The Little Death (7 page)

“Got me, bud,” I replied, and ducked back inside Sloane’s place. “They’re gone,” I told him, tucking my hot gun into my coat pocket and pulling out my cell phone instead.

Sloane looked up at me, still on the floor and still hiding behind the chair. He looked seriously traumatized, and oddly enough, that made him appear about thirteen. “What the hell were they trying to kill me for?”

“Damn good question,” I admitted. “Wish I had an answer for ya.” I had Kyle on my speed dial, so all I had to do was press a single button to ring him.

There were only two rings before he picked up the phone. “Jake? Jesus, I was wondering if you were ever gonna call me,” Kyle said. I guess saying hello was passé.

“Look, I need you to get over to the Armory Court Condos now. Somebody just tried to perforate my client.”

“What? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I nailed one of the bastards, but I’m gonna need you to run some police interference for me.”

Kyle sighed into the phone. “We need to talk, you know.”

“I know. Get me outta this, and we can talk all night.” Only after I hung up did I realize that could be taken euphemistically. I hadn’t had enough to drink to see that right away.

The boys in blue showed up before Sloane had found the courage to stand up. Although Hickey wasn’t one of the responders, neither cop was a fan of mine. Thankfully they’d just started the bullshit when Kyle arrived, looking messy-haired and adorable. He was the senior officer on site too (hard to believe, especially since I was sure he was younger than one of the officers), so they demurred to his authority. As soon as he could, he pulled me into Sloane’s bedroom and shut the door.

“What have you gotten yourself into?” he asked, scowling.

“Trouble, from what I can tell.”

“Cut the smart-ass remarks and tell me what I need to know. Exactly who are these people trying to kill—you or the sexy guy?”

“What, I’m not sexy?” The glare he gave me pretty much said ‘not now’. “I’m thinkin’ they’re after him. The bat boys coulda killed me the other night, but they didn’t. They were just sendin’ me a message.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow at that. “And what message was that?”

“Stop. I think someone doesn’t want me to find Sander.”

Kyle rubbed his eyes and was trying unsuccessfully to hide his frustration. “Why? And why decide to kill Sloane?”

“I don’t know, but I’m starting to think maybe Sander was party to something he shouldn’t have been. And they’re trying to kill Sloane because he’s his twin, and they don’t know which one of ’em stuck their hand in the metaphorical cookie jar.”

“Which you’re basing on what?”

“Absolutely nothing. You gotta better explanation?”

He shook his head at me. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not nearly enough. I need you to believe me, Kyle. I didn’t fake this shootout, and you know it.”

“Of course I do! It’s just….” He petered off, making a vague hand gesture that could have meant anything. “I don’t like any of this.”

“You’re not alone. But I’ll be okay as soon as I figure this out.”

Kyle eyed me in a way that morphed from skepticism to empathy. “You weren’t supposed to leave. I was supposed to keep an eye on you for twenty-four hours.”

“I’m fine. You know what a thick skull I have. Couldn’t give me brain damage with a wrecking ball and a power drill.”

Kyle touched my face, gently stroking my cheek with his thumb. “You need to be careful. I’d hate if something happened to you.”

I put my hand over his and took it off, mainly because my face still kind of hurt. “Look, Kyle….”

“I tried to get past you, you know,” he said, going on regardless of what I was trying and failing to say. “You’re self-destructive and determined to take yourself down and anyone within range. But for some reason I still love you, you stupid piece of shit.”

“That why you dumped me?”

That made him wince. “You won’t believe it, but it hurt me as much as it hurt you.”

“You’re right, I don’t believe you.” Actually, I did, but I wanted him to swing in the wind a bit. No sense in letting him off the hook that easily.

“I’m sorry, Jake. If we’re gonna make this work, you have to get help. Promise me.”

“Help? Like what, rehab?” That made me smirk. I could imagine me in rehab. I could also image me getting kicked out of rehab. I don’t think I’m the type for it.

“Would that be so bad?”

