L. A. Heat (12 page)

David watched him go, then clipped his cell to his
belt, slid his sunglasses into his jacket pocket—though he wouldn’t be needing
them where he was going—and with briefcase firmly in hand, headed out to sign a
car out.

Only when he slid onto the sun-baked seat did he
think of the other guy who had been with Chris that night. Des. Des what? He
pulled his notebook out and skimmed until he found it. Desmond Hayward. He
stared down at the phone number he had taken down, remembering all too clearly
how Des had come down the stairs, catching him in the act of kissing Chris,
knowing what Des must be thinking.

But first the Nosh Pit.

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Thursday,
10:45 pm, The Nosh Pit, Hyperion Avenue,

Silver
Lake, Los Angeles

DAVID KNEW THE bartender made
him the minute he entered the Nosh Pit. The man eyed him coldly while David
made his way through the press of bodies. David flashed his shield and watched
the crush melt away. He was left facing the angry bartender.

“Do something for you, officer?” The bartender
lifted a beer mug out of the draining rack and rubbed it dry with a towel.
Muscled arms bulged out of his sleeveless shirt. A tattoo on his left arm said
SEMPER FI. A snake coiled around his other arm, the head peering out from under
his armpit.

David passed over a business card. “Got a name?”

“William Ramsey. But everyone just calls me
Ramsey.”

“Well, Mr. Ramsey, we might want to find someplace
private for this conversation.”

Ramsey hesitated, but David knew he was all too
aware of the bar patrons watching them. “This way.”

David followed him into a backroom filled with
cases of beer and alcohol. The room smelled faintly of smoke.

“This won’t take long.” David hoisted his
briefcase onto a case of Smirnoff. He popped the latches and made a show of
dragging out his pictures. He indicated Ramsey’s tattoo. “Where were you
stationed?”

Ramsey looked bemused. He folded his arms over his
broad chest. “Pendleton.”

“See any action?”

“Spent some time looking for weapons of mass
destruction. Never did find anything but sand.”

“Heard Iraq was nasty.”

“It had its moments.”

“Know this guy?” David watched Ramsey’s stony face
when he dumped the half dozen pictures of the dead John Doe in front of him.

Ramsey jerked away from the images. “What the fuck
you doing?”

“Asking if you know this guy.”

“Who the hell is he?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t—”

“Look at it!” David slammed the nearest picture
with his index finger. Sick of the games. Sick of the secrets that kept his
stomach tied in knots. Somebody was going to talk and they were going to talk
now. “I want to know when he came in here. Who he was with. Where he lives. His
name.”

“I don’t know his name,” Ramsey said.

“But you recognize him, right? Did he come in
alone or with someone?”

Ramsey shrugged. “Alone.”

“He leave the same way?”

“What happened to him? Who did that?”

“He leave here alone?”

Ramsey dragged his gaze away from the photos. “He
came in a lot. He left with whoever he wanted.”

“Anyone in particular?”

A shrewd look entered Ramsey’s eyes. “Different
guys,” he said.

“Who?”

David sighed and pulled out his cell phone. He
tapped in a series of numbers, then met the quizzical bartender’s eyes. “You
sure you don’t want to talk to me?”

“What are you doing?”

“Putting a call in to the station—they can send a
couple of uniforms down here to help me question everyone in the place,” David
said. “If we keep at it long enough someone’s bound to remember something,
especially if the guy was as good-looking as you say.”

“No call for that. I told you I don’t know
anything.”

“Doesn’t mean no one else does.” David depressed
the send button. “This is a homicide investigation and I’m tired of being
jerked around.”

Ramsey held his hand up, almost touching David’s.
“Don’t. We can talk.”

David hit END and set the cell down on the
counter. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Few days ago...Monday night.”

David was startled. That was the night he had
broken up the gay bashers.

“What time Monday?”

“He was here till last call.” Ramsey’s intense
green eyes wandered uneasily around the small room.

David leaned forward. “He alone?”

“He spent the night chatting guys up. Talked to a
lot of people. Said he was an actor.”

“Any reason to think he was?”

