Authors: P. A. Brown
“A golden elf.”
“Do you mean he had blond hair?”
“Spun gold, like the sun, he was.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” David sighed. He knew
this guy would be useless as a witness in court, even if they found his blond
elf. David didn’t care. If this was a description of the killer, then at least
it gave them a place to start. He’d worry about viable witnesses later.
“Can you tell us what the elf was wearing?”
“Wearing?” he said, blinking at both David and
Martinez. “Wearing?”
“Yes,” David mustered all the patience he could.
“What kind of clothes did he have on?”
“Isn’t that odd?” The elf man screwed up his
booze-bloated face. “He was wearing jeans. Now why on earth would an elf wear
jeans?”
Later, after he had been dispatched with Schmidt
to get a sandwich and another coffee, they retreated to their car in the next
alley.
“We’ve got a possible blond killer who wears blue
jeans,” Martinez said.
David took a slug of lukewarm water from a bottle
he had stashed there earlier. “And drives a golden chariot. Don’t forget the
chariot.”
“Yellow car? Truck?” Martinez snorted. “Not too
many of them around.”
“Let’s put out a bolo”—cop jargon for be on the
lookout—“on all local elves in or out of chariots. That ought to get us some
action.”
“Think he really saw something?”
“Who knows?” David crushed the empty water bottle.
A Be on the Lookout wouldn’t be out of place if they had something more
definite to look for. For now the elf man’s words were useless. Out of habit he
dumped the bottle in the backseat so as not to contaminate the crime scene.
“Our boy’s too damned slick,” Martinez said. “He’s
not leaving anything behind he doesn’t mean to leave.”
Wearily David climbed out of the unmarked car. “No
ID this time. So why didn’t he want us to know this victim’s name?”
“Maybe no one cares about this one. Hustler?”
Martinez followed him back through the alley toward the crime scene. The media had
dispersed once the body was removed. “It’s a notoriously easy target group.”
Give any horny young guy a few drinks and his
judgment went to hell. Which was why David made sure all his drinking took
place in cop bars. He was never tempted to overindulge and get stupid when he
was with other cops. Once they got on the brag and started boasting about all
the pussy they got, he was usually in a mood to leave anyway.
So far he’d kept his private life separate from
his professional life by time and distance. No one cared that he took his
yearly holidays to Palm Springs—he always went out for the Palm Springs Classic
Car Show and everyone knew of his passion for old cars. If he booked a room at
the Hacienda it wasn’t like he had to tell anyone he was cruising for some hot
and heavy sex. It was the single brush with another life that he allowed
himself in his normally low-key existence.
One even his partner, Martinez, didn’t know about.
Monday,
8:00 am, DataTEK Headquarters, Studio City,
San
Fernando Valley, Los Angeles
“MR. MCGILL?” DAVID held his
shield in one hand while he extended the other to Peter McGill, the Brooks
Brothers-suited CIO of DataTEK. “Detective David Laine. Thank you for seeing me
on such short notice.”
Martinez had been called into court for a morning
arraignment and David had opted to interview McGill alone. “Yes, well.” He ran
a hand through his thinning, rust-red hair. “I try to help the local
authorities when I can.”
McGill’s office held a massive mahogany desk and
four leather chairs. Prints of snowy forests occupied by deer and elk hung from
beige walls. Behind the desk a large double window looked east, toward the San
Gabriel Mountains; the snowless peak of Mount Wilson lay behind a brown haze.
“I’d like to ask a few questions, Mr. McGill.
Background information on one of your employees. Just routine stuff.” David
opened his notebook. “You have a Christopher Bellamere in your employ?”
“Yes.” McGill frowned. “Has Bellamere done
something?”
“There was an incident involving his vehicle and
I’m investigating. How long has Mr. Bellamere been employed by your company,
Mr. McGill?”
“Chris started six years ago.”
“Good employee?”
McGill’s frown deepened. He played with a
monitor-shaped paperweight. “Christopher’s performance has always been up to
company expectations.”
That sounded too carefully phrased to be good.
“Does Mr. Bellamere have trouble fitting in?”
“He’s not a rule follower. His... lifestyle leaves
much to be desired.”
