by Kit Zheng
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He reached down and adjusted his cock in his pants half a second before the door re-opened and the captain came in, trailed by two detectives from Homicide. Both of them hovered by the doorway, as if unwilling to be there.
“Detective Jon Newman,” the captain said, stepping around the desk to reclaim his seat. “This is Detective Carl Stoley and Detective Viktor Nimikos of Homicide.” Jon shook their hands, hiding his surprise. Detective Nimikos was the only openly gay officer on the force, though Jon was pretty sure he could think of three others in the closet like himself. The look he got from Nimikos felt like a silent challenge: That’s right, I’m that fag in Homicide. Go ahead. Say something about it.
Jon cocked a half-grin at him, turning him down.
“As you probably know, Nimikos and Stoley are working on the male prostitute murder case. We just had another attack last night—you haven’t been briefed on this one yet, Jon, but it was Robert Heywood, a dancer at the 11:30 Club. Victim was beaten similar to the others, although not to death—in this case, the victim’s throat was cut, possibly due to the perp panicking when he was interrupted by another dancer leaving the club.”
Jon nodded. Tomas’ buddy in the hospital.
The captain looked over at the two detectives. “Newman’s done a lot of work undercover investigating escorts and hustlers. He’s closed down a few illegal prostitution operations at the 11:30 Club, in fact—strippers taking extra money for after-hours favors, that sort of thing. He’ll know who to talk to, where to get you started.” Jon caught another strange look from Detective Nimikos. “The Vice boys and I have been wondering why you didn’t invite us to this party earlier.”
“We’ve got our own contacts,” Stoley said, looking slightly defensive. “We thought we had some leads, but turns out they’ve all dried up. Actually, we’re hoping the latest victim will wake up and talk to us—”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Jon snorted. At the third dark look, Jon caught Nimikos’
eye and raised his eyebrows, challenging. “You got a problem, Detective?” 62
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“I just find your complete lack of sympathy for the victim a little off-putting.”
“It’s not a lack of sympathy, buddy. It’s reality. These types, they go through a little trauma and they forget everything.”
“‘These types’?” Nimikos said, and there it was again. Fags, Jon thought the look said. Come on, just say it. That’s what you want to say, isn’t it? Fags.
“You know what I mean.” Jon smiled and shrugged. “Folks like that make their money keeping their mouths shut and their legs spread.”
“So far, the only consensus we’ve gotten back is that all the victims so far have been loner types,” Stoley said quickly, glancing over at Nimikos. There was something more to Nimikos’ attitude, Jon thought, and he wondered what it was. “Guys working on their own, no pimps, and four out of five were drug addicts looking for quick money.
None of the victims had any support networks. Except for the latest, Robert Heywood.
He destroys the pattern; he’s a longtime dancer at the 11:30 Club with a lot of friends and connections, has only one extremely minor possession charge on his record, years back, and runs a private dance service with a coworker, Kevin DeSantos.”
“We’ve been wondering if it’s really a related crime, even though we had a rumor that the last vic before Heywood was also spotted leaving the 11:30 Club. The method of attack, the timing—it could be a pattern break, or an acceleration.” Nimikos crossed his arms over his chest. “We’ve also got an alternative suspect in Heywood’s case. From what the other dancers were saying, the club owner, Benjamin Kerr, hasn’t been too happy about Heywood and DeSantos opening up their own private dance business. The dancers claim that in the past Kerr has always taken dramatic action when he feels the business is threatened, including having his own employees arrested on trumped-up charges.”
Jon raised an eyebrow at the subtle attack on his department. “Kerr has tipped us off in the past to the illegal activities of some of his employees, but I don’t know anything about ‘trumped-up charges.’ Our past experience with him has only shown that he is a conscientious business owner.”
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“It’s been suggested,” Nimikos’ tone darkened considerably, “that Mr. Kerr has a special relationship with certain officers in the Vice department.” Jon laughed. Nimikos was an idiot. “He’s an informant, Detective; he tips us off and if, on occasion, we can put some extra guys in his neighborhood to keep it safe, we’ll do it. If you’re implying anything sinister—well, maybe you should be examining your paranoid fantasies for the real reason why you haven’t caught this killer yet.” Nimikos stiffened, mouth twitching, but he didn’t otherwise rise to the bait.
