Partners in Crime

PARTNERS IN CRIME

Josh Lanyon & Sarah Black

® www.loose-id.com

Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Partners in Crime Josh Lanyon & Sarah Black This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Published by Loose Id LLC 1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924 Carson City NV 89701-1215 www.loose-id.com “Cards on the Table,” Copyright © January 2008 by Josh Lanyon “Murder at the Heartbreak Hotel,” Copyright © January 2008 by Sarah Black All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

ISBN 978-1-59632-613-2 Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Judith David Cover Artist: April Martinez

www.loose-id.com

CARDS ON THE TABLE

Josh Lanyon

2

Josh Lanyon

Chapter One

The card was wedged under the brass 17 on my apartment door when I got back from my morning swim. For what felt like a long time I stood dripping on the welcome mat, staring at the slightly crooked number and the colored rectangle beneath. A tarot card. Finally, I removed the card, examined it. A castle in flames, a man and woman plummeting to the cliffs below, and the words The Tower. Not good. Even if I turned it upside down so that the man and woman seemed to be doing handsprings through the clouds and lightning, it still looked pretty ominous. I told myself that someone was playing a joke on me. Funny stuff. Only a handful of people even knew I was writing a book about the Aldrich case. For that matter, who would care if they did know? It was dead news in every sense. I stuck my key into the latch and stepped into my apartment, eyes adjusting to the gloom. Dusty sunshine poured through the arched living room window. Everything looked just the way I’d left it an hour ago. In the kitchen alcove the old dishwasher was steaming,

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stereo lights flashed from the entertainment center, and the screen of my laptop, which sat on the coffee table, offered a gently rolling view of star-lined outer space. I walked through to the bedroom. The bed was stripped, sheets piled for laundry in the doorway. The mirrored closet doors were shut. I got a look at my face as I moved to open them, and was irritated to see that I looked worried -- hazel eyes narrowed, tanned face grim, body tense.

Jesus. The last year had turned me into an old woman. I slid open the closet doors, jumping back as a box of photos tumbled from their precarious perch on the shelf above and dumped snapshots across the carpet. A photo of me -- in a gold-sequined sombrero, no less -- and Jack celebrating my thirtieth birthday at Don Cuco’s landed by my bare toes. I stepped over the pictorial retrospective of my life and moved on to the bathroom, poking my head inside. Another glimpse of my frowning face in the cabinet mirror -- and, by the way, I really did need a haircut, I reflected, momentarily distracted by the wet spikes of my chlorine-bleached hair. The shower dripped noisily. I yanked back the curtain with a plastic rustle. Nothing. Okay, bathtub ring, but otherwise nothing sinister. Of course nothing sinister. Nobody had broken in. Why would they? But why would someone leave a tarot card on my front door? I went back to the kitchen, poured a glass of OJ, and drank it slowly, studying the tarot card. Was someone trying to tell me something? Was it some kind of clue? More likely it was just some kind of weird coincidence. Right? And even if it wasn’t a weird coincidence…what was I supposed to do about it? It wasn’t exactly a lead that I could follow up. And I couldn’t picture myself going to the police

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over something so…vague. There was no defined threat, and I had absolutely no suspect in mind. I could always talk to Jack. I stared out the window over the sink at the row of second-story apartments, red doors and turquoise railings glimpsed through the tangle of ivy and bougainvillea. Jack Brady was a homicide detective with the Glendale PD. We’d gone out a couple of times. Slept together once. We were still on friendly, if distant, terms. The blinds to Jack’s apartment were up so it looked like he might be home. I stripped off the swim trunks, tossed them over the shower rod, pulled on a pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt, stuck the tarot card in my pocket, and headed upstairs to Jack’s apartment. I could hear Neil Young’s Rust Never Sleeps playing behind the scarlet door. The smell of something spicy drifted out the open kitchen window. My stomach tightened, but it had nothing to do with hunger -- not for chili, anyway. I’d liked Jack a lot. I knocked and the door opened. Jack stood framed in the doorway. He was about thirty-five, just over medium height and built, gray eyes and dark hair. He had a small white scar over his left eyebrow and a dimple in his right cheek when he smiled. He was not smiling now. Music and the aroma of garlic and onions wafted around him. “Hey, Tim,” he said briefly, neutrally, after a pause. “Hi, Jack,” I said. “Could I talk to you for a minute? I could use some advice. Professional advice.” He hesitated -- just long enough for me to realize I was making a mistake. Jack was the one who’d lost interest in pursuing a relationship. We were neighbors, not friends, and this was probably the equivalent of complaining to a doctor you’d met at a party about that pain in your neck. “Yeah, sure,” Jack said, and he stepped aside, nodding for me to come in.

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Worse than looking pushy, gauche, I realized this might seem like I was coming up with an excuse to see him again. So instead of coming in, I took a step back and said, “You know, on second thought, it can probably wait.” “Whoa!” He caught my arm as I turned away. “What’s this?” He was smiling now, his eyebrows raised. The feel of his hand on my arm reminded me vividly of our one and only night together. The warm sure slide of his palm stroking my belly, knuckles brushing the sensitive skin between hip and thigh, long strong fingers closing at last around my dick… I let him draw me into his apartment. Jack closed the door and I looked around curiously. Tidy as a monk’s cell. A stark black and white print of the desert hung over the fake fireplace. There were a few pieces of generic guy furniture, a number of paperbacks -- mostly nonfiction and mostly true crime -- on a low bookshelf. Nothing had changed. Jack had changed, that was all. “Did you want a beer?” he asked, going behind the counter that separated kitchen from living room. “Sure.” Jack returned a moment later, handed me a frosty cold bottle, fingers grazing mine, and then he dropped down on the couch across from me. He took a swig. He wore Levi’s and a yellow muscleman T-shirt that displayed his hard, tanned body to perfection. “So…what’s the problem?” He grinned and the dimple showed for a moment. I wondered if a dimple was a liability for a cop. Did bad guys ever make the mistake of overestimating that mischievous crease in Jack’s lean cheek? “Jaywalking tickets piling up? Somebody finally haul you in for disturbing the peace?” “Er…no.” I set the bottle on the glass-topped table, leaned on one hip, fished the tarot card out of my pocket, and put it face up on the coffee table.

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Jack studied it, one eyebrow arching. “The Tower?” “Yeah. Someone stuck it on my door while I was in the pool this morning.” “Yeah, I saw you swimming,” he said absently, reaching for the card, careful to only touch the edges. His gray eyes lifted to mine. “And you see this as…what? A threat?” “I don’t know. I know it seems a little…” I raked a hand through my still-damp hair. “I think it has to do with the book I’m writing. About the Aldrich case. The Tarot Card

Murder.” His face showed no comprehension. “I guess it’s supposed to be a joke.” I added doubtfully, “But it happened then, too.” “What happened then?” he asked. “You’re not making a lot of sense, Tim.” “Are you familiar with the Aldrich case?” “No.” “No?” He looked a little exasperated at my tone. “I’m not familiar with every homicide case that ever took place in the LA vicinity, no.” “Well, it’s just that it was kind of a high profile case. And it’s still unsolved.” “I’ll try not to take that personally.” “Back in 1957, a starlet by the name of Eva Aldrich was stabbed to death at a big Hollywood party. The only clue was a tarot card pinned on her blood-stained dress.” Like one of those old press cameras, my memory flashed on those gory old black and white crime scene photos. There had been one shot of Eva’s discarded and bloodstained high heel lying a few feet from her body. There was something poignant -- something I couldn’t shake -when I thought about that frivolous little pump splashed with her dying blood. “And you’re writing a book about this?” I assented.

