by P. A. Brown
“Is over, sir. He is gone.”
L.A. BONEYARD 327
David blinked and met Konstatinov’s gaze. He drew back as cops began pouring in to the yard. The airship swooped down, and hovered over the crash site. David could make out Degrasses, lying in a heap beside his Uzi, the bandanna he had used as camouflage in his wasted run for freedom lying in a pool of blood by his right hand.
A news chopper from Channel 5 swooped in beside the LAPD airship, the dust it kicked up getting into David’s eyes.
He raised his hand to shield his face, blinking away the sudden rush of tears.
A female uni approached him. “Sir, we found something you’re going to want to see.”
David stumbled after her, dashing tears and dust off his face, knowing he was making a smeary mess. The female uni fingered her baton, and eyed him warily.
“It looks like they just got here around the same time we did.”
The trailer was opened, and inside, David could see at least a dozen women, huddled in the back of the trailer. Most of them looked shell-shocked. A few had obviously been crying. David looked around until he spotted Konstatinov, who looked as ragged as David felt. No time for that right now. Konstatinov ignored the EMT who was trying to get him to go with him to the bus. No time for that now.
“Can you talk to them?” David asked, also ignoring a second EMT, who wanted to check him over. “Tell them everything is going to be okay. They have to come down to the station with us, but we’ll get them something to eat. Tell them...” David shook his head, his vision blurring. “Tell them welcome to America.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 10:20 AM St. Peter Claver Catholic Church, Pittman Street, Simi Valley
The funeral was held under a cloudless California sky. The brightness was a sharp contrast to the somber gathering of uniformed officers, civilian mourners, and TV crews clustered around the entrance to the grounds. David, and three other men who had worked with Jairo since his Academy days, stood at attention as the hearse carrying Jairo’s body drove into the Simi Valley church yard. David’s dress uniform and white gloves chafed in the growing heat. Once the vehicle stopped, the four of them took up position on each corner of the black hearse. Behind and above them an honor guard of motorcycles and the missing man formation of LAPD airships muttered over the silence of the mourners. Jairo’s widow and the rest of his family, including his two young sons, huddled apart from the sea of blue that filled the cemetery.
Sunlight glittered off chrome, and the array of ceremonial rifles, the leather saddle, and boots of the riderless horse, and the laminated graduation photo of Jairo that most of those present had pinned to their uniforms. A stiff breeze blew off the distant Santa Susana Mountains, and set the funeral vehicle flags flapping. Overhead a redtail hawk rode the currents.
Beyond the gates of the cemetery cars were still entering the grounds. The streets leading to the ceremony had been closed to all but funeral traffic. Cops had come from as far as New York, Alaska and even Canada to attend the funeral of one of their own. The four guards moved off with the hearse, followed by the restless horse, making their way toward the burial plot where the white frocked priest waited in his vestments.
David’s gaze swept over the massed crowds, past the dignitaries, including the Chief of Police, the Los Angeles Mayor, and the LAFD Fire Chief, moving up the ranks of white 330 P.A. Brown
grave stones, and green slopes to the edge of the cemetery. A pair of fire trucks had been brought in, their ladders crossed, holding a massive flag suspended and whipping in the wind. His gaze followed the hills up. That was when he saw Chris.
He stood above the funeral, dressed in black like the other civilian mourners, his slender figure standing stiffly, feet braced as though in a gale wind. He was too far away to see his eyes but David knew he was staring at him.
Since Jairo’s death David had made no attempt to contact Chris, and Chris had not called him. It was better that way.
David’s guilt rode him like a hair shirt. He had failed one person miserably; he couldn’t stand it if he failed Chris, too.
The ceremony ended. The Chief of Police spoke about the tragedy that had befallen one of their own. The rifle salute was fired, the flag folded and presented to Jairo’s widow, along with Jairo’s shield, then the casket was interred. She wept when she accepted them. Clinging to her legs her two sons stared wide-eyed around them, not comprehending what it all meant. Not comprehending that their father wasn’t coming home anymore.
As the crowd dispersed, and made their way back to their cars, David approached Jairo’s wife. She looked up at him, her eyes glazed with fresh tears. He stopped in front of her.
“I’m so sorry, Señora Hernandez. If there’s anything I can do now or in the future...” He took a deep breath. “He was a good cop, Señora. One of the best. ”
The oldest boy, who might have been around twelve, though David was no judge of children’s ages, tucked ragged, chewed fingernails in his mouth and stared solemnly at David.
David knelt down in front of him. “I knew your daddy,” he said, awkward as hell. Kids intimidated him. “I was his friend. If you ever want to know about your dad you come talk to me.”
The boy vigorously chewed on his fingers, eyes wide and staring. His gaze flickered over the photo David had secured to his uniform, then stared at the Smith & Wesson David had donned as part of his formal uniform.
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David unclipped the picture and handed it to the boy.
“Always remember, your dad was one of the good guys.”
The boy clutched the picture, his fingernails forgotten.
David met the woman’s gaze again. “You take care of them.
Jairo was very proud of all of you. He talked... he talked about you all the time.”
