Bloodlines: Infected, #2

by Andrea Speed

  Roan wondered if he should tell him that knowingly having unprotected sex with an uninfected person when you knew you were infected was basically a felony assault charge—an attempted murder charge if you were tiger strain. But he wasn’t going to get him to continue digging his own grave if he was hostile toward him. “You were in a corner. What else could you do?”

  “Right! I mean, shit, what would you have done?”

  It was fun leading the witness, but the hard part was hiding your contempt. “Anyone who gets attacked lashes out. That’s just human nature.”

  Gavin slapped his open hand down on the couch in enthusiasm as he bounced once, like a child given too much sugar and Ritalin. “Yeah! I mean, it was self-defense, basically.”

  “She brought it on herself. She was asking for it.”

  “She shouldn’t have threatened me,” he said, sounding sulky as he searched the coffee table for a bottle with some beer in it. “I know a lotta people think I’m stupid, but I’m not. She shoulda known better.”

  Blaming the victim just never got old, did it? But this time it exhausted him. “What about Eric Chiang?”

  That made him pause and look at him curiously. “Who?”

  “The bartender at Panic. The one you stabbed.”

  His pale eyes narrowed, and his look hardened, becoming belligerent in that special drunken way. “I didn’t stab nobody.”

  “Did Eric threaten you?”

  That made him scoff and go back to searching for a bottle with a drink left in it. “I thought you were cool.”

  “I am. I’m just trying to understand what happened there. Thora got what she deserved, but I can’t see how Eric fits. Was he working with her?”

  He sighed heavily, shaking a micromillimeter of alcohol in the bottom of a Jack Daniel’s bottle. “I dunno. Look, I’m sorry about the queer, all right? But there weren’t supposed to be any witnesses. He was gonna fuck things up.”

  “And he wasn’t supposed to die violently, right? He was supposed to overdose on Ecstasy.”

  “Yeah, which is actually a fucking good way to go,” he said, gulping down the dribbles of Jack. “But that fucking man whore kept most of it for himself.”

  “What do you expect of a hooker, though?”

  That made Gavin snort humorously as he tossed the bottle aside. “Yeah, I guess I shoulda thought of that. But I felt kinda skeezy talking to him, like I could catch AIDS or the clap just by being within arm’s reach of him.”

  “But you went to check on him. You must have suspected the hustler wasn’t trustworthy.”

  He shrugged diffidently. “Something didn’t seem right about him. I thought it was because he was, you know, gay, but I figured out later he was probably tweaking. You can’t trust whores but especially druggie whores.”

  “Why didn’t you use a speedball on Eric like you did on Thora?”

  “You know how expensive a good speedball is? I got connections; Ecstasy was cheaper.”

  The financially prudent murderer. If it wasn’t so repugnant, it might be admirable. “Well, thank you, Gavin. I think that’s enough.”

  That made him look at Roan curiously, his eyes even more heavily glazed now. “What? What d’ya mean?”

  “Enough of a confession. Thanks for your cooperation.”

  Gavin was confused, his synapses so loaded down with booze and drugs that they were barely firing, but he still managed to call up a hostile look that Roan found queerly funny. (No pun intended.) “I didn’t confess to nothin’. What the fuck are you talking about?”

  He repressed the urge to point out Gavin had used a double negative, and not for the first time, but what was the point? Wasn’t “Generation Y” the one without grammar? “I’ve been taping our conversation. It’ll make for an interesting soundtrack.”

  His pale, dry lips curved up in a smug smile that would have made Roan hate him instantly if he didn’t hate him already. “That ain’t legally permissible. I didn’t say you could tape nothin’....”

  “I’m not turning it over to the police, even though I should. It’d give them probable cause to arrest you, but you’re right, it’s inadmissible in court. Truth be told, I bet you have enough high-priced lawyers to get out of anything thrown at you anyway.”

  The smug smile increased, and he sat back against the couch, folding his arms behind his head. “You betcher ass.”

  “So I’m sending the tape to Jay Bishop. Enjoy your life while you still have it.” Roan shoved himself off the wall and headed for the door.

