In the Night of the Heat (15 page)

“Busy man,” I said.

“An IT conference. He was booked a year ago, and he couldn't miss it. He hated to go.”

I could hear her disappointment even as she defended him. Usually, I would have taken it slow, drawn out the chase. I tried to talk myself down, but I couldn't.

“My girlfriend broke up with me last night. Long-distance.”

She was the first person I'd told.

“Then it's a bad week for you, too.”

“Not like yours, Mel.”

We sat with our misery for a moment. I ventured another hand to Melanie's knee. After a pause, she brushed it away; but that pause told me what I needed to know.

I stood abruptly. “Excuse me a second.”

I headed straight for her bedroom. I closed the door behind me.

“My guest bath is out here!” Melanie called after me.

I didn't answer. I wasn't interested in her master bathroom.

The bedroom was more cluttered than the living room, the last room packed. The walls were the color of red Georgia clay. There were framed photos of her with T.D. all over the walls, at every phase of life. Just as I thought, Melanie had always been beautiful. She and T.D. seemed more like brother and sister than cousins, I noted. Both of them were only children, and their parents lived locally, so the bond had been forged early.

On her nightstand, I saw a photo of Melanie with a tall, mousy white man I assumed was her fiancé. He had a weak chin and thinning light brown hair, about fifty. Not much to look at, but he was probably a decent guy. Smart. Successful. He'd had the nerve to make his move; he hadn't backed away from her. Maybe that was all she'd wanted. I felt sorry for the other guys of all hues who'd missed out on their chance with Melanie. But I had mine.

I turned the photo with Simon so that it was facing the wall. Then I yanked Melanie's rumpled bedspread, straightening it. I smoothed out the creases. It's not polite to lie on someone's bare sheets in street clothes.

I slid out of my shoes. Then I lay down across the center of her bed, my head propped on my elbow. The direct approach was risky, but it was my best chance.

She knocked on her bedroom door. When I didn't answer, she opened it tentatively.

Melanie stared at me like a mirage. “You must be out of your damn mind,” she said.

I patted the mattress. “Come sit.”

“Fuck you. You definitely have T.D.'s ego. Get off of my bed.”

“Can we hold each other?”

Either she would walk out of the room, or she wouldn't. Clean and simple.

Melanie stayed in the doorway, watching me with a combination of incredulity and anger. Maybe no one had ever tried the direct approach on her. She intimidated the hell out of the men she met; I was certain of that. Most of my clients had been just like her.

“Who's holding you, Mel?” I said. “Who's your rock? Come. Sit.”

It was no longer a suggestion; it was a command. Melanie's eyes narrowed. Then, like a woman sleepwalking, she took halting steps
toward the bed.
That's right. Come on, girl. Come to Papa.
She sat at the edge of the mattress, out of my reach. But close enough.

“I'm engaged, Tennyson,” she said. “He's number two. I want this one to work.”

“I'm not trying to change your future. I wish you bliss. You just look like you need to be nestled up against somebody right now. And I know I do.”

Honesty is always the most effective pitch. It's hard to argue against the truth.

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” she muttered. “You look different in your pictures.”

“Shhhh.” I held out my hand to her. “Let me do for you what Simon would, if he was here. Please.”

Slowly, with a shudder that might have been a muffled sob, Melanie lay beside me. She kept her arms folded across her chest as I slid mine across her waist, cradling her from behind. My chest settled against her back. My nostrils lay at the nape of her neck. I closed my eyes and inhaled the smell of her—African black soap and ripe cherries. My arm drew closer around her.

“I can't do this,” she said.

“You're not doing anything.”

We lay still for a while, our hot cheeks resting together. Her cheek was damp. Her body relaxed against mine, and her next sob came free. Melanie Wilde was out of her mind with grief; I knew that, and yet I held her in her bed. I touched her hair and skin while she cried.

“There's no way around it except through it,” I whispered. When I kissed her neck, I felt her skin tremble beneath my lips.

“Why am I doing this?” She sounded confused. Lost.

