L.A. Boneyard

by P. A. Brown

  “Does that ever happen to you, Martinez? Do you ignore your family, your wife and kids, because you’re ‘down’?”

  “You don’t know Inez, you say that. No one ignores that lady, not if they want to stay healthy.”

  Chris forced a laugh. From David he knew that Martinez idolized his wife and five kids.

  “I just wish I knew what was bugging him,” Chris said. “Can you talk to him, Martinez? Find out what’s wrong?”

  “Not a good idea, man. David wouldn’t appreciate either of us butting our noses into his business.”

  Chris sighed. He knew Martinez was right. It had been a long shot. If he wanted to find out what was eating at David he’d have to do it on his own.

  He told Martinez he would let David know he had called.

  Soon after breaking the conversation, Chris climbed the steps to bed, trailed by Sergeant who seemed subdued, as though he knew something was wrong. Just not what.

  He tried to out wait David, but at midnight he had to surrender to another night spent alone. Sergeant crept into bed as he dozed off and he didn’t have the heart to kick the dog off.

  It was only as sleep crept over him that he realized Jairo had never answered his question about whether he lived in Silver Lake.

  When he woke the next morning the bed beside him was empty, both David and the dog were nowhere in evidence, though there was a faint lingering smell of David’s scent. Chris rolled over and hugged David’s pillow to his face, inhaling deeply. At first he thought it was the dog roaming around downstairs, then he realized it was David.

  He scrambled out of bed and threw on a robe. He’d get dressed later, after David left for work.

  140 P.A. Brown

  He found David sitting at the engraved Santa Fe table, a fresh cup of coffee in front of him. He had the sports section of the Times open on the table before him. Sergeant lay sprawled at his feet under the table. Both of them looked up when Chris entered the room.

  Chris made no move to kiss David, who didn’t seem to notice the lapse. He grabbed a coffee, dosed it liberally with flavored cream and sat opposite David.

  “Busy again last night?”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty hectic these days.”

  “So what time did you get home?”

  “Wasn’t paying much attention. What time did you go to bed?”

  “Late,” Chris said flatly.

  David picked up a blueberry muffin from the basket he had put together. He slathered the warm muffin with butter. He avoided Chris’s eyes as he chewed on it, eyes glued on the basketball scores inside the paper.

  “Your partner came by last night. He live around here?”

  David took a sudden deep breath, and Chris could have sworn his normally swarthy face grew pale. “Jairo?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. You got more than one partner?”

  “Ah, no, he’s the only one,” David muttered. “What did he want?”

  “He didn’t really say. Just he was out walking his dog and he liked the park. So,” Chris fished out a lemon poppyseed muffin, and took a bite, though the last thing he wanted was food. A fluttering worm had invaded his gut. “He live around here?”

  “Ah, don’t know exactly where he lives. It never came up...”

  David dropped his half-eaten muffin onto the plate, not seeming to notice the spray of crumbs that dusted the table in front of him. He grabbed his coffee, sucking it down quickly.

  He stood up.

  “Well, I have to run.” David leaned over and brushed his lips over Chris’s. “Have a good day.”

  L.A. BONEYARD 141

  “And don’t wait up, right?”

  The outer door shut and Chris sank back into his chair. He stared unseeing at the empty place across from him. The dog rose, his toenails clicking on the tile. Finally Chris got up and used a damp towel to wipe the table clean. Sergeant watched him intently.

  He had lied. David had lied about not knowing where Jairo lived. David never lied. About anything.

  “What the hell is going on?” Chris whispered to the dog.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sunday, 7:55 AM, Northeast Community Police Station, San Fernando Road, Los Angeles

  David sat at his desk, his PC booted up, but inactive. David stared at it, but didn’t see the screen. He couldn’t believe it.

  What the hell was Jairo up to? Did he think if he made Chris realize what was going on, that Chris would leave him, and he’d be free to pursue Jairo? The man couldn’t be that egotistical, could he?

