Infected: Freefall (32 page)

“Are you gonna do the same thing for me?”

“We’ll see.” Okay, he’d give him that the death was terribly suspicious, but that didn’t make it murder. It made it strange, and with Joel’s supposed paranoia added in, it made it coincidental. But nothing said murder except Jay jumping to conclusions. But….

He walked through the now-dribbling rain to his bike, reluctantly calling Holden. He picked up on the third ring. “Hey, Roan.”

Roan thought he heard the sound of running water behind him. “Can you talk right now? I mean in person.”

“Oh. Sure, yeah, meet me at my place in twenty minutes. Okay?”

“Fine by me. See you then.”

Holden hung up pretty fast. Twenty minutes, huh? He was with a client, wasn’t he? It suddenly gave him a creepy feeling that he might have interrupted something he didn’t want to think about.

Driving over was a little less dramatic than driving earlier was, and he was glad. He felt he’d had enough drama for one evening. And in spite of the traffic and his leisurely pace, he beat Holden home. So he waited for a few minutes, leaning next to his door like he was a hustler trolling for a very specific customer. Roan couldn’t help but smirk at the thought as Holden finally arrived, smelling of some pricey mint soap, the kind you only found at expensive hotels. “Hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” he said, unlocking his door. Holden had a keychain that looked like a piece of sushi; a tuna roll, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“Hope I didn’t interrupt something,” Roan asked, following him in. Holden had left his neon martini lamp lit, so there was some light in the room, but not a lot. He turned on a proper lamp to throw more light on the scene.

“Nope, I was on my way out when you called. It was good timing, really. So is this about Joel, or is this a personal call?” Holden collapsed on his sofa, clearly exhausted, and Roan decided he wasn’t going to think about what he had probably been doing just thirty minutes ago. If Holden had any shame, he’d lost it a long time ago. The only one uncomfortable here was him.

“It’s about Joel. He didn’t take vitamin supplements, did he? How much of a health freak was he?”

Holden let out a long, slow sigh, and unzipped his leather jacket, revealing a white T-shirt so skintight it looked painted on. He must have been trying on his “sexy young punk” persona, as it was only “rough trade” when he wore the leather pants too and his nipple ring as well. And it was sad that he knew that. “He took a multivitamin, but he wasn’t a vegan or anything, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Did he ever take any kind of potassium supplements?”

He gave him a curious look. “No. What are you getting at?”

“Just heard from a friend of mine that Joel’s blood work has come back, and it’s kind of unusual.”

There was a grumbling noise, and much to Roan’s horror, he belatedly realized it had come from his stomach. Holden raised an eyebrow at that. “Are you hungry, or is the lion hiding in your stomach?”

“All day I’ve been starving. I have no idea why.”

“Well, it’s either a tapeworm, or that wacky cat metabolism you have.” Holden waved a hand toward his kitchenette and said, “Why don’t you go make me a sandwich too?”

“Oh, I’m your servant now?” Roan complained but went ahead and entered Holden’s kitchen, looking through cupboards for the bread. He was actually glad he’d given him permission to do something and have a bite to eat, but he’d never admit it.

“That is a fantasy of mine, you know. I imagine you give great foot massages.”

“Keep your kinky fantasies to yourself.”

“That’s the vanilla one. You wanna hear the kinky one?”

“I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Suit yourself. But it is actually kind of funny. It’d give you a laugh.”

“I’m sure.” Holden’s cupboards still seemed oddly bare, especially when compared to his own, which were a jumble of cereal bought yesterday to bottles of spices bought years ago. But Holden only had things that seemed recent, and not a lot of those. But he found sourdough bread, and in the refrigerator he found mustard (thank god, Buddha, whatever) and lunch meat, as well as some bagged salad greens and grilled red peppers in oil. It’d be a simple sandwich, but a good one. As Roan slapped them together, he realized something looked odd about Holden as he sat there, splayed on the couch, looking tired and distracted. He was about done making the sandwiches when he realized the reason Holden looked odd was because he was actually off duty. His charm shield was down. He wasn’t trying to seduce him or schmooze him. He had totally dropped his guard. This was just Holden. It was actually a bit startling to realize, as street kids—even in adult form—rarely dropped their guards, but he supposed that showed how much Holden trusted him, enough to be vulnerable and human in front of him. Weird. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Holden had exactly four plates in his cupboard. “Do you have all your dinnerware in the dishwasher or something?”

