L.A. Heat

by P. A. Brown

  Back out in the car, Chris sighed and leaned his head against the seat.

  “That was nice.”

  David tipped the parking attendant and expertly wheeled his vintage Chevy back onto Lincoln Boulevard. A steady stream of lights led the way south. They cruised at moderate speed, rarely topping fifty. Traffic grew heavier as they neared the airport. From behind them someone’s high beams suddenly splashed into the car’s interior, momentarily bringing a shot of daylight.

  David muttered under his breath and looked away from the rear view mirror, blinking.

  “Idiot,” he said. He tapped his brakes as an SUV shot past, its horn dopplering as it pulled ahead before melting back into traffic.

  Chris eased out of his seat belt and slid over to the middle of the bench seat. When David threw him a warning look he quickly buckled up the center seat belt before leaning his head against David’s shoulder. His hand found a comfortable, familiar spot between David’s legs.

  “No funny stuff, now.”

  Chris smiled in the dark. He could feel David’s erection pressing against his palm.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Lights flared along the stream of cars as brake lights came on. David swung onto Sepulveda Boulevard just as his cell rang.

  “Grab it, will you?” Chris reached into David’s pocket and drew out the phone. David took the phone from Chris and flashed him a smile before concentrating on whoever was calling. Judging from the one-sided conversation, Chris figured it was Martinez.

  “Yeah? What time? I can be there. You can give me the details then.” He handed the phone back to Chris, who shut it and held it in his lap while he returned to stroking David.

  “You have to go?” He had been hoping David could park and join him inside while he waited for his plane. He was running out of time.

  “We got an anonymous tip—someone called in a location for Trevor Watson.”

  Chris could tell by his tone of voice that Trevor was still a sore point between them.

  He decided not to pursue it.

  David pulled into a no-parking zone, flashing the overzealous airport cop his tin before getting out to help Chris drag his laptop case and the smaller Andiamo bag out of the trunk.

  Then they stood awkwardly together on the brightly lit concourse while other travelers streamed around them. They didn’t touch; Chris tried to think of something to say.

  David finally broke the silence. “Call me when you get back. Chances are I’ll be out in the Valley with Martinez.”

  “Well, good luck. Hope you catch him.” Chris knew how lame that sounded. But it felt awkward not being able to do what seemed natural—kiss this man good-bye. Instead he had to settle for touching his hand and issuing a crooked smile.

  “I’ll call.”

  “I’ll pick you up.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah.” David grinned. “Promise. And Chris?”

  “Yes?”

  “Stay away from those websites.”

  “No problem.”

  Chris walked through the terminal’s open doors, and checked that his flight was still on schedule. He was early. More than enough time for a last-minute drink. When he saw the sign for a bar called the Encounter, he realized it was just what he needed: some light-hearted fun to take his mind off Trevor and Bobby and Kyle.

  The Theme Building was one of the most recognized landmarks in L.A. after the HOLLYWOOD sign. The seventy-foot structure looked like something that had dropped in from outer space.

  They carried the space-ship theme over into the interior. The Jetsons would have felt right at home amid the lava lamps and moon-cratered walls. The elevator played Esquival’s Harlem Nocturne.

  Chris selected a rear booth. A waiter sauntered over. Chris knew without asking that the guy was an actor. Tall, saturnine good looks were a staple in L.A. Still, he couldn’t help it; he stared at the guy’s well-packed groin. When he looked up it was to find him staring back in turn. A knowing look flashed between them.

  “Hey,” the waiter said.

  “Draft,” Chris said.

  “Sure.” But instead of heading for the bar he waited.

  A month ago Chris would have had the guy’s number in his wallet by now. Two weeks ago he would have flaunted his own package and sauntered straight to the bathroom, knowing he would be followed. Now he just stared into a pair of sharp brown eyes and smiled, thinking of another pair of brown eyes flecked with green. Wishing he wasn’t on his way to Denver.

  “Dos Equis, if you have it.”

