Bermuda Heat

by P. A. Brown

  David was supposed to be off work at five. Today, he actually made it home by five-thirty, giving Chris enough time for a wake-up shower, a change into clean clothes and the table set. When he heard the car door slam shut, he slid two seasoned filets onto the grill beside the foil-wrapped baked potatoes already cooking.

  David came into the kitchen and bussed Chris on the cheek, his five o’clock shadow rasping Chris’s freshly shaved face.

  “Something smells good.”

  “You have time for a shower,” Chris said. He pointedly rubbed his own face. “And a shave.”

  David kissed him again and plodded toward the stairs. He returned twenty minutes later, looking almost human. This time the kiss he gave Chris was a serious one.

  BeRMudA heAt 19

  “Come on.” Chris pulled away, albeit reluctantly. “Let’s get some chow in us first.”

  “Dessert then.”

  “Promise.”

  Sunday, 12:00pm, Carlyle Street, Glendale, Los Angeles Church bells rang someplace. Well, it was Sunday, David thought morosely, while he climbed the cracked, weed-infested steps up to the house where his CI said Bart Trimble could be found.

  Trimble was a person of interest in a botched liquor store robbery that left one guy dead and another in Glendale Memorial.

  Supposedly, Trimble had been present at the robbery. No one could say whether he’d been a part of it or simply a bystander.

  Either way, he and Martinez needed to find the guy.

  No warrant, so they had to find Trimble and persuade him to talk. A curtain swayed in the window beside the front walk.

  David rapped on the wooden door and a dog barked, deep. He shared a glance with Martinez. Big dog.

  He brushed his hand over the butt of his Smith & Wesson.

  Knocked again.

  “LAPD. Open up. We need to talk.”

  The door opened wide enough to let a girl peer up at them.

  She looked young and scared. David knew Trimble was thirty-six. So… daughter?

  “Your dad home? Bartholomew Trimble? Is he here?”

  A dog’s head pushed the door opened more. The mastiff’s scarred muzzle curled open in a silent snarl. David freed his gun.

  “Trimble,” he called over the dog’s growling. “Call the dog off and get out here.”

  The girl vanished. So did the dog. Replaced by a hatchet-faced man with unshaved cheeks and a cigarette jammed in his mouth.

  20 P.A. Brown

  “Bartholomew Trimble?”

  “Yah. Watcha want?”

  “I need you to come out here so we can talk,” David said.

  He’d holstered his weapon, but kept his hand near it. No telling when this could turn hinky. “Now, Mr. Trimble.”

  “All right, all right.” He yanked the door open all the way and stood in the foyer wearing paint-covered gray sweats and a loose wife beater that showed off flabby flesh. He carried a half empty bottle of Old Milwaukee in one hand and held the dog’s collar in his other.

  The mastiff strained toward the two cops and both David and Martinez kept wary eyes on both it and Trimble.

  “We’re looking for Tony Sutton,” David said. “You know where he might be?”

  “Sutton? Never hearda him. He do somethin’?”

  The dog snarled and twisted in its efforts to reach the two armed men. David had had enough. “Sir, put the dog away.”

  When Trimble hesitated he snapped. “Now. Don’t worry. We’ll wait.”

  Trimble grumbled but huffed his way back into the house.

  A moment later, an inner door slammed and he shuffled back.

  He took the cigarette out of his mouth, took a slug of beer and popped the butt back between his lips. His teeth were as yellow as his fingertips.

  “We’d like to come in, sir. We’ll only take a minute of your time.”

  Inside, a woman’s voice could be heard, “What the fuck they want with us? Get rid of them, Bart.”

  When Trimble returned Martinez snarled, “You want us to vamoose, dirtwad, you answer our questions.”

  Trimble seemed torn between listening to his wife or the cops on his doorstep. The cops won. He waved them inside.

  In the living room a wide screen TV was blaring out some BeRMudA heAt 21

  frenetic music, and some bizarrely colored animated characters were being ignored by everyone. All eyes were on the intruders.

