Pretty Pretty Boys

by Gregory Ashe

  By the time Somers reached the Art Deco structure, the sun was starting to rise, and it tinted the motor court’s glass blocks the color of butter. Hazard waited at the bottom of the motor court’s stairs. He looked, as always, impeccable—like he’d had an hour to get ready instead of five minutes. When he dropped into the passenger seat, he stared straight ahead, as though Somers didn’t exist.

  Somers didn’t care. He covered the distance to Naomi’s house in just under fifteen minutes, racing along the curving country roads, charging up the gravel drive. The modernist building was nothing more than geometric shadows against the horizon: black blocks and triangles, like someone had snipped out a piece of the world.

  “Door’s broken,” Hazard said as they approached the house. “Someone forced his way inside.”

  Somers nodded. He grabbed his Glock from the holster at the small of his back, while Hazard drew the .38 from his shoulder holster. Somers felt the heat of his anger dissipate. He wasn’t calm—he had wires running under his skin—but he was clear-headed again.

  They moved through the house like clockwork, clearing room after room until Somers heard the sound of crying. Then he smelled it: a greasy, charred scent. The smell of a house fire. And, with it, the smell of something else, something chemical. The accelerant, Somers guessed. Someone had tried to burn down Naomi’s home.

  That someone, Somers was willing to bet, was their killer.

  Around the next corner, Somers saw a long hall. At the end of the hall, a door was partially open, and yellow light slashed out through the doorway. Somers took a step forward, but Hazard put a hand on his arm and shook his head.

  “Naomi,” Somers called.

  The sobs broke, and then Naomi answered in a quavering voice. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me. John-Henry.”

  A long silence followed, and then, “Prove it.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to prove it?”

  Naomi sobbed again, and in a softer voice she said, “All right. You can come in.”

  Somers followed the sound of her voice, and when he pushed open the door, he blinked into the sudden brightness of the room. When his eyes had focused, he was staring down the barrel of a hunting rifle. Behind the rifle stood Naomi, red-eyed, her dark hair frizzed like she’d stuck a finger in an electrical outlet.

  From behind Somers, Hazard said, “Drop the weapon, Miss Malsho.”

  “It’s fine, Naomi,” Somers said. “We’re here.”

  “Drop it. Right now.”

  Naomi blinked, as though surprised by the request, and then she lowered her hands mechanically, as though no longer really aware of what she was doing. Somers breathed out in relief and eased the rifle away from her. Then, ignoring Hazard’s furious glare, Somers helped Naomi across the room and into a comfortable-looking chair.

  The bedroom, Somers noticed, was a disaster. In its pristine state, it was probably like the rest of the house: cold, museum-like, and modern in a way that made Somers feel like he was tracking dog shit through the house with every step. The furniture was dark wood, chrome, and white leather. The bed looked like something that could have been shoved aboard a spaceship if NASA ever came up short. An enormous picture window on the far side of the room looked out on the sun rising over fields of bent, brittle corn.

  But the room was not in what anyone would have called a pristine state. The picture window was shattered, and glass picked up splashes of red and yellow from the sunrise so that the white carpet looked like a sea of flame. The spaceship bed was overturned, exposing a rather battered box-spring. Someone—and Somers was willing to bet that it had not been Naomi—had slashed open two of the leather chairs, and wads of batting overflowed from the slashes and spilled onto the floor.

  “What the hell happened here?” Somers asked.

  “She was attacked,” Hazard said. He crossed the room with quick, precise steps, stopping to examine the slashed chairs and then the window. “Not that long ago.”

  Somers threw a questioning look at Naomi.

  “Yes,” she said and then hiccoughed. Her hands went to her eyes, probing the red, swollen lids. “Yes, he came about five.”

  “He?” Hazard said. “Who?”

  Naomi blinked. “I don’t know. I mean, I saw that it was a man, but I just don’t know. The fire—”

  “What fire?”

  Shivering, Naomi peeled her hands away from her eyes. “The fire. He wanted to burn me out.” She got to her feet, and for a moment Somers thought she might fall. When he moved to help her, though, she waved him away. From behind Naomi, Hazard made a furious gesture for Somers to back off.

