Male/Male Mystery and Suspense Box Set: 6 Novellas

by Lanyon, Josh

  And no matter how hard Ryo pressed, he did not waver in his story. Mickey Torres had spent Tuesday night from eleven twenty-eight to seven thirty in the Wednesday a.m. when they said their fond farewells over Kashi cereal.

  “How often do you and Torres get together for your slumber parties?” Ryo was running out of angles, but he kept trying.

  “We don’t. That is, this was the third time.”

  “You’re practically going steady.”

  Tashiro’s mouth tightened.

  “Well, take a piece of friendly advice. Don’t make a habit of it. People around Mickey Torres have a way of turning up dead.”

  Tashiro said wearily, “May I please go now?”

  “You can go.” Ryo waited until Tashiro was on his feet and starting to turn away before he added, “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Why?” Tashiro demanded. “I’ve told you everything I know. Everything there is to tell.”

  Ryo took his time answering, deliberately looking the other man up and down, from his cowled face to the badly bitten fingernails. “Because you’re lying,” he replied. “I know Torres did it. I’m going to prove it. I’m going to break this bullshit alibi and, if I have to, you with it.”

  He could see Tashiro struggling with that, struggling with anger and resentment, and fear. He controlled himself though, throwing a bitter, “Knock yourself out!” to Ryo before walking away.

  Yeah, Tashiro was scared and angry and that’s the way Ryo wanted him.

  The problem was…Tashiro was not lying. Not as far as Ryo could tell, and Ryo was a damn good judge of such things. If he did say so himself.

  “We can’t hold Torres,” Captain Louden said. He opened the bag of Taco Bell on his desk, groped inside, and fished out an orange and purple wrapped triangle. “Don’t ask. How did Mayer do in court today?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to Mayer.”

  “He’s your partner. Why haven’t you talked to him?”

  Ryo ignored this feeble effort at distraction. “Torres did it, Captain. We’ve got the perp in custody. I’d stake my career on this one.”

  Louden, middle-aged, paunchy, balding, perpetually irritable, thanks to perpetual indigestion, replied, “Miller, has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re obsessed? There are other bad guys out there. They deserve a little of your attention, too.”

  “Torres killed the Martinez woman. He throttled that old lady and he beat her brains in.”

  “We don’t have a motive!”

  “The motive is revenge. The testimony Martinez gave at the Revelez trial was responsible for putting Torres behind bars for a decade.”

  “Revenge!” Louden gave a hoot of derision. “Don’t go all Korean drama on me, Detective.”

  Ryo swallowed his irritation with a wide smile. “I’m not. Even if I was Korean, which I’m not.” Louden waved that off. “I’m talking machismo. I’m talking the psychological profile of a gang banger. I’m talking a freaking psychopath.”

  Through a mouthful of tortilla and shredded lettuce, Louden said thickly, “What you ain’t talkin’ is anything resembling evidence.”

  “Let me talk to Torres. Let me interrogate him.”

  “He’s got an alibi.”

  “That’s another thing. Why didn’t he say the first time we interviewed him that he had an alibi?”

  “I’m thinking you could answer that more easily than me, Miller.”

  Being a Korean drama queen and all? Before Ryo had a chance to respond, Louden continued, “We’ve got no grounds to hold him. And what I do not need is the public defender’s office—”

  “Please. Fifteen minutes. Just give me fifteen minutes.”

  Loudon shoved the rest of the taco in his mouth, chewed rapidly, and said at last, “I don’t know what good you think fifteen minutes is going to do, but you better make every second count.”

  * * * * *

  Torres sat in the interrogation room, arms folded on the scratched table. He stared at the ceiling, whistling soundlessly. When Ryo stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him, Torres smiled at the ceiling.

  “I know you did it. I don’t care how many boy toys you trot out to vouch for you. I know you did it.”

  Torres made a kissing noise. “Kai came through, huh? That little queer loooves me.”

  “Yeah,” Ryo drawled. “Why not. You’re such a lovable guy. When you aren’t murdering old ladies and teenagers.”

  Torres continued to smile. He was twenty-seven, medium height, muscular and tattooed. His head was shaved; his eyes were dark and long-lashed. Maybe he was good-looking, if you had no taste. To Ryo he was just another ugly face in Ugly Town.

