by P. A. Brown
Chris seemed to know immediately what he meant. “About leaving the LAPD? Yeah, I’ve thought about it, a lot.”
“And?”
Chris sipped his wine, twirling the Sauvignon Blanc around in the glass. “I think you should do what you want,” he finally said.
“You’re a damn good cop and if that’s what you want to be, I support you one hundred percent.”
David was skeptical. “Yeah? I thought you hated it.”
“I don’t hate it. I’m scared for you. I don’t want to get a phone call from Martinez some night that you’ve been shot, maybe dead.” Chris shivered. “But I also know that could happen anywhere, anytime. Hell, look where we live. There’s no guarantees even if you became an accountant that some act of random violence wouldn’t hit you.”
176 P.A. Brown
“An accountant?” David made a face. “I’d die all right. Of boredom.”
“I’m sure even accountants can be hot and sexy.”
“You haven’t met many accountants, have you?”
Chris laughed. He reached across the table and took David’s hand. His eyes darkened when he said, “No, but I do know one very hot and very sexy homicide detective. Maybe you know him? I found him and brought him home and I plan on keeping him, for forever and ever.” Chris raised his hand and kissed it, then sighed, growing serious again. “The bottom line is, you love being a cop, and if becoming a private investigator is only on account of me, then don’t do it. I want you to do what makes you happy. Honest. Don’t compromise that just for me. I don’t want you resenting me.” He let his fingers dance up David’s muscular chest. “I can think of a dozen other ways you can make me happy.”
David squeezed his hand and raised it to his mouth.
After supper Chris wanted to go swimming one more time.
David sat on the beach reading his book. He glanced occasionally at Chris, noting how brown he had become from a few days of lazing in the sun. If anything it made him even more beautiful.
Too beautiful for mere words, and David still didn’t understand what Chris saw in an aging, beat-up cop like himself. Finally, as the sun slipped behind the screen of ice plants and casuarina trees, they returned to their room. David flipped on the TV and found a local news broadcast. Chris brought in a Bud for David and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc for himself.
They were still talking about the tropical storm Fay heading toward Bermuda. The prediction now was that it might make landfall by Saturday.
“And we can’t leave even if we wanted to,” Chris said. He sprawled out on top of the flowered comforter, his wine on the table beside him.
“We’re fine if we stay inside,” David said. “This place is pretty solid. Remember what the cabbie said, these homes don’t blow BeRMudA heAt 177
down.”
“It would be a lot safer if we were watching it from Los Angeles. Makes me miss the earthquakes.”
“Are you forgetting the floods the fires? And let’s not overlook the mudslides? The bumper-to-bumper gridlock every morning and every night?”
“Yeah, but those are disasters I’m used to.”
When the news ended they got undressed and climbed under the blankets. David spooned Chris’s body and stroked his still sun-warmed topaz skin with his lips. He rolled Chris over and began to kiss his hairless chest, moving lower, while Chris held his head in shaking hands.
Chris groaned. “David…”
“You want hot and sexy,” David growled, pressing his mouth against Chris’s navel. “I’ll give you—”
There was a furious pounding on the door. They broke apart, fumbling to throw the sheets off and grab their robes. The knocking didn’t let up. Whoever it was wasn’t going away any time soon.
“We’re coming, we’re coming,” David roared as he threw open the door.
Two uniformed constables and Detective Sergeant MacClellan stood in the doorway.
ChAPteR nineteen
Friday, 11:40am Aunt Nea’s, Nea’s Alley, St. George’s Parish, Bermuda
It was the two constables from the Tobacco Bay beach park.
They’d taken off their sunglasses and they watched the two Americans in front of them with open contempt.
Chris steadied himself on David’s arm, his fingers dimpling his skin. His husband froze, his face blank, only the whiteness at the corners of his mouth giving away his tension.
“I guess maybe they came back to give us that jaywalking ticket,” Chris said. God was that lame. He bit his lip when all three cops studied him with disdain.
