L. A. Heat (4 page)

“Christopher Robin Bellamere.” He rattled off his
address in Silver Lake and work and home numbers.

David wrote everything down. “Where do you work,
sir?”

“DataTEK, in Studio City, in the Valley. Why am I
here?”

“Your sport utility vehicle was vandalized,” David
said. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“What sort of work do you do, Mr. Bellamere?”

“IT—computer support.”

David slid a stack of photos of the vandalized
vehicle across the desk. In most of them the words were all too clear:
COCKSUCKER’S KILL. CARPET KILLER. FAGGOTS!! and finally, FAGS DIE. All in
scarlet paint the composition of which was even now undergoing analysis. David
doubted that this point would erase the look of outrage on the man’s
smooth-skinned face.

“Can you tell me what happened?” David asked.

Bellamere’s face twisted into a grimace of rage.
“Some asshole trashed my truck. Why aren’t you out looking for skinheads or
some religious nut with a god complex?”

“Any reason that type would single you out?”
Martinez asked. “You piss someone off?”

The idea seemed to puzzle him. “Not that anybody
ever said to my face.”

“Maybe they didn’t feel like talking about it,”
Martinez said.

“What time did you park your vehicle this
evening?” David asked.

“Seven, seven-thirty, I guess. I wasn’t paying
attention.”

“At that time you went to... the Nosh Pit, is it?
That a regular hangout?”

“What’s that got to do with what happened to my
truck?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine, sir,”
David said. “Do you usually park in that area?”

“I park wherever I can find space. This is because
I’m gay, right?”

Martinez snorted and looked away. David stared at
a spot on the nearest wall.

“You see anyone hanging around? Maybe somebody
going into the alley? Or walking down the street toward it? Someone who looked
out of place?”

“You mean straight? No. Listen, where’s my SUV?
Those other cops said it was being towed—”

“It was. Our forensics people need to look it
over. Once they’re done we’ll see you get your vehicle back.”

“When’s that going to happen?”

David shrugged. “Can’t say, sir.” He scooped up an
eight-by-ten from the desk and studied it. Of the half dozen words the pricey
SUV had been spray-painted with, the most prominent, and the one that had
attracted their attention, were the words “The Carpet Killer,” the term the
local media had pinned on the killer in the recent murders.

Before Bellamere could say anything else, Martinez
propped his hip against David’s desk and leaned over Bellamere. “Ever hear the
name Jason Blake?”

He turned at the sound of Martinez’s voice. David
took advantage of the distraction to study the younger man more closely.
Bellamere’s eyes were the same shade of blue as the ocean he had seen during a
trip down the Baja. The color of his blond hair looked natural and it was cut
short and spiked. He wore what David recognized as expensive designer clothes.
The overall effect was stunning.

Bellamere shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t—”

“Are you familiar with Eagle Rock, sir?” David
asked.

“I’ve been there once or twice—”

“What about San Miguel Road?”

“No—”

“Mission Road?”

“Sounds like something downtown. Like Skid Row.”

“Ever been there?”

“Skid Row? I hardly think so—”

“Let’s get back to Jason Blake,” Martinez cut in
again.

“I think he called himself Jay,” David said.

“The name familiar to you?”

Bellamere screwed up his face and stared over
David’s shoulder.

“Jay? I met a Jay once. You don’t think he had
anything to do with this, do you?”

David kept his voice carefully neutral. “You
remember what this guy looked like?”

Martinez stepped around to his own desk and pulled
out a thick blue binder—Jason Blake’s murder book. While he flipped through it,
David worked at keeping the other man distracted.

“Any reason to think this guy might have had
something to do with vandalizing your truck?”

“No.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Not much.” Bellamere picked at the skin around
his thumb. “I didn’t really know him very well.”

“Well enough to recognize him if you saw him
again?” This time when Martinez stepped back around the desk he edged right
into Bellamere’s space. He ignored Bellamere’s alarm and shoved the picture of
Jason Blake under his startled eyes. “Is this Jay?”