  “You can’t prove nothing, popo. I got an alibi. I got a solid citizen to speak out for me.”

  “Yep, you do, amigo. But I don’t know what the boys in the barrio are going to say when they find out you’re swag.”

  Torres’ eyes flattened. “Swag?”

  Ryo offered his biggest and most annoying grin. “Secretly Walking Around Gay.”

  Torres jumped to his feet, and Ryo braced for assault. Welcomed it, in fact. But Torres was vicious, not stupid. He stopped mid-step and held up his cuffed hands. “I know what you about. You can’t get me legally so you want me to jack you, jack a police officer. Then you can hold me.” He laughed at the disappointment he must have read in Ryo’s expression, and did a couple of double-handed karate chops in thin air. “Not going to happen. I’m walking out of here a free man.”

  “Not for long. Why’d you do it, anyway? Why’d you kill that old lady? You’ve only been out of Chino a month. Can’t adjust to life on the outside?”

  “I have an ALIBI, marrano. You have to let me go. This is false arrest!”

  “Sure. Go. Via con Dios.” Ryo smiled. He opened the door to the interrogation room. “Officer Smith will escort you back to your cell while we finish your paperwork.”

  “It’s vaya, dumbshit.”

  “Yes, it is. And yes you will.” As Torres sauntered past—as much of a saunter as he could manage with leg irons—Ryo added, “Say hi to the boyfriend.”

  * * * * *

  It was all two-for-one drinks and cray cray good times at Fubar on Friday night.

  The Ice Princess was having his usual, a Japanese Cocktail. Cognac, orgeat syrup and Angostura bitters. It was the drink that had first caught Ryo’s attention. He’d been lazily flirting with a new bartender when the order popped up. The bartender had asked if Ryo knew what the hell a Japanese Cocktail was. He had no clue. But he’d been interested in checking out whoever had ordered it. Apparently a gaijin with a taste for the mysterious Orient.

  Not that strong of a taste, because he’d turned down Ryo three times running with barely a glance. But then the Ice Princess turned everyone down. Almost everyone.

  It was no different that night. Kai Tashiro sipped his blood-colored cocktail and stared through the sweating, shifting crowd like he was surrounded by ghosts. He wore his usual skinny black jeans and black shirt. Unimaginative but effective with his coloring. The fingers of one hand tapped idly to the beat of the music. “Titanium” by David Guetta. Seriously. Who came to Friday Nights Dance Bitch to listen to the music?

  Ryo pushed through the crowd and squeezed into the seat next to Tashiro. He had to shout to be heard over the music. “Hey there! Remember me now?”

  He’d hoped to catch Tashiro off guard, but no such luck. Tashiro must have spotted him when he came in. He stared at Ryo with hostility and shouted back, “Sure. You’re the asshole cop who wants to frame Mickey for murder.”

  “Sorry to be such a hard-ass.” Ryo offered his big white smile. “Nothing personal. It’s just my job. You know, good cop bad cop? Today was bad cop.”

  “I hear every day is bad cop with you.”

  “That what your boyfriend Torres says?”

  Tashiro looked pained. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “He’s the closest thing you got to a boyfriend, ri
ght? You went home with him four times.”

  “Three.”

  “But who’s counting.”

  Tashiro’s gaze held Ryo’s as he swallowed the last of his drink. He had painted his bitten fingernails black. The nail polish gave Ryo a weird hungry feeling. His cock stirred. Something about femme guys turned him on. Always had. And Tashiro, with his long hair and those huge, jewel-colored eyes and ethereal features, with his tall, willowy body…Ryo had wanted him from the minute he’d laid eyes on him.

  “Can I get you another drink?” he asked brusquely.

  “No,” Tashiro answered, equally brusque.

  Ryo ignored that and fought his way back to the bar. He ordered another Japanese Cocktail and a vodka martini for himself. When he returned to the table, he found Tashiro busy rebuffing another would-be suitor with that laser-beam stare of his. The guy retreated, tail between his legs, and Ryo reclaimed his chair, placing the drinks on the table.

  “Just my way of saying sorry for earlier.”

