He is Mine

by Mel Gough

  There are only a couple of small pieces of glass on the deck. As his eyes adjust to the stark glare of the floodlights Brad thinks he can make out a few faint smudges of dirt on the deck. He crouches down to take a closer look. Not being an expert, he can’t be sure, but this looks like the outer outline of someone’s shoe after stepping in mud. He straightens up and crosses the patio with care, not going near the smudges.

  At the edge of the deck, a small walkway made up of the black stones leads into the lawn. On either side of the walkway is a flowerbed. On Brad’s left a paving stone is missing from the corner of the path. As he appraises the empty spot where the stone used to be something else catches his eye, right at the corner of the flowerbed, next to the wilted Japanese anemones. Brad crouches down.

  “You find something?” Damien’s voice echoes through the still night. Brad half turns. Damien is in the doorway, wearing his jacket and boots. He keeps his hands in his pockets, Brad is pleased to see. He beckons Damien to come closer.

  “C’mere and look,” he says. “Stay to the left.”

  Damien does as he’s told. He takes the same path Brad took a few minutes ago and leans over the spot in the flowerbed is Brad pointing at. “Whoa,” he says. “Is that a footprint?”

  41

  Brad doesn’t wait for the Brooklyn cops to show up but calls a contact at the CSI right away. Nate Short is the best crime scene investigator Brad has ever worked with. He can do magic with a scene even when it looks like a bust to the cops. And over the years Nate has become a friend, who doesn’t mind trekking out to Brooklyn for him in the middle of the night.

  Nate arrives shortly after the Brooklyn detectives, and brings along two guys who will fit a temporary, secure patio door once the forensics are done. Brad is relegated, politely but firmly, to the living room, and he and Damien give their statements to one of the detectives while the other one liaises with Nate and his men.

  The guy taking the statement introduces himself as Detective Smithers. If he recognizes Damien, he doesn’t let on. He takes down a thorough witness statement from both of them, sipping the coffee Damien offered to everyone as they walked in the door.

  The teams are swift but thorough. Brad, also holding a coffee mug in his hands but not drinking from it, watches them from afar, bristling at the activity he isn’t allowed to be a part of.

  Once Smithers is done with them, Damien puts a hand on Brad’s leg. Brad turns his attention back to him. “I don’t understand why the stone went right through the window,” Damien says. “I thought double glazing’s hard to break.”

  “I never had the windows replaced,” Brad explains. “Aunt Hedda never did anything to the house after my uncle passed in the late eighties. He left her very well-off, but she never liked spending money, and nobody except me ever came to visit her.” He smiles at the memory of days spent in his aunt’s wild garden and her basement stuffed full of junk when he’d been an awkward teenager. Nobody ever explained to him why Hedda took to him in particular, but he’d been very fond of her. “She wanted it that way. I guess she thought since nobody saw the house it didn’t matter.”

  “You had everything else done, though,” Damien ventures.

  “Yeah, and it took nearly two years. The windows were supposed to be last, right after the bathrooms.” Brad hesitates. The images of blood on tiles pushes to the front again. “Aiden…when he started having the first episodes of depression, he couldn’t stand people to be around all day, and the noise and the dust…”

  Damien takes his hand. “I hadn’t realized he got sick so early on,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  Brad squeezes his fingers and doesn’t let go. He has to fight down the tears. “The workmen were nearly done; they’d left the windows so long because I couldn’t decide on the type of doors. When I finally did, they would’ve taken weeks to make, and Aiden wasn’t getting better. So, in the end, I cancelled all of the windows.” He takes a deep breath. “When the work stopped, Aiden improved. He felt really bad about the windows and wanted to make it up to me. He couldn’t replace them himself, but he knew how to sand and repaint the frames. We did it together; it was fun, actually.” He wipes his eyes. “I never wanted to have them replaced after that.”

  Damien pulls him into a gentle hug. Brad leans his head on Damien’s shoulder for a moment, and then draws away. He doesn’t want to go to pieces with all those people in the house. He glances back at the CSI guys still busy on his patio.

  “Maybe it’s time for new windows now,” he says.

