by Josh Lanyon
“Yours,” he said wryly. “Yeah. Can I see it?”
I blinked. “Sure. Come with me.”
Officer Chandler followed me to my apartment. Despite the way Chandler had treated him, Rick trailed after us.
“You got no business here, Garcia.”
“What’s up your ass, Chandler?”
“I’ll be out to take your statement when I’m done here, sir.” Chandler’s hostility bordered on the aggressive. Rick appeared used to such treatment. The pain he tried to hide caught me by surprise.
There was a whole herd of armed and intimidating men and women roaming around the building, knocking on doors. From watching television, I assumed they’d be followed quickly by crime-scene investigators and detectives. For reasons I couldn’t articulate, I felt better having Rick there.
“I want Rick to stay,” I said firmly. Chandler relented, and we entered my place.
Most of my boxes were stacked neatly in the rooms where their contents belonged, so I led them into the kitchen. Any chef will tell you they only use two or three types of knives in the course of their daily work, but most of us collect them. I took excellent care of my knives, and I found them immediately, as I’d packed them on the top of a midsized box marked “knives.”
Let it be known I am an imaginative, creative chef, but a pedantic packer.
“What’s that?” Chandler asked about my knife roll.
I glanced up. “It’s where I keep my knives.”
“No block?” Rick looked around as if he had to memorize the space and take a test after.
“You can’t throw a block into your backpack when you need to take your knives somewhere.”
“You carry your knives with you? Why’s that?” The suspicion in Officer Chandler’s voice made me glance up, but I couldn’t tell if he was serious. Did he really believe I carried my knives around so I could stab people?
“I cook at other peoples’ houses a lot.”
“Don’t they have knives?”
I met his gaze sternly. “Do you leave your weapon at home in the hope that someone has a nice one you can borrow at a dangerous traffic stop?”
“You win.” That got me a smile with a bonus dimple from Rick. “Show us this gojo-whatever.”
“Go-ku-jo. It’s like…all-in-one.” I untied the laces and unrolled the simple waxed canvas tote. It had ten pockets for knives and another for a meat cleaver. “It’s almost like a Western boning knife, but the blade’s not as flexible. I use a thinner, flexible blade sometimes when I need one. I just like this one more for most— Wait.”
Though we could all see the single empty spot in the roll, Rick gave me the benefit of the doubt.
“Which one is it?”
“It’s not here.” Light-headed, I braced against the counter. Already my heart thudded with a kind of guilty shock. “Why isn’t it here?”
“When did you last use it?” Chandler’s expression remained amiable, but behind his warmth I guessed he was estimating my size for an orange jumpsuit.
“Before I moved.” The way the two of them eyed me made all the hairs on my skin ripple.
“I think you should come with me.” Chandler led me back to the hall. “Stay put.”
Technicians were now trudging into Jeff’s place with toolboxes. They wore protective coveralls and nitrile gloves and put shoe protectors on at the door, just like on TV.
“I’m going to take Pepper to the vet.” Stephani had bundled up for the cooler weather outside. The dead guy’s leashed dog clung to her morosely. “Do you think she understands what happened?”
“How would one tell?”
“She’s usually so happy.” The dog looked as dazed and uncertain as I felt. “Do you suppose she saw the murder? Or tried to protect Jeff and that’s how she got hurt?”
“They’ll probably figure that out from the evidence inside.” I hoped they’d figure everything out, and without me in the picture as the prime suspect.
A mousy woman with dark hair in a style that covered her face carried Steph’s yappy shih tzu in one arm and a disappointed-looking pug in the other. They hugged. I’d seen the woman come and go from 3E, and now I assumed they were friends. Stephani took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.
“I hope this doesn’t cost a lot. I don’t have much headroom on my cards.”
“Let me know how much, and I’ll help.” No one was more surprised by the offer than I was, but the damn dog was a puppy, practically. It wasn’t her fault some human killed her owner. I had money. Steph was young and probably struggled.
