Not that Perry was looking for a big thank-you, but the hint of sarcasm in “when you raced to my rescue” was strange and troubling. So too was the other’s obvious paranoia. An already very weird situation seemed to be getting weirder by the minute.
“Sure.” Perry turned to lead the way. He was suddenly, painfully conscious of his own bumps and bruises. He hadn’t fallen far, but it had been a hard landing. He’d banged his elbow, his knee, his shoulder. He was very lucky he hadn’t broken anything.
They walked down the three flights of steps in silence, but when Perry started toward the terraced hillside, the old man said, “What are you doing? There’s a walkway right here.”
Sure enough, beneath the dead leaves and pine needles, a brick walk wound through the black iron pickup sticks of what had once been an ornate gate. Perry hadn’t noticed the walkway in his earlier haste.
“Oh. Right. Okay.” He changed course obligingly. The old man gave him a sideways look.
“I suppose you think I’m ungrateful?”
“Well, I guess you’re pretty shaken up.” He felt pretty shaken himself, and he hadn’t been the target of that attack.
The old man made an unappeased sound. “I have to wonder. How would you happen to be here at just the right moment to see them? Hm? That timing is a little too convenient.”
Perry tried to read his face, tried to make sense of the open disbelief. Not just disbelief. Antipathy. Like the old guy thought he was…what? What was he implying? That Perry had been with the skeleton men? That he was part of a gang of Halloween-costumed hooligans who went around beating up old people?
“I’ve been here all week,” Perry said.
“All week? You’ve been trespassing all week?”
Old people could be cranky, that was a fact. Perry tried to hang on to his patience. “If I was trespassing on your property, it was only today when I heard you yelling.”
“Yet how could you hear anything from this distance?”
This was getting kind of ridiculous. “I guess the breeze was blowing in the right direction.”
The old man made an unconvinced noise.
Well, he could think what he liked. He seemed as unhurt as he was ungrateful, so really Perry’s responsibility—assuming he had any in this situation—was at an end. He’d grab his gear and show this old coot that he was exactly what he said he was, and then climb back over the fence and head home. He had plenty of sketches of Angel’s Rest by now. He could paint from those. Or find another project. He wouldn’t be returning here again, that was for sure.
The brick path took them past the checkerboard dance floor and up the path with the broken bottles and trash. The old man made a sound of disgust as he noted the discarded condom.
“Kind of a weird place for romance,” Perry offered. It was not in his nature to hang on to irritation.
“Hm.”
Though Perry’s companion was also limping, he didn’t really move like an old person. He was old, though. Seventy at least. Perry had spent a lot of time with elderly people, both when he worked at the library in Fox Run and when he’d lived on the Alston Estate. He was used to their quirks and general crankiness. The last of his exasperation faded.
“Have you lived here a long time?” he asked.
The old man gave him look of disbelief and did not deign to answer.
Perry sighed.
They didn’t speak again until they trudged across the barren back of the property and reached the oak tree. Perry hunted through the dry grass and found his sketch pad. He brushed the foxtails out of the pages and handed it over to his companion. He pointed up into the overhanging branches.
“You can see my backpack up there. Leaning against that Y in the trunk.”
The old man, flipping brusquely through the pages of Perry’s sketchbook, did not look up. “My God.” He paused at a sketch of a raven perched on the sill of one of the tower windows. “Where did you learn to draw like this?”
“Art classes and stuff.”
He did look up then. “No.” Pale blue eyes met Perry’s solemnly. “This is…this is a gift. This isn’t training.”
“Well, a lot of it is training.”
He continued to stare as though seeing Perry clearly for the first time. “It’s a gift from the gods,” he pronounced.
Oh-kay, that was a little dramatic.
“Yeah, but I don’t really…” Believe in gods? Believe in talent without training? Believe you’re entirely sane, Mr. Angel’s Rest?
“It’s the Muse,” insisted Mr. Angel’s Rest. “It’s fire from heaven.”