  “Sorry. Bud, Miller Lite, Rolling Rock.”

  Chris grimaced. “Bud.” He thought of Bobby then. “No, make that a Rolling Rock instead.”

  While he waited, he pulled Bobby’s Palm Pilot out and pulled up the boy’s journal again. He began skimming, doing his best to ignore the entries Bobby had made on their encounter.

  His beer arrived with a frothy head, a cocked hip, and knowing grin, which he ignored. Only after the waiter left did he suck off the head before savoring a mouthful of beer. It was cold. It had that much going for it.

  His BlackBerry vibrated. He looked at the number. My God, it was Petey. The man was like the Black Death; he didn’t know when to quit.

  “I want you in my office the morning you get back from your trip.”

  Something solidified within Chris. “No,” he said. He sat back and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long. “What?”

  “You heard me. But if it wasn’t clear, then hear this: I quit. The only thing you’ll find on your desk when I get back is my official resignation.”

  Silence. Then, “You’re making a big mistake, Bellamere.”

  “I prefer to think I’m correcting one. I’ll get this contract for you, then I’m finished with your bullshit. And don’t think you can give me a bad reference, either, Petey. I know the kinds of sites you visit when you’re sitting in your office all by yourself.”

  “Bellamere—”

  Chris broke the connection. Then he punched in Phil DePalma’s number and gave him the good news. Finally he shut the BlackBerry off. Now he just wanted to finish his drink in silence. He went back to reading the world according to Bobby—

  “Figures I’d find you here.”

  Chris swung around in his booth and gazed up at Tom Clarke.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Delivering this.” He tossed a DataTEK inter-office mail envelope onto the acrylic tabletop.

  Chris eyed the envelope, but made no move to open it. He didn’t waste his time telling Tom he’d quit. He’d find out soon enough. Why make the guy’s weekend?

  “Hey.” Tom grabbed Chris’s beer and upended it, draining the glass. “Peter said you needed it.”

  “Hey!”

  “Oh, was that yours? Here, I’ll get you another one.”

  Chris watched in exasperation as Tom swaggered across the wildly lit bar and spent several minutes talking up the woman behind the bar. Chris looked away in disgust when he put his hand on her arm and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

  Jesus, what a clown. He reached for the envelope, then caught sight of an entry in the Palm Pilot. He pulled it closer to study the small print. Tom plunked a full beer down in front of him, its pale golden head wilted by the rough treatment.

  Tom slid into the chair opposite Chris. He sipped his own drink, something dark on ice. The raw odor of top-shelf scotch wafted over the table.

  Chris did his best to ignore the man.

  Tom stared across the room at the bartender.

  “Like to shove my ten-inch pole up that twat, eh? Have her screaming for more.”

  Chris buried his nose in the beer and gulped a large mouthful. The man was a pig.

  “But I guess that’s not your style, is it, queenie? You’d rather have that ten inches up your own chute.”

  Chris looked up from reading the Palm. “You volunteer for this or did Petey order you to be an ignorant asshole?”

>   Tom grinned.

  Chris took another sip of beer. Bobby was writing about some incredible guy he had met who was going to get him into real films. Some guy who told the poor sap it didn’t matter that he’d done porn, he was going to be the next Johnny Depp. Chris squinted at the blurred writing. Jesus, it couldn’t be. He leaned closer, studying the output on the tiny screen. He recognized that name and how the hell was that possible?

  “What’s that?” Tom reached for the Palm Pilot.

  Chris pulled it out of his reach. “Personal,” he muttered, still squinting, trying to make sense of what he saw on the Palm Pilot’s tiny screen, blinking away a sudden blurriness in his eyes. “That’s not possible.”

  “What’s not possible?”

  Shaking his head and wishing Tom would shut up and go away, Chris stared in befuddled wonder at the fuzzy screen. “On top of everything this guy Tom’s cute as hell.