She held the folded flag in both hands, pressed under her breasts with a well-worn Bible. “G-gracias. He talked of you, too.
He was so thrilled to become a detective in your unit. It was all he ever wanted.”
David handed over his card, the one with his cell phone number on it. “Please, call me. Anytime. I’ll always be there for you.”
She forced a shaky smile, and tucked the card into her Bible.
“Gracias.” Then she turned, and led her children out to where the Chief of Police and the Mayor waited to offer their own personal condolences.
David slipped away, retreating to his Chevy. A quick glance up the hill revealed Chris was gone. A tightness invaded David’s chest. He thought of going in search of his lover, but shoved the need out of his mind. Let him go. Do one thing right.
Degrasses might be history, but there was still paperwork to tend to. Rules to follow. It was, in the end, the only certainty left in his life.
Tuesday, 8:20 AM Children’s Hospital, Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles David pushed open the door to the hospital room. In a scene eerily reminiscent of his visit to Jairo, the boy lay silent, encased in a web of tubes, catheters and IV lines. The steady thrum of machinery recording every function seemed more alive than the boy himself.
David stood beside the bed, and stared down at the sunken eyes, and the spider thin fingers lying limp on top of the starched hospital sheet.
332 P.A. Brown
He glanced back when a pink-gowned woman entered the room. “Detective Laine?” When he nodded, she extended her hand. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.”
David wanted to ask her what that was. Saving the boy?
Killing Degrasses? Rescuing the other trafficking victims?
Funny, Force Investigation Division hadn’t thanked him for any of that. He was on review for drawing and discharging his weapon causing a death, and the labyrinthine passage through FID’s justice system had only started. It could well go on for weeks, and if they decided it wasn’t a righteous shoot, he could lose his job, and his pension. Maybe even his freedom. As it was, he was on administrative leave until the whole iss
ue was resolved and the Behavior Sciences Section cleared him to return to active duty. It didn’t help that he would carry the guilt of Jairo’s death with him for the rest of his life. BSS couldn’t help him with that.
But that wasn’t this woman’s problem. He nodded toward the boy. “Any idea yet who he is?”
“None, I’m afraid. One of our nurse’s aides reported he spoke last night. She didn’t recognize the language. It wasn’t English or Spanish, and she’s pretty sure it wasn’t Korean or Chinese. Or anything she’s ever heard.” The woman shrugged.
“We just have to wait until he wakes up.”
“Have you figured out what he was drugged with?”
“That we do know. Chloral hydrate. It was unusual enough to get the doctors talking about it yesterday on rounds. They don’t see much of that anymore.”
“Good old Mickey Finn.”
“Is that what they used to call it?”
“But he’s going to be okay?” David studied the comatose figure.
“No sign of brain damage, so he should be fine. Of course that doesn’t mean much, if we can’t figure out who he is.”
She excused herself and left. He stayed, watching over the boy until the day waned, and the supper carts began to roll down the corridor, outside the door.
L.A. BONEYARD 333
Friday, 8:40 PM, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles David had tried to stay away. But in the wake of Jairo’s death, and the gray pall that hung over the division, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Chris. Children’s Services had taken the boy into foster care, while they had gone about finding out who he was. The boy, whose name was Anbu, turned out to be from the province of Tamil Nadu, in the Indian subcontinent, and a Tamil interpreter had been found to take a statement, which thoroughly condemned Degrasses, and went a long way toward demonizing him in the press. Whether it helped David’s case, he never knew. But in the end FID ruled the death of Degrasses and the banger a good shooting, and BSS cleared his psyche eval, and he was put back on duty, with Bull as his partner until Martinez finished up his tour of duty at the 77th. There were some leads on Anbu’s family, and public financial support had been pouring in to aid in the search.
David suspected the boy and his family would be well taken care of. Meanwhile Sevchuk pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to four years, less time served, stripped of his medical license and being held for deportation.
Ten days after Chris had vanished from the funeral, David drove up Cove from Silver Lake Boulevard and saw a new lime green Escape hybrid parked in the cobblestone driveway. The front room lights were on, as was a single light from the upstairs hall. David jumped out of his Chevy, and hurried up the cobblestone driveway. His knock was met with wild barking on the other side. By the time the door was finally thrown open Sergeant was in a near frenzy, and David’s heart was pounding in his chest.
He and Chris stared at each other across the tiny courtyard.
Sergeant wound around their legs, snuffling, and shoving his damp nose into David’s hand, whining softly.
“Hey,” David said cupping the dog’s head.
“David. I was really sorry to hear about your partner.”
David didn’t want to talk about Jairo. “Can I come in?”
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Chris stepped aside, and David slipped past him. Sergeant was in his space the entire time, nearly tripping both of them, before Chris told him to go lie down. Chris led David into the kitchen, where a bottle of wine sat on the Santa Fe table with a half-filled glass. A mess of dirty dishes littered the counter and the sink. The faint odor of stale cooking filled the normally immaculate room. Through the open patio doors, the smell of night-blooming jasmine overrode some of the stink.
Chris fished a Bud out of the fridge and slid it across the table unasked. David raised it to his lips and drained half of it.
“How have you been?” he asked.
