Bloodlines

by Andrea Speed

  Roan wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not.

  A new bartender came out, a whisper-thin guy who had a flat stomach with no abdominal definition whatsoever, which made Roan like him, and then Toby emerged again in a weather-appropriate heavy coat. They followed him out, and once out on the street, out of the hearing range of Mighty Mouse and some kids trying to convince him they were eighteen (in what—dog years?), Toby stopped them and asked, “What happened to Eric? I’m not going any farther until you tell me.” He’d zipped up his jacket against the cold, which also hid the fact he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

  “He was killed,” Roan told him, deciding that there was no time to fuck around.

  Toby stared at him in such a hollow-eyed way that he was briefly worried Toby might faint. But Toby held it together, and leaned against their GTO as if to keep from collapsing. “How… was it that guy? The guy who was cruising him?”

  Roan shook his head. “We don’t know, but it looks that way. That’s why I’d like you to come to the police station with me and describe the man you saw tonight to a police artist. They’re gathering evidence at the scene, but if we have a face to look out for, this could be a lot quicker.”

  Toby just sagged against the car, hiding his face in his hands for a moment. Roan thought he was going to lose it, break down sobbing, but he held it together, and after several seconds glanced at them with his jaw set angrily, eyes flashing with rage as much as sadness. “I knew it. I knew that guy was bad news. Yeah, he was cute, but I just got this… feeling from him, y’know? His eyes looked hard, and he had a tattoo on his neck. I’m sorry, but I don’t trust any guy with a tattoo on his neck. I told him maybe he shouldn’t encourage the guy, but Eric has been on a dry streak since he and Chris broke up, so he….” He shook his head at his own rambling, and a few tears slipped down his cheeks, but he quickly wiped them away with the back of his hand. “How did it happen?”

  He really didn’t need to know the details; it’d be much better if he never did. But Roan knew he had to tell him something or he wouldn’t go. “He was stabbed.”

  “Oh Christ,” he breathed, exhaling as if punched. Again, Roan thought they were going to lose him, but Toby was a lot stronger than he looked, because he managed to hold it together. “How did you know he was in trouble? I mean… do you even know him?”

  “He witnessed a crime, but I don’t think he realized that’s what he witnessed at the time. We were hoping to get him to make an official statement for the police, but they found him first.”

  “Oh shit.” He rubbed his eyes to wipe out any nascent tears, and then said, with a flat anger, “This world is so fucking dangerous. You think it gets better, but it never does, does it?”

  Roan had no answer for him. It did seem like the world never changed, that nothing really ever did except the numbers in the body count, but somehow admitting that seemed like defeat, so he said nothing.

  The car ride to the precinct was pretty quiet, although Toby did guess Roan used to be a cop just based on the way he talked. “I didn’t know there were any cops out of the closet in this city,” he said, somewhat bitterly. Roan was briefly tempted to ask him if he’d ever had a lonely vice cop named Kevin in the bar, but decided against it.

  The station was fairly busy, as nighttime was always the boom time for crime, and while they got some fairly unfriendly looks, they managed to get to where Gary was without comment.

  Gary was an average-looking guy made striking by deep brown eyes and full lips, and he had oodles of charm, which he used to put witnesses and crime victims at ease. Roan had seen him get through to the most traumatized people; he had a real gift for it.

  Toby didn’t need much coaxing to describe the guy, as he was still angry, and it was pretty quick. The person he described was an oval-faced kid with a nose stud and eyes that looked a bit smaller than would be advised, his tousled hair bleached to a snowy whiteness, even though he had a small base of black roots. The tattoo on his neck was on the left side, and Toby said he wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but it looked tribal, black and full of sharp peaks and swirls; it started halfway down his neck and disappeared beneath his collar. He’d been wearing a tight white T-shirt, worn, torn jeans, and a ragged denim jacket, and Toby guessed he was in his early twenties, even though he looked about seventeen.

  “Hey there, Roan,” a familiar voice said tentatively.

