Fish on a Bicycle

by Amy Lane

  Jackson followed, cursing when his attacker turned right into the small apartment complex, but following him anyway.

  God, he hated chasing people in places like this. He saw a tennis shoe to his right and took off that way, heart hammering in his throat. The November before, he and Ellery had cornered a serial killer in a vacant apartment complex like this one, and when Jackson saw his attacker round another corner to go left, he had to fight a very real compulsion to haul ass out of the apartment complex and breathe.

  He didn’t, though. A guy with a knife was running loose in a place with innocent civilians. Henry, Curtis, any of the other guys in the flophouse, much less the children he heard playing nearby in the apartment pool, could be hurt.

  Jackson kept running, following the sound of retreating footsteps, left, right, left—but this guy knew where he was going, and Jackson was lost, turning where he thought he heard footsteps, and confused by the echoes, his heart thundering with every blind corner.

  Running balls out until this moment in the heat stretched long and hot, like tar, his shoulder aching fiercely, lungs burning like a crucible, and a left and a right—

  Right into a solid wall masquerading as a human being.

  Jackson pulled back and took a swing, only to have Henry block it, shouting, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I thought we were past this!”

  “Fuck!” Jackson panted. “Motherfucker got away!” Oh, he should not be this out of breath. He ran every morning, but God, he was short on wind.

  “Who? Who got away?” Henry got a good look at him, and then at his own hand, which was coated in Jackson’s blood. “Jesus, Rivers, you were just supposed to go into the AV room. What the hell hap— Where you going?”

  Jackson took off running for the manager’s office, a sick feeling in his stomach. Goddammit and motherfucker, no. No. No no no no no no….

  He ran, Henry hot on his heels, back to the apartment manager’s office, swearing as the door threw inward without any resistance whatsoever.

  Jackson hurried back behind the counter, muttering under his breath until he saw the body, stretched out on the floor. Sternberg Cock Cheese was clutching his hand to his throat as he gasped, his blood pooling on the ground.

  “He’s still alive,” Jackson muttered, and then looked Henry in the eye. “He’s still alive. Call 911, tell them we’ve got a stabbing victim here. And give me your goddamned shirt!”

  Henry pulled his shirt over his head without question, and Jackson took it and bent down to apply pressure to the neck of the scumbag who might not have completely deserved this.

  They were in a nexus of four different hospitals, so an ambulance arrived while Sternberg was still kicking. The medics started working on him, one of them giving Jackson a bemused glance. “Oh, look. You’re not on the ground this time.”

  Jackson gave a tired grin. “Surprised?”

  “Pleasantly.” The guy was in his forties, with a ruddy face and faded blue eyes. He’d seen Jackson in some of his… less mobile moments. “But you’re not off the hook entirely. You need another unit for that?”

  Jackson’s shoulder felt nuclear, and blood was still dripping down his elbow. “Christ, no.”

  “Wrong answer,” the guy said mildly, but Henry gave Jackson a glare.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get him treated,” Henry muttered.

  “By the time the cops get done with me, the wound’ll be closed,” Jackson told him. Yup. Here they came.

  “Rivers.”

  “Kryzynski.” Jackson nodded at the young detective who had ridden his and Ellery’s coattails right into a promotion. They’d done some good work together, actually—but Jackson wasn’t going to forget that Sean Kryzynski had only listened to Ellery because he’d wanted to hit that. And he’d been an asshole to Jackson about the wore-a-wire thing, because hey, the whole rest of the department did, so why wouldn’t Kryzynski?

  “You look like shit.” Kryzynski looked over at one of the patrolmen marking off the crime scene. “Evans, can we get a water over here? And is there another ambulance outside?”

  “I don’t need another ambulance!” Jackson protested. Then his shoulders slumped. “I wouldn’t mind another water, though.”

  “Don’t worry about the ambulance,” Henry muttered. He looked at Kryzynski. “Hey, I’m going to run to my apartment and come right back. One of the guys I room with might be able to help.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Henry disappeared, leaving Jackson alone with Kryzynski’s irritation.

