Pretty Pretty Boys

by Gregory Ashe

  “It’s just chamomile.”

  Hazard wrapped his hands around the ceramic. Heat soaked into his hands, pulsing in his joints. It was hot enough to cook eggs on the asphalt, but somehow, in this air-conditioned room, it felt good to hold something hot between his hands.

  Settling next to Hazard, Nico blew on his tea and watched Hazard through the steam. “You want to cry? Chamomile’s pretty good for a cry.”

  “I don’t cry.”

  “You want to break something? I’ve still got a shitload of Chendo’s stuff. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  A smile cracked Hazard’s lips. “Why did I stay with him? I knew, and I just stayed. And then today, I called, ready to apologize, and it was over. Like that. Something better came along, and he was done with me. And I don’t even care about Billy. Tom can deal with all of his bullshit now, fine, that’s great. I just feel like shit that I stayed. Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  Nico shrugged. The muscles in his shoulders and upper back, exposed by the tank-top, rippled. “Not a chance.”

  “Just the tea, huh?”

  “Look, man, I’ve been through enough breakups that I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Great.”

  “Normally,” Nico said with a smirk, “this is the point where I’d throw you a pity fuck, but . . .”

  “That’s off the table because I’m a cop?”

  The smirk eased into a thoughtful, careful expression. “It’s off the table because you are the only decent gay man I’ve ever met, and I’d like to ask you on a date. Like, a real one.” Nico stretched, and more coiled, coppery muscle shifted across his chest. “When you’re not still hung up about this loser ex-boyfriend, I mean.”

  Hazard nodded and slid the mug of tea across the table.

  “Is that a yes?” Nico said, prodding his arm.

  In spite of the pain and frustration, a genuine smile worked the edges of Hazard’s mouth. “You have to ask me first.”

  “Holy shit,” Nico said, jaw dropping. “Holy shit, ladies and gentlemen, the big butch cop is a tease.”

  “All right.”

  “A grade-A tease.”

  “I should go.”

  “Hold on, hold on. I was going to call you anyway. I’ve got something to show you.”

  “Uh, Nico—”

  “I mean about the case. About Chendo.”

  “Oh.”

  “You said your partner was mad at you. About the case? Did something happen?”

  “Yeah, something happened. We hit a dead end. Literally, in this case. If Chendo’s still out there, we lost him. His phone showed up on a trailer, and nobody’s seen him. Why? Did you he contact you again?”

  Nico was shaking his head. He fumbled with the tea for a moment, unwilling to meet Hazard’s eyes, and a flush rose into his cheeks. “I was, well, I was looking through his pictures.”

  “The ones from the weekend? The ones his phone had uploaded?”

  The flush in Nico’s cheeks darkened. “No. These were older. Over the last few months. The phone uploads all of them automatically, and I had the password, and I was just—”

  Hazard stayed silent; he certainly wasn’t going to be the one who said it.

  Nico spared him, though, by expelling a fierce breath. “So I’m still hung up on him, ok? Just like you. You don’t have to be so goddamn smug about it.”

  Smug?

  “The pictures?” Hazard asked. “You saw something?”

  “Well, kind of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw something that wasn’t there. Don’t get that look, I’m going to explain. When I got back to the pictures from September, I found a whole bunch that Chendo had taken during the march.”

  “The Ozark Volunteers’ march?”

  “Yeah, Chendo was there. And when it got crazy and the fighting started, he was right out in the middle of all of it. I had to bail him out. Disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct, assault, it was a nightmare. It was just Chendo’s thing, though—he liked the fight, and he liked feeling like he was a hero or a martyr or something messed up like that.”

  “So what’d you see?”

  “Well, after I bailed Chendo out, he posted a ton of the pictures online. Facebook and Instagram, a few on Twitter. Proof of his cred as a street fighter, I guess, and as an activist. But one of the ones he posted was missing.”

  “It was missing from the uploads?” Hazard shook his head and rotated the mug in his hands. The heat was fading, and his knuckles felt swollen and sore again. “Come on, Nico. One picture from months ago, one out of hundreds? You’re sure you aren’t mixing it up with something else?”