“This isn’t good, is it?” he whispered to David.
The cops pushed passed them into the suddenly too small room. They took in Chris and David’s bare legs, the rumpled bed and crushed pillows; their fading erections under their dressing gowns.
David addressed one of the men. “What is it now, Sergeant MacClellan?”
Chris shivered, wishing he could step out from under their contemptuous eyes. Wishing he could shield himself with some real clothes.
“Did we disturb you?” MacClellan’s voice held a wealth of sarcasm. One of his constables snickered. MacClellan looked around the small room. “What, no camera to record your diddling each other for future entertainment? And I thought all you people were perverts.”
“Do I need to call my lawyer?” David’s voice dripped ice.
He grabbed his jeans off the floor and searched for the pocket.
Before he could find whatever he was looking for, the two 180 P.A. Brown
constables secured his arms and hauled him toward the bed, brushing past Chris.
“Hands over your head. Lace your fingers together. On the floor, Laine, now,” MacClellan barked. David hesitated. “Now.”
Chris lunged forward, but one of the constables, the barrel-chested redhead, stepped in front of him, arms folded over his chest. Chris froze. For the first time he felt fear.
The other constable, the older Black man, picked up the digital camera and Chris’s laptop from the table.
“What the hell is going on? What are you doing with that?” Chris asked. His hands itched to wipe that smirk off the constable’s face. “You can’t just barge in here and harass us—”
“Your precious little pansy friend is going back to jail where he belongs,” MacClellan said. There was a dark glee on his face.
“B-but I don’t understand,” Chris stammered as they shoved David flat on the floor and secured his wrists with handcuffs.
“You’re hurting him!”
“Call Aidan, Chris,” David growled, his jaws clenched tight, his face averted from the cops. “Tell him…” He looked at each cop in turn. “Tell him MacClellan and his goons have arrested me again.”
“What’s the charge? You have to tell him what he’s being charged with—what are you, barbarians?”
“No, Mr. Pansy,” MacClellan said. “We’re not barbarians, though I’m beginning to think your sweetheart is. First he kills an old man, now he’s trying to take out the rest of the family.
And God knows what kind of filth is on this,” he indicated to the laptop and camera, which one of his constables now held.
“Enough to nail your ass to the wall, I’m sure.”
Chris felt the blood drain from his face. “What? Who was hurt?” His mind flashed on Imani. Oh God, no—
“The oldest son, Mr. Jayvyn Daniel Cameron was strangled to death outside a bar on Court Street.”
“What time?” Chris asked.
BeRMudA heAt 181
“Around nine, according to witnesses.”
“Nine?” Chris brightened. “David was here all evening. With me.”
“You got anyone who can vouch for that?” MacClellan’s voice was a self-satisfied purr. “I hardly think your word will carry much weight. You all lie for each other.”
They hauled David to his feet. His robe fell open, revealing dark, muscular thighs.
MacClellan bent down and loud enough for Chris to hear said, “And thi
s time we got the DNA to prove it.”
Ice filled Chris’s veins. “At least let him get dressed!”
They ignored Chris’s protest and dragged David to the door.
Chris darted after them, but a quelling look from MacClellan stopped him from doing anything foolish.
“Call Aidan,” David said as he was hauled out the door, nearly losing his balance on the door jamb. The brawny redhead yanked him back to his feet. David grunted in pain. “Call him, Chris.”
Chris scrambled to retrieve his BlackBerry. He dialed the number and hopped up and down nervously until it was picked up.
“Aidan! It’s Chris. The police just rearrested David. They said there was another murder. Jay, Joel’s oldest son. Well, besides David. They say he killed Jay. But he couldn’t have, he was here all night. And they said something about proving it with DNA.
How can they do that, since he was with me?”
“Calm down, Chris. What time did they leave with David?”
Chris glanced at the bedside clock. “Maybe five minutes ago.
I called as soon as they were out the door.”
“Good. You did the right thing. Now let me take care of it. I’ll call you back as soon as I find out anything.”
