L. A. Heat (33 page)

David and Martinez traded glances. This was not
looking good.

“Do you know where your nephew is right now, Mrs.
Anstrom?”

“Why yes,” she said. “He’s in New York. He told me
he had a job lined up there. He lost his job here, you know. Somebody he knew
in New York thought he might have something for him. So he flew out on
Tuesday.”

“New York,” David said woodenly.

“He’ll be gone at least another week, then if he
gets the job, he may have to move out there for a while at least. Is something
wrong, officer?”

“No ma’am,” Martinez said. “Do you have a number
where your nephew can be reached?”

“Of course.” Edith Anstrom leafed through some
papers and stacked magazines neatly on a pristine antique end table, until she
came up with her address book. Then she read off a New York exchange and a
number.

David wrote it down. “We’d like to thank you for
your time, Mrs. Anstrom.”

Even before he reached the door David had his cell
out and was dialing the number. It rang several times and he was about to hang
up when a sleepy voice mumbled something unintelligible into the phone.

“Trevor Watson?”

The voice mumbled something else that might have
been a question, or it might have been a curse.

“Is this Trevor Watson I’m speaking to?”

“Who wants to know?” The voice still sounded
blurry from sleep, but David was beginning to get a horrible feeling about this
whole thing.

“It’s Los Angeles calling. Is this Watson?”

“Didn’t know a city could make a phone call. Who
is this, really?”

“It’s the LAPD I’m calling from your aunt’s house.
Is this Trevor Watson?”

“You’re at Aunt Edith’s place?” The voice sounded
more alert now. And getting pissed. “What are you doing there?”

“Trying to find you. One more time, sir,” David
said. “Are you Trevor Watson?”

“Yeah, I’m Trevor. So what’s the big deal? Why are
you looking for me?”

Sunday,
10:15 pm, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains

Chris woke once to find himself
on the floor of a vehicle bouncing and jolting down what could only be unpaved
road. Which meant they were outside the city. His cheek was pressing into a
rough mat, the stench of hot oil, gas and human sweat filled his nostrils. He
could hear the clatter and crunch of dirt and gravel on the undercarriage. How
much time had passed? Chris groggily tried to roll over, but his movements were
slow and uncoordinated. Barely conscious, he tried to brace himself against the
vehicle’s wall.

They hit a muffler-eating bump and Chris’s head
slammed back into the steel wall, ending all thought of sitting up. He passed
out again.

Sunday,
11:20 pm, Margate Street, North Hollywood, Los Angeles

David hung up on the irate
Trevor. Trevor’s voice wasn’t the same as the voice on the phone whose owner
had said that Chris belonged to him.

David stared helplessly at Martinez.

“We’ve been chasing the wrong guy.” He glanced at
his watch. “Listen, I want to make a couple of phone calls. Why don’t you start
with the airlines, see if you can nail down when Watson really took his New
York flight.”

Martinez immediately pulled out his phone and
started dialing. David took advantage of his inattention to slip back to his
car. He quickly dialed Chris’s cell. Chris would be happy to know that it
looked like his friend was no longer implicated in any of this.

Besides, David wanted to hear his lover’s voice
again.

“Uh, h-hello?” The tentative, soft female voice
was definitely not Chris.

David took a shallow breath and let it out. “Who
is this?”

“Ah, Loretta. Who’s this?”

“Where’s Chris?”

“You mean the guy who left this thing behind? He’s
gone. Some buddy of his helped him out a couple of hours ago. I didn’t even
notice this was here until it started ringing. Who are you?”

A cold, gut-wrenching weight settled into David’s
stomach. He almost dropped the phone, then grabbed it and managed to say,

“Where are you?”

“The Encounter. It’s a bar at the airport—”

“I know what it is. This is Detective David Eric
Laine, LAPD.” David’s mind raced. God, no, it couldn’t be. Don’t let it be. Not
Chris. No. “Where was the guy with the phone sitting? The bar? A table?”

“A table—”

“I need you to stay at that table until we get
there. Don’t let anyone near it. Can you do that for me, Loretta?”

“Who are you again?”

David told her.

“Yeah, sure, I guess...”

