Infected: Shift (36 page)

Smithers led them to a large room that must have been some kind of home office for Hatcher. The floor was hardwood, polished to a high gloss, and while there was a desk of black metal and plate glass, it seemed like little more than a way station for computer towers. A widescreen TV was mounted on one cinnamon-colored wall, and it seemed to be slightly longer than his Buell. The sound was muted, but some kind of Japanese financial news report was playing out in incongruous silence. Sunlight spilled in through the far window wall, which was totally surrounded by trees, both blocking the view from prying eyes and filtering the light to a soft glow.

Hatcher was sitting in a black leather armchair across the room, working on his laptop. Barely looking up, he said, “Do you always bring friends with you?”

“This is my assistant and smoking-hot boyfriend Dylan Harlow. Dylan, this is the client.” He had to throw the boyfriend thing in, just to see the reaction.

Smithers flinched slightly and looked scandalized—oh, come on, queen!—while Hatcher looked up, an unreadable expression on his face. “Dylan Harlow? The artist that makes those morbid pictures?”

This caught them both off guard. Hatcher knew who Dylan was? “Um, well, I wouldn’t call them all morbid. I paint some expressionist—”

“I know, but you do those pictures with bleeding walls and whatnot, right? You don’t sell them.”

Dylan nodded with obvious trepidation. He seemed to know what was coming. “I rarely sell them. They’re personal to me.”

“I want one.” It wasn’t a request; it was a demand.

And it was absolutely the wrong tack to take with Dylan, who may have been a peace-loving Buddhist, but was as stubborn as all get-out. He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “I’m not here about art. I’m here to assist in the investigation of your missing son.”

“And how exactly are you going to help?”

“He’s going to keep me from killing you,” Roan told him, point-blank.

Smithers’s jaw dropped and his complexion turned to curdled cream, but Hatcher snickered derisively. “What do you want, Mister McKichan?”

“I need to search Jordan’s room.”

“I’ve already done that.”

“Perhaps, but I still need to do it for myself.”

He considered that, eyes glancing past them and at the Japanese news anchor behind them on the big screen, a rugged man who could have been Dan Rather’s bastard son. “Fine. Andrew, show him to the room. Mister Harlow, I have to ask that you stay here.”

“Why?”

“He’s afraid we’ll start fucking,” Roan said.

Smithers—Andrew—looked like he’d just punched his grandmother, and Dylan didn’t look overly amused either, but Hatcher just smirked. “You don’t know me well enough to have such a low opinion of me,” Hatcher replied.

“I’m an investigator. Gut instinct counts for a lot.” He then looked at Andrew and gestured impatiently, wanting him to lead the way out, and Andrew glanced at Hatcher for confirmation—an ever so obedient dog—before giving him a pissy little scowl and all but swishing out of the room without a word. As Roan followed, Hatcher added, “Don’t take anything.”

Roan’s only response was a flashed middle finger, which made Hatcher snicker again.

Roan noticed tiny black dots in the corners or walls of every room as lithe little Andrew led him up a sweeping blond wood staircase, and realized they were cameras. Security cameras? Probably, but maybe more. Hatcher seemed like a man who wanted to be in charge of everything. Did that extend to other people’s lives?

Yes, this was a fabulous dream of a place, and any kid would have been thrilled to live in such a luxuriously appointed gilded cage. But maybe Jordan got tired of having a backseat driver in his own life.

Too bad Hatcher would probably never give him access to the camera feeds, because he felt there was a YouTube scandal there just waiting to happen.

Roan
remembered searching Danny Nakamura’s room and despairing that he had more expensive stuff than Roan did. Jordan Hatcher made Danny look just this side of homeless.

By God, it was disgusting. Wall-mounted plasma screen, insane computer setup, home theater system, speakers big enough to be footlockers… holy shit, no kid should have this much money. He had a metal book rack that contained no books, just movies and video games, and the only pictures on the wall were the occasional pinup. All he could tell from the room was that its occupant was rich and a maid had been through it recently.

There was little in written material, and he didn’t bother looking for any. If he was a modern teen, if he had a journal, it would be online. He booted up the kid’s super-charged computer system and started going through the history, the most visited links.

Jordan had a Facebook page, but he hadn’t updated it in two weeks. His last note on there was just to say that he thought this season’s
American Idol
sucked. (Didn’t it always suck? But then again, Roan was an aging punk rocker, and was there anyone more sad than an aging punk rocker? Well, maybe an aging metalhead. At a certain point, it was just sad in both cases.) He also had a Twitter page, but again, not updated in more than two weeks and just full of nothing, post after post of nothing. No help here.