  He heard the couch springs squeak as Gavin shifted nervously, not getting up only because he wasn’t quite capable of standing. “Wha’? What... what does that mean?”

  At the door, Roan turned to look at him and saw that the smugness had left Gavin’s face, and he was struggling for logic underneath the blanket of alcohol. “You know, Thora’s hated older brother? He didn’t like Thora, but I think he’ll like her gloating murderer even less. You know I’ve heard he can destroy a person with a single phone call? And I believe it, because I’ve met him, and he’s a complete fucking sociopath. You two are perfect for each other. Too bad you both aren’t butt pirates, although, you want to talk drama queens? I’ve known some pirates that put most women to shame. They don’t call us queens for nothing.”

  Gavin was still struggling to digest all this. He sat forward, his total befuddlement making him look ten years younger, a harmless prepubescent. “I don’t... Jay hated her. He’s not gonna care about this. C’mon.” His voice was uncertain and at the end, became pleading. He was now sober enough to be a little scared.

  “I’m done here, and so are you.” Roan opened the door and stalked out, not waiting for a response, as he didn’t want to hear it. He’d heard enough shit from this asshole. He thought he heard Gavin shout something through the door as he went down the hall, but all Roan heard was the voice; he couldn’t make out the words. It didn’t matter; he could probably guess what Gavin had said.

  Once back in his car, he checked his phone. There was a message for him from Murphy, telling him an arrest had been made in the rampaging Lincoln Navigator case: Trang Phan. No shock there. But she’d left a second message, saying there was a “new wrinkle” in the Parker Davis case, although she didn’t elaborate on what that was. He called her back.

  For once, it seemed something had gone right. “Parker got himself an alibi,” Murphy explained. “The owner of the liquor store down on Fourth came in to complain to us about all the hookers who work his parking lot from time to time, and as proof he brought in a few days’ worth of security camera footage. The night of Chiang’s murder—in fact, at the approximate time of his murder, according to the time stamp—Parker is clearly visible having a brief argument with the owner, who was telling him to get the hell away from his store. There’s no way Parker could have gotten from there back to Chiang’s apartment in time to stab him, not unless he had a helicopter or a teleporter, and he just ain’t that good of a hooker.”

  Roan sighed in relief. He was worried about what he was going to do about that, since homo-hating Jay wouldn’t give a fuck about Eric or Parker. “That’s a stroke of luck for him, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I know. He should probably thank his lucky stars that Kevin is so sharp-eyed.”

  He felt a sudden coldness settle in his stomach. “Kevin?”

  “Yeah, the guy brought the tapes to vice. Kevin humored him and watched them and caught it.”

  Roan suddenly knew what had happened. Kevin had gone about trying to retrace Parker’s steps and found the liquor store and the security tapes—maybe Parker had even remembered having a fight with the store owner. Either way, Kevin had found a way to spring him, and without casting any suspicions upon his motives for wanting to help him.

  Oh God, Kevin hadn’t fallen in love with Parker, had he? It was bad enough if he was paying for sex from that drugged-up train wreck of a human being; it was worse if he had fallen in love with someone who could never ever love h
im back or even like him beyond a simple client-employee relationship. Paris was right in that Kevin was very lonely—there wasn’t a lot of room in the closet—but if true, that was beyond sad. He had to talk to Kevin, but he didn’t know what he would say to him.

  Roan got off the phone before Murphy could get suspicious of his silences and drove to the nearest messenger service headquarters. He rewound the tape and listened to it to make sure he’d gotten everything he needed—he had—and he cut off the discussion after thanking Gavin for his confession, taping nothing but the interior silence of the car afterward. Jay didn’t need to know Roan was playing him for his sociopathic impulses, nor did he need to know that Roan was gay (which he had essentially admitted there at the end). Then Roan went inside the business and arranged for the package containing the tape to be dropped off at Jay’s office tonight. He included a note that simply said: This is the only copy. The cops can’t touch him, but she was your family. Do what you want—I’m off the case.