David bolted across the lawn to where Martinez was
trying to browbeat someone on the other end of the phone into giving him
information. David grabbed his arm.

Martinez jerked away, his eyes narrowing when he
saw David’s face.

“He’s got Chris.”

They leaped into their cars and took off with a
spray of gravel. The siren screaming, they raced south to the Hollywood
Freeway, then followed I-405 south at breakneck speed.

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Sunday,
11:25 pm, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains

CHRIS WOKE AGAIN. He was no
longer moving and he felt plush carpet under his bare knees. He was kneeling,
his arms held behind his back. Something dug into his throat. He opened his
eyes. He had no idea where he was.

At some point Tom had tied him with a single piece
of strong, thin rope. It held his hands together behind his back and passed
around his neck. Any movement on his part only served to tighten the bindings,
choking him. His shoulders burned with an icy fire that spread slowly down his
upper torso.

He was naked.

He tried to look around. He was in a large
finished basement. Dark wood paneling lined the walls. He could just make out
the thick, carved leg of what looked like a pool table out of the corner of his
eye. High above his head was the black rectangle of a window. It was still
night. How much time had passed?

Diffuse golden light filled the otherwise shadowed
room.

An Italian side-table held a Tiffany lamp that
wasn’t turned on and a webcam with its unblinking red eye trained on him. Then
he saw what lay beside the web cam and fear pulsed through him.

It was a long, wicked-looking blade.

He licked his lips. His tongue felt dry and his
lips stung. He swayed dizzily, trying hard not to move, knowing that any
movement would only start him choking again. The muscles of his legs vibrated
dully and cramps built up in his feet and calves.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and
before he could think he reacted. He jerked around, but his arms weren’t there
to balance him. He slammed sideways into the floor, tasting blood and carpet
fiber as his mouth scraped the rug.

Two perfectly creased pant legs appeared in his
field of vision. Rough hands grabbed the rope that held his wrists bound and
hauled him upright. His shoulders felt as though they were being wrenched from
their sockets. He couldn’t help it, he screamed.

Tom’s face was inches from his and Chris could see
the dark desire dancing in the cold depths of his glacier blue eyes. Through
the fog of pain Chris struggled to bite his tongue. Pain only excited this guy.
Screaming roused no sympathy in him, only a gleeful need to cause more. Chris
glared at him through tear-filled eyes.

“Hey, Bellamere.” Chris saw the blade in Tom’s
hand and his terror returned. “I’ve been waiting for this day.”

Chris spat out a bright red globule of blood and
tried to still the erratic beating of his heart. His mouth tasted of copper.
“Can’t say I have.”

“Cool little bitch, aren’t you?” Tom lifted
Chris’s chin. “You really think you’ll stay cool once I start? Don’t you think
the others tried to show me how butch they were, too?”

Chris was forced to pull his arms up to avoid
choking. He grimaced and tried to squirm away.

Tom laid the narrow blade alongside Chris’s face.

“If I cut you up and let you go, do you really
think that pig would look at you twice afterward? Really, I thought you had
better taste.” The blade burned a solitary path down Chris’s right cheek. Hot
blood welled out. “Fucking a pig. When you could have had anyone.”

The knife traced a second path beside the first
down his cheek. “So pretty. But it’s all so shallow. There’s nothing
underneath. Just blood. Blood and pain. That’s all any of you are good for.”

Tom grabbed his hair and pulled his head back.
With his finger, he traced a bloody path through the free-flowing blood on
Chris’s face and smeared it over Chris’s lips, jerking his head toward the
camera. “Add a touch of color. Smile, Chris. Smile for David.”

The pain was assaultive, overwhelming his senses
and drowning out everything else. Chris ground his teeth to keep from crying
out, but even so a soft whimper emerged.

“You killed them all, didn’t you?”

Tom smiled. He circled Chris, who had to twist his
head around to follow him. Tom hovered behind him, and Chris tensed, half
expecting to feel the sting of the knife again. Not knowing where or when the
cut would come was worse than the actual physical violence.

“Why?” Chris whispered.

