by P. A. Brown
SWAT’d take care of them real good.”
Chris didn’t tell the guy David was LAPD. Instead he asked,
“Where can I find your ace boy? This Josie? I really need to talk to him.”
“He live out on de pint.”
“The what?”
“The pint, Spanish Point.”
“He got a full name?” Chris went back to his wallet and held up another bill to sweeten the pot.
The bartender eyed the money before he scooped it up BeRMudA heAt 187
and made it disappear. He kept glancing at the other twenty, pretending to wipe a glass down. “Josie,” he said. “Josie Curson.”
The hooker had mentioned Josie, too. Chris thanked the guy and hurried out of the bar. He walked as fast as he could toward Front Street hoping someone in the bar hadn’t spotted the exchange of cash. Finally, he spotted a cab and flagged it down. Once inside the safety of the cab, he called Aidan, who answered so fast Chris thought he might be sitting by the phone.
Chris pocketed his shades.
Chris told him what he’d found out. Aidan was not amused.
“You went down to Court Street? Do you have any idea what that area’s like?”
“Yeah, I kind of found out.” He tried to make a joke of it.
“Reminds me of home.”
“You could have been seriously hurt, or worse. Jay isn’t the only one who’s been killed on that street. And your bartender friend’s right, the cops don’t like the area. A lot of turf wars down there. There have even been drive-bys. Would you walk in a gang area in Los Angeles?”
“No,” he muttered. “But you weren’t listening. I found out two names you should check up on. One is Mosby, no idea if that’s his real name. I think he’s the one who strangled Jay. Met a…” he was going to say hooker, then said, “prostitute, who said he was a customer and he liked his sex rough. Used a silk tie to play asphyxiation games with her. The other one is a Josie Curson. He lives in a place called—”
“What did you say?”
“He liked rough sex—”
“No, no, about the tie. You said it was silk?”
“That’s what she said. Why?”
“David said the muggers only took his silk tie, they didn’t touch his money. He said it felt like they were collecting trophies.”
All too familiar with the trophy seeking habits of psychopaths, Chris felt the blood leave his face. “You think this has something 188 P.A. Brown
to do with Joel and Jay?”
Aidan seemed unwilling to commit himself. Instead he asked,
“You mentioned a Josie Curson. Where does he live?”
“Place called Spanish Point. If you can find either one of them, then maybe you’ll find the witness the cops seem to think doesn’t exist.”
“I’ll get on it, but you have to promise me, Chris. No more stunts like this one. I don’t want to have to be the one who tells David you got hurt.”
“I’ll stay out of it,” Chris lied. He wasn’t going to leave David’s safety in anyone’s hands, not when he saw how easy it was to snatch it away. “I’ll keep my nose clean.”
“See you do that.”
Back at Aunt Nea’s, Chris tossed his funky clothes in the hamper. He reached for his laptop, only to remember the police had confiscated it. Swearing, he flipped on the TV and settled down to watch the news. He was in luck, as another crime on Court Street had drawn the press and camera crew down there.
Another rape, the media making much of the fact that a serial rapist was on the loose. A white-haired, perfectly coifed cop Chris didn’t recognize smoothly denounced the serial label. “There’s no reason at this point to believe this is the actions of the same man. Our lab will analyze the DNA and make a determination.”
Following the rape report the reporter gave a brief rundown on the history of Court Street. She raptly told her audience that everything was worse on Court, muggings were higher, car and bike thefts and even a couple of home invasions had occurred in the poor area of town. Gang violence had exploded in the last few years and the police seemed unable to handle it. A stern faced woman introduced as a member of the opposition party decried the root cause of the new crime wave.
“Drugs have flooded Bermuda, imported from other countries by foreigners who do not belong here. They bring their violence and their weapons and the drugs that are ruining our youth.”
It sounded so much like home. Were the gangs everywhere BeRMudA heAt 189
these days? He knew there was some racial tension on the islands.
