L.A. Mischief Read online

  He looked up again to find Martinez off his line looking despondent. “Feel like taking a drive?” he asked before Martinez could speak.

  “Where?”

  “Griffith Park.” He tried to keep a straight face but Martinez knew him too well.

  “What?”

  “We’re looking for one Holly Barnes, recently abducted by aliens. No doubt being anal-probed as we speak.”

  “Alien—You’re serious?”

  “I’m not, but her friend was. Government cover-up. Hidden space ships and lights in the sky.”

  “Always wanted to find me one of those. The kids would love one under the tree at Christmas.”

  Martinez’s grin slipped. “So you doing anything important right now?”

  “Yeah, calling the FBI about a possible UFO abduction, what do you think?”

  “I think you need to get out more.”

  David didn’t wince outwardly, but he did inside. He had been getting out more since his silent break up with Chris—silent at least in the eyes of his partner. He hadn’t made a big deal of the fact that they were no longer seeing each other and Martinez would never ask.

  Martinez would be comfortable with never hearing about David’s aberration ever again.

  But David had been going out. It shamed him no end, but he’d had a taste of what it was like to be open about his sexuality and he was loath to crawl back into the closet completely. So he went out.

  And sampled.

  Each morning after he berated himself for letting his libido control him, and most nights he could ignore the call, but then the pressure would build up and he would have to find an outlet for it. It had been three days since his last breakout and his body was giving him the unmistakable signals that it was time.

  So far he’d fought it, but he knew, deep in his gut, that the fight was one-sided.

  The only question was where he would pursue his pleasure.

  He had avoided the places in Silver Lake and WeHo where he knew Chris hung out. He didn’t think he could stand to see Chris using his considerable charms on some other man. He wasn’t prepared to go back to the rare trip to Palm Springs but he had to find a place Chris wasn’t likely to go. He settled on The Eagle, a leather bar in Silver Lake. He wasn’t at the point of gigging himself up, but he loved the way it looked on a muscular man.

  Even that shamed him.

  He forced his overheated thoughts back to the moment. He focused on Martinez. “Got something in mind?”

  “Just got a call out for a drive-by on Drew Street. Interested?”

  “Let’s check it out.”

  Drew Street in Glassell Park was a notorious gang hangout primarily run by the Avenue gang, a subset of the Crips. A gang injunction had been laid against them and a major bust had led to numerous arrests of high-ranking gang leaders. But like a bad smell, the gang regrouped and was back in business.

  Ironically, they were only a couple of hundred yards from the Northeast Police Station as a ghetto falcon flew.

  This drive-by had netted two bodies, one of them a six year old. The kids were always the worst. They stood on the front steps of the structure called the Twin Towers after the LosAngel es County Jail in downtown L.A. because so many of the residents were ex-cons, staring down at the tiny body curled up under a rusted out lawn chair. The second victim, an older teen, lay on the lawn, her short skirt and T

  hiked up over bare legs. A single gunshot wound marred the nearly flawless skin of her forehead.

  David crouched to get a closer look. Near the graffiti-covered street several shell casings from a nine millimeter weapon had been recovered.

  “Who was she?”

  “Avenue gangbanger, Maria Real. That’s her daughter, age six. No one seems to know who the father is.” Martinez looked bleak. “Pretty much the same news all over.”

  David glanced out at the street, studying a pair of tennis shoes that had been tossed over the power line in front of the apartment. The silent signal that the dealers were in and open for business. His gaze swept back over the yard then out to the street where the shooters had probably driven. Had the woman been their target? Or just collateral damage?

  “Any one see anything?”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  David sighed. Right. No one ever saw anything on Drew Street.

  Larry Vance the SID crime scene technician stepped out of his van, lugging his 3D Leica camera. A second tech was flagging the shell casings and any other evidence the site might yield. He didn’t expect much.

  In the real world there would be no fingerprints on the shell casings. No tire marks would be matched to some unique vehicle that only one particular gangbanger drove. And of course, no witnesses would develop a conscience and risk their lives to clean up Glassell.