  He glanced over his shoulder to see Kevin—speak of the devil—loitering nervously close by. He was in his civvies, so Roan figured he was off shift and heading home. “Hi, Kevin,” he said neutrally, surprised that Kevin would speak to him in the precinct. But then again, everybody knew Gary was bisexual—even Gary’s teenaged son—so why would he rat?

  Paris held out his hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Paris Lehane, Roan’s husband.”

  Kevin looked briefly startled, but quickly covered it up, although a certain gratefulness flashed through his eyes. Paris was pretending that he’d never met Kevin, like they’d never had him over to dinner, like he didn’t know he was in the closet, like he was just another cop buddy of Roan’s. It was surprisingly kind of him. Kevin shook his hand and replied, “Kevin Robinson.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Par said, with absolutely no sarcasm or irony.

  Kevin nodded, glanced at what Gary was putting together, and froze. It was clear from his body posture that he recognized the suspect. “You know him?” Roan prompted.

  Kevin almost shook his head, but leaned in for a closer look. Gary moved aside so he could get a better angle for study. “I think so. He looks familiar. Let me… just a second,” he said distractedly, and quickly turned and walked away.

  Toby exchanged a curious look with all of them. “Is it that easy?”

  “Only if we get lucky,” Gary told him.

  Kevin came back a couple of minutes later with one of the big, thick folders that was full of mug shots. He opened the folder to a page up front, and showed it to Toby. “Is this the man you saw?”

  Roan saw the answer in Toby’s eyes before he spoke. They widened before he even took a breath. “Yes! That’s him, that’s the guy who was cruising Eric tonight.”

  Roan reached out and tipped the folder closer to him so he could have a look. Gary had done a terrific job on the identikit, as the match was almost uncanny. What greeted him was the mug shot of a sullen man with a dark smear of a tattoo on the side of his neck and—Toby was right—hard, flat eyes, like those of a shark or some other beast whose soul had been killed off a long time ago. He might have been handsome if the look in his eyes hadn’t made him ugly. “Who is this guy, Kev?”

  “His real name is Parker Davis, but he usually goes by Colt Turner.”

  “Colt?” Roan snickered. “What the fuck is he, a wannabe porn star?”

  “In a way. He’s been arrested several times for solicitation and prostitution, which is why I recognized him,” Kevin said, closing the folder. “He’s one of the hustlers who habitually works the area between the bus station and Anderson Street.”

  Toby looked deeply shocked. “Why the hell was he at the club trying to pick someone up?”

  It was a good question, but Roan had a suspicion. “Is he a meth user?” Meth, crack, and prostitution went hand in hand, like bullets and sucking chest wounds.

  Kevin nodded, his always sad expression just a bit grimmer. “He’s been arrested with a pipe in his possession, and one time he had a major freak-out in a holding cell that seemed like someone major jonesing.”

  “So he’s a frequent flyer.”

  “Oh yeah. I think he was busted two weeks ago, but after the usual night in the stir and reminder to show up for court, he was booted.”

  Roan nodded, putting a supposition together. “He was paid to pick up Eric and take him home. Since he’s not a hit man, I have to wonder if someone was waiting there to talk to Eric, and Parker took his cash and split.”

  Kevin raised an eyebrow at him. “What are you lookin’ at him for?”
>
  “Murder. He was last seen with a victim who was stabbed in his home.”

  Kevin was so shocked by this news he almost dropped the folder. “Damn. He’s gotten himself into the big leagues, hasn’t he?”

  Toby sat forward, and he looked completely lost. “I don’t understand. You don’t think he killed him?”

  “He could have, but… my guess is he was the middleman and an easy scapegoat.”

  Toby’s dark brows scrunched together in a V over his nose, and he shifted so far forward in his chair Roan almost wondered if Toby was going to get up and punch him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Gary shifted, leaning back in his own chair as Kevin went off with Parker’s mug shot, and smirked knowingly. “Our Roan here is the infected equivalent of Sherlock Holmes. Or is it Miss Marple? Anyway, he’s always doing things like this. It made people pelt him with day-old doughnuts in the break room when he was a cop.”

  “That happened once,” Roan corrected him, fixing him with a stern glare. “And that was you.”

