Authors: P. A. Brown
After his second coffee, he called Simon and told
him about his conversation with David. At least the parts that related to the
case. Simon seemed pleased, but still insisted on pushing through the motion to
quash the search warrants. “In case there is any change of heart later on,” he
said.
“David and I talked last night,” Chris said. “He
says I’m not a suspect anymore.”
“It is not a good idea, Christopher, talking to
the police. Do us both a favor. Let
me
decide when to speak to them.”
“I don’t know if I can do that anymore.”
“Is something going on I should know about,
Christopher?”
“David’s gay,” Chris blurted out. “We’re... seeing
each other.”
“This could change things. You realize that, don’t
you?”
“For who?”
Simon didn’t answer. He didn’t need to; Chris
knew. If it hurt anyone, it was going to be David.
Damn, why did everything have to be so
complicated?
*****
The message light on his phone
was blinking when he returned from picking up some papers Simon wanted him to
read and sign before Monday. Call display said the last call had come from Des.
Immediately he called back, but only got the
answering machine. At seven the same machine tried to take another message from
him.
“Shit.” Chris slammed the phone down. Had Des
heard from Kyle? Had this all been one of Kyle’s prima donna stunts? The least
Des could do was leave a message.
At seven-thirty the phone rang and Chris snatched
it up before it could ring a second time. Call display again said it was Des.
“Damn it, man, I’ve been calling—”
Heavy breathing and the background hiss of a bad
connection.
“Des?”
Silence. Then the breathing started again. Thick
and labored, like someone had been running a long distance.
“Okay, Kyle. What’s the game? Put Des on—”
The phone went dead. He hit recall and Des’s
number popped up on the display. It rang and rang, but no one answered.
A chill marched up Chris’s bare arms. Without another
thought he grabbed his BlackBerry and car keys, and ran out of the house,
barely pausing to lock up behind himself.
The SUV still smelled faintly of superglue. It
took him over forty minutes to reach Des’s place. The house was wrapped in
shadows when he wheeled into an empty spot in front.
Des’s Mercedes sat in the narrow driveway, nose up
to the gate that led to the backyard. Chris stared at Kyle’s Boxster parked
behind it. He dragged his gaze away and looked toward the house.
The inner door was open. The screen door unlocked.
No one answered his knock.
Chris speed-dialed the number and listened to the
phone ring in the living room. He glanced again at both cars in the driveway.
He was in Beverly Hills. No one walked anywhere in Beverly Hills.
Inside, the machine picked up and Des’s voice
invited him to leave a message. He hung up.
The screen door opened silently and he stepped
into the cool foyer. Past the brass mirror dominating the foyer, around the
tight corner into the crowded living room.
Which was even more crowded than usual.
Kyle sat in the spindly Louis XIV chair, his open
eyes staring at the poster-covered wall. Only, Kyle was past seeing anything. A
strip of silver duct tape had been wrapped around his face, gagging him. His
death had been a silent one. As Chris watched, a fly landed on Kyle’s
unblinking eye and wandered around pausing now and then to sample.
One of Kyle’s hands had fallen off the arm of the
chair, the open fingers brushing the Kashmir rug. A line of blood dribbled down
his index finger, soaking into the knotted wool fiber. A second fly alighted on
Kyle’s bare chest. More blood marred the once smooth, hairless skin. Some of it
had pooled in his crotch.
Chris smelled blood and something nastier
underlying it. In death Kyle had voided his bowels.
Chris choked back a cry. His hand went to his
mouth, as his stomach slammed into his throat. He backpedaled out of the room
and managed not to throw up until he was outside in the blessedly hot
industrial-stink beyond Des’s door.
On his knees he vomited into the nearest boxwood.
A car crawled down the street. He ignored it as he fumbled with his cell.
“Laine here.” David’s voice had never sounded
sweeter.
“Oh God, David. It’s Kyle...He’s...It’s—You have
to come. Now.”
Thursday,
7:50 pm, North Palm Drive, Beverly Hills
David skidded his unmarked to an
angled stop in front of Chris’s SUV. The usually quiet residential street was
crowded with Beverly Hills cop cars and the coroner’s wagon. There were also a
pair of EMTs on the sidelines in case any more injured parties showed up.
