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Bottom line: if there was anything to my suspicions, however flimsy they were, then it was even more imperative we find Momo. Both for her safety, and for our case.
That afternoon I contacted our gang specialist, Sergeant Thomas Paige, and caught him on his way out to a confab with some city people about handling graffiti showing up 54
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around town. He had about five minutes to spare and I had one question I needed answered above everything else.
"What about recent activity in the beach area?"
"Been an uptick all over the county. Assaults are up, a lot more violent muggings and home invasions."
"All gang related?"
"Far as I can tell." Paige was a laconic Angeleno who talked like he had a mouthful of nails. "Even a slew of shots-fired calls, nobody injured though. Word is there's talk of some new drug pipeline being set up with cartels and local bangers."
"Here in town?" Shit, that's all we needed, more drugs flooding the street.
"Haven't figured that part out yet."
"Keep me in the loop." I left him to his meeting and went in search of Miguel so we could get on with our own work.
Miguel and I returned to the beach and spent the rest of the afternoon interviewing everyone we found. A few talked of seeing an old black woman and her dog. But no one knew where they were. We saw the woman with the shopping cart, but she grew agitated again when we questioned her, so I was forced to back off without learning anything new.
There was no sign of Eastside or Westside bangers hanging around. Too bad, I was itching to get my hands on one of them. Find out just what they were doing hanging around the beach together.
At five we called it a day. I picked up my Toyota and headed home.
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This time I cooked; chicken on the barbecue with a variety of cold salads Jason picked up on his way home from school.
We sat in our cleaned up backyard, now bursting with flowers and bushes—another successful effort on Jason's part who, it turned out, had quite a green thumb. When he had first mentioned wanting to plant a few things in the yard I had indulgently said sure, figuring he meant to throw a few pots of marigolds or daisies out. Instead, he had bought a whole slew of garden equipment, bags of dirt and very smelly fertilizer. Within a month my scruffy backyard had been turned into a colorful oasis that was more of solace than I would have imagined. Or maybe it was sharing it with Jason that made it special. I didn't analyze it too closely. I simply enjoyed being out there with him.
After we ate, I lay back in the lounger with my feet up on Jason's lap. Idly, he massaged my soles and calves, working his way up my bare thighs, first with his fingers, then his lips.
He grew more focused, leaving a trail of heat along the inside of my calf, tracing the knobs of my kneecap then nipping the skin above my right knee. I spread my legs, bracing one foot on the patio stones. His mouth was hot; I shivered under his touch. "If I do this..." he nibbled again, then followed it with his lapping tongue. A wave of desire so hard I groaned washed over me. "...I can make you do that."
My dick pressed painfully against the denim shorts I had changed into after my shower. "And if I do this..." he continued his torturous path up my inner thigh until his lips caressed my swollen balls through the fabric. I sighed and closed my eyes as he worked my fly open. I wound shaking 56
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fingers through his thick hair. One of the first things Jason had done, even before the garden came, was talk me into replacing the old chain fence that separated my property from the other two houses at the end of my cul-de-sac. Now we had true privacy in our little retreat and it wasn't uncommon for us to take advantage of it. Though even with the fence, there was still that slightly kinky feeling of doing something forbidden. I had never been one for public sex, but with Jason I found I stretched my boundaries. "Oh, yes," he sighed, his mouth pressing into my balls and I rocked, thrusting my hips up. "Look at what I can make you do."
His hot breath caressed my erection, then the tip of his tongue licked precum out of my slit, his lips exploring and enclosing the swollen head with wet heat. I moaned and pressed the back of his head down, wanting him to swallow me to the root. My nerves thrummed and my balls tightened in preorgasmic tension. A strange vibration started at the base of my dick and grew. It was several moments of unbelievable bliss before I realized Jason was humming, and the vibration from his throat was going straight to the core of my cock.
I shouted out his name and shot my load. He swallowed and it felt like he was taking my whole dick right down his throat, milking me dry. I collapsed back against the lounger struggling to get my breath back.
He crawled up my body and I hugged him close, petting his back.
"Where the hell did you learn to do that?"
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He grinned against my throat. "Would you believe TV?
Some sex show on here! They were talking about how to give mind blowing head."
"Wow, finally paying through the nose for cable pays off." I nuzzled his throat. "You're a keeper, Jason Zachary."
"Yes, Sir."
Darkness fell and fireflies come out, enchanting us. We shared the lounger and one more beer before retreating into the house to watch one of our favorite Lauren and Bogey movies.
* * * *
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Jason
After the final credits rolled, I bounced to my feet. "Got something for you. Stay here."
I hurried into our bedroom where I scooped up the things I had picked up today on my side trip to Santa Barbara. I came out carrying them in both hands. He watched me approach with his usual intense scrutiny. No one I knew could stare down a person like my Alex.