  A copper-headed woman sat on a green and gold sofa between two children; the girl who had opened the door to them and an older teenage boy. Four pairs of eyes watched on intently.

  From the back room the surly mastiff kept snarling and yowling.

  The hairs on David’s neck stood up. They still needed to do what they came here for.

  “I want you to tell me what you saw last Thursday at Mike’s Liquor Store on Verdugo.”

  “Wasn’t there.”

  “We know that’s not true,” David said. “Don’t waste our time.”

  “And we won’t waste yours,” Martinez added, taking a step closer to Trimble. In the back room, as though knowing it was needed, the dog howled and threw itself against a door. Neither cop looked toward the outburst. Their focus was on the only real threat in the house, the people in front of them.

  “What did you see?”

  “Nothin’,” Trimble said.

  “Bull.”

  “We ain’t leavin’ till you give him up,” Martinez added.

  “Give who up?”

  “Whoever it is you’re protecting.”

  “Ain’t protectin’ no—”

  “Then whoever it is you’re scared shitless of!”

  David stepped closer, crowding the smaller man. “Come on, Mr. Trimble. Talk to—”

  The boy, who might have been sixteen, snarled a curse and lunged at David, who adroitly sidestepped him. He avoided the boy, but didn’t see Trimble’s fist until it connected with his face.

  The first blow caught him square in the chin, the next got him in the eye.

  22 P.A. Brown

  Before the man could take a third swing Martinez had him splayed out on the floor, his arms in cuffs. David snatched the boy and put him down too, over the woman’s protests.

  “You want to join the party, keep it up lady,” Martinez snapped and both mother and daughter subsided back on the sofa. “Yeah, that’s right. You’re smarter than your old man.”

  David called for a couple of shops to transport the two to be booked for assault. When he broke the connection, he lightly touched his face and winced at the throbbing pain. Already his cheek was swelling. He’d have a shiner for sure.

  “Better get that looked at, ese.” Martinez came up behind him.

  “Lieutenant will be asking after you when he sees it.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I know. He’s still gonna want it official.”

  David knew he was right. “Fine.” He knew he was being grumpy, but between Trimble and the web of lies he’d found out his mother had woven all those years ago, he was in a foul mood that he couldn’t put off on anybody’s shoulders.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go book these mutts.”

  By the time they reached Northeast, Trimble had a change of heart. They let the boy go and sat Trimble down in an interrogation room with a coffee and a recorder. After less than an hour, they had a name and a location of their killer. David wrote up an arrest warrant and he and Martinez, along with two shops for backup, went and rounded up one Roosevelt Fischer for armed robbery, aggravated assault and homicide.

  A good day’s work. At the end of the day, David checked out with the division doctor, who fixed him up and sent him off. He called it quits at six and headed home.

  ChAPteR FouR

  Sunday, 4:20pm, Cove Avenue, Silverlake, Los Angeles David had left for work before Chris got up. Chris spent a couple of hours at one of his client’s sites. Once he had cleaned up the mess someone else had created, he generated a preliminary plan for the migratio
n to a new network operating system his client wanted started in two months. He took a late lunch at Blairs. Back home he did some cleaning and threw the sheets into the washer. He had meant to go online and tend to more problems, but when he made up the bed, it looked so inviting he sprawled out on it and didn’t wake up until nearly five o’clock.

  Wanting to make it look like he’d spent the day working, he settled in front of his laptop and opened his VPN to log onto one of his client’s systems.

  He ran some updates and security patches and was about to close the system down at six when his phone rang.

  He scooped it up. It was Martinez, David’s LAPD partner off and on for nearly eleven years. Chris’s heart immediately plummeted into his stomach. Any call from David’s partner couldn’t be good news.

  “M-Martinez? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Davey’s okay, Chris,” Martinez said quickly. “He took a hit from a crazy mutt we were trying to hook up but really, he’s okay.”