According to Chris, Des was missing. He spotted
Chris sitting in the back seat of a black-and-white, talking to a uniformed
officer. Further talk with him would to have to wait.
Inside the crowded house David found the on-site
criminalist and the crime-scene investigation team who did contract work for
the county processing the living room. Chris had already ID’d the body—a single
glance confirmed it.
So where was Des?
A man approached him in the foyer. David held up
his gold shield and the other man nodded.
They shook hands. “Ernie Copland, Detective second
grade, Beverly Hills.”
“Detective David Laine, LAPD. What’s it look
like?” David asked.
“Bad domestic. We’re getting a statement from the
guy who called it in. No weapon found on him, but my guess is we’ll find it
nearby. We’re bringing in dogs.”
“Have you been able to contact the owner?” David
thought of Des’s car in the driveway. “The Mercedes belongs to him, the other
car belongs to the victim.”
Copland frowned. “You’re familiar with these
people?”
David glanced at Kyle’s bloodstained body. “Yes.”
He decided not to elaborate.
Copland jerked his head toward the front door.
“Our caller admits being close to the missing home owner. Says he followed the
victim into Santa Monica the other day. He’s not saying, but I’ll hazard we’ll
find it was your typical gay triangle. He offed the victim to eliminate the
competition.”
“Have you talked to him yet?”
“One of my men spoke with him. Claims he got a
phone call that spooked him and he came over to see for himself what was going
on, walked in on this.”
David kept his voice flat. “You don’t believe
him?”
“You don’t think it was a domestic?”
“Can I talk to them?” David indicated the C.S.I. people
bent over Kyle’s body.
“What are you looking for?”
“I’ll tell you if I find it.”
The criminalist, a young Asian David recognized
from other crime scenes, looked up at his approach. David nodded down at the
body.
“What can you tell me?” he asked.
“What’s your interest?”
David studied the wound pattern on Kyle’s exposed
skin. He frowned. “I’m working the Carpet Killer—you familiar?”
The criminalist nodded.
“So what have you got here?”
The criminalist stripped off his bloody gloves and
pulled on a second pair. The first pair went into a disposal bag beside their
equipment case.
“Extensive piquerism is evidenced in the cuts on
the upper torso. He was raped, but it looks like a condom, or condoms, were
used. Severe anal tearing is also consistent, I believe—”
David nodded. “It is. We’ve seen the duct tape
before, too. Sometimes he needs to keep them quiet. Anything strike you as
unusual?”
The criminalist waved toward a pair of C.S.I.
techs collecting something off the carpet near the sofa. “Blood. On the arm of
the sofa and floor. Not spatter, it dripped from someone sitting on the sofa.”
“A second victim?”
“We’ll have to type it to be sure.”
The C.S.I. techs waved a light wand slowly over
the back of the sofa, then the seat. Looking for more blood.
Des’s blood? Or the killer’s?
“Our doer’s never taken out two before,” David
said. “This is a radical change in his M.O.”
“Don’t know about that,” the criminalist said.
“All I know is, I’m thinking there were three people here. One of them was
wearing latex—and he used the phone after he worked on this guy.” He indicated
Kyle’s body. “Handset tests positive for his blood.”
“Guy who found the body got a nonresponsive phone
call from this residence. Came over to check, that’s how he found the victim.”
“This guy wanted him to find his friend.”
“Looks that way.”
“Nice guy.”
“You have no idea.” David sighed. “No sign of what
happened to our second bleeder?”
“He’s not here. We searched the house top to
bottom and they’re taking a dog through the backyard. Nothing.”
“Could he have walked away?”
“Not with this kind of blood loss.”
David walked back to where Copland was talking to
one of the C.S.I. techs. They both looked up at this approach.
“Find what you were looking for?”
David nodded brusquely. “I think we’re looking at
the Carpet Killer.”
“I thought he usually dumped his bodies. You’ve
never found the kill site before.”
“That’s what’s got me worried. I think our guy’s
decompensating fast.”