“To forget,” I said, and slipped my hand inside her colorful tunic. No bra. With such a heavy fabric, she didn't need one. My fingertips
scurried, finding her breast. It was a hefty mound, natural and full. Her nipple rose to meet my touch.

“I can't…” she began, a plea. But there was no mercy in me. Not an ounce.

“Shhhhh.” I squeezed her nipple gently, and she sucked at the air through her teeth. Women's nipples betray them as much as penises betray men. Melanie's eyes screwed tightly shut. I had her.

Melanie was moaning when I burrowed my head beneath her hot tunic and rubbed my face against her chest. Her nipple slipped into my mouth with a slight taste of baby powder. I licked, then my lips clamped gently and pulled. Only slightly. Melanie writhed. Her hands cradled the back of my head, but she didn't push me away. She held me in place.

Still sucking and teasing her breasts, I yanked the string of her drawstring pants, slowly pulling them down, freeing her long legs.

My face was perspiring when I pulled my head out of Melanie's tunic, back to fresh air. I liberated Melanie from the rest of her clothes. Her body was slightly thin for my tastes, her ribs and collarbone showing in a way April's did not, but she was magnificent. My hands traveled over her shoulders, her chest, her waist. Her belly jumped beneath my touch. My tongue darted into her navel while my hands explored her thighs. Melanie moaned.

I rubbed our faces together, but I didn't try to kiss her. I also didn't remove my own clothes, despite the urgent tug in my jeans. Neither of us was craving kisses. Only escape.

Tie me
, Melanie whispered. My ears missed it, but I read her lips fine.

“Shhhhh,”
I said, forcefully; my arm around her waist became a vise. She didn't want her sexual healing sweet—she wanted it rough. Simon might not like bondage games; maybe they felt too politically incorrect. His loss. I was in the perfect mood.

Melanie was breathing faster already within my grip. I felt her chest rising and falling.

I unbuckled my braided black leather belt.

“Don't say another damn word,” I told her. Melanie gasped, anticipating. Gratitude shone within the grief in her eyes.

I'd retired my bondage kit, which had been elaborate and imaginative, but I was a master with a belt. I twined the leather strap tightly around Melanie's wrists, pulling her closer to the coffee-colored wooden rail of her bedpost. I had just enough leather left to secure the belt to the rail, leaving my hands free. She tugged her binds, testing.

This way, she wouldn't feel responsible.

When she realized she couldn't move, she smiled through her tears. But nervousness fluttered across her face. There's always nervousness with a playmate. Bondage games mean different things to different people. Usually I ask women to give me a “danger word” to let me know when the games have veered from pleasure to pain. From fun to fear. But I didn't want to break the fantasy with Melanie, so I watched her eyes instead.

Her eyes would tell me what she wanted, and how she wanted it.

Our game began.

I knelt between Melanie's spread legs and lifted her torso, hooking her knees across my shoulders. My belt buckle clanked against the wall. I lifted her high to heighten her feeling of helplessness, and she gasped her approval. Her pubic hair was closely clipped, a dusting growing out of an old bikini wax. My tongue roamed the fleshy ridges. She tasted like tears.

When Melanie bucked, my grip across her hips tightened. This time, I held her in place. My tongue circled her damp clitoris, and Melanie thrashed and shouted. The belt clanked again.

“Shit…” she whispered. “Oh, shuh-shit…”

“I told you to be
quiet.
” The irritation in my voice was almost real. I waited for obedient silence until my mouth dived in again. I didn't penalize her for whimpering; most women have never experienced oral arts the way I practice them. Her juices flooded my face. A growl rumbled in Melanie's throat as she tried not to scream.

I could have left it at that. I almost wanted to.
Enough,
a voice inside me said. But my juices were surging too. I reached into my wallet and pulled out one of three condoms I always carry. Still fully clothed except for my open fly, I rolled the condom across my taut, ready skin.

Sorry, Simon,
I thought.
You should have stayed home
. That's the dirty secret. That's what people in relationships don't want to admit. Anyone can stray. Anyone.