  “Then what? You didn’t just call me to tell me he’s okay.

  What is it, Martinez?” Chris would have reached through the phone and strangled the big Hispanic. “Tell me.”

  “He’s got a nasty shiner and a couple of stitches on his chin.

  The doc says he’s okay. You gotta trust the doc, right?”

  Chris gripped the phone so hard his knuckles turned white. In his overactive imagination his recurring nightmare was coming 24 P.A. Brown

  true.

  “You don’t believe me?” Martinez continued. “He’s on his way home. I figured I’d give you a head’s up so you won’t freak out on him.” Before Chris could respond he said, “What’s this I hear about you guys going to Bermuda?”

  Not sure how much David might have told his partner, he hedged. “Yeah,” he said. “We could both use a vacation…”

  “You just make sure Davey comes back, you hear. We really need him here right now.”

  Chris bristled. That was the problem, he wanted to say. They always needed David. So much so, he never thought he could even take time off. But before Chris could say anything, Martinez was gone.

  Sunday, 6:10pm, Cove Avenue, Silverlake, Los Angeles Chris took the last of the Merlot and sat in the IChing chair facing the front door. Ten minutes later he heard the keys in the lock and David stepped through the door. His eyes widened briefly when he saw Chris, but he quickly shuttered the look and ducked his head.

  “He was right,” Chris growled. “You look like shit.”

  Self-consciously David touched his face where a large bruise was already purpling the flesh around his eye. Before responding he slipped his gun and holster off and locked them up. He ran his fingers through his thick curly hair, unclipped his tie and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He turned to face an impatient Chris. “It’s nothing.”

  “And if it had been something,” Chris said. “What would you say then?”

  “Chris—” David shucked his shoes and crossed the room.

  He perched on the mahogany arm. “It’s really no big deal. I just forgot to duck.”

  BeRMudA heAt 25

  Chris didn’t buy it for a minute. He also knew he’d never win this argument with David. “At least put an icepack on it.” He didn’t protest when David took his wine glass and sipped the oaky contents. Chris ducked into the kitchen and came back with a package of frozen peas. David sat down, propped his bare feet onto a footstool, and gingerly pressed the peas to his eye. His other eye met Chris’s.

  “What would you say if I told you I was seriously considering leaving the force?”

  Chris’s feet thumped onto the carpet. Merlot spilled onto the granite coffee table. He ignored it, turning slowly in the chair to face David. His mind raced through a million thoughts but the only one he could latch onto was: “Are you for real? Quit LAPD?”

  “Quit. Retire. Seriously. It’s been on my mind for a couple of months now. I’m getting too old for this shit,” David touched his recently stitched chin.

  Chris traced the outline of the small wound. “Not old,” he whispered. “No way.”

  “Well, not as young as I used to be. It just seems to get more and more dangerous with less and less return.”

  “But-but, what would you do?” Chris knew there was no way David was ready to retire for real. “You’d go crazy sitting around the house all day with nothing to do. Even you can’t garden all the time. And your car doesn’t need any more work. Unless you’re going to buy another junk heap to fix up.”

  “That’s where you come in.”

  “You want me to help you fix up a car? Gee, I don’t know. I might be good at picking out seat colors. I’m sure I could make some nice fabric choices.”

  “Very funny.” David shifted his make-do icepack around, dripping water on his wool pants. “No, I want your help if I’m going to set up an agency.”

  “An agency?” Chris took his wine back and stood up. “I think 26 P.A. Brown

  this conversation calls for another bottle.”

  He returned minutes later with a Kistler Merlot, the one he’d been saving for a special occasion. If this didn’t qualify, nothing would. He decanted the wine and grabbed a cloth to wipe up the spill. He set the fluted carafe onto the black marble coffee table after filling each glass, and handed one to David, setting the other one in front of himself.

  Chris settled back in his chair. “Okay, start at the beginning,”

  he said.

