L. A. Heat (16 page)

The hidden processes ran flawlessly, and within
minutes he had a perfect little zombie doing his bidding. That was when he set
to work hacking StarFlight’s back-end server.

The tools he used for that were a lot more
sophisticated and he was sure the police would be very interested in knowing he
had them. He had password-cracking tools and decrypters as well as a whole
range of key-loggers.

While the crackers and the decrypters ran against
the database he refreshed his coffee one more time. Then back to check the
progress of his hacking job. He was pleased to see that StarFlight most likely
had chosen their operating system and their security model on the basis of
office politics and management schmoozing, instead of good IT judgment—their
system was the easiest one in the world to hack.

In another ten minutes his zombie machine
registered success. He was in.

Within minutes Chris had a list of every movie
Bobby had participated in—Chris refused to think of it as acting—and something
even better. Bobby Starrz’s real name and his social security number.

Just like David had said: his name was Robert “Bobby”
Allen Dvorak. Born in Topeka, Kansas, June 9, twenty-one years ago. Quit high
school at sixteen, and like so many before him, took off for granola land to
become a star. And like so many before him, he was eaten up by the big machine.

Best of all, a street address on Western Avenue in
the still-ungentrified part of Hollywood. Maybe just ten minutes from Chris’s.
He jotted down the full address anyway, just in case his memory failed him.

He knew he should call David. Dump what he had
found in his lap. Only, how would he explain how he came by it? Admit to
hacking StarFlight? That wouldn’t help his credibility.

Could he just give them the information without
saying how he got it? No, David would think he’d known it all along.

So, nix telling David.

Which left him playing sleuth.

That or let David and his homophobic partner hang
him out to dry, which they were doing a damned good job of right now. It was
nearly six o’clock when a knock announced Trevor had arrived. Chris saved his
information, released his captive PC, and shut his tools down.

Trevor handed Chris a plastic bag that clanked
heavily. Chris opened it to find two bottles of wine, a Diamond Hill Cabernet
and a Kistler Chardonnay.

Trevor shrugged. “Wasn’t sure what you were
cooking.”

“Kistler’s perfect. Only had it once. Let me get
this put away—”

“Hey, no welcome kiss?”

Before Chris could respond, Trevor pulled him
forward, his hand closing over the rapidly swelling bulge between Chris’s legs.

Both of them were breathing hard by the time
Trevor let them up for air.

“So, what are you feeding me?”

“Chicken.”

“Good.” Trevor didn’t move away. He pressed his
mouth against the hollow of Chris’s throat. “I love chicken.” He slapped
Chris’s butt and shoved him toward the kitchen. “Go on, let’s open this wine
and get cooking.”

A pair of pepper trees in a stone alcove flanked
the barbecue. A chaise longue and a couple of Adirondack chairs with cushions
crowded around a small, round table, filling the rest of the narrow space.
Chris set the bowl of marinating chicken on the table and got the propane grill
cranked up.

When he turned around Trevor was sprawled on the
lounger with a full glass of wine in one hand. He beckoned Chris over and held
out the wine glass.

“Come here.” Trevor hooked an arm around his waist
and pulled him down on the chaise. “I want you here with me. This is one night
you’re not getting away from me.”

Chris didn’t bother telling him he wasn’t trying
to get away. Then he wasn’t able to talk as Trevor pulled him into an embrace.
He had Chris’s shirt off and was working on his jeans when his hands skidded
off the BlackBerry still attached to Chris’s belt. “Get rid of that damn thing,
will you?”

Chris set it under the chaise longue where it
wouldn’t get crushed by a misplaced foot. Things got very hot very fast. From
under the lounger came the soft but insistent chirp of his BlackBerry.

Chris groaned and groped for it. Trevor grabbed
his hand.

“Fuck, no,” he growled. “Don’t—”

“I have to. It could be work. An emergency—”

He plastered it to his ear, trying to ignore both
Trevor’s scowl and the sight of his aroused, half-naked body.

It was Des.

“Oh God, Chris, he’s gone. I don’t know where but
I just know something bad has happened—”

“Who’s gone?” Chris slithered out of Trevor’s
octopus arms and sat up on the edge of the lounger. “What’s going on, Des?”