Fire from heaven? What did that even mean? This oldster would have been right at home on the Alston Estate with little old Miss Dembecki and creepy Mr. Teagle.
Perry said politely, “I guess some of it is aptitude.”
The good news was he no longer seemed to be suspected of being in league with the skeleton men.
As though reading his thoughts, the old man flipped closed the sketchbook and offered his hand. “I’m Horace Daly. I want to thank you for what you did for me earlier, and I’m sorry I wasn’t more…gracious.”
“That’s okay,” Perry began. He was hoping Horace wasn’t planning on keeping his sketchbook. “Do y—”
“No, it’s really not,” Horace said earnestly. “But it’s difficult to explain without sounding completely mad.”
Mad? Horace Daly seemed to have quite the dramatic turn of phrase. But then he was living in a mostly abandoned hotel and had just been attacked by three guys in skeleton costumes, so maybe drama was his default?
Perry opened his mouth to…well, he wasn’t sure what. Ask if Horace needed help getting back home? Ask if Horace wanted to file a police report perhaps? Because really, that’s what they should be doing right now. Phoning the cops. The longer they waited, the less chance they had of—
Who was he kidding? They had zero chance of catching Horace’s attackers at this point.
Horace was still watching him with that blazing-eyed intensity. When he stared like that, he almost…sort of…looked familiar.
Had he seen Horace before? Where? Why did he have the weird inkling it had been in church? Perry hadn’t been to church since he’d left his parents’ home nearly two years ago—and he was pretty sure Horace was no Presbyterian.
Horace, still following his own thoughts, pronounced in that grand, grave manner, “You see, Perry, someone is trying to kill me.”
Chapter Two
It was after eleven by the time Nick got home.
The apartment was dark and silent. It smelled of paint and linseed oil, which was how home smelled now. It would not smell like cooking because Perry did not bother to cook when Nick was not around for meals. It was a question whether he even bothered to eat.
Nick quietly set his bag down and turned on the living-room light. God, it was good to be back. He looked around approvingly. The room was comfortably furnished. His old blue sofa was positioned against one wall. Two small end tables they’d picked up at a Goodwill store sat at either end. The tables were topped with matching alabaster lamps that Perry assured him were terrific finds. Maybe. Nick had doubts about the antiquated wiring, but Perry loved them, so he’d bought the lamps. Nick’s framed seascape hung on the opposite wall. A tall mahogany bookshelf, another Goodwill find, held Perry’s paperbacks and his vintage clock. They were using an old trunk for their coffee table. Most of the remaining available space was taken up with Perry’s canvases—those that were either on their way out to galleries and local shops or on their way back.
Everything appeared neat and tidy and in its place. Everything but Perry.
A quick glance in the bedroom verified that he was not in. Nick swallowed his disappointment. It was unusual for Perry to go to bed before midnight, and he hadn’t known Nick was heading back to LA—Nick hadn’t wanted to let him down in case things didn’t wrap up on schedule—however, a survey of the apartment made it clear that not only was Perry not there, h
e hadn’t been home since breakfast.
His rinsed cereal bowl sat in the sink. A box of Froot Loops sat on the breakfast counter. Perry teased Nick for being a neat freak, but he also did his best to accommodate those fifteen years of military regimen and order.
Nick stared at the red and white cereal bowl with a sinking feeling.
There were any number of benign explanations for why Perry wasn’t home. He could be out with friends. He wasn’t exactly a party animal, but he had made friends in art school, and he did hang out with them occasionally. He wouldn’t have left a note because he wasn’t expecting to see Nick until Sunday evening at the earliest.
He could have gone to a movie.
There were less benign possibilities too.
He could be stranded somewhere. That piece of junk car of his was always breaking down.
He could have had a severe asthma attack and landed in the hospital. Although, fortunately, he was so much better now that he was on those controller medications, an attack wasn’t the concern it once would have been. LA’s smog wasn’t great for him, but it had been months since he’d had a real flare-up.
