Infected Freefall Read online

  “Of course they do. I’m just a dumb ex-cop who has to make his living taking pictures of other people’s cheating spouses. I can’t be that hard to fool.” Roan moved to the couch and sat on the arm, figuring things were done.

  Gordo looked strangely concerned, at least for him. “You really think this guy’s gonna roll over and take it? I just talked to him for a few minutes, but there seemed to be somethin’ kinda… off about him.”

  Roan could only shrug. “I imagine he’s gonna come back at me. But I don’t care. If I can’t take a sleazebag like that, I deserve to get cut down.”

  “I know it’s your macho talk, but shit like that worries me,” Gordo replied, surprising him. “Sometimes idiots get lucky. Keep trying them, and someone will.”

  He was right, of course, and Roan dipped his head in acknowledgement. “You take your chances every day. That’s just how it is.”

  Gordo’s stare was piercing and skeptical. “And you don’t care if you get on the wrong side of it?”

  “Of course I care. I’m not some suicidal asshole.” But even as he said it, he wondered if maybe Dylan was right about his death wish.

  After they left, he put on Drive Like Jehu as he picked up the furniture and CDs and taped up the broken window. It might be an invitation for thieves who somehow made it into his backyard, but he had a simple solution for that. He propped up a piece of plywood in the taped-up hole that had “Infected” written on it in bright red letters. It was remarkably good at keeping people away.

  When he was done, he went off to County to speak with Rocco Santorelli about his previous cellmate. He actually didn’t expect anything useful from this man. He only wanted to cover his bases. Roan hated prisons and the way they smelled, like industrial cleansers, body odor, hate, and fear. Desperation flop sweat mixed with a toxic stew of testosterone and nowhere to go. Long ago he’d figured out being a caged animal in the long term would be no good for him—he’d tear everyone to pieces. He now wondered if his lion side would be out all the time in such a situation. (Unless Dylan was right about that too, and it was just the darker side of his personality. But either way, he figured it’d be out and causing a scene.)

  Sitting behind shatterproof glass in the sterile, depressing visitor’s booth, he found himself finally facing Santorelli. He was six feet of muscle crammed into a five-foot-five body. He was squat and squared off, a miniature refrigerator of a man, with no neck and a perfectly spherical shaven head resting on shoulders as straight as a level. His eyes were small and widely spaced around a large nose that had clearly been broken several times in his life. His mouth was an uneven slash, his lower lip distorted with a faint scar near the left corner. This was a man who’d been in lots of battles, the type that Roan himself would be reluctant to mix it up with simply because he probably knew how to hurt someone badly and quickly and had no qualms about doing it. The funny thing was, the way his dark eyes seemed to settle on the scars on Roan’s face, he had a feeling Rocco was thinking the same thing about him.

  “Who the fuck’re you?” he asked into the receiver set into the wall.

  “I’m trying to find something out about Roger Jorgenson, a former—”

  Rocco sniggered derisively, lips curving into a sneer. “The fucking child perv. What, he diddle your kid or somethin’?”

  “No, but I think he may have something to do with my friend’s kid going missing.”

  Rocco shook his head. “That fat bastard? He was a coward. A fucking pussy-whipped momma’s boy. He saw blood, he freaked the hell out. Naw, he’d never kill one of ’em. He didn’t have the decency.”

  What an odd way to put it, but he sort of knew what he meant. “You remember him well.”

  He shrugged one of his blocky shoulders. “Everybody was trying to shank him. I would’ve done it myself, but I got moved out to another cell by the time I got a shiv, and besides, he had that guy protecting his fat ass. Don’t know why. Maybe he was poundin’ him or something.”

  Charming. But Rocco was turning out to be more of a help than he ever could have imagined. “What guy? Chesney? Tucker?”

  Rocco’s eyes narrowed until they almost disappeared into the folds of his face. “You a cop?”

  “Do I look like a cop?”

  He scrutinized his face with an intensity that made him feel like he was under a magnifying glass. But after a long moment, he said, “Naw, yer too pretty.” Now that was funny. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Paris Lehane,” he said, the lie coming easy. Being a detective was about eighty percent lying persuasively. At least that was twenty percent less than being a politician. “I’ve been researching Jorgenson, but I’ve hit a brick wall.”

