L. A. Heat (37 page)

David stared down at him for several heartbeats.
Then his face lit up in the most beautiful smile. How the hell had Chris ever
thought he was plain?

“God, I love you too—”

“Drop the weapon.”

Both David and Chris stared at the khaki-shirted
sheriff who crouched as he leveled his own weapon at them.

Belatedly Chris realized he still held Tom’s gun
in one shaking hand.

“Drop it. Now.”

Chris let the weapon tumble from his hand. The
sheriff held his weapon trained on them. The yard was suddenly filled with
uniformed men. Red light strobed from a black-and-white parked on the grassy
verge between the house and the driveway.

A voice said, “Put that away,
maricón
.” For
the first time since he had met the man, Chris was glad to see Martinez. “First
you can’t even get here on time, and now this? He’s a God damned cop, you
idiot.”

The sheriff’s gun wavered and the uniformed man
straightened, eying Chris uncertainly. Martinez waved him toward the house.

“Go secure the place. Take your storm troopers
with you.” Only when the others had gone did Martinez turn his attention to his
partner.

“Call an ambulance,” Chris managed to croak.

“On its way.” Martinez knelt by David’s side.
“Hey, buddy. I thought you knew how to duck.”

“Messed up this time.”

Martinez’s gaze moved from David to Chris. His
eyes held a speculative warmth that surprised Chris. He studied Tom’s unmoving
body, then he stared down at the innocuous-looking gun lying on the trampled
grass.

“Did you shoot him, Davey?”

Chris and David looked at each other. Martinez
shook his head. He stared at Chris. “You shot him?”

Chris nodded.

“You realize you both brought a shit storm down on
you.”

“Hey,” David said. “Keeps things interesting.”

In the distance an ambulance siren shattered the
night.

“You guys got about five minutes before all hell
breaks loose.” Martinez straightened. “I’d say whatever you gotta say, because
it may be a while before you can say anything to each other.”

“But—”

“I’ll be in the house if anyone needs me.” This
time his eyes locked on Chris’s. “You did good, man. I underestimated you. It
won’t happen again.” He pointedly looked from Chris to David. “You better call
Bryan Williams. I got a feeling you’re gonna need his clout when FID comes
sniffing around.”

“Who’s Bryan Williams?” Chris asked.

“Someone with enough political savvy to keep your
boyfriend from getting fragged by FID, just eats this OIS kind of shit for
breakfast.”

“FID?”

“Just make him call, Chris.”

“I’ll call,” David said.

Martinez abruptly turned away. Chris took
advantage of the lack of watchers to lower his mouth to David’s. Just before
they kissed he said, “I love you, David.” The kiss didn’t last anywhere near
long enough. Chris sighed when they broke apart. “Get dressed,” David said.

Chris found the jacket David had covered him with
earlier and slipped it over his shivering shoulders. Fortunately it hung far
enough below Chris’s ass to let him keep a small shred of dignity. The
ambulance crew came around the back of the house with stretchers five minutes
later.

They checked over Tom, but Chris wasn’t surprised
when they couldn’t revive him. They loaded both Chris and David into the
ambulance and with the siren blazing, descended to the coast highway.

“Hey, this is yours.” David ignored the protests
of the EMTs and handed Chris his BlackBerry.

Chris stared down at the hand held device. “Not
anymore, it’s not.”

“What—”

“I talked to Petey.” He let the device slide from
his fingers and lay back down wearily. “I quit.”

“Well.”

When David didn’t say anything else, Chris
struggled back up. He found David staring at him, his face unreadable.

Suddenly David smiled.

“Well,” he repeated. “There goes my dream of being
a kept man.”

Return to Contents

Wednesday
11:30 am, Santa Monica Hospital, Santa Monica

FAMILIAR SMELLS. HOSPITAL
smells. Chris groaned and opened his eyes. Instantly David was at his side. The
poor guy looked positively haggard. Chris reached for him, but his arm came up
against the restraints of an IV and a nest of monitoring cables holding him down.

“Don’t try to move,” David said. The sleeve of his
jacket hung loose; his arm was bound against his chest. “They’ve got you pretty
well lashed to that bed.”