  They spent hours canvassing the neighborhood then called in a couple of patrols in to take the canvass through the Twin Towers. You never knew. Sometimes you got lucky. And it never hurt to tell the bad guys you were on to them. One thing about Glassell, there was no interest from the local news hawks.

  Glassell didn’t register on the radar of the average Cali reader.

  They grabbed lunch out of a mariscos truck in Eagle Rock and headed back to the station to write up their reports. The autopsy would be scheduled later. They hadn’t decided which of them would attend.

  They spent the afternoon going over various cases, including writing up a sixty-day report on another Drew Street homicide that still hadn’t yielded any suspects, and at this late date wasn’t likely to. David had a bad feeling about this latest one. Drew Street homicides had a dismal habit of entering a black clueless hole.

  That evening David was scheduled to speak at the monthly Community-Police Advisory Board. It wasn’t his first choice of a night’s entertainment, but the Lieutenant wanted him there. David figured it had as much to do with his being gay as his media savvy. He spent the last hour at his desk going over his notes.

  Dinner was leftovers and a Bud. The CAPA meeting went without any major public blow-ups. The Drew Street shooting was mentioned, but David wasn’t surprised when no one seemed willing to apportion any blame to the young teen mother who had chosen the life and taken her daughter with her.

  Just one more dead banger, probably killed by one of her own people.

  Thirty minutes after the meeting was ended, he entered the Eagle. He could hear the heavy beat of rock music through his feet. He slipped off his Ray Bans and nodded at the bouncer. Inside the TV screens were full of hard core porn and the dark paneled walls were covered with posters advertising upcoming shows. He stared at a heavily muscled blond wearing a leather and chrome harness and a skimpy jock that barely concealed his massive cock and balls while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The guy looked back with interest.

  David stepped up to the bar and got his Bud and retreated to the patio where the music was softer. He studied the sparse crowd. The air was full of sexual tension and smelled of testosterone and poppers. He watched three men playing tonsil hockey grope each others’ rigid cocks. He got hard as he let himself play with the fantasy: what would a threesome be like? It wasn’t long before he felt the presence beside him and a hand went between his legs, cupping his hard-on.

  Moist lips traced the outline of his jaw and nibbled on his ear lobe.

  “Was hoping you’d come in tonight.”

  He turned and looked down into Blair’s dark eyes. “I wasn’t going to.”

  “My loss.”

  David pulled muscular black man into his embrace. “No,” he said huskily. “Mine.”

  The heavily muscled blond walked out onto the patio and David’s eyes slid over him again, raw lust on his features. Blair picked up on the look and desire as he pressed his hot lips against David’s throat.

  “Interested in a three-way?” he whispered.

  “Maybe,” David answered, his voice husky.

  Just before his lips closed over David’s Blair murmured, “Let me
ask around.”

  Tuesday, 2:30 am, Piedmont Avenue, Glendale

  David stared down at Blair on his knees in front of him, his cock down his throat, his long fingers around his hips, kneading the flesh of his ass. Behind him the tall blond had his cock pressed against David’s ass.

  Wearing only his leather chaps, Blair was all muscles and sleek hardness. His talented mouth was wrapped around David’s cock and David was hoarsely urging him on. His balls crawled up against the base of his cock and he almost lost it. David abruptly pulled him away. When Blair looked up, his wet mouth open, his eyes glazed, David drew him to his feet and silently propelled him around to lean over the arm of his easy chair facing the dark TV. Blair obeyed without a word and spread himself for David.

  He skimmed a condom on, already leaking pre-come, and slathered it with lube. Then he shoved it up Blair, who yelled and rammed his ass backward to take him in deeper. At the same time their silent partner, Toby, fell to his knees and began rimming David. David cried out and grabbed Blair’s hips to steady himself.

  “Hold on,” David growled as he began to plow into Blair, until they were all panting and gasping for air.