Melanie's knees were still wrapped around my shoulder, and I hoisted her higher so our bodies could meet. I know I'm large, so I'm careful about penetration. I took it slow. I saw her eyes widen, surprised, and I watched them for any sign of
Stop.
When none came, I tested a deeper thrust. She gritted her teeth, but her eyes never faltered. I pulled back slightly to gather moisture, and thrust again, harder. Her eyes were steady until they slowly melted away, lost in sensation. Pain was gone. Grief was gone.

I wasn't gentle. I wasn't tender. I pounded.

From habit, I'm always preoccupied with my partner's needs first. I studied her pleasure for a long time before I allowed myself to feel my own. Slowly, I let go. Melanie was tight, and her muscles massaged me with each stroke, much more practiced than April. I felt her clenching me, hoarding me. I ventured deep, until our pelvises bumped. The cords in Melanie's neck strained as she felt me fill her up. Not every woman can tolerate my full length inside of them, but if Melanie was suffering, she kept it to herself. Or maybe she needed the pain.

I stared at her bound hands. Her violently jiggling breasts. Those snapshots fed my fever. I thrust harder, and my next thrust
clanked
the belt when her headboard bumped the wall. I was sweating as my heart raced, driving me. My body controlled us.

Melanie's eyes flew open when my palm clamped around her throat. I held on tightly enough to get her attention, but not enough to cut off the flow of blood or air. She tested her ability to swallow, and I felt her rigid body relax when she realized I wasn't choking her.

Her eyes stayed steady on mine. She flung herself against me, mouthing ecstatic gibberish. So I held on.

I'm often quiet when I climax, but I wasn't that day. I howled, too, as a shock wave rode all the way from my balls to my eyebrows, frying everything in between. My body kept thrusting even after I was sure I had collapsed against her, my muscles sapped of strength. I forgot who I was, where I was. What I was.

When I saw her face again, fresh tears were streaming down Melanie's cheeks. For some women, remorse kicks in immediately. I looked away. Like I said, that was between her and her conscience. She was a grown-ass woman.

Maybe Simon's a nice guy, Melanie. Guess what? I'm not.

I lay beside her, catching my breath as I stuffed myself back into my clothes. I wanted to go, but I wasn't finished yet.

I rubbed her Melanie's arms, toward the belt that held her. “I'll ask you one more time,” I said, my voice still in character. “In all these years, you never saw any behavior in T.D. that made you think he could have killed Chantelle?”

Melanie sighed, heavy and fractured. She was withholding something.

“Tell me,” I said, more gently. I played with the belt, but didn't unhook it. I didn't say so, but she knew I wouldn't untie her until she spoke up.

“In college,” Melanie said in a husk of a voice. “I…walked into his room, and…one of his girls was there. Naked. She was looking for her clothes while T.D. was in the bathroom. She said…”

“She said what?”

“She said T.D. had hurt her.”

“Hurt her how?”

Melanie shook her head, closing her eyes. “I don't know. She said, ‘That fucker tried to kill me,' but she didn't stop when I asked her what she was talking about. She pushed past me and left. In a hurry. She was a football groupie. No one I knew.”

“Did she have marks? Bruises?”

“Her face was bright red. Puffy lips, maybe. I don't know. I just…”

“You just what, Melanie?”

More tears. “I didn't want to believe it.”

“Did you ask T.D. about it?”

Sniffing, Melanie nodded. “He said…it was nothing. And I let it go.” Melanie's next sob was from a deeper place, shredding her throat. “Oh, God. I let it go.”

With the terrible sound of her crying in my ear, I rushed to unhook the belt that bound her. As I pulled Melanie's arms free, she hardly moved. Wherever she was, she had left her body far behind. Melanie Wilde's pain was back, too. I pulled her tunic back on, covering her to her thighs, and held her close. I hushed her, rocking her. Like me, she couldn't carry any more weight on her conscience.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

This time, we had nowhere to hide.

THERE'S A USEFUL AXIOM IN LIFE:
Don't shit where you sleep. I should have remembered that before I drove to Melanie Wilde's condo to take her to bed. There were a dozen other ways she could be useful to me—especially in getting me an audience with Chantelle's parents—but suddenly we weren't in the mood for each other's company.