Nick listened to the sound of traffic outside the apartment as he continued to uneasily study Perry’s cereal bowl. The streets were never silent here. At three o’clock in the morning, you could still hear the rush of the nearby freeway.
Well, it was a trade-off. Peace and quiet in exchange for a real job for him and a decent art school for Perry.
Unbidden, another thought slithered into his brain: he could have met someone.
What the hell? Where was that thought coming from? It wasn’t the first time either. He rejected it instantly, impatiently. For God’s sake. Perry wasn’t home to greet him, and his thoughts jumped there?
It wasn’t like he was even the jealous type. He knew Perry loved him, and God knew he loved Perry. More than he’d ever imagined he could love anyone. He trusted Perry.
But there was that ten-year age gap and the fact that Perry had never been exposed to so many other gay men before the move to LA.
Bullshit. Working all these goddamned divorce cases was what put the thought in his head.
That said, he’d have to be blind not to notice the way other guys responded to Perry—or the way Perry responded to finally getting some appreciative male attention. Meaning only that Perry’s blushing confusion at being flirted with was touching.
And the kid was alone a lot. It couldn’t be helped. Nick was low man on the totem pole, and most of the out-of-town and late-night gigs fell to him. Fair enough. He was grateful for the job and beyond grateful at the possibility that he might even be made a partner eventually. But it meant Perry was on his own in the big bad city a lot of the time.
And so what? Whatever was keeping Perry out at this time of night, it was not some illicit affair. Whatever. The job was what it was, and what it mostly was, was adulterous spouses and fraudulent insurance claims. He was lucky to have it. But. Not exactly why he’d become a Navy SEAL.
But then, he wasn’t a SEAL anymore.
Nick was brooding over this, staring out the window over the kitchen sink at the smog-dimmed stars, when he heard the smothered sound of Perry’s cough outside the apartment door. He stepped out of the kitchen as Perry’s key turned the lock.
Perry opened the door, clearly surprised to find the lights on. His thin, pointy face lit up as he spotted Nick. “Hey, you’re home!”
Nick retorted, “One detective per family is e—” but the rest of it was cut off as Perry launched himself. Nick’s arms automatically locked around him, and his mouth came down hard on Perry’s eager one.
What was it about Perry? He was cute enough, sure. Medium height, lanky, boyish-looking. His hair was blond and spiky. His eyes were big and brown and as long-lashed as a cartoon character’s. In this town where two out of every three guys looked like they were trying out for a role in a major motion picture, Perry was almost strikingly ordinary. Maybe that was it. The fact that Perry didn’t look like everyone else. That he didn’t act like everyone else.
It was funny, though, because Perry was almost the complete opposite of what Nick had always thought was his type. Not that he had really thought of himself as having a type—beyond wanting someone with a penis.
Even after ten months, that unstinting…what the hell would you call it? Sweetness sounded too sappy, but there was something so honest, so generous in Perry’s responses. It made Nick’s heart feel too big for his chest. Closed his throat so that he could rarely say the things he wanted to say, things that Perry deserved to hear.
I love you. It scares me how much I love you.
Instead, he said gruffly, “Where the hell have you been at this hour?”
Perry didn’t seem to hear the gruffness. His wide brown eyes smiled guilelessly up into Nick’s. “I was sketching—”
He had to stop, though, starting to wheeze. He threw an apologetic look at Nick and dug out his rescue inhaler. He took a couple of quick puffs while Nick watched, frowning.
This was not good. He didn’t like the sudden alarming reappearance of coughing and wheezing. He put a hand on Perry’s shoulder. Under Nick’s tutelage, Perry had built up some muscle, but he had not really put on much weight. His shoulders were still bony, his collarbones sharp.
“You okay?”
Perry put the inhaler away—he didn’t like using it in front of Nick. As if he thought Nick looked down on him for it?
