L. A. Heat (3 page)

DePalma sighed. “How long are we looking at?”

“Couple of hours at least.”

DePalma swore, then nodded.

It took just over three hours to rebuild the
server and restore the available data from backup. Another hour was spent
verifying the restored data. Back outside, the empty parking lot sizzled like
the African savanna. In the distance a siren wailed. His gold-tinted SUV threw
the sun back at him. His head ached, his legs felt weak, and he desperately
needed a shower. Why hadn’t he parked in the shade?

He cranked the air conditioner on and was about to
throw the SUV into gear when Tom appeared beside the driver’s door. Reluctantly
Chris powered his window down. Hot air rolled into the cab. “Yeah?”

“Can I catch a lift?”

“Sure.” Chris stared at the man as he crossed
around to the passenger side and slid in. “How’d you get here if you didn’t
drive?”

“Cab.”

“Car in the shop?”

Tom looked away. “Don’t have one.”

Chris had heard about people like that. He’d never
actually met one. He threw the SUV into gear and wheeled out of the parking
lot.

“Where you going?”

“Drop me at L’Orangerie. I’m meeting my uncle for
lunch.”

“You can eat at L’Orangerie but you can’t afford a
car?” Before he could answer, Chris shot a glance at his watch and swore.

He was late. Des was going to kill him.

Chris braked hard at the next set of lights. Plastic
rustled and snapped and he glanced over in time to see Tom staring down at the
cheaply produced cover of one of the DVDs Bobby had given him. It had slipped
out its bag. Even from where he sat, Chris could see the enormous erection
halfway down Bobby’s perfect throat.

Tom’s face was stoplight red.

Chris almost felt sorry for him.

He left Tom in front of the stone door of the
venerable eatery on La Cienega Boulevard, and sped east to his place in Silver
Lake. Thirty minutes later he pulled into his driveway. He groaned as three
figures stepped out of the shaded courtyard.

“Don’t tell me you forgot lunch?” His best friend,
Desmond Hayward, pulled the driver’s-side door open.

He smiled weakly before focusing on the tallest
man in the group, Trevor Watson. “Hey, Trev,” he said, wondering if he’d blown
things big-time. Wondering how much he cared. Trevor wasn’t normally his type.
Chris wasn’t big on blond, blue-eyed pretty boys; he preferred his men dark and
lithe. But Des had been persistent in setting the two of them up. “Sorry I’m
late. How long were you waiting?”

“Longer than you deserve,” Kyle Paige said. He
sniffed at Des. “I told you we should have left an hour ago.”

Des put a hand on his lover’s arm. “Now, hon,
don’t be such a stress puppy. We haven’t been here anywhere near that long.
Barely forty-five minutes. I’m sure Chris has a good reason.” Des glared at
Chris. “And please tell me it wasn’t work.”

“Okay, I won’t.” Chris slammed the SUV’s door.
“But it’s going to make my explanation a tad on the short side.”

He caught Trevor studying his SUV, but before he
could say anything Des cut in. “Oh, don’t let the wheels fool you, sugar. It’s
the butchest thing about him.”

Chris threw him a look, but Des only smiled before
he said, “We had reservations at the Blue Cactus.”

“I know, and it took you weeks to get them.” Chris
led the way into his blessedly cool house, the others followed. “What can I
say? I’m sorry.”

“Say you’ll take a shower. You are ripe,
boyfriend.”

“Give me five minutes. I’m sure we can find
someone who will take our money.” Chris paused at the foot of stairs. “Maybe
even someone with decent food. Hey, how about Crazy Fish?”

“
South
of Wilshire? Please,” Des said. “No
one who’s anyone eats south of Wilshire.”

“Right, just what was I thinking.” Chris rolled
his eyes and caught Trevor’s grin. Damn, he was a hot-looking guy, all coiled
muscle and lazy, dangerous eyes. Maybe this could turn into something after
all. Chris felt a lot better all of a sudden. He bounded up the stairs, calling
over his shoulder. “Be back in five.”

They ended up at Spago, one of Kyle’s favorites.
At least they deferred to Chris in their choice of wine, though he had a
spirited argument with Trevor over the Australian zinfandel he ordered. Chris
was surprised. Most of Des’s acquaintances didn’t know Chardonnay from shiraz.