  So far he hasn’t made any moves and I don’t want to blow it by spooking the guy with a pass if he’s not ready, but man, he’s hot. He’s going to talk to this big producer he knows and maybe I can go for a reading next week. We’ll form our own production company to take it to them. He wants to call it Clarke Pictures. I can hardly wait.”

  “What the hell...” The Palm Pilot slipped out of fingers that felt suddenly like wooden clubs. He reached for it, only to watch it spin out of control and skid across the table.

  Tom caught it and held it up. “My, what’s this, then?”

  Their eyes met; Tom was grinning.

  “Who knew the little faggot kept a diary, eh?”he said and his smile deepened. His eyes remained empty, Chris noticed. Like ice chips.

  “Well don’t think it hasn’t been a slice,” Chris said thickly. “But I gotta make like a tree and shove off—”

  He made it halfway to his feet before his knees gave out on him. Dizzily he collapsed, rattling the table as he banged it with his hip. He blinked at Tom, who swam in his vision and momentarily became two Toms, then a blur of pale flesh.

  “Is something wrong, sir?”

  Chris looked up to find the waiter bending over the table, bland curiosity on his wavering face. Chris shook his head in growing alarm and stared at Tom, who was suddenly standing beside him.

  “He’s the—”

  “My friend’s just had a bit too much to drink. I’ll help him get on his flight.” Tom was shaking his blond head. “His wife’s going to be so disappointed. You swore you stopped drinking, buddy. Even did the AA thing. Now look at you.”

  The waiter receded, losing interest once he heard wife. Tom grabbed Chris’s elbow in an iron grip.

  “No...” Chris tried to pull away. His words came out as barely a whisper.

  “Oh, I’m afraid yes. I’m going to take good care of you, aren’t I, Chris?”

  Chris fumbled with his BlackBerry, trying to hit keys with wooden fingers. Before he could do more than activate it, Tom wrenched it away and tossed it onto the chair beside Chris.

  “You really won’t be needing that anymore.” Tom leaned over and his sour breath brushed Chris’s face. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed, Chris. It’ll be a real scream.”

  Sunday, 9:50 pm, Tyburn Street, Glendale

  David pulled off the Hollywood Freeway. The clock on the dash said ten. He was running late. A two-car collision on the Santa Monica Freeway had slowed him down. He grabbed the cell off the seat where Chris had dropped it and speed-dialed Martinez.

  “I’m about ten minutes away. Where are you?”

  “Just pulling into Tyburn Street. How ’bout I wait for you and we go up together.”

  “Suits me.”

  David tossed the phone back on the seat. He caught the red and white running lights of a plane overhead and watched it briefly. Chris would be in the air by now. He wasn’t sure what the future was going to bring them, but after the last couple of days he was no longer going to reject their relationship out of hand. Give it a chance, Chris had asked. He couldn’t do less than that. He loved the man. He couldn’t just turn his back, however big a fool that made him.

  He pulled onto Tyburn Street, near the Los Angeles River, and drew up behind Martinez’s brown Crown Victoria in front of a vacant lot. Martinez hopped out and strolled back. He stopped at the front fender.

  They both stared at the vacant lot. The only sign of life was a wasted mongrel rooting around in a pile of garbage at the end of the block.

  David kicked at the curb, loosening a fast-food wrapper that skittered off down the street. “Someone’s jerking our chain. Tell me this wasn’t a wild goose chase.”

  Martinez swore under his breath.

  David laid his hand on his partner’s arm. Martinez flinched away; David pretended not to notice. “It’s a bust. Isn’t the first time. But listen, we’re not far from the Anstroms’

  place. Why don’t we see if they’re home? Maybe she remembers seeing Daniel with Trevor.”

  Before they could go anywhere David’s cell rang. When he hung up he shook his head.

  “That was the switchboard. The Highway Patrol pulled a body out of a dumpster in the Charlton Flat—in an area the Forest Service just closed off recently.”

  “So if our helpful doer hadn’t sent that picture it would have stayed there for months.”

  “Years,” David corrected. “They close portions of Charlton Flat for ten years. To improve erosion control.”