I didn’t know what to say. He seemed so serious about it, and I hated to disappoint him. So rather than break his heart now, I kissed him instead. For a moment I felt resistance; then he melted into my arms, kissing me with equal ferocity. I pinned him against the wall, just because I could, although that made some bruises I had forgotten about suddenly ache. Damn, being tenderized by a bat really was a pisser.

He sensed my sudden reticence, because he pulled away and asked, “Are you all right?”

“I keep forgetting I’m black and white and red all over.” I caressed his face, feeling his stubble under my fingers. He hadn’t had time to shave before coming over here.

Why was I having such a hard time getting over a damn cop? Of all people, how did I fall in love with him? It was like the universe set out to have me fall for the most inappropriate person I possibly could. He was completely squaresville and completely sweet, while I was a drunk loser more at home with scumbags and weasels. It was an accident it happened in the first place; it was a pure comedy that we couldn’t seem to shake off each other.

There was a knock at the door, and one of the cops said, “Detective, the sergeant wants to talk to you.”

“Be right there,” Kyle said and then gave me a quick but promising kiss on the mouth. He still tasted like coffee. “I need you to go somewhere safe ’til this blows over. Something about this case stinks to high heaven.”

“Tell me about it.”

I stepped back so Kyle had a clear shot at the door, but he grabbed my arm and said, “No, Jake, I mean it. The Giardi case is being tabled.”

“What?”

“It’s already been nudged over to the cold-case pile, and I don’t know why. All I know is someone high up in the department suggested our priorities laid elsewhere.”

That made no sense at all. I know a small-time club drug dealer wasn’t going to attract a lot of police resources, but brushing him under the carpet? That was nonsensical.

I knew I distrusted police. Now I knew why.

9

A
S
SOON
as I could, I sidled up to Sloane and whispered to him, “Did Sander have a black book? A client list?”

He glanced at me with his curious wide-eyed stare, made all the worse by his lingering horror. But he was still completely fuckable. “On his phone.”

“No backups?”

He started shaking his head but then paused, getting a slightly dreamy look in his eye. “Maybe….”

“Where?”

Sloane was still a bit stunned, but he eventually snapped out of his daze and headed for the bedroom Kyle and I had ducked into previously. What I hadn’t noticed, mainly because I had my tongue down Kyle’s throat, was that the bedroom had two single beds, separated by a rather large bedside table. It was like something out of those ’50s sitcom, where they were trying to convince us straight married people never slept together. Probably true for the very closeted, but I doubt that was the message they wanted to send. Considering these were twin brothers, it was a little creepy, yet they probably couldn’t have afforded this condo separately.

Sloane sifted through an assortment of crap in the table’s single drawer, including condoms, Chinese food menus, and a spare set of keys, but finally Sloane pulled out a tiny black figurine in the shape of a bird, maybe a hawk or an eagle. When he held it out to me, for a second I didn’t understand. “Sometimes he backed stuff up. I don’t know if he’s done so lately.”

It wasn’t a figurine, it was a flash drive, just a comically shaped one.

I slipped it into my pocket when one of the cops appeared in the doorway, asking for my gun. I didn’t like it, didn’t want to hand it over, but I knew they confiscated weapons used in shootings. I’d get it back, probably too late to do any good. Luckily, that wasn’t my only gun.

As soon as we could possibly do it, I got Sloane out of there. On the drive downtown, he was curled up in the passenger seat like he was cold, now wearing an oversized jacket over a sweatshirt he’d hastily pulled on before we left. It made him look like a little boy wearing his father’s clothes. “I don’t understand…. Why is someone trying to kill me?”

“’Cause you look like your brother.”

“Huh?”

“Look, I don’t know the details, but I think Sander got involved in something bad, and someone wants to shut him up for good. Either he escaped and they’re after you ’cause they think you’re him, or they killed him and then realized he had an identical twin who could have substituted for his brother at any point.”

Sloane wrapped his arms around his knees and had the thousand-yard stare of an accident victim. “You think he’s dead?”

I held back a sigh. I wanted to slap him, tell him shit like this happened all the time and there was simply no point in acting like it was some shocking thing, because it wasn’t. Then I remembered he was a more or less normal guy, with a more or less normal life. This
was
a shocking thing to him. It may even have been the first time someone had tried to kill him. I envied his naiveté. “I dunno. He could have just left town. Would he?”

