Outburst

by R. D. Zimmerman

  Hurrying into his office, he stopped in the doorway, looked back toward the raised platform of the assignment editor. Just to the side of that, on the monitor that was always going, he saw Michelle Newton, their weather forecaster, coming on. Good, that meant it was a quarter past. He had slightly more than forty-five minutes before he was due back on for the six o'clock.

  Todd shut the glass door to his office and dropped himself into his padded desk chair in front of his computer. He hit a couple of keys on the keyboard, the color screen came to life, but, no, there were no messages. He quickly checked both his desk and cell phone, but likewise found nothing. Todd then laid the piece of paper on top of the keyboard and stared at it. Okay, just take this a step at a time, he told himself. This could be nothing. Nothing at all. Just a wild-goose chase.

  Forgetting entirely about what might be best for WLAK, Todd dialed a number, got a beeper, and then entered his work number. Less than ten seconds later his desk phone rang, and Todd snatched it up.

  “Todd Mills.”

  “Hey, there. What's up?” Rawlins paused, then added, “Forensics couldn't get a single print but yours off that paper.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Down at CID.”

  “Good,” replied Todd, relieved that Rawlins was still down at the Criminal Investigation Division at City Hall and out of harm's way. “Listen, something's up. That guy didn't call, the supposed killer.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “But someone else did.”

  “What?”

  “A tip call came in while I was on the air—a man. He said he saw a car the night Forrest was killed.”

  “No shit? Tell me he got a license-plate number.”

  “He did, he got one.”

  “Fabulous. What is it? I'll look it up on CAPRS right now,” he said, referring to the Computer-Assisted Police Report System.

  “Great.” Todd read it off. “Sounds like a Minnesota plate, don't you think?”

  “Absolutely.” Unable to hide the excitement in his voice, Rawlins said, “Just stay right there, Todd. Don't go anywhere. I'll call you right back. Let's hope this is the break we've been waiting for.”

  Todd hung up and envisioned Rawlins turning around in his two-person cubicle and using the computer he shared with his partner, Neal Foster. Glancing at his watch, Todd thought that maybe he wouldn't be heading into the studio at six after all. With any luck this might turn into that kind of tip, the superhot kind, that required immediate action.

  But if not?

  Todd rolled his chair away from his desk and leaned back, closing his eyes, thinking, Christ, for Rawlins's and Rawlins's safety alone they needed to nail this guy ASAP.

  If this tip didn't go anywhere, however, Todd would have to go on at six but perhaps not at ten. And then tomorrow? Perhaps he'd go to the park police and try to interview someone there. He'd also make another, more concerted effort to interview Mark Forrest's parents. But should he push to see if the supposedly wonderful Forrest had something else lurking somewhere in his closet? Could he have been involved in any fringe groups involving leather or drugs? Todd didn't relish going down that path, not by any means; the last thing he wanted was to use the underside of the gay world to play off straight stereotypes. But why, he found himself pondering once again, had Todd been drawn into this in the first place? Why had he been lured that night to the Stone Arch Bridge? Was it because of all the reporters in the Twin Cities Todd was the most wonderful and competent? Or was it much more simple, was it because Todd was gay and the entire metro area knew it? Todd hated to boil everything down to sexuality, particularly his, but he couldn't help but suspect the latter. Yes, and as much as he didn't want to, Mark Forrest's sex life was an avenue Todd was going to have to explore.

  He stared at the phone and thought: Ring. As if on command, it did just that, cried to be answered. Todd all but leapt forward.

  Grabbing the receiver on the first ring, he blurted out, “Yeah?”

  “Bingo,” said Rawlins. “The car, a nineteen-sixty-eight Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight, was registered three months ago by a guy named Christopher Kenney, age twenty-four. Blond hair, blue eyes.”

  “What's the name again?”

  “Christopher Kenney.”

  He jotted it down, then asked, “How tall?”

  “Five foot seven, weight one hundred and twenty.”

