by P. A. Brown
A letter. A secret. A tragedy. David’s mother told him his father died when he was born. His mother lied.
David Eric Laine always believed his father had died in Vietnam before his birth. His mother remarried and he was adopted by his stepfather and grew up knowing Graham Laine as his only father. Forty years later, a letter arrives and David finds out everything he thought was a lie.His father, Joel Cameron, is alive and living in Bermuda where he came from back in 1968 to attend college. He met David’s mother, at the time a much more rebellious child of the turbulent sixties. Following David’s birth his mother fled back to the safety of her familiar, protected world and the lie was born.
Rather than face her shame, David was told his father died a hero in Vietnam.
Now the lies unravel and the newly married Chris and David embark on a journey to discover the truth.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2011 by P.A. Brown
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
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Cover Art by Deana C. Jamroz
Editing by Kris Jacen
ISBN# 978-1-60820-161-7
Issued 2011
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.
AuthoR’s note
In 2005 I accepted a contract position in Bermuda. It was for 3 years, working as a Network Engineer for an offshore law firm. It was a total upheaval – they paid and shipped all my household goods and put me up in Ashwood Cove, a hotel used by businesses to temporarily house new employees while they search for their own place. Before they actually hired me, they brought me down for a weekend. The day after meeting with my future employer and getting a tour of the server rooms – they had 2 buildings, and 2 climate controlled rooms – I bought a 1-day bus pass and from the main terminal I took every single bus all around the islands (there are actually something like 147
islands that make up Bermuda) I had a book and a notepad with me and I wrote down all my impressions of Bermuda. It was a great way to see my new home.
Rents in Bermuda are astronomical. Houses for families would start at $15,000 a month. I found a one bedroom apartment in Southampton that cost $2200 a month. It was a nice place, the whole front wall was glass. From inside I could see Little Sound.
It was situated just below one of the highest points in Bermuda, where Gibbs Lighthouse stands. Outside, if I stood on the edge of the property, I could see the Dockyards across Great Sound, one of the places where cruise ships dock. It's also where Chris and David have lunch on their first day.
I lived there for a little over a year. I was there when Florence, the hurricane came through. That was quite a show, which is also featured in Bermuda Heat. In the beginning of 2007 I moved clear to the other side of the island, into St. George's, which is a cute little heritage town with narrow winding streets, a lot of which don't have names. It also has a small dairy farm, which supplies some of Bermuda's milk. Taking a walk through St. Georges was like walking back in time. I've never been to Europe, but I imagine the narrow, curving streets were like that.
Bermuda has very strict building codes. Nothing over 7 stories, no billboards, no neon and no fast food restaurants. Except for Kentucky Fried Chicken, which got in before the ban was put in place. It's a joy to walk around Hamilton, the main business area, and not be bombarded with flashing signs and exhortations to buy, buy buy. Buildings are constructed under strict codes, which is why they can withstand any hurricane.
It was a wonderful time in my life and I'm glad I had the chance to experience Bermuda. I've tried to relive that a little bit in my fiction.
A fun website that can give a little glimpse of Bermudian
slang is: http://pdos.csail.mit.edu/~decouto/bvurds.html
P.A. Brown
2011
ChAPteR one
Saturday, 9:20am, Rigali Avenue, Atwater Village, Los Angeles The brown Ford squealed when it failed to take the corner at sixty. Instead it threw up streamers of dust and stones as it bounced across a gravel verge into an empty parking lot.
Martinez cursed as his partner, LAPD homicide detective David Eric Laine, took the same path, their unmarked Crown Vic blowing out whatever shocks might have been left in the aged vehicle when they screeched onto the lot after the fleeing Ford.
Martinez reported their twenty and called for backup, then hung on as David maneuvered ever closer to the other car’s rusted out bumper.
David ignored everything but the Ford and the two Pinoy boys they’d been closing in on for days. Since somebody stomped a Temple Street Trese boy to death and put all the Asians on edge, ready to stomp back, it was paramount they be stopped.
David and Martinez were working with the local gang cops to try to stop the mess before it got uglier.
They’d spotted Sokun, the l
eader of the Pinoy’s, at a liquor store on Brunswick five minutes ago. The chase had been on.
