L.A. Heat

by P. A. Brown

  Chris pulled away from the window, spilling the other pictures onto the floor at his feet. “Nothing. I know him, that’s all—”

  “How well? You sleep with him?”

  “Martinez.”

  But Martinez refused to let it go. David knew he was baiting Chris deliberately. “You and him like to play bedroom games?” Martinez’s eyes blazed. “That how you found your buddy’s friend so fast? You knew he was over there doing them and you wanted in on it—”

  “No!” Chris was white and shaking. “No!”

  “Martinez! That’s enough.” David walked quickly around the car and got in. He rammed the key into the ignition, jerked the gear into reverse, and glared at Martinez.

  “Back off.”

  David reversed out of the driveway, barely missing Martinez’s bumper, then peeling out onto the cruiser-filled street.

  David took in several deep breaths, trying to calm the roaring in his head. He’d really lost it that time. Stupid. Stupid not to try to deal with this calmly, rationally. They were both cops, for God’s sake. Supposedly after the same thing. Instead they’d been going after each other like a couple of bulls.

  He awkwardly patted Chris’s knee. “Sorry, you shouldn’t have had to hear that.

  Martinez is just—”

  “Pig-headed? A walking advertisement for Rodney King’s defenders? An asshole?

  Tell me, what exactly is he, David?”

  David winced. He withdrew his hand and wrapped his fists around the steering wheel, wondering absently why it didn’t buckle under his grip.

  “Okay, forget Martinez. I need you to tell me everything you can about this Trevor.”

  Chris rubbed a shaking hand over his face. “Can we go to your place first? I don’t want to talk in the car. Okay?”

  It wasn’t, but David knew he’d pushed him as far as he could. If Chris was going to cooperate, he needed to be handled gently right now.

  He patted Chris’s knee again, squeezing the bony cap. “Sure.”

  He doubted Chris was fooled.

  Friday, 10:30 am, Piedmont Avenue, Glendale

  David had bought his house several years before, after a drug dealer with a meth lab had nearly burned it down. It had taken a lot of sweat equity to restore the building to its present condition. It still needed a lot of work, but a cop’s salary only stretched so far in the tight L.A. housing market, so he figured he had been lucky to get it.

  His needs were simple. Up until now he had never considered what it might look like to others.

  Now he saw the brown, stiff grass on the table-sized lawn for what it indicated—

  neglect. Paint was peeling off the wooden door jamb and the scarred siding had barely survived the fire. Even the bricks looked tired, as though the poisoned air of L.A. had leached out of them whatever vitality they might once have had. Under the gently pitched broad gables a pair of windows overlooked the street. A second gable sloped over the doorway.

  David looked at Chris before he mounted the wooden steps to the front door. He dug out his key.

  “Sorry if it’s cluttered,” he said, grabbing the largest suitcase. “I haven’t been home much lately.”

  Chris passed him silently, carrying the other suitcase and his laptop case. He still clutched the picture of Trevor in one hand.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “At the station,” David said. “You can put that stuff in the backroom.” It was more of a junk room than an extra bedroom, but it did have an old sofa bed that pulled out into a double. Right now David wasn’t about to suggest any other sleeping arrangements.

  The front room was shadowed, all the curtains closed. A musty smell rose from the old furniture he had picked up at garage sales and auctions over the years. Throwing open windows as he moved around, he felt a tepid breeze move through the room behind him.

  Chris reappeared, empty-handed. David motioned him into the ancient kitchen. He pulled out a painted wooden chair and indicated Chris should sit. Sweeney appeared in the doorway, eying the stranger haughtily.

  “Ready to talk?”

  Chris nodded, returning the cat’s unblinking stare. “What’s your name?”

  “That’s Sweeney.”

  “Sweeney? As in Todd?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I saw it at the Next Stage last year.”

  David’s face brightened. “Me too. It was a pretty decent production.”