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“You’re writing a book about a homicide that took place back in 1957?” Jack was expressionless. “And you think…what? You’ve got some geriatric killer stalking you?” I felt color rise in my face. “I don’t know what to think,” I said evenly. “It’s kind of a weird coincidence, don’t you think?” “Maybe. Who knows you’re writing this book?” He stared at the card, and then he stared at me. His eyes were just the color of the ocean when the mist starts rolling in. “My publisher. The people I’ve interviewed so far.” “And this card, The Tower, that’s the card that was pinned to the decedent’s -- this Aldrich woman’s -- dress?” “No. The card pinned to her dress was the sixth card in the major arcana, The Lovers.” “Not the same card?” “No.” “I see.” “Look, I know it sounds silly. But…” But what? I was the kind of guy who jumped at shadows? I didn’t have a sense of humor? I had too much imagination? I wanted attention? The unflattering possibilities were plenty. He studied me for a moment, then straightened, arching his back a little like he was stiff -- or bored with sitting there talking to me. “Okay. Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll do some checking for you. See what the unofficial word is on this cold case of yours.” He shrugged a broad shoulder. “It can’t hurt.” I nodded, tension draining from my body. Maybe he was just humoring me, but I knew enough about Jack to know that if he said he’d check, he really would. Realizing I hadn’t touched my beer, I tilted the bottle to my lips. Jack watched me steadily. It made me uncomfortable. “Have you uncovered any new info on the case?” he asked.

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“Not that I’m aware of.” “Maybe it is a joke.” “Where’s the humor?” He shrugged and checked his watch. It wasn’t pointed, just remembering that he had somewhere to be. I set the bottle down, stood up. “Can I hang on to this?” He nodded to the card lying on the tabletop once more. “If there were any prints I messed them up handling the card.” “I noticed.” He offered that half grin. “It never hurts to check.” “Thanks, Jack.” I moved toward the door. “I know this isn’t really anything for the police. Unless something else --” “No problem.” He held the front door for me. As I stepped out onto the shady walkway he said awkwardly, “I’m glad you stopped by, Tim. Really. I -- uh -- I’ve been meaning to call.” “Oh, shit yeah.” I shrugged. Smiled. No big deal, this. “I’ve been busy myself.”

***** Back in my apartment, I circled from room to room, trying to settle enough to get back to work. I wasn’t sure what had me more off-kilter, seeing Jack again or finding the tarot card. After a few minutes, I sat down on the sofa with a copy of Roman Mayfield’s The

Mystery of the Tarot, thumbing through until I found the description of The Tower.

Mars’ martial light shines upon The Tower, the card of war. The dark masonry of a structure built of lies crumbles beneath the lightning flash of truth. The Tower represents “false concepts and

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institutions that we take for real.” In a reading, the querent is often shaken when The Tower appears, expecting to be blinded by a shocking revelation. Sometimes the catalyst of reading forces the querent to face a bitter truth or knock down beliefs rooted in the concrete of self-deception.

Was someone trying to tell me I was heading for a fall? Absently I listened to the flap of palm tree leaves outside the open window, the distant rush of traffic from the Hollywood Freeway, listened for something else too. Something that didn’t belong. There was nothing to hear but the normal sounds of apartment living: splashing and laughter from the pool, someone’s stereo playing too loudly, another bout in an ongoing argument between my neighbors on the left. And if I listened very carefully I could hear Jack humoring me. Okay. Tell you what.

I’ll do some checking for you. That was nice of him, seeing that he hadn’t been interested in keeping up the friendship -- let alone something more. Odd to think of him watching me swim. Couldn’t have been for more than a moment -- just long enough to decide he didn’t feel like a morning swim. If I closed my eyes I could feel his broad hand on the small of my back guiding our bodies closer, the comfortable friction of bare skin on skin, the solid rub of our erections. I could feel the tickle of his chest hair, the unexpected softness of his mouth… But it hadn’t been perfect, by any means. We’d both had too much to drink that night, and after we’d rushed past the feverish preliminaries of getting naked and getting between the sheets, there had been the usual awkward moments of trying to get into sync with each other, fitting our bodies together, finding a rhythm. The warmth of him, the salty taste of him, the clean scent of him.

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Josh Lanyon

Abruptly, I sat up and started clicking away on my laptop, like I could tap and type away from memories. It was just a couple of dates. Jeez. Get over it. I remembered I still had clothes in the laundry room washer. The bad news -- besides the rent -- about living in one of those atmospheric 1940s LA apartment buildings was the little inconveniences, like parking in the back with the winos and homeless folk, the lack of any kind of security, and a laundry room that any Hollywood scout would immediately peg for a horror movie location. Buried in the jungle of hibiscus and jasmine behind the pool yard, the laundry room was down a short flight of stairs. The overhead bulb was usually burned out because no one ever remembered to turn it off. There were three washers and three dryers to service the entire complex; I’d learned to take advantage of it during the day when most of the young and not-so-young professionals were working. Carrying my laundry basket down the steps, I automatically flipped the wall switch, and, of course, nothing happened. It didn’t matter because there was enough daylight from above so that I could see to scoop soap into the battered machine. It was warm and noisy with the sudsy washers filling up and the dryers tumbling. I put the lid down on my sodden clothes and turned to get the previous load I’d left in the dryer. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. I glanced swiftly toward the stairs. A shadow filled the doorway. The door to the laundry room slammed shut.

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Chapter Two

“Hey!” I yelled. There was no response; granted, it was hard to tell over the rumble of the machines and flood of water. I put a hand out, fingers brushing the cool cement wall, and started toward the stairs. My foot bumped into the bottom step. I couldn’t see a damn thing; it was like a crypt in there. I swore under my breath and went up the first couple of stairs -- and realized there was someone with me in the humid darkness. Someone at the top of the stairs, blocking the exit. I could feel him -- and it was definitely a him because I could smell his cheap aftershave -- feel his warmth and bulk -- although I couldn’t see him. I stopped midcharge and teetered off balance for a second. He growled, “Eva Aldrich is ancient history. Butt out or you’ll be history too.” A couple of meaty hands planted in my chest, and he shoved me hard. I fell back, grabbing blindly at empty air, and tumbled down the stairs, landing in a painful sprawl at the bottom, my head grazing one of the vibrating washers. Dimly I was

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aware of the door above me opening, a flash of afternoon sunlight, and the door banging shut again. Shocked, I just lay there for a few moments trying to process what had happened. Luckily, it was a short flight of steps. My elbow hurt and my back felt twisted, but mostly I’d landed on my ass. Nothing broken. Nothing sprained as far as I could tell. I’d banged my head against the washer, not hard, but hard enough, and that, more than anything, was scaring the shit out of me. I stayed still in the soap-scented blackness and waited for the fireworks. Meanwhile the asshole was getting away… But I let the thought go, just as I had to let my attacker go. So much for thinking the tarot card pinned to my door was a joke or a coincidence. Apparently someone didn’t want this book written. Had sent a goon to lean on me like something in a pulp novel. It was crazy. Eva Aldrich had been dead for fifty years. Half the suspects weren’t even alive anymore. The washer above me hit spin cycle, and I edged away from the juddering motion. It occurred to me that so far my circuitry seemed okay, so I got carefully to my feet and felt my way through the darkness again to the stairs and the doorway. I pushed the door open to flickering sunlight. Shrubbery stirred in the breeze, but there was no sign of anyone. To the right, the path led to the pool yard where a woman in a red bikini baked on a lounge chair. To the left, the path led to the parking lot behind the apartment complex. The tall gate swung gently in the wake of someone’s hasty exit. Stepping through the gate, I studied the small dusty lot crowded with cars. A sheet of newspaper pinwheeled on the breeze, a beer can rolled to a stop a few feet away. A blue jay gave me hell from the telephone pole above. Nothing out of the ordinary.