“Oh gosh.” She beamed at me. “Thanks.”
I felt momentarily heroic, but then I remembered I’d probably also have to call Dillon Kimble, a successful criminal-defense lawyer, who would not hesitate to charge me top dollar after our forgettable one-night stand.
“I can give you some cash. Let me get my wallet.”
“Don’t go back inside, Mr. Boudreaux,” Chandler warned.
Rick tightened his grip on my arm. “Uh-oh.”
“Am I allowed to ask why?” I thought I knew, but I wanted him to spell it out.
Rick winced. “They’re going to want to get a closer look at your place. See if anything’s been disturbed. If you give permission, it will save them having to get a search warrant. If you have anything to hide—”
“I don’t!” I was suspect number one. Why didn’t he just come out and say it? “I didn’t do anything but try to get some sleep despite a frantic dog in the next apartment.”
“I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of this.”
And I was equally sure that was something the police said to make suspects feel better, on a par with doctors who claim, “This won’t hurt a bit,” and boyfriends who swear, “I’ll never even look at another guy.”
Liars, the lot.
Although for someone with Rick Garcia’s good looks and charm, I might have taken my chances. Except, no. I only had two hard and fast rules: never mix sex with business, and never fuck the neighbors. So far, I had avoided about three-fourths of the drama my staff got into because I kept those rules religiously.
Chandler came back. “Would it be okay if the technicians go inside your place?”
After flicking a glance toward Rick, who didn’t indicate whether I should or shouldn’t, I nodded. “Sure.”
Chandler went to speak with them, leaving me and Rick alone.
“Can you think how your knife disappeared from its holder?” Rick’s tone was mild.
“It had to have happened while I brought things up from the moving van.” I’d been quite proud of myself, even using the stairs to the third floor a couple of times. It meant I was recovering. Slowly, but making progress. “I didn’t bother locking the door after each trip. There wasn’t that much, and I barely saw anyone else around.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Were the boxes open or sealed?”
“I cut the kitchen boxes open with a box cutter as I brought them up to make them easier to unpack. But like I said, I get tired easily. I didn’t get too far before I opened a bottle of red wine, had a glass, and called it a night.”
“But you didn’t sleep.”
“I couldn’t sleep because the dog was going crazy next door.” I thought back to the drowsy feeling I’d had. The contentment as I’d slipped between fresh, clean sheets on my newly delivered bed and tried to doze off. “I drifted for about an hour, I think.”
“So after that, how long was it before you got up and went to the hall?”
“Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“I live here. It’s normal to be curious when your neighbor gets killed.”
“Guess so.” He was right about that. Everyone was coming out of the woodwork with curiosity.
“I’m probably going to get in trouble for talking to you like this.”
“Will you?”
“Yeah. And for telling you you’re gonna need a lawyer. Do you have one? You should call them.” He pulled ou
t his phone, and when I reached for it, I noticed my bloody hands again.
I stared at them. “Fuck me.”
“Mm. Not really a good time.”
I took a fresh look at him. He had the aforementioned dreamy brown eyes, but he was nothing like the men I normally dated. He was burly, with a sleeve of colorful tattoos that disappeared beneath the fabric of his shirt. He looked like he could throw me around or hoist me up and carry me over his shoulder.
He also had tan skin. A full, soft mouth and a thick brush of hair, buzz cut on the sides and longer on the top. That smile… It teased a memory.
I gasped. “Dine-and-dash.”
“What?” I’d clearly shocked him.
“You’re that dine-and-dash kid. At Hugo’s on Santa Monica. I worked there as a server when I first came to LA.”
He flushed. “You’re crazy.”
“Nuh-uh.” I remembered everything. That face. The cheeky grin. The serious eyes that crackled with challenge but held so much promise.
