Prey (36 page)

Poor Rainbow—she was so trusting, so friendly. He felt like a complete fuck taking advantage of that, but it did make his job easier.

In the car, he added the name Mia DeSoto to his extremely tiny list (so far) of people who were potential suspects. He definitely needed to talk to her as soon as possible; she was the favorite to be the informant.

Hell hath no fury like a woman cheated on.

Since he was in the neighborhood, he stopped by Melissa’s apartment to talk to her neighbors, but most weren’t home and the ones that were had nothing of value to say. No one was home at the time of the shooting, and no one knew much about her, as she was one of those who

“kept to herself.” He stopped by the Starbucks where Ashley Cryer had worked, and he got a chatty barista named Matt who was a tall, wispy kid in a canary yellow T-shirt as tight as a second skin, with sterling silver 222

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rings all over his face (nose, eyebrow, earlobes), a shock of electric blue in his spiky golden blond hair, and three loops of barbed wire tattooed on his left wrist. He was happy to talk to him—and give him extra foam on his mochaccino—as he’d liked Ashley and was devastated by her death; he couldn’t figure out who would ever hurt her. Matt was also flamboyantly, obviously gay, as well as extremely impressed that he was a “real-life”

private detective. He agreed to meet Roan later, after work, at the Café D’Ante to talk about “Ash,” but before he left, Matt leaned over the counter and whispered. “I’ll bring her key.” Her apartment key? Jackpot.

Thank God for the flamboyantly gay best friend.

He got back home to find the GTO out of the driveway (Paris had finally put the engine back together and reinstalled it last week; he just felt it had some bodywork left to do) and a note stuck to the front door:
Went
to the store, be back soon. P.S.: You’re a putz.
Okay, yeah, he’d figured Roan had ditched him. He wondered what he’d have to do to make it up to him. A scalp massage would probably make him forget all about it. (In attempting to treat his own migraines, he’d learned quite a lot about scalp massages, and according to Paris he gave great ones. It was kind of a shame that the scalp massages didn’t work for his own headaches, but at least it gave him an odd skill he could seduce men with.) As soon as he’d checked the answering machine (there was nothing of note), he called Kevin, his trusty, closeted inside source in the police department. He could have called Dropkick, but he doubted she’d give him this kind of information. Kevin could. “Detective Robinson.”

“Hey Kev, can you talk freely?”

There was a pause as he checked. He could hear typing in the background, people talking; it was a noisy day at the vice unit. “Kind of,”

he finally said. “How are you?”

“Oh, copasetic. I know it’s not online, but I need you to check the autopsy report on Melissa Elaine Prescott. She’s one of the murder cases being worked by Murphy and Dubois.”

“What?” he exclaimed a bit too forcefully, and then lowered his voice to a hiss. “An active case? Are you mental? How do you expect me to do that?”

“Says the computer whiz. Oh come on, Kev, I have the utmost faith in you. Besides, I don’t need a detailed report, I just need to know if there were any signs she’d engaged in sexual activity shortly before her death.”

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When he and Paris had Randi over for dinner a couple weeks back, he’d managed to cajole the nervous Kevin (“What if someone sees me at your house?”) to come too. Kevin had the most attractive skin color you could imagine; it was a kind of burnished chocolate (his eyes also matched), but otherwise… he looked like a nebbish, the poor guy. He was almost barrel-shaped—not fat, just stocky, broad at the chest and shoulder but a little soft in the middle—and his round face seemed to be set in a permanently hangdog expression, like he was the saddest guy on planet earth. (Which may have been the truth; hard to say, he was just so reserved.) He remained fairly quiet through dinner, which wasn’t a big surprise, especially since Randi and Paris were both so gregarious that they held the floor the entire night.

But Kev hadn’t reacted to Paris like he expected. He glanced at him like,
“Oh wow, look how attractive that guy is,”
but that was it; he didn’t fall in rapt, instant lust like nearly every person who met Paris. He acknowledged he was too damn good-looking and just seemed to move on. Maybe he didn’t like white guys, Roan didn’t know. In fact, he knew next to nothing about Kevin; save for privately outing himself to him, Kevin never talked about personal stuff. He talked computer shit, cop-shop gossip, maybe small talk like the weather and sports, but almost nothing else. He was so far in the closet that not even his personality peeked out very much. Again, this made Roan feel very bad for him. What must it be like to be that tightly wound?