  “Maybe,” Damien says. “Do you think this is related to someone following me earlier today?” He blushes a little, as if embarrassed. “It’s a weird coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Brad admits. “It is weird.”

  “Should I tell the detective? About the feeling I had on the subway?”

  Brad considers. If this was his case, he would want to know. But if they tell Smithers that someone followed Damien they need to tell him why, too. He isn’t sure he’s ready for his connection to Damien Thomas to be citywide police gossip, and there’s no way that kind of news won’t make it across the river by shift change.

  But who is he kidding? Smithers put on a poker face, but he probably still recognized Damien. And someone will read Damien’s name in the file sooner rather than later and put two and two together. Brad sighs. “I guess you better. Tell them exactly what happened, and why you think someone was following you.” Tell them who you are, Brad means, and Damien’s gaze tells him that he understood.

  He squeezes Damien’s hand one last time, then gets up and goes over to the detectives in his kitchen. “Damien has something to add to his statement,” he says to Smithers. The detective gives him a probing look, but Brad doesn’t say anything else.

  “All right,” Smithers remarks with a raised eyebrow and goes back into the living room. Brad decides not to follow. He doesn’t want to be present when Smithers realizes who Damien is. And anyway, he justifies to himself, Brad doesn’t know anything about what Damien experienced on his way to Midtown.

  Just then, Nate steps through the newly installed temporary patio door. He comes over to Brad, trying to warm his hands by sticking them under his armpits.

  “You want some coffee?” Brad asks.

  “Sounds great,” Nate says. Brad pours him one from the pot Damien brewed, and Nate accepts it with a nod of thanks. He cradles the mug for a moment and blows on the dark, steaming liquid.

  “What did you find?” Brad asks, quietly enough so the other detectives can’t hear and tell him off again.

  Nate’s brow creases. “I took a cast of the footprint in the soil. It’s quite small, and whoever made it isn’t very heavy. I doubt it’s from an adult male.” Brad looks at him, puzzled. “It’s not very deep,” Nate adds in explanation. “Maybe some bored kid from the neighborhood.”

  “Maybe,” Brad says. He glances toward the sofa where Damien still talks to Smithers. The detective’s expression hasn’t changed. So Brad’s hunch was correct. He knew all along who Damien was, he just didn’t let on. Maybe he’ll keep the tale of who he found in the Midtown detective’s house in the middle of the night a secret, too. Brad sighs and turns back to Nate.

  “Thanks for coming out at such an hour,” he says to Nate.

  “For you, any time. Once I’ve done a full analysis and database match at the lab I’ll give you a call.”

  The detectives are starting to pack up, and the junior CSI techs sweep up the last of the broken glass. Damien collects the coffee mugs while Brad sees everyone to the door. When he has finally closed and locked it, he stretches and rubs his face.

  “Back to bed?” Damien suggests, coming over from the kitchen.

  “Yeah,” Brad yawns, but holds Damien back before they climb the stairs. “Maybe we should go back to the city in the morning. At least you’ve got the spy camera, and nobody can just sneak up on the penthouse.”

  “Yeah, all right,” Damien says, looking relieved
. “It’s probably for the best, at least until they find out who did that.” He waves toward the back, where the ugly plywood door now covers the broken pane of glass.

  Brad nods. “I think so. C’mon,” he says, motioning at the stairs and leading the way.

  They get into bed. Damien curls up, puts his head on Brad’s chest, and goes to sleep right away. But Brad lies awake for a long time. Half-formed suspicions race through his mind, and every time he closes his eyes he sees smashed windows and small, muddy footprints on his deck.

  42

  When they get back to the penthouse, Damien gives Brad a set of keys. It’s a much more complicated affair than at the brownstone: A fob to get in the street-level door, a second fob for the elevator, then an ordinary house key for the penthouse’s front door.

  “It’s easier if you have a key,” Damien explains as they climb the stairs to the kitchen to prepare lunch. “I’ve got a photo shoot for the next couple of days. Out in Jersey, so I’ll be home late.”

  “Photo shoot?” Brad asks, thinking of groomed models in glossy magazines.