Trevor played kneesies with him under the table
and regaled them all with stories about the up-and-coming actors who plied
their trade for the low-rent production company he worked for. Chris was sorry when
lunch ended. Especially when he wound up with the bill.

“Paybacks are a bitch,” Des said and patted
Chris’s smooth cheek. Then he leaned forward to brush his lips across Chris’s
mouth. “Why don’t you invite Trevor home,” he murmured. “He’d be good for you.”

Des the matchmaker. Chris smiled his regret,
wishing he hadn’t agreed with Petey’s request to meet with the studio exec. For
one brief instance he considered canceling the meeting, then common sense
overrode his lust. “Can’t, I’ve got to work.”

“All work and no play makes Chrissy a dull boy.
You need to get out more.”

Chris thought of Bobby from the night before. But
he knew what Des would say about that. He hated it when Chris picked up
strangers in bars. “You deserve better,” he always said. Chris never bothered
telling him he didn’t agree.

Chris looked regretfully at Trevor. “Maybe we can
do it again sometime.”

Trevor frowned. “Sure, I guess.”

After meeting with Ortez and making what he
thought was a persuasive argument for having DataTEK take care of the studio’s
data, Chris found himself really regretting the brush-off he’d given Trevor.
Maybe he should have gotten the guy’s number. He wondered if Des knew it, then
decided he didn’t feel like hearing his friend’s I-told-you-so’s.

Maybe a drink would tame his regrets.

The Nosh Pit on a Saturday night was busy. He got
his regular Cîroc martini from Ramsey, then grabbed a place at the end of the
bar where he could watch the action.

There was lots of the usual trashy eye-candy
spilling off the tiny dance floor and crowding the tables. The music was
bone-jarring techno glitz, making even the simplest conversation difficult.
Chris got his share of attention and before long was sharing some close space
on the dance floor with a twenty-something music producer slumming it from West
L.A. He had almost let the producer talk him into taking it to the backroom
when someone bumped into them hard enough to break their embrace.

“Hey—” Chris protested, then froze when he found
himself face to face with Trevor. “Oh, hey, man...”

“Work, huh?”

Chris flushed. “Well I was working, but...I meant
to get your number earlier...”

Trevor eyed Chris’s glassy-eyed companion, who was
still swaying to the music. “I can see that.”

“Listen,” Chris said. “I was just heading out, why
don’t you come back to my place for a drink...”

“Can’t.” Trevor showed his teeth. “You’re not the
only one has to work.”

Before Chris could react, Trevor slipped through
the crowd and was gone.

Chris swore, then tried to walk past the producer.
The younger man grabbed him.

“Com’n man, I wanna fuck.” Chris stared toward the
exit, hoping to catch sight of Trevor. No luck. He looked at the dark-haired,
sloe-eyed bombshell trying to hump his leg.

“Not tonight.” He disentangled himself and made his
way back to the bar.

“Ah, Silver Lake’s own Lothario.” Ramsey grinned
at him. “You’re blowing hot and cold tonight.”

“Just give me another drink and keep it to
yourself.”

“Well don’t I know who’s sleeping alone tonight.”
Still grinning, Ramsey pulled the Cîroc off the top shelf and mixed Chris’s
drink. “What happened to the cutie you were with last night?”

“That was last night,” Chris muttered and buried
his nose in the glass Ramsey handed him. The sharp odor of top-shelf vodka
tickled his sinuses.

He finished the drink and decided against another
one. Tossing a ten on the bar, he wove through the press of warm bodies and
made his way back out to Hyperion Avenue. His SUV was parked less than a block
away, in an alley off De Longpre Street. He approached a crowd gathered at the
mouth of the alley and hoped he wasn’t interrupting anything violent. He
watched the all-male crowd warily, until he recognized a guy who went to the
Pit occasionally. When he tried to catch his eye the guy turned away, shuffling
through the tension-filled crowd away from Chris.

A low mutter of excited voices rose and drifted
over the whisper of traffic on Hyperion. A high-pitched voice giggled and
cried, “My God, do you think it’s true?”

“Get a grip, Michael. Would the guy advertise?”

“That’s sick,” Michael—at least Chris assumed it
was Michael—said.