  David swirled the Merlot around in his glass, the ruby tones catching the late afternoon light. “I know it’s something you’ve wanted for a long time, maybe all along.”

  “Face it, your job is dangerous. We both know that,” Chris said. “I can’t help but be afraid for you all the time. I watch the news. I hear what happens to cops.”

  “Mostly patrol cops.” David grimaced. “Those are the guys in the line of fire. But, it was my job. I didn’t know how to do anything else.”

  “I’m tired of hearing ‘it’s my job’” Chris did his best to keep his voice level, knowing David never responded well to hysterics.

  “You can do anything you want if you’d stop being so negative.”

  “Let me finish. At first, I didn’t want to do anything else. But lately… lately I’m not so sure.”

  “But what would you do?” Chris couldn’t help it. He shuddered. Images of a miserable David lumbering around the house, restless and bored, filled his mind. How long before they got on each other’s nerves? How much of that kind of stress could their marriage take? He thought they were solid, but even the strongest marriage could break under the right strain.

  “I’ve been looking into getting my private investigator’s license. That’s really where you come in.”

  Chris felt his mouth fall open. It should have been everything he’d ever hoped for, but… Something occurred to him.

  “Did you tell Martinez any of this?”

  BeRMudA heAt 27

  “No, well, not exactly. Why?”

  Chris recounted the phone call from David’s partner. “You must have said something to make him suspicious.”

  “Maybe,” David conceded. “He’s been pretty suspicious lately as it is. Martinez has never been the most trusting of souls.”

  “And what’s any of it got to do with me?”

  “I’ll need to set up an office, computerized accounting and records keeping, that kind of thing. I figure you know more about what that means. In fact, with your expertise we could take on computer security cases. Those pay pretty good, I hear.”

  “They do,” Chris said cautiously. “But is that really why you want to do this?”

  Chris knew there had to be a catch somewhere. He wanted to trust David, so why couldn’t he believe him? Had he assumed some of David’s skepticism? Or was it simply if it sounded too good to be true there must be something wrong?

  “As much as anything.” David stood and pulled Chris into a warm embrace, nibbling at the smooth skin on his neck. �
�We can talk about it later, after we mull it over.” David found Chris’s open mouth and spent several heartbeats exploring it.

  “I don’t think you’d find this in Webster’s Dictionary under

  ‘mull it over.’” Chris sighed and lost his train of thought.

  “Too bad. It might make the dictionary more popular. What do you think?”

  Only Chris couldn’t think anymore. As David’s lips worked down his throat, he found his chest constricting. He knew David was just trying to distract him from asking any more questions but he didn’t care. He groaned when David’s tongue slipped back between his teeth.

  “I’ve got an idea,” David said as though it had just occurred to him. “Why don’t we go upstairs?”

  “The steaks are on the grill.”

  “Oh, crap.” David let go of him. “Then I guess we better eat.

  28 P.A. Brown

  But I’m not done with you.”

  That’s fair, neither am I. But Chris kept that thought to himself.

  No sense ruining a perfectly good steak dinner with questions.

  Sunday, 8:10pm, Cove Avenue, Silverlake, Los Angeles Chris untangled himself from the sheets. Late evening sun poured through the bedroom window and he blinked at the red tinged brightness. He was getting way too used to being in bed at this time of day.

  Glancing over at David still buried under the bed clothes, he couldn’t help but grin. The heat that erupted between them hadn’t diminished with the years. Whatever problems they might have, their sex life wasn’t one of them.

  He thought about David’s words. Would he really quit? If Chris had been a praying man, he would have prayed for this moment. But… David loved being a detective. For so long he had defined himself as an LAPD homicide detective. Would he really be happy as a P.I.? Doing what? Chasing cheating wives and husbands? Dragging embezzlers into the light of day?

  David rolled over to face him, his eyes sleepy and sated.

  “Penny for them.”

  “Thinking about us.” Chris played his fingers through the thick mat of black hair on David’s chest. “I could get used to this. Lying around in bed all day, noodling.”