L.A. Heat

by P. A. Brown

  “Saturday night. I’m getting tickets to an Angel’s game. Martinez sometimes goes with me, but he’s got family in town this weekend. You like baseball?”

  Chris hated sports. But he wasn’t about to tell David that. For a chance to spend a few hours together he’d tolerate just about anything.

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Game starts at six. I’ll pick you up at five.”

  “I’ll be ready.” He started to get out of the car, then he suddenly turned and jammed his mouth down on David’s. Then: “Will you come in for coffee after?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll see.”

  Chris had to be content with that. He waited in the driveway until David’s taillights vanished down the street. Then he let himself into his empty house. The message light was blinking on his phone, but when he went to listen, all he heard was the soft swish of traffic in the background. Nobody spoke. Not even heavy breathing.

  “Can’t even get a decent obscene phone call.”

  He stared at the phone as though something more interesting would come on it if he waited. Finally he gave up and erased the non-message. Then he had another shower and went to bed.

  *****

  After a restless night of achingly erotic dreams Chris dragged himself out of bed just after nine o’clock. He had barely plugged the kettle in for coffee when his BlackBerry vibrated. It was Petey.

  “We’ve got a problem, Bellamere.”

  “We do? Pray tell.”

  “Becky was supposed to go to Colorado next week. Now she’s got some kind of family emergency and can’t make it.”

  Chris knew what was coming, but his first rule of business with Petey was “Never make things easy for the man.”

  “I need a representative there.”

  “Okay,” he dragged the word out. “And just how does this become my problem?”

  “I want you to go in her place.”

  “To Colorado?”

  “Denver.”

  “I hate the mountains. All that thin air. No culture.”

  “Your flight leaves at nine, Sunday night. Becky’s already emailed you the itinerary.

  The main item is meeting Tamura Yamamoto, the CEO of Tand-Howser. They’re opening an office in L.A. and we’re in talks about setting up their infrastructure. But I want the maintenance contract, too. It’s your job to convince him we can do the best job.”

  Chris rolled his eyes. “Is that all?”

  “Becky had some conferences booked, too. They’ll be in her notes. I think she said the full itinerary was online. If there are other conferences you want, maybe you can switch to them. But take that meeting with Yamamoto.”

  Chris turned off the phone. He poured boiling water through the Melitta and went in to check his email. Sure enough, there were a couple from Becky. One was her itinerary, the other gave the link to the conference website. Chris spent half an hour perusing the site, booking a couple of seminars that were more interesting than what Becky had chosen. Finally he printed off the entire itinerary and stuffed it into his laptop case.

  After his second coffee, he called Simon and told him about his conversation with David. At least the parts that related to the case. Simon seemed pleased, but still insisted on pushing through the motion to quash the search warrants. “In case there is any change of heart later on,” he said.

  “David and I talked last night,” Chris said. “He says I’m not a suspect anymore.”

  “It is not a good idea, Christopher, talking to the police. Do us both a favor. Let me decide when to speak to them.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that anymore.”

  “Is something going on I should know about, Christopher?”

  “David’s gay,” Chris blurted out. “We’re... seeing each other.”

  “This could change things. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “For who?”

  Simon didn’t answer. He didn’t need to; Chris knew. If it hurt anyone, it was going to be David.

  Damn, why did everything have to be so complicated?

  *****

  The message light on his phone was blinking when he returned from picking up some papers Simon wanted him to read and sign before Monday. Call display said the last call had come from Des. Immediately he called back, but only got the answering machine. At seven the same machine tried to take another message from him.

  “Shit.” Chris slammed the phone down. Had Des heard from Kyle? Had this all been one of Kyle’s prima donna stunts? The least Des could do was leave a message.

  At seven-thirty the phone rang and Chris snatched it up before it could ring a second time. Call display again said it was Des.

  “Damn it, man, I’ve been calling—”

  Heavy breathing and the background hiss of a bad connection.

  “Des?”

  Silence. Then the breathing started again. Thick and labored, like someone had been running a long distance.

  “Okay, Kyle. What’s the game? Put Des on—”

  The phone went dead. He hit recall and Des’s number popped up on the display. It rang and rang, but no one answered.

  A chill marched up Chris’s bare arms. Without another thought he grabbed his BlackBerry and car keys, and ran out of the house, barely pausing to lock up behind himself.

  The SUV still smelled faintly of superglue. It took him over forty minutes to reach Des’s place. The house was wrapped in shadows when he wheeled into an empty spot in front.

  Des’s Mercedes sat in the narrow driveway, nose up to the gate that led to the backyard. Chris stared at Kyle’s Boxster parked behind it. He dragged his gaze away and looked toward the house.

  The inner door was open. The screen door unlocked. No one answered his knock.

  Chris speed-dialed the number and listened to the phone ring in the living room. He glanced again at both cars in the driveway. He was in Beverly Hills. No one walked anywhere in Beverly Hills.

  Inside, the machine picked up and Des’s voice invited him to leave a message. He hung up.

  The screen door opened silently and he stepped into the cool foyer. Past the brass mirror dominating the foyer, around the tight corner into the crowded living room.