I cursed myself as I started my drive with nowhere to go. I was fooling myself if I thought I was going to solve T.D. Jackson's murder, or Chantelle's. I couldn't solve my own life. The eastbound 10 was already clogged just because. There's tough competition in L.A., but the 10 may be my least favorite freeway.

Out of one ear, I heard a cell phone ring. Not mine. Chela's. The ring tone was a song I didn't know. I glanced at both of her phones, which lay on my passenger seat. My hands had the steering wheel in a death grip until I realized that her iPhone was glowing, not the one she'd gotten from Internet Guy. I saw the lighted Caller ID:
FAISON
,
BERNARD
.

I knew that name, so I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Uh…” The sound of my voice threw him. He and puberty
were having an argument, with no clear winner. “I must have the wrong…”

“This is Chela's number,” I said. “She left her phone at home. Is there a message?”

“Never mind,” he said, ready to flee.

“Wait,” I said. “Are you the guy from the chess club? You asked her to the formal?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“Great,” I said. “I know she's really looking forward to it.”

“Really? Wow. That's awesome! But…surprising. She never actually agreed to…”

“She'll be there. Arrive at the house a half hour early to pick her up, and bring a corsage. You and Chela are just getting to know each other, so don't take this the wrong way, but girls remember these formals the rest of their lives. This matters, and I want you to make it special. Do you have our address?”

Stammering, Bernard asked me to wait while he grabbed a pen. After he wrote down the address, his voice became more confident. “Whoa. Thanks,” he said. “I wasn't sure what to think. Chela's kinda…I mean, she's
great,
but she's…”

“Don't worry. She'll be ready to go. And I expect you to be a gentleman that night—hear me?”

All confidence was suddenly gone. “Uh…yeah…I'm not…a lech or anything.”

“Chela's had a tough life, Bernard. Try to be one of the bright spots.”

“Cool!” Bernard said. “I can definitely do that. If she'll let me. Hey, thanks.”

He sounded sincere and aware, even mature. I liked him. Now I just had to convince Chela to go to that dance. But I had more than a week left, and a date was half the battle.

When I hung up the phone, I finally had something to feel good about.

All of L.A. was spread before me from the 10, with arteries that could take me toward every possibility in my search for T.D. Jackson's killer.

But I knew the best place to start. I drove straight home.

 

The living room's television set was playing for an empty sofa when I arrived with Asian chicken salad from The Good Earth. Chela was at school, and Dad's door was closed.

When I knocked on Dad's door, Marcela called out instead. “I'm giving Captain Hardwick his bath!”

Too Much Information. Trying to block unwanted images from my head, I sat at the table to wait. I'd seen Chela leave for school, and she hadn't had a duffel bag full of clothes with her. That was a start. Now she just had to make it home. School was out at three, so I might know by four. If she was still in a bad mood, she would enjoy making me worry.

On CNN, file footage showed Melanie Wilde in a business suit as she demanded answers on T.D.'s death at a press conference Monday. The same clip I'd seen. I tried not to contrast her fiery composure on the screen with the shattered woman I'd just bedded, but there was no running away from the memory of her nakedness. As a rule, I don't feel guilty about sex. Ever. But the rules in my life were changing. I was grateful when the clip was over.

From the television studio, Lieutenant Rodrick Nelson himself, Dad's former protégé, coolly answered the commentator's questions about whether LAPD was mishandling the case, even venturing a pitying smile. He was my age, but with an authoritative face. He al
ways reminded me of Richard Roundtree in his prime, down to the mustache.

“We're hearing from everyone from conspiracy theorists to astrologers.” Nelson's baritone could have won him a newsman's job if he'd wanted it. I remembered that voice from Nelson's questioning after Serena's death, and it does what it's supposed to do in an interrogation. “Public reaction to this case has been strong. Naturally, who can fault a family member for her grief? But the evidence of suicide is overwhelming, and we follow the evidence. That said, if any sign of foul play emerges, we'll pursue it. Absolutely.”

