Infected

by Andrea Speed

  She rolled her eyes behind her fashionable glasses as she pulled up a chair. “Now I know you’re fine. You’re snarky.”

  “It takes more than six guys with their panties in a bunch to shut me up.” Holden was aware how odd that sounded, could see it reflected on Dahlia’s face, but pressed onward. “How is Lexi?”

  “Good, considering. He’s conscious and talking. Although his last memory was being at a diner. The doctors said that’s common with victims of head trauma, and his memory probably will come back. Eventually.”

  Holden almost nodded, stopped, and realized that there was a whole lot that bugged him about Alexei’s beating, but he hadn’t really had time to think about it. Now he had time to do nothing but think. At least between pain pills. “He told people about this trip, right?”

  “Of course, yes. Why?”

  “Did he talk about it on social media? Check in on Facebook, Instagram pictures, tweet about stuff?”

  She stared at him like she didn’t expect to be questioned like this. Which was fair; she probably thought she was making a kind visit to a laid-up semiacquaintance. “Yeah, knowing Lexi. He loves Twitter.”

  Holden internally shuddered at the idea of anybody loving Twitter but put it aside for now. Lexi was hot as hell and a good fuck, but he was a weird little dude. “So everybody knew where he was. If he had any enemies here, they knew where to find him.”

  She stared at him blankly. “Lexi doesn’t have enemies.”

  “He’s a pretty, polyamorous, bisexual intellectual. Fuck yeah he has enemies.”

  Holden could tell she wanted to argue, but she opened and closed her mouth without saying a word. She glanced at the wall, where there was absolutely nothing to see, and considered it a moment. Holden saw something click behind her eyes, in the setting of her jaw. “He really doesn’t—”

  “You thought of someone,” Holden said. He knew she had.

  Her eyes widened. “Wow. You’re good at this detective thing.”

  “Not really. I just had a good teacher. So who did you think of?”

  “It can’t be him. He’s not an enemy; he’s just a bit jealous. And he’s a history professor, for Christ’s sake. He’s not going to travel up to the Pass to beat the shit out of Lexi.”

  “You’d be surprised what people are capable of,” Holden said, not bothering to add he had a body count. But he considered it while he grabbed his phone. “What’s his name?”

  “It’s not him,” she insisted.

  “If it’s not him, I’ll be able to prove it. Name?”

  She sighed, defeated. “Gerald England.”

  Holden did some Google-fu and found him. He was indeed a history professor and didn’t look like any stereotype of one Holden had ever seen. He was a bull of a man, burly, with broad shoulders and a gleaming bald scalp that was roughly shaped like a bullet. He had a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard, which was about the only professor stereotype he adhered to. According to posts on his Facebook page, he’d really gotten into P90X, which Holden considered a bad sign. It was a weird, culty religion, masquerading as a fitness routine.

  Also? Holden instinctively didn’t like him. His eyes were weirdly intense, like mirrors reflecting light into an empty room. Maybe the photo of him was taken on a bad day, or maybe it was his real personality threatening to come out of hiding. People wore masks all the time, but few admitted it to themselves. Holden liked to think the only real point in his own favor was he absolutely knew he was full of shit at all times. He couldn’t even pick his real face out of a lineup. “What’s his deal with Lexi? Does he hate the fruity professor because he thinks he’s gay and super hot?”

  Dahlia grimaced, trying to hide a smirk and failing. “I only met him once, at a staff mixer, and he seemed… martial.”

  Holden had never heard that word used to describe someone. But looking at his unfortunate, glowering Facebook photo, he could kind of see it. “Got a bad vibe from him?”

  “You could say that. Lexi wasn’t concerned by him at all. Said he had a permanent stick up his ass, but… I dunno. I got more of a sense of menace from him, but I chalked that up to the gender divide.”

  “The gender divide?”

  “Women being more sensitive to threats in men than men are.”

