by P. A. Brown
L.A. BYTES
P.A. BROWN
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L.A. BYTES
P.A. BROWN
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2010 by PA Brown
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Published by
MLR Press, LLC
3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.
Albion, NY 14411
Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet: www.mlrpress.com
Editing by Kris Jacen
Cover Art by Deana C. Jamroz
Printed in the United States of America.
ISBN# 978-1-60820-041-2
First Edition 2010
CHAPTER ONE
Monday, 10:55 am Ste. Anne’s Medical Center, Rowena Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles
Christopher Bellamere studied the traffi c on Hyperion Avenue, eight stories below. A blanket of brown smog lay over the nearby Golden State Freeway. Behind him, Terry Corwin, the network manager at Ste. Anne’s, fi ddled with his Blackberry and carried on whispered conversations with himself. Terry was the anxious type.
“What are you saying?” Terry asked him. “Please don’t tell me what I think you’re telling me. I know I saw some anomalies, but they only started last night. You gotta be wrong.”
“I’m not. You were right in your initial assessment.” Chris pivoted to face him. Terry wore a custom made suit Chris recognized as a Dolce and Gabbana. Chris remembered him from CalTech, where he’d been more of a T-shirt and ripped jeans kind of guy. He never had that kind of taste—or discretionary funds. Chris was glad he’d worn his newest Versace to this meet.
He hated to be upstaged.
Still, he felt bad for the news he had to deliver.
“You were hacked. By someone who knew what they were doing.”
“A virus? Trojan—?”
“Nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s got enough of a unique signature to suggest it was written just for your system.”
Terry shoved his glasses up his nose. “Who?”
“Don’t know that,” Chris said. “Whoever it was, they’re good.
Covered their tracks well.”
“But you were able to spot them?”
2 P.A. Brown
“They’re not that good.” Chris held up his hand to forestall Terry’s next question. “There’s more. The attack came from inside your network. And my guess is, it’s still occurring.”
Terry slumped into one of the swivel chairs crowding the oak and brass table. He stared down at the report Chris had given him earlier. “How much damage?”
“Hard to say at this point.”
“Any indication our patient records were compromised?”
“That will take more time to determine.”
“How much time?”
“Can’t say at this point.”
Terry swelled up like an angry cat. “What can you say? I need answers on this fast. We have an audit coming up, otherwise I wouldn’t have called you in. I’d have taken care of it myself.”
“I’ll need at least two more days.”
“I’ll have to clear it with management.” Terry was still pissed. Chris didn’t blame him. “They’re not likely to be as accommodating.”
Chris nodded. He’d expected that. He gathered his laptop and tucked it into his carrying case. He’d make himself scarce while Terry argued with the suits about the catastrophe that had hit on Terry’s watch.
Terry held up his hand.
“Don’t go yet.” His fi ngers fl uttered over his tie after hanging up. “We need to talk. Let’s go to my offi ce. I’ve got some decent coffee. You can fi ll me in on how you’re going to approach this so I have something more concrete to take upstairs.”
Chris glanced at his watch. David would be done at the doctor’s downstairs in about twenty minutes. He had time. “Sure.”
He followed Terry out to the elevator. They didn’t speak on the short ride down to the second fl oor. Terry’s offi ce mirrored his attire. His dark cherry veneer desk was clutter-free except for an IBM laptop and a picture of his wife, Cathy. They had no kids L.A. BYTES 3
as far as Chris knew. Terry and he hadn’t done much socializing over the years. He hadn’t been invited to the wedding and hadn’t invited Terry to his, either.
On a sideboard were a drip coffeepot, an assortment of free trade coffees, and the usual mix of large and small mugs. “What’s your fl avor?” Terry asked, holding up the coffee fi lter.
“Something dark.”
“Sumatran?”
Chris nodded and looked around the small offi ce. The walls were covered in framed certifi cates that spoke of Terry’s long years in the industry. He’d been a real go-getter at CalTech. That drive apparently hadn’t left him. There were several O’Keeffe prints showcasing New Mexico. Under the certifi cates and prints, something he never would have expected, an acoustic guitar with the patina of long use leaning against the wall.
Terry followed Chris’s gaze. “I took it up about a year ago.
Play some jazz and blues.”
Chris approached the instrument. He didn’t touch it, but he did notice the half dozen photos taken at small clubs on the wall above the guitar. In each one Terry was part of a trio of musicians. In them, he had eschewed his suit in favor of jeans, a T-shirt and a neon headband.
“Where do you play?”