Bingo.
“How would you characterize his behavior in the
last few weeks?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Has he been unusually anxious? Expectant? Did he
seem preoccupied?”
“No, not at all...”
“Is Mr. Bellamere available to speak to us?”
McGill still seemed puzzled by the whole
conversation; he frowned. “He won’t be in until this afternoon—”
“I’d like to see Mr. Bellamere’s work space, if
that’s not a problem.”
“You mean his cubicle? I suppose that can be
arranged.” McGill picked up his phone and punched in three digits. “Tom? Could
you come to my office for a moment?”
A few minutes later a blond, preppy-looking man
strode into McGill’s office. He stopped when he saw David. “Detective,” McGill
said. “This is Tom Clarke, one of our senior IT people.”
“Mr. Clarke.” David extended his hand. Tom shook
it vigorously. “I’m making some inquires into a fellow employee. Mr. McGill
thought you might be able to help me.”
Tom looked from David to McGill, one eyebrow
arching.
“He wants to see Bellamere’s desk.” McGill waved
them both out. “Show him around. Answer his questions.”
“I have that meeting with the IBM people—”
“I assure you I won’t keep you long,” David said.
Tom used a card key in the elevator to access the
ninth floor.
“How many people work here?” David asked.
Tom shrugged. “Fifty? Sixty? Besides our group,
there’s a mainframe team, several D.B.A.s—database administrators—and a handful
of programmers and web designers.”
“What exactly does Mr. Bellamere do?”
“Chris and I do everything from handling data
storage and backup to building secure networks from scratch. When our clients
have problems, they call us.” The elevator door whispered open and they stepped
out onto a dove-gray carpet. Tom turned right. “Just this Saturday Chris and I
were involved in getting a major pharmaceutical company back up and running.
Took us hours.”
“You’ve worked with Mr. Bellamere a while? How
would you characterize him on a personal level?”
“Personal? What’s this about? Do you think the guy
molested someone?”
“What would make you think he’d molest someone?”
“You’ve talked to Peter—I mean Mr. McGill, right?
Did he tell you Chris was gay?”
“Who would he have molested?”
“Boys, what else.” Tom smirked.
“You have reason to suspect Mr. Bellamere is a
pedophile?” That one was off the radar. Could it be true? It didn’t fit with
the profile they’d generated on their killer.
David didn’t want to believe it. He repeated his
question, adding: “That’s a pretty serious charge.”
Tom looked sullen. “No. Let’s just say I know he’s
a sick fuck.”
“You need to be careful about charging people with
crimes like that. We don’t take that sort of accusation lightly—”
“Okay, I overreacted.”
“To what?”
“Nothing, I was wrong. Forget it.”
They entered an area of cubicles. The walls
matched the carpet and each cubicle held a steel desk, a black flat-screen
monitor, and a phone that looked like it had more buttons than a NASA console.
Each cubicle had an engraved nameplate. Bellamere
had personalized his space by covering the walls with framed Dilbert and Maxine
comics; a Dilbert desk calendar still showed Friday’s date. A red message light
blinked on his phone.
“How does Chris get along with people?” David
changed the subject abruptly. He picked up the desk calendar and flipped
forward, glancing at the cartoons, looking for notes or names. “He argue with
people? Cause fights?”
“Chris do something that might cause a fight?” Tom
looked amused. “You’re joking, right?”
David set the calendar down. He glanced at a
notepad beside the phone. ‘Lunch with Des—B Cactus—Trev???’ The name Trev was
underlined two times in bold strokes. He flipped through a leather folder. It
had more notes; most seemed to be work- related.
“You don’t like gays much, do you, Mr. Clarke?”
“Long as they leave me alone, who cares.”
“How would you characterize Mr. Bellamere as an
employee? Does he do his job competently?”
“Competently?” Tucked against his side, Tom’s
hands curled into fists and he avoided David’s gaze. “I guess so. He’s a good
talker, got lots of people convinced he knows it all.”
“But not you?”
“Listen, I have a lot of work to do—”
“Sure.” David put his notebook away. “I’ve got all
I need for today. Thanks for all your help, sir.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. I believe I can find my way out.”