“It’s Kyle. He’s been so depressed lately. Ever
since that horrible thing at the Pit. He says his looks are gone and he’ll
never work again.”

Chris tried to ignore the way Trevor’s hands
wandered across the landscape of his bare chest, or how his erection pressed
against Chris’s back. Trevor bit his other ear and murmured some very enticing
obscenities into it.

Des burst into sobs. “Oh God, I’ll die if anything
happens to him. It’s all my fault. He’s been so full of self-doubt lately. I
should have been there for him—”

“Come on, Des. Kyle isn’t going to do anything.
He’s just being a drama queen. You know how he is—”

“No! He’s not like that. He’s full of pain and I
should have helped him. Now he’s gone and I have to find him before he—I have
to find him.”

Chris nearly groaned aloud when Trevor slid the
zipper of his jeans down. He forced himself to focus on Des’s voice. “Okay,
I’ll come by in the morning. We can look for him together”—and maybe the damn
fool would come home by then. “I’ll call you—”

Trevor took the phone out of his hand and spoke
into it, “Call him later,” and hung up.

“Hey—”

Trevor stood up and dragged Chris to his feet.
“You are coming with me.” Back inside, Trevor extracted a DVD from his jacket
pocket. “I brought something to inspire us—” In the bedroom the phone rang.
Chris ran for it, ignoring

Trevor’s furious look.

It was Kyle.

At least it sounded like Kyle, though Chris had
never heard the younger man sound so panicked.

“I can’t find Des. He’s not at home. Where is he,
Chris? Where’s Des?”

“Looking for you. Where are you? What’s wrong—”

“Someone’s following me.”

“What?” Chris sat down on the bed, shoving Trevor
away when he tried to take the phone away. Trevor responded by stripping his
jeans off. “Who’s following you?”

“I don’t know.” Fresh panic tightened Kyle’s
voice, raising it in pitch. “I don’t know, but they’re right behind me in a
truck.”

Oh good. California good old boys out for a night
of fun.

“Where are you now?” Shit, if anything happened to
Kyle, Des would never forgive him. He might as well kiss their friendship
good-bye forever. “Do you know where you are?”

“Santa Monica. I just passed Bundy.”

Chris reached for his shirt, still protecting the
phone from an amorous Trevor. “What are you driving, Kyle?”

“My Boxster, of course.”

That had been a major sore point between Chris and
Des. Chris had thought it a foolish indulgence to buy any car for his latest
boy-toy, let alone a pricey little sports car like the Porsche Boxster. But Des
had insisted, and now Kyle drove everywhere in it. At least when he wasn’t
letting Des chauffeur him around in the Mercedes.

Right now Kyle was driving through territory ripe
for carjacking. He refrained from telling Kyle that—no sense having the fool
freak out even more.

“Come to my place—”

“I can’t. I’m almost out of gas. I didn’t bring my
bank cards—”

Idiot, Chris wanted to say. Instead he took a deep
breath. “Okay, whatever you do, don’t stop until you get to a well-lit place
with lots of people. In fact,” he thought hard. “Go to Freddie’s. Then call me
back on my cell.”

“Are you going to call Des?”

“I’ll call him, but in the meantime I’m coming out
there. Go to Freddie’s.” Trevor reached for him; Chris twisted away.

“You can’t be serious,” Trevor muttered. “You’re
leaving?”

Chris hung up and scrambled to his feet, tucking
himself back into his jeans.

“Kyle’s gotten himself lost out in Santa Monica.
He’s begging me for help. Des is my best friend, Trev. I can’t leave Kyle out
there on his own. Des would kill me if anything happened to him.”

“You’re killing
me
, is what you’re doing.”

Chris tried to smile as he admired Trevor’s naked
body. “Wait for me. I won’t be long—”

“Fuck that.” Trevor grabbed discarded clothes off
the floor and threw them back on. “Trevor doesn’t wait.”

“Give me a lift—” Chris stared at the empty
doorway. Downstairs the front door slammed. He sighed. “Or not.”

Trevor was long gone by the time Chris left the
house to wait for his cab.

Return to Contents

Monday,
11:00 pm, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles

IT TOOK CHRIS forty minutes to
reach Santa Monica. His BlackBerry remained stubbornly silent the whole way.
Freddie’s was packed. In the barely legal crowd it took Chris nearly half an
hour to establish that Kyle wasn’t there. Pushing through the solid press of
bodies he forced his way back outside.