But it seemed to bring home the fact that, while he knew Kevin, he didn’t actually
know
Kevin at all. He had no idea what his ultimate motivation was. He couldn’t quite believe that Kev helped him so much because he was gay and he was keeping his secret, but what other motive could he possibly have?

Kevin sighed heavily, and Roan knew he wanted to say no, but he wouldn’t. He never did. “If I’m caught and fired, you have to make me a partner,” he hissed, then put him on hold.

While he waited, Paris came home, coming in the door juggling two paper bags (Paris always insisted on paper whenever possible, because he hated those “fucking plastic bags”—this was another strangely passionate hatred of his, like SUVs) and a twelve-pack of diet cherry Pepsi. Upon seeing Roan on the couch with the receiver glued to his ear, Paris fixed him with a stern gaze, almost mocking but not quite. “How deep is the shit I’m in?” Roan wondered aloud.

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Paris thumped the bags down on the counter, let the twelve-pack drop to the floor. He held his hand up level with his chin.

“Crap. I don’t suppose dinner and a movie is going to cover this, huh?”

He shook his head and started unpacking the groceries. “Nope, not even buying me something frilly.”

“Damn it, that was plan B.”

His look wasn’t quite forgiving, but he seemed to be thinking about it. “So what did you dig up without me?”

“Eli was fucking Melissa Prescott.”

He made a dismissive noise, shaking his head in disbelief. “And I call myself a man whore. Eli should give lessons.”

“No. Apparently he’s crap in the sack.”

Paris fixed him with a curious, slightly sardonic gaze. “And you know that how?”

“He said so.”

“He just admitted it? Were you holding him at gunpoint or something?”

“No, just slamming his testicles in a desk drawer.”

Paris chuckled faintly, and Roan knew it was okay. If he could make Par laugh, he couldn’t be
that
mad at him. “And you didn’t think to capture this on film? We could’ve had it on YouTube by now.”

“I know, I’m a complete idiot.”

“You said it, not me.”

Par finished putting the groceries away and then walked over to the stereo, sipping from a can of Red Bull. Watching him move in his slightly baggy blue jeans that just barely hovered below waist level and his royal blue T-shirt that wasn’t tight but still showed off his arms and the long line of his back to great effect, Roan wondered how Kevin could not have fallen in lust with Paris. Was he insane? Had he
seen
his ass?

Paris crouched down and flipped through some of their CDs; they had a whole bunch of them, and it was easy to tell whose were whose.

Roan had the punk and the crunchy guitar stuff, while Paris had a lot of electronic, current “alternative” stuff, and the occasional questionable pop Infected: Prey

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rock CD. Sometimes they found a common ground—Roan could tolerate Franz Ferdinand and Interpol; Paris could tolerate Pansy Division and Nine Black Alps—but many times they clashed. “Keane or Orbital?” Par asked.

“Door number three.”

“Pick one or I choose.”

“Oh fuck. Can’t you choose—”

“No,” he interrupted, punching the button on the CD player and opening the tray. “You’re running out of time.”

“This is a reflection of how mad you are at me, isn’t it?”

Paris didn’t answer, he just put in a shiny silver disc and hit the close button, putting the CD case back in the rack before Roan could see what it was. “I guess you’ll find out,” he finally replied, turning the sound down until it was barely audible, giving him some peace for his call. It was the opening strains of “Under The Iron Sea” that drifted down from the speakers set high up on the walls, and Roan figured that meant he had forgiven him. If Par was still really pissed off, it’d be Orbital thumping down at him.

Kev came back on the phone with a huff of breath, as if he’d just sat down. “You do shit for my blood pressure,” he accused.

“But you didn’t get caught, did you? What did it say?”

“Nada. No sign of any… uh, you know.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary at all? Nothing of note?”

“No, just death via gunshot wound to the head.” There was a pause, and Roan suddenly wondered if he had gotten a copy of the report and was looking at it at his desk. He was in vice: that was fucking risky, to look at a homicide file there. Wait a second: where the hell did he get it from anyway? “She had some damage to her back teeth that was consistent with bulimia; you know how all that stomach acid damages the enamel.