Monday,
9:35 am Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles
At first Chris ignored the
pounding. One glance at his bedside clock told him it was barely nine-thirty.
He wasn’t expecting anyone this early and all his friends knew enough to call
before dropping by. He hadn’t returned home from a Glendale call-out to take
care of some misbehaving servers until nearly three, and even Petey knew better
than to expect him before noon after nights like that.
But the hammering on his door persisted. Growling
under his breath, Chris threw on a robe and lurched down the stairs. He yanked
the heavy door open.
“What the fuck—”
Detective Laine stood inside the gated courtyard,
between the two short Italian cypresses that flanked the door, studying his
notebook as though it would tell him why his knocking wasn’t being answered.
When Chris opened the door he snapped it shut and slid it into his jacket
pocket.
“Mr. Bellamere—”
“Jesus, don’t tell me, you just have a few more
questions?”
“Yes, sir. If it’s convenient.”
“Why do I feel like I’m in a bad Columbo movie?
So, you’re saying if it’s not convenient you’ll leave me alone?”
Laine stepped closer. The dusty breeze blew
through the open door. “I thought you might be interested in getting your
vehicle back.”
“What’s this? Giving me a ride to grill me for
more information?” Chris couldn’t resist a smile at the thought of David coming
all the way up here to give him a ride.
“No, no...I wanted to talk to you without
Martinez.”
“Why?”
“You don’t seem to like Martinez.”
“You mean there are people who do?”
David actually laughed. “Your body shop picked it
up from impound yesterday morning just as you instructed. I just called and
they said it’s ready.”
Chris went inside to get dressed, while Laine
waited outside in his car, a wine-colored Crown Victoria that had a serious
dent in the passenger door. Chris had to jerk at the door several times before
he could get it open, and when he did it scattered flakes of rust all over the
cobblestone driveway.
Heat swamped him immediately. He looked around,
wondering why the air conditioner wasn’t on. It was the middle of August, for
God’s sake. Belatedly he realized Laine’s window was down.
“No air?” he croaked.
“’Fraid not. Your tax dollars at work.”
The window proved more stubborn than the door.
“Here. There’s a trick to it.” Laine brought the
Crown Vic to a stop under a massive crape myrtle tree whose electric-pink
flowers trailed nearly to the hood of the car. Laine slid off his seat belt and
leaned over Chris. His arm brushed Chris’s chest, muscles bulging as he yanked
down on the handle.
The window moved down a couple of inches. Hot air
poured into the gap. From inside the car Chris could smell soap and Kenneth
Cole. He was so close the pores of the older man’s skin looked like miniature
craters. A single bead of sweat poised on Laine’s temple, catching on a strand
of dark hair. Chris saw some silver mixed in with the sable. David had taken
his jacket off, and Chris saw that his arms were thick with more dark hair. He
was a real bear. David pushed again at the stubborn window. The glass
protested, but this time it went all the way down.
He met Chris’s eyes. “There,” he said. “That
should help.”
Chris nodded, wishing they’d start driving again.
Then he realized the other man was staring at his mouth. Without thinking about
it, Chris licked his lips.
Instantly Laine jerked away. He swung the car out
into the street and eventually turned north on Silver Lake Boulevard. “Has
anything else occurred to you since Saturday night?”
For some inexplicable reason Chris thought of his
dream. He shook the memory away. “You mean do I remember seeing someone with a
can of spray paint trotting down Hyperion? No.”
“This Jay guy, you sure you never saw him with
anyone else?”
“He didn’t come in often.” Chris rubbed the fleshy
part of his thumb. “The one time we were, ah, together he said he was from
Anaheim. I took it to mean he cruised somewhere else.”
“He ever say where?”
“No.”
The cop left it at that, though Chris had the
distinct impression he wasn’t done yet.
At the body shop the Lexus squatted regally
between a rusted-out Saturn and a newer-model Volvo. The late-morning sun
caught the metallic finish so that it gleamed like a newly minted gold coin.
Chris climbed out of the Crown Victoria. He did a
walk around his Lexus, pleased to note that they had done a good job. There was
no way to tell how badly marked up the vehicle had been.