L.A. Bytes (27 page)

Chris disconnected the call. It rang less than a minute later.

“Please man. I gotta talk to you.”

Terry sounded damn near hysterical. Chris swallowed past a lump in his throat. Was this really a new threat to David? He wanted to tell Terry to fuck off, but he didn’t dare.

“Does this have anything to do with Bolton?”

“Bolton? No, no, it’s not Bolton—” Abrupt silence fell. Then:

“If you won’t come, I’m not sure what they’ll do to David. They told me to tell you that.”

The cell went dead.

Chris stared at his Blackberry in frustration. He redialed but it went straight to voicemail. He tried again, same result.

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Chris looked up to fi nd Ramsey watching him. He started packing away his laptop, keeping the Blackberry out. “I gotta go.

If David comes by you didn’t see me, okay?”

“You want me to lie to David?”

“Don’t lie, just don’t tell him I was here.”

“You know, David’s the best thing that ever happened to you and sometimes I don’t think you have the brains to see that,”

Ramsey said. “Why should I help you fuck it up?”

“You don’t think I know he’s the best thing?” Chris was stung by the accusation. Of course he loved David. Who the hell could ever doubt that? “I married him, didn’t I?”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’m just going to visit an old friend,” he lied. “What’s the harm in that?”

He hit redial on the way out the door. Voicemail again.

Tuesday, 8:55 pm East Villa Street, Old Pasadena
David climbed back behind the wheel. He sat there for several minutes, mulling over his next step. Where would Chris go?

At Brad’s he had taken advantage of having access to Chris’s computer to look up the phone numbers of some of Chris’s friends. Outside of Des, none of them had heard from him in days.

David couldn’t see Chris getting in the car and driving for any length of time. He’d stick close to home. So where? Mattie’s on Glendale where they walked for their coffees? Taix on Sunset?

The Nosh Pit? Houston’s?

He decided to hit Hyperion fi rst. There were a half a dozen places there that he and Chris frequented, including The Nosh Pit, the bar where circumstances had contrived to bring them together for the fi rst time nearly six years ago.

If he didn’t see anything there, he’d circle around to Glendale Boulevard. If that failed, he was at a loss as to where to go next.

He knew he could request a BOLO on Chris’s car, but having other cops out looking for his spouse would impress Chris no end. No, David thought, he’d save that drastic option as a last resort.

He threw the car into gear and roared out of the driveway.

David was proud of Chris, he knew the guy could out think him a heartbeat, but sometimes he was too smart for his own good. How could he endanger himself just to get back at this guy? Why? Just because he had attacked David? David knew he couldn’t take it personally or it would eat at him. Chris had never had any reason to learn that lesson.

Traffi c on Hyperion Avenue was picking up with the fi rst of the evening crowds. There was a line-up at Casita del Campo.

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David slowed to a crawl, ignoring the impatient honks from those in a hurry behind him.

Each time he spotted a kiwi green Escape he slowed more—

or sped up if the car was ahead of him. He cruised by The Nosh Pit and snagged a parking spot that was just being vacated by a Subaru.

Ramsey looked up when he entered and the look that fl ashed across his face told David he’d hit the jackpot. The fl amboyant little queen who served drinks and some heavy duty fl irtation seemed disappointed when David said he didn’t want anything.

David never took his eyes off Ramsey.

“When was he here?”

He thought Ramsey was going to lie, then he shrugged. “You just missed him. Maybe fi ve minutes ago.”

“He say where he was going?”

“He was talking on the phone with someone. Heard him say Santa Clarita. He left here right after that.” Ramsey folded his arms over his chest. “He told me not to tell you any of this.”

Ramsey was more Chris’s friend than his. David was never sure if Ramsey had forgiven him for the heavy-handed way he had conducted his investigation into the Carpet Killer. “So why did you?”

“Chris is doing something even he knows isn’t right. If he’s in trouble I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.”

David held his hand out over the bar. Ramsey took it.

“Thanks,” David said.

“Hey, try to keep the guy out of trouble. He’s such a magnet for it.”