“Leave town without telling me?” Sloane thought about that for a very long time, long enough that the possibility was clearly edging toward fair to decent territory. “He wouldn’t…. I mean, why would he…?”

“He’s never left you to twist in the wind for something he’s done?”

“No!” He paused, the hesitation obvious. “Well, never for something major.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

He looked away, lips working into a genuine pout this time. I almost felt bad for him, but then I remembered he’d probably slept with me as a way of manipulating me, so then I felt irritated with him. He’d have to decide if he preferred a dead brother or a traitorous one.

We went to my office, because it had a computer that hadn’t been eviscerated by gunfire, and was closer than my apartment. For some reason, I kinda didn’t want him to see my place, but whether it was due to the fact that trouble seemed to be following him or the fact that it was just a fucking mess was up for debate.

My overhead light bulb blew out as soon as I flipped the switch, and the flash of light made Sloane jump and let out a frightened yelp. I turned on the light in the foyer outside my office and then turned on my desk lamp, so there was some light in the room before I shut the door. The light in the foyer came through the opaque glass that used to say Spencer & Falconer. “Don’t worry. If anyone was shootin’ at us, we’d never see the muzzle flash, just feel the shot.”

“Was that supposed to be comforting?”

“No, realistic.” The blinds were all closed, so it was unlikely any of the dim light in here was getting outside, but I was just gambling on the fact that at least one of the gunmen having a new hole in him was going to slow them down.

I plugged the bird-shaped flash drive into my computer, and we lucked out, as it wasn’t encrypted. There were lots of files on it, though, a hodgepodge of images, text files, and video files. The file names were random letters and numbers that may have meant something to Sander but seemed like gibberish to me. I started randomly clicking things, just to see what I could turn up.

First thing that turned up was naked pictures. Since I was looking at a dick and balls without context, I had to ask, “This ain’t your brother, is it?”

Sloane, who was pacing with his arms wrapped around him, came over to my relic of a computer screen to look. As soon as he did, he reared back, as if I’d offended his delicate sensibilities. “Fuck no. Sander manscaped, for one, and for another, he didn’t bend to the left like that.”

“Thought not, but I wanted to make sure.”

Despite his earlier offense, Sloane leaned down, looking over my shoulder, suddenly interested. “That’s what’s on the flash drive?”

“Porn seems so pedestrian now, doesn’t it?” A random sampling was revealing that the photo files were indeed naked men, sometimes with no identifying features besides the general idiosyncrasies of male genitalia.

The first video clip I opened had a poorly lit clip of men having sex from an oblique angle, although Sloane managed to identify Sander as one of the men in the scene. The other guy was pudgy and un-manscaped, so it was an odd match. This was a client, certainly.

But all the film clips were similar. Somewhat out-of-shape men with Sander in poorly lit rooms, filmed at inconvenient angles, with spotty sound. Sometimes you could see little more than a fleeting glimpse of faces. “I didn’t know he was into filming himself,” Sloane commented.

Except that wasn’t it, was it? That wasn’t why all the film clips or the pictures. To me, this looked like a smorgasbord of blackmail, or perhaps even a stockpile of ammunition. It would explain why someone wanted Sander dead, if they got word that he had it. I had a feeling some of the naked, unremarkable men were very rich men, perhaps even powerful men.

I looked up at Sloane, who was now standing back and biting his fingernails. “You said you filled in for him from time to time. Who were your clients?”

He shrugged, uncomfortable with the topic. “Just guys.”

“No, not just guys. You weren’t giving out twenty-dollar blowjobs in back alleys. These were guys who could afford you, and somehow I don’t think you were paid minimum wage. So who were they?”

He looked at me with frightened eyes. He’d gone from sex pot to scared kid in about an hour. “I don’t know their names, not their real names. I mean, yeah, they were obviously not poor—one had a pinky ring the size of a Chihuahua’s head—but they were just guys to me. White and kinda flabby and sometimes kinda smug.”

“You never took a look in their wallet, maybe while they were in the shower?”

“No! I’m not like that.”