  Or was he just playing games, letting David know he could ruin his happy little family? And what? Leave him to pick up the pieces?

  Jairo came in, shrugging off his black suit jacket and flinging it over the back of his chair. He fired up his laptop.

  David kept his voice low, but did nothing to conceal the fury in his tone. “You went to see Chris last night?”

  Jairo blinked at him, and David could have sworn there was a small smile around his shadowed, unshaved mouth. “He tell you that? Yeah, I was in the neighborhood. Don’t worry,” he said softly. “Nothing happened between us.”

  Rage flowed through David. He felt the heat in his face, and it felt like he was watching Jairo through a narrow looking-glass, that distorted the younger man’s face. “You stay the hell away from him. He’s not part of your sick fantasy.”

  “Sure, no problem. He’s not my type anyway. I like strong men. The kind who know how to give orders and make you obey them.” His voice became liquid honey. “You and me, we could have something hot. You just don’t want to admit it.”

  “We are having nothing,” David said. “Get that. This is not going to continue. There’s an order for you. Back down, Detective. Before I do something we’ll both be sorry for.”

  144 P.A. Brown

  Jairo shrugged. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  David forced himself back into work mode, knowing if he continued in this vein, he’d do or say something he’d regret.

  “Call forensics. Don’t let it go until they give you something.

  When you get it, write up a report and drop it on my desk. Mess it up and I’ll make you do it over.”

  Jairo’s smile slipped. “Yes, Detective.” He swung around in his chair and began tapping away at his PC.

  “When you’re done that, follow up on the dental records.

  Then you can tackle Fenton about the tox report.”

  Jairo didn’t respond that time.

  David forced his attention on his own reports. He needed to write up his latest incident report with the information about the Ukrainian gynecologist, Dr. Sevchuk. First thing he needed to know was if the guy was also Zuzanna Konjenko’s doctor.

  The two Jane Does found in the Griffith Park grave had also been pregnant. David didn’t believe in coincidences. Someone was killing pregnant Ukrainian women. The why totally escaped him. Could one man get three women pregnant, then decide to terminate those pregnancies the hard way? Seemed farfetched, though not an unreachable conclusion. In his fifteen years on the force, he’d seen his share of unspeakable atrocities committed for the dumbest reasons.

  His cell rang. It was Martinez.

  “How’s it going, cuz?”

  “It’s fine,” David said, throwing a glance at Jairo then turning his back on the younger man. “Something up?”

  “Nah, just in between dead Chingasos here. I don’t know how the hell we ever got to a place where we can elect a bloody mayor, when we can’t stop killing ourselves. Seems like we stop long enough to go to the polls, then pull out the AKs again.

  And between the commission being a tool for the ACLU and community leaders only interested in getting their names in the news, it’s a wonder we can do anything about it except clean up the bodies and bag ‘em for the morgue. They representing the hood,” Martinez said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Damn fools L.A. BONEYARD 145

  live and die in dog years. Yeah, they representing. Should get measured for body b
ags when they born. So,” Martinez said laconically. “How are you guys doing? Haven’t seen you or Chris in a while.”

  Something in Martinez’s voice alerted David. He straightened and said, “What do you mean?”

  “Everything okay with you two?”

  “Sure, why wouldn’t it be?” A light went off. “You’ve been talking to Chris.”

  “I, uh, called your place last night, but you were still at work.

  Wasn’t important enough to try to catch you there. Things are kosher with you guys then? It’s hard enough in this business to find someone who cares once they know what we do, but to find someone who will stick by you. That’s rare, man. You don’t want to lose that.”

  “I know how special Chris is,” David said stiffly. He never thought he’d live to hear Martinez giving him romantic advice.

  “You don’t need to tell me that.”

  “Good. Good. So, how’s the new boot working for you?”

  David was silent. He heard Martinez’s sigh.