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I noticed Jack’s Jeep was gone, so there was no point running upstairs to tell him about the latest development. And I didn’t like the fact that this was the first line of action that occurred to me. Withdrawing from the parking lot, I headed back to my apartment, past the nearly deserted pool yard, generator humming noisily, past the open windows of my neighbors, snatches of cartoons and talk shows. I let myself into my apartment and dug the phone out from beneath the pile of throw cushions -- the LA Times having a habit of calling right when I finally fell into a deep sleep. My conversation with Glendale PD went pretty much as expected. The dispatcher was sympathetic but admitted that without any kind of description of my attacker -- or even a suspect -- there wasn’t a lot they could do. She promised to send a patrol car over to take my report, and that was basically that. I fixed myself a sandwich, although I wasn’t hungry, poured a glass of iced tea, and sat down with my notes. The popular theory at the time of Eva Aldrich’s death was that her ex-husband, a gas station owner by the name of William Burack, had killed her in a fit of jealous rage. Burack’s then-current girlfriend had alibied him, and the police had never been able to prove otherwise. I studied the photos of Burack. He’d been one of those big blond bruisers who turn to fat as they age. He hadn’t aged a lot, though, dying in a car crash in 1965. Since he was dead, I couldn’t see anyone close to Burack getting worked up at the idea of my writing a book about the case. He hadn’t had any kids and his only close relative, a brother, had died sometime in the 1980s. So if someone was threatening me to stay out of the Aldrich case, it probably wasn’t because he feared I was going to uncover proof that Burack had killed his glamour-girl ex. Which meant that someone else had.

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Washing the ham sandwich down with iced tea, I considered this theory objectively. It made sense, right? Someone unconnected to Burack didn’t want me digging into the old case. Because someone, somewhere, still had something to lose if the truth about a half-centuryold homicide were to be revealed. Since there’s no statute of limitations on murder, there was an obvious motive for keeping the identity of Eva’s killer secret: her killer was still alive. But Jack also had a point. Most of the principals in the Aldrich case were now in their seventies. Not that trial and prison would be any more appealing at age seventy than at age twenty, but it was hard to picture a member of the Geritol set scurrying around tacking tarot cards to my door and shoving me down stairways. Besides, no senior citizen had knocked me down in the laundry room -- unless it was Jack LaLanne. There had been a size and a force -- and a voice -- to my attacker that had indicated an adult male in his prime. Well, on the bright side, assault and threats would make pretty good publicity for the book. Assuming I lived to write it. I was still wound too tight to work and my muscles were beginning to stiffen up after their collision with a cement slab. I set aside my notes and occupied myself with tossing out old newspapers, vacuuming, reshelving all my reference books. I paused in the bathroom and swore at my reflection. A colorful bruise was making an appearance where my forehead had caught the edge of the washer. Great. I’d just got rid of the last set of abrasions.

It was sometime after eight that a thump on my door sent me jumping out of my chair -- and nearly my skin. Which pissed me off no end. I hated feeling wide open; it was happening way too much these days.

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Eye to the peephole found a miniature Jack adjusting his tie as though it were too tight. That explained the Police! Open Up! knock. He was in official persona. I unlocked the door, opened it. “A chain would be a good idea,” he remarked. I stepped back and Jack stepped inside. He looked around curiously, and I remembered that this was the only time he’d actually been in my place. He’d picked the right night; usually it looked like a cyclone had hit it. “Would you like a beer?” I asked. “No, I can’t st --” He broke off, staring at the discoloration on my forehead. “What happened to you?” Then his face changed, uncomfortable as he leaped to the wrong conclusion about what had happened to me. I said shortly, “Someone threw me down a flight of stairs.” “Oh. Right.” His eyes looked dark in the soft lighting of my apartment. “I heard you had some trouble today.” He hesitated. “Maybe I will have a beer.” I got a cold beer from the fridge and brought it to him. He was sitting on the sofa glancing through the photos of the cast of suspects in the Aldrich case. He took the beer with absent thanks and continued looking through the photos. He paused at one. “Now here’s a familiar face. Tony Fumagalli.” “Tony the Cock,” I agreed. “The Early Years.” “Don’t tell me he’s involved in this?” I nodded. “Eva was engaged to him for about six months. She broke it off a few days before her death. No one seems to know what went wrong, but by all accounts it wasn’t an amicable split.” “He’s not an amicable guy. Or he wasn’t. He was one of those old school gangsters like Mickey Cohen or Johnny Stompanato. He’s in some kind of old folks home now.”

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“He’s got Alzheimer’s,” I said. “Currently residing at Golden Palms Nursing Home in Santa Barbara.” Jack’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve done your homework.” “Yeah, well.” It bothered me that this surprised him. For a minute our eyes held. Jack seemed to notice he had a beer in his hand and took a swig. “So,” he said, lowering the bottle. “Why don’t you tell me what happened this afternoon? Assault and battery in the laundry room?” “They sent a uniformed officer by,” I said. “I filled out a report.” He nodded, noting and dismissing. “What happened?” I told him exactly what had happened. “Did you get a look at the guy at all?” “No. Not a glimpse.” “What did he sound like?” “Big.” He grinned and that damned dimple showed. “Did he have an accent or anything that might help in identifying him?” I thought back to the close darkness of the laundry room. “He didn’t have an accent that I noticed. I’d say he was a native Angeleno. His voice was deep, mature.” I thought it over. “He sounded confident,” I said. “Like maybe he did this for a living.” “Hired muscle?” Jack glanced instinctively to the glossy of Tony Fumagalli in his sleazy prime. I shrugged. “It’s possible. But anyone can hire a thug. It wouldn’t have to be someone connected to Tony the C --” I caught Jack’s eye and for some reason swallowed the rest of the word. “Tony F.”

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Was that a gleam of amusement in Jack’s gaze? He said, “Yeah. And Fumagalli did have a rock ha -- solid alibi for the Aldrich homicide.” Okay, it wasn’t just me. “He was in Vegas at the Tropicana gambling away a small fortune,” I agreed. “But he could have hired someone to kill Eva.” “That’s true, but whoever whacked Aldrich didn’t appear to be a professional. That was not in any way an execution-style murder. She was stabbed thirteen times. That kind of MO can indicate a couple of things: a disturbed psyche and/or a perceived personal grievance.” I knew he was right, which was why the ex-husband had been the favorite suspect. The method of Eva’s murder had indicated a certain level of rage or passion that one just didn’t associate with cold-blooded mob bosses. “Were you able to find anything out?” I asked. “I was in court most of the day.” He stared at the stack of photos. “I talked to a couple of people. It’s a very cold case. Frozen, in fact.” “It’s a Hollywood legend.” “Oh yeah. There are all kinds of wild theories about who might have offed Aldrich. Everyone from her astrologer to the commies.” “But the most popular theory is her ex-husband, Will Burack.” “Right.” He studied me meditatively. “You know it usually is the current or former spouse -- or boyfriend -- in a homicide.” “I know. And I know the cops tagged Burack as the most likely suspect. But Burack’s dead, so who objects to my looking into this very cold case?” “I don’t know.” Jack drained his beer bottle and rose. “I take it you’re not planning to back off from this book?” “No.” I rose too, only half joking, “I’d have to give the advance back. And I already spent it.”