  Gary gave him a toothy grin that he probably thought was charming. “Face it, Roan, sometimes you’re just freaky.”

  Toby sat back, his jaw going slack, and his eyes darted between Roan and Paris. “Infected?” he repeated, putting it together. Oh shit, now everybody at Panic was going to know Paris was infected and dying from it. Gary and his goddamn big mouth.

  But that wasn’t really something worth worrying about at this point. Right now, they had to find Parker before he either got lost on his own, or ended up as another “loose end” floating in the bay. Still, the fact that he was a crankhead and a hustler meant they’d probably leave him to kill himself. After all, he was in the lowest strata of human society, and who would believe a damn thing he said? His credibility would be less than zero, and he was a central-casting-perfect murderer. Every prosecutor in the world would be pleased to get him, because he was a professional junkie and fuck-up who was destined for a violent end anyway. Conviction would be a cakewalk, everybody could break for an earlier lunch, and people could walk away feeling that justice was served.

  Which was complete and utter bullshit. If there was one coincidence here, maybe he could buy it, but there were just too many stacking up. A guy turns up to hit on Eric right after Thora’s body was fished out, a guy who’s a hustler and doesn’t exactly do “freebies” or go to gay discos, and Eric turns up dead while the guy turns up gone. It was way too much, although Roan almost had to grudgingly admire how well executed all of this was. Whoever set this all in motion was good at their job.

  An APB was put out on Parker, and although it was a long shot at best, Kevin thought it might be worth checking out the areas where Parker was known to work, and maybe the Nite Owl Motel, the seedy dive that he named as his place of residence the last time he was hauled in.

  Toby called his boyfriend to pick him up from the precinct, and Roan made sure that Paris was up to this before they headed out, following Kevin as he made the rounds. Technically, Kevin was off duty, but as a vice cop he was extremely well acquainted with the area where they’d be looking for Parker, and most of the hookers and hustlers around there knew him. That would usually be considered bad—and it was for undercover stings—but it actually fostered a little bit of trust as well. They knew he was a cop, yeah, but not a bad one; not one who beat them up or bullied or demanded freebies to keep from running them in. Kevin was nothing if not a remarkably gentle soul. If he asked for their help to find someone, even if it was one of them, they just might help him out.

  Roan had a chicken or egg question that no one was ever able to answer. Did bus stations just end up in bad areas, or did bad areas just spring up around bus stations? Either way, once you got to within two blocks of the Greyhound station, things took a turn for the worse. There were decaying businesses and boarded-up apartment complexes that violated major health and safety codes, a tenfold increase in homeless people (mostly men) camped out in doorways, and drug dealers loitering on the corners, freely advertising their wares with little fear of getting busted. The roads down here were even falling into disrepair, the potholes almost big enough to be sinkholes, and while Paris had made sure that the GTO had good enough shocks to take it well, Kevin’s battered little Celica looked like it nearly went airborne a couple of times.

  Kevin eventually pulled over beside a curb beneath a broken streetlight, and an extremely statuesque black prostitute in a skintight dress and a magnificent rooster-hair wig of tall brown hair that made her look a bit like Tina Turner after an eight-day bender, seemed to melt out of the shadows. Judging from the size of the Adam’s apple, Roan guessed she was actually a transvestite, but an extremely convincing one.

  He talked to Kevin for a couple of minutes, and then Kevin drove off, and Roan continued to follow him, deeper into the black hole that was known around the station as the “vice triangle” (triangle because of drugs, prostitution, and illegal gambling). Roan’s phone rang, and he wasn’t surprised to find it was Kevin. “Chalice knows Colt, and said that as far as he knew, he’d gone to get a hit at a crack house over on Henderson.”

  Chalice? What an interesting name—sounded like a female porn star. “When did he last see him?”

  “He wasn’t sure, a trick or two ago. Maybe a couple of hours.”

  If that was true, that would have been before he went to Panic to pick up Eric. “Was he high?”

  “Chalice? Oh, yeah. His pupils were so dilated it looked like he had no irises at all.”