David figured they would try and double back, make a break for Rigali. But then a whoop and a new cloud of dust announced that their backup had arrived. A black and white roared in, lights and siren on full code three.
What Sokun did next startled David. Instead of braking and coming around, the brown piece of crap’s laboring engine roared, tires spat gravel and the car lunged forward. The fence protecting this section of concrete river was old and worn through years of neglect and abuse. Twisted by the elements and vandals, repaired repeatedly, it inclined at a fifty degree angle, sagging as though tired of trying to keep out the world.
2 P.A. Brown
The Ford slammed into it at a good twenty miles per hour and snapped off the single metal pole, puncturing the radiator and killing the engine. There was a tortured shriek of metal on metal; sparks flew from underneath the battered vehicle. The engine rattled to a stop.
Both doors flew open. Sokun and his passenger bailed. The passenger, who David hadn’t been able to ID, headed north.
Sokun scrambled over the battered remnants of the fence and vanished over the lip of the cement trough.
“Oh, tell me he did not just do that,” David muttered.
Martinez growled what might have been a reply before he too was out of the door and hot on the trail of the passenger, along with a young female uni. David bolted after Sokun. The other uni followed.
David always figured he was in shape. He ran nearly every day with Sergeant, the Doberman he and Chris had adopted three years ago. He used the free weights at the station. He was still feeling the effects of the pursuit. Legs pumping, he slowed only long enough to clamber over the chain link and he was off, half skidding, half running down the angled concrete wall, avoiding chunks of broken wall, hot on Sokun’s ass.
It was long after the last winter rain. The bed of the river was little more than a few scummy patches of rainbow-hued water and scattered weeds that had broken through the concrete and clung to life amid the detritus of a city. He dodged an abandoned shopping cart with a broken front wheel. A black garbage bag had split open, spilling its reeking contents down the slope. A pair of fat gulls took flight when Sokun raced towards them.
They squawked and protested as they flew south toward the distant smog-shrouded basin.
Ahead of him and losing ground fast, Sokun clearly didn’t do any recreational running. He stumbled over broken concrete and his leather loafers were not designed for top speed flight.
David closed the distance between them. Behind him the uni was gaining ground.
BeRMudA heAt 3
“Stop, asshole!”
Not surprisingly, the asshole in question ignored his orders.
David came up on Sokun’s left side. The Cambodian gang leader threw one wild-eyed look over his shoulder and tried to dodge right. David body checked him and the two of them went down. An elbow caught David’s chin and he kneed Sokun’s kidney, missed and caught him square in the groin. The younger man folded with a groan and rolled onto his side, holding his bruised crotch in both hands. At least until David wrenched them behind him and cuffed him. The uniformed cop arrived seconds later and stood over the downed pair, one hand on his duty weapon, the other on his baton.
David sat on his haunches, his butt resting against Sokun’s legs. His rested his arms over his knees, panting as he stared across at the graffiti tagged wall on the other side of the river.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered as Martinez appeared at the top of the concrete wall, his own prisoner looking as worse for the wear as David felt.
The uni pulled Sokun to his feet as David rose and dusted his linen pants off. “Get him out of here,” he said and climbed up to join Martinez. He watched the two uniformed officers, one who barely looked old enough to be out of middle school, lead their prisoners away and shook his head.
Sokun cursed in Cambodian and English.
“Either they’re getting younger or I’m getting old.”
Martinez clapped him on the back. “It ain’t us, ese.”
“God, I hope not.” David scrubbed his hand through his shaggy hair. Together they trudged back to their Crown. He threw a glance back at the Ford, doors still open, water leaking out from underneath.
Martinez grunted as he eyed the messed up Ford. “Well, look at it this way. At least the asshole didn’t try to make a run for it down there in that.” He stared balefully down the concrete slope.
“That would have been a real circus.”
4 P.A. Brown
“More like the Indy 500. Better call a tow truck.” David shook his head and did his best not to think about it. “Get a warrant for that thing, too.”
He put his hand on the still warm hood of their city-owned junk heap. He climbed in behind the wheel. “Might be time to trade this thing in, too. Call the motor pool. See if we can’t get this one put out to pasture.” He slotted the key in and fired it up.
It grunted but fired on the first try. Barely. He met his partner’s gaze. “Ever think it might be time to hang it up yourself?”