  “Prob’ly his head,” Rocco replied darkly. “The fucker was stupid and repulsive. He had nothing goin’ for him at all.”

  “Who was protecting him?”

  “Eh, what’s his face, the guy with the bug tattoo. Rollo.”

  “Roland?”

  Rocco shrugged. “Guess so. That fucker was nuts. I think he aligned with the Aryans.”

  Did Roland Chesney have a bug tattoo? It was mentioned he had tattoos, but what kind were never specified. “Why was he nuts?”

  “You mean besides picking out the blob for his bitch? He had these razor marks on his arms that he put there himself, he said that was how he kept track of the people he did.”

  It was funny how the word “did” could have so many meanings. “You mean killed?” Rocco looked at him like he was the biggest idiot in the world, so Roan took that as a yes. “But this was before he killed his ex-girlfriend. You’re saying she wasn’t his first?”

  He scoffed. “If you believed his bullshit, she was like number twelve or twenty or something. He claimed to be smarter than the pigs, that he had a lot of bodies buried out in the desert and no one was ever gonna find ’em. But everyone says shit like that here, like bein’ a serial killer makes you such a bad fucker no one wants your ass.”

  Roan felt his stomach clench and his blood turn cold. Yes, people made up shit in prison all the time. But if any of this shit was true, he may have found his man. “Did he say where he buried ’em?”

  Rocco shrugged and shook his head. “I dunno. Can’t remember. It was somethin’ like Sundown or some shit like that. But you ain’t gonna tell the cops, are you? I ain’t a rat.”

  “Why would I tell the cops anything? They haven’t helped me at all.” Sundown? Was that a reference to something? There was no place called “the Sundown desert.” Then again, if he was just making it up to make himself look like a hard-ass, there wouldn’t be.

  The bizarre thing was, Rocco was so forthcoming because he was lonely. He wanted to talk, and just as a tacit thank you for the information, Roan listened to him ramble for about five more minutes about how he ended up here on a trumped-up charge that wasn’t his fault anyways. If you listened to inmates, there were no guilty people in prisons, but the odds were there had to be some.

  Rocco actually suggested he come back sometime. Wow, that was lonely. Roan only said he’d see what he could do. If Rocco’s information panned out, he would.

  Roan thought about this afterwards, while picking up a pizza for Dee, and even examined the map he had in the glove compartment. There were no deserts on this side of the state—wrong climate—but the eastern side had a couple. Hell, you could make the argument that the whole eastern half was a desert that had been partially paved over. Nothing named Sundown or Sun-anything, though. He needed to do a computer search.

  But he tried not to think about this as he paid a visit to Dee, as Dee would catch his preoccupation and probably be offended by it. He was mostly recovered from his flu but was still puttering around his place in a dark-green fuzzy bathrobe. He waited until Dee finished lecturing him about not going to the hospital after being shot in the hand and helped himself to some pizza as Dee finally told him his news. He had a serious boyfriend finally—definitely a cause to celebrate—named Luke Cho. Not a doctor this
time but a nurse, he was also mixed race (half Korean, half Filipino), so that was two things he and Dee had in common right off the bat. Dee thought they might be moving in together, which was a huge step for Dee—Roan could see why he was a bit anxious about it all.

  But Dee wasn’t content to stick to his own life. He had to butt into his. He told Roan if he really didn’t love Dylan, he had to cut him loose. “He’s a sweet kid,” Dee said around a mouthful of pizza. “If you can’t love him, you should cut him loose and let him find someone who can.”

  Roan nodded, as he not only knew it, he agreed. He should do it. It was the right thing to do. Would he do it, though? He didn’t know.

  He had to tell Dee about the other night too, when he beat up the gay bashers. Never mind that he wasn’t treated by the paramedics. Their gossip network still got back to him. Dee seemed to be concerned that he was “hanging around” with a hustler, especially one with Fox’s reputation. “I don’t fuck hustlers,” Roan reminded him. “I don’t pay for sex on principal. I got nothing against them, though.”