  “Oh, I’m sure. See, Chendo and I had a huge fight about this picture. It was kind of the beginning of the end, you know, and so I definitely remember it. And it wasn’t there, totally vanished.”

  “So Chendo deleted it after you got in a fight.”

  “He took it down from Facebook and Instagram. I told him that if he didn’t, we were done. He might have deleted the original—he said he did, but I doubt it. But going into an automatic archive to delete the backed-up copy? No way. I didn’t even know he had his pictures backing up, and I didn’t care. For me, it wasn’t about the picture. It was about what he’d posted with it.”

  “What?”

  “I took a screenshot and sent it to my brother. I was mad, and I wanted someone who would let me bitch about Chendo.” Nico fumbled with his phone, scrolling through messages. “Give me a second, you’ll see.”

  “What made you so angry? If it wasn’t the picture itself, I mean.”

  “Chendo’s comment on the picture was, Look at this hottie. If everything goes to plan, you’re looking at husband number one.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, he was a real charmer. So, obviously I remembered that picture. And when I realized it wasn’t in the backup archive, I started to wonder why. No chance Chendo had gone back and deleted it because I was pissed; Chendo just wanted me to shut up, he didn’t care how I felt. He certainly didn’t feel bad about posting the comment. But then I thought, what if it wasn’t a joke? What if that was the guy—or one of the guys—he was cheating with? So I found the screenshot and looked at it. It’s, uh—look, you’re going to be cool about this, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, can I trust you?”

  With some surprise, Hazard realized that Nico was genuinely worried. “What is it?”

  “Well, when I looked at the picture, I realized I recognized one of the guys. Definitely someone that would have caught Chendo’s eye. And someone who might be, I don’t know how to put this, like, getting some ass on the side. Do you know what I mean?”

  Hazard’s chest tightened. “Let me see the picture.”

  “I’m not saying he did anything. I’m not accusing anyone of anything. You get that, right? I just wanted to show you. I just thought you’d want to see.”

  Wordlessly, Hazard stretched out a hand.

  After another moment of nervous hesitation, Nico slapped his phone into Hazard’s palm. The picture on the screen had been taken from the back seat of a car—a patrol car, Hazard guessed, where Chendo Cervantes had been detained during the fighting at the Volunteers’ march. Through the car window, the picture captured the aftermath of the fray: a line of handcuffed men and women, and behind them, what looked like most of the Wahredua PD. Standing slightly off-center, his blond hair catching the sunlight, grinning as he talked to his former partner, stood John-Henry Somerset.

  SOMERS KNOCKED ON UPCHURCH'S DOOR for the third time. The heat was really getting started, and sweat soaked his hair and shirt. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, twenty-five minutes. Upchurch’s car was here, but there was no answer. Somers took a step back, staring up at the house. Sunlight glinted on the windows, turning the glass into white flares and blocking any view of what might be happening inside. Jesus, it was hot.

  Had Upchurch said they were taki
ng his wife’s car? Somers couldn’t remember. He rattled the knob, hoping the door might open—at least he could wait inside, assuming the A/C was still running—but it was locked.

  With a sigh, Somers made his way around the house. The back door was worth a try. Somers had the vague impression that Upchurch liked to leave the back door unlocked—it was a glass slider, and it opened onto a patio with a grill and an above-ground swimming pool. Somers wiped his forehead. If the day got any hotter, he’d forget about Armistead and Chendo and the murder case and he’d just strip down and go swimming.

  The glass slider, though, was locked as well, and through the door Somers could see that the house had been emptied. Nothing on the counters, nothing in the next room. Whatever Upchurch was coming back for, Somers couldn’t figure why they hadn’t taken it on the first trip.

  Maybe it was in the garage. And, if Somers had any luck, maybe the garage door would be open. He went around to the side of the house, where a door led into the garage. He tried the handle. Locked.

  Well, it was just that kind of day.

  Then Somers noticed that the door wasn’t sitting quite right. It hung off-kilter, and when he bent closer, he saw that the latch clipped the edge of the strike plate. It wasn’t locked, Somers realized—not really. Or better said, it was locked, but the lock wasn’t set in anything. With a grin, Somers bumped the door open with his shoulder and stepped into the garage.