  “Promotion for Gaukur,” Damien says, starting to pull bowls and pots from the cupboards. “Awards season is coming up, and the network likes to make a little noise about the show. They interview me, then they dress me up in designer clothes, and we take photos. Some of the other cast will be there, too. We’re doing photos in costume too, that’s why it’ll take two days.” He gives Brad a smile. “I could stay out in Jersey, but I’d rather come home.”

  Brad still hasn’t gotten his head around this. “Photo shoot in designer clothes, like modeling?”

  “Yeah, sort of, I guess,” Damien says. “They make us do that, to promote our work. This one is for a geeky Sci-Fi magazine. I had a shoot last week too, for Men’s Health. Didn’t I tell you?”

  Brad shakes his head. “No.” He grins. “My boyfriend’s a fashion model.”

  “Have you never noticed someone like Brad Pitt on the cover of GQ?” Damien asks, sounding put out.

  Brad tries to visualize the magazines at the bodega cash register when he buys his milk. “I guess.” He feels stupid. “I’ve never thought about it.”

  Damien laughs and pats Brad’s hand. “That’s okay, why would you? Anyway…” He resumes dressing the quinoa salad. “The reason I mention it is so you don’t freak out when you run into Rose when I’m not here. She’s my assistant, and we’ve got a project to finish.”

  Brad waits, but Damien doesn’t say anything else, just adds more oil to the quinoa. “Assistant…?” Brad finally prompts.

  “You know, like a PA,” Damien says. “She keeps my calendar, books flights, makes sure I go where I’m supposed to on the right day.”

  “Ah,” Brad says, unable to think of anything else to say. At the office, everyone does their own photocopying and phone answering, and he’s never had a home help, either. Maria told him to get a housekeeper, but the idea is vaguely distasteful to him.

  Damien looks uncertain. “It’s sort of expected,” he says. “To have an assistant. I guess you think that’s big-headed?”

  “No, I get it,” Brad says, and realizes that he does. There’s a lot of negotiating and planning to do when your bread-earning consists of photo shoots, interviews, and jetting across the continent every other week. He puts the carrot down that he was just about to peel and takes Damien’s hand. “I’ll try not to scream when I run into Rose. And I won’t call the police.”

  Damien laughs, and they move on to other things.

  Brad is also busy when the week starts. He tries to be patient and not call Nate for the forensics results. Instead, he finds a glazier and arranges for them to meet at the brownstone to discuss the options for a new door. Then he spends a frustrating half hour on the phone with his insurance company, who, when he finally gets connected to a living human being, that they’ll need the report from Brooklyn PD before they’ll put anything in motion.

  He’s just hung up the phone when his cell buzzes again. It’s Nate.

  “Not much to tell you, sorry,” Nate says after a quick greeting. “No fingerprints on the stone, on the door into the yard, or anywhere else. As I mentioned already, the footprint was unusually small and shallow. No match in the database.” He pauses.

  “What?” Brad recognizes that reluctance. If Nate says anything more it will be his gut feeling, rather than verifiable fact. Brad is eager to find out if Nate’s gut is thinking along the same lines as his own. “There’s something that’s not adding up, right?” he prompts.

  “I have no proof,” Nate replies. “But if you put a gun to my head, I’d say the footprint belongs to a woman.”

  A strange sensation jolts Brad’s stomach. That’s exactly what he’s been thinking himself. After a short pause, Brad says, “Thanks, Nate. I appreciate the quick work.”

  “No problem,” Nate says. “I’ll send you the full report as soon as I’ve typed it up.” They say their goodbyes and hang up.

  Brad leans back in his chair and rubs his chin. The theory that’s starting to form at the back of his mind is ludicrous. Yes, maybe Vivienne Aubert has been following Damien around the city, though he finds even that hard to believe, as odd a duck as she might be. But a famous Hollywood star breaking into his back yard and throwing a rock though his window? It’s ridiculous.

  There must be another explanation.