  Interesting. He could have argued, but on second thought, Holden figured she was right. Even he knew, from his outsider’s perspective, that everything was harder if you were a woman. The streets were more dangerous, the johns were more dangerous, even cops could be more dangerous—and if you were a black woman, holy shit. Life was a gauntlet you were lucky to get through. Being gay was bad, but no one could ever take away his white male status, which still had bits of privilege—especially if they didn’t know he was gay. “Did he threaten you?”

  “No, but he didn’t have to. I could feel his stare across the room.”

  Holden nodded. He’d felt that before. “Right. And your mind didn’t skip right to him when you heard what happened to Lexi?”

  “I thought the threat was more to me than him.” A line formed between her eyebrows, mimicking the frown on her face. “Do you really think he could have done something that awful?”

  He shrugged. “We’re all capable of terrible things if the right buttons are pushed.” Holden knew he was speaking of himself as well, but he didn’t care. He wanted to encounter all terrible men and show them what that was like.

  “You’re very cynical.”

  “I prefer to think of it as experienced.” Holden continued scanning Gerald’s Facebook page on his phone, and Dahlia stood with the smallest of sighs.

  “What if you’re wrong?”

  Holden shrugged. “If I am, I’ll keep digging. I’ll find out who attacked Alexei.”

  “And then what?”

  He looked at her levelly. “That’s up to you. We can turn it over to the cops. Or… something else.”

  Now she looked vaguely alarmed. “What does that mean?”

  She wasn’t dumb—she knew what it meant. But he was touched that she didn’t want to think about him in that way. “Remember that interview you did with me when we first met?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you I liked to collect acquaintances. You never knew when you might need them. Some of them aren’t particularly nice.”

  “I see.” She nodded but suddenly looked remarkably stern. “I don’t like violence, and I’m surprised, after what happened to you, that you can even hint at that.”

  “Whoever did that to Lexi deserves worse.”

  “Maybe. But that isn’t our call to make.” She went to the door and turned to face him. “I do appreciate you finding out who hurt Lexi, I really do. But that’s all I want.”

  Holden nodded. “Tell him I say hi.”

  “I will.” If anyone could ever be said to flounce out of a room, it was Dahlia. Holden kind of admired it.

  Researching Gerald on the web wasn’t much of a job, but it was all he had right now. He returned to his iPod and locked out the routine hospital noises as he continued following digital tracks. He found some relatives—a brother and sister-in-law, some cousins—with obviously homophobic ties and statements on their Facebook pages, but was anybody fairly represented by their family? Maybe some, but not too many.

  There was only so much a basic Facebook page could tell you. The page was very bland and smacked of someone trying to stay within department guidelines. Social media was still something of the Wild West for many schools, and the rules were murky on how much of a teacher’s personality could be allowed on a public page. A smart person would have a secret, private page. Sadly, Holden didn’t know enough about this guy to even guess what it might be.

  He was searching Instagram when Chai dropped by for a visit, bringing him a fancyass doughnut from one of those fancyass doughnut places. It was cinnamon chai glazed or something—the tea, not the man—and it actually tasted better than he expected. Of course, maybe it tasted so good because it wasn’t hospita
l food.

  Chai had a story to tell. Holden knew it because he had a black eye, a cut on his lip, and was remarkably pale for a man who couldn’t ever actually be pale. Chai sat down heavily and said, with grave formality, “The case is closed.”

  Holden tried to look like he wasn’t attempting to lick the sticky spice glaze off his fingers. “Oh? Which one?”

  “The Jungle one.”

  “What happened?”

  “Roan happened.”

  Weirdly enough, that was all Holden really needed. “How’d you get the bruises?”

  “I didn’t follow Roan’s orders, and those fuckers actually grabbed me. Can you believe that? Kidnapped as a man. I’m glad I’m not speaking to my family, or I’d never live it down.”

  “It happens to the best of us. Let me guess the rest of this: Roan found you and them, and they met the lion.”

  Chai grimaced. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.”