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“Right.” He was all business now. “Well, let me give you some advice. Change your routine. And keep changing it. Swim in the afternoons instead of the morning. Don’t use the back parking lot as a short cut. Try a different market besides Whole Foods -- and pick a day besides Tuesday to shop. The dead bolt is good, but get a chain on the door and don’t open the door until you see who’s on the other side.” “Thanks for the advice.” I didn’t think Jack just happened to hit on Tuesdays or Whole Foods market as a hypothetical example of my shopping habits. I wasn’t sure I should be flattered by this attention to detail; it seemed more like Jack on the job rather than Jack romantically interested. Anyway, I had a lot more important things to focus on -- like the fact that while Jack apparently agreed there was a threat here, he didn’t seem to see a way to neutralize it -unless I was willing to drop the book. I opened the door and Jack stepped out into the warm smoggy night. He suddenly turned back to me. “Look…Tim. I really was going to call you.” He cleared his throat. “The thing is…I’m not interested in a -- a serious relationship.” I stared at him, heat flooding my face -- my entire body -- mouth dry, heart slamming against my collarbone. I managed to get out, in a voice that didn’t sound anything like mine, “Neither was I.” He had the grace to wince. “I know. It’s just…you seemed kind of …vulnerable.” His eyes moved to the bruise on my forehead. “I didn’t think it was fair --” I quit worrying about being polite on the off chance I ever ran into him around the complex again. “You don’t have to make excuses for not wanting to see me, Jack,” I said. “In fact, I kind of prefer the excuses I made up myself.” I moved to shut the door, but his hand shot out, stopping it midswing. “I don’t think I explained that very well.” “You underestimate your communication skills.”

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“I really like you, Tim. I hope w --” “Likewise. ’Night.” The door closed firmly, cutting off his subdued “Good night.” I stood for a moment listening to him walk away. Silence filled the hollow place in my chest where my heart had used to beat.

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Chapter Three

“It was all such a long time ago,” Gloria Rayner sighed. We were sitting in the opulent “drawing room” of her Bel Air home. The room was crowded with the kinds of antiques that probably originally sat in a French palace right before the peasants had had enough and killed everyone they could lay their hands on: spindly legged gilt chairs, brocade-covered sofas, marble-topped tables, and all kinds of goldframed mirrors and vases and china knickknacks. Gloria herself sort of looked like a knickknack with her platinum blonde hair and porcelain made-up face. She was very tiny and very wrinkled. Her baby blue hostess gown was a perfect match for the blue of the silk wallpaper behind her, with its designs of fantasy pagodas and curved bridges. I said, “I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me again, Ms. Rayner.” “That’s no hardship, Mr. North,” Gloria said with a flash of that famous smile. “You’re a delicious young morsel.” She giggled at my expression. “When you get to be my age you can say things like that.” Actually, Gloria had been saying things like that for the last fifty years. She was nearly as famous for her racy comments as she was for the string of B movies that had secured her

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charter membership in the Hollywood bombshell pantheon. I’d seen a slew of those movies in the name of research, and I’d had to admit that she did have something: sexual charisma or animal magnetism. It was diffused now by age, but she didn’t seem to know that. Or maybe she did know it, and found it all the funnier. “So you don’t have any idea why Eva broke her engagement to Tony Fumagalli?” I asked for the second time that afternoon. Gloria bent forward to pick up one of the three white miniature poodles oscillating at her feet. “No,” she said. She straightened up, holding the poodle. “Tony the Cock. What a laugh. Did you know the name Fumagalli means ‘smoked chicken’ in Italian?” “No, I didn’t.” “Yeah. Smoked chicken!” She laughed a throaty nicotine laugh. “You said you’re a reporter?” “I used to be.” I stroked the poodle on my own lap. It squirmed contently. “Now I’m writing this book about Eva.” “About Eva?” she asked shrewdly. “Or about Eva’s murder?” “Both, really. I can’t really explore the murder without understanding Eva.” “You figure Eva out, explain her to me,” she replied. She patted the dog’s head with her gnarled fingers. Her nails were mandarin-length and painted in hot pink. One of the other dogs barked and she patted the sofa beside her. “Come on, then!” The dog jumped, nails slithering on the slick upholstery, and wriggled into place beside Gloria. I said, “But you were Eva’s best friend.” “Baby, I was Eva’s only friend. Her only real friend, unless you count that quack Roman Mayfield. Now there was a queer duck. And I do mean queer.” I looked at my notes. After a moment I said, “Roman Mayfield, the astrologer?”

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“Seer to the Stars!” she scoffed. “Yep. He and Eva were as thick as thieves. He told her not to go the party that night.” I’d heard this several times, but I’d always figured Mayfield’s premonition had been 20/20 hindsight. “Did she say so?” “He said so. I heard him. For once he was right.” She fastened me with one of her marble blue eyes. “What paper did you used to work for?” “The Santa Monica Mirror.” “Never heard of it. So you decided you wanted to be An Author? My third husband was an author. What a joke. The only thing that guy authored were love letters to my secretary. Which is one reason why I don’t keep a secretary anymore. Or a husband.” She laughed that raucous laugh. “Not that I need a secretary these days. No one remembers Gloria Rayner. It’s all about which Third World country Angelina Jolie is adopting this week.” She sighed. “Hollywood isn’t what it used to be. In my day we understood about the fantasy, about

entertainment. Who wants to see movie stars holding preferences about death and disease and disaster? Where’s the box office in that?” “Uh, right.” I made an effort to drag the interview back on course. “So Eva wasn’t afraid of anyone or --” “Eva wasn’t afraid of anything,” she interrupted. “Although she was superstitious. She believed all that horseshit Roman used to shovel her way. It wasn’t just an affectation. Tarot cards, astrology, pick-up sticks, who the hell knows what all.” “But she didn’t believe him that night? She went to the party at the Garden of Allah after he warned her not to.” “She probably figured Roman was jealous. You’ve probably run across the type in your line of work.” “Roman’s type?”

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“Hollywood has more than its share of jealous queens -- of both sexes.” She winked at me. “I used to tell Eva I thought Roman believed he controlled the stars instead of just reading ’em. Took it very personally when anyone didn’t hang on his every prediction.” Gloria shrugged. “Prediction or not, Evie wanted to see Stephen that night.” “Stephen Ball?” Gloria nodded and looked down at the dog she was patting. “They were both starring in a picture. Desire in the Dust or something. It was an adventure picture. Eva played Steve’s love interest.” “Danger in the Dunes,” I said. “But they’d been engaged, right? Stephen Ball and Eva? For a brief time before she met Tony Fumagalli.” “Yep, but that was all over. On Stephen’s part anyway.” I tried to read her expression. “So it wasn’t over for Eva? Was that why she broke off her engagement to Fumagalli?” “Like I said, baby, it was a long time ago.” She studied me. “Tim North. Do your girlfriends call you Timmy? You’re a very nice looking boy, Timmy. You’ve got striking coloring. Blond hair and brown eyes.” She leaned closer and I automatically straightened up like you do when a wasp is trying to land on your nose. “But they’re not brown, are they? More what we used to call whiskey-colored. Very nice.” She winked. “Very nice.” I got out, “Uh…Ms. Rayner, who do you think killed Eva?” She replied instantly, “Will Burack. There was never a question in my mind.”