  Chris picked the cat up and stroked it. “You got coffee?”

  “Nothing but instant,” David said.

  “Sure.”

  Chris toyed with the salt cellar on the vinyl tablecloth-covered table while David filled the kettle with water and pulled down two mugs. Milk and sugar followed and David sat down to wait for the water to boil. He pulled out his notepad and pencil.

  “What can you tell me about this guy?”

  “I—not much. I met him a few weeks ago. Des—” His slender fingers white-knuckled the saltcellar. “Jesus, Des introduced us. Des was always doing charity shows, usually AIDS stuff, since we’ve both had a lot of friends who—oh, never mind. It hardly matters. Des set us up.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Watson. Trevor Watson.”

  “Got an address on him?”

  Chris refused to meet his eyes. He stared down at his knotted hands and shook his head.

  “He never told you where he lived? Never took you there?”

  “No.”

  “He give you a phone number?”

  This time Chris nodded. “Yeah, he did. Wait...I have it in my BlackBerry—”

  He vanished down the hall and reappeared moments later with the device, punching at the miniscule keys with his finger.

  “Here it is.” He rattled off a West Hollywood exchange. “But I think it’s a cell.”

  David wrote it down. “We’ll check it out. If it’s a landline we can do a reverse lookup.

  If it’s a cell, maybe we can get a warrant for the company records.”

  “But that takes time, right?”

  “’Fraid so. Anything else you can think of that might help now?”

  “He worked for a film company. He was some kind of film assistant. Something to do with continuity. Made sure the actors looked the same in all the shots.”

  “Remember the name of the company?”

  “Strong...Strong-something Films. It was kind of a funny name, I remember that. But what do I know? I’m a Hollywood brat who hates movies.” He offered David a small smile.

  David took his hand in his. “You’re doing great. I’m sorry any of this happened. I wish it could have been otherwise. Just... try to remember the name.”

  “I know. It’s important.” Chris sighed. “What happens now?”

  David snapped his notepad shut when he realized Chris was finished. “I try to find this Trevor.”

  “Does he know you’re looking for him?”

  “I hope not.”

  Friday, 10:55 am, Northeast Community Police Station, San Fernando Road, Los Angeles

  Striding through the door to the police station locker room, David paused. This time of day most of the staff were already out on patrol or buried behind mounds of paperwork at their desks.

  At his entrance, a pair of new detectives looked up, and from the looks that crossed their faces he could see that they already knew. Gossip was like an L.A. firestorm. It came on fast and hot, and until it was spent no one knew how much damage it would do.

  David nodded and headed for his locker. Their low-voiced whispers reached him, but he ignored them.

  His locker had been pried open. Cautiously he approached.

  Some enterprising spirit had used pink nail polish and painted something on the metal door. It looked like a six-year-old’s idea of what a flower looked like. Using his notepad to tip the door open, David knew even before the door opened that it wasn’t flowers they had gifted him with.

  The stench wafted through the narrow room. The two c
ops who had been whispering looked up and grimaced. One of them muttered something, but before anyone else could speak, the outer door flew open and Martinez strode in.

  He saw David and the open locker and froze. He wrinkled his nose at the smell.

  “Dios, this some kind of sick joke?”

  “You tell me.”

  Martinez peered in at the mound of shit carefully positioned on the top shelf. He furrowed his thick nose.

  “I met some smart-ass who said I might find it amusing if I came in here. I think me and him are going to have a talk about defining funny. You sure as hell better not think I had anything to do with that.”

  “No,” David said, jerking the door open. It bounced off the next locker and tried to shut again. “This came from someone with a finely tuned sense of humor.”

  Both David and Martinez glared at the junior D’s.

  “Either of you two see anything?” Martinez growled.

  “No, sir. No one was here when we came in. Only Detective Laine came in after.”

  The taller of the two eyed David as if they thought maybe he’d done it himself. They didn’t hide their smirks very well. “Didn’t see a thing.”