“Mmmm! Chinese chicken,” Marcela said, peeking into the takeout bags on the table. She had appeared from Dad's room while I was captivated by the screen.

I remembered my manners and gave Marcela a hug. I had never called her to apologize the way I'd promised my father, and I was sure it was the first thing Dad asked her when she arrived that morning. Her skin felt warm and flushed. She smelled freshly bathed, too. I used to flirt with Marcela back when Dad was in the nursing home, but that had stopped long ago.

“Sorry I was an asshole yesterday.”

She patted my shoulder. “We all have bad days,
chico.
How's your ear?”

I shook my head. “Same. The hearing loss is permanent.”

She pinched my earlobe gently. “Not so fast, Ten. Hearing loss can last for weeks, even months. I'm lighting candles for you. Maybe God will restore what doctors can't.”

I nodded, but I didn't hold out hope of divine intervention. I wasn't exactly one of God's regulars. Still, I never turned down a prayer. Eternal optimism was part of Marcela's charm.

When Dad wheeled himself into the room, he shot me an evil look.

“He apologized, Captain,” Marcela said. “And he brought food.”

We ate at the table together, but neither Dad nor I had much to say. Marcela made up for the lack of chatter, as she usually did, with stories of the elaborate Christmas pig she always prepared for her family. From time to time, Marcela reached over to help Dad cut something, or to wipe food from his chin. Dad was still a clumsy eater. I waited for one of them to mention that we might be spending Thanksgiving together, but neither of them brought it up. When Marcela asked how April was doing, I only said, “Fine.” Barely looking up.

But it was enough for Marcela to understand. Her features flattened; she looked genuinely grieved, almost ill. Then she changed the subject.
Thank you,
I thought.

I gave myself the entire fifteen minutes we were at the table to talk myself out of my plan, but I never managed to. It had always been hard for me to ask for my father's help, but this time I would be betraying a client's confidence. My codes of honor might not impress most people, but they keep me inside the lines. I wouldn't want to know myself without rules. But this was a special circumstance.

While Marcela cleared the table, I brought down my manila envelope.

“I need you to take a look at this, Dad.”

Dad eyed the envelope in my hands, tantalized but already wary.

We went to his room, and I laid out a few pages on his desk. I waited patiently while Dad fumbled to reach his reading glasses on his bureau. I tried not to offer help unless he asked for it, which was almost never. Marcela could wait on him hand and foot, but not I.

Dad only glanced at the papers before he whipped his glasses off again, as if he wanted to erase what he'd just seen. His hand was so unsteady, his glasses dropped to the floor. This time, I reached down to pick them up. They were out of his reach.

“Where…?” Dad said, his shorthand for Where
did you get this?
His face was ashen.

“Judge Jackson.” I'd thought about omitting his name, but Dad would have figured it out. He probably knew before he asked. The stroke had devastated his body, but not his mind.

Dad sighed, shaking his head. I knew that look on his face: He was overrun with things he wanted to say, but he knew his mouth couldn't keep up. He reached for his yellow legal pad on his desk and found a black Sharpie. My childhood home had been littered with Dad's legal pads, and now those pads were the best window into the workings of my father's mind.

Over time, with practice, Dad's handwriting with his left hand had improved. His right hand wasn't paralyzed, but his right side had never fully recovered from the stroke. Handwriting was better with his left hand now. For clarity, he always wrote with block letters. His lines were rigidly straight, like a schoolmarm's.

YOU SAID YOU WOULDN'T BREAK THE LAW.

When my only answer was an impassive stare, Dad sighed and started writing again.

THE INVESTIGATION HAS BEEN BREACHED. THIS IS AN ACTIVE CASE FILE. YOU'RE IMPLICATED IN EVIDENCE TAMPERING.

“Only if anyone finds out,” I said.

Dad laid down his pen. “No one…else…knows?”

Melanie knew, but I didn't dare say so. “Judge Jackson doesn't want it public. And I'm not stupid.”

“You…sure…about that?”

“Most days.”