  “Neither do I, and hey, some of those guys you can find on that escort site… hot damn, I may pay for that,” Dee admitted shamelessly, picking up his glass of what he called his “Nyquil smoothie” (actually it didn’t have Nyquil in it, just a dash of cold medicine amongst honey, tea, and brandy.) “But this Fox guy… you know his reputation, right?”

  “I ran him in once. He recently helped me on a gig. He’s not some prostitute gangster, he’s just a guy who made a couple of fucked-up decisions and is trying to make the best of where he is.”

  Dee fixed him with his scolding, strangely paternal glare that let him know he thought he was being a complete idiot. “He’s a gay guy that most straight street thugs don’t want to mess with. Doesn’t that set off warning bells for you?”

  Roan sighed. How did he get in the position of defending Holden? “Look, the street is just a game. He plays it better than most, that’s all.”

  “Which means he’s a schemer, and if he’s set his sights on you, it’s time to worry.”

  “I can take care of myself, Dee.”

  “Normally. But you’re collapsing in on yourself and starting to shut down. And don’t deny it, ’cause I know the symptoms. You’re only half here as it is. Your eyes are distant.”

  This is why Dee was such a pain as a boyfriend. He said shit like this all the time. “I’m working a case, Dee. I just got what might be a break. I didn’t expect it.”

  Dee just sat back on his sofa, eyes shiny with fever, and Roan felt like he was lying even though he knew he wasn’t. No one should be able to make you feel like that.

  Goddamn it. Exes were never anything but trouble.

  11

  Marching Bands of Manhattan

  ONCE he left Dee’s, he swung by Panic. It was still early yet, so it wasn’t as busy or as flashy as it usually was. Still, he was almost deafened by Cut Copy as he walked in, the sound swirling around him at volumes that made his teeth rattle. As it was, he still had to do most of his talking in sign language, pointing at Luis (Rhett) and himself before pointing at the door behind the bar.

  Rhett got it; he gave him the thumbs-up and motioned him around to the side, where he opened the bar up for him and let him in. Before they ducked into the back, he saw the new bartender. He was a tall, lean man with very dark brown skin, his torso an enticing V shape and his black hair held down to his scalp in tiny tight braids. Roan must have looked a bit too long, as the guy caught him looking, but he gave him a lazy smile and a wink before turning back to the mini-fridge under the bar. Damn, he had a nice ass, too. For a couple of seconds, he thought about the good parts of being single.

  As soon as they were in the back break area, and the music died down to a dull roar, Rhett cocked his pierced eyebrow at him and said, “I see you noticed Byron.”

  “What kind of bar name is Byron?”

  “A terrible pun. He’s bisexual,” he said, with a roll of his eyes.

  “Got something against bisexuals?”

  “No, but once you’re out of college, you should really pick a side. It seems so wishy-washy otherwise.” He then flashed him one of his “I’m now moving on” smiles, of which he had at least three. He didn’t know Rhett all that well, but he’d attended a party at his apartment with Dylan and learned some things about him. Along with his extensive catalogue of transitional smiles, Rhett was a photographer who kept a gallery of them in his place. Many were faceless, artistic portraits of former boyfriends, and according to Dylan, Rhett went through boyfriends like McDonald’s went through Big Macs, so he had lots to choose from. His current boyfriend was a slightly nervous jock type who was the captain of the local gay rugby team. This was the first time Roan had even heard of a local gay rugby team.

  Rhett was a lean, handsome Latino who had a twink air even though he wasn’t a twink. He usually wore coordinated eyebrow and nipple rings, and today was no exception—today he wore tiny gold hoops with gold four-leaf-clover charms on them, one through his right eyebrow and the other through his left nipple. He looked barely nineteen but was verging on twenty-nine. He smelled like nicotine, mint mouthwash, and hair gel, with a subtle undertone of something pharmaceutical.

  He asked Rhett about where Dylan might like to go on vacation, saying he wanted to surprise him with it. The funny thing was, Rhett seemed to consider the question a stumper. “Aw, hell. Y’know, he’s fully embraced the whole Buddhist not wanting stuff principle, so I don’t really know. He just doesn’t talk about stuff like that.” He scratched his head, mussing up his well-coiffed yet bed-head-looking hair, and Roan saw his fingers twitch slightly before he brought his arm back down to his side. His low-slung jeans revealed a patch on his hip.