“Yes, please. God, this is a nightmare. Why do they think David is such a monster? They even took my laptop, claiming it had pornography on it. It doesn’t, I swear. Why are they doing 182 P.A. Brown
this?”
“I don’t know,” Aidan said. “But this has definitely gone beyond anything I’ve ever seen before. They have clearly overstepped their bounds. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble convincing a judge this is excessive. Not finding anything on your laptop will go a long way to helping our cause. Unless…
there’s no way they could download any is there? If they could plant some evidence…”
“No, I’ve got some pretty heavy password protection on it. They’d need a password just to get on the Internet. Most of my client files are encrypted.” He swore. “Will they find that suspicious?”
“I’m sure that will arouse their suspicions, but it shouldn’t be any problem proving their claims are invalid. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well excuse me if I can’t relax over this. Just help him, Aidan—Mr. Pitt.”
“I will, Chris.”
Chris couldn’t sleep. He paced the small room, but that did nothing to lessen his nervous energy. He glanced at his watch and realized so little time had passed since this nightmare began.
It wasn’t even midnight. He threw on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a denim jacket. He grabbed his wallet and his BlackBerry along with the apartment keys and trotted down the steps and up the driveway. There was no sign of the police. Of course not, they were in a real hurry to get David back into a cell and scour his laptop for lascivious images.
Before he could cross the Duke of York Street, he spotted a cab and waved it down. He climbed in behind the driver. “Court Street, Hamilton.”
The cabbie did a double take and turned to look at Chris. His eyebrows almost met his hair line. “Are you sure that’s where you want to go?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
BeRMudA heAt 183
The reluctant cabbie dropped him off about two blocks from the harbor. The area looked more rundown than any place Chris had seen yet in Bermuda.
Pulling his thin denim jacket tight around him, he walked north. There were no large signs, billboards or fast food outlets in Bermuda, but Court Street still managed to look cheap and vulgar. Rough-looking men crowded the sidewalks and raucous reggae and hip-hop music fought for dominance. He saw a few women, some dressed like the men, others he was sure were men, though he wasn’t positive. How likely could that be here? And there were hookers, looking exactly like what they were. Like the ones back on Sunset Boulevard. He heard jeers and cursing, but didn’t stop to see if it was directed at him. Now he understood why the cabbie had been loath to bring him here.
A buxom woman in six-inch fuchsia heels, fishnet stockings and hair extensions, stepped in front of him. “Have some fun, cutie?” she said in a deep, gravelly voice.
“I don’t do fun,” Chris said, sidestepping her. Then he stopped. “You know the guy who was killed here tonight? I think his name was Jay?”
“Sure I do, sugar.” She caressed his denim-clad arm with four inch nails that matched her shoes. “He a friend of yours?”
“Yeah,” Chris said. “A good friend. It was tragic. So, what happened?”
“He down here looking to score, sugar, what else. Someone didn’t like him being here and—” She made a hanging gesture, fat tongue between her blood red lips, her eyes bugging out.
Chris grimaced. “Bloody mess if you ask me.” The incongruity of her faint British accent seemed surreal.
“Did you see who did it?” Chris leaned forward, trying to ignore her rancid breath. She had a tweaker mouth, broken teeth weakened by acid and continual grinding, just like so many meth heads did.
“Yah, I seen him.” She smirked, showing even more decaying teeth, some no more than rotten stumps. This girl was long gone.
184 P.A. Brown
“I was kinda busy, you know what I mean? But I seen him before down here. Both of them.” She smirked. “That one you looking for like it rough, but he pays real good. He real kinky with a silk tie.”
Chris tried not to think about it. The images were disturbing.
“Know anyone else who might have seen it?”
“Why you looking for this guy? He’s bad news. Mess your pretty face up good. I know, I seen him do it. He’s a mean fucker, when he goes off.”
“I need to find him. You got a name for him?”
