L. A. Mischief (4 page)

Chapter 5
Tuesday, 4:10 pm, Palm Drive, Beverly Hills

BY THREE-THIRTY Des had finally flagged and at Chris’s insistence had showered and allowed himself to be put to bed. Back out in the living room Chris sank into the love seat Des had vacated and dropped his head into his hands. His fingers rubbed at the headache that had bloomed behind his eyes hours ago.

Des hadn’t wanted to go to bed. He had clung to Chris and it was all Chris could do not to break down with his friend. But he knew that would be the worst thing he could do. He had to be the strong one. Des didn’t have anyone else right now. A lot of Des’s old friends had shared Chris’s aversion to Kyle, Des’s spoiled nihilistic wanna be dancer/lover and had stopped coming to visit. With Kyle’s brutal death guilt trips had abounded. Everyone felt bad for Des, but no one would step up to the plate and offer Des anything but ‘so sorries.’ None of which did Des any good. If it wasn’t for his store, Samborra’s in Beverly Hills, Des would never have left the house. Chris couldn’t even talk him into going out for Osso Bucco at Dolce.

The cleaning service called back, informing Chris that Des had canceled them nearly two weeks before. Chris told them to start up again and made sure they understood that if Des tried to cancel again, they were to call Chris first. He’d be sure they got paid, though he could ill afford it. Des needed a clean, organized home. Anything else would only drive him deeper into depression.

Only when he was sure that Des was sleeping off his drug and alcohol bender did Chris rest. He slumped in the love seat, stretching his jean clad legs out on the Tema table and leaning his head back on the seat cushion. He considered turning the TV on but was way too enervated to try and find the remote.

He had called Dr. Weiser earlier, leaving a message as the doctor was in a session. As the day slipped away, he began to think he wouldn’t hear from him, but when the phone rang shortly after four, it was Weiser.

He snapped to attention, all thoughts of headache and exhaustion gone. “Dr. Weiser. Thank you for calling back.”

“Is something wrong, Chris?”

“Des... Des is taking...” He flipped the pill bottle out and read the label. “Alprazolam. Did you know that?”

“No, I wasn’t aware. Did he tell you where he was getting them?”

“The label on the bottle says Dr. Forsyth. Do you know him?”

“No, but I’ll look into it.”

“Thanks. In the meantime, what am I going to do about Des? He’s not getting better. In fact, after today, I have to say I think he’s getting worse.”

“Tell me about today.”

Chris’s headache came back with a vengeance. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and took a deep shuddering breath.

“I screwed up, doctor.”

“How is that, Chris?” Weiser’s voice was gentle. Just like a good therapist should be. No judgment passed here. Just kind wisdom. So why did it make Chris feel even more guilty?

Because he didn’t just screw up, he fucked up, and may just have fucked Des up while he was at it.

“We were supposed to get together last night... you know, we were going to meet with you. I didn’t come...”

“Do you want to talk about why you missed our appointment, Chris? Obviously it was important to both of you.”

Obviously, nothing Chris wanted to snarl. If he’d taken it that seriously would he have abandoned Des, just like Kyle did? “And I let him down.”

“How do you feel you did that, Chris?”

“Chris clutched the phone. He hated shrinks, hated the way they talked. Everything was a question without an answer. No wonder Des figured he’d be better off with drugs. Talk therapy was just
so slow.
“I feel bad,” he answered. “Of course I do. And I’m worried about Des and all these drugs he’s taking.”

“What about you, Chris? Do you feel you need drugs? Or do you rely on sex to get you through your messes?”

“Sex—what has Des been telling you? Do you two talk about me?”

“You’re Des’s best friend. Sometimes he claims you’re his only friend. He wants to talk about you. He worries about you, you know.”

“Well he shouldn’t. I can take care of myself.”

“Not according to Des. He once spent an entire hour talking about you and David—that’s his name, isn’t it? David, the LAPD officer—”

“Homicide Detective,” Chris corrected automatically. Then he bristled. He was pissed to find out Des had been talking about him and David behind his back. He knew Des hadn’t been happy when he and David had split, but this was too damned sneaky.

“You’re angry,” Weiser said.

No shit. “Yes. Can you blame me?”

“No I don’t blame you. Neither would Desmond. But he does care for you. A great deal. And he’s reaching out for support. Maybe he’s afraid you’ll leave him too.”

Since that was too damn close to his own thought Chris blew up. “I’m not going to leave him. Des knows that. You should too.”

“But does he really know it? After all, you can’t deny you weren’t there for him last night. Is he right, Chris? Were you with a man you had just picked up in a bar? Do you do that often? Surely you’re not unaware of how dangerous such activity is—” Weiser stopped. Gently he asked, “Why did you call me, Chris?”

