow arching.
“He wants to see Bellamere’s desk.” McGill waved them both out. “Show him around.
Answer his questions.”
“I have that meeting with the IBM people—”
“I assure you I won’t keep you long,” David said.
Tom used a card key in the elevator to access the ninth floor.
“How many people work here?” David asked.
Tom shrugged. “Fifty? Sixty? Besides our group, there’s a mainframe team, several D.B.A.s—database administrators—and a handful of programmers and web designers.”
“What exactly does Mr. Bellamere do?”
“Chris and I do everything from handling data storage and backup to building secure networks from scratch. When our clients have problems, they call us.” The elevator door whispered open and they stepped out onto a dove-gray carpet. Tom turned right. “Just this Saturday Chris and I were involved in getting a major pharmaceutical company back up and running. Took us hours.”
“You’ve worked with Mr. Bellamere a while? How would you characterize him on a personal level?”
“Personal? What’s this about? Do you think the guy molested someone?”
“What would make you think he’d molest someone?”
“You’ve talked to Peter—I mean Mr. McGill, right? Did he tell you Chris was gay?”
“Who would he have molested?”
“Boys, what else.” Tom smirked.
“You have reason to suspect Mr. Bellamere is a pedophile?” That one was off the radar. Could it be true? It didn’t fit with the profile they’d generated on their killer.
David didn’t want to believe it. He repeated his question, adding: “That’s a pretty serious charge.”
Tom looked sullen. “No. Let’s just say I know he’s a sick fuck.”
“You need to be careful about charging people with crimes like that. We don’t take that sort of accusation lightly—”
“Okay, I overreacted.”
“To what?”
“Nothing, I was wrong. Forget it.”
They entered an area of cubicles. The walls matched the carpet and each cubicle held a steel desk, a black flat-screen monitor, and a phone that looked like it had more buttons than a NASA console.
Each cubicle had an engraved nameplate. Bellamere had personalized his space by covering the walls with framed Dilbert and Maxine comics; a Dilbert desk calendar still showed Friday’s date. A red message light blinked on his phone.
“How does Chris get along with people?” David changed the subject abruptly. He picked up the desk calendar and flipped forward, glancing at the cartoons, looking for notes or names. “He argue with people? Cause fights?”
“Chris do something that might cause a fight?” Tom looked amused. “You’re joking, right?”
David set the calendar down. He glanced at a notepad beside the phone. ‘Lunch with Des—B Cactus—Trev???’ The name Trev was underlined two times in bold strokes. He flipped through a leather folder. It had more notes; most seemed to be work- related.
“You don’t like gays much, do you, Mr. Clarke?”
“Long as they leave me alone, who cares.”
“How would you characterize Mr. Bellamere as an employee? Does he do his job competently?”
“Competently?” Tucked against his side, Tom’s hands curled into fists and he avoided David’s gaze. “I guess so. He’s a good talker, got lots of people convinced he knows it all.”
“But not you?”
“Listen, I have a lot of work to do—”
“Sure.” David put his notebook away. “I’ve got all I need for today. Thanks for all your help, sir.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. I believe I can find my way out.”
Monday, 9:35 am Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles At first Chris ignored the pounding. One glance at his bedside clock told him it was barely nine-thirty. He wasn’t expecting anyone this early and all his friends knew enough to call before dropping by. He hadn’t returned home from a Glendale call-out to take care of some misbehaving servers until nearly three, and even Petey knew better than to expect him before noon after nights like that.
But the hammering on his door persisted. Growling under his breath, Chris threw on a robe and lurched down the stairs. He yanked the heavy door open.
“What the fuck—”
Detective Laine stood inside the gated courtyard, between the two short Italian cypresses that flanked the door, studying his notebook as though it would tell him why his knocking wasn’t being answered. When Chris opened the door he snapped it shut and slid it into his jacket pocket.
“Mr. Bellamere—”
“Jesus, don’t tell me, you just have a few more questions?”
“Yes, sir. If it’s convenient.”
“Why do I feel like I’m in a bad Columbo movie? So, you’re saying if it’s not convenient you’ll leave me alone?”
Laine stepped closer. The dusty breeze blew through the open door. “I thought you might be interested in getting your vehicle back.”
“What’s this? Giving me a ride to grill me for more information?” Chris couldn’t resist a smile at the thought of David coming all the way up here to give him a ride.