  “You just can’t go to the goddamned hospital, can you?”

  “Hey, don’t you have any questions for me?” Jackson asked, not wanting to talk about the hospital or his wound, or how really unexcited he was to let Ellery know he’d been hurt again.

  “Yeah,” Kryzynski said, gesturing to the office, which was actually still neat and tidy except for the guy getting loaded onto a gurney, leaving behind about two pints of blood. “What the fuck happened?”

  Jackson nodded in Henry’s direction. “That guy going to fetch his roommate was wrongly accused of murdering the guy who got found in the dumpster. He was brought in for questioning this morning, but they sent him home because not only did he not do it, but two different videos from the same perspective emerged, both of them doctored to incriminate him.”

  Kryzynski’s eyes widened. “That’s… not convenient.”

  “Right? So I thought I’d check out the film school here, and that guy was behind the counter doing shit you don’t want to know about. I came behind the counter, headed for the little room where the video footage is processed—you can see it there, with the wide-open door.”

  “And what looks like your blood spraying the wall. Well done.”

  “I was proud. Anyway, I busted in, and an asshole with a Schrade dagger busted out, and I lost him in this goddamned apartment complex.” Jackson shuddered, remembering the panic of not catching his wind. “I hate these fucking places.”

  To his dismay, the look on Kryzynski’s face grew unutterably compassionate. “I was there the last time you took one on,” he said softly.

  Fuck. “I don’t remember. Once I hit the pool, it’s all a blur.” He’d been consumed by fever—the cold of the pool had induced a heart attack. Ellery had bailed him out and saved his life, but that didn’t mean he remembered much except the ambulance ride after that. And the doctor’s orders that he keep an eye out for symptoms of the murmur he’d picked up from the damage to his most vital organ.

  “Well, good for you, trying to get this guy here.”

  “Bad for me, because I lost the motherfucker and he doubled back and tried to tie up Cock Cheese Sternberg here.”

  He and Kryzynski watched as the paramedics loaded the gurney into the ambulance and took off, sirens belting, because they had a patient who might live or die.

  “Well, if he lives, it’s because you got here soon enough,” Kryzynski said. “And if he dies, it’s probably because he let the wrong people use his video room. We’ll dust it for prints and check it out.”

  Jackson looked at it yearningly. “I could always have my friend check it out,” he said, thinking about Crystal or AJ, both of whom could take a look at the equipment in there and maybe figure out what the original image had looked like.

  “Could you just trust us a little,” Kryzynski begged. “Just a little. Just maybe this once, trust us to have your back in a timely fashion. I promise, Jackson, I’ve got an expert coming in, and I’ll have the results to you by tomorrow.”

  Jackson scowled at him. “Who are you and what did you do with the SACPD detective who keeps hitting on my boyfriend?”

  “I’m the guy dating a fireman right now who would like to be your friend!”

  Jackson gaped at him.

  “What?” Kryzynski muttered, all irritation. “We’ve worked together before.”

  “Why a fireman?”

  “He was, uhm… well, older. And sort of bossy. But not an asshole. And he pointed out that
people trusted firemen because they didn’t judge. And I realized I’d judged you without ever meeting you, because of ancient history. And you’d been a better man than all the bullshit. So anyway, can we start again?”

  Jackson was supremely aware of how much his shoulder hurt, and of what an act of will it took to hold a grudge. “Fine,” he muttered. “Call us tomorrow with the results, or an update, or something.”

  “I will, but you have to get your shoulder looked at.”

  “Didn’t you hear my client? He’s got it covered. Don’t you even want to know what this guy looked like?”

  The look Kryzynski sent him was decidedly unfriendly, and he pulled out a notebook. “What did he look like?”

  “Taller than me, rangy, a white guy with tanned skin, hazel eyes, dark blond hair, bucked teeth, bad breath.” Jackson shuddered as he remembered the stench of his breath. “Brown teeth and sores on his face.”

  He heard the sound of Kryzynski sucking on his teeth, which was good, because it meant Sean Kryzynski knew his street shit. “Meth?”