Chris shrugged. “Keeping busy with work. How about you?
I hear you were cleared of that shooting. I’m glad. That was so wrong, to try to punish you for killing that monster. At least you stopped that smuggling ring”
“I didn’t really do anything—”
“Stop it, David. For once, stop belittling what you do. You solved this case. You found that little boy, and saved more than his life. Stop pretending like it’s nothing.”
“And I got my partner killed,” David said softly.
“That wasn’t your fault, David. That gangbanger did that.”
David shook his head. “I was his senior officer. I should have kept a tighter rein on him.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. You’re a good cop, David. One of the best men I’ve ever known. They cleared you—that has to mean something.”
“No, none of it means anything if I’ve lost you.”
“Maybe you aren’t going to lose me.”
On the kitchen table, the front page of the L.A Times, covering the funeral, was folded beside the even more lurid photo that had appeared in the Los Angeles Special of the interior of the house on Drew Street, showing a blood-covered David holding a dying Jairo in his arms, under the heading
“Cop Dies.” Both David and Jairo looked shell-shocked. The cameraman had captured David’s rage and sorrow well. No L.A. BONEYARD 335
doubt the guy would win an award for the pathos of it all.
Would it be worth more if he knew he was ruining David’s life?
Probably. The Special was a notorious rag that specialized in capturing celebrities in their excesses.
David ignored it. As he ignored everything but Chris.
“I may be going out of town for a few days,” Chris said.
David’s heart sank. “Where will you go?”
“To my sister’s in Oakland. She’s been bugging me to come up and see the new baby. I guess now’s a good time...”
“We can go together—”
Chris shook his head. “Not this time. I need to think. I need... I don’t know what I need, but I can’t find it here. I’ll take the dog with me. I spoke to my sister, and she’s okay with it. They’ve already got a house full of animals, one more won’t make any difference. I need to wrap my head around the fact that you might not be there the next time I turn around.” He glanced pointedly at the picture, and David didn’t know if he meant getting shot or going off with someone like Jairo. He didn’t dare ask.
“Chris—” But before he could finish the sentence Chris was gone. David slumped at the kitchen table. Sergeant watched him with reproachful eyes, then got up and left the room. David could hear the click-click of his toenails on the tile steps.
Outside, the intoxicating smell of the night-blooming jasmine drifted in. Something croaked out in his garden.
From upstairs came banging, and a door slammed. Probably the bedroom closet. Knowing he had to do something, or Chris really would leave, and then where would he be? David took the stairs two at a time. He found Chris in the bedroom, his suitcase on the bed, half-packed. David’s heart plummeted further into his stomach.
“I’m trying to save us,” he said quietly from the doorway.
“Are we worth saving?”
“Yes, I think we are. I love you, Chris.” David came around to the side of the bed, forcing Chris to look at him. “That has to 336 P.A. Brown
be worth something. I’m sorry I let you down. I let us both down. You know I’ve always done my best to keep safe for you.
I’m not reckless—”
Chris stood, holding a silk shirt. He stared at David. “But can I trust you ever again?”
“You can trust me.”
“You lied to me.” Chris dropped the shirt unfolded into the suitcase. Suddenly his legs seemed to give out and he sank onto the bed. “I don’t know. I don’t ever want that person in the flag-covered coffin to be you...”
“I’m sorry about the lie. I never should have been anything but honest with you. I panicked... Okay, I messed up, I know—
“No, David. You didn’t mess up. You fucked up. You fucked up big time. Say it. For God’s sake, say it and mean it.”
David closed his eyes. “Okay,” he whispered. “I fucked up.
Totally and completely. Now can you forgive me?”
Chris stood. He slammed the suitcase shut, and threw it on the floor in the corner of the room. The latch hadn’t caught, and it popped open, flinging neatly folded clothes all over the room. He ignored the mess.
He came around to stand in front of David, who could feel the heat off his body. The tantalizing, and achingly familiar smell of his cologne filled David’s senses. Chris took both hands in his. His voice was husky. “I love you David. I always have and God willing, I always will. But if you ever pull a stunt like that again I will do something violent. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Then I forgive you.” He framed David’s face with his hands. “Completely. Without reservation.”
“No more doubt?” David whispered.
“None.”
Chris leaned over and gently planted his mouth on David’s.
The gentleness lasted all of thirty seconds. David’s fists closed over Chris’s polo shirt, and his mouth grew savage, and L.A. BONEYARD 337
demanding. Their tongues tangled, as they fought and clawed their way to the bed, where they fell full out across its patterned surface. David broke for air, and wrenched Chris’s shirt up, exposing his belly. He raised himself up on one elbow and met Chris’s glazed eyes.
“Get that off.”
Chris fumbled his clothes off with hands that shook. He had barely shed his jeans before David was on him, his hot mouth pressing against his throat, feeling his pulse thunder under his lips. Chris wound his fingers through David’s thick hair, whispering his name. David traced a path of fire over the hard skin of his chest, tasting salt, and passion. Chris moaned and urged him down. David ignored his plea, and continued his leisurely path. He left a trail of heat over the nubs of his nipples that swelled in his mouth.