“He was full of the usual Hollywood bullshit, if
that’s what you mean.” Again the wary look. “Never saw him in anything.”

“Anybody in particular he talk to?”

“Few people.”

“Give me some names.”

Ramsey frowned, tugged on his bristling mustache.
Ice glinted in his eyes. David thought he was going to play hardball and refuse
to answer.

“I need names.”

“Chris. Guy’s name was Chris,” Ramsey said. “But
if you think he had anything to do with
that
, you’re crazy. I know the
guy. He’d never hurt a fly.”

Usually when David scored a major hit, he felt a
surge of adrenaline that made the catch all the sweeter. This time his stomach
roiled and he swallowed past the sudden taste of bile.

“Bellamere? Christopher Bellamere? That the one
you mean?”

“Could be. Don’t get into last names much here.”

“Good-looking guy, maybe six feet. Blond. Blue
eyes. Expensive dresser? Works with computers.”

Ramsey raised one eyebrow and looked him up and
down as though he was seeing him for the first time. David was annoyed to feel
himself flush, hoping the darkened room kept it from being obvious.

“Sounds like him,” Ramsey said.

“That the first time you ever saw them together?”

Ramsey curled his hand into a fist. “No.”

“When did they meet before?”

“You’re wrong about Chris. He couldn’t have done
what you think.”

“He’s not a suspect at this point,” David lied. “I
just need to talk to him. Clear some things up.”

“Sure.”

“I want to thank you for your cooperation, Mr.
Ramsey.” David scooped his pictures up and slid them back into the briefcase,
forcing it closed with a solid thump. “I’d like to think this conversation
won’t go beyond our ears. Got a problem with that?”

“No.”

“I’ll be on my way then. Try to have a good one.”

“Like that’s going to happen now.”

David had barely cleared the door before he had
his cell out, launching a DMV check on both Christopher Bellamere and Desmond
Hayward. He checked his notes from Monday and added Kyle Paige to his search
list. While he waited for his requests to be processed and displayed on his
MDT, he ran over the notes he had taken that night.

Des and Chris had been friends since their college
days. At least ten years. Just how well did Mr. Hayward know his long-time pal?
David put the car in gear. Time to find out.

Kyle answered his knock, scowling when he saw who
it was. The bruises on his face had congealed into a rainbow of mauves and
sickly yellows and his already full lips remained puffed up.

“Mr. Hayward available?”

“Yeah, he’s here.” Kyle remained standing in the
doorway, effectively blocking the way. “What do you want?”

David crowded in on the much smaller man. He
filled the suddenly narrow doorway. “To talk to him.”

“I’ll see if he’s up.”

David glanced at his watch. It was past midnight.
But the kid was fully dressed when he answered the door. Maybe he’d interrupted
something. Which at least would explain the kid’s hostility.

Des appeared less than five minutes later, dressed
in faded jeans and a gold turtle neck sweater that showed off his dusky skin.
His head was freshly shaved. Des was one of those men who looked sexy as hell
with his head shaved.

Not that he came anywhere close to Chris in terms
of physical beauty.

David shoved the dangerous thought aside. He had
to stop thinking that way.

“I need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Hayward.”
He glanced at Kyle. “If you’re not too busy.”

“No, that’s okay. We were just watching TV. Kyle,
babe, you want to put the kettle on? Would you like coffee, Detective Laine?”

“Thanks, I’m fine. But you go ahead. This won’t
take long.” David thought he heard Kyle snort as he vanished toward the
kitchen. Neither Des nor David watched him go.

“What’s this about, detective?” Des signaled that
David should precede him into the living room, where they had held their
earlier interview. “Has something come up about those men who jumped us?”

“No, it’s not that, Mr. Hayward. I’d like to ask
you a few questions about your friend, Mr. Bellamere.”

“Chris? What do you want to know?”

Kyle slipped onto the couch beside Des. On the
wall behind them framed posters from a slew of old Hollywood sci-fi flicks lent
an air of comic menace. Kyle leaned forward. “What’s the asshole done now?”

David flipped out his notepad and a pen and
scribbled down the date.