He said, “It was so dusty up there!”
“Where? Where’ve you been?” Nick hoped he didn’t sound as accusatory as he did to his own ears.
“I drove up to Angel’s Rest.”
“Where?”
“That old hotel in the hills. Remember at Dorian’s exhibition last Saturday? The 1920s hotel in those photos?”
“The abandoned place on Laurel Canyon?”
Jesus fucking Christ. He remembered Perry had seemed fascinated by those photos. But hiking around those hills on his own? Anything could happen to him, from being bit by a rattlesnake to running into some crazed homeless person.
Nick didn’t let any of that show on his face. That was one thing he had decided early on. He was not going to undermine Perry’s confidence or self-resilience with his own fears. Perry was not his child, he was his partner. Physically frail or not, he was a grown man.
“Right,” Perry said quickly, as though he sensed everything Nick was determined not to say. “Only it’s not abandoned. Well, not completely.”
Now, studying him more closely in the lamplight, Nick noticed Perry’s T-shirt was smeared with dust and torn at the collar. And—more alarming—his knuckles were scraped and cut.
Perry said, “Anyway, I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t know you’d be back tonight. I bought pork chops for when you got home.”
“Were you in a fight?”
Perry’s eyelashes flicked up guiltily. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
Nick felt as winded as if Perry had punched him. Trying to picture him in a fight was… Well, yes, Nick had been showing him some moves, tried to prepare him a little in case he ever had to defend himself, but still, Perry in a fight?
“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” Perry said. “Should I cook the pork chops?”
“I’ll fix us something to eat. You talk.”
In the kitchen Nick grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, uncapped them, handing one to Perry and taking a long swallow from his own. He came up for air and exhaled. He’d needed that.
“How did the job go?” Perry asked, watching him.
“The usual. It was okay. I want to hear about your week.”
Nick dug the package of pork chops out of the fridge while Perry told him about sketching Angel’s Rest over the past few days—Nick hanging on to his patience while Perry was momentarily distracted by his enthusiasm for crumbling architecture and light and shadow—before finally describing hearing someone yelling for help from the hotel grounds.
While he prepared the pork chops, he heard out the whole ridiculous but still worrying story of men in skeleton costumes with wooden swords—and he was both proud and aghast that Perry had charged into the middle of that.
Perry chattered on, barely touching his own beer.
“He said his name was Horace Daly. He used to be an actor. He lives at the hotel. It’s not a hotel anymore, though. Now it’s sort of like apartments. Kind of like the Alston Estate really. Only—”
“Horace Daly,” Nick interrupted. “The actor. I remember him.”
“Yeah? I didn’t recognize his name when he introduced himself, but I did sort of recognize his face.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“No. He’s pretty old, but he seems spry. He’s retired now, of course. You should see that place, Nick. He’s got a bunch of movie memorabilia everywhere. You walk down a corridor, and suddenly you see a life-sized mummy standing in the shadows. Or a chopped off head sitting on a table. All these props from his films. There’s a gibbet in the old ballroom. The real things they used in his movies, not replicas. At one time Horace thought maybe he could turn part of the hotel into a museum.” Perry’s eyes shone with enthusiasm, the artist in him no doubt getting off on the workmanship that went into creating realistic-looking skeletons and ghouls or whatever it was Daly kept in his closet.
Nick said, “Right. He was in all those old horror flicks. Night of the Blue Witch, Seven Brides for Seven Demons, Sex and the Single Ghoul.”
“My parents wouldn’t let me watch that stuff.” Perry’s expression was one of brooding regret.
Nick bit back a grin. “No, well. So, Daly is still around and lives in a not-quite-abandoned hotel?”
“Exactly. He owns the property. He rents the suites out to regular tenants.” Perry amended, “Well, maybe regular isn’t the word. I met a couple of them. But he’s got about seven people renting from him.”
The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out Page 2