  His orgasm mounted again and this time he gave it free rein. He grabbed Blair’s thick cock in his hand and using his pre-come as lube, began pulling hard on him, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He slammed into his orgasm, his legs going rigid as he filled the condom reservoir with come and felt the pulse of Blair’s orgasm splash over his fist and Blair’s stomach. Behind him Toby was pumping his own cock toward orgasm. Before it came, David spun around and dropped to his knees, taking Toby into his mouth. Toby grabbed David’s head and rammed his cock down his throat. He howled when he orgasmed, his whole body going taut as he poured salty come down David’s throat.

  Only the chair arm kept them from tumbling to the carpeted floor. This time David helped Blair shed his chaps and led them into his bedroom, where they stretched out on his queen bed, touching along their whole length, knees, hips, shoulders. Blair and Toby played with the thick mat of dark hair on David’s chest, moving down to circle both balls with tender fingers. Black, brown and white. A walking porn movie.

  “I’m glad you came down to the Eagle last night,” Blair murmured against David’s throat as they all drifted in and out of sleep. They dozed for a while, though David had no idea how long. He awoke to find Blair watching him.

  “Guess I fell asleep.”

  “Yeah.” Blair stroked his rapidly hardening cock. “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

  “Don’t know yet—” David’s cell shrilled in the silent room. He lunged for it, pulling it out of the chinos he had shed earlier, before they had moved the game to the living room where Blair and Toby could model their gear.

  “Laine here,” he barked into the phone.

  It was Martinez. “Got a DB at Forest Lawn.”

  David frowned. “Lots of them there.”

  “Yeah, well this one ain’t in a coffin and he’s missing a few body parts. We’ve got a dog team coming out to try to find them.”

  “What kind of body parts?” David asked suspiciously. It wasn’t like Martinez to be coy.

  “Head. Hands. Pingo —”

  “Pin—” It took David two seconds to remember that meant cock. “Jesus.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Grabbing fresh underwear, and regretting that he had no time to shower, he stooped and kissed Blair lightly on his stubbly chin. At his signal Toby grabbed his own clothes and got dressed; Blair stayed on the bed. “Gotta run,” David said. “Lock up?”

  “Sure. See you tonight?”

  David shook his head. Unless this one turned out to be a slam dunk, he could easily be working it for the next day or more. “Don’t know. Don’t count on it.”

  Blair nodded. Not happy, but then he’d learned fast the kind of hours a cop kept. He was an EMT, so he understood. David thought of Chris and how he had never adapted. Had never made the adjustments so necessary in any kind of relationship with a cop.

  No, don’t start thinking about Chris. It’s done. It should never have started n the first place. Chris was a mistake, and David wasn't going to make another one like it.

  He jerked on his pants, then checked his weapons, a Glock .45 and a backup .38 he wore on his ankle.

  He shrugged on a jacket and headed to the bedroom door. Behind him he heard Toby collecting his gear and tugging on the jeans he had worn to the Eagle under his leather chaps. David turned and watched him dress, wishing he didn’t have to run. Already regretting his impetuousness the night before. Was he losing his mind? How else to explain the insane risk taking. He was a cop, for God’s sake. He knew all too well what happened to guys who took risks like that. Then his gaze drifted toward Blair.

  “Grab a shower if you want. There’s a coffee maker in the kitchen.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll grab a Starbucks on my way home. Call me.”

  David nodded, his mind already tracking ahead. Building a mental image of what Martinez had described to him. Knowing already it was going to be a messy one. He glanced again at Toby. “I can drop you someplace.”

  “Sure.”

  He let them out, locking up behind them. He let Toby out on Chevy Chase Drive and didn’t watch as he walked away. Then he sped south toward Forest Lawn.

  Return to TOC

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, 6:20 am, Palm Drive, Beverly Hills

  DES’S USUALLY SPOTLESS Beverly Hills bungalow looked like a cyclone had rolled through it.

  Dirty clothes littered the living room floor, something Chris didn’t think he’d ever seen in all the years he’d known Des. There were even dirty dishes in the normally immaculate kitchen. Chris hadn’t been brave enough to visit the master bedroom and en suite bath yet.