  It wasn’t the only copy; he’d quickly duped another copy. But he’d destroy it if Jay did what Roan suspected he was going to do.

  Was this legal? Hell no; this was vigilantism. But it was probably the only way that Thora and Eric could get anything close to justice.

  Gavin was dumb. He thought he was hot shit, but he forgot that no matter how big and bad you were, there was always something bigger and badder out there—it was evolution in action. You might sit on top of the shit heap for a while, but sooner or later someone would come along who could easily knock you down, and then someone would come along and knock them down, ad nauseam. The Bishops were one family he shouldn’t have fucked with, but he was so arrogant it had never occurred to him. He was probably certain he’d never get caught. Funny now, since being caught by the cops probably would have been kinder.

  Roan watched the bike messenger, a lean young man with the muscular legs of a Tour de France participant, take off with the envelope addressed to Jay, and Roan wondered how he could stand to wear shorts in this cold. Roan felt cold all the way to his toes, his blood becoming liquid nitrogen as he sat in his car and cranked up the heat. He entertained the idea that the cold was all in his head, psychosomatic. If Paris ever found out about this, he wouldn’t approve.

  So he wasn’t going to tell him about it. It was the final lie, the one he would always keep to himself.

  On the way home he stopped off and got some Korean fried chicken, japchae, and samgyetang from this little Korean restaurant that was a favorite of Paris’s, and then he ran by a store and bought some chocolate chip mint ice cream, a bottle of wine (he hated wine, but Paris loved it), and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s “Black and Tan” ice cream, which had become a new favorite of theirs. Stout ice cream? That shouldn’t have worked, but it was pure genius.

  When he got home, Paris was vegged out in front of the TV watching an old Simpsons episode, conscious and awake but lying down, with the blue plaid blanket that usually covered the sofa covering him instead. He chuckled and called out, “Hey, you’re missing one of your favorites—it’s a Troy McClure one.”

  “Really? Damn. Well, at least they repeat them eight thousand times a month.” He paused by the heater register and turned it up to seventy-four. It would be too warm for him, but it would be comfortable for Paris.

  “True. You’ve got endless chances to catch it again.” He then sat up, sniffing. “Do I smell Korean fried chicken?”

  “Wow, you are such a chowhound.”

  He grinned, looking so handsome and happy it was easy to overlook how unnaturally flushed his face was and the slight glitter of sweat on his brow. “I can smell a wonton from three hundred yards.”

  Roan smirked as he put the bags of takeout on the kitchenette and started putting the ice cream and the wine bottle in the freezer. “I know you’re joking, but I still believe it.”

  He shucked off his jacket and started making up plates of food for both of them, telling Paris about the development in Parker’s case. He left out Kevin being Parker’s savior, as he still didn’t know what he was going to do with that knowledge. He also told Par that he knew that Gavin Lorimer had killed Thora and Eric because Thora was threatening to out his infected status to his stepfather, who would cut him off entirely from the family-money tit, but since he had no actionable proof yet, he had no idea what he was going to do with the information. Paris insisted he should at least call Murphy and let her know, and he agreed to, but he really didn’t know if he would or not. He wanted to wait to see what Jay’s initial reaction would be first.

  Once the wine was chilled, he agreed to have a glass of it with Paris even though he didn’t like it, just because he’d lied and said he’d never tried white wine before, just the red. When he came back with the bottle and the glasses, Paris peered at him curiously. “Should you? Your pupils look a little big.”

  So Par knew he’d popped a Vicodin before he left. Again, Paris saw right through him, which could be as endearing as it was inconvenient and annoying. At least if Paris knew he was lying about Gavin, he hadn’t called him on it. “It’s worn off by now.”

  Paris studied him carefully with his brilliant blue eyes, his scrutiny belied by the weariness Roan could see in them. “If your migraines are getting this bad again, maybe you should take a couple days off.”

  And now Paris was giving him an out. He might have teared up in gratitude if he himself wasn’t exhausted. “Yeah, I was thinking about doing that. I guess, since I’ve already solved the case, there’s no harm in it.”