He just shrugged as Roan handed him a plate with a sandwich on it. “I don’t have a lot of plates. Don’t need ’em. I don’t really entertain. Could you grab me a pomegranate juice?”

“Sure.” There was a bit more food in his fridge, but not really a lot. Holden didn’t entertain. He never told clients his real name or where he lived. He had many acquaintances, but did he have any friends? He’d already said he didn’t fuck if he wasn’t paid, so he had no boyfriend, either. It was a cliché, the lonely hooker, but for a guy with the most active sex life Roan had ever encountered, he did seem a bit lonely. But then again, maybe he preferred it that way. Roan wouldn’t have blamed him.

He grabbed Holden a small bottle of pomegranate juice and a bottle of green tea for himself before joining him on the sofa. Roan tore into his sandwich hungrily, while Holden just took a bite of his and set it down. “Not bad.”

“That’s why you’re eating it.”

He smirked weakly. “I had room service. I thought you’d feel funny making a sandwich only for yourself.”

“Bastard.”

That made Holden smile. He grabbed the remote control off his coffee table but didn’t turn on the television. He just slumped back and sipped his juice before asking, “Was he poisoned?”

He knew he meant Newberry, and the sandwich gave Roan a moment to gather his thoughts and consider what it was he should tell Holden. “Not precisely, but it’s something along those lines. It could have been an accident or a fluke. It’s not clear-cut.”

“You’re a professional skeptic, aren’t you?”

“It comes with the job. You told me he was having some problems with his family. Did he name any in particular? How did he get along with his wife?”

Holden sat forward and took off his leather boots, buying some time. “Mind if I change? I feel stupid sitting here in costume.”

Roan wanted to say he’d flashed him a bit of his ass this morning and hadn’t apologized, but Holden seemed so weary, he didn’t think he would be in a joking mood. “Your apartment. Do what you want.”

“Thanks.” He stood and shucked off his jacket, tossing it on his chair before peeling off his shirt—and he did peel it off. It looked for a moment like he might not actually be able to remove it from his torso without a crowbar. He took the shirt with him as he went to his bedroom. After a moment, amongst the opening and closing of drawers, Holden said, “He was having a problem with his kids, and with his brother and sister-in-law. He bitched about them a lot. Once I overheard him having an argument on his cell with his brother.”

“About what?” Roan pulled out the tiny notebook he was carrying with him, where he’d made random case notes in an attempt to seem semiprofessional. Joel had three kids, two with his first (and longest-lasting) wife, Karen, a son named Bill (the scion of the family) and a daughter named Lorainna, and a son named Kyle that he had with his second wife, Jessica. Joel’s brother was named John, and he was something of the “black sheep” of the family. He’d done stints in out-of-state hospitals for his alcohol and gambling problems, although now he’d gone out of his way to re-ingratiate himself again with his family and reclaim a role in it. Word had it he was a complete dick.

“It seems John lost some money. How much I don’t know, but I gather it was a lot, and Joel seemed to think he hadn’t misplaced it so much as started gambling again.”

“Did you find out if that was true?”

“No. I don’t ask questions of a nonsexual nature with my clients, unless that’s what they want. Joel didn’t even know I was eavesdropping, although by the way he was bellowing at the end, how could I not hear it?”

This was all bad news. Families made for toxic brews, which was why you were more likely to be murdered by a family member or friend than anyone else. Add money to that, and you were damn lucky if things didn’t devolve into the end of
The Wild Bunch
. “Is that all you heard?”

Holden came back out into the living room, wearing a baggy brown T-shirt and black boxer shorts. Roan didn’t even know he owned a pair of boxer shorts. He collapsed on the couch, strangely boneless. “Yeah, that’s it. He didn’t want to talk about it.”

“What about the problems he was having with his kids?”

This got a shrug. “He said they were fighting between themselves a lot, but that was it. No details.”

“How about things with his wife?”

“He didn’t talk about Cherry with me. I think it was just basic etiquette. You don’t mention the wife to the lover, and you don’t mention the lover to the wife.”