  “Yeah. The guy we busted last night—the one who was trying to convince a couple of witnesses that the doctored video was the right one—”

  “Which one?”

  Jackson blinked at him, his mind blank. “Which what?”

  “Which doctored video?”

  “Jesus God. The fuck with this case. The second one—the one given to the DA and not the one that our assistant got when he asked. The guy who broke into Reg Williams’s house—Herbert something. Anyway, that guy, with that footage, said he worked for Candy Cormier.”

  Kryzynski’s eyes grew huge. “Jesus God. The fuck with you guys. You can’t lift up a single goddamned rock and not find a goddamned fire-breathing dragon, can you?”

  Jackson had the perfect retort on the tip of his tongue when his shoulder gave a vicious throb. All he could manage was a wince and a grunt.

  Kryzynski took a deep breath. “You’d rather have a mechanic stitch it up with dental floss and gasoline than actually accept help, wouldn’t you.”

  Jackson let out his own breath. “Ellery worries all the time,” he said, thinking about the night before. “It would just be wonderful if this could not be a thing.”

  “Maybe if you get it treated like a big boy and don’t try to pretend it doesn’t hurt, it will be less of a thing.”

  Jackson glared at him. “And I hate you again.”

  At that moment, Henry called his name, jumping up and down behind the yellow tape that the forensics team had put up. “C’mon, man, you come out or we go in, what’s it gonna be?”

  Kryzynski jerked his chin in Henry’s direction. “I’ll be out to ask some more questions. All you’ve managed to do now is give me a headache.”

  Jackson grimaced. Between the heat and the pain in his shoulder and the near panic attack in the apartment warren—God, his heart was pounding threadily in his temples still…. “Join the fuckin’ club.”

  He turned reluctantly and headed for Henry and his med-student friend.

  Who was so beautiful, Jackson almost held his breath.

  About five feet ten inches tall, the kid had high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes, with a rectangular face and a slight point to his chin. His skin was a tawny gold, and his smile was so sweet, so charmingly at odds with Henry’s surly irritation, that Jackson knew—it only took an instant—that this could be true fucking love.

  Between Henry and the kid doing porn through med school.

  Jackson stepped out of the office and into the shade under the awning. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jackson Rivers. You must be…?” He glared at Henry, who had the grace—and the manners—to flush.

  “Uh….” He looked at the kid. “Lance?”

  Lance shrugged. “Sure. Beats the shit out of Merlin.”

  Jackson’s eyes widened. “Your parents named you Merlin?”

  Lance had wicked eyebrows and a sort of laser-pointer gaze. “My parents named me Galahad. I’m not joking. When I picked a name for Johnnies, I went with another knight from the Round Table.”

  Jackson’s headache lifted by virtue of pure fucking magic. “That’s amazing. So, Galahad, what can I do for you?”

  Lance smiled winsomely. “I’d say it’s more what I can do for you, sir. Would you like me to stitch you here or stitch you in the apartment? The apartment has running water and air-conditioning, and as long as you don’t use a black light in there, it’ll at least feel cleaner.”

  Jackson’s headache returned, taking his breath away. “I’ll take the AC,” he admitted, hating himself a little. He looked into the room, which probably had another hour of processing in it. “Kryzynski!”

  “Idiot!”

  “I’m gonna be up in one of the apartments.”

  “Room number—” Lance offered, but Jackson shook his head.

  “Which room number?” Kryzynski huffed.

  “The one that’s none of your business. Text me if you need me. I’ll be done in twenty.”

  Jackson nodded for Lance to lead the way.

  “Why’d you do that?” Henry asked lowly.

  “Because you guys don’t need the cops to know where you are,” Jackson muttered. “Consider that my favor to you.”

  “God, you’re paranoid.”

  Jackson sent Henry a sour glance. “God, you’re a Boy Scout.”

  Ahead of them, Lance snorted.

  “What?” Jackson heard the defensiveness in Henry’s voice and the need to be liked. “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re just awfully law-abiding for a guy under suspicion,” Jackson told him mildly, and Henry groaned.

