Outburst (19 page)

He stared at the phone and thought: Ring. As if on command, it did just that, cried to be answered. Todd all but leapt forward.

Grabbing the receiver on the first ring, he blurted out, “Yeah?”

“Bingo,” said Rawlins. “The car, a nineteen-sixty-eight Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight, was registered three months ago by a guy named Christopher Kenney, age twenty-four. Blond hair, blue eyes.”

“What's the name again?”

“Christopher Kenney.”

He jotted it down, then asked, “How tall?”

“Five foot seven, weight one hundred and twenty.”

“It could be him.” The image of the slight figure in the storm moved through Todd's mind. “It could be our guy.”

“Wait, there's more. You know where he lives? South Minneapolis. Can you believe it? He lives at 5241 Turner South.”

Todd's mind skipped along, then slammed to a halt. What did this mean, that they'd known each other?

“My God, Rawlins, that's only something like ten or twelve blocks from where Forrest lived.”

“I know. And get this: It's a reregister—until three months ago this guy had California plates.”

“California?”

“Right. But wait, here's the best part: When I got his plate number I looked him up on the NCIC,” said a smug Rawlins, referring to the computerized national crime records. “And you know what?”

“Oh, my God, he's got a record?”

“No shit he's got a record. Like a major-league one. Just over a year ago the Los Angeles Police Department arrested and charged him with the murder of an officer by the name of Dave Ravell.”

“A cop?”

“Yep.”

“Holy shit.”

“Eventually those charges were dropped, but—”

“Hey,” said Todd, flipping back into work mode and writing all this down, “we're going to do this just the way we talked about, right?”

“Absolutely. You know that's what I've wanted all along.”

Point taken, thought Todd. It was he, Todd, who had screwed up before. He who had been the control freak.

“And Lieutenant Holbrook won't have a problem with it?”

“Ah, he might, but that's my problem. I'll deal with it.”

Guessing what the next step would be, Todd asked, “So are you going to get a warrant?”

“No, no. We'd have to formally charge him to get a warrant. But I've already talked to Lieutenant Holbrook, and since this involves a cop-killing he wants me to go over and talk with this guy right away. Unless I absolutely have to, though, he doesn't even want me doing a PC pickup. Not just yet anyway.”

Too bad. A probable-cause pickup would definitely give Todd some excellent footage. Nevertheless, his pulse began to quicken. There could still be some great stuff here, and he glanced at his watch, wondered how quickly they could make this happen. Was there a chance in hell he could get something on the six o'clock? He quickly ran through a laundry list of equipment and people he'd need. Yes, it was doable. It was going to be a scramble, no doubt about it, but they could pull it off.

Wanting to make sure he wasn't the one cut out, Todd said, “It's going to take me about five, ten minutes to get out of here. So when are we going to meet? And where?”

“How about twenty minutes at Lyndale and Fifty-second?”

“Great.”

“Oh, and Todd,” said Rawlins. “The NCIC says this guy frequently wears a disguise.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm not positive, but it sure as hell sounds like he's a drag queen.”

Should she or shouldn't she go?

No, Kris thought as she stood in front of her mirror putting on her lipstick, the answer was absolutely, definitely no. No, no, no, she shouldn't go. Not at all. Girl, of all the dumb-ass things, playing Meals-on-Wheels to some district-court judge and going to that man's apartment was about as dumb as could be.

But of course she was going to go.

Among other things, she had to find out what, if anything, this was all about. Obviously Stuart Hawkins remembered her—how the hell could he not after their little foray—but did he care for her as much as she might for him? That, of course, remained to be learned. Kris, however, was fairly certain of one thing: that the lust, on a scale of one to ten, was way the hell up there. She was no dummy, not after what she'd been through these past few years. Why the hell else would he have requested that she in particular make the Peacock Catering delivery? What other reason could there possibly be? She grinned—a privately catered meal? What a conniving bastard.

She took a Kleenex, laid it between her lips, and pressed down, blotting the deep purplish-red lipstick. She assumed this was a date, but what if it wasn't? What if he just wanted to see her? What if he wanted to show her off? Perhaps he really was having someone else over for dinner, as Travis at Peacock had been told. That was a distinct possibility, one that Kris had to bear in mind. Sure, Kris could arrive with the extravagant meal and there in Mr. Stuart Hawkins's wonderful condominium could be some beautiful woman, a gorgeous rich heiress perhaps. Then again, the story Hawkins had fed Travis could all be a crock, a ruse, a way of getting Kris into the privacy and intimacy of Hawkins's home. And bed.

“Fuck.”

She never used to cry, never, but here her eyes were doing it, starting to tear up. What the hell was it, the hormones or the shrink and his probing questions? Whatever, but she couldn't do it, couldn't burst into tears, not now. Her mascara was great, the eyeliner perfect, and she couldn't go screwing it up. No, she had to be heading out. No time for a redo. It was just … just … well, the other night he'd read her gender expression as female, but what would he do if… if…

She hadn't been on a date in … what was it? Not since that night in L.A. a year and a half ago. And how had things gone then? Dear God, she could still hear the deafening blast of the gun, she could still remember the way his head had exploded. It wasn't supposed to have gone like that, not at all, but things had gotten out of hand. What could she have done otherwise? She'd been hit before. Guys had beaten her. But nothing like that. No, not at all.