***** Gloria pressed me to stay for lunch, but I escaped on the -- true -- grounds that I had an appointment at the UCLA Library Department of Special Collections. As it was, by the time I caught the bus for Westwood I was starting to feel tired and a little let down, enough so that I considered skipping UCLA and just heading home. There

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wasn’t any reason for it. The interview had gone fine, although it was obvious to me from Gloria’s body language and diversionary tactics that she wasn’t being candid about a number of things. That was to be expected. Maybe I wasn’t asking the right questions. Maybe I wasn’t aggressive enough. Or maybe she just needed to get a little more familiar with me -- not that she wasn’t plenty familiar. I’d had a bad night, and that always tended to color the next day. The bad night wasn’t a surprise considering the physical and emotional trauma of the day, and there wasn’t any point giving in to it. I’d had bad nights before -- one in particular, which reminded me of Jack. The very last person I needed to be thinking of. In my experience, when a guy tells you he doesn’t want a serious relationship, he really means he doesn’t want a serious relationship with you. If Mr. Right came along, he’d get serious fast enough. In a way Jack had done me a favor, although my currently fragile ego could have done without his sudden decision to come clean. I already knew Jack didn’t want to pursue a relationship, and I knew why. And once upon a time I’d probably have felt the same way. So I didn’t blame him, but I didn’t want to be friends with him, either. In fact, I’d be happy never to run into him again. And I was going to do my best to see that I didn’t run into him again, which probably wouldn’t be hard because I was pretty sure Jack felt the same. The bus roared along its air-conditioned way, and I popped the gold stud I’d removed for my interview with Gloria back in my ear, put my head back and closed my eyes. I thought about what I’d learned from Gloria. I kept remembering the Life magazine layout of that fateful party. Glossy black and white photos of Hollywood Babylon. Somehow Hollywood parties just never seemed as glamorous or exclusive as they did back in the ’40s and ’50s. Maybe it was because of the old star system. Those old actors and actresses had a mystique that didn’t seem to exist anymore. It wasn’t all good, of course. Part of the price of

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being packaged for public consumption meant sacrificing a lot of freedom both personally and professionally. About an hour later, I sat in the hushed Ahmanson-Murphy Reading Room carefully turning the page of the September 1957 issue of Modern Screen magazine. The cover featured an artwork portrait of Eva Aldrich eating an apple. The issue had come out the month of Eva’s death, and it had been a huge seller. The article itself was not wildly informative: one of those planted publicity pieces where Eva chatted girlishly about her latest film, Danger in the Dunes, and her dreamy upcoming wedding to local businessman Tony Fumagalli. Besides the fact that Eva mentioned her dashing costar Stephen Ball six times during the single-page interview, there didn’t seem to be any indication that her romance with Fumagalli was on the rocks. Apparently no one -- including Fumagalli -- had seen it coming. He hadn’t been the only one, I thought, studying the sexy little grin of Eva’s pinup portrait.

***** It was late by the time the bus let me off. I was dead tired and the thought of walking all the way around from Central Avenue was about as enticing as a picnic in Death Valley. I thought of Jack’s warning about not using the apartment parking lot as a shortcut, and then I thought to hell with Jack, and turned off the narrow alley that ran behind the neighboring complex. It wasn’t really an alley, just a pathway of dirt and rocks and weeds stretching behind the buildings with a tall cinder block wall on one side shielding the apartments from the adjacent freeway. Oleander bushes lined the freeway side of the wall, dead leaves and withered blossoms scattering the pathway as I strode along the length of two apartment complexes. At the end

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of the walk was a shorter cinder block wall. There were two wooden crates stacked against the wall providing makeshift steps. I climbed onto the crates and hauled myself up, balancing precariously on top of the wall as I looked down into the parking lot of my own apartment structure. Jack, wearing jeans, boots, and a black blazer, was getting out of his Jeep. At the sound of my scrabbling ascent, he jerked around and stared. One leg over the wall, I paused. Our gazes fastened across the roofs of cars.

Busted. “Nice to see you take my advice seriously,” he said. “I hang on your every word,” I returned, and I jumped down, landing with the lightness of a lot of practice beside a blue Mustang on wheel blocks. I’m not sure why I was playing the smart-ass; I could tell by the way his face tightened that it wasn’t going to win points. But then, I didn’t want to win points with Jack anymore, and that allowed for a certain freedom. Actually, it allowed for a lot of freedom considering how very careful I’d been the couple of times we’d gone out. It had been like auditioning for a part or interviewing for a job you knew you weren’t qualified for. I’d been on my best behavior every second. Not giving a damn was surprisingly liberating. I brushed the seat of my charcoal trousers, feeling where the rough surface of the wall had snagged the material. Jack continued to eye me. I walked toward the gate, passing close enough by him that I could see his five o’clock shadow. “The fact is,” he said suddenly, “I wanted to talk to you.” I’d had all the talks with Jack I wanted. “Can it wait? It’s been a long day and I need a shower.” “It’s about your book. I found something out today that I think you ought to know.” He sounded pretty grim, so I said, “In that case, follow me, Officer.”

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He did -- in silence. We got to my apartment and I let us in. The answering machine was on and I heard my twin sister Callie’s voice. “Excuse me,” I said to Jack, and I brushed past him and grabbed for the phone before Callie hung up. “Hey, Cal,” I said. “Hey,” she said with obvious relief. “How are you doing?” “Good.” I glanced at Jack who was still standing in the doorway. Have a seat, I mouthed at him. Apparently he’d been waiting for an invitation. He sat down on the sofa and stared at the turned-off television. “Are you?” Callie questioned. “Because I got this sudden feeling last night, and I’ve had it all day.” “Ah, Cal,” I protested. But it was useless. It was the twin thing, I guess; she always knew when something was up with me, the same way I did when something was up with her. “I’m really okay.” I was uncomfortably aware of the fact that Jack couldn’t fail to hear every word. “How’s the book coming?” I loosened my tie, unbuttoned my collar. “It’s coming. I interviewed Gloria Rayner today.” Jack’s head turned in my direction. “The one who does those AARP commercials? That must have been a laugh.” Her voice changed. “Are you…taking care of yourself, Tim? You know, doing everything you’re supposed to?” I expelled a long breath. “Of course. Come on; stop acting like a big sister. You’re only eight minutes older.” Callie chuckled. “I did a lot of living in those eight minutes. So are you still seeing the cop?”

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I’d forgotten I’d told her about Jack. “No,” I said after a hesitation. “Oh, no! What happened? He sounded --” “Not my type,” I said. “In fact, he was kind of an asshole.” Jack was staring at me with an odd expression. I gave him a cheerful smile. Unless he had bionic ears, there was no way he could hear what we were saying, but I had the not unpleasant feeling he somehow suspected. “That’s too bad,” Callie was saying. “I keep hoping you’ll meet someone.” “Low on my list of priorities right now,” I said. “I have to get this book finished.” “Do you think you’ll have time for a trip home this summer? Mom and Dad were really hoping you would spend some time here. I think Mom wants to make up for…everything. I think she needs to. And Dad really misses you. You know that.” This was getting way too complicated. I said carefully, “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe. It depends on the book. Hey, Cal, can I call you back? I’m in the middle of something.” “Oh, you should have said!” She hastily said her good-byes and I said mine, and then I hung up and walked over to the chair across from Jack. “That was the twin sister?” he said. I nodded, surprised he remembered, but I didn’t want to get distracted from the purpose of his visit. I didn’t want to start thinking of Jack as a friend -- or mistaking a cop’s attention to the little things for anything more than that. “What was it you wanted to tell me?” “Did you ever hear of a guy named Raymond Irvine? He was a crime reporter for the

Herald Examiner.” I shook my head. “No. Should I have?” “It depends. In 1963, he started research for a book on Eva Aldrich’s murder.” “He couldn’t have finished it,” I said, watching his face. “There is no book on the Aldrich case.”

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“No, he didn’t finish it. He was killed the same year. His car was run off the road on Mulholland Drive.”

