Lie With Me (Stonewall Investigations Miami Book 2)

by Max Walker

  “All right, here.” I handed him the letter. “You read the rest.”

  “What? No, Beck, I think—”

  “I want you to read it.”

  Oliver didn’t protest. He nodded and turned his gaze down to the last lines of the note. “Please forgive me,” he said, voice steady even though the words were enough to shake me down to my core. “Forgive the pain I’ve caused. I wish you could meet the man I met, the one I fell in love with. Arnold Tillman. Ten years we’ve been together. He died last week. Doctors say pneumonia, but I think it was a broken heart from my diagnosis.” Oliver’s voice cracked, no longer steady. I reached for the letter, but he continued after clearing his throat. “I’m giving this letter to his sister, Luna. I’d give it to your mother, but we all know she loses everything. I hope you read this, son, and I hope you know that I love you and will forever love you, Becks.” Oliver’s voice cracked like a pane of glass breaking. He wiped at his cheek before reading the final line. “Love you with all my heart. Your Dad.”

  And then Oliver started to break down. I instantly went over to him and held him, letting him cry into my shoulder, silent tears of my own sliding down my cheek and wetting the top of Oliver’s head.

  Tonight was one of those nights that would never be forgotten. One of those nights that suddenly defines an entire lifetime.

  Oliver sniffled and sat up, rubbing his red eyes. He was smiling, or trying to smile at least. That was something I admired about Oliver. No matter how heavy the burden was that he carried, he always tried to manage a smile, through whatever crap he was dealing with. I rubbed away some of the tears from his cheeks, from the corners of his glistening eyes. His strength gave me strength when I needed it the most.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened to me,” he said, looking down, almost as if he were ashamed.

  I tilted his head back up, locking eyes. “Oliver, I wouldn’t have gotten through that letter if it wasn’t for you. Thank you.”

  He smiled, this time a little stronger than the last. “I just wish… I wish it wasn’t through a letter, and I know that sounds so unfair, but I just wish… that you two had more time together. To talk things through. If only a wish could change things.” Oliver shook his head. “It’s so dumb. Like a kid wishing on a star or something.”

  “That’s what I love so much about you, Oliver. You’re able to stay hopeful even when there’s no hope to be found. It helps during times like these. Trust me.”

  I looked out to my backyard, half of it partly illuminated by the streetlight on the other side of the flimsy fence. My heart was feeling an odd mixture of pain and relief, neither one stronger than the other.

  “I never knew…” My voice felt distant, like it was coming from a stranger speaking through a static-filled phone line. “Should I have known? I never thought he was gay. And why couldn’t he just tell me? Once he found his love? Fucking hell. Why?”

  Frustration was rising in me like lava through a volcano.

  “I think he was ashamed. I think he was ashamed and he was trying to get the strength to push that shame away. And I don’t think he ever realized how little time he had left to gather that strength. No one ever does.”

  “He could have called me.”

  “So that you hang up the phone? I don’t think he wanted to risk that. It sounded like he was really sick.”

  “Hell, we have Skype nowadays. He could have done anything, anything to reach me. Before he, before—fuck!”

  I got back on my feet. Oliver was right. This was unfair. Here I was, a grown-ass man, feeling like I’d been cheated from time with my father, all because of what? Because of his self-imposed fears and prejudice? Because he lived in a world too cruel to accept him for who he really was, so that cruelty turned inward before being aimed directly at me?

  “Beckham… I don’t… I’m not sure it would have changed anything.” Oliver’s voice was soft, but it cut through the symphony of chaos that filled my head. “He had a disease that was set on killing him. This might have been the only way he had to get it all out and have it mean something. It was out of his control, as badly as I wish it wasn’t. This letter, it’s your dad; it’s him saying sorry. It’s him saying he would be here.”

  “Ten years. He was with him for ten years.”

  “And have you two ever talked during that time?”

  “He’s tried… Jesus. He tried calling me. Four separate times.”

  “And?” Oliver asked, even though he must have already known the answer.

  “I denied all four calls.” The wind fueling my rage ship sails disappeared. A fire of self-doubt and pain started up on the deck. “What if he was trying to tell me then?”

  “You can’t do that.” He straightened his back, lifted his shoulders. His voice was still soft, but there was a harder edge glistening underneath his words. “What’s done is done. There’s no point in guessing how any of those four conversations could have gone. It sounds like he didn’t get the courage to be honest about it until recently, and that’s where the shame lies. But not in what you ‘could’ have done or what you ‘should’ have done, cuz neither of those things matter right now. What matters is what you’re going to do.”

  I felt myself moving away from the ledge. Oliver was a guiding force, bringing me back to the rational side of things. It didn’t ease the raw pain that wedged into me like a broken dagger, stuck between my ribs and digging through all the sensitive nerves and thick muscles. No, I wasn’t sure anything except time would ease that pain.

  But still, Oliver worked to move my mind away from the twisting dagger.

  “We could have been good,” I said, my voice cracking. I imagined a world in which we were good. Where I would visit him and his partner and have dinners with them and introduce them to Oliver and move past all the trauma that had been inflicted. “I would have worked on forgiving him. On making things better.”