The last site he’d visited—and the one the history indicated he visited a lot—was a website called Tabu-xxx. It demanded a credit card number right away to enter, with no hint of what could be waiting inside. (Except, of course, porn.) Roan copied two days’ worth of popular URLs into a text file and printed it out, deciding that he’d ask Holden—purveyor of all smut, in person or online—to check it out. If he needed a credit card number to get in Roan would give him one, but knowing Holden, he wouldn’t. It was probably just a bunch of “horny” Asian girls, but who knew? Might as well cover the bases.

Especially since Jordan had left him no clues. Or should he say the maid who cleaned the place? Either way, no clues to be had. Bit of a bummer. A wasted trip.

Except, was it? Seeing this place, he was struck by the feeling that he knew why Jordan fled and equally couldn’t imagine him fleeing. This place was a wonderland of materialism. Roan could see himself enjoying this for a bit, and then snapping and going crazy. Maybe Jordan felt the same way. Could he blame him?

Once downstairs, he found Dylan still standing in Hatcher’s study, his posture stiff, arms folded across his chest like he was trying so very hard not to leap across the room and strangle the smug bastard, who was still working away on his laptop while the Tokyo news played on in deathly silence.

“I’m done here,” Roan said.

Dylan looked relieved, and Hatcher barely glanced at him. “Find anything?”

“Not really. It would have helped if the maid hadn’t been through.”

“It didn’t matter. Jordan didn’t want to be found so easily.” Hatcher said.

“Jeeze, I wonder why.” After a brief pause, he added, “I need to access the Rutherford Academy’s records. Get on that.”

Hatcher looked between them before his gaze came to rest on Roan, then he asked, “You’re the top, aren’t you?”

Roan glared at him, and Dylan tore up something in his hand, ripping it to confetti and letting it fall on the polished floor. Belatedly, Roan saw it was Hatcher’s business card. Hatcher just looked amused. “The offer still stands, you know.”

Dylan didn’t reply, just turned and left, and Roan followed. Andrew showed them out, at least in theory, but neither he nor Dylan actually noticed him.

Once outside, Dylan erupted. “That fucking asshole! Why didn’t you beat the shit out of him?”

Roan grabbed him by the shoulders, and said, “Focus, honey. You’re the Buddhist, remember? Take a deep breath.” Dylan did, clearly trying to focus and wipe out the negative emotions. “Namaste. You okay now?”

He closed his eyes and took another deep breath in through his nose, and then nodded. “Okay, I’m okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, what was his offer?”

“A thousand dollars for a bleeding hardware painting.”

Roan almost stumbled on his way back to the car. “What the fuck…? And you said no?” He then shook his head and admitted, “Yeah, I would too, just to piss him off.”

“I really don’t want to give anything that means something to me to that obnoxious jackass, no matter how much he offers me.” As soon as they were in the car, Dylan admitted, “I would probably have sold him my entire catalog for five thousand.”

Again, he could understand that. Pride was one thing, but a buttload of money was another.

They got the food back at the house and then went off to visit Holden. At least now, Roan had a job for him that wouldn’t require him leaving his place.

Holden looked pretty good, considering, and joked that he now had a sexy scar. Roan countered that his scars weren’t sexy, and Dylan begged to differ, giving him a coy look. Was he being kind, or was he serious? Kind of hard to tell when he couldn’t pin him to the bed and tickle him until he told the truth. (Wow, that sounded like fun right now.)

They ate the vegetarian tamale pie—which was quite good—and Roan caught Holden up on the case before giving him the URL of the website in question. “Taboo triple x? Oh yeah, that’s porn.” He scowled at the printout. “But spelled with a
U
? The Taboo site I know is spelled correctly and touts barely legal girls who are really in their early twenties, but you’re not supposed to notice.”

“Porn is a tricky thing.”

“It is. More than you know.” Holden went ahead and got on his computer, looking up the site.

“You might need a card—” Roan began.

But Holden cut him off. “Don’t worry about it, I got it covered.” Roan didn’t ask, but he had a feeling that Holden wasn’t using one of his own cards. Holden had many shady connections from his years on the street, and he was never afraid to use them when it benefited him. He was a hooker, not a fool.

He and Dylan were cleaning up the plates, carrying them to the sink and putting them in (the least they could do), when Holden exclaimed, “Holy shit.”

Roan went over and joined him. “What is it?”

He looked over his shoulder, but Holden had already closed the window. “Shit. It’s snuff.”

Roan gave him a suspicious look. “Fake snuff porn? Who cares?” Most supposedly “snuff” films were, in fact, fakes. Good fakes sometimes, but fakes all the same. There was no—or very little—profit in actual murder. There was also the problem of getting caught, which was made infinitely easier when you actually filmed yourself killing someone.

“This is pretty realistic snuff,” Holden said and opened the window. “Well, I’ll look around. Maybe I’ll see someone I know. Thor’s into all kinds of kink.”

“Thor?” Dylan repeated, raising an eyebrow at him. “The god of thunder?”

“It’s a nickname,” Roan told him, returning to Holden’s cramped kitchen.