  Tashiro grimaced, but he took the drink and sipped it.

  “You waiting for Torres to turn up here?”

  Tashiro shook his head.

  “Not really his kind of scene, I guess,” Ryo said. “Unless he comes for the karaoke on Tuesday.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t know him that well.”

  “Well enough to take him home with you. Well enough to alibi him for murder.”

  Maybe it was the funky lighting, but Tashiro’s eyes seemed to glitter. “I don’t need to know him to take him home. I gave him an alibi because it’s the truth. He was with me.”

  “Okay. Okay. Just checking.” Ryo winked at Tashiro.

  Tashiro scowled.

  “If you’re telling the truth, you’ve got nothing to worry about. If you’re not telling the truth…well, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. That’s all. I’m not talking about perjury or being an accessory after the fact. I’m talking about the danger you present to Torres.”

  Tashiro’s elegant eyebrows drew together. “What danger?”

  “Think about it. You’re the only one who can prove where he was that night. I mean, either way. Seeing you supplied him with an alibi, he might not want to take a chance on you changing your story.”

  Tashiro put down his drink. He shoved back his chair, rose, and turned to walk away. Ryo caught his wrist. It was a slender wrist, but a man’s wrist, with a tensile, wiry masculine strength.

  “Dude, I’m trying to help you.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re trying to build your case. You don’t care about me. And you don’t care about the truth.” Tashiro yanked his hand away and disappeared through the wall of drunken, dancing bodies.

  Ryo swore and went after him. He wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t part of the plan. Not part of his strategy. He had no plan. No strategy. But there he was, on his feet and in pursuit of Tashiro, who moved with unhurried grace through the writhing, many-tentacled crowd toward the entrance.

  Ryo caught him on the street, bathed in the sickly, jaundiced glow of the street lamps as he unlocked the carelessly parked Tesla Roadster. Who the hell left a vehicle like that unattended? It was an open invitation to be car-jacked.

  Ryo put a hand on Tashiro’s shoulder and Tashiro jumped a foot, whirling to face him.

  “Sorry.” Ryo raised his hands to show he was harmless. “It’s just me.”

  “What is your problem?” Tashiro yelled. “I told you the truth. Why are you harassing me?”

  “I’m not. I didn’t mean to—sometimes I get a little carried away. What can I say? I’m a cop. I take my job seriously. That’s why I come here. I need to unwind once in a while.”

  “You come here because you’re gay and you want to get laid!”

  “That too,” Ryo admitted. The thump of music from Fubar filled the silence between them. He couldn’t help asking, “Are you sure you don’t remember me?”

  “What is it with you? Remember you from where?”

  “From here.”

  If possible, Tashiro looked even more bewildered.

  “Forget it,” Ryo said. “I just…believe it or not, I don’t want to see you get hurt. It’s not all about my case, okay?”

  “You’re full of shit. This is totally about your case.”

  Probably. Ryo hoped so. He wasn’t sure, though. “No. Let me prove it.”

  Tashiro asked warily, “Prove it how?”

  And to his shock, Ryo said exactly what he was thinking—though maybe thinking wasn’t the word because this was simply what he wanted, had wanted since the first time he’d seen Kai Tashiro sitting in the corner of that funky little club. “Let me take you home.”

  “I’ve got a home.”

  Ryo leaned in and said softly, “Let me make love to you.”

  That was probably spreading the Cheez Whiz way too thick. Because that’s all this was, Ryo was just doing whatever he could, whatever he had to, to get to the truth, to break this bogus alibi, to put Mickey Torres back in the zoo with all the other wild animals. And anyway, lemme fuck you through the floor just didn’t have the same ring to it. Right? But his mouth dried the minute the words left it.

  He fully expected Tashiro to burst out laughing. He would have in Tashiro’s place.

  But maybe Tashiro was more naïve than he looked. More gullible. Because he just stood there frowning away like Aya from Weiss Kreuz or somebody else from the dimly remembered cartoons of Ryo’s youth.

  “Isn’t that illegal?” Tashiro asked, at last.

  “Not since 1976.”

  “Huh?”

  “You didn’t say no,” Ryo observed. “Does that mean you’re saying yes?”

