L. A. Heat (34 page)

He grazed Chris with the knife again. More blood
flowed down his straining chest muscles. With his free hand Tom slid the zipper
of his dress pants open; Chris closed his eyes.

“I used to tell them that if they were really good
I’d let them go.”

Tom giggled, an obscenely incongruous sound.
“Stupid faggots always believed me. Come on now, open up, Chrissy. Eat me.”

The knife slid across his throat. He did as he was
ordered.

“Your boyfriend Bobby was especially slow-witted.
He actually told me we could sell the video, make money. Stupid faggot.”

Chris gagged. Tears mingled with his blood as he
struggled to keep his balance and not choke. Behind his back the bonds
loosened, slipped away from his bloody wrists. One hand came free.

“Bite me and I’ll cut you twenty ways from Sunday.
Your faggot boyfriend will need dental records to ID you.”

He knew he’d only get one shot at this. If he
screwed up he was dead.

Chris whimpered, knowing the sound would excite
Tom even more. The knife blade slipped away from his neck, Tom’s hands moved
toward the top of Chris’s head, urging him on, burying himself deep in Chris’s
throat.

“Oh, yeah, cocksucker—”

Chris reared back. At the same time he swung his
freed hand up to smash his fist into Tom’s balls, hard enough to hear the solid
thunk
of soft flesh giving way under the hard bones of his hand. The
impetus of the blow sent him rolling backwards.

Tom screamed and fell. Chris continued the roll,
frantically scrambling with numb fingers at the remains of the bindings. The
tension in his throat slackened for a second, then the other arm swung loose.

His muscles were so weak that both arms flopped
around as though they were attached to lifeless rag dolls. When the feeling
started coming back it was even worse. Pain flared along overstimulated nerve
endings. He hunched forward on the carpet, burning his knees on the stiff fiber
as he dragged himself further away from where Tom still lay writhing on the floor,
clutching himself.

Chris looked for the knife but didn’t see it
anywhere. He spat out the foul taste of Tom and stumbled to his feet. The
bloody rope pooled at his feet. The muscles in his legs quivered and threatened
to dump him back on the ground. He grabbed the pool table, leaning over it.
Heavy green felt grazed his bare skin. He left a trail of gore along the clean
surface.

On the wall hung a rack of pool cues. He shambled
toward it, pins and needles now playing along the nerves of his feet. His muscles
twitched, cramps stabbed. He locked his arms on the pool table and forced his
legs straight. Pain flared anew.

He managed to pull a wooden cue out of the rack.
It took both hands to hold it steady.

He looked back. Tom struggled to his feet, one hand
still cupping his bruised cock and balls. On his face a look of pure murder. In
his hand the knife. Chris backed away from the wavering blade.

“You’ll pay for that, faggot,” Tom whispered.

“Not this time,” Chris said.

He swung the pool cue and Tom skipped away. Chris
hated the weakness that made chasing the other man foolhardy. But if he
couldn’t fight he could run. He snatched up the Tiffany lamp and stabbed at Tom
with the cue again, keeping him at bay.

He raised the lamp and flung it at Tom as hard as he
could, and followed it with the web cam. Tom ducked both. Chris spun around and
ran, plunging headlong up the stairs into the darkness beyond the circle of
light.

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Sunday,
11:55 pm, Sepulveda Boulevard, Los Angeles

DAVID GRIPPED THE steering wheel
tightly enough to leave marks. His foot pressed down like a bar of lead, urging
the already straining vehicle to move faster. The bubble light he had attached
to the car’s dash shot beams of red light down the windshield and car hood. The
siren wailed its warning to traffic ahead of him in his unmarked and Martinez,
behind him in the Crown Victoria.

“Airport security’s been alerted,” Martinez said
over the two-way. “A couple of shops have been dispatched, too. They ought to
be rolling in about now.”

David nodded, knowing it was too late. Whoever had
taken Chris was already gone.

“We’ll find him, Davey.”

Neither of them commented on the obvious. They’d
find him, yes. But would he be alive?

The lights of the airport appeared off to the
right. David swung onto World Way and let the siren and lights get him through
the traffic.