Was that what the woman meant? Chris was all too familiar with what racial tension could lead to, he’d lived through the ’92 riots.
He’d seen what hate could do. Scars from the destruction still remained.
Chris couldn’t help but wonder why the rioters were always so dumb as to loot and burn their own neighborhoods, but he knew logic wasn’t their long suit. Mobs don’t think, they just act.
He turned the TV off and crawled into bed. He had no energy to do anything tonight.
He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, which smelled achingly of David.
ChAPteR twenty
Friday, 3:45am, Westgate Correctional Facility, Pender Road, Ireland Island, Sandys Parish, Bermuda David warily eyed his cellmate, a surly hulk who hadn’t said word one since David had been dumped into his cell by a smirking guard. So much for protective custody. MacClellan had taken the gloves off and instead of putting him in solitary, had dropped him into the general population. Now David had to watch his back every second or this joker was going to try to make his street creds by taking out the L.A. cop.
It didn’t help that he was beyond exhausted. MacClellan had kept him in interrogation for nearly three hours, drilling him again and again on his movements during the day and why did he kill Joel and Jay. “Your own kin,” MacClellan had said, hard eyes watching every movement, waiting to pounce on any perceived break in David’s facade.
David sat on the edge of his cot, knowing he was an eye blink away from passing out. He kept one eye on the hulk in the other cot, who appeared to be sleeping. David didn’t know whether to buy his act or not. Eventually it wouldn’t matter. He had to sleep… had to grab some shut-eye.
He closed his eyes and sagged back on his cot, trying to sleep like a cat, always aware of what was going on around him. In the end, his body betrayed him.
Violent visions played themselves out behind his eyelids, making his nap restless and uneasy. Twice he snapped awake, sure his cell mate was awake and ready to start bouncing his head off the concrete floor. Both times he found the mutt sleeping like the baby he wasn’t. In the end David drifted into a deeper sleep.
He struggled to sit up, but the weight on his chest held him down. The hands that closed over his throat blocked the air from 192 P.A. Brown
his starving lungs. Hot, sour breath washed his face as a guttural voice rasped, “God damn fucking cop. Think you’re such a goodie-two-shoes.”
Spittle sprayed David’s cheek and through red eyes he saw the twisted face of his cellmate. He bore a prison tat on his neck with the incongruous name Timmy. Using his last bit of strength David kneed Timmy in the groin and swept his arms out, knocking the other man’s grip lose. Not expecting the move, Timmy lost his balance and David flipped him onto the floor, rolling after him.
He ripped Timmy’s hands from around his throat again and head butted him. Timmy’s head banged against the concrete floor, blood flew out of his nose, but he still managed to snake out from under him, giving David a fist in his already sore kidneys.
Timmy’s fist connected with his chin, driving one of his teeth into his lip. He grunted. He avoided a follow-up punch and tried to kick Timmy in the balls again, knowing it might be the only thing that would slow the gorilla down. He was dismayed to realize Timmy wasn’t wearing standard prison issue soft-soled slippers, but had on a pair of leather shoes.
Somebody had definitely set him up t
o do some major damage.
MacClellan.
Knowing he was now fighting for his life, David renewed his assault. He slammed his elbow into Timmy’s gut, driving the air out of Timmy’s lungs. Before the man could recover, David head butted him again. This time his skull connected with a solid thud square into Timmy’s throat. He heard a sharp gurgling and Timmy went limp.
David shoved the now slack body off him and rolled onto his back, taking deep lung-searing breathes. Warily he watched Timmy out of the corner of his eye, but the other man didn’t move. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, so David knew he was alive. Not that he cared, but the last thing he needed was a prison beef for homicide, no matter how justified.
David thought for sure this time a guard would show up.
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Someone had to have heard the commotion. But the corridor remained empty. He kept watching Timmy, until finally the would-be hit man grunted, rolled over and tried to sit up. David was on his feet, hands held ready at his side.