“I didn’t. You called me—”

“Eventually, yes. But only in response to your call to me. So, why did you call, Chris?”

“I knew Des was hurting. I felt guilty—”

“It could be easily said that you were guilty. Guilty of pursuing short term pleasure at your friend’s expense—”

“It wasn’t like that,” Chris said, even as he knew it was.

Weiser was silent, as if he knew Chris had already reached that conclusion. Then: “I’m not your therapist, Chris. If you like, I can suggest someone who might be able to help you—”

“I don’t need help.”

“That’s entirely your choice. I am, however Des’s therapist and it’s my firm goal to help him through this time. Even you must admit he does need help. Can you give him that?”

Chris pinched his nose hard enough to bring tears. “I can’t promise but... I’ll try.”

“Will you, Chris? Will you be there for him the next time he needs you?”

“I’ll be there.”

“I hope so. Des is in a very fragile state right now.”

I fucking know that! Chris wanted to scream into the phone. But he knew that would only escalate this whole thing to a level he wasn’t ready for.

“I know, doctor. I appreciate what you’re saying. I want Des to be well, too.”

“Then I think I can trust you to help me.”

“Any way I can.”

“Good, good.”

Chris got off the phone and began to pace Des’s still sloppy living room. With no sense of order he began to pick up things, smoothing out the satin pillows that added a splash of color to the otherwise vanilla plain but very expensive furniture. He picked up copies of Architectural Digest, Gourmet and People and arranged them on the Tema coffee table, putting the AD and Gourmet on top, though the People got a lot more attention. He found a stack of unopened mail on the side table in the front foyer and carried it into the tiny alcove that Des called his office, dropping it in his inbox. The desk was nearly spotless. Des did no work at home. His accountant sometimes came over to go over his business accounts, but he straightened up anyway.

Then he tackled the kitchen. That took nearly an hour, finally slipping out the door a little after seven. He fully intended to go home. But when he hit Sunset he found he was shaking. Instead of heading to Silver Lake, he glided into a parking spot less than half a block from the Nosh Pit. It must be fate.

Paul was pure fate—and he didn’t look anything like David. The first popper up his nose sent a delicious rush of giddiness through his tired body. He felt flushed with energy and fell into Paul’s embrace, eagerly sampling what the lanky, well-built web designer had to offer. They jittered around the floor, brushing hard cocks against each other, groping and pawing their way toward the bathroom where Chris grabbed the vial of poppers out of the breast pocket of Paul’s golf shirt and took another hit. Then he slid to the floor, not caring what might be under his knees and pulled Paul’s luscious fat six inches out and sucked it back.

Paul wound his fingers through his short spiky hair and ground his cock down Chris’s throat. “Oh yeah, suck me, bitch.”

Chris kneaded his ass, working his mouth around the pulsing tube of rigid flesh, tasting hot musky pre-come. Paul groaned a warning, but made no attempt to pull out, spurting salty come down Chris’s throat. He jerked away and spat into the toilet, climbing to his feet. Before he could straighten, Paul had zipped himself up and unhooked the door, leaving Chris to follow him back out to the bar.

He elbowed his way to the mahogany bar where Ramsey was slinging drinks. He eyed Chris, taking in his swollen lips and reddened eyes.

“Another hot night, stud?”

Chris buried his face in the Ciroc martini Ramsey set in front of him. “Don’t you have glasses to wash? Lemons to cut? Napkins to fold?”

Ramsey looked around his bar at the cute little Tongan he had waiting tables. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Well so am I.”

Ramsey shrugged and left him to his own vices.

Behind him loud house music rattled the tables and chairs that ringed the tight dance floor which was already full of gyrating bodies. He had no idea where Paul was. He really wasn’t looking. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake tonight that he had made the other night when he took not David home.

He spotted the lithe twenty-something the minute he stepped onto the dance floor with the florid, boozy blond who was draped all over him. Chris watched the mismatched pair and knew before their dance had ended he was going to insinuate himself between the couple. He wanted to know firsthand if the lithe beauty was as fuckable as he looked. He wanted more tonight than just a blow job delivered on his knees.

Only one way to find that out.

He downed his martini and bounced to his feet. Behind him he thought he heard Ramsey’s snort of disgust, but he ignored him. He was on the hunt now.

Smoothing the lines of his butter yellow Izod shirt into his brand new Diesel Safado jeans he slid between the couple and blocked his target from moving away. “Hey beautiful.” He touched the dancer’s shoulder, feeling a jolt of electricity. “What are you drinking, tiger?”