The captain rose from his desk chair, both hands lifted in a calming gesture.
“Gentlemen, interdepartmental sniping is not going to help us solve this case. Nimikos, Stoley, I want you to share everything you have on the past three attacks with Detective Newman. Newman, I want you to work out a plan with the detectives on perhaps luring our killer after a decoy. Have your men pass along any gossip on the street, ask around for witnesses. Five dead men and one near-dead in three weeks is not something I want continuing. Get on it, people.”
They exited the captain’s office, Jon first, Nimikos last, Stoley between them like some sort of buffer. Deliberately, Jon fell back, so that he was beside Nimikos.
“Detective, can I have a word?”
Nimikos looked at him suspiciously, but nodded. Stoley glanced back at them but Nimikos waved him on. “I’ll catch up.”
“Do you smoke?” Jon asked.
“No.”
“Pretend you do,” Jon said. He detoured them down a hallway and out a side entrance. He glanced around before speaking. “So, what’s your problem? Some sort of fag chip on your shoulder?”
“Fuck you,” Nimikos snarled. He visibly forced himself to lower his tone. “I’ve heard about you—I know about you. You’re as queer as I am.”
“You wish, faggot,” Jon laughed.
“I’m not interested in outing you if you’re not interested in outing yourself. But I’m 64
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guessing you’re the one taking kickbacks from Benny Kerr. If I’m right, I’ve got as much reason to suspect that you took out Robert Heywood as anyone else.” Jon snorted. He didn’t deny or confirm Nimikos’ charge. “Why don’t you arrest me then, Detective?”
“I don’t have any proof.”
“Because there is none. Now if you’re done making wild accusations—” Nimikos exploded into a rage that he must have been sitting on for some time. “No, I’m not. You know what my problem is, Detective Newman? My problem is you. My problem is your fucking bribe-taking, blackmailing, arrogant attitude—my problem is you screwing my goddamn partner for money!”
At first Jon was confused—as if he’d ever fuck that beer-bellied Stoley—and then it clicked, it made sense, Nimikos’ familiarity with the dancers, his knowledge of Benny Kerr, his anger over Robbie Heywood. “Tomas,” he said, and then he laughed, he laughed so hard his stomach hurt. “You know Tomas. From the 11:30 Club.”
“I’m Tomas’ lover, you fucking asshole.”
Jon’s only reply to this was more laughter, even though he could sense Nimikos coiling up toward violence. The thought of beautiful, stupid Tomas going home to this dark, hairy, angry man—
No wonder he was so eager for Jon. Tight-assed Detective Nimikos was probably so vanilla in bed it hurt. His day kept getting better and better.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he said to Nimikos, smiling.
“I should report your ass to IA,” Nimikos spit; but Jon liked that he said “should” and not “will.” It meant there was some reason that he wouldn’t. Maybe it was Tomas; maybe it was Nimikos’ instinctive blue hate for the internal affai
rs department.
All the same, Jon needed to hammer the point home. They’d need to pretend at some sort of working relationship if he was going to keep the captain happy. “I look the other way now and then for the same reason you look the other way with Tomas. So what if I get cash and you get sex? Neither of us want to see his sweet mouth sucking 65
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some dirty felon’s dick.”
Which was not entirely true, in Jon’s case. But he met Nimikos’ dark eyes, and he saw understanding there. “So, truce?” he said, holding his hand out.
“Fuck you,” Nimikos growled, flinging the side door open and storming back into the precinct. But Jon knew he’d won. He followed Nimikos inside at a leisurely pace, savoring his victory.
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Chapter Eight
Tomas wondered, not for the first time, what he was doing. Or more accurately, what the fuck he was doing, was he out of his goddamn mind?