“Don’t do that again,” David rasped, swallowing with a throat that felt raw and packed with glass. He coughed and the glass tore his wind pipe. He hawked up blood.
Again he glanced toward the corridor. No sign of the guards, of course. He knew it would be a waste of time to call for one.
Instead he stood up and, sidestepping Timmy’s cot, went up to the bars. The place might as well have been a morgue, like they were the last two people on the island.
Timmy had obviously decided he wasn’t worth the extra effort. He crawled back to his bunk, choking and spitting up blood. He hawked a bloody loogie on the floor near David’s feet.
He glared at David one last time before rolling over and facing the wall.
David sat back down on his cot, nursing his newly split lip. He stared out of his left eye through a film of blood where Timmy had landed a lucky blow.
David wasn’t sure if MacClellan had thought he’d be spooked into a confession, or driven to kill someone for real. Maybe the guy was that crazy, or maybe he just didn’t care if someone took David out for good. It would be one less headache for the sergeant. And it was a lot easier to stick a murder rap or two on a dead man.
The mutt now lay on his cot, his arm thrown over his face, snoring and drooling.
David knew the assault wouldn’t end there. The guy would pick up once he woke up and got his bones back. He just had to hope Aidan would come through again.
The goon snorted and rolled over. David tensed. He had to stay alert since the minute his defenses went down the guy would be on him like white on rice. He’d got in a few good licks himself, but he was already weakened by his previous assault outside the 194 P.A. Brown
prison gates. If he couldn’t hold on, what then?
Had Timmy gotten the word that this particular cop was better off dead? Prisons usually had a finely tuned underground communication network. Hits were pretty easy to arrange if the right price was paid.
He glanced down the corridor, but it was still dark out. He had to wait for sunup to expect Aidan to show up.
It might be too late by then. Already exhaustion was dragging his eyelids shut. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could evade sleep. Did he dare risk closing his eyes for five minutes or was the goon waiting for that, feigning sleep to catch him unawares again.
David had never felt more vulnerable in his life.
He shifted on the cot to try and relieve the ache in his damaged kidney.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall.
Saturday, 8:30am Aunt Nea’s, Nea’s Alley, St. George’s Parish, Bermuda
His BlackBerry woke him at dawn. Chris rolled over and scooped up the PDA. It was Aidan.
“I’m on my way to visit David,” he said. “I’ve booked a meeting with Judge de Icaza. We’ll meet in chambers with the prosecution team and I can seek some answers as to the reason behind David’s treatment.”
It was Chris’s experience that the authorities only dug in their heels when they were challenged. He didn’t see what good that would do David. He said as much.
“Ah, but whether they like it or not, we must all appear to be impartial handmaidens to the law. We may not have laws especially written to protect gays, but there is still protection under the law for unjust accusations no matter who is being accused.”
BeRMudA heAt 195
“I hope you’re right,” Chris muttered. “Will I be able to see him today?” Not that he looked forward to seeing David in jail.
He just knew it would break his heart and that would only upset David more.
“I doubt it. I’ll do what I can. I’ll get back to you once I’ve talked to David and the judge, but don’t expect miracles.”
Chris didn’t hold out much hope, he didn’t need Aidan to tell him that. But he kept his doubt to himself, figuring a vote of no confidence wouldn’t help Aidan’s case. He had to trust that Aidan knew what he was doing. For David’s sake he had to believe that.
He took a brisk thirty-minute swim to clear his head of cobwebs, then grabbed a quick shower and did the laundry. The idea of breakfast tugged at him but he couldn’t decide what he wanted. He was saved making the decision by a call from Imani.
“And I believed you,” her voice was low and full of venom.
Chris had never heard such malice in anyone’s voice. He tried to interrupt, but she shut him down. “I fell for your sob story about Dad only wanting to be a family, and you were so happy to go along. How could you? How could you destroy my family like that?”
“Imani, please. It wasn’t like that. You have to believe me.”
“I don’t have to believe anything you say. I don’t know what my father ever did to deserve this, but I hope the law nails you both. I hate you.” She broke down and wept.