Lithe gracefully moved his hips so they brushed Chris’s. The world narrowed down to the two of them. The rest of the room vanished and the dance began.

Lithe—who intro’d himself as Star—was a stage dancer who belonged to a theater troupe that toured the country sporadically. They had just returned from a six week run off-Broadway. Or as Star said with a sly smile, “Off-off-off Broadway. We were practically out of town.”

“Incredible. Always wanted to meet a dancer.” Not that Chris gave a damn what the guy did on stage. He only wanted to know what he could do in bed. Could he give Chris what he needed?

He slipped his hand between Star’s legs, cupping the thick bulge there. Wanted more than just to cop a feel. “Can I buy you that drink?”

Ramsey rolled his eyes when Chris ordered another martini and a Cosmo for Star. They settled in at the bar, their hips pressing together, Chris’s arm around Star’s waist, his hand tucked firmly in his jean pocket.

Star nuzzled his earlobe, sending shivers pulsing along Chris’s nerve endings lodging directly into his cock which swelled and pressed against Star’s hand.

“Want to take this someplace more private?” Star whispered in his ear. Before he could answer he slid the tube of amyl nitrate under Chris’s nose for another hit.

Another rush filled Chris with giddy desire. He pushed Star against the bar and rode his thigh up between his legs, pressing against his groin. Star groaned.

“My place or yours?” Star asked.

“Yours, tiger.”

“So, what are we waiting for?”

Chapter 6
Wednesday, 7:00 am, Northeast Community Police Station,
San Fernando Road, Los Angeles

DAVID FLIPPED THROUGH the murder book of the Forest Lawn John Doe. When Martinez got in they were going to head out to Pala Mesa Drive to interview Fred Bitterman about his allegedly stolen Neon.

Oak Park was a typical SoCal bedroom community. Pala Mesa Drive was a cul de sac of cookie cutter faux Mediterranean style ranch houses, each on large lots, with neatly manicured lawns. The Bitterman house was at the rear of the curved circle of road. At the front of each house was a two-car garage. The Bitterman’s garage door was painted salmon pink and was shut.

There was a new silver Nissan Altima parked in the driveway.

The man who answered the door was a fiftyish Anglo with a wisp of salt and pepper hair in a fringe around his sunburned head. He looked from David to Martinez and raised one eyebrow. He had a dish towel in one hand and a trace of foamy suds on his left arm. Behind him a small dog stood on the arm of a chair barking wildly at the intruders.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Bitterman? Fred Bitterman?”

“Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?”

“You reported your vehicle was stolen three days ago from a parking lot in La Canada. It this accurate?” David made a pretense of studying his notebook, all the while watching Bitterman’s reaction.

Bitterman wiped his wet hands on his towel and looked puzzled. “Yes, I was out that day doing business. My wife was out of town. I’d just dropped our daughter off at school and gone to do some banking.”

“Where do you bank, sir?”

“Citibank, La Canada—”

“Long way to go to bank,” Martinez said. “Me, I hate driving more than a couple of blocks to my bank.”

“Yeah, well we just moved in. Haven’t had much chance to relocate things.” Bitterman shifted from one foot to the next. He turned and snapped his fingers at the dog who ignored him and kept barking, a high-pitched sound that grated on David’s nerves. He had resisted the urge to go back to the Eagle, and had spent a restless night and woke up feeling grumpy. He wondered why he felt the need to be so damned honorable. What was he proving? That he really wasn’t gay? That he could change it by ignoring the impulses?

If he gave into the impulses, he might be a lot less sour this morning, that was for sure.

“Any idea who took your car?”

“No, none. Listen, I already told the other cops this.”

“So tell us now,” Martinez said. “Repetition’s always good.”

Comprehension dawned on Bitterman’s face. “You found my car? Is that what this is about?”

“Your vehicle was located yesterday.”

“Where?”

“Tyburn Street.”

Bitterman seemed to think about that a minute. But before he could speak, the dog’s barking grew more frantic. Bitterman spun around and screamed, “Shut up, you stupid dog!”

David took a step back and unconsciously put his hand on the top of his holstered Glock .45. Martinez did the same. Their eyes met. David stepped forward again and put his hand on Bitterman’s arm.

“Sir. Leave the dog, sir. He’s not bothering us.”

“Stupid animal,” Bitterman muttered. “He’s my wife’s. She spoils it something rotten. Lets it get away with murder.”

“Yes, sir. Some people are like that.”

“Tyburn Street? Where’s that?”

“Glendale.”

“Near the Forest Lawn Memorial Gardens,” Martinez added.

Bitterman blinked. “Forest Lawn?”