He’d been with a party of raggedy hooligans who’d ordered everything from appetizers to desserts and then took off without paying. Last out the door, Rick had glanced back. Our gazes locked. The look we shared lasted an instant before his pals dragged him away, but it stuck in my mind. I thought at the time he regretted what he and his friends had done. He obviously did regret it, because later I found him waiting for me in the moonlight, after I got off work.
“Sorry,” he’d said as he shoved a wad of folded-up twenties at me.
“You need better friends.” I counted the bills. The cash didn’t come close to covering the cost of their meals. “And math skills.”
He winced. “That’s all I’ve got right now. I’ll bring the rest soon.”
I was angry, but I believed him. He didn’t seem to want any part of his friends’ little game. He couldn’t know that was my last night at Hugo’s. I was moving to a different restaurant and a new job as a line cook, and I wasn’t going to be there when he returned.
“You probably shouldn’t bother,” I told him. “Whoever you give it to won’t remember what you did.”
“I will.” His hot gaze burned my skin.
That was it. Just, I will.
Proud little monster. And determined. We stared at each other for a long time.
I had a feeling he was thinking about punching me. Or kissing me. Back then I would have enjoyed either one from Rick—a fight or a fuck. I was young, and he was a gorgeous kid, tough and angry, just like now. Powerful in a way that made my belly quiver.
Unfortunately, back then he sighed and glanced away.
I should have called one of the busboys to kick his ass. It’s what my mother would have done. Instead, I kept my mouth shut and let him go.
That kid was Rick. It was definitely Rick.
“Nah,” he lied to my face. “Wasn’t me.”
The warmth I’d been feeling dissipated like smoke. “I found the body. I had nothing to do with Jeff’s death.”
“Except”—a smile kicked up on one side of that smart mouth—“he probably had your boning knife in his chest. Who should I call, Lonnie? You need a lawyer.”
The shock of seeing him again like this was eclipsed by my fear he’d already made up his mind about me.
He was right. I needed a lawyer. But I wasn’t going to give Rick the satisfaction of thinking he was doing me any favors.
“No worries. I know a guy.”
Chapter Three
It killed me to ask Dillon Kimble for help. When we talked, he didn’t hesitate to remind me of our sad little one-off. He held it over me like blackmail until I was polite enough, desperate enough, to agree that maybe I’d cook him a private dinner sometime to make things up to him.
He arrived at the police station an hour after I did, dressed in a fancy gray Italian suit, blue shirt, and repp stripe tie. I still couldn’t understand how someone who had such great style and a first-rate education, someone who’d traveled all over the world, could drive me batshit crazy.
He smelled of too-sweet aftershave and the pomade he used on his hair. I still resented that hair stuff. I’d had to throw out a bamboo pillowcase because of Dillon Kimble, and I was not over the loss.
We spent all morning in the interview room together. I stuck to the truth and didn’t let the detectives rattle me. Whatever the police thought they had, they were no closer to finding the killer than they’d been before talking to me.
I figured my chances were fifty-fifty I’d spend the night in jail. Dillon didn’t seem too worried, but I compensated for his lack.
I was anxious about my new place and how I’d live there if everyone thought I was a murderer. I fretted about my mother, because finding out her only son was in jail would probably amuse her but also drive her to homicidal rage on my behalf.
Mostly, I worried that since I looked so good for Jeff’s murder, they wouldn’t look for the real killer. That being the owner of the knife, they might fit the case around me.
After they left us, Dillon turned to me.
“So, you finally killed someone?” He probably hoped it was true. Most of his clients were guilty sons of bitches, and it gave him a big rush to defend them successfully.
“Of course I didn’t.”
“Fine. Right.” He waved a beringed hand. “But hypothetically speaking, if you did stab your neighbor, why on earth would you use your own knife?”
“I didn’t.” I couldn’t believe I’d slept with this guy. His sense of humor could be unkind at times, plus he had a fetish for people with names like mine.
“Aw. You’re still stubborn as a tick on a fat man. My big ole ragin’ Cajun.”