  Somers ignored him.

  “This way,” Naomi said. She led them down the hall and into the kitchen. The long, gleaming granite countertops were blackened with soot and ash. Fire had scorched two of the walls, and singes showed on the stainless steel appliances. The smell of burned fabric was stronger here, and Somers found its source: the curtains hanging above a broken window.

  With one foot, Somers stirred a shattered glass bottle that lay on the floor. Nearby lay the charred remains of what he believed had once been a rag.

  “You see this?” Somers said.

  Hazard squatted, grunted, and said, “Molotov.”

  “Just like Fukuma.” What Somers didn’t say, though, was what he hoped his partner was thinking: Fukuma’s Molotov had been a fake. It had been her own work, a way of gaining attention. Was this the same? Or—Somers felt a chill. Or had the murderer believed that the attack on Fukuma was real? Was the murderer trying to throw the blame on the radical professor?

  “What are you talking about? This happened before? He did this to someone else?”

  “Who is he?” Somers said. “You keep saying he. Who?”

  “I don’t know. Whoever was here. Whoever attacked me.”

  Somers tried to trade glances with Hazard, but his partner refused to look at him.

  “You saw him,” Somers said. “Where? Here?”

  “No.” Naomi’s voice was weak, but it gained strength as she continued speaking. “No, he was in my room. I heard the glass break. I came in here to see what was happening. I had the rifle, but when I saw the fire, I grabbed the fire extinguisher.”

  “You didn’t grab the phone?” Hazard said, rising back to his full height. “You didn’t call 911?”

  “I could have been killed,” Naomi said. “I could have died in the fire if I hadn’t woken up.” She paused. One hand was automatically combing out her shoulder-length hair; the other hand lingered on her chest, just above her breasts, fiddling with the undersized t-shirt that she was wearing. Already, the terrified Naomi that they had found in the bedroom was disappearing behind the manipulative mask she usually wore. “Fukuma. She’s that professor at the college, right? The one who’s insane. Someone did this to her?”

  “Why don’t you tell us what happened after you put out the fire?”

  Naomi shrugged. “I heard the window in my bedroom break, but I was too busy putting out the fire. When I had things under control, I ran back to the bedroom. He was there. He fired at me—two shots, I think, although that part’s a blur. He was coming towards me, and somehow I got the rifle up and managed to shoot.”

  “Did you hit him?” Hazard asked.

  “I don’t know. He ran away. I didn’t care if I’d hit him or not, I just wanted him gone.”

  “Let’s see the room again,” Somers said.

  He found two bullet holes in the drywall of Naomi’s bedroom. They were less than an inch from the doorframe; Naomi had barely escaped. There was no sign of the round that Naomi had fired, but Hazard found a single casing behind the door. Everything Naomi said had checked out, as far as Somers could tell.

  “You didn’t answer Detective Hazard’s question earlier. Why didn’t you call 911?”

  “Why’d you call him?” Hazard added.

  Naomi tensed. “It’s a question of ethics.”

  “The police aren’t et
hical?” Somers said.

  “The police are the enemy. They’re the militarized tool of oppression used by a fascist state, enforcing unjust laws.”

  “Sounds like you got a speeding ticket recently,” Somers said under his breath.

  “It wouldn’t be smart for the head of the Ozark Volunteers to go running to the police.” Hazard crossed his big arms over his chest and studied Naomi. “You’d look weak.”

  “I’d be complicit with a corrupt and oligarchic—”

  “Yeah,” Somers said, “we get it. So you call me because—what? We’re old friends?”

  “You came,” Naomi said, a trace of scorn in her voice. “Didn’t you?”

  “We’re going to have to file a report on this,” Somers said. “And we’ll see if we can find whoever it was that attacked you.”

  “That professor, the one you said. Fukuma. She’s trans, right? Or real butch? And you said she used a Molotov—”

  “I didn’t say that,” Somers said.

  Naomi narrowed her eyes. “I think it was her.”

  “She was the he you’ve been talking about this whole time?” Hazard shook his head. “Let’s get out of here, Somers.”