“Ever been there?” Martinez asked with a studied casualness that David doubted Bitterman caught.

“No, don’t think so. That’s where all the celebrities are buried, right?”

David nodded. “You’re sure you’ve never visited? Most Angelenos go at least once, even if it’s only when relatives come into town. Visiting a star’s grave site is almost as big a deal as seeing their houses and the stars on Hollywood Boulevard.”

“My wife and I don’t have relatives from out of state.”

David’s eye brows went up. Two natives? Or two people with no family?

“You’re lucky,” Martinez cut in. “My wife and I are buried in family and they all want us to take them to Disneyland, the studios, go down to the Chinese theater like they think they’re going to see John Travolta or something.”

“Or worse,” David said, joining in the easy going banter, “is when they think we know Travolta or Johnny Depp and want an intro.”

“I guess,” Bitterman said. His gaze drifted back to the dog, then slid over the closed garage door. David’s radar clicked on.

“So, your wife,” he said. “You expect her home soon?”

“No,” Bitterman said quickly. “Not for hours yet. She went in to work.”

“Thought you said she was out of town.”

“Right, she is. She won’t be back till next week sometime. She wasn’t even here when the car was stolen. She travels a lot.”

“That must have been upsetting,” David said.

“What? My wife out of town? No, no, we’re used to it...”

“No, sir. I meant telling your wife about the car,” David said. “You have told her, right? I know I’d want to know something like that. Kind of a nasty surprise to come home to.”

“No, I haven’t spoken to my wife since she left...”

Abruptly David straightened. He smoothed the hair of his mustache and met Bitterman’s alarmed look. “I could really use a drink of water, sir. It’s very dry out here.”

Bitterman all but tripped over himself being accommodating. “Yes, of course. Come inside. It is hot here. We’re higher up, but the sun’s rays are more powerful. Or so I’ve been told.”

The dog vanished the instant David and Martinez entered the house. But they could still hear its frenzied barking somewhere in the house. David followed the sound. Toward the garage. An inside door leading out to the garage?

He gave Martinez a discreet eye signal. His partner picked it up immediately. Martinez drifted right, toward where the excited dog was getting close to hysterical.

“Beautiful home,” David commented, pretending to study the banal California décor that was as generic and flavorless as the outside of the house. They entered the kitchen, a bland pastiche of modern dullness. A tiled island held a wooden knife rack and the double sinks were filled with soapy water full of pots and pans. An open dishwasher was half loaded. The lingering smell of coffee cut through another smell. A familiar, more primitive smell. “Your wife do the decorating?”

“Yes, she did. She’s got lovely taste, my wife.”

By this time the dog was totally ballistic. And there was no mistaking the sound of its claws feverishly digging into something. A door maybe.

“You’re dog seems pretty upset by something,” David said, moving right, toward his partner, who was almost out of the kitchen.

Now it was Bitterman who grew anxious at the continued barking. His face was pale and clammy and David thought he saw a pulse beating in the guy’s throat. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him Bitterman was in some serious stress.

“Is something wrong, sir—?”

Bitterman’s movements were rattlesnake fast. He grabbed the largest knife, a wicked looking ten inch blade and lunged at David, who sideswiped the blade. He felt the passage of the sharp edge through his jacket as he went for his Glock.

Bitterman lunged again, this time catching David’s hip with the heel of his hand and sending a jolt of raw pain along his spine. He dropped into a shooter’s stance as Bitterman swung a third time, missing. Thrown off balance, he never recovered. Martinez flew across David’s field of vision, tackling Bitterman who tried to stab him, but lost his grip on the weapon, which tumbled to the black and white tiled floor.

Before he could recover, Martinez had his cuffs Bitterman’s wrists and proned him on the floor, pressing his face into the tile. “Assume the position, asshole.”

Bitterman went limp and lay gasping for breath.

“Let me up,” he cried, struggling weakly against the bonds. “I haven’t done anything.”

David straightened and holstered his gun. His side felt hot and he could feel something wet rolling down his stomach. Fire coursed through him. He put his hand on his side and stared at the blood staining his fingers.

“Jesus,” Martinez snapped. “You’re bleeding.”

David frowned, shook his head and kept staring at the blood. “Just a flesh wound. Guess you better call it in, buddy...” He suddenly felt dizzy. “I don’t think I can.”

Fortunately there was a kitchen chair in the breakfast nook and he stumbled into it. Martinez stood over Bitterman, snarling into his phone for a bus and a forensic team. He met David’s gaze.

“They want to know what they’re going to find when they get here.”

“Tell them I don’t know. Maybe his wife’s body. Maybe a crime scene.”