For the record, I was born in Las Vegas, Nevada, the only son of Calliope Boudreaux, burlesque throwback, pole dancer, and sometimes porn actress. I didn’t have a Cajun accent, I rarely cooked Cajun food, and Dillon’s fetish creeped me out. It forced me into a boudin casing that didn’t fit.
“I did not kill him.”
“Of course you didn’t.” He winked.
This was getting us nowhere. “What will happen now?”
“They’re deciding whether to charge you, which means you might be in real deep doo-doo, babycakes.” Dillon was enjoying this way too much.
The police had searched my apartment, taken my clothes, and looked me over for signs I’d been in a struggle. They photographed my hands and gathered trace evidence.
Dillon continued, “They’re looking for any connection they can find between you and the victim. Are you sure he didn’t leave you a bad Yelp review?”
“Like I read those. I swear, I don’t remember seeing his face before tonight.”
“In which case, he could be any one of your lovers because you don’t seem to remember those either.”
“I don’t have lovers. Do I need to call someone else to represent me?” I spoke between gritted teeth. “I’m not asking for any favors here.”
“Of course not. I’m a professional. I just like getting your goat.” He stood, stretched, and whispered close to my ear. “Say it.”
“No.” Up close, his cologne was gross. “Nah-uh.”
“I’ll need to hear you say it, Lonnie.”
“I’m not even from—”
“C’mon, Lonnie Boo-droh,” he drawled my name. “Say it for me. I’m not taking your case unless you do.”
“Fine.” I sighed. His eyebrows rose in anticipation. “Laissez les bon temps rouler, cher.”
He gave a discreet, delighted wiggle. “You might want to think about who you’re gonna call for bail money.”
God, I should have used a public defender.
***
At two in the afternoon, the detectives let me go. Since I expected to end up in jail, the feeling of freedom I got was like that experiment where you tense the muscles in your arms for so long they feel all floaty when you’re done—only all over my body.
I wanted to dance my way down the street. I wanted to fly. Instead, I went
home with some idea of changing into my own clothes and going to Factory to check in on my employees. Maybe have a decent meal.
As I huffed up the stairs, I heard an argument coming from my floor. I slowed my steps because I didn’t want to seem like I was listening, but I totally was.
I’m a curious guy. And why have neighbors if you can’t spy on them?
“Don’t get me involved. It’s nothing to do with me.”
“But you talked to the police before, right?” I knew Rick’s voice. I couldn’t tell who he was talking to. A woman, though.
“They were no help.” She sounded angry. “They said they’d talk to him. Of course, that made everything worse. I got threats from him, his lawyer, and his parents. And they didn’t even ask about it last night.”
“The detectives must know someone took a call here that involved the victim.” I flattened myself against the wall in the stairwell. Were they talking about Dead Jeff?
“What happened to me has nothing to do with Jeff’s murder. Don’t you dare cloud the issue, or they’ll put me in the frame for his murder.”
“But that’s just it. It could have something to do with what happened, couldn’t it?” The silence stretched out between them. “You’re not the only woman he tried that shit with.”
“I’m the only one who called the police, thanks to you.”
“I’m sorry if you felt pressured.” His voice softened. “I thought you wanted to make a report. I thought I was supporting you, not…”
“Look, when something like that happens, the cops don’t believe you. They’ll say you asked for it, or—”
“Hey there.” That was it; I showed myself. It was one thing to hear who parked in whose space or who left their dog’s poop lying around, but this had the sound of something truly personal, and I hated myself for listening in.
I found Rick with 3E. There were six apartments on each floor, A through F. My place, A, was next to the stairs, then came Jeff’s place B, then Rick’s apartment, C. On the opposite side, Rick’s apartment was across from D, whose occupant I hadn’t met yet. I was across from Stephani, in F.
3E still had both her dog and Stephani’s shih tzu. They frolicked on glitzy little leashes, tangling themselves around her ankles as she talked. With her head tilted down, I couldn’t tell if she was looking at me or not, but I said hello to her too.