  The garage had been emptied of cars and shelves and even the outdoor refrigerator that Somers had been half-hoping would be stocked with a few cold drinks. Red dirt covered the floor, and it had been haphazardly swept into a pile with a great deal of kitty litter. The air smelled like clay dust and moldy grass clippings and something else. Something harsher, almost chemical. Somers knew he had smelled it before.

  His brain began to click rapidly, and Somers strode around the garage. He took slow, deep breaths. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to smell—he wasn’t even sure why it was important—but something deep inside him recognized that odor and knew, somehow, that it was crucial. He came to a stop near the kitty litter and dirt that had been swept to the center of the garage, and he hunkered down.

  It was just kitty litter. The cheap stuff, basically just clay, the kind people threw down to soak up motor oil. And the dirt was just dirt. But a bell was ringing, and Somers’s brain was clicking. He ran a finger through the red dust. He had seen it before, but not in Wahredua. Wahredua, and most of the area around, had rich, black soil. Soil perfect for farming. But he had seen this before. Where?

  After another moment of trying to remember, Somers scooped up a few grains of the litter. To his surprise, though, the litter felt dry and powdery—no trace of greasiness. And the litter was still a pale gray color. Somers swept a hand through the litter. There was no sign, in fact, that the litter had ever been used to soak up oil. And that made sense, Somers realized. Upchurch was fanatical about his vehicles. He never would have let one of his cars leak oil, not consistently, not enough that he’d need kitty litter to soak it up. Especially not the Mustang—

  Then Somers remembered where he’d seen the red dirt: on the Mustang’s tires. And that was strange, now that he thought about it, because Upchurch had been driving back and forth to Jeff City, and even if he’d been driving on dirt roads, he never would have picked up that color dust, not like the coating that had covered the Impala when they’d—

  When they’d reached the campground. Somers shivered and forced himself to take a full breath. Yes, this dirt was just like the red dirt that they’d seen at the campground. The same campground where they’d found Charles Armistead’s mutilated body.

  Somers wanted to dust off his hands, get to his feet, and put this whole mess behind him. He still could, a nasty voice whispered. He could leave. He could close his eyes, tell himself he was making too much of things, that he was imagining it, just like—

  —he had with Jeff Langham—

  —he had that first day on the job, when Lender had convinced him he was covered in coke. Maybe it was just like that. Maybe this was just a gag, just some weird goof, and Somers didn’t have to take the bait, he could just walk away and close his eyes.

  But he didn’t. He scooped a handful of the litter, brought it to his nose, and inhaled. Now he recognized the odor. It was familiar, stinging, and it made his head spin. Mineral spirits. More commonly called paint thinner.

  The click of the door reached him too late. Somers spun, reaching for the Glock, and then froze.

  Upchurch aimed a gun at Somers, his hands steady, his freckled complexion furrowed in a mixture of disappointment and frustration. The scalp under his thinning hair was shiny with sweat. Upchurch let out a breath and shook his head. “Now, John-Henry, let’s not do anything stupid.”

  SOMERS WASN'T ANSWERING HIS PHONE. With a frustrated growl, Hazard disconnected and dialed the desk number. Something was wrong. It was just a feeling, and Hazard hated feelings, but he couldn’t deny this one: something was way the fuck wrong.

  “What is it?” Nico asked for what felt like the hundredth time. He was wringing his slender, artistic hands and pacing back and forth. “Do you think it’s him? He’s the guy?”

  Hazard ignored him. Ten rings. Twelve. Fourteen. Another growl was building in Hazard’s throat, and he was about to punch the disconnect button when a woman’s voice came on the line.

  “Wahredua PD.”

  “Swinney?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Hazard. Where’s Somers?”

  “Where are you? He’s been waiting since eight. Looks like he’s sitting on nails, and at the rate he’s going, we’re going to be lucky if he leaves us a single pencil.”

  Hazard had no idea what that meant, so he ignored it. “He’s there? I need to talk to him.”

  “No, he left, I don’t know. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes ago. Where are you? You need a tow?”

  “What? No. Where’d he go?”

