L.A. Bytes (13 page)

L.A. BYTES
105

“We know you’re off in a few minutes, but this won’t take long.”

“Sure, I guess. Let me check in with Trish...” She spoke to the African-American nurse briefl y then returned. “Can we take this outside? I could use a cigarette.”

She eschewed the elevator for a set of stairs that led to an exit tucked around the side of the hospital. It was shielded from the street and the worst of the elements by an overhang and a thicket of dense Japanese boxwood. Cigarette butts littered the exposed earth, despite the presence of a sand-fi lled container set beside a stone bench. She used the over-sized ashtray to prop the door open.

Without a word Laura lit a cigarette and slid down onto the bench. She pulled her skirt down to cover her knees and peered at Chris through a haze of mentholated smoke.

“Terry know you’re here?”

Before he could come up with an answer that might satisfy her obvious suspicions, David cut in, “I’m Detective David Eric Laine. We only have a few questions, Ms. Fischer. Then we’ll be out of your hair.”

She took a drag on her cigarette. “Detective, huh? What kind of questions?”

“First of all I’d like to understand what you do here,” David said. “What is your role?”

“I’m a registered nurse practitioner.” She raised one blond eyebrow.

“Been doing that long?” he asked.

“Four years,” she said.

“Must be tough sometimes. Being around the sick and dying all day.”

Laura’s head turned sideways and her glittering eyes studied David. Wondering if he was playing her? Whatever it was she saw satisfi ed her; she nodded. “It can be. It can also be very rewarding, knowing I make a difference.”

106 P.A. Brown

David nodded. “How long have you lived with Herb Bolton?”

“Herb? What’s he got to do with any of this?”

“We’re just following up on some details—”

“Wait a minute,” Laura said. “This is about that thing that happened last week, isn’t it? That computer break-in.” She turned fl ashing eyes on Chris. “You’re not a cop.”

“I never said I was—”

“What are you trying to do, blame that shit on Herb? He doesn’t have anything to do with that sort of thing anymore.

He didn’t hack the hospital, and he sure as hell wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Then you won’t mind answering our questions, will you, Ms.

Fischer,” David said.

“I’ve got nothing to say to you.” She threw her half-fi nished cigarette onto the ground and pulled the ashtray away from the door. She glared at David. “I’ll bet you’re not even a real cop.

Leave me alone. Leave us both alone.”

Monday 7:40 pm, Ste. Anne’s Medical Center, Rowena Avenue, Silver
Lake

Back in the car Chris slipped the key into the ignition but didn’t turn it.

“Did that suck or did that just plain suck?”

David shrugged. “Interesting reaction.”

“Bit of an overreaction.”

“She’s very protective. Of course, given his history, she’s bound to know that sooner or later someone’s going to wonder if Herb’s involved.”

“You think she’ll call the station on it?” Chris asked. “If she reports you were here...”

“Too late to worry about that now.”

Chris could tell David was worried, and he mentally kicked himself.

“Let’s hope nothing comes of it,” David said. “I’ll call Bryan and give him a heads up. Come on, let’s go home. I don’t want to miss the game.”

Ten minutes later Chris let them back in the house. David grabbed a beer and headed for the media room. Chris puttered around the kitchen for a few minutes but there was nothing to clean up. He didn’t feel like watching TV, and the idea of working didn’t agree with his frazzled nerves. He knew he’d never be able to concentrate.

He realized what he needed was a physical outlet. He grabbed the car keys and popped his head into the media room. David looked up. The dog was lying at his side, his head on David’s slippered feet.

108 P.A. Brown

“I’m going down to the gym for a bit. Don’t wait up.” He paused. “Unless you want to come.”

The answer wasn’t long in coming; it was the same one he always got. “No, that’s okay. You go ahead.”

Tuesday 8:10 am, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles
The next morning David called Bryan. There had been no phone calls from Laura or Herb Bolton that Bryan had heard about. He wasn’t happy with David.

“I told you to keep your nose clean.”

“Consider it clean,” David muttered. “Any word on my case?”

“I think they may be starting to see things our way,” Bryan said. “Which means they’re not fi nding what they wanted to. I fi gure it’s only a matter of time before they drop the whole thing and pretend it never happened.”