“What gives?” Chris’s throat felt like caustic
sand had been poured down it. He swallowed and tried again. “David—”

“You’re okay. You’re in the Santa Monica
Hospital.”

“When—”

“It’s Wednesday. You were in surgery Monday, but
the doctor says you’re okay now—”

Chris flexed his shoulders and groaned at the pain
that sliced through him. Was David kidding? His insides felt like they’d been
run through an industrial meat grinder. He said as much.

“The fact that you can complain so succinctly
means you must be getting better,” was David’s laconic response. He seemed
oddly reluctant when he added, “How much do you remember? About Tom, I mean?”

“Do you mean did he rape me?” Chris started to
shake his head then froze. Would it make a difference to David? Chris searched
his face, but all he saw was pain and a naked love that made Chris wonder how
he had ever doubted him. He reached his hand up and David grasped it in his
good one. “No, he didn’t. I think he just lost it at the end. He still thought
he could get away with it. What happened... after?”

“They got a warrant and did a full search of all
the houses, his and his uncle’s. Found it all, his trophies, a stack of
newspaper clippings on all the previous victims, he even kept a journal of
each, ah, hunt. We also found Bobby’s Palm Pilot, which went a long way to
corroborating things.”

Chris didn’t bother telling him he’d had it in his
possession briefly. Maybe later.

“Once we started looking,” David said, “we found
missing men up in the Berkeley area that coincide with the time Clarke was in
school there. The Berkeley police will be taking another look at those in light
of what we’ve told them. Apparently he was in trouble years ago for cutting up
neighborhood cats.” David glanced toward the TV set hanging above the end of
the bed. His next words were casual, too casual. “You been watching the news?
They’ve been covering it pretty extensively.”

Something in David’s voice alerted him. “What?”

Martinez strode into the room and answered the
question. “They can’t decide whether they want to crucify David or make him the
next marshal in the Santa Claus parade.”

His obvious good humor only serving to emphasize
how weak and sick Chris felt. Even David looked wan beside his robust partner.
He also looked pissed.

“You’re early,” David snapped.

“No I’m not,” Martinez said, pulling up a chair
and straddling it, facing the bed. “I’m right on time. How you doing, Chris?”

“Fine. What’s this about crucifying him?”

Martinez looked at David; Chris could tell he
didn’t want his partner talking.

“There’s a segment of our fine citizenry that
thinks Tom Clarke only died because of vigilantism, and that,” he said
solemnly, “has no place among the ranks of the new and enlightened LAPD.”

“Vigilantism? Are they forgetting this guy was
trying to kill both of us? That he butchered Bobby and Kyle—”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t think that enters
their equation. His rights were violated by the, ah, precipitous actions taken
against him.”

“So they don’t care what that asshole did—”
Chris’s voice broke as ugly memories stirred and roiled in his brain. “How the
hell can they vilify anyone for killing that monster?”

“Probably better you don’t tell that to the
press,” Martinez said. He clearly approved of Chris’s sentiments. Then he grew
serious.

“You up to answering a few questions, Chris?”

“Martinez—”

“He has to do this, David. Better me than one of
the other guys.”

Martinez’s gaze met Chris’s. “I need to get your
formal statement. It will probably be used in the inquest.”

“Inquest?”

“FID wants to clear up the shooting. It’s
routine.”

“Bull,” Chris snapped. “It’s not routine if they
decide they want to hang David out to dry.”

Martinez looked apologetically at David. “Give me
half an hour.”

In the end it took forty-five minutes and left
Chris totally drained. By the time David slipped back into the room he was
already dozing fitfully.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Chris.” David
picked up Chris’s hand where it lay atop the thin hospital blanket. “Don’t let
Martinez get you down. Even he thinks it will be a cakewalk.”

Christmas
Day, 6:10 am, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles

The phone rang. Christopher
Bellamere rolled away from the warm body he’d been cuddling in his sleep and
fumbled for the bedside phone.

He squinted at the caller ID window, recognized
the number, and grinned.

“It’s Christmas,” he grunted. “This had better be
good.”

“Hey,” Des said. “Can’t a buddy call and wish two
of his best friends Merry Christmas?”