A uniformed officer entered the house and
approached Copland. The two spoke briefly. Copland waited for him to leave
before he turned back to David.
“It looks like the victim’s car was towed
recently. Gibes with what the witness claims about the car going missing in
Santa Monica.” Copland rubbed his chin. “You think Desmond Hayward’s been taken
hostage by this Carpet Killer?”
“Maybe. More likely he means Des to be his next
plaything. He usually likes to hold them several hours. Take his time.”
“We’re canvassing the neighborhood,” Copland said.
“Hopefully someone saw something. It’s quiet, though. Not many people answering
their doors.”
The Asian criminalist entered the room. He was
stripping off yet another pair of gloves. He held on to them.
“There are three blood types present,” he said.
“Someone fought back and the doer was injured. Left his blood on the floor by
the body.”
David perked up. “We can get a DNA match then?”
“We can.”
David headed for the front door. Copland followed.
“My men will keep asking around.”
“Good.” From the door, David could see Chris still
sitting in the black-and-white. “Mind if I talk to the wit?”
Copland waved him forward. “Go ahead. Gallagher’s
probably almost done, anyway.”
Gallagher was done. Chris caught sight of David
and flew out of the backseat. His handsome face was marred with tears and his
skin was chalky white. He touched David’s arm and it was all David could do not
to grab him and wrap him in a safe embrace.
“I’m sorry, Chris. Let’s go someplace and talk.”
They slid into the front seat of David’s unmarked.
“Can you tell me about it?” David said gently.
“Oh, God, David. Where’s Des? That guy was trying
to tell me he thought Des did that. Are they nuts? Des would never hurt anyone.
He loved Kyle.”
“It wasn’t Des.”
Chris froze and stared at David. “Then what—Jesus,
do they think I did it?”
“No!” David touched his face, trying to give him
strength for what he had to tell him. “I think Des was taken.”
“Who is it, David? Who did this?”
David grabbed Chris’s cold hands in both of his.
He no longer cared who might be watching. He forced Chris to meet his gaze. “I
think it’s the Carpet Killer.”
Chris stared at him blankly. In an instant David
saw how he would look in twenty years.
“Des...Is he?”
David shook his head. “I don’t know. Do you want
to go home now?”
When Chris nodded, David left him and went in
search of Copland. He found him back in the house, talking on a cell. He hung
up when David appeared.
David handed him one of his cards. “I’m taking Mr.
Bellamere home. I was planning on staying with him awhile, so if you have any
other questions, call this number. If anything else comes to him, I’ll let you
know.”
Copland’s cool, measuring look made David wonder
what the man suspected. What he was proposing wasn’t exactly S.O.P. He was
surprised at how little he cared.
“I’m going to call my partner, too,” David
said.“Apprise him of the latest activity. Between us maybe we can come up with
something.”
Copland nodded and turned away. “We’ll be in
touch.”
David left.
Chris hadn’t moved. David slid in beside him and
started the motor of the unmarked. “You want someone to bring your truck around
later?”
“What? Oh, sure. I guess.” Chris stared out the
window toward Des’s house.
David touched his knee. “Give me the keys. I’ll
have it brought up to your place.”
“Sure...” Chris fumbled in his pocket and dropped
the SUV’s keys in David’s hand.
“You have house keys?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
It took David five minutes to find an officer who
promised to drive the truck to Silver Lake later that evening. He’d leave the
keys in the mailbox.
At Chris’s place David took the house keys from
Chris’s limp hand and led him through the gated courtyard. He unlocked the
door, then aimed Chris at the alarm system so that he could punch in the code,
commenting, “I don’t think you want Securicor coming up here for a false
alarm.”
David led Chris into the living room and set him
down on the sofa. But when he moved away to take another seat, Chris grabbed
him.
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” David said, lowering
himself beside Chris. “Tell you what. How ’bout I just sit here for now.”
“Good.”
Chris melted back into the stiff cushions. His
eyes stared blindly ahead, through the massive picture window to the lights
spreading out beyond the lake that gave the area its name. David wondered what
kind of waking nightmare he saw through those eyes.