“No,
no...I wanted to talk to you without Martinez.”
“Why?”
“You don’t seem to like Martinez.”
“You mean there are people who do?”
David actually laughed. “Your body shop picked it up from impound yesterday morning just as you instructed. I just called and they said it’s ready.”
Chris went inside to get dressed, while Laine waited outside in his car, a wine-colored Crown Victoria that had a serious dent in the passenger door. Chris had to jerk at the door several times before he could get it open, and when he did it scattered flakes of rust all over the cobblestone driveway.
Heat swamped him immediately. He looked around, wondering why the air conditioner wasn’t on. It was the middle of August, for God’s sake. Belatedly he realized Laine’s window was down.
“No air?” he croaked.
“’Fraid not. Your tax dollars at work.”
The window proved more stubborn than the door.
“Here. There’s a trick to it.” Laine brought the Crown Vic to a stop under a massive crape myrtle tree whose electric-pink flowers trailed nearly to the hood of the car. Laine slid off his seat belt and leaned over Chris. His arm brushed Chris’s chest, muscles bulging as he yanked down on the handle.
The window moved down a couple of inches. Hot air poured into the gap. From inside the car Chris could smell soap and Kenneth Cole. He was so close the pores of the older man’s skin looked like miniature craters. A single bead of sweat poised on Laine’s temple, catching on a strand of dark hair. Chris saw some silver mixed in with the sable.
David had taken his jacket off, and Chris saw that his arms were thick with more dark hair. He was a real bear. David pushed again at the stubborn window. The glass protested, but this time it went all the way down.
He met Chris’s eyes. “There,” he said. “That should help.”
Chris nodded, wishing they’d start driving again. Then he realized the other man was staring at his mouth. Without thinking about it, Chris licked his lips.
Instantly Laine jerked away. He swung the car out into the street and eventually turned north on Silver Lake Boulevard. “Has anything else occurred to you since Saturday night?”
For some inexplicable reason Chris thought of his dream. He shook the memory away.
“You mean do I remember seeing someone with a can of spray paint trotting down Hyperion? No.”
“This Jay guy, you sure you never saw him with anyone else?”
“He didn’t come in often.” Chris rubbed the fleshy part of his thumb. “The one time we were, ah, together he said he was from Anaheim. I took it to mean he cruised somewhere else.”
“He ever say where?”
“No.”
The cop left it at that, though Chris had the distinct impression he wasn’t done yet.
At the body shop the Lexus squatted regally between a rusted-out Saturn and a newer-model Volvo. The late-morning sun caught the metallic finish so that it gleamed like a newly minted gold coin.
Chris climbed out of the Crown Victoria. He did a walk around his Lexus, pleased to note that they had done a good job. There was no way to tell how badly marked up the vehicle had been.
He looked up to find that Laine had followed him. “Thanks for bringing me,” he said.
“Nice wheels. What color do you call this?”
Chris pursed his lips. “Prasecca metallic. Always thought it looked gold to me, but I guess the marketing department didn’t agree.”
“Yeah, they do like to fancy things up,” Laine murmured, trailing a hand along the sleek curves of the SUV. He paused briefly at the back bumper, and Chris wondered if he’d spotted a scratch. Finally he circled around the other side and came back to the driver’s side. “Nothing’s ever what it seems anymore,” he said.
“Get pretty good mileage out of it, do you?”
“Not bad, considering.” Chris got into the driver’s seat, slid the key in, and cranked the engine. It purred. “Was there anything else, detective?”
“No, nothing—” the cop turned away, then swung back before Chris could shut the door. “One question, Mr. Bellamere. Just a quick one.”
“God, you really are Columbo!”
“You don’t strike me as the type, but, do you wear glasses?”
“Glasses—no. I don’t. Why?”
“Have good vision do you? Or do you wear contacts?”
“Twenty-twenty,” Chris said. “What’s this about? You think I might have missed something the other day?”
“No, chances are whoever did this was long gone by the time you got there. Just idle curiosity.”
Chris didn’t think this cop had an idle bone in his body, but he kept the thought to himself. “Fact is, I have nearly perfect vision.”
“You’re very lucky, sir.”
He stepped away from the truck and Chris backed out. He flipped his hand at Laine, who nodded, still fixated on the back of his truck.
He was still staring when Chris pulled out of the lot and headed west.