Chris glanced over at the shape concealed by the
rumpled bedclothes. David was still sound asleep. Not surprising, after last
night’s performance. Who knew domestic champagne could be so inspiring?

“We still on for dinner tonight?” Des interrupted
his heated thoughts.

“Sure.” Chris checked the bedside clock. He
winced. “In twelve hours. God, you’re as bad as David, getting up at the crack
of dawn.”

Des laughed.

The sound still made Chris smile. It had been a
long way back for Des. He had spent nearly four months in therapy, dealing with
the trauma of his loss and the aftermath of the vicious rape. Chris had been
luckier. His physical wounds had been relatively superficial and he had been
released to David’s tender care after three days of observation.

Chris felt a fierce joy at Des’s ongoing recovery,
both from his injuries and from the loss of Kyle. Chris knew he still missed
the younger man, but he was coming along, talking about the future now. Chris
had even caught him looking at a couple of good-looking guys on the street with
more than casual interest.

The bed shifted. David’s muscular arms came around
him and his thickly furred chest pressed against his back.

“Hey, I gotta go, Des,” Chris said as David’s
unshaved cheek came down against the back of his neck. “Er, something’s come
up.”

“Six, then?”

“Six.” Chris nearly groaned when David’s hand
closed over his erection, stroking him into readiness. “Yeah, six, ah, don’t
forget the wine.”

“Like I’d ever.”

Chris hung up and rolled over. He reached down and
wrapped his fist around David's cock and brought David’s face down to his.

“Merry Christmas, sleepy-head. About time you woke
up.”

*****

Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney
crooned about dreaming of a white Christmas as snow fell on a sleepy Vermont
village and an ex-general’s inn was saved. Chris curled against David’s side,
sipping a glass of Zinfandel, while they nibbled from a bowl of mixed nuts.

The doorbell rang. Chris glanced at the digital
display above the plasma TV. Four-thirty. “Expecting anyone?” David shook his
head and stood up. He reached the front door two steps before Chris.

It was Martinez and a short Latino woman with
dark, gentle eyes and oil-black hair piled atop her head. Even with her hairdo,
she barely reached Martinez’s shoulders.

Chris pulled his silk shirt tighter as he shrank
from the cool dampness flowing through the open door around his bare ankles,
wishing he’d been smart like David and worn a sweater. Low threatening clouds
looked ready to discharge another cold rainfall. Christmas in Southern
California was never like a Vermont postcard.

David rarely talked about either his job or
Martinez, but Chris knew a reticence had grown between the two partners. A
reticence he knew bothered David.

The woman smiled anxiously before tugging on
Martinez’s arm.

“I hope we didn’t interrupt—”

The woman poked him again. Martinez grimaced.

“My wife, Inez Yolanda Diego.” He drew out a
bottle of wine and handed it to David. “She wanted—we wanted—to wish you a
Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks,” David said. He held out his hand to
Inez, who shook it. “Would you like to come in?”

Chris extended his hand. She smiled shyly at him.

“Hello! You must be Christopher. I have heard so
much about you both.” Inez spoke with a soft Spanish accent. She held his hand
and smiled at David and Chris. “
Feliz Navidad
.”

Chris laid his other hand atop Inez’s as he guided
her into the living room. David and Martinez followed.

“
Gracias, señora. Feliz Navidad
.
Espero
teniendo un día de fiesta maravilloso y esprero que su familia este bien.
”
Chris spoke passable Spanish. A lifetime in L.A. had seen to that. He wished
her and Martinez a great holiday and hoped her family was well.

She brightened. Beside her Martinez murmured, “We
can’t stay long. The kids are at my mother’s—”

“Martinez Diego,” Inez said.

Her husband stared down at his feet. “But before
we go, we’d like to invite you both to our place for New Year’s.” He raised his
eyes and looked from Chris to David. “There are a few other guys and their
wives dropping by. Nothing formal, and I know this is last minute... but we
would really like it if you both could come...”

Where they would spend the evening being stared at
by a bunch of off-duty cops and their spouses, like specimens at a freak show?
What was Martinez up to? Chris’s first reaction was to say forget it. Neither
of them needed that hassle.