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Chapter Four

“Oh,” I said finally. And when Jack didn’t respond, “Well, accidents happen.” I spoke lightly, but I didn’t feel light. I wasn’t sure what I felt: a mix of consternation and incredulity, I guess. “It wasn’t an accident,” Jack said. “His car was forced off the road.” “How do you know?” “I read the report.” “Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say. I rubbed my jaw and glanced at Jack again. He was watching me steadily. “I guess they didn’t catch the guy?” “Guy or gal,” Jack said. “No. The only witness was too far away to get a make on the license. The car was described as a two-toned Chevy Impala. In the 1960s the Chevy Impala was the most popular car in America.” I said, “Will Burack was still alive in 1963.” “I thought your theory was that Burack didn’t do it.” “It’s too soon for me to have a theory,” I said. Jack’s gaze woke me to the realization that I’d automatically started unbuttoning my shirt. My fingers stilled. “Were there any suspects in Irvine’s death? Was a connection actually made to the Aldrich case?”

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“No.” Jack raised his eyes from my apparently fascinating blue tailored shirt. “In fact, the primary suspect was the former boyfriend of a girl Irvine had been dating. But nothing was ever proven. And the boyfriend owned a Buick.” “Then how did you make the connection to the Aldrich case?” “The senior investigator on the Aldrich case was one of the first people Irvine interviewed when he started research for his book.” “Bud Perkins.” I rose and stepped down the short hall to my bedroom to change. I could still see Jack angled in the closet mirror. I thought about moving out of range, and then I just…decided not to. I raised my voice as I unzipped. “Perkins passed away in seventyeight.” “Yeah, but he kept track of anything and anyone related to the Aldrich case. He’d stuck a note about Irvine writing a book in the file.” I pulled on Levi’s. Buttoned them up. Jack’s mirrored gaze met mine. I said, “Was that normal?” I was sort of pleased to see he’d lost his train of thought. He looked away, offering his profile as I watched him listen to me undress and dress. He had a weird expression. Was he afraid I was going to try and seduce him? He could rest easy. “No, it’s not normal,” he said. “Not then. Not now. But I guess the killer in the Aldrich case was Perkins’s one that got away.” Dragging on a faded cinnamon-colored Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt with the slogan I

had a nightmare I was a brunette, I returned to the front room. It hadn’t escaped my Master Detective attention that Jack still seemed to be checking into the Aldrich case on my behalf; I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I took the chair across from him again and said, “It could be a coincidence.”

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“It could.” His lips folded firmly shut as he took in my T-shirt, whether at the message or the fact that it was a woman’s tee -- Jack preferring to stick to the butch side of the triangle. “Either way, I appreciate the heads-up.” He nodded, moved to rise, and then stopped. “Any more threats? Or tarot cards?” I shook my head. “I should have word on the card left on your door by tomorrow.” “Thanks.” I slouched in my chair, crossed my ankle over the opposite knee. I had a lot to think about, and I couldn’t think with Jack there. I didn’t go so far as to drum my fingers on the armrest, but I think he got the message. He stood, and -- relieved -- I stood. And then -- taking me aback -- he sat down once more. “Listen,” he said slowly. “It’s possible Bud Perkins kept a private file on the Aldrich case.” I forgot all about not being able to think with Jack in the room. “Seriously? Is there a way of finding out for sure?” “I can do some checking.” I was so excited at this possibility that it barely occurred to me to wonder why Jack was being so helpful. But really, what was the mystery? If he was instrumental in helping me come up with a convincing scenario for who had killed Eva Aldrich, it sure wouldn’t do his career any harm. He’d get his acknowledgment right there with the UCLA Library in the front of the book. “That would be great,” I said. “Do you think it’s likely?” He flicked me a look from under his lashes. “Yeah, I do. We’re not supposed to, but detectives do sometimes keep their own files, especially when a case that really gets to you goes cold and you have to move on.”

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“I appreciate you taking time to look into this for me,” I said. I waited for him to get up and leave, but he just kept sitting on the sofa looking at me like he was waiting for something. What? I said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to eat something. Skipping meals plays hell with my wiring.” Even a day ago I couldn’t have admitted that to him; now I had no problem. I thought that was a good sign that I was well on my way to being over Jack. Not that I didn’t still find him attractive: the easy power of his trim, muscular body; that lazy grin -- that disconcerting dimple. But I found my response to him more annoying than anything. He said, “You want to go grab a couple of burgers somewhere? There are a couple of things…” I gazed at him with disbelief. “No,” I replied shortly. “I don’t. I’m tired. I want a shower and dinner and a couple of mindless hours in front of the tube.” I didn’t wait for his reply, uncoiling from the chair and going into the adjoining kitchen. Yanking open the fridge, I took out the still half-frozen tilapia and tossed it on the counter. It landed with a little bang -- louder than I’d intended. There was no point getting mad. I knew what this was about: Jack feeling guilty. Jack trying to make good on his hope that we could still be friends. Every muscle in my body tensed as he rose and came over to the bar separating the kitchen from the dining alcove. Watching me ripping open the plastic wrap on the fish, he said, “Sorry. I should have thought. There’s nothing that can’t wait till later.” I gave him a brief look. “Good.” He turned and opened the apartment door. “Don’t forget to lock this,” he said, and went out.

*****

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Netflix had delivered Danger in the Dunes, Eva Aldrich’s last film, so I popped it into the player and watched it while I ate my dinner. It was not a brilliant film. One of those convoluted VistaVision adventure-romances, the plot had something to do with a lost city and Tuaregs and the rekindling of an old romance. Eva played a feisty lady reporter who, following a plane crash in the desert, gets foisted on her old explorer boyfriend played with GI Joe-like stiffness by the implausibly handsome Stephen Ball. What the story lacked, the chemistry between the two leads more than made up for it. Eva and Stephen Ball were hot together. Hot, as the movie trailer would have it, as the sizzling desert sun. And I didn’t think it was acting, because neither of them was particularly gifted in the thespian department. True, sexual chemistry didn’t necessarily mean they loved each other -- or even liked each other. But, according to Gloria, Eva had gone to that fateful party at the Garden of Allah to see Ball. This, only three days after ending her engagement to gangster Tony Fumagalli. Neither Fumagalli nor Eva had given an official explanation for the end of their engagement. Had the reason been Stephen Ball? Eva had been briefly engaged to Ball soon after she landed in Hollywood in the early fifties. She’d broken it off to marry William Burack, a wealthy local businessman, but that hadn’t taken either, and two years later she had divorced Burack with some untactful comments about the grease under his fingernails. It was a matter of public record that garage-station owner Burack had not taken the split well and had continued to try to “woo” Eva back. Nowadays his idea of “wooing” would be classified as “stalking,” but things were different back in the fifties, and a lot of people were sympathetic to the idea of a husband wanting his headstrong wife back. There were plenty of good reasons for suspecting Burack of killing Eva -- including a drunken threat that if he couldn’t have her no one could -- but the cops had been unable to shake his current paramour’s alibi. And Burack had a few influential friends. So he had

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evaded arrest, though not scandal and suspicion, and when he died in 1965, most people believed the answer to who had killed Eva Aldrich died with him. But if Burack had killed Eva, why was someone so anxious that I not look into this half-century-old murder? I needed to talk to Stephen Ball, but so far he had refused all my requests, and my publisher’s requests, for an interview. He still lived in the Beverly Hills mansion he had bought decades earlier. Watching him and Eva locked in one of those grand Hollywood clinches, I had to admit they made a beautiful couple. He was tall and dashing, although I never trusted a guy with one of those pencil-thin mustaches, and she was beautiful in a bargain-basement Elizabeth Taylor sort of way. As I studied Eva, I realized I still had no fix on her character. I’d seen most of her films -- there were only twelve of them -- and I’d talked to a number of people who had worked with her, but I still had no sense of who she was. She remained as impervious to analysis as her screen character was unsmudged and unmussed by sand and wind and plane crashes and Tuaregs and all that kissing. Was that because, dying at twenty-four, her character had not been fully formed? Or was she just a shallow party girl? Or had no one really known her very well? Or maybe the people who knew Eva best still weren’t willing to talk about her. Gloria Rayner could certainly have told me a lot more, and maybe she would the next time we talked. Speaking of talking, it would have been nice to be able to bounce some of my thoughts off someone, share my theories -- not that I had a lot of theories at this point -- but it would have been nice to…hell, watch this awful movie with someone.

