L.A. Boneyard (6 page)

David eased the door open, ready for the dog, hoping it had a good memory. “It’s me boy.”

Sergeant stood just inside the door, still barking, his head lowered, as though ready to charge. David tried to stare the animal, down but it only seemed to increase its rage.

He was about to retreat, when Chris stumbled downstairs in his silk robe, blinking owlishly at the commotion. The dog was instantly at his side.

“I thought you were going to get rid of him.” David noted the dog had a new collar and a set of dog tags. That wasn’t good.

“Couldn’t find the owner.”

L.A. BONEYARD
39

“Chris—”

“I tried, okay. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

David jerked the wall safe open, and put his Smith & Wesson .40 and his gold badge inside, slamming it shut.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“So? People are home on Sunday.” Chris looked at his watch as he led the way upstairs. “So, you just get off work?”

Knowing Chris would smell the beer, David shook his head.

“Stopped for a drink. Needed to unwind.”

“Bad case?”

“Yes.”

“Poor baby.” Chris made room for him on the bed, patting the sheets beside him. Sergeant almost took him up on the invitation until Chris quelled him with a look. “There’s only one guy I share my bed with. Get your own man.”

Sergeant looked wounded, but curled up at the foot of the bed.

David undressed down to his boxers and climbed into bed.

Chris immediately rolled over to fold his arms around his lover.

He nuzzled David’s furry chest. “I missed you.”

David rumbled something that he hoped would seem sympathetic. Chris stroked his left nipple, circling the outline of his chest and nibbling on the flesh over David’s heart.

“You miss me?”

“Sure,” David shifted on the bed. “I’m beat. I have to get up early again tomorrow,” he said, more sharply than he intended, still unsettled by Jairo’s kiss, and his reaction to it. What the hell had he been thinking? “You got the dog back into the vet at least? Tell me you did that much.”

“He read the chip and gave me a contact number. No answer. I left our number and I’ll try to call again tomorrow.”

“Good. Did you make a reservation for next weekend?”

“Yeah.” Chris rolled away from him, the tension between them escalating. “Doug Arango’s. I hear they got a new chef in.”

40 P.A. Brown

David picked up the paperback he was half way through, and slid his reading glasses on. Normally a few minutes of reading relaxed him enough to get to sleep. Not tonight. He could barely focus on the words in front of him. He could still smell Jairo, could still feel his heat, and his strong grip on his cock. It took every ounce of will power he possessed not to get up and march downstairs. Whatever else he did, he had to keep Chris from suspecting anything. “What time?”

“Eight.”

“Good,” he said “That gives me time to do some work in the garden.”

Sunday, 9:10 AM, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles
When Chris rolled out of bed the next morning David was long gone. He fed Sergeant and took him outside, with the Sunday Times, which he read while the dog took care of business. He looked up when the dog stuck his cold nose between his legs. Chris patted his bony head.

“Maybe we’ll take a walk down to the park. How does that sound?”

Sergeant wagged his rump; it obviously pleased him.

Chris went back inside and got the coffee going. While it brewed, he pulled out a yogurt and mixed fresh fruit with it.

Coffee in hand, he sat at the kitchen table and finished the paper. When he couldn’t put it off anymore, he grabbed the phone and called the number the vet had given him. This time a woman answered.

“I’m looking for a...” He checked the name that had been on the implanted microchip. “Barry Dustin.”

“I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number—”

Before she could hang up, he swung forward in his chair.

“Wait. Did you used to own a Doberman. Big black and red male?”

L.A. BONEYARD
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“What? No, my husband and I never owned anything bigger than a budgie. Why do you ask? Did someone tell you we did?”

“Ah, this number came up on the dog’s ID. Did you just get this phone number?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, we did.”

“Sorry then, I guess he moved on.”

She hung up without another word. Chris sighed, and looked down at Sergeant, who wagged his tail hopefully. “You get the feeling fate’s trying to tell us something? We can’t go back to the vet till tomorrow so I guess you’re stuck with me for another day.”

They spent an hour down at the meadow, on the eastern shore of the reservoir, then Chris returned home to shower and dress for his lunch date with Des.