“What? And give up all the excitement? Not to mention the respect and love we get.”
“You left out the fabulous pay check.”
“I guess I did kind of forget that. Come on. Let’s go down and book these mutts. At least earn some of those big bucks.”
A second black and white rolled onto the lot and Sokun was loaded into it. The two shops rolled back out onto Rigali, followed by David and his grinning partner.
“Another fine day on the force.”
“Hey,” Martinez said. “We’ll look back on this someday and remember all the fun we had.”
ChAPteR two
Saturday, 1:35pm, Cove Avenue, Silverlake, Los Angeles The doorbell jerked Christopher Bellamere out of an online conversation with a client about a new network setup he wanted.
The sound unleashed a volley of barking from Sergeant, their five-year-old Doberman. With a muttered “Damn” he IM’d hold on and hurried to the front door. He saw the UPS truck before he even threw the door open to greet the brown-suited delivery woman.
Sergeant tried to dart past him to check out the visitor, earning a wide-eyed “holy shit” look from the startled woman.
Chris lunged for the dog’s collar.
“Don’t worry, he’s harmless.”
Funny, no one believed him when he said that. “Down, Sergeant,” he snapped and the dog dropped to the floor. This only modified the woman’s look from one of stark terror to surly distrust. Not a dog lover. “Now,” he said to bring her attention back to him. “Can I help you?”
“Package for a David E. Laine.”
So it was. The package was a business letter-sized piece that Chris took from the still wary woman. He signed for it, nodded thanks and hauled the dog back inside.
Once there he examined the unexpected delivery. It had been sent locally, from Long Beach, as far as he could tell. Who did David know in Long Beach?
Wishing he could open it, knowing he wouldn’t, he returned to his home office and finished up his business, all the while the sealed package burning into his awareness. Once he was able to, he snatched up his BlackBerry and called David.
“You coming home soon?”
6 P.A. Brown
“Yeah,” David said, using his gruff, I-can’t-talk-I’m-with-other-people voice. “Why?”
“Got a UPS package for you.”
“From who?”
“You know anyone in Long Beach?”
“No. Just hang onto it. I’ll be home soon as I can. I hope you’re not working too hard. You know the doctor said you still needed to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Chris said. It had been over a week since he’d been flat on his back from flu and on his last medical check up the doctor told him he was on his way to full recovery, but he still needed to take it easy. David had taken that advice all too closely to
heart and bugged Chris at least half a dozen times every day to make sure he was doing just that.
“Don’t spend all day sitting in that damn office. Get outside, relax in the sun. Go out and play with the dog.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t start.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Chris.”
“Then come home soon, and you can make sure I’m resting.
You can even put me to bed.”
David ignored his playful flirting. Instead he said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can get away.”
Knowing it was the most he’d get out of his husband at this time, Chris disconnected and went back to taking care of his business of monitoring and protecting a number of computer networks throughout the city.
Finally he heard a car door clink shut and he checked the clock on his laptop. David had managed to get away early; he must be as curious as Chris about what was in the mystery package.
He logged out of his laptop, closing the connection to the client’s server he had been working on. He hurried out of his BeRMudA heAt 7
home office and headed toward the front of the house. Soft light poured onto the rag-painted kitchen walls he had done himself in one of his more creative moments, and reflected off the Aegean rose tile floor. The front door opened and David’s feet scuffed on the marble foyer floor as he kicked his shoes off.
Chris grabbed the last bottle of Peller Estates Merlot from the wine rack and decanted it. David dumped his keys at the front door and stripped off his LAPD gold shield and his Smith
& Wesson .40 handgun, securing them in the hall closet lock box. Chris heard the safe door slam shut. He poured two glasses of Merlot, pausing to run stiff fingers through his spiked blond hair in the reflection of the brushed steel fridge. He set the letter down on the carved Santa Fe table and sat. David kissed him before sitting across from Chris.
David studied Chris’s face and Chris knew he was looking for signs of tiredness. He did his best to look spry.
“I really am getting better, you know,” he said. “You don’t need to mother hen me all the time.”
“I know you’re getting there. I just don’t want a relapse.”
“Fine, no relapse. Now aren’t you dying to find out what’s in there?” He looked at the envelope on the kitchen table. Chris had put the letter opener beside it.
