Pretty Pretty Boys

by Gregory Ashe

  “Oh yeah,” Somers said, rolling his shoulders as he passed Hazard and took the stairs two at a time. “Two suspects. White males, about my size, in their thirties or forties.”

  “You seem happy,” Hazard said as he followed Somers out into the pounding, noonday heat. “That describes about half of Wahredua.”

  “I am happy,” Somers said, his smile flashing brighter than sunlight on chrome. “I’m pretty sure we’re not working two cases. We’re working one case from two sides.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Those two bastards that started the fire? They had blue swastika tattoos. They were Ozark Volunteers.”

  ON THE DRIVE BACK TO THE STATION, Somers told Hazard what Lady Mabbe had said. Or, rather, he told him most of what she had said. The stuff at the end—all the craziness about poison and the devil—Somers kept to himself. He had promised Lady Mabbe he would tell Hazard, but he hadn’t promised when he would tell him. And besides, he’d had enough of a rollercoaster with his partner for one day.

  When Somers had finished, all Hazard said was, “That’s all?”

  “That’s all? You’re kidding, right? She saw our guys.”

  “No. She saw two guys go into the trailer. And she saw two guys come out.”

  “They rolled a barrel into the trailer.”

  “So maybe they were storing it there.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “And,” Hazard said, “we still don’t have a victim.”

  “They probably already had the dead body in the trailer. Somebody they’d killed and stashed there earlier. Then they left, got the accelerant, brought it back, and started the fire.”

  “She didn’t see them start the fire,” Hazard said. “She didn’t see them carry a body inside. She couldn’t even give you a time—what’d she say? After nine, that’s as close as she could fix it. That leaves a big window.”

  Somers’s earlier excitement was evaporating; he glanced over at Hazard and saw the same chilly calculation he had seen earlier in those burnt-straw eyes. “All right,” he said. “You’re the hot-shot detective. What do we know?”

  “We know that we need to talk to a couple of guys from the Ozark Volunteers.”

  “Good luck with that. They’re more likely to shoot us than talk to us. Or talk to anybody, for that matter. Most of those guys have had their brains cooked out by meth.”

  “You said Upchurch has contacts with them.”

  “He does. All right, so we talk to Upchurch and see if he’ll put us in touch.”

  “And we look at missing person reports.”

  Somers grunted. “Now would be a good time to say something like, ‘Hey, Somers, sorry I was wrong about Lady Mabbe. And oh, hey, good job on getting us our first lead.’ Something like that.”

  In response, Hazard just slouched back into the seat and stared out the window.

  Well fuck you too, Somers thought. So much for making amends.

  After a few minutes of silence, Somers asked, “What about the message?”

  “What?”

  “From the station.”

  “Oh.” The change was infinitesimal, but Somers heard it in Hazard’s voice. “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It wasn’t anything.”

  “Murray wouldn’t call about nothing. You’re lying to me.”

  “I don’t lie.” Hazard squared his shoulders and tried to glare at Somers, but it didn’t have its usual force.

  “It was for you,” Somers said, feeling the pieces click together. “The message was for you, but Murray didn’t want to call you.”

  “Thank God. That old man never stops talking.”

  “Somebody called you, and now you’re lying about it. Why?” No answer came from Hazard, so Somers decided to supply his own. “You’re a private person—like Fort Knox, as far as that goes—so if it were personal you’d just tell me to fuck off, or something like that.”

  “Will you drop this?”

  “And if it were about the case, you’d tell me straight out. You get angry fast, and just about everything I say puts you on edge, but you’re a professional.”

  “You’re about to find out just how goddamn professional I’m not,” Hazard growled. “Drop it.”

  “So that means it’s something not personal, but also something you don’t want to tell me about. Probably because you’re embarrassed. Did Cravens chew you out? No, she would have talked to me too. But you’ve only been here two days, and there hasn’t been—” And then, it all fell together, and Somers laughed. “Oh my God. That’s what this is about?”

  “Leave it, Somers.”

  “You’re embarrassed because that kid tracked you down. Flores, the guy from the vandalism case. He called the station looking for you. And you don’t want to tell me.”

  With two red spots burning in his cheeks, Hazard set his jaw, refusing to look at Somers.

  Somers laughed again; somehow, this made up for all the holes Hazard had punched in Lady Mabbe’s information, and Somers felt his good mood returning. “Man, you should have told me. He’s hot. Like, he could turn a straight guy, that kind of hot. Way to go.”

  Still nothing from Hazard, although he looked like his jaw might break under all that tension.

  “You got a boyfriend, though, right? What’s his name? Billy. What’s he think about this?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Whoa, I’m just joking. I wasn’t trying to say you’d—” Somers cut off and decided to change tactics. “Look, I won’t tease you about the kid. Well, not too much. Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just a thing, right? Giving each other a hard time, that is. I don’t actually mean anything by it.”

  Hazard’s silence was deep and dangerous.

  “Look, why don’t we try this: I’ll tell you about Cora—you remember her—and you tell me about Billy. Cora and I got married—”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? This is a job. That’s it. The end.”

  A bitter answer rose to Somers’s lips, but he swallowed it and tried to shake off the sting of Hazard’s words. “Right, man. Sorry.”