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Since the accident I’d cut myself off from most of my friends. From everyone, really. I didn’t see that changing anytime soon. My experience with Jack had confirmed what I already knew. Jack. Who was I kidding? The someone I wanted to talk to, share my theories with, bounce my thoughts -- and other things -- off was Jack. Even now. And how sad was that? It was pathetic.

***** I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept thinking I heard someone outside my bedroom window. I got up and checked a couple of times, but there was no one there. When I dozed, I dreamed of burly shadow shapes warning me to mind my own business, and in my dreams it seemed like a good idea. When I finally drifted off, it was after four in the morning, and I ended up oversleeping, which meant I had to rush to make my interview with Roman Mayfield. I didn’t want to take a chance on being late since he’d already canceled three previously scheduled meets. I had to skip my morning swim, scarf down my breakfast of instant oatmeal -- chased by the usual meds and vitamins and eleven different herbs and spices -and then run for the bus. I was so goddamned sick and tired of having to take a bus everywhere. Mayfield lived north of Sunset Boulevard in a pseudo-French chateau built by an oil magnate in the 1920s. A security guard, suspicious that I had arrived on foot, eventually -after much back and forthing on the security booth phone -- finally let me through the towering wrought iron gates. I hiked up the long, tree-lined drive to the mansion.

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A maid opened the double front doors and escorted me down a mile or so of parquet floors and chandelier-lined ceilings to my audience with Mayfield. The hall was lined with photos of Mayfield and a galaxy of celebrities stretching from the late ’40s to current day. The maid led me through an arched doorway and I found myself in a huge room with a ceiling painted midnight blue and speckled with gold and silver stars like the night sky. At the far end of the room was an enormous desk. A very tall, very thin, bald man sat behind the desk, and behind the man was a huge black and gold astrology chart. He watched with an intent, unblinking gaze as I walked toward the desk -- and he said not a word. He looked like Hollywood’s idea of the head priest in an ancient Egyptian temple -- if Egyptian priests wore black silk turtlenecks and Armani slacks. I said, “Thanks very much for agreeing to see me, Mr. Mayfield.” “Exactly as I thought!” Mayfield exclaimed in a deep, melodious voice, and he rose from behind the desk. “Sagittarius. The Archer. Am I correct?” He was correct, actually. My birthday was December 19. But he could have found that out a number of ways; I didn’t believe he could tell just by looking at me. “Timothy North,” I responded. “Curious, direct, sincere, and idealistic. Useful traits for a journalist.” He came around the desk and offered his hand. “I’ve been looking forward to this meeting.” I shook hands and said, “I know. I got your calling card.” He continued to clasp my hand, his expression all at once guarded. He was quite a bit older than the latest of the photos in his hall gallery. Late seventies, I thought, although he looked very fit. I noticed that he had one blue eye and one brown. What was that called? Heterochromia? It seemed a nice touch for a professional oracle. “My…calling card?” Mayfield repeated cautiously. “Sure,” I said. “Didn’t you leave a tarot card on my front door?”

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Chapter Five

After an astonished moment, Mayfield threw back his head and laughed. He had a great laugh, hearty and unrestrained. I found my lip twitching in response. “There’s that famous Sagittarian intuition!” “I don’t know about that,” I said. “You’re the only person involved in the Aldrich case that I know of who reads tarot cards.” I’d been thinking about that during the long wakeful hours of the night, and it had occurred to me that whoever left the tarot card on my door had not been the same person who sent a thug to threaten me. Different psychological signature entirely. It had also occurred to me that if someone wanted to scare me off, they’d have used the Death card or the Devil card or one of the more obviously sinister-looking cards. The fact that those cards hadn’t been used made me think that the message of the card was genuine, and that rather than being threatened, I was being…encouraged. Or at least tantalized. “Very good!” he exclaimed, and he really seemed pleased about it. “Now, my dear, sit down and tell me when exactly you were born, what time and where, and I’ll do your chart.

Gratis.”

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I couldn’t quite get a handle on Mayfield. He’d canceled our meeting three times and then he’d practically left an engraved invitation on my front door -- after he’d already agreed again to an interview. Now that I was here, he seemed all set to distract me with astrology readings and avuncular flirtation. I said, “That’s very kind of you, but I don’t want to take up your time, and I do have a few questions --” “Oh, nonsense. We won’t really be able to talk until we know each other. Trust each other.” Great. I said, “The truth is, I have no idea what time I was born. It was sometime during the night.” “You know the day I suppose?” “December nineteenth.” “The cusp.” He was frowning. “People are so careless about these matters. Where exactly were you born?” “Up north. Mendocino.” “What city?” He sounded a little sharp, like he thought I was holding out on him. “Mendocino. The city within the county.” Mollified, he said, “And I suppose you can find out the exact hour of your birth?” Was he expecting me to phone my parents on the spot? That would make an interesting call. No, I’m not ready to kiss and make up, but can you get my astrologer some

info? Probably confirm their worst suspicions. Some of their worst suspicions. “I can try,” I said. “Later.”

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He thought this over for a moment or two and then gestured abruptly to the chair in front of his desk. He retreated behind the desk like a soldier returning to his own foxhole following the Christmas cease-fire. “Is it all right if I tape this interview?” He gestured vaguely with his hand. I turned on the tape recorder, and he said, “First of all, Will Burack did not kill Evie. If that’s what you think, you’re quite mistaken.” I said, “How do you know Burack didn’t kill her?” Elbows on the desk, he steepled his hands together. “Burack was a Taurus. An earthy sign but not without its attractions -- and appreciative of all things beautiful.” “Like Eva?” I said, hoping we could skip the horoscope and get straight to business. “Like Eva,” Mayfield agreed. “Eva, on the other hand, was Leo. Fire, fixed and positive, ruled by the sun. Leo is of the day, a masculine sign. Taurus is a feminine sign and of the night.” He looked at me expectantly. I said, “I didn’t realize. So they were opposites?” His eyes seemed to pop. “Opposites? It’s a 4-10 sun sign pattern. Square.” “Ah,” I said. What I was thinking was what the hell? “There would be conflicts, naturally, personality clashes, but violence, no. Never.” “What about Tony Fumagalli? What sign was he?” “His sun sign was Scorpio.” From Mayfield’s expression I got the impression this was a bad thing. “The scorpion?” I hazarded. “Jealous, possessive, passion that borders on mania. I’m speaking of Fumagalli in particular, you understand, not all Scorpios. It was also a 4-10 sun sign pattern.” He sighed. “Eva was always attracted to the same sort of man.”