  Holden shook his head. “Human stupidity is amazing, isn’t it? For years, it’s been pretty fucking obvious that if you mess with Roan, it doesn’t ever end well for you. A million things could happen, and none in your favor. But these assholes keep turning up, thinking they’re different. They’re smarter, better, stronger, faster. And they’re always wrong. No one ever has the complete confidence of the totally fucking clueless.”

  Chai shifted in his chair as if uncomfortable and swallowed nervously. “I don’t think…. I haven’t gone back there. To check, you know? But… I should call the cops or something. Even anonymously.”

  “Do you know where they took you?”

  Chai scoffed. “It’s on my phone. Do you know how you completely erase GPS records? That’s how Roan found me.”

  Holden set his phone aside, wiped his hands on his scratchy blanket, and held out a palm toward Chai. “Let me see it.”

  Chai handed him his phone like a grounded teenager too depressed to put up a fight. Holden found the address right away. It was out in the hinterlands, which was good, and explained why a bunch of dead cops in a house hadn’t made the news cycle yet. These guys had at least been professional enough to not shit where they ate, and stayed as far off the grid as they could. Holden, using Chai’s phone, called one of his emergency numbers. Someone picked up on the third ring with barely a grunt.

  “Joker, you still like to watch the world burn?”

  A moment of grogginess ensued. “Fox?”

  “Yeah. I need a place gone by yesterday. And I mean gone. The more confusing the evidence left behind, the better.”

  A long pause, then a sniff. “Hundred bucks.”

  “Done.” Holden recited the address he’d just read on Chai’s phone. “Do a good job and there’s another hundred in it for you.”

  “It infested?”

  “With pigs.”

  Now a longer pause. “Really?” He sounded intrigued and nearly happy. Holden thought that would make his day. “Good. I feel like makin’ bacon.”

  “Get frying. Call me when you’re done. Business phone.”

  “Yeah.” With that, Joker hung up. Joker was a hood rat with a penchant for destruction. He was famous for building a small bomb out of dumpster-scavenged materials and blowing up a small junker car with it. Yeah, he had some bad habits and a grudge against most authority figures, but he wasn’t violent toward people. But he counted any day he could annoy some cops as a good day indeed. Holden didn’t fool himself—Joker could turn into a full-bore killer any day now. But he hadn’t yet, and he was a tad more stable than Spider, at least when he was sober.

  Chai was gaping at him like he’d forgotten how to close his mouth. “Did you just… what did you do?”

  “Muddied the waters. Hopefully, when the cops find the bodies, they’ll have no fucking clue what happened there. I expect a lot of heat ’cause these are dead cops, but I want them chasing as many false leads and dead ends as possible.”

  Chai was still eying him like an exotic species of scorpion. “That sounded like a hit.”

  “Ha. No, just cleanup.” He handed Chai back his phone. “Speaking of which, you need to go buy another phone.”

  “Why?”

  “You need to get rid of this one. Take out the SIM card and snap it. Then take a hammer to the phone until there’s nothing left but pieces.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am. A phone that exists might eventually get data pulled from it. It’s impossible to pull data from scrap.” Chai frowned, looking down at his phone like it was a beloved object. “Haven’t you wanted to upgrade to an iPhone?”

  That made him look up. “I have been thinking about it.”

  “Great. Expense justified.”

  Chai nodded, slipping the phone into his pocket. “Should I ask how come you’re so good at getting rid of evidence, or should I just accept that you’re that good?”

  “You know which would get my vote.”

  “I do.” Chai stood and still seemed fidgety. “Does this get easier?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe you get accustomed to moral compromises. One of the two.”

  “There’s always a price, isn’t there?”

  Holden shrugged. “Like the old bumper sticker said, Ass, Cash, or Grass—No One Rides for Free.”

  “Anyone overhearing this conversation would think we were crazy.”

  “That’s another thing you learn to make work for you.” At Chai’s raised eyebrow, Holden elaborated. “Perceptions of insanity. No one wants to fight the crazy guy.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind for next time. Although I hope there’s not a next time.”