  “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” Martinez muttered. “Get out, and if I hear stories about this circulating anytime soon, I’ll personally nail your scrotes to the wall.

  Got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Both D’s scrambled to leave.

  “Like that’s going to stop them,” David said.

  “Hey, it might slow them down for an hour or two.” Martinez eyed the ruined locker.

  “Oh, Davey. How did it come to this?”

  David opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. When he did speak, it was going to be to tell the truth. Why bother lying anymore?

  “You never fall in love?”

  “Jesus, Davey. Don’t say that. Not about this—”

  “Why not? I didn’t ask for it to happen. It wasn’t in my life plan, but it did happen.”

  “How the hell can you—love! Jesus, he’s a guy.”

  “I noticed.”

  “I don’t believe this. You’re a good cop. One of the best.”

  “I can’t be a good cop and a faggot at the same time?”

  Martinez winced.

  The door opened again. They both looked up as Martinez muttered, “It’s like Grand Fucking Central in here.”

  Bryan Williams, a D-2 who worked fraud, entered. David had been wondering when he’d show up. Bryan was the Northeast’s gay and lesbian liaison officer for the department. David had never said more than a dozen words to the man.

  They nodded at each other warily.

  “I hear right, Laine?”

  “You heard nothing, Williams,” Martinez said. “Why don’t you go find another fight?”

  Bryan ignored him. He kept coming into the room, focused on David. “You okay, man?” Then he caught sight of what lay in David’s locker. “That your sick idea of a joke, Martinez?”

  “Fuck you, asshole.”

  “Knock it off, both of you.” David stomped over to the nearest paper-towel dispenser and yanked out a wad. Grabbing a garbage container, he disposed of the ugly mess, including the T-shirt underneath it.

  “What are you doing?” Bryan stepped forward. “That needs to be documented—”

  “I’ve got an investigation to run.” David glared at Martinez. “You can either help or get out of my way. Same goes for you.” This time he scowled at Bryan. “I’d rather not give idiots of that caliber the acknowledgment they even exist.”

  “They’ll make your life a living hell if you don’t fight back.”

  “Let them try,” Martinez said.

  Both David and Bryan turned toward the bristling Latino.

  “Hey, you don’t think I can stick up for my partner? What the hell kind of cop you think I am?”

  “The wrong kind—”

  “Later, Bryan.” David pinned Martinez with his appraising gaze. “I’ve got a work site for our doer, and a possible phone. You in?”

  “I’m in.”

  “David—”

  “I’m not dropping this, okay? We’ll talk... later.”

  He thought of the fight that was probably coming over his involvement with Chris and it occurred to him that having some political clout in his corner might not be a bad idea.

  “In fact,” he said. “I’ll call you Monday.”

  Bryan looked like he wanted to object, but in the end he nodded. “Monday.” He glared at Martinez. “I’d better not hear of any more problems or I’ll have my guys all over it like flies on shit.” He pointedly looked at the garbage container at David’s feet.

  “I’m counting on it,” David said.

  Friday, 11:10 am, Piedmont Avenue, Glendale

  “Don’t leave the house.” Those had been David’s last words before he went off to work. Of course he could go traipsing off, with no thought to what Chris was supposed to do all day. That David felt protective of him made Chris feel special. That he thought that meant Chris should be locked up like a princess in a tower left him cold.

  He had called the hospital and using David’s name was able to learn that Des was out of danger, but still too heavily sedated to be able to talk to anyone. Perhaps tomorrow.

  Perhaps next week. No one would commit.

  David had given him no idea when he might return. What would happen if David found Trevor? That sent a shiver up Chris’s spine. Was it possible Trevor had been involved in Kyle’s death? In Bobby’s? Had he tried to kill Des?

  It was preposterous. He’d known Trevor how long? Five, six weeks? They’d almost been lovers. How could he be a killer? Chris’s mind shied away from the images of Bobby. Of Kyle.