“How about clearing me? Declaring me innocent?”

“You have a rich fantasy life, don’t you? Be happy they’re not trying harder to pin something on you.”

Chris wandered into the kitchen looking half-asleep. He wore nothing but a pair of track pants that rode low, exposing most of his stomach. Bleary-eyed, he poured a mug of coffee, dosed it liberally with cream and sugar, and sank into the chair opposite David. His mug clinked on the Santa Fe table.

David hung up the phone and topped up his coffee. “You overdo it last night?”

“Does it show?” Chris massaged his left shoulder. “Remind me never to get into competition with an eighteen-year-old on the rowing machines.”

“Would you listen if I did?”

Chris grunted.

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David told him about his call to Bryan.

“So he thinks it will be dropped soon? That is good news.

Any idea when?”

“None. The PSB won’t rush things, could be a while.”

“Assholes,” Chris muttered. “Don’t they have better things to do?”

Chris fi nished his coffee and limped back upstairs. The shower came on. Twenty minutes later Chris returned, dressed to go out and looking slightly less miserable.

“I’ll be done around four,” he said. “Once I get back we can start getting ready.”

“Ready?”

Chris impatiently tapped his foot. “You forgot already?

Halloween. West Hollywood. Meeting Des. Any of this ringing a bell?”

The Halloween parade. David groaned.

“You promised,” Chris said.

He couldn’t remember why. Probably because it seemed so far off and it pleased Chris so much. “We don’t have to stay late, do we?”

“Why?” Chris asked. “It’s not like either of us is working early tomorrow.” He brightened. “Come on, it’ll be fun. You gotta learn to loosen up, David. It’ll do you a world of good.”

David had already lost this argument during the very fi rst round weeks ago. With a sigh, he leaned forward and kissed Chris soundly on his open mouth. “What do you want for supper? I could pick up a couple of steaks from the butcher. Some potato salad while I’m at it?”

“Works for me.” Chris smiled slyly. “You know, you’re going to look so hot tonight, I’ll be fi ghting them off.”

David rolled his eyes. “Not in the shape you’re in, you won’t.”

§ § § §

110 P.A. Brown

Chris wanted to go all out for the parade. But knowing David’s reluctance in going at all, he had toned down his usual off-the-wall indulgence. Leaving David to be the star of their show, he had chosen a sidekick costume.

David looked him up and down before they left the house.

“Tonto?” he said. “Isn’t that a little... un-pc?”

“Hey, my grandfather was one quarter Cree.” Chris smoothed a hand over his skintight buckskin. “Besides, you know what
kemo-sabe
really means?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

Chris smiled. He adjusted his beaded headband and hugged David’s bare arm to his chest. “Come on, husband, let’s go wow them.”

It was barely sunset when they parked David’s Chevy at the Pacifi c Design Center and walked to Santa Monica Boulevard.

The usually teeming boulevard had been closed for the annual festivities and now thronged with a different crowd. Rainbow-hued pennants and fl ags stirred restlessly in the fading light.

David saw one California state fl ag that had been altered to depict a bear in leather, sporting shades and a peaked leather cap. Music pulsed from speakers set up outside clubs and bars; techno, hip-hop and salsa vied for attention above the roar of the thousands who fi lled the street.

David had heard the expression “not for the faint of heart,”

but he’d never experienced it literally. The throb of noise was a physical assault, thrumming along his nerve endings and vibrating behind his eyes. He felt light-headed and breathless. His leather vest swung open and he wished he could have worn something under it, but Chris had been adamant. Nothing but leather, though he had conceded that jeans would have to be worn under the chaps for decency.

Each costume was more outrageous than the last. A pair of big-busted drag queens teetered down the street on six-inch spikes, gargantuan boobs thrust out in front of their sequined L.A. BYTES
111

gowns. One had at least a foot of fi re-red hair piled atop her head; the other sported a green Afro the size of a beach ball.

A man who must have weighed three hundred pounds wore nothing but a massive diaper and a pacifi er stuffed in his mouth, carrying a three-foot bottle shaped like a penis which he used to squirt white foam over anyone who approached him.