“Why, Kyle? Are you aware of anything that would
warrant police involvement?”

“No, he’s just a jerk. Full of himself.” Kyle
smirked. “But then you two were getting pretty cozy the other night. Maybe he
got full of something else.”

David ignored the crude insinuation, turning to
Des.

“What about you? Have you seen Mr. Bellamere since
I drove him back to his vehicle Monday night?”

Des shook his head. “I’ve been busy—”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Sure,” Des said. “Talked to him the next day—”

“Yeah, after you spent half the night calling,”
Kyle sounded bitter. “I kept trying to get him to bed, but he
had
to
talk to Chris.”

Was the kid jealous? According to Kyle, Des and
Chris had a relationship that spanned years. How could anyone compete with that
kind of history?

David leaned forward. “You couldn’t reach Mr.
Bellamere that night? How late are we talking here?”

Des shot Kyle a dirty look. “I thought he went
home with you,” he said. The look Des gave David was shrewd and full of
questions. “I saw you two kissing, you know. You can pretend I didn’t, but I
know what I saw.”

“That may be, sir, but Mr. Bellamere and I went
our separate ways once I dropped him off. How late did you try calling him?”

This time Des shrugged. “Two o’clock maybe. I
talked to him early the next day.” Des glanced at Kyle. “Babe, can you get me
some of that coffee?”

David waited until the younger man left, since it
was obvious Des didn’t want to talk in front of Kyle. Once he was gone, David asked,
“He call you or you call him?”

“I called—no, wait...He called me.”

“What time was this?”

“Twelve, twelve-thirty.”

“Do you have call display? Where was he calling
from?”

Des shrugged. “Work, I guess. You should come down
to the store sometime. I’ve got some Perry Ellis that would look sharp on you—”

“Can you verify that he was calling from work?”

“What’s this about? So Chris called me on his
cell.”

“So you can’t verify he was at work?”

“It was lunch time.” Des smoothed his fingers over
his bare scalp. “Where else would he be? Jesus, if you knew Chris, you wouldn’t
ask. The guy’s a fucking workaholic. He’s always at work early and stays
late—works weekends, the whole nine yards.”

Kyle returned with two mugs of coffee. He handed
one to Des.

“Thanks, hon,” Des said.

Kyle sat back down beside him, crowding close. Des
patted his knee.

Not wanting to lose the momentum, David pressed
on. “How often have you talked to him since then?”

“Not much. We don’t live in each other’s pockets,
you know.” He glanced at Kyle, then back at David. “What exactly is it you
think Chris did?”

“Just gathering information. My job is like
working a jigsaw puzzle. Before I can start doing anything, I need to assemble
as many pieces as I can.”

“And what piece does Chris represent?”

“Like I said. I’m just gathering information.”

David stood. He held out his hand to Des, who took
it gingerly.

He left Des standing in the middle of his living
room, surrounded by memorabilia from ancient films and dead actors. It struck
David that the place was like a tomb, housing the immortal remains of the
bygone famous.

Outside, David took a deep breath, tasting car
exhaust and ozone. It was time to bring Chris in for some formal questioning,
maybe a lineup with Leroy, the guy who could link the suspect with Jason Blake.
But first, he had some legal issues to take care of. He wasn’t going to let
Chris get off because he let himself get sloppy.

He headed back toward the station, where Martinez
would be waiting with his pepper-laden pizza. Which David would force himself
to eat, though he no longer had any appetite.

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Friday,
7:45 am, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles

CHRIS STARED DOWN at the folded
parchment the sheriff’s deputy held out to him.

“Mr. Christopher Bellamere?” the deputy said.

“Y-yes? What is this—”

The sheriff pressed the folded paper into Chris’s
hand. “This subpoena requires you to present yourself at the Northeast
Community Police Station—”

“What?” Chris snatched the document and unfolded
it. He read through the legalese as best he could. A lineup. They wanted him to
show up for a lineup. “What the hell is this?”

“That’s not for me to say, sir.”

Chris stepped back inside his cool foyer and shut
the door, before he could be tempted to share his thoughts with the uniformed
jerk. Dazed, he scooped up his phone.