He turned his face and stared out of the hospital windows, watching for the cab, blocking out Vic’s angry words. They still made a cold rage begin to simmer inside of him, so he thought of anything else. The way the fluorescent lights made Robbie look dead in that sterilized hospital room. Kevin’s awful stillness, so many emotions seething behind that lack of motion. Tomas had been sitting with them all afternoon, and—he admitted to himself with a sense of shame—he was almost glad to think of anything but Vic. Of course, when the clock rolled around to eight and it was time to go, he had been quietly relieved. Didn’t know what to say in situations like that.
When Jon called, he’d meant to pick up and tell the vice cop it was over. Meant to face up to whatever consequences that meant. To not give in to how angry Vic was making him.
But the words that had come out didn’t match what he meant to do. The anger won out, the desire to hit back. Stubborn. Stupid. He didn’t do overnights. Not since Vic. He gave up a lot for Vic, but not enough.
And that wasn’t the only reason he said yes, was it? Jon drowned out the noise, the worries. There was something liberating about letting go for a while, breaking his own rules, letting Jon take over. When everything was falling apart, he could turn his back 67
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on it all and fuck himself into oblivion. He’d done it before. Sixteen and the divorce.
Twenty and his mother dying. Twenty-two and college debt piled sky high and his appetite for law school microscopic next to his appetite for sex. But in all those cases, he’d done what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted. With Jon, he could feel things slipping. Peering over the edge of a canyon on his tiptoes, no guardrail between himself and the void beyond.
Vic was what he wanted, but Vic didn’t want him, not as he was. That wasn’t right, not exactly. But close enough. He couldn’t get it right with Vic, just got angry and made things worse and worse. They couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t handle it. So he was throwing it all out the door with Jon. Was that what he wanted?
He rubbed his chest, an absent gesture, as if the physical comfort could obliterate the emotional pain under his breastbone.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked himself, again. He should call Jon and cancel. He should call Jon and cancel forever. He took his phone out of his pocket, stared at the glossy face. He touched the screen—
The hospital’s huge sliding doors whooshed shut behind Vic, carrying a big armful of grocery-store flowers. Tomas shoved the phone in his pocket.
“Hello,” Vic said stiffly.
The tightness in Tomas’ chest wrenched; his face went hot and his stomach went cold. He was surprised how angry he still was, at himself, at Vic. “Hi.” It was hard to talk.
“I’m still working. Just. Lunch. Thought I should stop in. Be there for Robbie.” So much danced on Tomas’ tongue, in the back of his throat. Selfish fury, injured pride, indignant confusion. All that Vic had said—he was nothing, a dumb hooker, what he did was selfish, for no good reason, for greed. He wanted to argue. He wanted to scream that of all people, he trusted Vic, because he thought Vic got it. That Vic didn’t care that he did what he did, even enjoyed it. But really, it had been three years of what? Lies? Pretense? They had been happy. Or he had been happy, and too stupid 68
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to see Vic getting unhappy. And he would have walked away from it all, from everything that he was, even though there was nothing for him on the other side, but now he was too goddamn pissed. He was too goddamn pissed to get a single word past his lips.
Vic said, “Fuck you, too.”
Tomas said, “I’m working.”
They both flinched. Tomas could have laughed, wanted to. If it had been any one of their fights from the past, they would have laughed and it would have been over.
A yellow cab pulled up out front. Tomas started walking toward it; Vic followed his direction and figured him out. He slung the flowers into a nearby trashcan. “Fuck this,” he snapped, and left.
Tomas’ insides rolled, but he got into the cab. He leaned over the seat and gave Jon’s address coolly to the driver, as if nothing hurt at all.
* * * *
Jon was still riding high from his afternoon triumph over Nimikos. He grinned wolfishly at Tomas as the man entered the apartment. “You want a beer?” He wondered if Tomas was top or bottom with Nimikos; as he stared at Tomas’ perfect ass in his tight, worn jeans, Jon decided without a doubt, bottom. Nimikos wasn’t bad-looking—he could see them making an attractive couple, the swarthy, lean-muscular detective and the blond, beefy stripper. Jon imagined it for a second, playing fantasy voyeur, found it gave him a nice head start on the mood he wanted for the evening.