  “Who’s got the d.b.?”

  “They’re going to bring the body down to the coroner’s. We’ll get the initial autopsy results early next week.” David brushed his leg. “Ready to go talk to Daniel’s mother?”

  Martinez didn’t have a better suggestion, so they wound their way through dark streets until they pulled into the Anstroms’ driveway.

  Several spotlights lighted up the familiar three-story Cape Cod. Through the front window David could see the flickering blue glow of a television.

  The woman David had met earlier, when he came with news of her son’s death, opened the door. Edith Anstrom appeared older now, more careworn.

  “Mrs. Anstrom?” David said. “We met earlier...?”

  “Yes, I remember you.” She looked from David to Martinez.

  “This is my partner, Detective Martinez Diego.”

  “What is this about?”

  “We have a picture we’d like you to look at, see if you recognize someone.”

  “I was in the living room watching the news,” Edith said. She lowered her voice. “Is this about Daniel?”

  Preferring not to prejudice her into making an ID just to get closure on her son’s death, David said, “We’re looking for anyone who might have information regarding your son’s disappearance.”

  Edith indicated a beveled wooden door with multiple panes of glass engraved with images of old sailing ships. “We can do this in the living room.”

  If Edith wasn’t a sailor, her husband must be one. The theme of ships and the East Coast permeated the cozy living room.

  Above a fieldstone fireplace the wooden mantelpiece was packed with sailing treasures: a sextant, a pair of finely wrought reproductions of old sailing vessels complete with cotton sails that looked ready to catch a stiff southwest breeze.

  A gray-muzzled basset hound raised its massive head when they entered the room. It looked at them with rheumy eyes, then seemed to decide they were no threat it could handle and promptly went back to sleep.

  Edith watched them through piercing hazel eyes that had David mentally examining his state of dress. Had he left his fly open? Was his tie crooked?

  “Whose picture is it?” she asked in a whiskey voice that spoke of years of smoking.

  “We don’t know, ma’am,” David lied. “That’s why we’d like you to look at it. Tell us if you recognize him.”

  “At least you admit it’s a man’s picture. You probably know a lot more than you’re letting on, but you won’t tell me anything. Don’t want to influence me, do you?”

  �
�Ma’am?”

  “Oh, don’t play dumb, young man,” she said. “I hate it when men play dumb just because some woman lets them know she understands their game. Now, show me this picture.”

  Trying to hide his smile, David handed her the police artist’s sketch of Trevor Watson.

  She laid it in her lap. Immediately Edith’s hands began to shake. She stared down at the picture in her lap.

  “What on earth are you doing with a picture of our nephew?”

  “Your nephew?” David leaned forward. “This man is related to you?”

  “Well, not really.” Edith fluttered her hands. “It’s more a relationship by marriage.

  Trevor was my son-in-law’s brother. Half-brother, actually. He used to work for some company that made atrocious movies.”

  “Do you see him often?” David asked.

  “Once a month, perhaps. Holidays he would come for dinner. He had no other family.

  His own parents were dead, had been for years, as I understand it.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “He was here last weekend. His landlord was hassling him about paying more rent for that dump he lived in so Trevor asked if he could stay here a few days.”

  “Did Trevor know Daniel?”

  “Of course. They weren’t exactly friends, Trevor being so much older than Daniel, but they got along well enough. At Christmas they used to horse around and if we had one of our big picnics on July Fourth they’d usually end up playing football or some other rough-and-tumble boy’s game.”

  “Did you see him just before Daniel disappeared?” David was making less and less sense of this. Why would Trevor need to drug Anstrom to get him away from his friends?

  He could have taken him anytime, and not from in front of people who might know him.

  Edith didn’t answer right away. She stared across the room at the mantelpiece full of memories, her hand resting atop the Basset hound’s head. The dog’s snores filled the silence.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I did see him. He brought Daniel home that night he got so dreadfully sick. Later we figured he must have eaten a bad hot dog earlier that afternoon.