Sunday, 12:30 PM, Northeast Community Police Station, San Fernando
Road, Los Angeles

David was grateful when Jairo didn’t mention last night.

Maybe he realized it had been a huge mistake, too. They spent the morning writing up incident reports, for everybody and their uncle up the food chain. He also had a couple of 60-day reports to produce for two cold homicides that didn’t even have suspects to question. He hated those kinds of reports the worst.

Finally he wrote up the RHD report on the park bodies, the elite Robbery and Homicide Division that often took on the more complex and newsworthy cases the other detective divisions picked up. He doubted RHD would want this mess.

Too much possibility it would prove unsolvable. RHD detested those kinds of public nightmares worse than David. It would probably stay in their court. Lucky him.

At twelve-thirty, they grabbed their suit jackets and headed out to David’s car. Jairo was duly impressed; he whistled.

“Now that’s a nice set of wheels. You did all that yourself?”

42 P.A. Brown

“Yes,” David said stiffly. “Took me nearly six years, but I did it all.”

“You must have spent a pretty penny on this one. Guess it helps having a rich boyfriend.”

“My relationship isn’t really your concern.”

“Right, you’re ‘married.’“

David ignored the dig. His eyebrow went up. “So are you, as I remember. You tell your wife what you’re getting on the side?”

“What do you think? She’s a good Catholic girl. The whole family is. No tolerance there, I assure you. But then you probably don’t know anything about that.”

“You know what they say about assuming things. I didn’t exactly step out of the closet on my own.”

“Was it worth it?”

Considering that anything less than full disclosure would have meant losing Chris, and continuing to live a lie, yes, it had been. “Yeah, it was worth it. Something like that has a way of showing you who your real friends are.”

“It’s still a huge risk. I’ve heard the way the guys talk. They get the sensitivity training up the kazoo and it doesn’t change them.”

“Anybody can talk. I’ve heard a lot of trash talk since the day I entered the academy. You take any of it personally and it’ll grind you down into dust.”

“So you just let it slide off you? That’s hard.”

“I know my worth, and I know what’s right. I don’t need to let anyone’s macho posturing tell me what matters.”

Sunday, 1:40 PM, Koutoubia, Westwood Boulevard, Los Angeles
Chris settled up the bill, while Des managed a final sip of wine. He heaved a sigh of fulfillment, and leaned back in his seat, stretching his arm out over the back of the embroidered love seat. Their waiter served them fresh Moroccan Sweet mint tea. Neither one of them had room for dessert.

“I won’t be able to eat for a week,” Des said.

Chris laughed. “I’m not sure I’ll even move for week.”

“Good thing we don’t try this every day.”

“Ready to head back to my place? I just picked up a nice bottle of Chilean Bordeaux that’s supposed to be good.”

“Yeah, sure. I can get Trevor to pick me up later. He’s working today, but he said he’d be off by five. Can I ask one favor? Can we swing by Melrose, there’s a new store just opened, and you know me, I have to check out the competition.”

“No problem.”

“Good. I won’t be long.” Des grabbed his jacket and stood up. “You still got that dog?”

Chris counted out the cash tip, and slid it into the billfold.

He nodded. “At least until tomorrow. I have to call the vet back, the number he gave me for the previous owner’s no good.

If he has something else, then I guess I call it.”

“Except you don’t want to, do you?”

“Truth? No, I don’t. But David’s a stickler for protocol. He says I have to at least try.”

“He’s right. And maybe it’s for the best. Honestly, Chris, what would you do with a dog?”

44 P.A. Brown

“Why not? David has Sweeney and I’m supposed to be good with that. He never asked me about bringing his cat over when he moved in. I just accepted it. He’ll come around, if we can’t find Sergeant’s home.”

“I hope you’re right. For your sake. I do not want to listen to you whining and crying in your tapenade.”

Chris snorted. “As if.”