Shaking his head at the truth of that, David hurried back to his car. Heading north towards the I5 he zigzagged through traffi c.

Taillights fl ared along the street as traffi c ebbed and fl owed.

David tailgated a Saturn for a while, until he was able to slip past it and onto the north bound ramp.

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The freeway was stop and go traffi c. An hour later David spotted a kiwi green Escape and was able to get close enough to read the plate. It was Chris’s car. Then the Escape’s tail lights fl ared and the vehicle darted across two lanes of traffi c amid a blare of horns, disappearing down the McBean Parkway exit into Santa Clarita. Barely glancing at the traffi c behind him David followed.

They passed the California Institute of Arts and David grew even more confused. They didn’t know anyone out here. It was classic middleclass suburbia, something Chris detested. Chris’s parents lived in Chatsworth and Chris rarely visited them, though as far as David had seen from the two times he had gone with Chris to see them, they were trying hard to accept Chris and his lifestyle. Chris’s parents had reached out to them when he and Chris married, something David’s parents had not done.

David enjoyed his visits to Chatsworth. He wished he could take Chris to visit his family, but his mother and stepfather would never look on Chris as anything other than an aberration in their son’s life. David took Chris home to New Hampshire once. His mother had been cold and disdainful of both Chris and her only son. The trip had been cut short and David never suggested they go again, though he knew Chris wondered why. Chris thought their marriage would change his mother’s mind, when David knew nothing would.

David followed Chris past streets with names like Singing Hills Drive and Via Jacara. David nearly lost him at a stoplight, impatiently waiting for it to change while he watched the Escape disappear down Del Monte Drive.

The light changed and David squealed around the corner. His stomach rolled over when he realized the Escape had vanished.

He slowed to a crawl, peering anxiously down side streets, looking for the car.

He was about to give up and call LASD at the Magic Mountain substation when he spotted the car in front of a Spanish style adobe brick house. There were several other cars and vans parked up and down the short crescent.

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There was no sign of Chris when David pulled the Chevy to the curb two cars down from the empty Escape and turned his lights off. The Spanish-style house was dark, except for a single incandescent bulb hanging above the front door.

David settled in behind the wheel, hunching down in the seat so he would be less obvious. His gaze moved restlessly around the darkened property, searching for movement. He knew he should call the Sheriffs. They wouldn’t appreciate him poaching on their turf, but exactly what would he tell them? His husband was sneaking around someone’s house and no, he didn’t know why?

He caught movement near a fi ve-foot toyon bush on the south side. A fi gure slipped through the shadows, moving toward the rear of the house. David’s view was partially screened by a large fan palm. The nearby chirps of crickets didn’t drown out the sonorous hum of traffi c on McBean Parkway.

He climbed out of the car. Was Chris looking for a back door?

Was he trying to get inside? But why? David wished he could call in the address and fi nd who owned the place, but he had no legitimate reason to make such a call.

His only hope was to catch Chris before he got inside and did something foolish.

No light from the street reached this far. He stepped carefully, doing his best to avoid making noise. Chris had vanished around the corner of the house.

David followed. Along the back wall an inky pit of blackness stained the already dark house. Belatedly David realized it was an open door.

Frowning, he stepped onto the stone patio. The crickets fell silent.

“Chris?” he called softly. “Are you there? Chris—”

The smell washed over him moments before the shadow suddenly detached from the front of the toyon bush. Urine and unwashed fl esh. And gasoline. There was a rushing sound. David spun around, instinct kicking in too late. He reached for his L.A. BYTES
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Smith & Wesson. A blow caught him upside the head, throwing him backward. He lurched to his knees; light fl ared behind his eyes.

He caught a glimpse of the same hot dark eyes he had last seen at the homeless shelter and too late he realized who it was.

“Adnan,” he whispered. His fi ngers closed over the butt of his gun, yanking it out as Adnan again swung whatever he had hit him with the fi rst time. David’s head ricocheted off stone and the light in his head exploded into a brilliant kaleidoscope of pain, then nothing.

Tuesday, 9:40 pm, Via Raza, Santa Clarita
When he saw the dark house, Chris wondered if after everything Terry had been pulling his leg.