  “I know you would have, Beck. And I know things would have gotten better.” Oliver’s eyes seemed to dig through all the muck that was floating about me, threatening to suffocate me. “There’s nothing to work on for now except yourself. That’s what his message is really about. He’s found his peace; now it’s time you get yours.”

  Oliver’s words hit home, and they hit hard.

  “You’re right,” I said, after a brief moment of cicada-filled silence. “It’ll take some time. I won’t lie. But I think I’ll find some peace over all this.”

  “You will.” Oliver rested his head on my shoulder. I had never felt so connected with someone else than I felt with Oliver in that moment. It was as if I’d been propelled out of my body and was looking at the two of us from the outside, as though we were painted into a picture destined to be framed next to a classic masterpiece.

  “I love you, Oliver. So, so much. It’s almost painful.”

  Oliver lifted his head from my shoulder. He looked a little awestruck, his jaw slightly open. And then he said the words I’d been dying to hear from him.

  “I love you, too, Beck. More than you can ever know.”

  We kissed under the moonlight, the proclamation of love from the both of us spilling over into the moment like an overflowing glass of the most expensive wine.

  The weight of it all didn’t escape me. I hadn’t told someone I loved them since my last long-term relationship, which ended five years ago. I hadn’t found anyone since, and I was resigning myself to thinking that there would be no one else.

  Then in walked Oliver into my life. “Remember when you introduced yourself to me as Jamison?”

  Oliver’s eyes opened wide, and he let out a surprised laugh. “I do, yes. It was because I saw a bottle of Jamison behind the bar and couldn’t think of anything else. God, that feels like it was years ago, huh?”

  “It does.” I kissed Oliver again, never wanting to stop. “I’m happy you ended up telling me your real name.”

  “Me too.” Oliver smiled as he kissed me, neither of us able to keep our l
ips separated for long. “I’m also glad I got the guts to talk to you that night. I was so close to just apologizing for bumping into you and walking away.”

  “Really?”

  “Deadass.”

  “Dead… what?”

  “Deadass, it means dead serious.” Oliver must have picked up on the face I gave him. “I know, I know. Deadass, it’s weird.”

  We both laughed, the roller coaster of a night felt like it was pulling up to a stop. My father’s letter was folded up next to me.

  “I’m glad I didn’t walk away that night, too. I was close.”

  Oliver turned to me. “You were?” His eyebrow arched, his eyes narrowed. “What were you scared about?”

  “About a handsome young man talking to me and then quickly finding out that we had nothing in common, so that handsome young man would then transform into a proper knobhead and end up making me feel like shit.”

  Oliver’s brows rose. “What? As if that would ever—”

  “Happen? It happened right before we met. It was embarrassing and the last thing I needed that night. So yeah, it scared me when we met. I thought you’d do the same.”

  I was being fully honest. It wasn’t that I had been lying to Oliver before now, but I felt as though the floodgates had truly opened tonight. There was no more hiding from each other. I’d told him I loved him, and it was something I meant with my entire soul.

  Deadass.

  “I’d never even think of making you feel like shit. And I’m glad the guy before me was a ‘knobhead’—which by the way is now going into my daily vocabulary— because if he wasn’t a ‘knobhead,’ then I wouldn’t get to be here with you.” Oliver’s eyes were practically glowing. “And I wouldn’t get to touch your ‘knobhead.’ Boom! Three in a row.”

  Oliver’s laughter was infectious. So was his optimism, his joy. It made the rest of the night go by in a blur. We stayed outside talking until the sun was breaking through the horizon, dousing the sky in a purplish-orange hue. By then, we were both yawning and stretching and having a hell of a good time. Even with the letter still next to me, even with the reminder that a huge part of my life had been an unnecessary lie, even then, I was still able to let go and live in the moment, talking about anything and everything with the man who completed me on every level, from a molecular one to a spiritual one.

  We went to bed as the clock was hitting seven, both of us exhausted, Oliver melting into my arms the second we hit the mattress.

  22 Beckham Noble

  It was early afternoon, and it was hot as balls. Especially inside the un-airconditioned hallway I stood in, a large window at the end of the hall only serving as a way to cook whoever was in the hall when the sun was at its peak. I knocked hard on the door in front of me. Apartment 410. Behind the black-painted wood, I could hear a TV set blaring some kind of political news. I heard rustling, like someone was cleaning up a mess, and then the TV’s volume was lowered. Three undone locks later and the door was opening.

  Mario Reyes stood there, a frown set on his bearded face. He wore a plain black tank top and oversized jean shorts with a few red patches sewn into the front. He was a little shorter than me but stockier and had big muscles that would intimidate anyone if he flared up like the gorilla he resembled. His arms were covered in black-and-white tattoos, some of them prison quality while others seemed like works of art.

  “You the detective?”

  “Beckham Noble, from Stonewall Investigations. Thank you for meeting with me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure.” Mario stepped aside, which I figured was his way of inviting me in.

  His apartment was on the larger scale. He had vaulted ceilings since he was on the top floor, and floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room that looked out to the bay. There was a wrap-around balcony with plenty of seating areas. His television looked top-of-the-line, and all of his furniture appeared to be brand-new, with clean black leather and a modern-looking glass table. It appeared as though his business was doing well, so why the bloody hell was he so difficult to find?