  When they got to the station, Somers started writing the first report for Cravens—two reports, two reports every goddamn day because Hazard didn’t have the social ability of a lamppost—while Hazard set to work combing through missing person reports for Dore County and the surrounding areas.

  After Somers had finished the report, he printed it, dropped a copy in Cravens’s mailbox, and stood at the edge of the bullpen. Hazard, sleeves rolled up to expose well-muscled arms, hunched over the computer; everything looked too small for Hazard—the desk, the chair, the computer—but he didn’t seem bothered by it. When he was on a case, Somers was starting to realize, Hazard probably wouldn’t notice anything short of a freight train. Somers watched him for a few more minutes, trying to work out the puzzle of his new partner before giving it up.

  He stepped outside, onto the cement pad designated for smoke breaks, and he dialed. Upchurch answered on the third ring.

  “Hey, ex-partner.”

  “Hey,” Somers said.

  “You sound like you’ve got the world on your shoulders, buddy. What’s going on?” There was a pause, and then Upchurch added, “It’s early afternoon. Are you drinking already?”

  “I’m not—fuck, Upchurch, what the hell do you think I’m doing? I’m working.”

  “Calm down, calm down. I’m just asking. I get worried. Ever since Cora . . . I just thought I should ask.”

  “I’m fine.” Somers fought with his temper for a moment and felt the last of his anger fade. “Sorry about that; rough couple of days.”

  “The cases?” Upchurch asked. “Or the partner?”

  “Both. That vandalism case—the one you dropped in my lap before you left—that’s going to be a dead end unless we get somebody on camera. Even the assaults don’t have a decent witness.”

  “Did you try telling C
ravens that?”

  “You know what she’ll say. She won’t put it in so many words, but she’ll tell me that her ass is on the line for this, and consequently my ass is on the line for this. And when push comes to shove, you know whose ass is going to fry if the case doesn’t close.”

  “Then find somebody and hang it around his neck,” Upchurch said, his tone only half-joking.

  “Yeah, that’d be nice, wouldn’t it? I’ll give it a few more days of the good cop routine first.”

  “So what’s he like?”

  “Emery?” The name popped out without Somers thinking about it; now why the hell had he said Emery instead of Hazard?

  “That’s his name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know. Half the time he’s looking for a reason to knock my lights out.”

  “Better watch out,” Upchurch said with a laugh. “He’s bigger than you.”

  “Tell me about it. He just about put me through wall today.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “What about the other half?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said half the time he’s ready to crack your head. What about the other half?”

  “He’s . . . good. Scary good. He looks at stuff—stuff for the cases, I mean—and he pulls it apart in his head, does it just like that, and he sees things I don’t. Not literally, but it’s the way he looks at a case.”

  “Damn. That’s a pretty good trait in a partner.”

  “Unless he wishes you were dead.”

  “I thought you guys were buddies. High school, right?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Listen, he’s going through some pretty big changes. You know why he took the job?”

  “Not really. I heard it had something to do with his captain.”

  “Huh. Well, he moved, left all his friends back in St. Louis, and he’s starting fresh. That’s hard, even if you’re a tough guy like him.”

  “I don’t know. He’s not the type for that, you know? He’s more like a machine. I don’t even know if there’s anything down there, underneath the job.”

  “Oh yeah?” Upchurch laughed again. “You know what he said to me last night?”

  “What?”

  “I said something about you—honest to God, I didn’t mean anything by it—and he took it the wrong way. Told me he’d rip my throat out or something like that if I ever talked bad about his partner again. Those were his words: ‘my partner,’ that’s what he said.”

  Somers felt a hot, tingling excitement in his belly. “Probably just looking to pick a fight.”

  “No, you can tell. He’s . . . well, I bet he’s like a bulldog. Mean as Satan himself, but if he’s on your side, he’s on your side. That’s the kind of partner you want.”

  “Yeah,” Somers said. Then he grinned. “What the hell happened with you? You leave the department and all of the sudden you’re the expert on all this?”

  “Perspective, buddy. That’s all it is.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re going to need some of your perspective. We’ve got two guys for the fire. At least, they’re the ones we’re going to look at.”

  “Two?”

  “Yeah. Blue swastikas.”

  “Ozark Volunteers, huh? That’s like sticking your dick into a nest of snakes. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know. Try telling the man of steel, though.”

  “Don’t pretend,” Upchurch said, his voice amused. “You’re still an idealist, Somers. Doesn’t matter how much you try to hide it. Even without that new partner, you’d plunge headfirst into one of those white trash compounds if you thought your perp was in there.”

  Somers didn’t answer; Upchurch was right, to an extent, and there wasn’t really much more to say.

  “You want my contact,” Upchurch said.

  “This is big. We think it might be hooked into the vandalism case. Two birds with one stone.”

  “You better bring me a case of beer.”

  “Fine.”

  “Two cases.”

  “God, all right.”

  “You and Hazard want to come over in a couple hours? I’m on my way back from Jeff City.”

  “House hunting?”

  “Who the hell knows anymore? I can’t wait until the move is over.”

  “Three o’clock?”

