Infected: Shift (9 page)

It was late, and when they got home, he wondered if it was too late to call Holden or if he was off on a client call. Or maybe just sleeping for once, although he seemed to be a true night owl. It was probably a street kid habit that he never shook, but it would serve him well as a detective.

He was going to tell Dylan he needed to make a phone call, but as soon as they were in the door, Dylan grabbed him and gave him a long, deep kiss that he could feel all the way down to his toes. Wow. He pulled back in a kind of a daze and asked him, “What was that for?”

Dylan cupped the back of his neck, giving him a wistful, lazy smile as he rested his forehead against Roan’s. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve only been gone three days.”

“I still missed you,” Dylan said, and leaned in to kiss his neck. He then bit him, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to make Roan involuntarily growl.

He had no idea why a bite would do that to him, turn him on beyond all reason. It was probably very kinky and unsavory, but it seemed as unconscious as his growling. Roan grabbed Dylan and kissed him back just as hard as he’d been kissed when they came through the door.

You know what? Screw the phone call. The job could wait until later.

Only
when the sound of the doorbell woke him up did he remember he had one.

Did anyone ever use the doorbell? Roan stumbled into the bathroom for a piss and tried to remember the last time anyone had used it. The UPS guy? Yeah, that must have been it. Not many people bothered.

He glanced out the bathroom window to see if it was the UPS guy again, but all he saw was a silver Chevy Cavalier parked out front. It took a moment for him to remember that was Holden’s new (well, new-ish; it was several years old) car. He'd sold his old one, why Roan didn’t know, but surely Holden had a reason. It was a sunny day. The rain had retreated for now, but there was a slightly opalescent cast to the air that suggested both cold and the impending return of showers. Figured.

Roan pulled on his boxers and glanced at the clock, surprised that it was almost noon. Dylan was still sleeping hard, suggesting he really needed the rest. Seeing him sprawled on the bed on his stomach, the blankets pooled around the small of his back, Roan remembered what a lucky guy he was. Not just because he had a hot young guy, but because he had a hot young guy who actually cared about him. He was damn lucky he had anyone who cared about him at all because—to be brutally honest—he could be insufferable at times. (At times? Was he being generous?)

On the stairs, he heard the doorbell again, and Roan snapped, “Knock it off!” Dylan deserved the sleep. Besides, he still hadn’t figured out the whole Holden thing yet.

He opened the door to find Holden standing there with his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side, a slightly haughty look on his face. He was dressed very casually, in jeans, a blood-red T-shirt, and a black leather jacket, with his sunglasses already pushed up on his head. The only odd note was the fact that he was wearing hiking boots.

“Knock it off? Who’s a grumpy pants today?” Holden looked him up and down. “A grumpy pants in his underwear. Are those silk?”

“Satin. Get in here before someone snaps a photo of me.” He stood back, holding the door open, and Holden came in, now looking amused. He shoved the door shut and said, “Dylan’s sleeping, okay? I don’t want to wake him.”

“Ah. I thought you smelled like sex. Have you ever had a cycle this short? I was amazed. Think being in a coma helped?”

Roan sighed wearily, realizing he wasn’t up to Holden just yet. He walked to the kitchen and waved at the living room, hoping Holden would figure out for himself that was an invitation to sit. “I dunno. How’s the case going?”

“That’s what I came to see you about. I’m guessing you haven’t seen the paper today?”

He got a bottle of vanilla Frappuccino from the fridge, and felt weariness settle on his shoulders like a wet cloak. His detective spidey sense was telling him bad news was incoming. “Is someone dead?”

“No, but not for lack of trying.” When Roan came back into the living room, Holden was holding up part of the paper, folded over to highlight the section of interest. The headline screamed “Local Sports Star Involved In Drive-By Shooting.”

“Holy shit,” Roan exclaimed, snatching the paper out of his hand and quickly skimming the article. “Grey? How is he?”

“Absolutely fine. He was just lucky I was there, and I am very calm, having been shot at before.”

Roan plopped on the sofa to read it. “Since when were you shot at?”

“Okay, not shot at per se, but I’ve been in the area when drive-bys have gone down and a drug deal went bad. I think that counts.” Holden sat on the edge of the sofa and said, “Last time I was here, Dylan offered me tea.”

“You want tea? Go make it yourself. You know where the kitchen is.”

“You’re a sparkling host.”

“I’m a grumpy pants, remember?”

“A grumpy pants in awesome underwear. I take it, from the red foil lipstick print, it was a Valentine’s Day gift.”

“Score one for you, Sherlock.” Although Roan was reading the article, he couldn’t help but note, out of the corner of his eye, that Holden seemed to be staring at him. Or at least studying his chest. Did Dylan leave a hickey? He glanced down to see. “What are you looking at?”

“That scar,” he said, and didn’t clarify. Which one? “Is that from a bullet wound?”