“Should have killed the damned dog when I had the chance,” Bitterman said as the dog in question kept howling at the garage door, where no doubt his beloved mistress was interred. Would she have joined the John Doe at Forest Lawn? They’d probably never know.

“Who was he, Fred? Who was the guy you stuffed in the trunk of your car?”

Bitterman snarled a non-answer then yelped when Martinez accidentally stepped on his shoulder. “Sorry about that. Clumsy me. Let’s go take at look at what’s got your wife’s doggy in such a state.”

David pressed his hand into his side and followed. Half way there he faltered, feeling a wave of dizziness sweep over him. He had to lean against the door frame leading out of the kitchen. Instantly Martinez was at his side.

“
Dios
, Davey. You got no business getting up. You
loco
, man?”

David blinked at him. “I have to know.”

Martinez shook his head, but knew better than to argue. With his help David made it to the door that led out to the garage. The dog stopped barking and looked at them expectantly.

“She in there, guy?” David asked the dog who cocked its head at the two cops. Martinez popped the door open. Immediately they could smell it again. The faint underlying stink of blood and excrement.

She was wrapped in a tattered sleeping bag just inside the garage door. The outline of the body was clearly visible under the dark blue material. A workbench covered in tools sat along one wall. David quickly spotted what he suspected was blood, plus a roll of large black garbage bags like the dismembered corpse had been stored in.

Martinez didn’t touch anything. He grabbed the dog when it darted passed them and tried to paw at the wrapped body. That was all the ID they needed for the time being.

Retreating back to the kitchen, Martinez again approached Bitterman.

“Why’d you do it, Fred? What did she do that pissed you off so much?”

David made a leap. The obvious sexual nature of the original crime had nagged at him from the beginning. “They were lovers.”

Both Martinez and Bitterman looked at him. “The missing penis. Remember, Martinez? We thought it was significant.”

“You cut his dick off?” Martinez asked, looking at Bitterman. “Man, that’s cold.”

“Bastard deserved it. He was going to tell Meredith. I told him that would ruin everything, but he didn’t care.” Bitterman’s voice was thick with self-pity. “He was going to ruin everything!”

“He think you were going to leave your wife for him?” David asked gently.

“Yes. How could he believe that?”

“Maybe he really loved you.”

“He was a hustler. I picked him up in West Hollywood two months ago. Why would he think I could love him?” Bitterman seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Some folks are thick,” Martinez muttered. “They see what they wanna see.”

Bitterman curled up on the floor around his restraints. “He was going to ruin everything. I had to stop him, didn’t I?”

“Did your wife come home early?” David couldn’t let it go. “Did she catch you with the body?”

Bitterman squeezed his eyes shut. “He ruined everything,” he whispered.

They could hear the wail of a siren approaching. Within minutes an ambulance pulled in behind the Nissan and three EMTs thundered into the house. They bustled around David and got a blood pressure cuff around his arm and cut away the rest of his shirt. They flushed the wound with saline and scrambled him onto a gurney which they rolled out to the ambulance. On the way out they passed a squad of photographers, evidence technicians, and a pair of Ventura County Sheriff’s detectives.

The ambulance door closed and they began the ride to the hospital.

Wednesday, 6 pm, USC General

David looked around the hospital room, his head aching, still feeling groggy from the anesthesia and painkillers. Martinez had been waiting when he was wheeled in after surgery and a stint in the recovery room. “They put you in a double, Davey,” he has said, “but you won’t have a roommate. I made sure of that.”

David had nodded. A private room was a little perk often provided to injured officers.

He had dozed through most of the afternoon, not remembering when Martinez had left. Now he looked up, seeing Blair standing in the doorway.

Instead of the leather gear David was familiar with on the muscular black man, Blair was dressed in black jeans and a polo shirt. He looked good—affluent, rested, happy. EMTs make that much money? he thought to himself. David pulled the sheet up, noticing the IV that was in his arm.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Bartender at the Eagle sees another cop, a Bryan Williams? You know him?”

Bryan had been instrumental in getting David through his outing, probably saving his career; certainly his sanity. He nodded. “Sure, I know him. Didn’t know he went to the Eagle.”

Blair went on. “I hit the bar for the early happy hour and he let me know.” Blair pulled up a chair and handed David a package. “I bought this a few days ago—was going to give it to you the next time we got together.”

David opened the simply wrapped package and found a full gleaming chrome and leather harness. He half pulled it out then recognized what it was and stuffed it back in the box. The smell of warm leather filled the room. He felt a wave of nausea sweep over him and he groaned.

Blair took the box from him. “Maybe this isn’t the right time,” he said softly. “I didn’t realize how bad it was. The bartender said it was just a flesh wound.”