  According to Dylan, Rhett had been trying to quit smoking since he’d known him. The longest he’d gone without a smoke was two and a half weeks. He kept trying, though, which was either a sign of an indomitable will or complete insanity. “I guess, you know, as long as you’re with him, he’ll be okay with anywhere. Somewhere peaceful I guess; somewhere kinda Zen.”

  Wow, that was so helpful Roan wondered why he’d bothered asking.

  But before he could thank him and leave, Rhett added, “Y’know, it’s great you wanna do something like this for him. I mean, he’s crazy about you, but you… you’re kinda hard to read, y’know? I mean, I’m sure it’s your job and everything, all poker-face stuff, but usually you can tell if someone is into someone else. I just can’t tell with you.”

  Roan didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t feel anything anymore? He was dead inside? He was a total bastard? They were all applicable, and yet he didn’t feel like admitting this to Rhett. “Dylan’s a great guy,” he finally said, aware he had to say something.

  Rhett nodded almost spastically, rubbing the back of his neck to hide the twitching fingers. He wanted a cigarette so badly he was almost crawling out of his skin with need. His rings picked up the light and glinted like SOS signals. “Yeah, I know. I tried so hard to get into his pants when we first met, y’know, but I guess I’m not his type.” Suddenly aware of what he’d said and to whom, he quickly added, “But I’ve stopped trying. I mean, I wouldn’t… once you get rejected a dozen times, your ego can’t take it anymore. You know?”

  Roan gave his arm a friendly pat, just to let him know there were no hard feelings. Except he wanted to punch him for using “You know” about a dozen times more than was necessary, but that was a separate issue. “Yeah. Well, thanks. And this is just between us, right?”

  “Absolutely, I won’t say a thing.” He gave him one of his other transitional grins, one that almost seemed predatory but wasn’t quite. He ultimately didn’t know what to think about Rhett—he seemed all right, and he’d been a friend of Dylan’s for a long time, but there was something about him that seemed scattered and flighty. Sometimes Roan wondered if cigarettes and men were his only addictions.

  Of course, as he returned to his car to h
ave a pill, he realized he had no room to talk.

  There was a cybercafé a couple of blocks over, and he went there to search for “Sun” places on the Eastern side of the state. There was a “Sun Lake” in Kiernan Park, but Internet pictures proved it was a genuine park, with trees and everything. There was no desert there, and it didn’t look like a good place to bury bodies unless you wanted an audience.

  Once he included desert places—buildings, businesses—with Sun in the name, the number of locations available exploded. How could he narrow this down? And why? He could be chasing nothing, a ghost of a lie. He was punching sand. And why? Because he’d been used by a client who had simply ended up killing her husband? Because he felt bad for Chris Spencer? Because he wanted to love Dylan but really wasn’t sure how? This was constructive; this was action. He was doing something concrete here. He felt useful, and not like some hollowed-out, pill-popping failure.

  When he was on his second green-tea lemonade, he suddenly realized the waitress, a nineteen-year-old with a dragon tattoo on her forearm and short dark hair highlighted with magenta bangs, was flirting with him. He almost did a spit take when he realized she’d written her cell phone number on a napkin and slipped it to him. Oh god, the poor thing. He felt sorry for her. In a café half full of guys, she had to pick the one that was 1) gay and 2) infected. He’d both heard of and encountered bad taste in men in several forms, but this really took the overpriced pastry.

  He ducked into the men’s room and splashed cool water on his face, which actually felt nice since the codeine was kicking in and making his face feel hot. He looked in the mirror and tried to see what other people saw when they looked at him. He couldn’t imagine it. He saw a man with funny-colored hair and eyes a little too green to be trusted, someone with ghostly pale scars on his lip and bisecting his eyebrow, both suggesting he was more trouble than he originally seemed. He saw someone he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  Roan decided he was being an idiot. He was tired, and he could feel his unshakable enemy, depression, blooming in him like a pernicious flower that could never quite be ripped out. All the pills in the world didn’t make it go away.