“Better be.”

He was right. Evidence tampering with the intent to help a criminal evade justice could put you behind bars for years. What I was
doing…well, it was in a gray zone. Whoever had gotten it for the judge was in more trouble than I. If the law came after me I'd stonewall and probably be up for an obstruction charge. Not fun, but I probably wouldn't end up at Guantánamo either.

“I get it, Dad,” I said. “I'm not taking it lightly. You're the only one I trust with this.”

Dad sighed again, running his left hand across his scalp, which shone through patches of white. He sometimes ignored his right hand and right side, entirely, as if the stroke had made part of him invisible to himself. Gazing at him, I realized that not long ago, I never would have believed that I would be discussing an LAPD case file with my father at his old rolltop desk. Two years ago, I had bought his plot at Hollywood Cemetery. I was still making monthly payments.

“Jackson's…gone…crazy,” Dad said, and I remembered that he knew Judge Jackson.

“His son is dead. He wants to know why. Maybe that's enough to make him crazy.”

ENOUGH TO BE IMPEACHED, Dad wrote. WHAT'S YOUR EXCUSE?

Dad waved me away, exasperated by my silence on the questions that mattered to him. I thought I'd blown it, until I realized he wanted to be left alone to look at the pages. He didn't like what I'd done, but he was intrigued. Once a badge, always a badge.

I had reinforcements.

While Dad read the murder book, I went to the screening room to fire up my computer. A call came from Len on my cell phone while I waited to boot up, but I left the call to voicemail. I needed to focus. I wasn't an actor anymore, at least for now. And although I was pissed off about Lynda Jewell and her buddy in props, I had probably just lost my lawyer, too.

Managing my life was too much work, so I wanted to lose my
self in the case. I Googled the names from my notes:
Miguel Salvador. Carlyle Simms. Donald Hankins.

Salvador's name came up frequently in articles about the murders of his brother and Chantelle Jackson; he was obsessed with his quest to see T.D. on death row. I didn't see any threats against T.D. attributed to him, but the letter Melanie mentioned was enough. I hoped I could get my hands on it—Dad's contacts inside LAPD might be able to help with that if Dad would agree. According to one article, Miguel Salvador had a rotisserie chicken restaurant in Pomona called Mama Cluckers. I wrote down the address.

Next, Carlyle Simms. He had played for the Spartans offensive line with T.D. back in the early nineties, later gone pro. He retired from the Miami Dolphins after only three seasons because of multiple concussions. After Chantelle's murder, when T.D. was so distraught that he'd holed himself up in his house, Carlyle was the one who had talked him into unlocking his bathroom to face police. T.D. had a bottle of sleeping pills in his hand, according to some reports—another indication that he might have had suicidal tendencies.

Carlyle had also been T.D.'s primary alibi in court, claiming they'd been at Carlyle's house watching
Monday Night Football
when the murders took place. Carlyle's testimony was part of what had saved T.D.'s ass. Money and celebrity had done the rest.

Could Carlyle's conscience have gotten the best of him after the acquittal? Had they argued? Carlyle's protectiveness of T.D. at the fund-raiser didn't fit the portrait of his future murderer, but Serena's case had taught me not to trust anyone.

Last, Senator Donald Hankins. Google produced a slew of hits for the law-enforcement initiative Melanie had mentioned—worth millions to LAPD alone—but the articles that caught my eye were ten years old, from when he was still a Los Angeles city councilman. A
political rival's aide accused him of threatening to make him “disappear” when they clashed over a proposed building project. They both sued and countersued for defamation. Hankins denied the story, and both cases were dropped, but I printed out a copy of the article.

The aide's name was Kevin Wong. I found him listed as a Washington lobbyist, if it was the same Kevin Wong. Last-known contact information was a firm in D.C. I noted it.

Marcela stuck her head inside my door. “Ten? I knocked.”

I hadn't heard a knock. Hearing loss in one ear wasn't going to be a small problem, I realized. It was hearing loss, period. I felt like I had a bucket on my head, muffling everything. Maybe people got used to it, but I didn't see how.