“Imani, oh God, please, listen to me. I wouldn’t… David wouldn’t. You gotta believe me—”
The phone slammed down in his ear. When he tried to call back he only got a busy signal. He slumped down on the bed.
Grabbing a pillow he hugged it to his chest and buried his face in it.
It was a nightmare, pure and simple.
He wished he dared call her back; to try and make her see that David could never have done any of the things the police were 196 P.A. Brown
accusing him of. But he knew she’d never listen. He had to do something. But what?
He changed into a pair of jeans and called a cab to take him into Hamilton. The first thing he needed to do was re-arm himself. He needed access to the Internet and his cracking tools.
ChAPteR twenty-one
Friday, 9:25am, Westgate Correctional Facility, Pender Road, Ireland Island, Sandys Parish, Bermuda David wondered what Chris was doing right now. Fretting over him? Frantic with worry? Chris was such a worry-wart and he had so little faith in things working out.
David scratched his face, now heavy with morning beard growth. He knew he probably looked like a skid row bum in his prison garb with his face bruised up and his lips puffy from the damage Timmy’s fist had done on it. Chris would be horrified if he could see him.
He returned to his cot, unwilling to stand with his back to Timmy, and gingerly sat down on the rumpled, bloody mattress.
Timmy lay on his back staring at the stained ceiling, one arm flung over his forehead.
Footsteps approached. The same guard who had released him before stopped in front of the cell.
“You must like it here, you keep coming back.”
David grunted, refusing to rise to his barb.
“Come on, your lawyer’s here. Guess money buys it all, don’t it?”
David wiped the blood off his mouth and winced at the pain when he pulled a scab open. “Not everything.”
The guard shackled him this time under Timmy’s grinning gaze, and led him shuffling down the corridor to the same room where he’d met with Aidan the first time.
Aidan took one look at him and snapped, “Take those things of
f.”
The guard complied. But he took his time.
198 P.A. Brown
David took a seat without meeting Aidan’s eyes and waited for the smirking guard to leave. When he looked up Aidan was staring at his face.
“Who did this, David? The police? Who—”
“Not the cops, though I’m sure they were behind it,” David said. “They put me in gen pop.”
“They have to know better than that. A police officer in general population is a sitting target.”
“You think?”
Aidan picked up the desktop phone and hit an extension. “I’ll see about this.”
He barked some angry words into the phone, then hung up.
He was agitated and kept looking at David’s face. Finally a knock came at the door and a man entered. He glanced at David then at Aidan.
“Is this the one?” he asked.
“Yes, Warden Francolini, and it should be as plain as the nose on your face that he’s been assaulted. What do you plan to do about it?”
“How do I know he wasn’t involved in a brawl? The intake report from the arresting officers claimed he was belligerent and hostile.”
“Wouldn’t you be if you were wrongly accused?”
“Now, that hasn’t been proven,” the warden protested.
“No it hasn’t,” Aidan said icily. “Nor has his guilt been established. He’s entitled to fair treatment either way. Why was he put in general population? As an officer of the law he should be in segregation.”
“Agreed.” Francolini frowned. “I’ll look into why that wasn’t done. I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.” He glanced at David. “I’m sorry for this problem, Mr. Laine,” he said stiffly.
“I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.”
“You do that,” Aidan said.
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Friday, 5:45am, Westgate Correctional Facility, Pender Road, Ireland Island, Sandys Parish, Bermuda They put him back in solitary. David lay down on his cot, breathing a sigh of relief as his pain lessened. Trouble still loomed, but at least he didn’t have to watch his back every second. Aidan had made sure he saw the prison doctor, who cleaned up his cuts and prescribed an antibiotic and Tylenol. He verified that there was nothing broken, that there was no internal damage and that it was all surface injuries, mostly minor hematomas. The doctor also arranged for David to come back in a couple of days if he was still incarcerated. If not, he was to go to his own doctor.