“A beer sounds nice,” Tomas said, taking off his light jacket and folding it over the back of a chair. His ever-present duffel bag landed on the seat. He had a plain white t-shirt on, stretched tight by his thick biceps and firm pecs, and well-worn jeans that left nothing to the imagination. He looked good, dressed so ordinary, so boy-next-door.
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Jon tore his eyes away long enough to head for the kitchen.
“You can have the envelope next to the lamp there,” he said, returning with a Coors in one hand.
Tomas picked the fat envelope up, thumbed through its contents and tucked it away in his bag. He accepted the beer and took a long swig. Jon stared as he licked beer off his upper lip. Tomas’ eyes were faraway. What was he thinking of, Jon wondered—
Robbie, or Detective Nimikos? Of his safety? Of his paycheck?
Whatever it was, Jon never liked sharing Tomas. His little conversation with Nimikos, he thought, showed he shouldn’t have to share Tomas.
“Come over here.”
Tomas blinked, started to set the beer down. Jon shook his head. He dropped into an armchair, indicated the floor in front of his feet. “Bring it over here.” When Tomas was standing in front of Jon, he held one hand out for the beer and said, “Kneel.”
Laughing nervously, Tomas handed him the cold bottle and knelt.
“You want a drink?” Jon asked, letting the bottle rest against his crotch, the cool, sweaty glass soothing against his hot, hard prick. “Then earn it,” he growled, his voice husky, his hand moving forward to grip Tomas’ hair and pull him forward.
Tomas hesitated at first, hovering over the bottleneck; then he opened his mouth and slid his soft lips over the cool glass, deep throating it easily and coming back up, flicking the opening of the bottle with his tongue as he broke away. He mouthed the glass rim, eyes slipping shut, bottom lip snagging on the second flare, before going down on the bottle again.
Jon eased the bottle back as Tomas came up for air. He moved it aside, unzipped his fly and pushed his jeans down enough to free his cock and balls. Tomas watched, his attention more focused now, but his expression strange, still detached.
Annoyance flickered through Jon and he pushed the bottle against Tomas’ lips again. “Have a drink,” he said. Tomas raised
his hands to take the bottle from Jon, but 70
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Jon shook his head. “Drink,” he repeated, tipping the bottle up, jamming the mouth against Tomas’ lips, letting the beer spill over his chin, into his goatee, down his neck.
Tomas tried to swallow, but then Jon took the bottle away, pushed his head down.
“Suck me off.”
Tomas’ mouth was cool from the beer, strangely pleasant. Jon wanted to bend over as Tomas worked his dick, wanted to ask him all about Detective Nimikos, but not yet.
He didn’t want Tomas to bolt. He wanted to see the big man squirm, hating it and loving it, that massive bulge in his jeans straining the worn fabric almost to breaking point.
He pushed Tomas back. “Get off. Enough.”
Tomas frowned as he sat back on his heels. The front of his white tee was soaked with beer, clinging to his comic-book perfect chest. “What do you want from me?” he asked, softly, but Jon felt like he wasn’t really the one Tomas was addressing.
“For a thousand bucks, I’d like your absolute attention,” Jon said. “Or am I just a convenience when you need safe money?”
Tomas flushed guiltily. “No,” he said, but he was lying, Jon knew he was. Tomas stood and wiped his palms against the sides of his jeans, falling a half-step back.
“Maybe this was a mistake,” he said. “I’m not sure I can do this right now. I’m kind of a mess. I just left Robbie at the—”
“Question,” Jon interrupted. Tomas stopped, waited politely. Tomas was always so polite. Jon just ate it up. “Do you want my money or don’t you?” A strange expression passed over Tomas’ face, like a cloud crossing in front of the sun; and then it was gone, leaving only a slight confusion. “I—” Jon rephrased. “If you want my money, then shut the fuck up like a good little boy and do as you’re told.”