L.A. Boneyard Read online

  “Hurrah! Detective David Eric Laine and computer whiz Christopher Bellamere are back at long last in a big, fast-paced, edgy tale of lethal lust in the City of Angels. P.A. Brown just keeps getting better.”

  Josh Lanyon

  author of the Adrien English Mysteries

  “The crimes are as turbulent as the gay-cop emotions in this CSI-meets-butch-guys-in-love romantic thriller. Pat Brown has as sharp an eye for crime-scene forensics as for the ins and outs of gay love among LA’s men in blue.”

  Richard Stevenson

  author of the Don Strachey PI novels

  “P.A. Brown is a master of the modern Los Angeles police procedural, etching a portrait of California’s bright sunshine and dark shadows, and the even darker villains who lurk behind the chaparral and klieg lights.”

  Neil S. Plakcy

  author of the Mahu mysteries

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  L.A.

  BONEYARD

  P.A. BROWN

  mlrpress

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2009 by P.A. Brown

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Published by

  MLR Press, LLC

  3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.

  Albion, NY 14411

  Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet: www.mlrpress.com

  Cover Art by Deana C. Jamroz

  Editing by Kris Jacen

  Printed in the United States of America.

  ISBN# 978-1-60820-018-4

  Issued 2009

  To my daughter Victoria, always supportive even if she doesn’t understand why I write what I do.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A shout out to Mark Jesko who helped me with the Ukrainian culture and told me some interesting facts about his people. And he makes great pysanky.

  Thanks to Neil Plakcy, author of the wonderful Mahu books, who read an earlier draft and gently pointed out some major flaws. Also thanks to B.J. Ryan and Ann Hoyt for their help in making the Los Angeles in my stories real.

  An extra special thanks to Kathy Bennett, veteran LAPD

  police officer who helpfully pointed out all my errors and helped me get the color right. If I missed something or put it in anyway, it’s literary license. I’m entitled.

  Also thanks to Tony Rafael, whose book Mexican Mafia was truly inspirational.

  Another special thanks to all the great people at MLR Press who actually paid me to write! Laura Baumbach, Kris Jacen, and Deana. You guys rock.

  And finally, thanks as always, to the wonderful El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de Los Angeles the city of Angels and the freaky, crazy, marvelous people who live there. Without you there would be no stories.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday, 8:20 AM, Vista del Valle Drive, Griffith Park, Los Angeles Something had done a number on the corpse.

  The early morning call-out had been brief and to the point.

  Griffith Park. Shallow grave. Mutilated arm. Probably wild animals.

  LAPD homicide detective David Eric Laine hoped it was animals. He crouched beside the makeshift grave, behind the screen of freshly broken branches and crushed vegetation, studying the exposed arm with the manicured nails and winking diamond ring; the animals had nearly worked off the bone.

  Wondering what her final moments had been like. Knowing it had been ugly. He looked beyond the grave, visualizing. Had he raped her? Had that been the last indignity she had suffered, before the ultimate one?

  Overhead, dense black clouds roiled across the western sky, a late Pineapple Express had roared in last night, straight from Hawaii, promising more rain in an already wet spring. The chaparral and Ceanothus had started their seasonal bloom, thin green shoots emerging from what had once been desiccated limbs. Under foot the moisture retaining hydro-mulch, spread after the ravaging 2007 and 2008 fires, soaked his feet, chilling his skin. The steady thump-thump of the LAPD airship called in to do an aerial survey echoed his heartbeat, driving him relentlessly, as unforgiving of failure as he was.

  David scanned the ground, taking in the fresh horse tracks, and the fading coyote spore. The animals had scattered when the woman who found the body nearly rode her horse over them. She stood with her shoulder touching her horse’s neck, the animal’s reins still held in her gloved hand. Blindly she touched the burnished chestnut coat, seeking comfort. David turned away; he had nothing to give her. His promises were for 2 P.A. Brown

  the dead. They didn’t ask for guarantees. They didn’t get angry when he was called away in the middle of the night to do his job.

  “So what have we got?” he asked.

  The first officer on the scene, Donald Lessing, pulled out his notes, “I received a call at seven-fifty-six AM that a body had been discovered in a shallow grave. My partner and I were dispatched, and arrived about fifteen minutes later.” He indicated his partner, a paunchy, silver-haired Asian, who was adding a second loop of barrier tape to keep out the curious, then indicated the equestrienne, “We found Mrs. Rosenfield right about where she is now. She was pretty upset.”

  “I’m sure the last thing she expected to find was a dead body on her morning ride.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Nothing could be done to process the crime scene until the photographers had taken their shots. Everything had to be kept intact to preserve possible evidence. They had the time; the body wasn’t going anywhere. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

  He amended that, maybe they didn’t have so much time.