Terry grinned. “Around town, did a couple of gigs in San Francisco.” His frown returned. “Just what did you fi nd in our system?”
Chris continued to stare at the images. You thought you knew a guy. “Besides the signs of fi le activity you mean? Password cracking tools. Some pretty sophisticated stuff. It can be deconstructed, which might point to who wrote it, but I’ll need time to do it.”
/> Terry opened his briefcase and drew out several pages that he handed to Chris. “This is what your fi nal contract will look like.
Check it over, let me know if you have any problems with it.”
4 P.A. Brown
Chris skimmed the contents quickly. It looked like a standard boilerplate non-disclosure, work-for-hire four-week contract.
He’d signed a similar, shorter one for the initial assessment. No unusual term that would limit his ability to do his job or bind him up afterward.
“Take it home,” Terry said. “Read it over. Have your lawyer vet it.”
Chris held out his hand. They shook. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.” He glanced at the guitar one more time. For some reason it intrigued him. “Let me know when your next gig is. I’ll bring David. He loves jazz.”
Terry nodded; he seemed too preoccupied to pay attention.
Chris could tell his mind was already back on his computer problems.
Chris stuffed the contract into his laptop case. He strode across the dove gray carpet toward the elevator. Once inside, he pulled out his Blackberry. No messages. At least he wasn’t late picking up his husband. David hated tardiness.
David’s doctor had an offi ce in a building attached to the main hospital. David, who hated needles, was due to get his allergy shot. Chris made the appointment for him, knowing David would avoid it as long as he was left to his own devices.
The receptionist showed him into a small consulting room off the main waiting room.
David scowled up at him. “They’re not here yet. We have to wait.”
The fi erce look on David’s face didn’t faze him. He dropped into an uncomfortable chair beside his husband of eighteen months. “Who’s not here?”
“The pharmacy.” David’s scowl deepened. “And my shot.”
Chris rolled his eyes. “You mean I get to watch the tough as nails homicide detective take his medicine? Think of all the good that comes of it—you won’t be sniffl ing and carrying on when L.A. BYTES 5
the animals jump on you. And we’ll save a fortune on Kleenex.
You’re always after us to save, right?”
“Right, a fi fty dollar bottle of wine is acceptable, but a two dollar box of Kleenex isn’t?”
Chris grinned. After several seconds, David followed suit.
The smile lifted his dour face and reminded Chris of why he loved this man.
One of the clinic nurses bustled in. A diminutive Korean, she smiled when she saw Chris and glanced at their joined hands.
“Come to comfort the patient?”
Everyone, it seemed, knew about David’s aversion to needles.
David quickly disengaged his hand from Chris’s.
David refused to watch as she uncapped the syringe and swabbed his arm with alcohol. He winced as she deftly slid the needle into the muscle and depressed the plunger. She covered the puncture mark with a circular Band-Aid.
David rubbed the spot. The nurse deposited the used syringe in a sharps container and left the room.
“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” He waited for David to stand. Chris reached for his arm, carefully avoiding the injection site.
David shook his head. Suddenly he blinked and swallowed convulsively.
“David?”
David wheezed, struggling to catch his breath. His face went rigid. Lips pressed together, his eyes unfocused.
“David!”
His entire body stiffened. He drew in a convulsive breath, then struggled to draw another. His face blanched as he clawed at his throat.
David arched forward and spewed out a stream of vomit across his jean clad legs and the tile fl oor beside the bed. Before he could take a breath, he repeated the action. The room fi lled with the sour stench.
6 P.A. Brown
Chris’s stomach rolled over at the smell. He darted toward the door.
“I’ll fi nd the doctor,” he said. He emerged in a waiting room full of expectant patients. Several of them turned startled eyes on him.
“Where’s the doctor?” he shouted.
In the room behind him metal crashed and David’s guttural cry was abruptly cut off.
CHAPTER TWO
Monday 11:55 am Rowena Medical Center, Rowena Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles
The Korean nurse hurried through the door.
David’s mouth moved as though he struggled to form words.
His voice, when it emerged, held none of the strength Chris was familiar with. His throat was puffy and his lips were turning blue.
“Numb…” He whispered. “Can’t breathe.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Chris hovered over David. “Get the doctor, for God’s sake.”
“He’s on his way.” The nurse grabbed an epipen and jabbed it into David’s thigh. “Please, Chris. It would be best if you left—”
David’s doctor, Dr. Daniel Abrahms, entered the room.
David’s dark skin looked sallow and clammy. His breathing remained labored.
“What’s that?” Chris asked. “What’s wrong with him, Doctor?”