  Which was even more crowded than usual.

  Kyle sat in the spindly Louis XIV chair, his open eyes staring at the poster-covered wall. Only, Kyle was past seeing anything. A strip of silver duct tape had been wrapped around his face, gagging him. His death had been a silent one. As Chris watched, a fly landed on Kyle’s unblinking eye and wandered around pausing now and then to sample.

  One of Kyle’s hands had fallen off the arm of the chair, the open fingers brushing the Kashmir rug. A line of blood dribbled down his index finger, soaking into the knotted wool fiber. A second fly alighted on Kyle’s bare chest. More blood marred the once smooth, hairless skin. Some of it had pooled in his crotch.

  Chris smelled blood and something nastier underlying it. In death Kyle had voided his bowels.

  Chris choked back a cry. His hand went to his mouth, as his stomach slammed into his throat. He backpedaled out of the room and managed not to throw up until he was outside in the blessedly hot industrial-stink beyond Des’s door.

  On his knees he vomited into the nearest boxwood. A car crawled down the street. He ignored it as he fumbled with his cell.

  “Laine here.” David’s voice had never sounded sweeter.

  “Oh God, David. It’s Kyle...He’s...It’s—You have to come. Now.”

  Thursday, 7:50 pm, North Palm Drive, Beverly Hills David skidded his unmarked to an angled stop in front of Chris’s SUV. The usually quiet residential street was crowded with Beverly Hills cop cars and the coroner’s wagon.

  There were also a pair of EMTs on the sidelines in case any more injured parties showed up.

  According to Chris, Des was missing. He spotted Chris sitting in the back seat of a black-and-white, talking to a uniformed officer. Further talk with him would to have to wait.

 
; Inside the crowded house David found the on-site criminalist and the crime-scene investigation team who did contract work for the county processing the living room.

  Chris had already ID’d the body—a single glance confirmed it.

  So where was Des?

  A man approached him in the foyer. David held up his gold shield and the other man nodded.

  They shook hands. “Ernie Copland, Detective second grade, Beverly Hills.”

  “Detective David Laine, LAPD. What’s it look like?” David asked.

  “Bad domestic. We’re getting a statement from the guy who called it in. No weapon found on him, but my guess is we’ll find it nearby. We’re bringing in dogs.”

  “Have you been able to contact the owner?” David thought of Des’s car in the driveway. “The Mercedes belongs to him, the other car belongs to the victim.”

  Copland frowned. “You’re familiar with these people?”

  David glanced at Kyle’s bloodstained body. “Yes.” He decided not to elaborate.

  Copland jerked his head toward the front door. “Our caller admits being close to the missing home owner. Says he followed the victim into Santa Monica the other day. He’s not saying, but I’ll hazard we’ll find it was your typical gay triangle. He offed the victim to eliminate the competition.”

  “Have you talked to him yet?”

  “One of my men spoke with him. Claims he got a phone call that spooked him and he came over to see for himself what was going on, walked in on this.”

  David kept his voice flat. “You don’t believe him?”

  “You don’t think it was a domestic?”

  “Can I talk to them?” David indicated the C.S.I. people bent over Kyle’s body.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I’ll tell you if I find it.”

  The criminalist, a young Asian David recognized from other crime scenes, looked up at his approach. David nodded down at the body.

  “What can you tell me?” he asked.

  “What’s your interest?”

  David studied the wound pattern on Kyle’s exposed skin. He frowned. “I’m working the Carpet Killer—you familiar?”

  The criminalist nodded.

  “So what have you got here?”

  The criminalist stripped off his bloody gloves and pulled on a second pair. The first pair went into a disposal bag beside their equipment case.

  “Extensive piquerism is evidenced in the cuts on the upper torso. He was raped, but it looks like a condom, or condoms, were used. Severe anal tearing is also consistent, I believe—”

  David nodded. “It is. We’ve seen the duct tape before, too. Sometimes he needs to keep them quiet. Anything strike you as unusual?”

  The criminalist waved toward a pair of C.S.I. techs collecting something off the carpet near the sofa. “Blood. On the arm of the sofa and floor. Not spatter, it dripped from someone sitting on the sofa.”

  “A second victim?”

  “We’ll have to type it to be sure.”

  The C.S.I. techs waved a light wand slowly over the back of the sofa, then the seat.

  Looking for more blood.

  Des’s blood? Or the killer’s?

  “Our doer’s never taken out two before,” David said. “This is a radical change in his M.O.”

  “Don’t know about that,” the criminalist said. “All I know is, I’m thinking there were three people here. One of them was wearing latex—and he used the phone after he worked on this guy.” He indicated Kyle’s body. “Handset tests positive for his blood.”

  “Guy who found the body got a nonresponsive phone call from this residence. Came over to check, that’s how he found the victim.”

  “This guy wanted him to find his friend.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Nice guy.”

  “You have no idea.” David sighed. “No sign of what happened to our second bleeder?”

  “He’s not here. We searched the house top to bottom and they’re taking a dog through the backyard. Nothing.”