I handed him the Maxpedition backpack first. He turned the desert-tan bag over in his hands, examining all the various pockets and compartments it had.
"You're serious about this trip, aren't you?"
"I'm always serious about hiking. Here..." I handed him the Merrell boots. "I measured your work boots—these should be a perfect fit. Comfortable, too. You won't get blisters in these babies."
He felt the weight of the boots and looked pleased. "Could kick some serious bear ass with these things."
I had made the mistake of telling him there were black bears in the Wilderness area we were going to. Bears and mountain lions, too. Now I had an even harder thing to say to him.
"Uh, can I ask you something?"
His gray eyes met mine and he frowned. "You know you always can. What is it, Jay?"
"Can you... can you not take your gun with you on this trip?"
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"You know I don't like going anywhere without it," he said softly.
"I know, and I respect that, Sir, but do you really think you're going to need it up there? It's only for a few days..."
His frown deepened. Finally, all he would say was, "I'll think about it."
I let it go. He'd either do what I asked or he wouldn't.
Nagging him would only lead to punishment and while I usually enjoyed that, sometimes he picked something I didn't like one bit, like sleeping on the couch, away from him. I wasn't going to push the matter.
I tugged his hand, pulling him off the leather couch. "Come on, try it on."
He shrugged the backpack over his broad shoulders and let me help settle it into place.
"How's it feel?"
"Comfortable. Balanced."
"Wait'll it's full of supplies. You'll get a good workout from it."
He patted his belly and grinned ruefully. "Maybe work off some of this, you think?"
I replaced his hand with my ow
n, stroking his stomach through the thin T-shirt he wore. His muscles clenched under my questing fingers and he sucked in his breath. "I love every inch of you, Sir, don't ever think otherwise."
He grabbed my hand, shoving it against his swelling cock.
"Maybe you should try the boots on," I whispered as our eyes met, his shiny with deepening desire.
"Maybe I should."
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But he made no move to do so. My hand squirmed around his growing erection, matching the one I had never quite lost since he had come home.
"Go get yours," he ordered. "We're going to do something together."
I hurried to obey and pulled my boots out of the front closet, following him into our bedroom.
"Strip," he said.
Again I obeyed, and soon stood in front of him naked, my cock already standing out from my shaved pubic area. He followed suit then put his new boots on, ordering me to put mine on. Within seconds we stood facing each other, dicks thickening in anticipation, clad only in our hiking boots.
He leaned forward and slid my collar around my throat, clamping my nipples in the slender chains attached to the brass ring. Pain lanced straight into my groin, I closed my eyes against the sudden rush of remembered desire.
"Arms behind your back."
I did as he ordered, the movement sending new bolts of pain through my pinched nipples to the base of my cock. I was leaking precum now. He smoothed his fingers over my engorged helmet, making it slick and strokeable.
"Who do you belong to?"
"You, Sir. Only you."
He used the soft leather restraints to cuff my hands behind my back. The last thing I saw before he slipped the leather hood over my head was him standing in front of me, wearing only his brand new Merrell's, his swelling dick rising out of his thick bush of red hair. Then darkness enfolded me and I was 61
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plunged into a world of smells and sounds and touch. Oh God, how he touched me. Pleasure and pain all mingled into one.
It was a long time before we got to bed that night.
* * * *
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Spider
I was late next morning. My fault. I had kept Jason in shackles for what turned out to be nearly two hours, proving once more that what he did to me was far beyond what any other man had ever done. We had collapsed on our double bed well after midnight not waking up until the phone dragged me out of bed, long after the alarm would have gone off. Jason mumbled and burrowed back under the warm covers while I sat on the side of the bed, trying to shake sleep off as the voice on the other end went on about how much I really needed new aluminum siding for my house. It was a measure of my half-awake state that I didn't hang up on the jerk for a full minute.
"Whassat?" Jason slurred and winced when he cranked one eye open and peered at me over his pillow. "It can't be time to get up."
"Fraid so." I pulled the covers off his shrinking body, barely pausing to admire his trim, hairless form. "We have to hurry. We're both running late."
He groaned but did as I ordered. We shared a shower to speed things up, kissed at the front door then dashed to our respective cars. I broke a few speed limits on the way in to the station. Both Miguel and Nancy were already there, and I thought I caught a knowing smirk from Nancy before I buried my head in the pile of reports on my desk.
"We need to find Momo," I said shortly.
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"I agree," Miguel said. "I put a BOLO out on her this morning. Patrols are looking for her as we speak."
"Good." I filled him in on my speculations of the day before.
"Racially motivated hits?" Miguel looked troubled. "I've heard of it happening in L.A. but not here."
"I guess some things are too good to keep to themselves."
I knew I sounded cynical, but after nearly a decade of being a cop I'd seen enough to make anyone a cynic.