He rounded the corner, and it took him a full
thirty seconds to realize that the source of the attention was his Lexus. It
was another five seconds before he saw what the words spray-painted in red on
his vehicle actually said.

Return to Contents

Saturday,
10:30 pm, Piedmont Avenue, Glendale

DAVID CARESSED THE tone arm of
the Victrola windup phonograph. It felt like warm silk. He carefully lowered it
on Gene Greene’s “Alexander’s Got a Jazz Band Now” and listened to the opening
whisper of scratchy words. The old jazz tune filled his small living room.

David lived on the flats in Glendale, off
Lexington, near enough to the 134 for him to hear the steady hiss of freeway
traffic day and night. The house was a small brick and wood-sided bungalow, one
of the thousands that had been thrown up after the Second World War.

On the muted TV screen atop the bar between the
kitchen and living room the Angels blew a pop fly and the Boston Red Sox took
the lead in the bottom of the ninth. David shook his shaggy head and shut the
thing off, not needing to see the final humiliation.

The Victrola wound down and traffic sounds flowed
back into his tidy space. He slid the 78 off the spindle and back into its
protective sleeve.

This time he pulled out his newest acquisition
from the oak cabinet: Chuck Berry’s “Oh, Baby Doll.” He laid the platter on the
turntable and finished his beer while the song played. Once it ended, he ran
the tips of his fingers across the wood cabinet one more time. Satisfied the
refinishing job wasn’t going to get any better with more work, he put the music
away and closed the Victrola. Glancing at the wall clock, he debated turning
the late news on, finally deciding he didn’t need any more bad news.

A pale shadow slipped out of the kitchen and
followed him into the bedroom. David rubbed the small Siamese’s head. The cat
purred, a warm sound that took away his stress.

“Rough day, Sweeney?” The cat butted against his
hand when his fingers slowed down. The phone rang. He stared at it while it
rang twice more before he gently pushed the cat aside and answered it. It was
Martinez.

Saturday,
11:30 pm, Northeast Community Police Station,

San
Fernando Road, Los Angeles

Flanked by the two uniformed
cops, Chris reluctantly entered the police station. His Dockers scuffed the
faded linoleum floor; overhead fluorescent lights washed the color out of his
Diesels and left his skin looking wan and sickly. A little like he was feeling.

When the cops had first shown up at the Nosh Pit
to take the report on his vandalized SUV, he had expected them to write up the
incident and leave him with shallow promises to look into it. Instead, after
nearly twenty minutes of standing around talking on their cells, he had been
invited to the police station.

The building smelled of sweat, stale food, and
despair. A low hum of suppressed rage buzzed around him. Puke-green walls were
plastered with yellowing posters and community bulletins. He glanced left at
Officer Dale McEwen, the bull-necked cop who had been the first to arrive at
the scene. The man’s creased face desperately needed a shave. His rubbery lips
were in constant motion, as though he kept a conversation going under his
breath.

On his right, McEwen’s partner, Orren Bulkowski,
kept glancing at Chris with open contempt.

They passed through an open area, then into a
second, this one labeled DETECTIVES. Several of the ancient desks were
occupied, and Chris felt eyes on him as he threaded his way through the room.
McEwen led him through to the back, where a bear of a man, six-four at least,
climbed to his feet. He looked like a taller, heavier version of Tommy Lee
Jones. His hair was a mass of tight dark curls touched with gray. A light
smattering of old acne scars gave his face the rugged look of a TV cowboy. A
thick mustache framed his full mouth. His brown eyes had just enough green to
make them interesting. Chris figured him for around forty.

“Detectives Laine and Martinez will take care of
you now, sir,” McEwen said. His partner snorted and the two turned away. Chris
watched them strut out of the room; glad to see them go, wishing he could follow.

Saturday,
11:40 pm, Northeast Community Police Station,

San
Fernando Road, Los Angeles

“Christopher Bellamere?”

When David called Bellamere’s name the victim’s
head snapped around, his face a mask of growing confusion and fear. David
caught his breath; the light filtering through the vertical blinds fell on the
face of the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

“Yeah?” the victim asked. His eyes darted from
David to Martinez, then back to David. “What’s this about?”

David introduced himself and Martinez. Bellamere
nodded, his eyes glazed.

“Could I get your full name, please?” David’s
pencil was poised over the notepad. “And contact information.”