  “It could be him.” The image of the slight figure in the storm moved through Todd's mind. “It could be our guy.”

  “Wait, there's more. You know where he lives? South Minneapolis. Can you believe it? He lives at 5241 Turner South.”

  Todd's mind skipped along, then slammed to a halt. What did this mean, that they'd known each other?

  “My God, Rawlins, that's only something like ten or twelve blocks from where Forrest lived.”

  “I know. And get this: It's a reregister—until three months ago this guy had California plates.”

  “California?”

  “Right. But wait, here's the best part: When I got his plate number I looked him up on the NCIC,” said a smug Rawlins, referring to the computerized national crime records. “And you know what?”

  “Oh, my God, he's got a record?”

  “No shit he's got a record. Like a major-league one. Just over a year ago the Los Angeles Police Department arrested and charged him with the murder of an officer by the name of Dave Ravell.”

  “A cop?”

  “Yep.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Eventually those charges were dropped, but—”

  “Hey,” said Todd, flipping back into work mode and writing all this down, “we're going to do this just the way we talked about, right?”

  “Absolutely. You know that's what I've wanted all along.”

  Point taken, thought Todd. It was he, Todd, who had screwed up before. He who had been the control freak.

  “And Lieutenant Holbrook won't have a problem with it?”

  “Ah, he might, but that's my problem. I'll deal with it.”

  Guessing what the next step would be, Todd asked, “So are you going to get a warrant?”

  “No, no. We'd have to formally charge him to get a warrant. But I've already talked to Lieutenant Holbrook, and since this involves a cop-killing he wants me to go over and talk with this guy right away. Unless I absolutely have to, though, he doesn't even want me doing a PC pickup. Not just yet anyway.”

  Too bad. A probable-cause pickup would definitely give Todd some excellent footage. Nevertheless, his pulse began to quicken. There could still be some great stuff here, and he glanced at his watch, wondered how quickly they could make this happen. Was there a chance in hell he could get something on the six o'clock? He quickly ran through a laundry list of equipment and people he'd need. Yes, it was doable. It was going to be a scramble, no doubt about it, but they could pull it off.

  Wanting to make sure he wasn't the one cut out, Todd said, “It's going to take me about five, ten minutes to get out of here. So when are we going to meet? And where?”

  “How about twenty minutes at Lyndale and Fifty-second?”

  “Great.”

  “Oh, and Todd,” said Rawlins. “The NCIC says this guy frequently wears a disguise.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I'm not positive, but it sure as hell sounds like he's a drag queen.”

  21

  Should she or shouldn't she go?

  No, Kris thought as she stood in front of her mirror putting on her lipstick, the answer was absolutely, definitely no. No, no, no, she shouldn't go. Not at all. Girl, of all the dumb-ass things, playing Meals-on-Wheels to some district-court judge and going to that man's apartment was about as dumb as could be.

  But of course she was going to go.

  Among other things, she had to find out what, if anything, this was all about. Obviously Stuart Hawkins remembered her—how the hell could he not after their little foray—but did he care for her as much as she might for
him? That, of course, remained to be learned. Kris, however, was fairly certain of one thing: that the lust, on a scale of one to ten, was way the hell up there. She was no dummy, not after what she'd been through these past few years. Why the hell else would he have requested that she in particular make the Peacock Catering delivery? What other reason could there possibly be? She grinned—a privately catered meal? What a conniving bastard.

  She took a Kleenex, laid it between her lips, and pressed down, blotting the deep purplish-red lipstick. She assumed this was a date, but what if it wasn't? What if he just wanted to see her? What if he wanted to show her off? Perhaps he really was having someone else over for dinner, as Travis at Peacock had been told. That was a distinct possibility, one that Kris had to bear in mind. Sure, Kris could arrive with the extravagant meal and there in Mr. Stuart Hawkins's wonderful condominium could be some beautiful woman, a gorgeous rich heiress perhaps. Then again, the story Hawkins had fed Travis could all be a crock, a ruse, a way of getting Kris into the privacy and intimacy of Hawkins's home. And bed.