I transcribed the field reports from our conversations with Hardy and the nameless woman, then I pulled up the chrono report I'd started the first day of Simpson's murder. This covered everything Miguel and I had done from the original 911 call, including my wildest speculations on why the crime happened, right up to this morning's entry. Most such speculations turned out to be false leads, but every so often something would spark, and I'd find the trail that would lead me to a killer. I thought I might be on that trail now. Part of me hoped I was wrong, but that was the part that still believed in basic human goodness. For the most that had been beaten out of me by reality.
I finished up and added the pages to the murder book, pausing to look over the crime scene photos again. One close-up shot clearly showed the pair of entry points where the .25
caliber rounds had penetrated Simpson's head. The picture was so clear I could make out the dark stippling around the entrance wound that meant the weapon had been held only inches from the target. Whoever had shot Simpson had wanted to make sure the job was done. It spoke of a cold 64
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calculation. Simpson must have known what was happening to him. Had he understood it? Had they taunted him before the execution? I tried to envision the faces of the attackers. I didn't have a handle on them yet, but I was getting closer. I went back to studying the autopsy report.
Faint ligature marks on Simpson's wrists suggested he'd been restrained, probably with hands. So what did that mean? Two men? Three? Simpson wasn't a small man, he might have been old and scrawny, but I suspect he put up a struggle at the end. So my guess was three men, two holding him in place, and the shooter. I thought of the bangers Miguel and I had chased off the other day, the ones we had ID'd when we returned to the station. Would any of them be capable of such a heartless murder? At least two of them had jackets full of violence and assaults, with and without deadly weapons. So my guess was, yes, they were more than capable.
Fideo hadn't been among them, but that didn't mean he didn't know what his posse was up to. I could safely bet my pension he knew everything his barrio brothers did.
Back on my computer I pulled up our crime database. I also dug up Fideo's rap sheet. Looking over his KAs, I found a slew of other bangers. Some of his known associates had their own paper, some didn't. I could give them the benefit of the doubt and figure they were clean, or be realistic and guess they just hadn't been caught. I found a list of likely suspects and printed copies of all of them. When that was done I glanced over at Miguel.
"Want to talk to some cholos?"
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"You find something?"
I grabbed my jacket off the back of my chair. "I'll tell you on the way."
I'd printed out an extra copy of the chrono and handed it to him once we signed out a car and were heading to the first address. My gang expert had ID'd the most violent of the Eastside bangers as a shot caller. The man who gave orders.
Before we went door knocking, I turned to Miguel. "Your Spanish is a lot better than mine. Jump in whenever you want. We can't force anyone to talk, we don't have enough for warrants or probable cause, but we may be able to spook something out of them." I glanced down at the printouts in my hand. "I want to tackle the younger brother first. He's been in a lot less trouble and may not be as familiar with the system. If we can rattle his cage, he may drop a few tidbits we can use on the older sibling. In fact..." I tapped my finger on my upper lip. "Why don't you take him? I'll keep his older brother..." I looked at the jacket, "Ramiro, occupied."
"How do you want me to handle him?"
"Play on his ego. Ask him what he and his homies have been up to. Make him feel like an important part of the set.
Ask him if he got jumped in yet, l
ike you're jealous. He's only fourteen, his machismo is stoked, so stroke him; he might buy that from you. Don't just listen to his answers, watch him. Take it for granted he's lying about everything. Ask him the same question two or three different ways. People always make their lies way too complicated to remember them for long. Watch his body, it'll tell you when he's lying for sure.
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The eyes can be a dead giveaway. Watch the position of his legs. If he looks like he wants to bolt, you're getting to him."
"Yes, sir."
"Then let's go nail us some...bangers." I'd been about to say assholes, but that might not sit well with my straight-laced, younger partner. "And drop the sir. We're equals out here, and if you carry that stuffy military attitude in there, you might as well wear a target."
"Yes, s—ah, Detective Spider."
He still sounded like a raw academy boot. I let it go. It would come in time, or it wouldn't. He was the master of that decision.
It took less than ten minutes to reach the first address.
The streets were a mix of well cared for Spanish-style, white-walled homes and a few rundown three-story walk-ups.
Statistically at least one of them would be a grow-op and there'd be a meth lab in the 'hood, too. There weren't too many neighborhoods these days that didn't have one or the other. We climbed out of the Crown. I checked the pancake holster under my left armpit, verified its accessibility then glanced at Miguel, who nodded. Together we approached the immaculate, green-trimmed stucco bungalow. A pair of potted orange and red flowering plants flanked the steel-barred door. My gaze restlessly scanned the front of the house, watching for some sign we'd been spotted. No flutter of curtains, no curious eyes peering out, no glint of a metal barrel taking aim on us. Nothing on the street but vehicles.