  “Two cases, Somers. And don’t go cheap on me.”

  The call disconnected, and Somers pocketed the phone and stood there. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and the humid weight of the air made him long to dive back into the station, but he stayed where he was, looking at the crisp blue of the sky and the serrated skyline of brick and plaster and stone. So. Emery Hazard, the big tough silent type, had threatened Upchurch. Somers fought a smile. Well, maybe he was making some progress after all.

  When Somers returned to the bullpen, Hazard was still sitting at his desk, although now he had a stack of pages at his elbow and a pen between his teeth. He raised an eyebrow when Somers perched on the edge of his desk.

  “Move,” he said around the pen.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Fine.” He plucked the pen from between his teeth. “Move.”

  “What do you have?”

  Hazard made a rumbling noise in his throat.

  “You’re going to need some local knowledge.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “We’re partners.”

  “You probably have lots of important work to do.” Hazard’s tone suggested that if Somers didn’t have important work, he better damn well find some. Fast.

  Somers found himself smiling. Yes, Emery Hazard had every right to hate Somers. Yes, Somers had made Hazard’s life hell in high school. Yes, he had—

  —in the locker room, with the steam beading on the bench, the wood sliding between Somers’s thighs as he straddled it—

  —acted like a total tool. But in spite of all of that, Hazard had stood up for him. Hazard had threatened Upchurch. Hazard had called Somers his partner.

  “What are you grinning about?”

  “Nothing.” Somers tapped a name halfway down the sheet. “What about him?”

  “What?”

  “Lee Rochester. You think that’s our victim?”

  Hazard’s eyes narrowed. He knew, Somers realized, that there was something he was missing, and he was too smart to walk right into the trap. “He could be. I’m marking the possible—”

  “He’s not.”

  Struggle showed in Hazard’s face: the desire to be right against the desire not to make a fool of himself. “He’s late thirties, he’s average height. We don’t have a lot to work with, but those could fit our victim.”

  “Yeah, that’s smart. You’re really smart. And don’t flare your nostrils, I’m being serious. But it’s not Lee.”

  Hazard tried not to rise to the bait. For a long moment, he just sat there, his face showing his effort. Then he tossed down the pen. “All right. Why?”

  “Come on.”

  Somers led the way back to the holding cells. One of the doors was open, and Somers propped himself against the frame. The cell was small, with a steel tray for a bed, on which a man was sprawled. Biologically he might have been in his late thirties, but drink and hard living had taken their toll and left him looking substantially older. He was sleeping, and his breathing filled the air with the smell of stale alcohol and vomit. Somers wrinkled his nose and nodded at the sleeping man.

  “Lee Rochester,” Hazard said.

  “See? I told you were smart.”

  “Why’s there a missing person on him?”

  “Because Aurora Rochester is forty-seven years old, and she’s controlling and loud and picks every kind of fight you can imagine with her husband until he goes off on a bender. Then, like flipping a switch, she’s weeping and wailing and telling everyone there’s never been a better man than Lee Rochester, and he’d be home with her right then if he hadn’t bee
n hit by a car or abducted by slavers or fallen into the clay pits.”

  “Abducted by slavers?”

  “And if we don’t nod and smile and file the report when she comes in, she turns into a whirlwind, and it’s takes everything short of a pair of handcuffs to keep her from turning the whole station upside down. So about once a month, Lee drinks himself into a coma, and he sleeps it off here until he decides to go back and duke it out with his wife again.”

  “That is . . .” Hazard paused, his eyes moving from the drunk sprawled on the steel bed to Somers. “The stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Valuable police resources are being wasted—”

  “Small town, my friend. You keep forgetting that. This isn’t just about enforcing the law. It’s a community, and you’re part of it. Think of it like a big family, all those extended relatives, uncles and cousins that drink themselves sick and look at your sister funny and the only thing you can do is find the ones you like and stick with them because nobody is going away anytime soon.”

  Hazard’s jaw had gone tight, so tight that the muscles stood out in his neck, and he was shaking his head in slow, almost imperceptible movements.

  “What?” Somers said.

  “This was a huge mistake. Coming back here. Trying this. Everything’s backward. Every time I think I know what I’m doing, you turn around and tell me I’m fucking things up.” Hazard barked a bitter laugh. “And you’re right. Every goddamn time, you’re right. And you’re so . . . you’re so fucking nice about it, it’s about all I can do not to just put my gun in my mouth and swallow.” He gave a final swerve of his head. “This isn’t working. I’ve spent hours on those reports for no reason. I screwed everything up with your CI. I’m going to talk to Cravens and tell her—”

  “First off, calm down. And don’t say anything you’re going to regret.”

  Hazard nodded. He looked, for the first time since Somers had seen him the day before, tired. No, more than tired. He looked beaten down. The look of a guy who’s taken one on the chin, and then another, and then another, and somehow, after all that, he’s still standing. But he might not be standing for long.

  “Let’s go back to the bullpen. Talk this out. That way Lee’s not part of the conversation.” Somers didn’t add the rest of what he wanted to say, but he tilted his head towards the desk where Patrick Foley was working the holding cells and, most likely, listening to every word they said.