  “We can sit here.” Mario was already at his dining table and pulling out a heavy chair. The day was getting late since Mario had rescheduled a couple of times, but there was still plenty of sunlight streaming in through the windows. It highlighted just how clean Mario’s place was.

  “All right, I don’t want to waste too much of your time.” I could smell the dinner cooking in the kitchen, the scent of meat and herbs filling the air.

  “Right. What do you need from me?”

  “Well, I’ve got some questions. All I need are some straight-up answers.”

  I sat down across from Mario at his table. I could sense there was tension in the air from the beginning. He was puffing up his chest and keeping hard eye contact with me. It put me on the offensive. I knew blokes like him had to be cracked open sometimes, and that only happened when you puffed your chest as much as they did.

  “Questions about what?”

  “The assault and resulting murder of Derrick Silva. It happened six years ago, and I know you’ve interacted with the victims on multiple occasions in the past.”

  “I interact with a lot of people. I don’t remember shit from six fucking years ago.”

  “Let me help jog your memory.” On my phone, I opened a folder I had set up specifically for this meeting. I clicked on the first photo. Oliver and Derrick smiled back at us, a massive sequoia tree stretching up like a giant behind them.

  “These are the victims. Is your memory coming back?”

  Mario looked at the photo and shook his head. “Nah, I don’t remember either of those two.” His tone turned acidic.

  “Well, one of them remembers you for sure. Oliver.” I zoomed in on his face. He looked so happy, so vibrant. There was a light shining through him that seemed as though the sun had taken up residence in his smile.

  “You landscaped his apartment building. He came up to you asking for a business card, and you were less than friendly toward him.”

  Mario’s eyes narrowed. “I might remember him.”

  “Okay, good. Good, then we’re getting somewhere.” I flicked to the next photo. It was a photo taken from the crime scene. Derrick’s body was covered with a sheet. Blood made a macabre dance down the pavement, into a sewage grate. “This was the night Oliver and Derrick were attacked in a homophobic assault. It ended with Derrick getting fatally stabbed. This is why I’m here, Mario. Because I want to find out who did this so that I can put this to rest.”

  “And you think I did this?” Mario was moving to stand.

  “No, no.” I had to let the gorilla pound his chest on this one. It was too soon to get him this angry. “I don’t think so. If I did, the police would be here with cuffs at the ready. No, I don’t think you did it.” He seemed to calm down but still had his hands on the table. “I think you can help me find who did do it, though.”

  “How?”

  “By giving me names of all your employees and everyone who could have interacted with Oliver and Derrick. I also want to follow up on your whereabouts for the night of the attack.”

  “Get the fuck out of here, man. I ain’t giving you shit.” He looked like he was about to spit. “Are you even a cop?”

  “I’m a detective,” I said, dodging the question. “And if you don’t cooperate, then this will get messy.”

  “How so?” Mario cracked his knuckles. I heard something past the pops of his bones. There was movement in the room across from me, behind the closed door. There were a pair of shoes left on the floor. They were blue basketball shoes but seemed three sizes too small for Mario to wear.

  Someone else was here, and they were listening to every word that was being said. I could spot the shadow underneath the door’s threshold.

  My defenses shot up. Mario said he would be handling the interview in private, without anyone else around. The fact that someone stood quietly behind a door only a few feet away from me didn’t put me at ease.

  “Huh?
How will this get messy?”

  “Mario, I didn’t come here to get in a fight. I genuinely want to close this case. Give me everything you know about that night and about who could be involved.”

  “Why me, huh?” He was getting pissed. I was going to have to back down. “Why are you coming into my house and accusing me of a crime I never committed?”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything, Mario. I’m following the threads, and you’re one of them. I spoke to someone who told me they spoke to you about attacking Oliver and his boyfriend. It may have only been a conversation that nothing came from, but that leads me to believe you’d at least know of someone who could be involved. Give me my next thread. That’s all I need.”

  “I got nothing.”

  All right, maybe if I switched up the line of questions: “How about your affiliation with the Avispas gang? It’s not something you hide judging from your social media. I know they have initiation rituals. Could one of them be attacking innocent gay guys on the street?”

  “Get the fuck out,” Mario growled, his yellow teeth bared.

  This guy was acting like someone harboring guilt. I had done plenty of interviews before, and the ones who were this aggressive right off the bat were the ones who were responsible, or at least hiding something valuable.

  Or maybe he wasn’t hiding something, but someone.

  “Mario, please.” I stood, but I wasn’t giving up. “Just give me a name. Let me put this all to rest.”

  “The only name I’m giving you is the name of a fucking doctor. You’ll need him to repair your face if you don’t get the hell out of my house.”

  He stared me down from across the table. It felt like two lions sizing the other up, aggression flowing through the air like oxygen.

  I didn’t move. All I could think of was Oliver, waking up sweaty and scared next to me, shouting from his night terrors. If I could figure this out, put the right people behind bars, then maybe Oliver’s nightmares would disappear, too.