Monday, 11:35 am, DataTEK, Studio City, San Fernando Valley, Los Angeles
“Thomas, good to see you again. Glad to see you’ve settled in.”
Executive row was a maze of small offices and conference rooms. The walls were cubicle-thin, without doors. Chris glanced up from the VP’s computer he’d been working on for the last ten minutes. He recognized the voice of Saul Ruben, DataTEK’s chief financial officer. Then he also recognized Tom Clarke’s voice.
“Uncle Saul. I thought you were on your way to San Francisco.”
“This evening.” The distaste was heavy in Ruben’s voice. “I prefer to spend as little time as possible in that Sodom and Gomorrah.”
Tom made noises of agreement.
“How’s your father these days?” Ruben asked. “I haven’t seen him since the last stockholders’ meeting.”
“He’s fine. Enjoying his retirement.”
“That’s right, he left his firm, didn’t he?” A desk drawer slammed shut. “Still think he should have taken that House seat. We need more men with his fortitude in Washington.
Too many of these panty-waists running things these days.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m glad you stopped by,” Ruben said. “Your aunt wants you to come by this Sunday. We’re having some people over. The Armstrongs’ daughter is visiting from Boston and she needs an escort.”
“Uncle—”
“Could do worse, boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chris grinned at the pain in Tom’s voice. A pair of shadows crossed in front of the frosted glass fronting the VP’s office.
Chris watched Ruben pass by in his Brooks Brothers suit. At least he knew where Petey got his fashion sense. Tom followed in his knockoff Calvin Kleins. He needed a little more of his uncle’s money to afford the real thing.
Chris finished up with the VP’s computer. He found Tom in the cafeteria picking at a mandarin chicken salad. Chris dragged a chair around and straddled it.
“Well that explains a lot,” he said softly.
Tom’s tentative smile froze, became a grimace. “What the hell’s your problem, Bellamere?”
“Just wondering how a guy like you got here with nothing going for him but brass balls.”
“At least I’ve got balls.”
“So, uncle bought you a job, did he? He trying to buy you a society wife, too?”
Tom clenched his fists so hard Chris swore he heard the knuckles crack. “I earned this position, same as you. Why the hell can’t you give me any credit?”
“Because I’ve seen your work. And if you think I don’t know about you trying to get Petey to can me, think again.” Chris thumped to his feet. “You want respect, don’t ride in here on someone else’s coattails. I could drag in a dozen guys who have forgotten more than you ever knew, who don’t have cushy jobs because daddy sits on the board of directors. Even Petey knows it.” Even if he’d never admit it.
�
�I’ll bet you could drag in a dozen guys—bunch of faggots standing in line for a blow job.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Chris smiled. Leaning forward he took his time selecting a mandarin slice from Tom’s salad and popped it in his mouth.
Tom flushed, his mouth a thin white line. “There are going to be some serious changes around here, just you wait. I don’t care how irreplaceable you think you are.
We’ll see who’s laughing then.”
Chris was thoughtful as he made his way back to his desk. He knew the CFO, Saul Ruben. At least he knew his reputation. But what didn’t he know?
His cubicle neighbor, Becky Chapman, slapped their shared wall, then rolled her chair around into his cubicle. She glanced at his computer, where he had just opened Google. “Working on something?”
“You know who Clarke is?”
“Trick question?” She grabbed an apple out of his ever-present fruit basket. “Last time I checked his name tag, it said Tom Clarke. I miss something?”
“His father’s a major stockholder. And our esteemed CFO’s brother. How much you wanna bet Petey gets a fat bonus at year end for bringing the kid in?”
She grinned sourly and took a bite of apple. “You should try giving him a chance.
Maybe he’s not as bad as you make out.”
“You think?”
“No. But we are stuck with him.”
“Ever the pragmatist.”
“That’s me. Plays well with others, too.”
When she rolled back to her desk Chris checked his phone messages while he did a scattershot search for information on Saul Ruben.
One message was from Des. “Let’s do the Pit tonight. Kyle’s got an audition. We can have dinner. Your choice. Call me.”
Chris did. The phone was picked up on the third ring.
“Masturbation corporation—can I give you a hand?”
“Aren’t we just the cutest.” Chris rolled his eyes. “Is Des there, Kyle?”
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Mary,” Kyle said. “The interstate rest stop reopen for business?”
Chris ground his teeth. “Give it a rest, will you? This hostility is so yesterday. Is Des there?”