  Naomi followed them to the door, and as they drove away from the house, she became one more spot of blackness, merging with the house of shadows. Somers thought back to the way she had spoken, the way she had held herself, the way she had looked at him. He knew a lie when he heard one. He knew, especially, how the Malsho women lied; he was married to one, after all. And Naomi Malsho was lying her heart out.

  The drive back to the Bridal Veil Motor Court was long and silent. When Somers parked the car, Hazard sprang out and slammed the door. Somers followed him.

  Hazard spun to face his partner. A sneer twisted his face. “If you think we’re going to talk about last night—”

  Somers popped him in the mouth. Hazard staggered back. Blood trickled from his split lip, and his eyes were wide with shock.

  “That’s for last night.” Somers shook his hand, relishing the ache. “We’re done, all right? I’m talking to Cravens today. We’re done.”

  Hazard didn’t answer. He didn’t raise a hand to stop the blood that ran down his chin and dripped onto his plaid shirt.

  Somers spun, furious and sick to his stomach, but then he spun back towards Hazard. Words exploded out of him before he could stop them.

  “You know what? I wasn’t there. Jeff, what Mikey and Hugo did to him. I wasn’t there. I left. And I know I’m a coward because I didn’t tell anyone, but the honest truth is that I didn’t know how bad it was going to be. If I’d known, I would have said something or done something.”

  “Mikey Grames said you were there.” Hazard spoke like a dead man. A fat droplet of blood quivered from his jaw.

  “Mikey Grames? Jesus Christ, is that what this is all about? Mikey Grames is a moron. He’s a meth-head. He’s burned out half his fucking brain with crank, and the half that he’s still got is barely enough to keep him from shitting his drawers every time he farts. If you wanted to know so bad about Jeff, why didn’t you ask me? Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”

  “He told me you were there. I know you were there. I know what you did.”

  “Jesus,” Somers said. His anger seemed to evaporate, and in its place, he felt a kind of lightheaded wonder, like he wasn’t sure if he was still standing on solid ground. “I never realized how sad you are, this whole thing you’ve got going. No wonder Billy’s sick of you.”

  It was a cheap shot. No, worse than that, it was a downright shitty thing to say, and Somers knew it even before he said it. But he couldn’t deny the surge of satisfaction he felt when the words hit home and Hazard flinched as though he’d been struck.

  Somers got into the Impala and drove towards the station. He was going to talk to Cravens. He was going to tell her what had happened. He was going to ask for a new partner. And most of all, he was going to admit that he’d made a mistake about Emery Hazard.

  HAZARD SHOWERED. THE WATER was pink for a while as it rinsed the blood from his chin. When he got out, he dried himself with one of the Bridal Veil Motor Court towels, and it was a bit like drying himself with a piece of sandpaper. Towel around his waist, he studied his fat lip in the mirror and wished to hell he understood Somers.

  Last night, it had all seemed so simple. He had been talking to Upchurch, enjoying—in a distracted way—the older man’s clumsy attempts at flirtation. Whatever Somers said, it was obvious that Upchurch was gay, or at least bi, and that he wouldn’t mind giving Emery Hazard’s body a thorough exploration. But while Hazard had listened to Upchurch’s compliments, while he had laughed at bad jokes and answered boring questions, his real focus had been on Somers.

  Somers, as usual, had refused to do what Hazard expected. Instead of taking center stage at Upchurch’s going away party, Somers had slunk over to the bar and pounded back shots—a line of them that stretched halfway down the block, it looked to Hazard. That was all: he stayed right there, not quite pouting, not quite sulking, but doing a hell of a close impersonation. Swinney had wanted to know what was wrong; Lender had offered to go ask; Cravens, with a grim shake of her head, had insisted everyone leave Somers alone.

  But Hazard had been watching, and he hadn’t minded watching because even when Somers had a face like a thundercloud, it was still a face that made Hazard’s heart hitch. And then he had noticed Somers watching him—and then the idea hit. It was so simple. It was so easy. Hazard could tell, from the way Somers was looking at him, that the blond man wanted something. Hazard was willing to give it to him—up to a point. Then, when he had Somers exactly where he wanted him, he’d put on the pressure. Somers would cave. He’d confess to what he’d done to Jeff, and Hazard would—what? Even today, after everything that had happened, Hazard wasn’t sure. Would he have killed John-Henry? Would he have hurt him?