  Trevor couldn’t have done that.

  Chris prowled the small, one-story bungalow. The kitchen was spotless; not a dish was in sight on the worn linoleum counter top. The sink looked freshly scrubbed. The stove was an old gas job that probably was new around the time the house was built.

  He inhaled. The place smelled like David. He instantly liked it. The chintz curtains over the sink would let in the early-morning light and the small, plastic-covered table and its painted wooden chairs had enough room for the two of them to have breakfast and linger over coffee. Cozy. That was it, the place was cozy. On a shelf above the table a vintage fifties radio had its dial set to KZLA, a local country station.

  The living room wasn’t much bigger than the kitchen. A battered recliner with a TV

  tray beside it held the remote for the twenty-seven-inch Sony occupying center place in the room. A potted Draconia filled one corner of the room, and a second, non-reclining chair was positioned on the other side of the TV tray. Both chairs looked well used.

  The rest of the room was filled with old-fashioned radios and gramophones. A Philco console floor model that looked like it might have been new before television came along stood against the far wall. Chris ran his hand along the huge wooden Art Deco facade.

  The off-white walls held several neatly mounted posters and framed stock shots of classic cars. Buicks and old Chevies with monster fins and grinning grills looked down on him.

  He paused to study a photo of a ’58 Caddy that could probably accommodate his SUV in its enormous trunk.

  He strolled through the back of the house. There were two bedrooms and a narrow hallway leading to a back door.

  The back room where he had put his bags was cluttered with more old radios and ancient record players in various stages of repair. He found a stack of 78’s and picked up the top one: Tommy Dorsey with Frank Sinatra. The next one in the stack was Bill Haley and the Comets.

  He put the record back and slipped out of the room. The second bedroom was clearly David’s. Like everything else in the tiny house, it was immaculate and filled with old furniture. The double bed was neatly made.

  The cat he had seen earlier lay curled up atop the covers.

  Chr
is smoothed one hand over what looked like a handmade quilt. It was old, too, but well tended. “Hey, Sweeney,” Chris said. “Don’t make yourself too comfortable. Tonight this bed is mine.”

  The cat seemed to consider his words, then stretched one hind leg out and began licking itself. Chris grinned and left the room.

  The back door was locked with a deadbolt, the key suspended from a wall hook.

  Chris palmed it, unlocked the door, and stepped out into a backyard that had seen better days.

  Laundry hung from a limp clothesline in the yard next door. Down the street a car backfired and Chris heard the high-pitched squeal of children playing.

  David kept his house the way he kept himself, neat and controlled on the inside, inattentive to what the world saw on the outside.

  Back inside he retrieved his laptop case from the spare room and took it into the kitchen. When he opened it up he found Bobby’s Palm Pilot. After plugging in the laptop and booting it up, he powered on the Palm. It was dead. He found the power adapter in the laptop case. Leaving the thing to recharge, he made some configuration changes to his laptop and logged into his ISP, where he started by checking his email. Becky had sent him another note about some things she and Yamamoto had already discussed. Chris downloaded the email to his hard drive so he could refer to it later in Denver.

  Then he hunkered down to some serious surfing.

  What was the name of Trevor’s film company? Strong Arm. Strong Box. Strong something. He pulled out his Tools CD and played around, running Boolean searches on random-name choices. He loosed his search spiders on the Web and left them darting through channels cluttered with the zeros and ones of raw binary data. Eventually they all came back with whatever tidbits they had discovered and spread them out before him like a dog delivering a retrieved ball.

  Strong Arm Playing Company. That was it. Had Trevor used it as a cover for his murderous activity?

  Strong Arm Playing Company was no StarFlight Productions. If they had a database it was beyond the reach of Chris’s skills to break into it. All he was able to find out beyond the basic particulars was some contact information and a list of independent producers who pedaled their wares to Strong Arm on a regular basis.