  David studied the dark, crouching clouds, and wondered if Chris would get over his snit long enough to close the windows against the coming rain. Otherwise their newly refinished oak floors were going to get a soaking. One more thing for Chris to get pissed at. He retraced his steps and approached the horse and ride
r.

  He pulled out a notebook and twisted his arm around to check the time, only to discover he wasn’t wearing his watch.

  Right, he’d stuffed it into his jacket pocket after he’d left an angry Chris in bed this morning. Chris always seemed to be angry these days. He got that way when he was between jobs.

  He drew out the Rolex Chris had given him for his fortieth birthday and wrote the exact time, the crime scene location, and his own name and rank. David studied the watch ruefully. He had told Chris a gift like that was too extravagant, but Chris wouldn’t listen. “You deserve it,” he had said. “You put up with me for four years, didn’t you?” Still, David took it off when he L.A. BONEYARD 3

  could; out of sight of Chris, who took it as a personal affront when he didn’t wear it all the time. David was a Timex kind of guy. Even after four years he never got comfortable with the easy wealth Chris displayed.

  Mrs. Rosenfield looked young. David doubted she was more than twenty-five. Under normal circumstances she would have been attractive—large, doe eyes, soft hair flying loose from under her riding helmet. But now her face was pale, and her eyes were glassy with shock. David pushed aside his sympathy and assembled his cop face; the one Chris hated so much, claiming it made him look cold and robotic. Well, there were times when cold and robotic was the right way.

  She wore a tailored riding outfit and boots that gleamed, even in the sunless light. A pulse beat in her throat, like a wounded animal.

  “Mrs. Rosenfield,” he said. “I’m Detective David Eric Laine.

  Could I have your full name, please?”

  “Danielle,” she said. “Just call me Danielle.” Her gaze darted toward the grave. “Who is it? Do you know—?”

  “No, ma’am, Danielle, we don’t know that yet. Can you take me back to when you first spotted something out of the ordinary?”

  “S-sure.” She visibly collected herself, her hand going out to stroke her horse’s neck. “Toby and I were on our morning ride, when these coyotes came racing right out under our noses—I thought they were attacking us at first. You hear about how bold they’ve gotten over the years.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” What coyotes could do was frightening. What people could do to each other was so much worse. “What then?”

  “Once they ran away I realized they were just as scared as we were. I was going to head back home. I’m supposed to be to work at ten.” She shook her head, a strand of hair falling over her eyes. She swept it aside with a kidskin gloved hand. “I guess I should call my boss. I don’t think I’ll be in today—” Her voice broke.

  4 P.A. Brown

  “Yes, ma’am,” David said gently. “What was the first thing you noticed before the coyotes appeared?”

  “Toby spooked.” Rosenfield grimaced. “I guess when he got wind of them. He nearly dumped me. That was when I saw the arm. I screamed. That must have scared them away without taking...taking it with them.” The grimace deepened and the flesh around her mouth whitened.

  More thunder cracked, closer this time. She looked around uneasily.

  “Anything else you can recall about your ride?” David asked even more gently, knowing she was very close to losing it.

  “Before you noticed anything amiss?”

  ”We rode by the Roosevelt Municipal golf course,” she said.

  “I go that way all the time. Usually it’s so peaceful...”

  “You see anybody on the links?”

  “Two players, and a caddie.” Rosenfield squinted as she recalled her morning. “I don’t pay much attention to the golfers, unless they’re driving carts. Sometimes they spook Toby.”

  “Would you recognize the golfers if you saw them again?”

  “W-what? You don’t think they had anything to do with this, do you?”

  “It’s just standard procedure,” David assured her. “Look, I know this is tough. Even cops can have a hard time stumbling across something like this. If you like, I can give you the number of a victim’s support group. They can help you with this, if you want.”

  “T-thank you. I don’t think that’s necessary...”

  David handed her the card anyway. “You might change your mind. I hear they’re good.”

  She slipped the card into her jacket pocket. He knew she wouldn’t call. He’d seen it before. Misplaced pride would keep her from seeking help. “What did you see then?” he prompted.

  “I didn’t know what it was at first, then I thought it was a mannequin.” She gave a short bark of laughter, quickly stifled.

  L.A. BONEYARD 5

  “That someone had stolen a storefront dummy and was playing a gag. It was only after I saw the teeth marks that I knew.” She swallowed convulsively and David wondered if she was going to be sick. The human arm had been heavily gnawed by strong jaws. He distracted her as smoothly as he could.

  “I need you to come down to the station, to make a formal statement. I can send someone out to get you if you like—”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll drive myself. Will I have to go to court?”