  “We don’t exactly keep a log. Why don’t you call him? I’ve got to—”

  “Swinney, he’s not answering, and I need to talk to him.”

  “Geez, what’s going on? Somers in trouble?”

  Hazard hesitated. If he spoke now, he might permanently damage Somers’s reputation—even if there Hazard turned out to be wrong. Worse, though, was the possibility that, if Hazard told Swinney and turned the department loose on Somers, Hazard would never have a chance to confront his partner. He needed that chance. After everything that had happened, Hazard needed to look John-Henry Somerset in the eyes and, a dark part of Hazard realized, he needed to decide if he should pull the trigger.

  “No, not trouble, but I’ve got a break. Maybe a huge one.”

  “Oh yeah?” It was obvious that she wanted the scoop.

  “You’ve got no idea where he is?”

  Irritated silence answered, and then, “He was talking to Upchurch.”

  A burr of fear lodged in Hazard’s chest. “Got to go.”

  “You’re welcome, ass—”

  He disconnected. “Do you still have any of Chendo’s pictures? Pictures of him, I mean, not pictures he took.”

  “I—yeah. I do.” Nico took back his phone, swiped at the screen, and presented it to Hazard. “That good?”

  Hazard glanced at it, pinched the screen to zoom, and shook his head. He thought he could see it. “Any others?”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Do you have any others?”

  “Yeah, sure. Here. Just swipe.”

  Hazard ran his thumb across the screen, scrolling through a series of pictures: by the tenth picture, Hazard knew he was right. It was there in every single picture.

  Clutching the phone, Hazard pushed his way towards the door.

  “Hold on,” Nico said, trailing after him. “It’s him, isn’t it? Oh my God, it’s him. I’m coming with you.”

  “You aren’t.”

  “Damn right I am. It’s my phone, and I’m the one that—�
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  Hazard spun. Because he was big, most people assumed he was slow, and that worked to his advantage. He grabbed a tangle of Nico’s tank-top and swung the younger man close enough that they were nose to nose.

  “Listen to me very carefully. I’m taking your phone. You’re staying here. If I have to duct tape you to the chair, you’re staying here. You’re very brave, and you’re very smart, but if you fight with me about this, you’re going to lose. Do you understand?”

  Nico swallowed, and it took him a long moment to respond. “Yeah. Yeah, ok, I understand.” Then he cleared his throat and, in a stronger voice, added, “I like a take-charge guy, but let’s save the kink for our second date.” He must have seen the confusion on Hazard’s face because he smirked. “You know, the whole tying me up game?”

  Hazard shook his head, carefully released the tank-top, and sprinted to his car.

  It made sense. At least, part of it made sense. In every picture with a clear shot of Chendo, Hazard had seen the silver necklace around Chendo’s neck. And at the ME’s office, Hazard had noticed the silver fused to the clavicle of the arson victim. The fire might have been hot enough to burn away flesh, but it hadn’t been hot enough to melt silver. And now Hazard knew that the man burned in the fire had been Chendo Cervantes—at least, he was pretty sure. They’d have to request dental records, but Hazard felt certain in his gut; he’d found their victim.

  That meant that the killer had taken Chendo’s phone and used it to convince Nico that Chendo was still alive. He might have even used the phone to make Chendo look like the killer—the strange texts to Nico and Fukuma, the implication of guilt, maybe even the video of the fight. That video showed not what Hazard and Nico had assumed—a fight in which Chendo killed someone—but the opposite: it showed Chendo Cervantes being murdered. Jesus. Hazard hammered the wheel. He’d fallen for it.

  Horns blared as Hazard swerved into oncoming traffic, dropping his foot to the pedal to pass the car in front of him. A moment later he was back in his lane and speeding through Wahredua. His mind raced even faster than the car. Chuckie Armistead, Hazard was beginning to suspect, was the dead man they had found at the campground. Hazard didn’t have any way of proving it, not yet, but it made sense because Armistead provided the perfect combination of suspect and victim. A man with few photographs, no dental records, a reputation for hate crimes and a passionate desire to avoid any public record of his existence—he was an easy man to frame as a murderer. And an easy man to make the possible victim of a disfiguring crime.