Infected: Freefall (11 page)

“Yeah, well, it’s our word against the other guys’. I have a feeling they’ll tell a different story.”

“Yeah, but you’re a former cop, and you’re sober. Your word will go farther.”

Roan wanted to tell him that wasn’t true on both counts. Many of the cops didn’t like him, and he was currently on Vicodin. But nobody was going to drug test him. He could pass a Breathalyzer if it came down to that.

“What’s his name, anyways? I hate to keep referring to him as Ponyboy.”

“Cooper Reese.”

“Seriously?”

Holden nodded. “Kids have funny names today.” He paused briefly. “Roan.”

He scowled at him, which Holden met with a dazzling smile. “I’m gonna get my baton back, you know.”

“Hey now, what did I say? Absolutely nothing.” He gave him a wink, still grinning as he watched a couple other cops wrestle in a combative drunk man and a combative drunk woman, both bearing fresh contusions and scratches, who continued screaming and cursing at each other even while the cops attempted to book them. Ah, marriage. What a wonderful institution. No wonder the straights wanted to keep it all for themselves.

They were separated to give their accounts of the incident, and Roan suspected from some of the questions he was asked that Holden had exaggerated the amount of trouble he was in when he’d walked in on the fight. That was kind of him, and he knew the cops would believe it, because McKay, the one taking his statement, asked, “He can really fight?”

“Holden?”

McKay nodded.

“Yeah, he can.”

The cop, a corn-fed-looking guy with a thick neck and a soft face like cookie dough, shook his head in disbelief. “But the way he talks… you’d think he couldn’t.”

The way he talks? Oh yes, his slight lisp. That pretty much meant you were a pansy ass, right? Forget that the guy was over six feet and had the broad shoulders and chest of the athlete he used to be and the hard temper of the street kid he used to be. An extra S or two indicated you were a sissy-slap fight queen. Roan quietly despaired at such dumb-ass shit coming from a guy who should really know better, but maybe he didn’t know better. Maybe he hadn’t been on the beat long enough to realize that being gay or being female didn’t mean you couldn’t be as vicious and as tough as shit. He’d learn, possibly the hard way.

As predicted, Holden wasn’t charged with anything. He was issued a warning for disorderly conduct, but that was it. Roan wasn’t charged with anything either. They warned him not to leave the state but admitted that the case had all the earmarks of a gay bashing. Interviewed at the hospital, the two guys who could speak told two different stories, neither of which was compatible with the few facts that were known, and the fact that they were surprised when the cops originally found Roan’s gun and then later claimed that he had pulled it on them proved they were liars. And bad liars, at that.

Before leaving, they gave him back his baton and his gun. Holden said he’d call a friend to pick them up and reunite Roan with his bike (hopefully A.J. hadn’t hocked it for a trailer full of meth yet), and while he went off to do that, Roan took the time to talk to Marcos.

In spite of detective-client privilege, he told Marcos who had hired him and why. What Chris Spencer didn’t know—or maybe he did—was that nearly all cops hated these unsolved kid cases. Even the most jaded and cynical among them would pause. Missing people you never found, especially young women who were more than likely victims of foul play, you hated too, but there was something special about the kids that disappeared. Everyone felt like they’d failed them. That, as the most vulnerable of citizens, you’d fucked up the most basic tenet of your job. Roan knew this would allow him information he really shouldn’t have.

Sleepy-eyed Marcos, who probably hadn’t shown a flicker of emotion in his weathered face in years, briefly looked flinty and cold as he stared at his computer screen. In a little bit, his fingers clicking over the keys like a master pianist, he had the information for him. Jorgenson had had two cellmates in his time in the joint: a guy named Peter Tucker and another guy named Roland Chesney. Chesney was back in the stir, having been convicted of murder less than a year after he got out (he killed his ex-girlfriend), but records indicated that Tucker’s last known location was Boise, Idaho. Marcos gave him all the information he had on both on a computer printout.

Records indicated both men had done time for sex crimes—Chesney went up on a rape charge initially, and Tucker was convicted of fondling a niece he’d been babysitting and intimidating a witness—but they also had other things in their records less violent: check fraud, loitering, obstruction, drunk driving. Chesney, being an obviously violent person, was in the lead as suspects went. He’d never gone for kids, but he showed a propensity for going after people weaker than himself. He probably got off on it. Yeah, he really needed to speak to Chesney.