“David is going into anaphylactic shock. This,” he said, holding up the syringe, “will stabilize him.”
“Anaphylactic shock? From what? His allergy shot?”
The doctor slid the syringe into David’s shoulder and depressed the plunger. “This is epinephrine,” he said. “It should stabilize him.”
“What’s going on here?” Chris asked. “What’s wrong?”
David’s breathing grew more regular and his eyes cleared.
He blinked and met Chris’ gaze. Then he turned hard eyes on Abrahms.
8 P.A. Brown
“What the hell happened?”
“Anaphylactic shock—”
“He should go to the hospital, shouldn’t he?” Chris wanted to touch his lover, but he knew David was reticent about physical contact in front of straights.
“I’m fi ne, Chris, really,” David murmured.
Chris whirled on him. “Stop playing the damn martyr, David.
Stop trying to prove how tough you are.” He spun back toward the doctor. “I want him admitted. Now.”
“I concur,” Abrahms said.
Chris had never liked David’s doctor. The man was too analytical, too cool. His bedside manner sucked. To have the man agree with him was unnerving. Just how bad was David?
“Go home, Chris,” David’s voice still sounded weak, but there was no mistaking his annoyance. “Let the professionals do their job.”
That was a sore point with them. Chris had the bad habit of butting his nose into David’s work. Chris didn’t mean to, but sometimes he thought the LAPD was slack in their duties, especially when it came to how they treated the cops in their ranks that were “different.” The LAPD had never quite reconciled itself to the number of gay offi cers that to them must have seemed like they were coming out of the woodwork. Several crippling and image-destroying lawsuits had made them tread lightly, so these days they tiptoed around people like David.
It didn’t help that David was damned good at his job.
Chris was going to suggest again that David be admitted, but David cut him off. “I’m not going into the hospital. I’m fi ne, Chris, really. Dr. Abrahms?”
“I have to agree with Christopher on this, David. There are some tests—”
David shrugged his rolled up shirt sleeves back down over his muscular arms and levered himself out of the chair. “I’ll come back if things don’t feel right, but for now I’m going home.”
L.A. BYTES 9
Chris knew better than to argue, even if Abrahms didn’t. He scooped David’s jacket off the coat hook and handed it to him.
On the way out the door he looked at David’s still pale face and tried again. “David—”
“Don’t. I’m fi ne, really.”
Chris made a rude noise in his throat, which his husband ignored.
Chris unlocked the kiwi green hybrid Escape he had bought to replace h
is fi rst Escape wrecked in a car accident. Even with the sunshade covering the front windshield the car was still roaster hot. Chris buckled in and started the AC, knowing it would take a few minutes to cool the car’s interior. In the heat stench from the vomit covering David’s legs grew stronger. After a couple of minutes Chris cranked his window down and tried to breath through his mouth. David followed suit. It didn’t help much.
The radio clock said it was nearly one. David fl ipped his cell phone out. “I better call Martinez, he’ll be wondering what hole I fell into when I don’t come back.”
David’s partner of nearly twelve years had grown comfortable with his gay partner. He had even been best man at their wedding.
He still tended to eye Chris with a slightly jaundiced gaze when he thought no one was looking. The one time Chris had mentioned it, David had dismissed his complaint. “That’s just Martinez,” he had said. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Right,” Chris had retorted. “And Fred Phelps is kind to his children.”
Chris kept half an eye on David all the way home. A short trip, but an uneasy one. David grew paler and paler. Chris snapped, “I want to take you back.”
“I won’t go.”
“You need to go back.”
“No. No, just home. I’ll be fi ne, Chris. Really.”
David already had his key out when they drove into the cobbled drive of their Silver Lake home. A pair of nesting mourning doves 10 P.A. Brown
fl ew out of the Cyprus tree beside the stone alcove. Sergeant, their rescued Doberman, greeted them enthusiastically at the door, circling David, sniffi ng at his jeans. Chris shut and locked the front door and turned to fi nd David halfway up the marble steps to the second fl oor.
Chris took the stairs two at a time. He found David stripping his fi lthy pants off and tossing them in the laundry basket. After a very quick shower he slid into their king-sized bed and drew the duvet up to his chin. The dog stood beside the bed, whining. He knew there was something wrong. David patted the bed and the dog leaped onto it, settling down at his feet.
“Listen, hon, you don’t need to prove how tough you are,”
Chris said, stroking the dog’s knobby head. “A trip to the hospital isn’t giving in.”
“Give me a break. I just need to rest.”
Chris stood in the doorway for another minute, then gave up.