  “I won’t lie to you. It depends on the D.A., and whether a suspect is found, and it all makes it to court. But I’m sure someone from the prosecutor’s office will be in touch with you if it becomes necessary.”

  David watched her stiffly remount her horse and urge it back onto the trail. They broke into a fast trot before they were out of sight. He very much doubted she would ever ride this peaceful trail again.

  Out of the corner of his eye, David saw a white Pontiac Firehawk, splattered with debris from the previous night’s rain, pull up beside the LAPD crime scene van. It was driven by a lithe, dark-skinned Latino man, with that young urban scruffy beard thing going on. Chris, always quick to adopt new fads, had tried it once, until David complained that it was like kissing five o’clock shadow, all day long, and he reluctantly shaved it off.

  The Latino climbed out of the low-slung car. He surveyed the scene of controlled chaos with dark eyes, taking in everything in a sweeping glance, before he shrouded them with a pair of Ray Bans. He looked like he just stepped out of GQ, sharp creases on his wool dress pants and sedate black and blue tie. He wore his gold detective’s badge on a chain around his neck. David caught a glimpse of his Beretta nine under his LAPD blue nylon wind breaker. Incongruously, he wore a pair of hand-tooled black and blue Tony Lamas boots instead of the usual military gear most new detectives favored. David wouldn’t be surprised if he had a closet full of Levis and Stetsons at home. He was a tall man, though not as tall as David’s six-four, 6 P.A. Brown

  dark-skinned, with high cheek bones. His eyes were dark and dangerous. Too dangerous for David’s taste.

  The guy was going to spell trouble.

  Already the eyes of the two female SID criminologists kept straying his way. David had heard rumors about the guy, even before he was assigned to Northeast; he’d ignored them at the time, like he ignored all the trash talk around the squad room.

  In the stories the guy was a wannabe actor. David had heard—

  and dismissed—the story about his involvement with a producer’s wife that had ended messily. The tabloid press had been all over it. Maybe the guy had a problem keeping his dick in his pants. Maybe he was only guilty of bad judgment. He wouldn’t be the first. Cops and badge bunnies went together like chili and fries.

  David extended his hand and introduced himself. Might as well give the guy the benefit of a doubt, he didn’t like it when people jumped to conclusions about him. Being one of the few openly gay detectives carried its own baggage. “Glad to have you on board.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the detective said. “Detective Jairo Garcia Hernandez.” He pronounced it Yairo. “Most gringos call me Jerry.” His smile was all teeth and David knew he was being tested by the new D.

  He’d nip that one in the bud before it went south. “I think I can handle Jairo.” He gave the word a Spanish lilt. The guy wasn’t going to catch this gringo ignorant of the language.

  G
ood looking or not, he was just another rookie D.

  Jairo saw the Rolex on his wrist and whistled. “Nice watch.

  Your wife give you that?”

  “No, I’m not married,” David said. Deciding to make small talk, he ventured, “You?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s that going for you?” Cops loved marriage; so many of them did it so often.

  L.A. BONEYARD 7

  “Fine.” Jairo grew defensive. “You gonna tell me that’s gonna change? Already got that from my smart-ass sergeant first time I showed up for roll-call.”

  “It’s hard,” was all David said. “Marriage is a work in progress.”

  “So you were married? She divorce you?”

  David shrugged. He finally slipped the Rolex off and tucked it back into his inner pocket, over his heart. It would be safer there, away from nosy rookies. “It’s complicated.” Then he saw Jairo had noticed the plain gold band he wore on his left ring finger. The gold band Chris had given him following the first year they had lived together. He closed his hands into fists, but made no attempt to hide the thing. What was the use? He was almost as notorious in the LAPD as Mark Fuhrman.

  Jairo’s disingenuous eyes widened. “You’re the... you’re him.”

  David saw something glitter on the ground at the entrance to the crime scene, and crouched down to study it. It was a bottle cap. Still, he signaled a photographer over to take a picture. Sometimes the littlest things proved useful. Sometimes they were just litter. All around them crime scene techs were placing evidence flags, and doing their best to catch everything, before the skies opened up. He was glad to see that the victim’s hands had been bagged, covering the ring he had seen earlier.

  “You can say it, you know.” David stood up and brushed debris off his pants. “I’m the gay cop.”

  Jairo flushed and looked away. “Yes, sir.”

  Now what was that all about? Surely as soon as he knew who his latest senior partner was going to be, Jairo would have known all about David’s sordid “secret.” He would have found all kinds of officers eager to share the scuttlebutt about who he’d been saddled with. “That’s Detective, Hernandez.” David was already beginning to miss Martinez, his partner of ten years.