David braked to a stop in front of the entrance
where he had dropped Chris not four hours before. Martinez pulled in behind
him. Both sirens wound down. The lights were still flashing, bathing startled
pedestrians with a crimson glow.

They met on the concourse.

An airport security officer approached them.

“Sir?” The security officer flashed a nervous
smile and David thought he was going to salute. Instead he fidgeted with his
belt.

“We’ve canvassed the area and no one reports
seeing anyone matching the description of either person you’re seeking. Do you
want us to continue?”

“Did Chris Bellamere take his flight to Denver?”

“No sir, he did not.”

“Then keep looking, but I suspect the two have
already fled the area.”

“We do have a videotape of the main concourse, the
area both of them would have had to cross to reach the Encounter.”

David and Martinez traded glances. “Video? Show
us.”

The senior security officer, Norm Drover, was a
dour, pot-bellied man in his late fifties with a thatch of graying hair combed
over his bald dome and suspicious eyes that glinted at the world from behind a
pair of glasses. He nodded curtly at David and Martinez.

“We’ve isolated the video loops for the time and
area in question.”

Norm pulled out a chair on casters and indicated
to the two detectives to take chairs nearby. Only Martinez accepted his offer.
David crowded close to the screen, studying each passing figure with intensity.
He had no trouble recognizing Chris when he entered the concourse and moved
down the corridor. He was alone.

“There,” Norm said. “He enters the elevator that
would take him up to the restaurant. One of my men recovered a BlackBerry, a
laptop case, and an envelope from his table.”

“Envelope?”

“Yes, from a DataTEK Systems. It was empty.
Everything was secured into evidence by an officer from the LAPD.”

David frowned. “Who would have brought an envelope
from his work? It would have to be someone he worked with.”

“Manager of the Encounter says he was in there
less than half an hour before his friend helped him out of the place,” Norm
said.

“Did he appear drunk when he arrived?”

“No, the waiter claimed he seemed sober.”

“Yet thirty minutes later he’s supposed to be
roaring drunk?” David felt his temper rising. He barely felt Martinez’s hand on
his arm.

Norm shrugged. “Drunks are a funny thing. Look
sober one minute, falling down stupid the next. He figured he’d come in just
under his limit. Said if he’d been female he might have wondered—but who
expects a man to be drugged?”

David knew what he said was true, but he hated
that after everything that had happened, it had been that easy to take Chris.
Someone should have been watching. Someone like him.

“Hold on,” Norm said. “We think this is him.”

Another figure entered the same elevator Chris had
gone up in moments before. All David could see was his back.

“No one else goes into the elevator. If we
fast-forward this...” Norm did just that. “Is that Bellamere?”

Two figures emerged from the elevator this time.
It was obvious one was supporting the other. Again, David had no trouble
recognizing Chris, though his head was hanging down. He stumbled as he walked.
Norm froze the image just before they walked off screen.

David also has no trouble recognizing the second
man, carrying Chris’s luggage.

“Tom Clarke.”

Monday,
12:10 am, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains

Chris ran. The stairs were
covered with thin carpeting that gave his bare feet purchase. He hit the door
at the top with his shoulder and it flew open, nearly dumping him onto the
tiled kitchen floor. He skidded past a massive refrigerator and barely avoided
colliding with the counter beyond it.

His side ached and hot blood welled out of myriad
small cuts. He blinked away stinging blood as it dripped down his face,
mingling with his tears. He ran, heedless of where, aware of only one thing.
Death followed him.

His bare feet gave him one advantage. He ran
silently. Behind him, he could hear Tom blundering up the stairs, the solid
soles of his dress shoes pounding noisily on the risers. His breathing was
labored, and pain-filled.

Chris felt a hot satisfaction at the damage he had
done. He only wished he could have done more.

Right now he had a more pressing issue. He had to
get outside.

He eased through the doorway, trying not to knock
anything over or crash into things. A thin light bled in through the open windows.
The light had an odd color; at first he thought it was some kind of
streetlight, but then he realized it was the moon. He caught a glimpse of it
though the nearest window. It was nearly full. He could even make out some
stars casting their own light.