  Paris flashed him a sad but warm smile, raising his wine glass in a mock toast. “That’s the spirit.”

  But the worst part had already begun—the waiting. Waiting to see what Jay Bishop was going to do, and worst of all, waiting to see when Paris would decide it was time to die.

  18

  Sour Times

  JAY acted fast, although not fast enough to make the morning paper.

  Since neither he nor Paris had anything to do, they slept in until almost noon, and then Roan discovered Paris had actually gotten up before him and was making his famous French toast. Roan figured that combining Vicodin with both beer and wine was just asking to be put in a coma, and he was probably lucky he wasn’t barfing his guts out.

  After showering and getting dressed, leaving some itchy stubble on his face because Paris liked the look (and because it covered some of his bruise), he went downstairs to the smells of warm bread, maple syrup, and espresso, and the faint chatter of a television tuned to the Canadian channel. (Paris would occasionally watch it when he was feeling “nostalgic,” but it never seemed to last longer than fifteen minutes—nostalgia with Paris had a very brief shelf life.) “Damn it,” Par exclaimed upon seeing him. “I was gonna come upstairs and stick you with a B-12 shot. I thought you were never getting up.”

  “Yesterday really took it out of me. I don’t know why.” He did know why, and the look Paris gave him, one of sad affection, seemed to say he knew why too. But he didn’t say it. He just slid a plate of French toast down the breakfast bar and put a mug of espresso beside it. Roan took that as an invitation and sat down on one of the stools, as Paris took a seat on the other side and started in on his breakfast.

  The newspaper was sitting, folded, off to the side, and Roan glanced at it, but it was the same old depressing stuff: war, death, privacy violations, a human-interest story that seemed depressing for its attempt at forced cheer. Paris had the remote for the television and picked it up, flipping through channels as he sipped his espresso, which had a thick dollop of whipped cream on top. While he was scanning channels, Roan wasn’t really paying attention, but the name “Clifford Braben” suddenly jumped out, and he turned around to see the screen, saying, “Hold it there.”

  It was the local news channel, where a blandly attractive Asian woman in a bright red blouse was reporting from behind a low desk, with smaller, more fragile desks and people somewhat visible in the background. The local news channel had no budget,
and it generally showed.

  The story was all about Clifford Braben being accused of taking gifts and money from a development company before casting the deciding vote on the Hidden Hills golf course project, which had turned out, so far, to be a financial sinkhole. The city council had to change zoning laws to allow a large parcel of formerly public lands to be sold to the development company that supposedly had bribed Cliff for his vote, and they’d been planning a superluxury golf course that would not only have a horrible effect on the environment, but would be financially out of reach for anyone who actually lived within twenty miles of the place. Braben was shown leaving an attorney’s office looking pinch-faced and annoyed—like Dick Cheney when asked anything besides “Why are you so great?”—and pushing his hand against the camera lens in a gesture known to white-collar criminals everywhere.

  “Isn’t that that guy’s father? Gavin’s?” Paris asked.

  “Stepfather,” Roan corrected, chuckling low in his throat. So Jay wasn’t content to just take down Gavin—he was going for the whole family. And whether Clifford actually had been bribed to push through the Hidden Hills debacle or was a complete innocent, it didn’t matter; this would be covered by the local media for a while, as it was just that desperately unpopular. And Clifford wasn’t going to be running for the governorship—his political career here was over, at least for the time being. He’d been torpedoed by a man who’d probably done his share of bribing to get his own unpopular land-grab deals through. What on Earth was Jay going to do to Gavin, who’d really pissed him off? “Sic ’em, boy,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What?” Paris asked.

  “Nothing. Do you know he hates cats and queers both?”

  “Really? Ooh, we should go to his office and make out in front of him, and then when security tries to toss us out, you can lion out on them. It’ll be a twofer.”

  “You still live to shock, don’t you?”

  “Hey, I’m the slacker in a family of overachievers. If I wanted to get noticed, I had to make a display of myself.”