Bellamere stared down at the head shot, a high
school graduation picture, that David had acquired from Jason Blake’s older
brother. It showed a skinny youth in a blue and gold gown, a slightly dazed
look on his pimply face. He had died three years after the date of the picture,
just two months past his twenty- first birthday.

“Well, Mr. Bellamere?”

“I’m not sure...” David saw a flash of recognition
in Bellamere’s eyes. “I might have met him. But he was older.”

“No need to get defensive, Mr. Bellamere.”

Bellamere bristled. “I know the way you guys
think. We’re all a bunch of pedophiles.” He poked his finger at the picture on
the desk. “If I knew him he was old enough to be in the bar where I met him.”

“You mean where you hustled him?” Martinez asked.
“Would that be the Nosh Pit? That your usual pickup spot?”

“It’s a bar,” Bellamere said. “I go there to
drink.”

“You just get lucky sometimes, that it?” Martinez
said.

Bellamere stood, hands curled into fists at his
side. “You really think I had something to do with what happened to my SUV? You
think I pissed someone off? That I slept with the wrong person? Maybe I got
some religious fanatic mad at me. Is that it?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Bellamere,” David said softly.
“But if you know anything, now would be the time to tell us—”

“What happened to this guy? What the hell is going
on here? This isn’t about my SUV is it? It was never about that.”

“He’s dead, Mr. Bellamere,” Martinez said. “Jason
Blake was murdered.”

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Saturday,
11:50 pm, Northeast Community Police Station,

San
Fernando Road, East Los Angeles

CHRIS STARED AT the Latino cop.
The skin of his face felt hot and tight. “Murdered?”

“Yes, murdered.”

Chris didn’t know what to say. “Murdered.”

“Yes,” Martinez said.

“The message on your vehicle refers to a very
specific crime,” Laine said. “And if you have any information on that crime I
need to hear it.”

“You mean that serial killer?” Chris looked
sideways at Martinez. “Tell me he’s joking.”

“I don’t do standup, Mr. Bellamere,” Laine said.
“Do the words on your vehicle mean anything to you? Anything at all?”

The air Chris was trying to breathe suddenly
seemed too thick to draw into his lungs. He’d known plenty of people who had
died over the years—it was hard to be gay in Los Angeles and not know firsthand
the swath AIDS had cut through the gay community—but he’d never known anyone
who had been murdered.

“If I can help, just tell me how. What do you want
to know?”

“Can you think when you last saw Jay?” Laine
asked. “Was it at the Nosh Pit?”

The detective had surprisingly soft eyes. Chris
always thought of cops as being tough—hardened by the world they lived in.
Cynical tyrants who ruled the streets with their rules and their guns and their
hard-assed attitudes.

“Or did you and Jay go to your place that night?”

Chris felt like he was drowning. What were they
trying to suggest? He closed his eyes and opened them to stare down at the desk
in front of him. “Yeah, we went back to my place.”

“You live alone, Mr. Bellamere?”

Chris nodded. It was no secret. He always
had—well, except for that disastrous year he’d spent with Geoff before the man
had moved on to greener—and younger—pastures.

“I don’t understand any of this, detective. What
have Jay and this,”—he indicated the pictures of his SUV—“got to do with each
other?”

“How many times did you see Jay?”

“Only the once.” Chris shrugged, trying to loosen
the knots in his shoulders. What was it with these guys? They never answered a
question? “I saw him around a few times, but we never said more than hi.”

“He do something to tick you off?” Martinez said.
“Or maybe he just wasn’t very good in bed.”

“We didn’t click. It happens.”

“How often it happen to you?”

“Not often—”

“How many men you fuck over the last six months?”

This guy was really beginning to get on his
nerves. He decided it was time for some shock treatment.
He liked dishing it
out. Let’s see how much candor the asshole could take.
“Actually I don’t
fuck very many of them. I’m more of a bottom, myself.”

“You’re what?” Then Martinez flushed a deep red
and his head turtled into his shoulders.

“Too much information, Detective?” Chris smiled.
“Don’t like the pictures it conjures up?”

He glanced at Laine and was surprised to find the
other man looking back at him. If he was disturbed by Chris’s frank admission,
it didn’t show.