Chris and David expected to meet Des at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. Six leather-clad men watched them approach, their eyes raking David, studying and dismissing him in one cold sweep.

None of them wore an inch more leather than necessary to remain legal. “You’d look hot if you took those jeans off,” one hirsute guy said.

“You can ride me anytime, cowboy,” said a slender Asian in a skintight angel suit. He stroked David’s hip, ignoring Hirsute’s scowl. He would have done some more sampling, but Chris pulled David away.

“Tramp,” he sniffed, tugging David toward the door. “Come on, there’s a Moroccan Mint Latte with my name on it in there.”

They entered the coffee house under the watchful gaze of a pair of horse cops. The county Sheriff ’s offi ce had jurisdiction over West Hollywood, so it was unlikely anyone would be out tonight who would recognize David. He still felt as though they registered him, and he read disapproval in their fl at cop eyes.

He shrugged and followed Chris into the café.

The coffee house was standing room only. David bulled his way to the counter, Chris trailing in his wake. Once he caught the eye of a server, he got Chris’s latte and a black coffee for himself.

“Omigod, there’s Des,” Chris said and waved across the packed room.

When Des broke through the crowd David couldn’t help it.

He stared.

Des was always impeccably dressed; as the owner of an upscale Beverly Hills clothing store it was part of his image.

112 P.A. Brown

Not tonight.

Tonight he had donned a pair of skin-tight white pants that rode so low his pubic hair would have shown if he hadn’t shaved.

His slender, muscular—and equally hairless—chest was barely covered with a tiny, white sleeveless vest. A mask covered the top half of his dark face, but didn’t conceal the crimson cat-eyed contacts he wore. David stared hardest at the fi ne silver chain that connected Des’s pierced nipples to his belly button ring.

White and silver feathers dripped off Des’s mask and two cat ears perched atop his shaved head. Silver whiskers twitched whenever he moved his mouth. He had draped a white cattail over his left arm. He touched David’s arm with diamond-strewn nails that were nearly as long as his fi ngers.

“You look fabulous, David,” Des said. He glanced at Chris.

“If we weren’t such good friends, I’d give Chrissy a run for his money.”

David laughed. “You look pretty good yourself—” He froze when a second fi gure came up behind Des, possessively putting a fur-covered arm around his bare shoulders.

Trevor had kept to the cat motif. Only he had chosen a tiger outfi t that did nothing to conceal a body that clearly saw a lot of gym time. He was covered head to tail with black and orange stripes that should have looked ridiculous instead of sexy and dangerous. David was all too aware that a lot of appreciative eyes followed Trevor as he embraced Chris and kissed him full on the mouth.

David and Des exchanged glances. Des looked amused. David fumed.

“You’re still in town,” David said when Trevor held out his hand. “Business must be good.”

“Couldn’t be better,” Trevor said. He glanced affectionately at Des. “I think I’ll stay a while this time.”

A trio of silked and sequined queens who had bathed in uncomplimentary perfumes pressed against them as they tried to get to the counter. David stopped breathing.

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113

“Come on.” He tugged Chris’s arm. “Let’s get out of here before we get stomped to death.”

Outside the streets were even more crowded. David was surprised to see a number of families, complete with kids in tow, moving through the sea of costumes. Tiny ghouls and cloaked superheroes clung to their parents, goggle-eyed at the passing parade of color and high camp. Uncostumed tourists captured it all in digital memory; David could imagine the video shows they would play when they went back home.

At least out here the air was breathable. He ignored the sweet smell of marijuana that rode the breeze and the chemical reek of poppers still used by some of the old habitués who hadn’t migrated to the more modern roofi es or crystal meth. Atop the smell of drugs the air was heavy with testosterone and adrenaline; the crowd grew edgy with just a hint of suppressed violence underlying the raucous laughter. On the fringes of the already volatile crowd a few placard carrying protesters tried to ferment dissension with
God Hates Fags
and
Burn in Hell
that were largely ignored.

The horse cops were still there, and he spotted a couple further down the street, keeping an eye on the protesters. They were smart to use mounted units; a cop on foot wouldn’t have a hope in hell if the crowd turned. No doubt a few plainclothes were working the scene, alert for anything out of the ordinary.