  “Could he have walked away?”

  “Not with this kind of blood loss.”

  David walked back to where Copland was talking to one of the C.S.I. techs. They both looked up at this approach.

  “Find what you were looking for?”

  David nodded brusquely. “I think we’re looking at the Carpet Killer.”

  “I thought he usually dumped his bodies. You’ve never found the kill site before.”

  “That’s what’s got me worried. I think our guy’s decompensating fast.”

  A uniformed officer entered the house and approached Copland. The two spoke briefly. Copland waited for him to leave before he turned back to David.

  “It looks like the victim’s car was towed recently. Gibes with what the witness claims about the car going missing in Santa Monica.” Copland rubbed his chin. “You think Desmond Hayward’s been taken hostage by this Carpet Killer?”

  “Maybe. More likely he means Des to be his next plaything. He usually likes to hold them several hours. Take his time.”

  “We’re canvassing the neighborhood,” Copland said. “Hopefully someone saw something. It’s quiet, though. Not many people answering their doors.”

  The Asian criminalist entered the room. He was stripping off yet another pair of gloves. He held on to them.

  “There are three blood types present,” he said. “Someone fought back and the doer was injured. Left his blood on the floor by the body.”

  David perked up. “We can get a DNA match then?”

  “We can.”

  David headed for the front door. Copland followed.

  “My men will keep asking around.”

  “Good.” From the door, David could see Chris still sitting in the black-and-white.

  “Mind if I talk to the wit?”

  Copland waved him forward. “Go ahead. Gallagher’s probably almost done, anyway.”

  Gallagher was done. Chris caught sight of David and flew out of the backseat. His handsome face was marred with tears and his skin was chalky white. He touched David’s arm and it was all David could do not to grab him and wrap him in a safe embrace.

  “I’m sorry, Chris. Let’s go someplace and talk.”

  They slid into the front seat of David’s unmarked.

  “Can you tell me about it?” David said gently.

  “Oh, God, David. Where’s Des? That guy was trying to tell me he thought Des did that. Are they nuts? Des would never hurt anyone. He loved Kyle.”

  “It wasn’t Des.”

  Chris froze and stared at David. “Then what—Jesus, do they think I did it?”

  “No!” David touched his face, trying to give him strength for what he had to tell him.

  “I think Des was taken.”

  “Who is it, David? Who did this?”

  David grabbed Chris’s cold hands in both of his. He no longer cared who might be watching. He forced Chris to meet his gaze. “I think it’s the Carpet Killer.”

  Chris stared at him blankly. In an instant David saw how he would look in twenty years.

  “Des...Is he?”

  David shook his head. “I don’t know. Do you want to go home now?”

  When Chris nodded, David left him and went in search of Copland. He found him back in the house, talking on a cell. He hung up when David appeared.

  David handed him one of his cards. “I’m taking Mr. Bellamere home. I was planning on staying with him awhile, so if you have any other questions, call this number. If anything else comes to him, I’ll let you know.”

  Copland’s cool, measuring look made David wonder what the man suspected. What he was proposing wasn’t exactly S.O.P. He was surprised at how little he cared.

  “I’m going to call my partner, too,” David said.“Apprise him of the latest activity.

  Between us maybe we can come up with something.”

  Copland nodded and turned away. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Davi
d left.

  Chris hadn’t moved. David slid in beside him and started the motor of the unmarked.

  “You want someone to bring your truck around later?”

  “What? Oh, sure. I guess.” Chris stared out the window toward Des’s house.

  David touched his knee. “Give me the keys. I’ll have it brought up to your place.”

  “Sure...” Chris fumbled in his pocket and dropped the SUV’s keys in David’s hand.

  “You have house keys?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  It took David five minutes to find an officer who promised to drive the truck to Silver Lake later that evening. He’d leave the keys in the mailbox.

  At Chris’s place David took the house keys from Chris’s limp hand and led him through the gated courtyard. He unlocked the door, then aimed Chris at the alarm system so that he could punch in the code, commenting, “I don’t think you want Securicor coming up here for a false alarm.”

  David led Chris into the living room and set him down on the sofa. But when he moved away to take another seat, Chris grabbed him.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t leave.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” David said, lowering himself beside Chris. “Tell you what.

  How ’bout I just sit here for now.”

  “Good.”

  Chris melted back into the stiff cushions. His eyes stared blindly ahead, through the massive picture window to the lights spreading out beyond the lake that gave the area its name. David wondered what kind of waking nightmare he saw through those eyes.

  “He’s dead,” Chris whispered. “Isn’t he?”

  “We don’t know that.”

  Chris didn’t even seem to hear him. “Like Kyle,” he said. “Like Bobby.”

  “Chris.”

  “He’s dead. I know it.”

  David slid his arm around Chris’s stiff shoulders. “Try to relax. I’ll wait with you.”

  “Who’s doing this? Who is this guy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Chris twisted away from him, his face a mask of hate.

  “Why is he doing this to me? Why—”

  David’s cell phone rang. He snatched it up and in the frozen silence that fell between them, then barked his name. It was Copland.