Sunday, 2:15 PM, County Coroner’s Office, North Mission Road, East
Los Angeles

The morgue assistant wheeled out two gurneys into the sterile white room, and parked them end-to-end under a row of stark white lights. Lopez waited beside her tray of instruments, shield over her face to protect her from fluids, and sterile gowns covering her street clothes. Nearby other autopsy technicians were working over other tables, moving from body to body. An assembly line of corpses. The County Coroner handled nearly eight thousand autopsies a year. Sometimes the dead were famous, but mostly they were just dead.

The rich effluvium of the morgue, the stench of death, chemicals, and sickly smell of ozone locked into the back of David’s throat. He knew by the time he left here, his clothes would reek. He always kept a change of clothes in his locker just for that reason. Sometimes even his hair stank, and the smell lodged in his nose, so that for days after, all he could taste was death. It was a great diet aid.

Lopez opened the body bag and unfurled the now dirty sheet exposing the adult corpse. The sheet was carefully folded and sent up to trace, where it would be examined for anything that might help identify both the victim and the cause and location of death. Then Lopez set up the X-ray machine and took a series of images front and sides. She measured the length of the corpse, checking its weight on the built-in scale on the gurney. The technician collected and bagged the clothing remnants, which would be tested by trace. Once naked and photographed, the body was carefully cleaned and more L.A. BONEYARD
45

photographs taken. Her assistant saw the tattoo first. Everyone leaned over to look more closely at the discolored, inked skin.

It was a stylized image of an eight-pointed flower, and something that looked like letters, thought David didn’t think they were Latin characters. It looked Russian. He copied the design in his notebook, even though he knew photos would be taken.

“RUZHA?” he asked no one in particular. “That mean anything to anyone?”

Apparently not. The only thing they agreed on is that it wasn’t English.

“Now this is interesting,” Lopez said, focusing the X-ray machine back over the head.

“What is?”

Instead of answering, she pried the woman’s mouth open and shone a strong light inside.

“Interesting,” she repeated.

“What is?” David tried not to show his growing exasperation.

She took another pass with the X-ray, then signaled the photographer to come in for a close-up shot.

“Dr. Lopez...”

“Gold teeth.”

“Gold?” David leaned forward. “You mean fillings?”

“More than just fillings. I’ve never seen this in an American.” She went on, “Trauma on the throat. Pretty excessive. Lots of hesitation marks. Whoever did this didn’t have a clue. A real hack job. Hard to believe someone would sit still for this.” Off David’s look she added, “Don’t worry, I’ll run a full tox screen.”

“Cause of death?” David asked, eying the ragged throat wounds. It was indeed a mess.

“Could be a knife. I’ll be able to tell you more once I get a look at those X-rays. Skull appears intact and is that of a normally developed Caucasian woman. Height is one hundred
46 P.A. Brown

and sixty-four centimeters, gross weight...seventy-one kilograms.”

While the morgue assistant began to capture a visual record of the autopsy, Lopez used a sterile swab on the face and throat. Next, she used a syringe to draw fluid from each of the eyes. She stared at the cloudy liquid in the syringe.

Jairo watched Lopez table the two syringes and leaned forward. “What is that you’re collecting?”

“Vitreous humor. It has a lot of uses forensically. We can make a diagnosis of alcoholism as well as drug use. Changes in potassium levels, lactic acid, non-protein nitrogen, and chloride can help us pin down the time of death, unless too much time has passed. Then the formulas break down. Sorry, wish I could give you more. But we’ll analyze it, and hope for the best.”

“It’ll give us time of death?” Jairo perked up. “I’ve always understood that’s pretty hard to pin down.”

“You heard right.” Lopez met David’s gaze. “Some people expect miracles. This probably won’t help much. My best guess is we’re looking at seven to ten days minimum. Things have been on the cool side these days, that would slow decomp down.”

“Any way to tell if this is the scene of the crime or a dump site?” David interjected.

“Nothing stands out right now,” Lopez said. “Not a lot of external insect activity, so she may have been buried the whole time. I’ll know more, once I open her up.”

But before she did that, she used cotton swabs to take samples of the victim’s ears, nose and mouth. Each one she bagged and labeled.

“Now this is interesting.”

David leaned over to get a closer look at what she was pointing at. It was the swab from the victim’s nose. Tiny white specks, like undersized rice grains, covered one side of the cotton.

“What is it?”