  “Fuck.”

  She never used to cry, never, but here her eyes were doing it, starting to tear up. What the hell was it, the hormones or the shrink and his probing questions? Whatever, but she couldn't do it, couldn't burst into tears, not now. Her mascara was great, the eyeliner perfect, and she couldn't go screwing it up. No, she had to be heading out. No time for a redo. It was just … just … well, the other night he'd read her gender expression as female, but what would he do if… if…

  She hadn't been on a date in … what was it? Not since that night in L.A. a year and a half ago. And how had things gone then? Dear God, she could still hear the deafening blast of the gun, she could still remember the way his head had exploded. It wasn't supposed to have gone like that, not at all, but things had gotten out of hand. What could she have done otherwise? She'd been hit before. Guys had beaten her. But nothing like that. No, not at all.

  Horrified by the memory, Kris stepped out of the bathroom, crossing the small basement room and sitting down on her bed. Her eyes wide open, she stared straight ahead, but she didn't see the pine paneling before her. No, she fell down a bottomless hole, and in her mind's eye she saw him. Dave. She still remembered the first time they saw each other. It was in a coffee shop, and though he'd just gotten off duty, he was still in his police uniform, which hugged those broad shoulders and slim hips. She was undressing him with her eyes when he turned and did the same, clearly visualizing what she might look like without her tight jeans and skimpy top. He was older than her—that much she could tell from a distance—but not over thirty. Sipping her latte, she was sitting at a counter overlooking Melrose, and the next thing she knew he was pulling up a stool next to her. It took all of about fifteen seconds for them to strike up a conversation, and they'd ended up talking for nearly two hours. Everything clicked, everything worked. It was easy, their talk. He was freshly divorced, though why anyone would want to leave that guy she hadn't understood, at least not then. Most importantly, he was funny and she found herself laughing at all his jokes. She also found him enchanting, and when he'd asked her out for the following night, she didn't hesitate, not a blink of a second.

  But then, as she'd walked down the street a few minutes later, she found herself wondering how could such a stud like him be attracted to a freak like her? It didn't make sense, not until later.

  Over Thai food the next evening, Kris had learned that Dave's wife had dumped him in a bad way, just kicked him right out onto the street—or so he said, trying to laugh it off. Kris had pressed for more details, but he smiled and declined, which was fine, because Kris was content to stare into his dark eyes and dream of what might be. The guy was all beef—thick hairy chest, gorgeous arms. And those wrists, so strong and covered with that dark hair, so very … very guy. She just wanted him. Wanted his arms wrapped around her, wanted him to hold her and love her and tell her everything would be all right. When he'd dropped her off later that night, they'd parked in front of her apartment and kissed … well, hotter and heavier than Kris had ever kissed before. When he started moaning, “God, I've got to have you … now,” Kris had flushed with panic and barely escaped.

  She didn't see him for two weeks after that, not because Dave didn't want to, not for his lack of trying, but because Kris knew it could go nowhere. It wasn't, however, that simple to end. Not by any means. Dave, having been dumped by his wife, wasn't about to be dumped again, not by some young thing like Kris. No. First he called, all sweet talk and everything, saying how much he enjoyed seeing her and asking her to a movie the next night. When Kris declined, he slammed down the phone. The following day he called again, this time begging to get together, and Kris, wanting so much to see him but fearful of where it might go, said she couldn't. He called the day after that as well. And the day after that. Each time he grew more desperate. And more angry.

  It broke her heart, doing that to him, pushing him away. After about ten days the calls stopped, and Kris assumed that that was it. The brief affair was over. Dave was history. But then Kris came home one warm California night, climbed up the open staircase to her studio apartment, and there he was, the hunk in police blue. He'd gotten off duty and he stood there, a bottle of red wine in hand.