  “Me too.” He really did. Chai was a nice guy. He didn’t need this shit falling in his lap.

  Besides, who was the muscle here? The dirty work was all his. In fact, you could call it his specialty. Holden wasn’t proud of a lot of things in his life, but he was damn proud of that.

  “Before you go,” Holden said. “Can you do a bit of a background search for me?”

  Chai turned and waited, curiosity written all over his bruised face. “Other case?”

  Holden nodded. See, there was a very good reason Chai was the brains of this operation.

  21—Art Damage

  CHAI REALLY thought Gerald England was a dead end, but he had to do this to make Holden happy, right? Play out the string; see where it went. Or at least that was the theory. There was just no fucking way a history professor could ever be guilty of beating the shit out of a guy. Boring the shit out of them, sure, but that was a different issue and not a crime. Currently.

  It took his mind off how much his face hurt, at least some of the time. The rest of the time he fantasized about digging his fingertips into his flesh and just ripping off the aching skin around his eyes. He wouldn’t—Chai was pretty sure that wasn’t physically possible unless he was made out of Play-Doh—but it was fun to think about. Who knew a black eye could hurt so much? Chai figured he must have had one after the car accident, but he’d been so drugged up and in and out of consciousness, he didn’t feel a goddamn thing. Except the ache in his leg. That always punched through, no matter what. He figured his body knew a piece of it was missing and was trying to alert him, the stupid asshole in charge of the meat suit, that something was extremely wrong, on the off chance that he didn’t know.

  Chai had painkillers, but they didn’t do much for the face ache. Mainly they just made him sleepy, which was why he was slumped on his couch, french-pressed coffee in the biggest mug he currently owned, as he did some web surfing. He was breathing in the steam of the coffee, hoping he got some caffeine from inhaling. He got a couple of hours sleep, mostly thanks to drugs, but then he rolled over on his bad side, where the black eye was, and the pain instantly woke him up. He felt like he’d been stabbed in the head.

  It didn’t help that Gerald here was so fucking boring. Chai had found nothing of interest, nothing that would say, “Hey—I’m a closet psychopath who would definitely beat up a colleague if I had a chance.”
He understood why Holden didn’t like him, because there was something a little off about him. He looked… mean. That was really the only word Chai thought fit. Initially he thought it was the fact that Gerald was unsmiling in his main Facebook picture, but no, that wasn’t it. Chai had gone through dozens of pictures, including several where he was smiling, and that weird feeling remained. Maybe he was just one of those guys who looked unnatural with a smile on his face. Chai had met a couple of them and was related to one. They didn’t so much have resting bitch face as resting asshole face, and anything that tried to contradict that was like slapping glitter on a dog turd. It never looked right, and nothing anyone did could make it better.

  His mind was wandering as he sifted through stuff, and he wondered if he should call Dee. He was great the other night, letting him stay over and trying to distract him from his misery with video games and movies. Chai was terrible at video games and didn’t really know them. The last time he played one, it was Mario, not the stressful first-person shooters Dee seemed to favor. But he didn’t mind watching him or listening to him talk. Chai felt really comfortable around him, like there was no pressure to be the sex worker he used to be or to pretend to be normal. It was nice, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel that way again with anyone besides Holden. And Holden was simply a friend who expected nothing from him. Maybe life wasn’t over for him.

  It was while he was barely paying attention that something caught his eye. Chai wasn’t sure what; he had to go back carefully over the photos he’d skimmed to find what he’d noticed. It was in the Facebook picture collection, but not Gerald’s. It was one from Alexei’s page, showing him and Dahlia at a party, looking impossibly pretty and happy. And in the background, almost out of frame, was Gerald, shooting a look at Alexei and Dahlia that seemed molten in its hatred. But he probably wasn’t looking at them, right? He had to be looking at someone or something out of frame. There were lots of people visible, and it was clearly a Christmas party at someone’s house. Maybe it was a potluck and he brought a dish that was poorly received. But it did really look like he was staring daggers at Alexei.