Horrified by the memory, Kris stepped out of the bathroom, crossing the small basement room and sitting down on her bed. Her eyes wide open, she stared straight ahead, but she didn't see the pine paneling before her. No, she fell down a bottomless hole, and in her mind's eye she saw him. Dave. She still remembered the first time they saw each other. It was in a coffee shop, and though he'd just gotten off duty, he was still in his police uniform, which hugged those broad shoulders and slim hips. She was undressing him with her eyes when he turned and did the same, clearly visualizing what she might look like without her tight jeans and skimpy top. He was older than her—that much she could tell from a distance—but not over thirty. Sipping her latte, she was sitting at a counter overlooking Melrose, and the next thing she knew he was pulling up a stool next to her. It took all of about fifteen seconds for them to strike up a conversation, and they'd ended up talking for nearly two hours. Everything clicked, everything worked. It was easy, their talk. He was freshly divorced, though why anyone would want to leave that guy she hadn't understood, at least not then. Most importantly, he was funny and she found herself laughing at all his jokes. She also found him enchanting, and when he'd asked her out for the following night, she didn't hesitate, not a blink of a second.

But then, as she'd walked down the street a few minutes later, she found herself wondering how could such a stud like him be attracted to a freak like her? It didn't make sense, not until later.

Over Thai food the next evening, Kris had learned that Dave's wife had dumped him in a bad way, just kicked him right out onto the street—or so he said, trying to laugh it off. Kris had pressed for more details, but he smiled and declined, which was fine, because Kris was content to stare into his dark eyes and dream of what might be. The guy was all beef—thick hairy chest, gorgeous arms. And those wrists, so strong and covered with that dark hair, so very … very
guy.
She just wanted him. Wanted his arms wrapped around her, wanted him to hold her and love her and tell her everything would be all right. When he'd dropped her off later that night, they'd parked in front of her apartment and kissed … well, hotter and heavier than Kris had ever kissed before. When he started moaning, “God, I've got to have you … now,” Kris had flushed with panic and barely escaped.

She didn't see him for two weeks after that, not because Dave didn't want to, not for his lack of trying, but because Kris knew it could go nowhere. It wasn't, however, that simple to end. Not by any means. Dave, having been dumped by his wife, wasn't about to be dumped again, not by some young thing like Kris. No. First he called, all sweet talk and everything, saying how much he enjoyed seeing her and asking her to a movie the next night. When Kris declined, he slammed down the phone. The following day he called again, this time begging to get together, and Kris, wanting so much to see him but fearful of where it might go, said she couldn't. He called the day after that as well. And the day after that. Each time he grew more desperate. And more angry.

It broke her heart, doing that to him, pushing him away. After about ten days the calls stopped, and Kris assumed that that was it. The brief affair was over. Dave was history. But then Kris came home one warm California night, climbed up the open staircase to her studio apartment, and there he was, the hunk in police blue. He'd gotten off duty and he stood there, a bottle of red wine in hand.

“Kris, I gotta talk to you,” he pleaded, his face all puppy-dog sad. “Can I come in, please?”

At first she thought, No, no way. But then she looked at his eyes, saw that they were all red. Jesus, the hunk had been crying.

“Okay,” said Kris, unlocking the door.

So they went into the tiny place. Dave sat down at the kitchen table, took his wallet out of his back pocket, put his holster over on the counter. And told her how messed up he'd made everything. Maybe Kris already guessed, but there was a reason his wife had dumped him.

He volunteered, “She caught me cheating on her.”

Kris didn't know why he was telling her this, but she was flattered. Maybe he perceived her as safe, which she was. In any case, Dave said the whole thing was more complicated, and could he please, please tell her? Kris got out two glasses, and then Dave poured them each a towering glass of wine.

“I haven't told anyone about this,” he said, and then gulped down most of the glass.

“Dave,” said Kris, placing her hand over his. “I don't know what it is, but it's okay.”

“No … no, it's not.”

Kris smiled softly. “Trust me, if you think your life is a mess, you should see mine.”

He stared at her, grinning through his teary eyes. “God, how could anyone as beautiful as you have any problems?”

She rolled her eyes, and in a joking voice said, “Maybe I'll tell you about it, big boy.”

He leaned over. Puckered his lips. And kissed her ever so gently on her right cheek.

“I've never met anyone as nonjudgmental as you,” said Dave. “I mean, I knew that within minutes after we first met. You're just so…so sweet.”

Shaking her head, Kris pulled away. “No, unfortunately I've caught a glimpse of the bigger picture—and it's made me humble for the rest of my life.”

He took another swig of wine, finishing off the glass, then poured himself some more. He wiped his mouth nervously, looked away. Then turned back to her.

“Kris, the reason my wife kicked me out is that she came home and found me in bed—”

“Dave, I know, you already told me. We all make mistakes.”

“—with another guy.”

Nothing he could have said would have surprised her more. For a long time she just sat there, overcome with … well, shock. Dave? With another guy? How was that possible, and how come Kris had never even guessed?

“Kris,” he begged, looking at her desperately, “say something.”

“I … I …”

“Tell me you don't hate me.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“My brother's gay, and my father never talked to him again. My wife found out, and she divorced me.” He stared at the floor. “I don't think I'm gay, I really don't. Maybe I'm bi, I don't know. I mean, I haven't been able to get you out of my head. I don't know why, but you're all that I can think about. For some reason I'm really attracted to you, Kris. More so than I've been to any other woman, and … and I just don't want to … don't want to lose you.”

Confused, perhaps even terribly anxious—yes, Kris was these. But full of hate? Nothing could have been further from her mind.
Hate?
Oh, no. Not at all. Compassion and sympathy, yes, but no, never hate, not for that.

Suddenly Kris started laughing: Was this a weird world or what? A half second later she started crying: Was this it, the end of her long road? It came at her like a huge wall of water, a flood of relief that brought so much joy that it terrified her. Dear God in heaven, here was this wonderful, handsome man in front of her, and did they, by some miracle, have one thing in common, namely their sexuality? It was too incredible to be true. She might have done it, done the impossible, found him, a guy who could actually love her for what she was. If he was gay, then he'd be delighted with her, right?