  “Aren’t I a suspect?”

  “You’re an accessory after the fact, assuming you’re lying about being with Torres. But you’re not lying, right? I have your word of honor.”

  “Honor?” Tashiro repeated the word like it wouldn’t translate into any language he spoke. Which was probably correct. Ryo didn’t care by then.

  “Sure. You’ve alibied Torres. You’re willing to testify in court. I have to take your word, right? Why not? We’re two sons of Japan.” he teased, “Two rising sons.”

  Tashiro laughed. It had a rusty sound to it. His eyes were still wary.

  “What do you say?” Ryo pressed. “Your place or mine?”

  Tashiro’s humor faded. He eyed Ryo skeptically, but he said finally, briefly, “Mine.”

  He drove like a bat out of hell. Ryo had to keep pedal to the metal in order not to lose him. In fact, if he hadn’t had designs on Tashiro’s dubious virtue, he’d have arrested him for speeding or driving under the influence, or all of the above.

  Fourteen minutes of palm trees and light trails and billboards flashing by in a neon blur. Ryo stayed right on Tashiro’s tail, but that was more to make a statement. He knew where Tashiro lived. He could have taken his time; hell, he could have stopped for doughnuts and coffee. Instead Ryo rode Tashiro’s ass every mile of the southbound CA-2. Pushing Tashiro. Crowding Tashiro.

  Why? What was he doing?

  Aside from risking his job?

  Never in his entire professional life had he done anything like this.

  But Ryo didn’t want to think about it. Couldn’t think about it. So he closed his mind to the appalled voice in the back of his mind, and swung a right on Armacost Avenue.

  This was the heart of West L.A. Plenty of money, but plenty of diversity too, including a large Japanese-American community. In fact, a part of Sawtelle, from Santa Monica Boulevard to Olympic Boulevard, was known as “Little Osaka.” Not to be confused with Little Tokyo, which was in downtown Los Angeles.

  This wasn’t Sawtelle, though; this was the ritzy stretch of Armacost with vaguely Mediterranean high-priced condos and luxury apartments, discreetly tucked behind fancy street lights and ornamental trees.

  Ryo parked his unmarked Ford Taurus in the back, and followed Tashiro through the security gate and into the elevator that car
ried them to the fourth floor. Tashiro didn’t speak, didn’t look at Ryo. Ryo never took his gaze from Tashiro’s pale, withdrawn profile, though he didn’t speak either. He figured Tashiro was already regretting the impulse to bring Ryo here—Ryo was—and yet he didn’t want to take the chance of saying something that might tip the scales the wrong way.

  The elevator doors opened onto an exterior walkway with four-foot stucco walls and a view of the sparkling carpet of city lights. The night was mild and smelled of smog, fast-food, hot engines and other unhealthy things. It smelled alive. Exciting. The orange and brown tile beneath their feet pounded with the beat of another tenant’s overtaxed sound system, a dull bass thump that kept time with Ryo’s heart as he watched Tashiro’s straight, slender form stalking ahead of him.

  Oh yeah. Tonight you’re mine.

  Tashiro reached the door of his condo and unlocked it. “Wait here a second.” He kicked off his shoes and disappeared inside. Before Ryo could respond, the door closed. He had time to remove his own shoes and start wondering whether Tashiro had just played him for the fool he was, when the door opened again.

  “Putting the wife and kiddies to bed?” Ryo inquired.

  “Disarming the security system.” Tashiro’s mouth curved in a malicious smile at Ryo’s surprise. “That’s right. I have my own security system. So, yeah, I’d know if Mickey had left anytime during Tuesday night.”

  “Hey, did I say a word?” The minute Ryo had learned of Torres’ supposed alibi he had requested the building’s security camera tapes. Unfortunately they were erased every forty-eight hours, and he had narrowly missed his window of opportunity. In fact, he half suspected that might have been one reason Torres had delayed mentioning an alibi. Now Ryo would have to requisition Tashiro’s alarm company—maybe ultimately subpoena them, if they wouldn’t cooperate. But no need to break the mood by mentioning that now.

  Tashiro crooked an arm behind his head and leaned against the door frame. He tilted his head provocatively. “Was that what you came here to find out?”