  Okay—his sense of time could be majorly fucked-up. Depending on the drugs, time could compress or spread out into infinity.

  “You have a theory,” Paris asked from the passenger seat, but it wasn’t really a question.

  Roan shrugged. “A minor one. Once this person—whoever they are—discovered that Eric witnessed Thora’s abduction and worked at a gay bar, he hired a hustler to pick Eric up and get him out of the club, because the guy—and it’s probably a guy—is straight, and there was no way in hell he was setting foot in a gay bar. Maybe Parker can tell us who hired him, but whoever this guy is, he must be pretty confident that Parker can’t or won’t identify him.”

  “Not someone native to this area.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But how did they know Eric witnessed anything?”

  Roan nodded, pleased that Paris was asking all the right questions. “I have to find out who Matt mentioned it to. I think the answer’s there.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paris raise an eyebrow in surprise. “You think Matt blabbed?”

  He gave Paris a slightly disbelieving glance before fixing his eyes on the road once more. “I know he’s better than he used to be, but he can’t help but talk. And if Thora was conscious when she was grabbed, she didn’t fight or make a scene, suggesting she knew who these men were and wasn’t afraid of them, although she should have been. I think the guilty party is within the circle that Matt and Thora shared.”

  He felt Paris’s stare on him in the dark. “Mutual friends?”

  “Maybe. Or people even closer than—oh holy shit,” he exclaimed, cutting himself off as a veil of thick, black smoke, chemical smelling and so sharply scented that it felt like he was inhaling broken glass, rolled across the road.

  They turned onto Henderson and stopped abruptly, as the smoke was roiling out in thick black plumes from a dilapidated house that also had bright, yellowish-orange flames shooting from broken windows, the plywood boards that had once been nailed over them scattered all over the street in smoldering ruins. There was a weed-filled lot that worked as a lawn, but the flames and heat were so great that people were standing gawking in the street rather than on the grass. Both he and Kevin pulled over on the opposite side of the road, as far from the flames as possible. The fire lit up the night like a false dawn, and Roan felt the heat hammer him as soon as he stepped out of the car, as did the sour, sickly smell of ammonia and other chemicals. Even as he and Paris joine
d Kevin at the fringe of the gawking crowd, he said, “This is our crack house, isn’t it?” It sounded like a question, but it really wasn’t. The smell had given it away. Somebody had been cooking up a batch, or maybe attempting to freebase, and it had all spun out of control before anyone could react. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Kevin nodded. “I’m afraid so.” He then started going through the crowd, asking, “Has anyone called 911? Is anyone inside?”

  There were no real answers, and from the scent of body odor, ammonia, and smoke wafting from their tattered clothes, Roan knew most of this crowd were people who had actually been in the crack house when it started going up, and wouldn’t have called anyone. Kevin called 911 on his cell phone, probably figuring that out from the mass of blank stares that greeted his questions.

  Half the house was already engulfed in flames, and as he and Paris sweated in the jittering shadows of consumption, Roan knew the firefighters would never get here in time. By the time they got here, the only thing left would be smoldering embers.

  “This case just keeps getting more and more fun, doesn’t it?” Paris asked with cheerful sarcasm, reflected flames dancing in his eyes.

  Roan glared at him, scowling at his inordinate cheerfulness. Yeah, so far it had been a total barrel of laughs.

  8

  What Jail Is Like

  A QUICK check of the crowd revealed none of the onlookers to be Parker, and if anyone was still inside the house, nobody knew about it (or volunteered the info). So as soon as they heard the scream of approaching sirens, they decided to go on to the Nite Owl Motel.

  This was a motel near the freeway off ramp, one that was a collection of single units in two separate lines around a cracked and pitted parking lot that had seen better decades. In fact, the entire motel had seen better decades, even though it was built in the ’80s in a late ’70s style, and probably the very second construction was ceased, the place had looked like it needed a new coat of paint. It still needed that coat of paint, some new shingles, and a full-scale decontamination. Even the big sign that advertised its name and ability to rent by the hour had notable holes in it, making it look like the “ite Ow Mot l” from one side.