He scanned the street. No sign of Kyle or his
Boxster.

Idiot. How the hell was he going to explain this
to Des? Where was Kyle?

He pulled out his BlackBerry. “Hey, Des,” he said
when his friend answered. “Any word?”

“No,” Des said.

“Call the cops, Des—”

“You know what they’d tell me?” Des’s voice rose a
notch. “They’d tell me I’m some hysterical queen who had a tiff with his
boyfriend.”

“You called them already, didn’t you?”

“Twice. They won’t even take a report for
forty-eight hours—what’s it to you anyway? Since when do you care about Kyle?”

“Des—” Chris stared into the half-filled parking
lot attached to Freddie’s. No Boxster. “Des, you gotta call them again. Kyle’s
in trouble.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He was being followed. You tell the cops that.
They have to do something if they know that.”

Monday,
11:20 pm, Northeast Community Police Station,

San
Fernando Road, Los Angeles

David wearily tossed his jacket
aside and dropped into his chair, his elbows finding support on the desk. His
phone rang. It was Martinez.

He sounded as exhausted as David. “I’m heading
home.”

“The arcade a bust?”

“Found a couple of guys claim to be good friends
of Anstrom. They may have seen him around the time he disappeared. Any way you
can round up some pictures of Bellamere?”

David looked around the squad room. “Don’t we have
a camera here somewhere?”

“Check the top drawer of my desk.”

The camera David pulled out fit into the palm of
his hand.

“Digital?”

“Beauty, ain’t it? Plug some new batteries in it
and we're all set. Does pretty decent zoom photos.”

“I’ll catch him before he leaves for work.”

“Sounds good. I have to get the kids ready for
school, Inez’s sister is in the hospital having a baby, so I may be a few
minutes late. Get your pics, we’ll head out to the valley later.”

David managed to grab a few hours’ sleep, and woke
himself up with a shower while Sweeney prowled the bathroom, impatient for
breakfast. By seven David was parked up the street from Chris’s in his
unmarked. Less than thirty minutes later a cab edged its way around him and
pulled into Chris’s driveway.

David couldn’t see inside the courtyard, so he
didn’t see Chris come out, but he did see him slide into the backseat of the
cab. Within minutes the cabby’s lights flared and they headed down the hill.

David stayed on their tail in the light traffic
that got heavier as they cut over to Santa Monica. He managed to keep the cab’s
dome light in view. The cab finally stopped at a Hertz. Parked across the
street, David watched Chris rent a car and emerge thirty minutes later in a
pale blue Lexus.

But instead of heading back over the mountain to
work, Chris turned west toward Beverly Hills. Once he parked and David saw
where he was going, he cursed low and grabbed his cell phone off the seat
beside him.

“He’s in with his lawyer,” David said when
Martinez answered. He could hear kids talking in the background and a TV
blaring.

“Think he’s on to us?” Martinez sounded harried.
“Our boy must be shitting bricks—”

Abruptly Martinez cut off. David could hear a
small voice in the background. “No, honey, er, Daddy didn’t mean to say that.
So don’t tell Mommy, okay? Now you go pick out a toy to take to school.”

Martinez was trying to suppress his laughter when
he got back on the phone. “
Dios
, how much you want to bet she asks Mom
about that tonight?”

David laughed. “Your wife’s gonna kill you.”

“Let’s see if we can take our boy down with me.
Any luck getting pictures?”

“Not yet.” David glanced around the busy street.
“I think I can catch him coming out of the office, if I can get into position.
Call you later.”

He dropped the phone back on the seat and picked
up the camera. A car pulled away from the curb three cars down from Chris’s
rental and David grabbed the spot away from an irate Jaguar driver. When the
driver approached him with a scowl and a few choice words David settled the
beef by flashing his tin.

While he waited he managed to capture a couple of
other young, blond men as they left the building, knowing it would be useless
to present a photo lineup unless they had a variety of similar types to show
potential witnesses.

By the time Chris emerged from Weiss’s building,
David had half a dozen pictures saved in digital memory. He snapped four more
in rapid succession as Chris made his way to his rental.