  “Kris, I gotta talk to you,” he pleaded, his face all puppy-dog sad. “Can I come in, please?”

  At first she thought, No, no way. But then she looked at his eyes, saw that they were all red. Jesus, the hunk had been crying.

  “Okay,” said Kris, unlocking the door.

  So they went into the tiny place. Dave sat down at the kitchen table, took his wallet out of his back pocket, put his holster over on the counter. And told her how messed up he'd made everything. Maybe Kris already guessed, but there was a reason his wife had dumped him.

  He volunteered, “She caught me cheating on her.”

  Kris didn't know why he was telling her this, but she was flattered. Maybe he perceived her as safe, which she was. In any case, Dave said the whole thing was more complicated, and could he please, please tell her? Kris got out two glasses, and then Dave poured them each a towering glass of wine.

  “I haven't told anyone about this,” he said, and then gulped down most of the glass.

  “Dave,” said Kris, placing her hand over his. “I don't know what it is, but it's okay.”

  “No … no, it's not.”

  Kris smiled softly. “Trust me, if you think your life is a mess, you should see mine.”

  He stared at her, grinning through his teary eyes. “God, how could anyone as beautiful as you have any problems?”

  She rolled her eyes, and in a joking voice said, “Maybe I'll tell you about it, big boy.”

  He leaned over. Puckered his lips. And kissed her ever so gently on her right cheek.

  “I've never met anyone as nonjudgmental as you,” said Dave. “I mean, I knew that within minutes after we first met. You're just so…so sweet.”

  Shaking her head, Kris pulled away. “No, unfortunately I've caught a glimpse of the bigger picture—and it's made me humble for the rest of my life.”

  He took another swig of wine, finishing off the glass, then poured himself some more. He wiped his mouth nervously, looked away. Then turned back to her.

  “Kris, the reason my wife kicked me out is that she came home and found me in bed—”

  “Dave, I know, you already told me. We all make mistakes.”

  “—with another guy.”

  Nothing he could have said would have surprised her more. For a long time she just sat there, overcome with … well, shock. Dave? With another guy? How was that possible, and how come Kris had never even guessed?

  “Kris,” he begged, looking at her desperately, “say something.”

  “I … I …”

  “Tell me you don't hate me.”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  “My brother's gay, and my father never talked to him again. My wife found out, and she divorced
me.” He stared at the floor. “I don't think I'm gay, I really don't. Maybe I'm bi, I don't know. I mean, I haven't been able to get you out of my head. I don't know why, but you're all that I can think about. For some reason I'm really attracted to you, Kris. More so than I've been to any other woman, and … and I just don't want to … don't want to lose you.”

  Confused, perhaps even terribly anxious—yes, Kris was these. But full of hate? Nothing could have been further from her mind. Hate? Oh, no. Not at all. Compassion and sympathy, yes, but no, never hate, not for that.

  Suddenly Kris started laughing: Was this a weird world or what? A half second later she started crying: Was this it, the end of her long road? It came at her like a huge wall of water, a flood of relief that brought so much joy that it terrified her. Dear God in heaven, here was this wonderful, handsome man in front of her, and did they, by some miracle, have one thing in common, namely their sexuality? It was too incredible to be true. She might have done it, done the impossible, found him, a guy who could actually love her for what she was. If he was gay, then he'd be delighted with her, right?

  “What's the matter?” demanded Dave, getting all defensive. “Listen, it's not like that's a big part of my life, but I'll leave if you want me to. If you think I'm that horrible, I'll just go.”

  “No!” cried Kris, lunging out for his hand. “You don't understand—I don't want you to ever go! I don't want to ever lose you!”

  That was all it took, just those words. As quick as a flash fire, she was grabbing him, he was clutching her, they were kissing. Their mouths locked, their hands groped, and they caressed and fondled and rubbed as if these were the very last moments of their lives.

  But then …

  “Wait …” gasped Kris, pushing back. “There's something I've got to tell you.”