He went back to where Holden was waiting, and before he got there, Roan saw him sitting back in one of the waiting room chairs, eyes closed, head back, looking for all the world like he was in serious pain. People walking past made him lift his head and open his eyes, and then he saw Roan and flashed a small, weak smile. When he came near, Holden sat up and said, “Ahmed should be here in a couple minutes.”

“You got some painkillers at home?”

Holden gave him a hooded, sidelong glance, pondering whether to be indignant or not, but he realized he’d been caught and decided—for once in his life—not to put up a front. How could he? His lip was scabbed over and his eye was blackening, a deepening bruise violet splotch that was also making his eyelid swell. Soon, he might not be able to see out of his left eye. “I’m a whore, Roan. Of course I have painkillers at home.” He smirked at his own joke. “I also have Viagra, if you ever feel the need to fuck someone you’re not attracted to.”

“Trick of the trade? No pun intended.”

“Indeed. Sometimes you can’t get it up on cue. You have to have a plan B.”

“You know, I’d think that’d make sex depressing, always having to fuck people you didn’t like.”

He shrugged. “It does get tiring. It’s part of the reason why I’m getting out of the business.”

“How’s that going?”

“Really good, actually. I cut my schedule down to just four regular clients. I told the agency that I’m not taking any new gigs, I’m just doing my regulars and that’s it. Randy knows I’m intending to leave, and he’s cool with that. Mainly because he’s a partner in the web thing I have going with Rocky, and also, I ain’t getting any younger.” He flashed Roan a smile of bright, whitened teeth that had nothing but venom in it. “This is, after all, a young man’s game.”

“Yeah, oldie, don’t want to fuck a guy and break a hip.”

That made Holden snort a laugh, and he bent forward and put a hand on his face. “Ow, fucker, that hurt. Don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry.”

Holden took a minute to regain his composure—yeah, he really was in pain—and then sat back in his chair, slumping slightly. “So while they were booking the tranny hooker, I heard a couple of cops discussing how you could possibly be in a fight after having gotten shot in the hand earlier today. Then there was a reference to some videotape, and you possibly being the gay Superman. Who shot you?”

Roan quickly moved his hand into his coat pocket, but too late, as Holden had already looked at it and saw the somewhat circular patch of raw skin on the top of his hand. He knew it wasn’t just rumor; he knew it was somehow true. “I can’t be the gay Superman,” he replied, trying to be casual. “I wear my underwear inside my pants, and I’m not gay enough to wear a spit curl.”

Holden sat forward and then leaned over the arm of the chair, looking him in the eye as best he could. “I’ve seen you change, you crazy fuck. It still freaks me out to think about it, but I’m honored I’m one of the few who know. Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret. I’m good at keeping secrets.” He mimed zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key before sitting back in his chair. One of the cops passing by, Johnson, gave him a dirty look, and Holden blew him a kiss, which made him turn away in disgust. Holden sighed almost wistfully and added, “I had fun.”

Although Holden’s previous statement had made him feel numb to his toes, Roan appreciated that he had plowed on to another topic, pretending that this hadn’t been something strangely significant and just a little frightening. “Tonight?”

“No, when we were working together. I had a blast. If you ever need my help in another case or something, or just need physical backup, I’d be happy to help.”

Roan was glad he was letting this slip by. Yes, Holden did know he could partially transform, and he’d almost forgotten that he did know that. It was just Dylan, Gordo, Seb, Dropkick, Doctor Rosenberg, and Holden. In retrospect, a shitload of people. “No offense, but I don’t foresee a lot of cases needing a hustler.”

Holden looked at him with a moue of disappointment. “Sweetheart, you know me better than that. I’m not just a hustler; I can be whoever you need me to be. I’m the best actor who’s never walked a stage.”

Actually, Holden had him there. He was. His entire life was being some man’s fantasy, and the fantasies always changed. Holden could adapt and sell it—whatever it was—with the bone-deep conviction of someone whose life depended on you buying it. Because it did. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he told him, and meant it. Holden might actually be useful someday. His street contacts could be invaluable. “So, you talk to your parents yet?”