There was no doorbell. He pounded on the front door and stepped back in alarm when it opened.

He leaned forward and stuck his head inside. “Terry? Hey, it’s Chris. You there?”

Silence. Then a rustling sound. Footsteps echoed across hard tile, followed by the clank of something metallic.

“Terry?”

The sound came again. Chris shoved the door open and stepped inside. He fumbled his way down the hall until he found a light switch and fl ipped it on.

Terry lay propped against the foyer wall. His short hair was drenched in blood. The wall behind him was patterned with gore.

Down the hall, half in and half out of another room lay a second body. All he could see were legs, but he knew it was a woman.

Terry’s wife, Carol? The woman Chris had only met once, years ago. He couldn’t see any blood. He knew she was dead without seeing more. His stomach lurched. He had to dig his teeth into his lips to keep from vomiting.

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“Terry!” He dropped to his knees, ignoring the blood soaking into his jeans. He fumbled with numb fi ngers along Terry’s throat; there was no pulse.

Chris scrambled to his feet and backed away from the body.

The police. He had to call the police. No, he had to call David.

He grabbed his Blackberry.

An odd popping sound distracted him while he tried to key in David’s number with shaking fi ngers. He glanced down the hall toward the back of the dark house, trying to ignore the body of Terry’s wife. The noise sounded familiar. He went back to his Blackberry, punching in numbers. He’d deal with strange noises later, after he had called David—

The popping, crackling sound grew. All the hairs on his body stood up as he fi nally recognized it. Fire. Yellow-orange light fl ickered off the fl oor tiles and the acrid smell of smoke fi lled his nostrils, along with another, equally familiar smell. Gasoline.

He stared down at Terry’s body. He had to get out of here. But he couldn’t leave them to burn. He bent down, hooked his arms under Terry’s shoulders and yanked him toward the door. For the fi rst time he understood the expression “dead weight.” Chris would have sworn Terry hadn’t weighed more than a hundred and eighty, soaking wet, but right now he felt like he was trying to drag around a half a ton. He pulled the body around to face the door, but couldn’t get it any further.

Gasping for breath he leaned against the wall and stared down at the body helplessly. His hands were covered in gore. His stomach fl ipped over again.

Black smoke billowed down the hall, the bitter odor of burning wood, plastic and god knew what else. The gasoline smell grew stronger.

Chris breathed shallowly as he tried one more time to pull Terry toward the front of the house. Pain stabbed through his back and he straightened with a gasp. No way. He wasn’t going to be able to get Terry out.

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Chris raced for the door and yanked it open. Damp, oxygen-rich air poured into the house. Chris took a deep breath then let it out with a cry. The fi re had been as rejuvenated as he was by the blast of fresh air.

The crackling sound became a roar. Fire leaped up the doorframe and curled seductively around a wall light, which exploded into glittering shards of frosted glass.

Chris had never realized fi re spread so fast. He barely leaped through the front door when the fl ames burst out behind him.

He smelled burning denim and lurched onto the lawn, where he hastily patted several embers off his jeans. He could feel the pinpricks of heat against his bare skin. His face was covered with greasy sweat and his T-shirt clung to him. Even the cooling night air did not chill his overheated fl esh.

He braced his hands on his knees. His chest ached and his breathing was short and labored. He closed his eyes and tried to take deep, cleansing breaths, but each gasp hurt more than the last.

In the distance he heard the rising wail of sirens. One of the neighbors must have called 911. The fi re trucks would arrive soon. The cops wouldn’t be far behind.

He rolled his head sideways, wondering if he dared try to move.

Pain momentarily forgotten, he stared at the ‘56 Chevy Two-Tone sport coupe parked at the curb. It couldn’t be David’s car.

David was at work. David was in Los Angeles. He didn’t even know Terry, so there was no way he’d know where this place was or that Chris was coming here.

Chris pushed himself upright. On leaden feet he staggered across the lawn and braced himself against the passenger side door, ignoring the smear of blood he left. He immediately spotted David’s Ray Bans and the leather steering-wheel cover David had only recently installed.