  “God, this is not how I thought my life would look!”

  “And yet,” Lance said, “here we are.”

  Henry groaned again, and Jackson chuckled, enjoying his discomfort immensely. Lance continued to lead the way, around a corner and up a flight of stairs, and Jackson was forcibly reminded of their errand when he put weight on his shoulder to grab the stair rail. Goddammit. God-fucking-dammit. At least he wasn’t going to the hospital, right?

  The apartment was much as Jackson had imagined it. Plain white walls and beige carpet in the living room, with white tile in the bathrooms and kitchen. The best thing about it was the air-conditioning. There were two bedrooms down the hall, and Jackson got a glimpse of two twin beds in the closest one, and probably the same setup in the other one. The living room had a well-worn couch with a pile of sheets and blankets on the end, and a full air mattress leaning against the wall in the corner. There were posters on the walls of movies, rock groups, and Sacramento during the seasons, and the blankets on the couch looked homemade.

  It was a dormitory, plain and simple, whether the guys got paid for sex or just had all the free stuff college would allow.

  “In here,” Lance called, and Jackson followed him to the bathroom. He disappeared for a second and showed up with an honest-to-God little black bag. He pulled out gloves, antiseptic, cotton balls, and a stitching kit that he set up on a tray on the back of the toilet before running the water hot in the sink.

  After a few minutes of extremely competent, conscientious preparation, he sighed, like it wasn’t up to his standards, and had Jackson turn around and take off his shirt.

  Jackson had forgotten what a nightmare his body was until he heard the low whistle.

  “Damn, son.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What blew up your shoulder?”

  “Sniper round. Wait. Which scar?”

  “The newer one.”

  “Uzi.”

  “The older one is the sniper round?” With cool, impersonal hands, Lance pulled Jackson to face him so he could trace the damage paths. Bored, Jackson let him explore for a moment before turning back around.

  “There’s been some things,” he said vaguely, wishing for Ellery’s tender irritation instead of Lance’s clinical concern.

  “I can see that. I’m going to be sewing through some scar tissue here. I
t’s going to hurt. Are you sure you don’t want a hos—”

  “Positive,” Jackson said shortly. “But I wouldn’t mind some Novocain.”

  “I can do that,” Lance said with a sigh. “Sit on the toilet, would you? I’m only so tall.” Jackson felt the bite of the needle, and gave a sigh of relief as the chemical blanket washed the entire area in a soothing numbness. His opinion of Henry’s pretty roommate doubled when Lance grabbed a scrub brush and went to town with some elbow grease to clean the wound. Better a good scrubbing now when it was numb than an infection later. He was just relaxing into the procedure when his pocket rang. He held up a hand and picked it up when Lance paused.

  “Ellery?” Behind him, Lance started moving again.

  “Have you gotten to Sampson’s medical practice yet?”

  Lance plied the needle, and Jackson felt pressure as the silk pulled at the edges of his wound. “Not yet. I checked the manager’s office for whoever was doctoring the vids. He got away, but he left the apartment manager—” Lance made another stitch, the needle sticking, apparently on the scar tissue, and Jackson suppressed a gasp. “—in a pool of blood. Last I heard, he was still kicking, but it means the cops have the crime scene. Kryzynski promised us an update tomorrow.”

  “Are you okay?” Ellery asked, because dammit, he’d never been stupid.

  “I gave chase,” Jackson said. “It’s hot outside.” Both of which were true. He heard a subtle shifting of feet and looked over his shoulder in time to see Henry glare.

  Jackson stuck out his tongue and turned back around. “Give us an hour. I was going to swing by your place and get my scrubs in a few. Why? Was there something you needed?”

  “Our place,” Ellery corrected automatically, “and I just wanted to give you a heads-up. One of the partners—Carver, actually—”

  Jackson snorted, and Ellery kept going right over him.

  “—has moved to… where was it? Bumfuck, Arkansas.”

  “Is that a real town?” Because that would be awesome.

  “No, it’s not a real town! I just can’t find my notes! But he moved, so the place is going to be a little emptier than you might think.”