“Is everything all right? You seem oddly subdued tonight.”

Holden gave him an anemic, lopsided smile. “I’m okay, just tired. But thanks for asking.”

He was lying, wasn’t he? Holden wasn’t okay. But he didn’t want to talk about it, so Roan let it go. If anyone understood not wanting to talk about something, it was him.

9

Mistaken for Strangers

R
OAN
got as much information as he could from Holden, even the phone number Joel had left him to contact him, and then left, as it seemed like Holden really wanted to be alone. Or maybe he just wanted to sleep. Same difference, really.

He chewed over his plan of attack in his mind. Roan doubted the Newberry family would want to talk to him, but he could try and get in the front, leave himself an open target, and let some sneakier people infiltrate the family in a less obtrusive way. Fiona was great with people, and men let down their guard more with women than men. She’d be a great asset. He might even be able to use Holden, who could ingratiate himself with almost anyone and could play any role he had to play. The funny thing was, Roan looked like the most useless piece in his own investigation.

He did some research on his computer at home, found out more about the attempt to buy out the Newberry’s media holdings. A nationwide behemoth known as One World was attempting to gobble them up, and while John Newberry was for it, Joel was against it, leading to at least one very public squabble, but then they pulled it back, and any squabbling went on behind the scenes. One World was offering double-digit millions, an insane amount of money to turn down, making him wonder why Joel did. It was hard to imagine he really cared that much about keeping a network affiliate in local hands. Maybe he just had enough money that even that amount wasn’t tempting to him, although that was hard to imagine. There were two things Roan had discovered about the very rich that may or may not have surprised people: in spite of their personal extravagance, they were generally very miserly and very, very greedy. They never had quite enough money, even if they had more than the gross national product of a mid-sized nation. Money was all; money was a drug; money was god. They were capitalists ne plus ultra.

It was getting late, and his thinking wasn’t the best. He kept wondering if Grant Kim was stalking around in his leopard form, killing other unlucky sons of bitches that stumbled into his path. He turned on the TV, hoping for a
True Blood
repeat, and considering how close it was to Dylan’s getting off shift, he decided to make dinner for him. Of course, Roan was a lousy cook and he hadn’t done it for a long time, but sometimes if he was keeping busy doing something else, he’d have semi-brilliant insights into things. Sometimes not, but at least the effort alone would get him boyfriend brownie points.

He decided to make pasta, as it was easy and vegan as long as you didn’t add meat to it, and as he was chopping up some bell peppers, he arranged a suspect list in his head. Although John was the most obvious suspect, just about everyone in Joel’s family that could profit from the sale had to be considered a suspect, and that was everyone. He’d probably be looking for that special mix of avarice and hatred; the killer would be found in the in-between space. That would take more digging.

Then something strange happened. Roan was trying to figure out the best way to infiltrate the family’s business circle when he suddenly found himself on the floor. It felt as dramatic as that: he was chopping peppers one second, and the next he was lying on the floor, getting a good look at the tile. Only when he shoved himself up to a sitting position and grabbed his fallen paring knife, head aching slightly from the impact, did he realize that there had been a moment of blackness, like a prolonged blink. Had he passed out for a second? Why the hell would he do that?

He sat there for a moment, rubbing his head, trying to mentally shake the fuzzy feeling away from his brain. Was this some stupid-ass side effect to the migraine meds he’d got today? What a fucking pain in the ass. The meds were nice, but they came with a grab bag of weird side effects. One migraine medication he used to take left him with pulled muscles in his arms, and he could never figure that out.

Roan pulled himself up, wondering how long he’d been out, and went back to making the pasta sauce, not about to let the medication stop him from what he was doing. He was just about done anyways.

As it was, no further side effects plagued him. A good thing, as Dylan showed up after two in a kind of sour mood—it had been a bad night at Panic. There had been a gay-bashing incident right outside the club that almost led to a small riot, and Dylan sat with the guy who took a bottle in the face and had a bleeding gash in his head until the cops and paramedics showed up. And while the cops were all professional and very PC, he heard one of them, supposedly safely ensconced in his car, joke to someone over his radio that he needed to be decontaminated after dealing with all these fags.