  “That bad, huh? Well, you can look at it this way, it’s only six months. I gather Chris isn’t too thrilled by the dude. He another homo-hater? Sorry, man, didn’t mean—”

  “That’s okay,” David muttered. He was used to Martinez, which was part of the problem, wasn’t it? “Besides he’s not really a boot. He is a detective first grade.”

  “Worse than a boot, you ask me. Think they know it all.

  Least a boot knows he’s green.”

  Which was true enough, but David’s problem with Jairo had nothing to do with what he thought he knew, but in the feeling David had that he’d like to find out what going to bed with the young man would be like. He refused to acknowledge the desire. He wasn’t like that. Wouldn’t be like that, for anyone but Chris. “Not going to happen,” he muttered.

  146 P.A. Brown

  “What, man? What’s not going to happen? You got some shit going down there, socio? Don’t fuck with me, man. You know I hate that shit worse than a liar.”

  “Nothing. Everything copasetic.”

  “Well, okay,” Martinez didn’t sound like he was a believer.

  “We’ll have to pop out for a drink sometime, play catchup. I can tell you all about rousting bangers and playing pit bull soccer.”

  “Pit bull—never mind, I don’t want to know. You almost sound like you’re having fun. You aren’t going to ask for a permanent transfer, are you?”

  “Too damn many chollos around here,” Martinez said, under his breath. “Damn homies, always down with their brothers, don’t know enough to stay in the house, gotta run with the bangers and make macho. Bunch of bullshit. Glad I’m not like that.”

  Oh no, nothing machismo about Martinez. For the first time in days David smiled. “Well, I’ll keep your desk warm.”

  “Tell that little boot he messes with my stuff I’ll shine his Sam Browne with ceiling wax.”

  David didn’t bother reminding Martinez that Jairo didn’t wear a Sam Browne.

  He got off the phone the same time Jairo put his down with a war whoop. “Righteous shit,” he said. “I got the LUDs off that cell. And an owner.” He held up his notes and read, “So, we can get subpoenas for the owner now, right? Based on those LUDs?”

  “Maybe,” David said. “Let’s see what we got first. We’ll worry about the paper later. Before we go, call forensics again about those autopsy results.”

  They headed out, to sign a car out of the pool, and drove over to pick up the evidence. The LUDs, or Local Area Usage details, would tell them who, and when, the cell had called, and been called. Besides all the local calls, most modern phones contained commonly used telephone numbers, appointments and calendars.

  L.A. BONEYARD 147

  “Get this,” Jairo said. “One of the numbers this guy keeps calling is to a known Avenues banger.”

  David straightened. “What does a dead Ukrainian hooker have to do with an Avenues banger?”

  “Good question. I’ll put it in my report,” Jairo said with a touch of acid, which David ignored.

  Jairo went in and retrieved the paperwork from the technician who had processed the cell. David remained in the car, where the heat from the newly risen sun quickly turned the interior into an oven. He should have been sweltering, but all he felt was a numb coldness that no amount of sun seemed able to dispel.

  He had to talk to Chris. Had to make him understand that while there was nothing going on, he had thought about it. Chris deserved that much.

  A small voice nagged him. But what if Chris got so angry he left? Can you live with that? Can you really live without him?

  If I have to, came the cold thought.

  His phone rang. It was the coroner’s office. The results of the autopsy on Zuzanna Konjenko had been finalized.

  “We found the tattoo you suggested we look for,” Fenton said. “A symbol, unrecognized, on her upper thigh. And the fly eggs appear to be Musca domestica Linnaeus, which is just a fancy name for house fly. Often first on site and found indoors.

  Suggests she was killed indoors then moved outside to be buried.”

  “Thanks, Doctor. I think that’s a solid ID. It’s Zuzanna.”

  “And we confirmed the presence of chloral hydrate in sufficient quantities to cause diminished capacity in the original dead woman. The one who went off the freeway overpass.”

  “Knock out drops? They still use that?” The drug of choice today was GHB or ketamine.

  “Good old Mickey Finns,” the forensic technician said.