  Monday night Brad doesn’t get in until eleven p.m. Damien is already in bed, and Brad crawls under the covers as carefully as he can. He falls asleep immediately, exhausted from a long discussion with the glazier and an even longer cab ride back to Chinatown. On Tuesday, he’s back at the penthouse just after six. A light is on in the one room Brad hasn’t seen yet. Curious, he goes to investigate. When he sticks his head around the door there’s a stranger crouching on the floor. The woman has her back to him, bending over a small piece of pink furniture she’s putting together. She’s short and slim, with red hair that’s twisted into an untidy bun at the nape of her neck. Brad clears his throat.

  The woman’s head whips around, and she scrambles to her feet. “Golly,” she says, panting. “You gave me a fright.”

  “Sorry,” Brad says. “You’re Rose, right?”

  “I am.” She puts down the screwdriver on top of the thing she was working on and holds out her hand. Brad shakes it. He can see now that the thing by her feet is a bedside table. It’s not only bubblegum pink but also covered in scampering unicorns. He looks around. The room is painted pink and white, and it dawns on Brad what Damien meant with the ‘project’ he and Rose have to finish.

  “This is Zoe’s new room,” Rose says, following Brad’s gaze. “I take it Damien hasn’t told you yet? She’ll live with him part time from now on.”

  “No, he hasn’t,” Brad replies. He examines the tiny pink bed and wardrobe. “Nice work! I’m Brad, by the way.”

  Rose smiles. “I know.” She picks up her tool again and gets onto her knees. “I’m very glad to finally meet you. Damien needed that, you know? To find someone kind.”

  Brad shrugs. “He’s kind to me, too.”

  Rose’s eyes darken. “He told me about your ex. I’m so sorry.” She gives him a commiserating look. Brad thinks he’ll like her. “Damien’s a sweet guy, very generous,” she continues. “And I’m glad he lets you help him, too. I try, but he hides in his shell when his migraines play up.”

  “I’m planning on changing that,” Brad says.

  “Good!” Rose says with relief. “Because that’s when he really needs some love.”

  Brad looks around the room. “Do you want a hand with anything?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m as good as done.”

  “All right, I’ll start dinner then,” Brad says. “Can you stay?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” she replies, then gets back to her furniture.

  Damien arrives just as dinner is nearing completion. “I see you met Rose,” he says, glancing to where she’s laying the table. Then he gives Brad a quic
k kiss.

  Brad takes the spaghetti off the hob. “She’s done a great job with Zoe’s room.”

  “Yeah.” Damien beams. “It was gonna be a surprise.” He hovers by Brad’s side, looking nervous. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Mind what?” Brad says, sprinkling croutons on the side salad.

  “Zoe living here, with us.”

  With us… It gives Brad a happy jolt to hear those words. “Of course I don’t,” he says with feeling. He puts the croutons and salad tongs down and pulls Damien close, not caring if Rose sees. “C’mere, silly.” He kisses Damien on the lips. “Why would I mind you getting to spend more time with your kid? And I can’t wait to get to know her better.”

  Damien beams at him. He hugs Brad, then picks up the salad bowl and carries it over to the table, a happy smile on his face.

  43

  Zoe is a delight to be around. Brad already liked her from their zoo adventure, and day-to-day she’s just as sweet, polite and adorable. Her mother drops her off the morning after the bedroom is finished. Right away, Brad sees why Damien fell hard for Idil. She is stunning, a little taller than Damien in her high-heeled shoes, and even Brad can recognize her poise, honed by years on the catwalk. Her skin is darker than Zoe’s, a beautiful, warm bronze-brown, but other than that Zoe is her in miniature, especially when they smile at each other during their goodbyes. Idil is polite to Brad, and formal but not unfriendly with Damien. Brad guesses that Damien prepared her for the presence of a new lover, which surprises Brad. With a stab of shame, he realizes that he’d been ready for this meeting to be awkward. He’s not giving Damien enough credit for having his life under control.

  Brad and Zoe don’t see much of each other for the first couple of days. When he gets to work he picks up the phone to the report of a double homicide, which takes him and Eric deep into a complex, gang-related case that Vice are happy to have their help with. He barely comes up for air for the next few days, returning to the penthouse only to catch a few hours’ sleep. Brad had planned to start looking into the Vivienne business, but that also has to wait now.