Although morning sickness probably didn’t help.”

Roan sat forward, only doubting what he’d heard because Kevin was talking so softly. “What?”

“She was about three weeks’ pregnant at the time of her death.”

There it was—what Eli was trying to hide. A perfect motive for murder.

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6

The Latest Plague

ONCE he’d ended his phone call with Kevin, Roan told Paris what he’d learned about Melissa, and he was shocked. “Does this mean he could’ve done this?”

Roan rubbed his temples, closing his eyes as he thought. “No. What it does is explain why he hasn’t gone to the press about this. All he needs is someone to mention he knocked up one of the victims—a fact he conveniently never mentioned—and he’s under the police microscope. But come on, Par, you know Eli; he doesn’t do his own dirty work. He strikes me as the type of guy who’d faint if he got a paper cut.”

Paris sat near him on the sofa, turned to face him, one leg bent under him casually like he was on Oprah’s couch. “Yeah, but he has motive and people who will do anything for him. He’s a good suspect.”

“Yes, but he’d never have hired me if he was guilty. No matter what he thinks of me as a stinking faggot, he knows I’m good at my job. I doubt he’d give me the satisfaction of nailing him to the wall.”

“So why did he hire you?”

Roan leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling. It was a good question, but at least he thought he had an answer for it. “To clear his name before they can drag him through the mud; find a genuine suspect.

Of course he doesn’t tell me this because he’s afraid I’d balk at helping him.”

Paris touched his hair, stroking it back from his temple, an almost unconscious affectionate gesture. Paris was a very touchy-feely sort of guy, which Roan had had to get used to, since he’d never really been. Now he almost liked it. “Ten thousand dollars wouldn’t be enough?”

“To save his ass from the fire? No.”

“As long as you’re not bitter.”

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He gave him a sharp look, which just made Paris grin. Looking at him closely, though, Roan noticed a strain around his eyes, a tightness in his jaw. Was he still mad at him, or was it something else? “Got something on your mind?”

“Other than you being an asshole?” he replied, but with some humor.

His grin faded as he sighed, considering whether to tell Roan or not, and ultimately decided to go ahead. “Actually, I got a weird phone call today.”

“Weird how?”

He propped his elbow up on the back of the sofa, resting his head on his hand, tilting his face at an angle best described as rakish. “Remember when I talked to that reporter about the Hatch case?”

“Yeah. Did he call back?”

“No. He just put my name in the article, and the article is apparently available online. My sister found it somehow, and she was able to use the online phone directory to find our number. She left me a message.”

“Oh?” Roan kept his tone casual, but he knew this was important.

Paris had had no actual contact with his family since he’d been infected; he occasionally sent a postcard to let them know he was alive and okay, but never left a return address or told them where he was or what he was doing. They didn’t know of his infected status either, and Roan honestly had no idea why Paris kept his distance from them, since he’d told him he got on well with his family. “Which sister?”

“Annie—Antigone. She wanted me to call her back.”

He stroked the left side of Paris’s jaw with his thumb, feeling rough but almost invisible stubble. Paris leaned into his touch. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I guess I don’t have a choice, do I? She knows where I am. And she’s pushy enough that if I don’t call back she’ll just show up on our doorstep one day.”

“So call her and let her know you’re all right. That’s probably all she wants to know.”

He scoffed. “You don’t know Annie. She’s a lawyer, and she’s pushy as hell. She’ll want to know why I’m here, why I’m working for you, and where I’ve been all these years. I’m not sure I want to tell her, and sadly, she knows when I’m lying. She’s immune to my charm.”

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He wondered what the subtext was here. “Do they know you’re bisexual?”

Par licked his lips nervously and avoided his gaze. “I never exactly told them. If they asked around at college, they may have figured it out.…”

“If it makes it easier, just forget me. Tell her we’re friends and leave it at that. I won’t be offended.” Yeah okay, so maybe this made him a hypocrite, since he wasn’t crazy about people who decided to spend their entire lives in the closet, but he’d actually hoped Paris would reconnect with his family before the tiger strain burned him out. Paris wouldn’t admit it, but Roan suspected that he missed his family, and if they had to lie about their relationship so he could be with them again, so be it. He was willing to take that hit for Par.