He had no idea where he was. They were beyond the
veil of light Los Angeles normally spilled into the night sky, drowning out all
but the most persistent stars. How far from the city had they driven? What
chance would anyone have of finding him?

The living room was filled with shadow and light.
Dark shapes loomed—a floor lamp, a high-backed sofa, a big-screen TV. Deeper in
the shadow, a matching high-backed chair faced the TV. Beside it was an end
table. Light glinted off something plastic. A phone.

He grabbed the phone, knocked the end table with
his hand, and lunged to catch it before everything fell. He plastered the
receiver to his ear, feeling for buttons to dial 911. It was dead.

He tapped the button in the cradle to get a dial
tone. Nothing.
Damn
.

Footsteps in the kitchen. Softer now. More
focused. Tom was trying to sneak up on him. He swung around the high-backed
chair, crying out in surprise when he tripped over something. He fell sideways,
and his hands were engulfed in cold stickiness. The smell of blood overwhelmed
his senses.

He raised his head and stared into the sightless
eyes of Saul Ruben, DataTEK’s CFO. Cold moonlight shone on pale flesh, starkly
illuminating the dark, fingernail-sized hole in the center of his forehead.

Tom really had taken care of his problem.

Monday,
12:20 am, Los Angeles International Airport

David reached up to touch the
frozen video image. His fingers tracked across the cool screen, sliding over
the grainy image of his lover. Icy fear slipped through his reserve.

Martinez was already on his cell. Vaguely, David
heard him snapping at someone on the other end. Then he broke the connection
and punched in another number, and a new argument started.

“...employee records, Mr. McGill. I want this
Clarke’s address. No, not tomorrow. Now. Then find someone who can get them.
Who lives closest? Rebecca? Who the hell is Rebecca—”

David touched his arm. “I’ve got her.” He entered
her number on his cell while Martinez continued to argue with Petey.

David held his breath when the line started
ringing at the other end. He barely let it out when a sleepy female voice
answered.

“Yeah? Who’s this?”

“Rebecca Chapman?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Detective David Laine. We met a few days ago—”

“I remember.” Becky’s voice grew stronger and more
pissed off. “What the hell is this about? Why are you calling me at... nearly
one o’clock in the morning?”

“We’re on the other line with your boss, Peter
McGill. He tells me you’re the closest to the DataTEK offices. We need you to
go in and look up an address for us.”

“An address? Now you’re confusing me. Whose
address could you possibly need at this time of night? Who are you hassling
now—”

“This is important, Ms. Chapman. I can’t go into
details, but it involves Chris.”

“Chris? How—”

“We need Tom Clarke’s address. Don’t argue, Ms.
Chapman. Not now.”

“Tom’s address?”

“I need you to go into DataTEK. This is Chris’s
life, Ms. Chapman. I’m serious.”

From the other end of the line he heard a male
voice and Becky’s muffled response. Then Becky came back on. “I don’t have to
go in. I can log on from here. Hold on, let me get to my laptop.”

“Calling DMV,” Martinez said. “I’ll find what they
have on this Tom Clarke.”

Becky came back on. “Okay, I’m dressed. You want
to tell me what I’m looking for? Just what the hell has this got to do with
Chris?”

“He’s in... trouble,” David said. “I can’t really
tell you any more than that. Not now. But we need to locate this Clarke guy.”

Becky still sounded more confused than alarmed,
which suited David just fine. Panic wouldn’t help Chris right now.

“Okay, I’m logged on. It’ll take me a couple of
minutes to find the right HR records—damn, that means another password...Wait.
Jesus, am I dumb or what? Chris left all that information.”

“What do you mean? What did Chris leave?” Had he
suspected Tom Clarke? But no, if he had, he would have said something to
deflect suspicion from Trevor. “What is it, Ms. Chapman?”

“Oh for God’s sake, call me Becky. Chris knew
there was something flaky about Tom getting hired. He didn’t have the experience
or the knowledge. Chris found out the guy’s uncle is DataTEK’s CFO and Clarke’s
father is a major stockholder. So he ran down some information on both of them.
Not that it would do any good, no matter what he found out. No way Petey’s
going to fire someone with that kind of clout.”