Tom touched him again and Chris jumped, belatedly
realizing it was just a finger. He cursed himself for giving Tom the reaction
he wanted. But then, if he didn’t maybe Tom would just go ahead and use the
knife until Chris showed his fear. Chris was under no illusions that he could
hold out for long. If Tom wanted him to scream, he’d scream. The knowledge was
demoralizing.

Tom laughed softly. His hand touched him again,
gliding over Chris’s shrinking skin.

“Very dumb. Pretty, but dumb.” He ruffled Chris’s
hair. “I guess dumb blonds come in both flavors.” He grabbed hair and tilted
Chris’s head back. “I killed them because they fucked you. They had no right to
do that. You belong to me.”

Chris’s terrified mind grabbed a memory. “But who
was Daniel Anstrom? I never even met anyone by that name.”

“Hey, everybody can screw up. I meant to get that
asshole uncle of his.”

“Trevor?”

“Guess your friend got luckier than you did, eh?”

Chris’s bound hands were slick with sweat and
blood. He could feel the rope’s knot when he twisted his fingers around. When
Tom moved around in front of him again he jiggled his fingers against it,
testing the bindings. Something moved under his fingers. Could he keep Tom
distracted while he tried to wriggle free?

“Coward,” he said. “Does your uncle know what a
piece of shit you are? Do you think he would have bought you that job if he
knew?”

Tom slid the flat of the knife alongside Chris’s
jaw, forcing his head up.

“My uncle doesn’t care what I am, as long as I’m
not a pansy.” He suddenly looked quizzical. “Are you trying to make me mad? Now
why would you do that? To make me slip up? I won’t, you know. Failure isn’t
part of my plans for you. That’s another thing my uncle could never abide. It
doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does.”

“You fucked up big time with Des. He got away from
you. I saw him just yesterday and he’s getting better every day. Soon he’ll be
able to tell the police everything they need to know about you. He’ll tell your
uncle, too.” Chris didn’t know if any of that was true. Even when Des did wake
up, with his head injuries as serious as they were, what were the odds he would
remember anything?

“Perhaps,” Tom said softly, but Chris saw the rage
flare in his blue eyes. “But it won’t be soon enough to save you.”

“You can’t even admit you fucked up, can you?
Useless queer faggot—”

Tom backhanded him. Chris never saw it coming and
couldn’t have braced for it anyway. He sprawled backwards, managing to roll
sideways to take the worst of the damage on his side when he slammed into the
floor. His arms jerked up and Chris was sure he had dislocated his shoulders.
His scream was cut off as the rope around his throat tightened, his arms pinned
beneath him. Gagging and coughing, he managed to roll onto his side and
relieved some of the pressure on his neck. At least he could breathe again.

With his hands pressed into the carpeted floor he
gained some leverage. Frantically he worked his nearly paralyzed fingers over
the knot. Was it getting looser? Yes, it was. But not enough.

He needed more time.

Tom stood less than a foot away. Under the neatly
pressed pants Chris was all too aware of Tom’s erection. How long before he was
raped?

He thought of David then, and how, despite his
size, he was a gentle, considerate lover. Even at the height of passion, pain
was anathema to David. Chris should have seen what was there all the time. The
love David offered him, even when he was telling him it wouldn’t work. So
obvious now.

Chris squeezed his eyes shut at the tears. He had
never told David he loved him. Never hinted that he even cared. Now he might
never have the chance. Instead, the last thing David would see was a video
image of his body being brutalized.

Tom nudged him with the toe of his dress shoe.
Abruptly he grabbed Chris’s left arm under the armpit and hauled him back to
his knees. Chris ground his teeth to stop from crying out at the new wave of
pain.

He spit out blood mixed with thick globs of
saliva. His throat was raw and swollen; he could barely swallow. More blood
came up. Tom shoved him back onto his knees. This time he caressed Chris’s bare
chest with the blade.

The knife blade turned in and circled his right
nipple, drawing a line of fire across his pecs. Chris swallowed past the ground
glass in his throat and groaned.

“Is that the best you can do? The camera is
waiting.” Tom leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with feral delight. “David is
waiting. He’ll be watching so avidly. Agonizing over every little scratch.
Every little bloody stroke.”