Roan shrugged. “Yeah.” Well, two were, so it was a decent guess. But if Holden meant the scar near his collarbone or the one near his left hip, no. But he wasn’t getting into his scars with Holden. He had no idea why he considered that a form of intimacy, the true story behind most of his scars, but it was just something he didn’t like to discuss. You could get past and get over your childhood, but some things just brought it all back a little too clearly. “Unidentified friend. Is that you?”

“It is. Luckily I knew the reporter who wrote the article. I told him to leave my name out, or his wife would discover what he was actually doing when he was supposedly working late on a story.”

“Oh no, not another closet case.”

“Nope, not this time. He’s straight, to the best of my knowledge. He just visits the S&M clubs. A lot. If they had a punch card, he’d be on his second free whipping by now.”

An S&M punch card? That brought up an amusing image that made Roan smirk. “You know, having dirt on a lot of people is a good way to get offed. It’s why Danny DeVito got killed in
L.A. Confidential
.”

“I try not to advertise the amount of dirt I have. I try and fly under the radar. Speaking of dirt: Carey Switzer. We really need to talk about him.”

The article said that the car was unidentified—apparently neither Grey nor Holden saw it—and the police were still looking for witnesses, as well as perusing tapes from nearby CCTV cameras to see if they’d caught anything. That told him the cops had pretty much nothing to go on. He wondered if Grey being a “local sports star” would encourage some witnesses to come forward. Roan folded up the paper and tossed it on the coffee table, enjoying a swig of sugary caffeinated goodness. “Okay, so you know Switzer.”

“He’s infamous on the East side. He’s one of those ones who wants freebies.”

That was seemingly cryptic, until you realized you were talking to a sex worker who used to hustle on street corners, and then its meaning was nauseatingly clear. “He extorted sex?”

Holden nodded, looking disgusted at the whole thing. “He’d deliberately pick up newbies, youngsters, mostly female, some male, some just street kids and not even prostitutes. He’d say he’d arrest them and bring them in, but he’d let them off if he got a freebie.”

“A fuck.”

“From the boys, a blow job. But yeah, that was the deal. If you turned down his oh so generous offer, he’d rough you up, take you in, and say you were beaten when he found you. One woman claimed he planted a rock on her.”

A rock being meth, of course. Roan rubbed his eyes, and wondered if he should just track this motherfucker at home. Nowadays departments cracked down hard on this kind of shit, but bullies with a badge still existed, and when they did, they were horrendously foul little despots. They all deserved to be taken out and shot. “No one’s filed a complaint against him?”

“Not until Jasmine sued, no.”

“Shit.” There was motive. His little fiefdom was threatening to come crashing down, so he takes out the only witness brave enough to say something.

“And he really hated gays. Even if he got what he wanted from a boy, it wasn’t unusual for him to beat them up anyways. Once he beat one up and ran him in, said he resisted arrest, pulled a knife on him. I can’t imagine what he’d do to a transsexual.”

“Will any of these people be willing to testify against Switzer?”

Holden grimaced, his hands tightening like he wanted to make a fist but didn’t dare. “I don’t know. It would depend.”

“On what?”

“On how much protection they’d get.”

“They’re that scared of him?”

“He’s a complete fucking asshole.”

“Well, being a bully and a rapist will get you that reputation.” He sighed wearily and dry washed his face. “What about Michael Brand?”

Holden shook his head. “No one’s heard of him. Switzer generally works alone.”

Roan didn’t know how to ask it, so he decided to just try and brazen it out. “Were you victimized by Switzer?”

Holden tensed and gave him a sidelong look of disbelief. “I’ve never been a victim of anyone, Roan.”

“I’m willing to believe you’ve always been supernaturally canny, but you were a newbie kid once yourself. That couldn’t have been a great time.” And the way he’d tightened up, the thin filament of disgust in his voice when he talked about Switzer… something about that felt intensely personal.

Holden stared at him straight on, his eyes flinty and jaw taut. “These are my people, Ro. I may not be on the street anymore, but I still feel that these are my kids, and I don’t like anyone exploiting them. Especially not prick cops with a Napoleon complex.”

Was that really it? Part of it, but Roan was sure Holden was holding back on him. Still, if he didn’t feel like talking about it, who was he to press? He didn’t want to talk about his scars either. So Roan held up his hands as if in surrender and sat back against the sofa. “Fair enough. I’ll make some inquiries, see if I can find out if there’s anyone in the department who’s heard some gossip about Switzer. Cop shops are as gossipy as any other place where there are too many people with not enough to do.”

Holden relaxed in increments. “I can tell you Jasmine wasn’t a hooker. There’s rumors of a drug habit that I’ve been unable to concretely prove. Oh, and our helpful hockey client finally remembered Jasmine lived with a roommate who may still be living in the same apartment. Can we have him tested for brain damage?”

“Wait for the checks to clear first. He give you a name?”