“I’d like to go now,” Chris said.

“Sure,” Laine said. “Just a couple more
questions—do you remember seeing Jay with anyone else? Maybe someone who came
into the bar some night?”

“I’m sorry. No, I didn’t.” Chris fumbled for his
BlackBerry. “I’d like to help you. Really. I just don’t know anything.”

Laine removed the pictures of his vehicle from the
desk and held out a business card.

“Thank you, Mr. Bellamere,” he said. “If you think
of anything—anything at all—give me a call, okay?”

“I don’t know what it is you want from me,
Detective. I’ve told you all I remember.” A lie, but he didn’t think even this
guy could remain cool-headed if Chris got into the details of the night he had
spent with the young and very energetic Jay, so it was a nice lie. “But if I
remember anything, I’ll let you know. Promise.” He gave Laine his most
beguiling smile and was startled when the man blushed.

He speed-dialed Des and was relieved when his
friend’s soft voice answered almost immediately.

“Hey, babe.” He turned away from Laine’s overly
inquisitive gaze. He gave Des the truncated version of the night’s events and
was gratified when his friend said he’d be right there to pick him up. He was damned
if he’d ask those buffoons for a ride.

Then Laine’s graceless partner was back in his
face, fully recovered from his embarrassment.

“We’ll be watching you, Bellamere. Bank that.”

Sunday,
12:10 am, Northeast Community Police Station,

San
Fernando Road, Los Angeles

They watched Bellamere as he was
led away by a junior female D who was clearly interested in the good-looking
young man. In disgust Martinez took the vehicle pictures and shoved them into a
folder labeled with the date and incident number. “File that one under another
accommodating citizen.”

“It might not have been so useless. We know where
he works and where he parties. We can ask around, maybe something will stand
out.” David swiveled around and began tapping away at his computer, laboriously
entering the notes he had made from his interview with Bellamere. “Check with
DMV, see if we can find any paper on him. See if there are any parking tickets
or traffic stops.”

Martinez nodded. Manson and Son of Sam had both
been nailed thanks to traffic citations stored with the Department of Motor
Vehicles that put holes in their alibis. Maybe they’d get as lucky with
Bellamere. Even a paid-up traffic ticket could still be used to put him at a
specific location at a specific time.

“I like the way your mind works, partner,” he
said. “You really think that
joto
has anything to do with this?”

“Someone sure wants us to think so. Besides,”
David said shrugging, “we don’t have anyone better on the table right now.”

“Well I ain’t buying it. Look at the guy. I doubt
he could pop a fruit fly.” Martinez laughed at his own joke.

“Jeffrey Dahmer didn’t look like he could,
either.”

“
Cabrón
,” Martinez muttered. “I still don’t
buy it.”

David shook his head. He didn’t want to buy it
either, but his reasons were different. He didn’t want to believe that a man
who looked like that could be capable of the things he knew the Carpet Killer
had done. And how stupid was that?

“There’s no proof he’s involved.”

“Oh
dios
, here comes another one.”

David looked over in time to see an impeccably
dressed black man rush over to Chris, who was standing in the corridor. The two
embraced and David felt heat rush to his face as in a heartbeat he found
himself wondering what it would be like to do the same. Fool. As though anyone
who looked like that would give the time of day to someone like him.

“Forget them.” David refused to let his thoughts
linger on hopeless fantasies. “I want to talk to Jason’s brother again.”

“Why?” Martinez asked. “He wasn’t very helpful the
first time we interviewed him.”

As senior detective, David had taken on the
unpleasant task of informing Jason Blake’s family of his death. The brother,
Richard, had been too distraught to offer anything useful. But more than one
witness had their memories improved by a second interview.

“You don’t think Jay mentioned this Chris guy, do
you? Would he tell his own brother about his latest
puto
?”

David frowned. “We won’t know until we ask.”

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Sunday,
12:40 am, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles

AFTER DROPPING CHRIS off at his
house and declining his offer of coffee—“Really, hon, it’s after midnight!”—Des
pressed two small white pills into Chris’s palm.