  “Sometimes the old ways work best.”

  148 P.A. Brown

  Jairo returned, and David took the printouts from him, telling him about the chloral hydrate. Jairo didn’t seem surprised. David skimmed through them, noting when the same numbers occurred. Each one would have to be run, to see who was on the other end. It would be a tedious job. He flipped through to the end of sheets. On a separate page the account holder’s name: Valerian Mikalenko. Mickey.

  The second number was even more interesting. It was a Hollywood exchange, like Mikalenko’s. He flipped through the notes Jairo had made on his own discoveries. There it was: Dr.

  Jozef Sevchuk, Halyna’s gynecologist.

  “Bingo,” he said.

  Jairo cocked his head. “What?”

  “Well, there’s our connection,” he said softly. “Dr. Jozef Sevchuk called Mikalenko. Or Mikalenko called him. Now we just have to find them both and get their side of the story.”

  Back at the station he pulled out the arrest report for Mikalenko. He had been sentenced to eight years, spent five in Corcoran. He tracked down his probation officer. Gus Stevenson worked out of the Los Angeles County probation office. No one was in the office on Sunday. He found Mikalenko’s last known address from DMV instead. It was on Cherokee Street in Hollywood. Not more than four blocks from Halyna and Konjenko’s house on Leland Way. Another coincidence? Or a man keeping a close eye on his stable?

  David added the information to the growing file on his little-known Mikalenko. The DMV records showed a car registered to him. A 2009 Caddie. Someone was doing pretty good. The property was registered to a holding company. A front or a legitimate property holder? The owners of record didn’t seem to exist outside of paper.

  He told Jairo his findings.

  “So we go visit the place? See if Mickey is still in residence?”

  “Do some more digging on the guy. Financials, whatever we can find. If his source of income is hinky, it may give us grounds for a search warrant.”

  L.A. BONEYARD 149

  Jairo snorted. “We need the warrants to find the information we need, not the other way around.”

  “Welcome to the wonderful world of modern day policing.”

  “Sometimes I think I should have become an accountant.”

  “There’s still time. Lots of people go back to school at your age.”

  “Yeah, but where’s the fun in accounting? No one ever tries to whack a CPA.”

  �
��I’m sure you could find someone who’d make an exception.”

  “Funny.”

  David shrugged. “Some excitement I can do without.”

  “Don’t you get off on the adrenaline high? The rush?”

  David only gave him a dark look. “If you’re going to be a blue flamer, and get us both killed, do me a favor, transfer out. I don’t need the headache.”

  “I told you I’m not a quitter.”

  “Bully for you.”

  “Who pissed in your Wheaties this morning?”

  “You did, remember? With your little chat with Chris?”

  “That’s water under the bridge. Told you nothing happened.”

  David shook his head. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “I get you,” Jairo said. “Better than you do. If you were just honest—”

  “Stop it. Now.” David’s voice went up, and he was aware of several eyes swiveling toward him, and Jairo. Ears alert to some juicy gossip. “Can it, Detective.”

  “Sure.” Jairo smiled again. “Whatever you say.”

  150 P.A. Brown

  Sunday, 11:40 AM, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles Chris dragged himself upstairs to take a shower, though all he really wanted to do was crawl back into bed and escape through sleep. Escape what he wasn’t sure of, he just knew something was going on in David’s life and he wasn’t sharing.

  And that scared Chris. What could be so bad David had to keep it locked up, eating him up inside? What would make David lie?

  When he climbed out of the shower, and wandered into the bedroom, toweling himself dry, he stood a moment staring down at the king-sized bed that had been such a source of joy in their relationship. What the hell had gone wrong? He couldn’t recall the last time they had made love. He didn’t count his midnight seduction. He hadn’t given David the chance to reject his advances. Before that... it had to be before his accident. Two weeks? God, could it have been three? No, not that long. But too long. Even after four years, he and David had a very active sex life. It was the one arena where they could forget their differences. So what had changed?