Out of the corner of his eye Chris saw a cop car cruise by, slowing to a crawl to take a closer look at them. The woman ignored the vehicle and Chris tried to disappear. The cop moved on.
Chris sighed in relief and turned to find the woman watching him.
“Maybe you need to talk to Josie,” she said. “He was there.
He be around here earlier tonight. Ask him about Mosby.”
“Mosby? That the killer? Where can I find this Josie?”
“Try the bar Outer Bank, backatawn near Dundonald.”
Chris slipped her a twenty and kept heading north. Dundonald was about two blocks up; the Outer Bank was on the east side. A half a dozen men stood outside smoking and taking surreptitious sips from brown bag bottles. Loud calypso music drowned out their equally loud voices. An alcohol fueled argument broke out and fists flew.
Taking a deep breath, he slid his sunglasses out and put them on. They made him feel less conspicuous. He lowered his head and ducked past the growing melee, hoping no one would drag him into it. Music assaulted his ears. He paused inside the door to let his shaded eyes adjust to the darkness. A scarred bar lay along one side, and opposite it a few rickety tables and chairs that had seen better days were scattered. The bar was crowded and most of the tables were occupied. It stank of beer, rotgut whiskey, and BeRMudA heAt 185
sweat. Chris approached an open space at the bar and waited for the bartender to notice him.
Finally a pot-bellied man in his fifties, with heavily tattooed arms and a face that looked like it had met the wrong end of a knife, stepped up to him. His eyes were a startling blue, oddly alive in a face that looked half-dead. His gaze brushed Chris, taking in the shades and a face that was too white despite his newly acquired tan. Chris was all too aware he was one of few Anglos in the bar. The bartender wasn’t the only one staring.
He ordered a beer, figuring if it came out of a bottle it would be safe. He knew better than to order a glass. The brew was tepid and tasted like bitter water. He handed over a twenty.
“Josie around?”
“Who wants to know?”
“What about Mosby?”
“You a friend of his?”
“Nah, he’s just someone I want to talk to. Know anything about the guy who got hit tonight?”
/>
The bartender eyed him up and down and clearly found him wanting. “You a cop?”
“Shit, no.” Chris tried to sound tough, though he knew it didn’t come off well with his looks. He knew what he looked like, an American faggot trying to be hip in the wrong part of town.
He just hoped no one was feeling the need to test their cojones this early in the night. He knew he was way out of his league here, but what choice did he have? David’s freedom, if not his life, was at stake. “I’m no cop. I just want some information, is all.”
“You a Yankee?”
“Yeah,” Chris said, hoping it would win him some brownie points. “L.A.”
The bartender brightened. “No kidding. I crossed de pawn to L.A. when I was nineteen. Got a couple of bit parts in some movies.” He leaned over as though confiding something secret.
His breath smelled of tobacco and beer. Chris resisted the urge 186 P.A. Brown
to wave his hand in front of his face. “Cool stuff.”
Another tinsel town wannabe. Chris nodded as though the ins-and-outs of making movies were second nature to him.
“Yeah, I can see it. You’d be a natural alongside Vin Diesel or Eastwood. So,” he said. “This guy, you see what went down?”
“I didn’t see it, but my ace boy did. Mosby was mad-dog rabid. Took a knife to my boy and cut him good.”
“He see who got Jay?”
“Yeah. Terrible thing, what with his father being jonesed by some crazy ex-pat.”
At least they didn’t know David’s name. “Who’s your ace boy?” Chris asked. “He here tonight?”
“Why you want to know? Why you asking after Josie?”
“Josie’s your ace boy? I need to talk to him.”
“Ain’t here. He split home. Mother fucker scared shitless,”
The bartender laughed. “Can’t say I blame him. No one wants to see that kind of shit go down.”
“What about the police? Why aren’t they down here trying to find this mad dog?”
“Cops don’t come in this part of town much,” the bartender scoffed. “Too pansy-assed for that. They let a couple of drive-bys scare them off. We need some of your bad ass L.A. cops.