  In the end, it hadn’t mattered because nothing had worked out the way Hazard had planned. Instead of breaking down and confessing, Somers had fought back. He’d gotten away from Hazard. Hazard might have gone after him—he might have pressed the issue to the breaking point—but the sight of Somers’s face stopped him. There was so much confusion there. So much hurt. It wasn’t anything like what Hazard had expected to see, and it left him flat-footed, like he’d stepped off a bus but the whole world kept moving at a smooth fifty-five.

  And why the hell, just once, couldn’t Somers do what he was supposed to do? Why couldn’t he confess? Why couldn’t he admit he’d done wrong? Why, instead, did he have to ring Hazard’s bell with a smooth right jab and then deny everything? Why did Somers have to be right—this was the part that hurt the most—about Mikey Grames?

  Because Somers was right, at least in part: Mikey Grames was an addict and a piece of shit, and therefore, he was not to be trusted. But Hazard had ignored that obvious fact. He had ignored, too, the fact that Mikey Grames had always been good at manipulating Hazard, had always been good at hurting Somers, and so why shouldn’t he still know how to do it? The truth of that hurt almost worse than the shame and pain of how Hazard had treated Somers.

  Massaging his swollen lip one last time, wincing at the flash of heat in the torn flesh, Hazard dressed for the day—for what was definitely his last day as John-Henry Somerset’s partner and was, most likely, also going to be his last day with the Wahredua PD. In jacket and tie, Hazard left the Bridal Veil Motor Court and drove to the station.

  The day was bright and already hot, but the wind carried away the worst of the humidity, with the result that the day felt like a baking oven rather than a swamp. Half-moons of sunlight bounced off the broken glass in the station parking lot, and the smell of hot tar persisted in spite of the wind’s best efforts. Hazard sat in the car, not quite ready to get out, and stared at the building that had once been a Catholic school. Above the door, the lone remaining angel looked like something that had fallen off the truck on the way to Pottery Barn. The devil, staring up at t
he angel’s broken spear, still looked like he was having a hell of a laugh. That about summed it up, Hazard thought: even if you didn’t believe in God and the Devil, you had to believe that evil had a lot more chuckles, and good ended up chipped and broken and looking ready for the scrap heap.

  He couldn’t go inside. Not yet. Not with Somers already in there, not with Cravens ready to chew Hazard a new asshole, not with the shame that somehow, some way, Emery Hazard had screwed up his second chance at being a detective—and, for the second time, he’d done so purely on his own merits. He couldn’t go inside, so instead, he found himself pulling out his phone and dialing Billy’s number.

  As the phone rang, Hazard knew how things would go: he’d apologize, and then, after a little begging, Billy would soften up and he’d apologize too. What were they fighting about? Hazard couldn’t even remember, something stupid, something inconsequential in the big scheme of things. Hazard would drive up to St. Louis tonight, spend the weekend there, see Billy’s play, make it up to him—

  The phone picked up, and Hazard opened his mouth, ready to start with the apology. On the other end of the line, the sound of laughter in the background made Hazard stop. It was Billy’s laughter, and Billy’s voice speaking through the laughter, as though it were the best joke in the world, Billy saying, “No, Tom, I don’t want him to find out like this—”

  And then a different voice, a deeper voice with a playful cast, came on the line, “This is Tom Gerard, personal assistant to the amazing Billy Rolker, how can I help you?”

  Hazard’s head was floating. It had come off, been cut off, and it was floating somewhere above his body, so he couldn’t feel his breath or his hands or the way his socks had pulled sideways and weren’t fitting right. All he could do, with his head floating up in the air, was stare at the clock and think, it’s not even eight, not even eight o’clock in the morning, and Tom’s there. And then the next thought came, brutally cold and clear: He’s been there all night. He’s probably been there every night since I left.

  “Em,” Tom said, “you there?”