He scoffed and waved a hand that revealed reddened knuckles. “No. My mother finally stopped calling. Oh, that reminds me, I’ve changed my number.” He searched the pockets of his own leather jacket—worn and brown, yet somehow stylish—and found a pen and a piece of paper that clearly contained a phone number he must have picked up at the bar before he got in the fight. The scribble over the number looked like “Troy,” or possibly “Trey.” “Tony?” Holden scrawled his new number on the back and handed it to him. “It’s my main line, so even if I’m not home, it’ll get forwarded to my cell. Call any time. If I’m on the job, I’ll call you as soon as I’m done.”

Roan took the scrap of paper and wondered how jaded you had to be to refer to fucking a paying stranger as “on the job.” “Talked to Zoë?”

“Oh yeah. I’m gonna go down to California and visit her and her daughter in the summer. She can’t come up here ’cause of money issues, and then there’s the fact that I’d rather she didn’t.”

It wasn’t hard to guess why. “What does she think you do?”

“She thinks I’m a local entertainer.” Roan laughed, and Holden feigned indignance. “Well, I am. It’s not much of a lie. I’ve entertained dozens and dozens of men in my life.”

“Only dozens?”

“I said dozens of dozens. Don’t nitpick.”

He smiled almost in spite of himself, and Holden smiled back, a strangely genuine expression on his wounded face. “I know I look like hell, but you could come home with me.”

The funny thing was, it was almost tempting. Roan wasn’t sure why, except maybe he was just looking to run away. Sex could be oblivion as much as drugs and violence. “I have a boyfriend, Holden.”

“So?” At Roan’s look, Holden rolled his eyes. “Fine, be that way, stick to the parochial heteroparadigm. I expected better of a radical like you.”

“Parochial heteroparadigm?” he repeated in amused disbelief. “Have you joined ACT UP?”

Holden raised an eyebrow at him, that smart-ass grin on his face. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

They got out in time to meet Ahmed in the parking lot. Roan wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t a black six-foot-five leather queen who drove a vintage Dodge Charger painted candy-apple red and listened to Danzig at communication-negating volume. Did you ever expect that? He was pretty sure the answer was no, just like no one ever expected the Spanish Inquisition. But he seemed like a decent—albeit strange—guy. Paris would have loved his car.

A.J. had watched his bike, and while he hadn’t exactly washed and waxed it, he hadn’t sold it for smack, either, and he had to give him some credit for that. Ahmed was giving Holden a lift back to his place, so they said their farewells there, but Holden surprised him once more by giving him a kiss on the cheek and whispering, “Go home and cuddle your boyfriend, Roan. And lay off the pills, huh? You’ve got too much to live for.”

He stared at him, words of denial springing to his lips, but Holden backed away and waved at him, giving him a sad smile. How had he known? No one else had known. Was it his pupils? How big were they? He looked in the bike’s mirror, but it was too dark to tell.

Maybe it was even simpler than that. Maybe it simply took a liar to know one.

He’d got what he wanted from Marcos, so he went home and slept it off for the rest of the night, which wasn’t long, since it was almost morning. He only beat it by a couple of hours. He had been at the cop shop longer than he anticipated.

By the time he got up, Dylan was out for his morning jog—oh, how he used to hate those guys, and yet now he was dating one—and there were a few phone calls waiting for him, including Kwan asking almost angrily how he could possibly be in a fight after getting shot in the hand, but what he really didn’t understand was him kicking all their asses. “Stop making the rest of us look bad, asshole!” he added, before slamming the phone down. You could never accuse him of being anything but entertaining in his own curmudgeonly way.

Fiona checked in, reminding him she’d see him at the office today. He called her back and got her cell phone, but he left her a message, asking if she could check in with the Sheridan Valley Penitentiary and see if she could set up an interview with Roland Chesney for as soon as possible. Also, he needed her to see if she could find some information on a former prisoner named Peter Oswald Tucker, who had relocated to Boise. That was what an assistant was for—the plodding work.

He’d made breakfast by the time Dylan came back, as long as you were generous enough to classify making toast and cutting up some blood oranges as breakfast. But Dylan liked to eat light after exercising, and that suited Roan fine, as he had lots of things on his mind and didn’t feel like anything heavy. Dylan sensed something was wrong and asked him about it, so Roan bluffed by telling him about the former cell mates of Jorgenson he was attempting to track down, and how he already sensed that this was a dead end, but he had to try it anyways. It was clear that this case still got to Dylan too. Everybody involved with the missing Keith Turner felt bad about it, even if they were only tangentially related to it. Except, possibly, the man who had killed him: no conscience meant no guilt.