  He pulled out Des’s Rolodex. As much as he had harped on his friend, Des had never entered the twenty-first century. The only computer he allowed in the house was the one his accountant used to keep his books.

  Flipping through the cards, he had little trouble finding Des’s cleaning company. Beverly HillsAngel s, providing a heavenly clean, or so said the business card he had attached to his tab.He called them, got an answering machine and left a message. He wondered when Des had canceled the service and what had he been thinking when he had done so. Maybe Des was a lot worse off than Chris suspected.

  When he had finally reached Des’s place last night, he had found Des huddled on the love seat, staring unseeing at the wall full of movie posters he had been collecting for as long as Chris had known him. His gaze was locked on the Bogart and Bacall poster for The Big Sleep, one of Des’s favorite movies. Chris knew he wasn’t actually seeing the image. Instead he suspected images of a killer haunted his waking mind.

  Chris had gently touched Des’s shoulder, who jumped and screamed at the light touch. Chris’s heart slammed into his throat.

  “Des! It’s me.”

  He spotted an empty bottle of prescription pills and with trepidation picked it up.

  Alprazolam—Xanax—prescribed by Dr. Forsyth. He met Des’s glazed eyes. “Who’s this?”

  “What?”

  “This isn’t your doctor. Who’s Dr. Forsyth?”

  Des waved his hand languidly. “Just this guy.”

  Chris slammed the bottle down on the Tema coffee table. Des flinched. “What the hell does that mean?

  Weiser is your doctor—where’d you find this guy?”

  “Clive told me about him.”

  “Clive?” The little queen who worked in Des’s boutique on Robertson. The guy made Des seem emotionally stable. Not the smartest person to be getting medical advice from. “He uses this...” he was going to say quack, instead he said, “guy?”

  “So did Kyle,” Des said bleakly.

  Oh great. The endorsement of a flaky dead man. “Does Weiser know you’re seeing this other...

  doctor?”

  “Of cou
rse... yes,” Des grew flustered. “I don’t know. I think I told him.”

  Chris headed into the kitchen where he knew Des kept his meds and began pawing through the drawer, finding half a dozen bottles, only half of which had been written by Dr. Weiser. He held up the Ativan Weiser had prescribed, after telling both Des and Chris it was for short term use only until Des’s therapy began to help. He had also prescribed propranolol, a beta-blocker to go along with the CBT, or cognitive behavioral therapy he hoped would help Des work his way through the trauma of the attack and rape. But he had been firm, explaining that Des wasn’t going to become whole again by dosing himself with chemicals. Apparently Des didn’t agree.

  Chris carried the meds back to Des who was still staring at the Bacall poster.

  He got between Des and the poster. “What are you on, Des?”

  “Nothing.”

  “How many did you take?” Chris held up the empty vial of Xanax. He added the half empty vial of Ativan and waved it under Des’s nose. This close he could smell something else. He reared back. “Jesus, Des, have you been drinking, too? You know you can’t drink and take these things.”

  “Why not?” Des said. “You do.”

  That stopped Chris cold.

  “You think I didn’t see you come crawling out of the Pit stinking of poppers and booze and God knows what else? Maybe you started fucking your toys in public bathrooms again. What’s next, park rest stops?

  Cruising Griffith Park? I thought you were better than that. I thought—” Abruptly he turned away. “You stopped for David. You were good with him.” He jerked away from Chris’s touch. “David was the best thing that ever happened to you and you threw him away. How could you do that?”

  “I never...”

  “Yes! You did!” Des slammed his fists into his thighs. “I watched you. I lost everything when Kyle died.

  My baby... but you, you threw yours away.”

  “It wasn’t like that. Hell, we tried. But it was hard. He’s not like me—”

  “No, he’s not. He was good. He wasn’t one of your pieces of mindless eye-candy. He’s was the only real man you ever met. And he loved you. But you could never see that, could you?”