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“Do you think Fumagalli murdered her?” He stared at me as though he didn’t understand the question. Then, finally, he said, “No.” Right. Because of that 4-10 sun pattern thing. I asked, “Did you suspect anyone in particular?” He gave an odd smile. “It is, as the Bard said, ‘written in our stars.’” And if anyone could analyze the handwriting, it was Mayfield. I said, “Could you tell me who you suspect?” He gave me a chiding look. “No, my dear, I could not. It would hardly do my career good to go around accusing my friends and clients of murder. I have, you see, an unfair advantage.” He looked up at the painted ceiling, his expression soulful. I decided to let that go. Was I going to hear anything of what Mayfield thought and felt or was everything going to come via starlight? Or was he using the stars as a vehicle for what he personally believed? Was I going to have to do my own astrological research to verify what I was hearing from Mayfield? “What was Eva like?” I asked. “You knew her better than anyone, didn’t you?” His stern face softened. “She was very young. We all were. We just didn’t know it, you see? The young never recognize how truly inexperienced they are. How unprepared they are. Eva was not a great actress. She was not an intellectual giant. But she was funny. Very charming. And so incredibly lovely. It was a pleasure to simply look at her, listen to her. I laughed with Eva like I laughed with no one before or since.” He added dryly, “No doubt the champagne cocktails had something to do with it.” As he spoke, I felt the all too familiar aura sweep over me: my stomach tightened, and with it, that panicky, scared feeling flooded through me. I couldn’t catch my breath. No time to speak, no time to think, and what was there to think except…please, no. Not now.

Please…

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***** I came to, terrified. A black bulk leaned over me -- I couldn’t think where I was, what had happened, but the sensation of danger was overwhelming. I whimpered, unable to move. “It’s all right, my dear. You’re all right now. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” I listened to that low croon. Realized it had been going on for some time. How long? I widened my eyes, tried to see his face. Did I know him? He was chafing my hands. Warm hands, soft palms and soft fingers. Gentle. It slowly dawned on me that I’d had a seizure. I swallowed. Pulled my hands away. Tried to sit up. “No, no, my dear. Just rest.” He pressed me back. He’d put a cushion under my head. I was lying on a carpet. Indigo and brown. There was a name for that kind of carpet but I couldn’t remember it. Expensive carpet but not comfortable. I turned my head. There was a pair of red Turkish slippers underneath the desk. That seemed funny, but I felt too weak to laugh. I shifted my gaze. He was kneeling beside me. What was his name? May-something. Mayhew? Mayfield. Roman Mayfield. He wore the expression I had come to dread: that horrible mix of pity and alarm. I couldn’t deal with it. He stroked my hair back, quite gently. “Have you ever had a seizure before, my dear?” I affirmed. Closed my eyes. I just wanted to sleep. “You’re…epileptic, is that it?” I nodded, not bothering to lift my weighted lids. “That’s all right then.”

It is? Not really. He was taking it pretty well, though, considering. Poor old guy. I was glad he wasn’t too frightened. I knew exactly what he’d seen. I’d had it described to me in detail a couple of times, and it frightened most people. It frightened me. I’d go stiff as a

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board, tip over, eyes rolling back in my head, my eyelashes fluttering, and I’d tremble violently for three to four minutes. Then it would stop and I’d gradually come round. So far I hadn’t pissed myself or thrown up, which was something to be grateful for, but I couldn’t seem to shake it off like a lot of people did. I’d read about patients who had a seizure and five minutes later were back at work -- or out to the theater with friends. The epilepsy poster children. I couldn’t do that. I was exhausted and strung out afterwards. At least I’d stopped crying. That was something else to be grateful for, because at first I couldn’t help it. Every time it was over, I’d cry. I don’t even know why. It’s not like it hurt during a seizure -unless I fell on something hard, furniture or a wall -- I wasn’t even conscious during the seizure. The crying was as humiliating as the seizure, but that was mostly under control now. Mostly. What was harder to control was my desire to be held -- because the last thing anyone wanted to do was hold someone who’d just had a seizure. The weird thing was I didn’t even like being held usually. I was never big on cuddling. But after a seizure I just wanted the reassurance of someone’s arms around me. It was beyond embarrassing. It was mortifying. The worst time was the night with Jack. Too little sleep, too much to drink, and whammo. After a night of fooling and fucking, I’d seized, right there in Jack’s bed, waking him out of a deep sleep to…everything I’d prefer not think about. He was good about it -knew exactly what to do, moving me into recovery position, talking to me, stroking my back. When I’d asked him to hold me, he’d taken me into his arms without hesitation and cradled me until I fell asleep. It wasn’t until we’d talked later that I’d realized how disgusted and angry he was. And that was the end of me and Jack. The memory of it was still sharp and painful enough that it dispersed my lethargy, and I opened my eyes.

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Roman Mayfield was sitting cross-legged beside me. One of his hands rested on my head and the other was resting on his knee, fingers extended, thumb and forefinger joined to make a circle. His eyes were closed; he appeared to be meditating. Like this all wasn’t weird enough? When I moved, his eyes flew open and he smiled at me. “Better now?” “Sorry about that,” I mumbled. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He crawled out of the way as I sat up and then pushed onto all fours. From there I used the edge of his desk to pull myself up. Mayfield did the same, rising stiffly to his feet. I heard his knees pop. Maybe someday this would be funny. I couldn’t imagine it, but maybe. About a million years from now. I raked a hand through my hair, put shaky hands to my tie. “Would you like to lie down?” he asked. I laughed unsteadily. “I think I already did.” “I mean, have a real sleep.” Those weirdly colored eyes met mine, and I could see that he was sincere in his offer; I thought he had to be one of the kindest people I’d ever met, even if he was a little screwy. I said, “Thanks. I think I should be going.” The thought of getting myself out of there, walking back to the bus stop, and the long bus ride was almost overwhelming. I needed to go while I still could. “Would it be all right if I contacted you with any questions?” I was afraid to ask for another interview. “Of course.” He gave me an oddly intent look. “I think perhaps we should reschedule, shouldn’t we?” I nodded. Fumbled my tape recorder into my pocket. “Now sit down and relax for a moment. I’ll have my car brought around.” I protested, but he insisted -- and he had a lot more energy than I did -- so in the end, I was dropped off in front of my apartment building by Roman Mayfield’s white limousine.

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***** Jack must have had the day off because he was swimming in the deserted pool as I wearily passed the courtyard on the way to my apartment. I deliberately ignored the sight of his lean brown body cutting through the aqua water, glistening powerful arms dipping slow and steady in perfect rhythm with the strong kick of his long, tanned legs. I was going to have to work on my ignoring technique. I was unlocking my door when I heard him call my name. “Tim!” Unwillingly, I turned in time to see him hoist himself out of the pool, water raining down on the pavement. He came toward me, unself-consciously straightening his red swim trunks. “I’ve got some news.” “Great.” I pushed my door open, practically weak-kneed with the relief of being home at last. Sanctuary. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?” He caught the door before it shut on him, just as he had done the other night. The easy friendliness of his face changed. “Hey. Tim, is there some reason why we can’t be friends?” It was spoken in the same tone that cops ask Is there a problem here? And, yeah, there was a problem. The problem was that he was standing too close to me and he smelled of chlorine and bare skin, and I could remember only too clearly the smooth supple texture of that skin, and the salty taste of it, and how it felt to rest my face against it and listen to his heartbeat. “No,” I said shortly. “No reason. But I’m not feeling too hot right now, so later, okay?” “Are you all right?” His gray eyes scanned my face with apparent concern -- and I lost it. “Like you fucking care?” I replied. “Don’t worry. It’s not your problem.”

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I didn’t shout or anything, I didn’t even say it loudly, but Jack’s eyes narrowed. He glanced around like he thought someone might overhear us, and then he pushed open my door, forcing me back as he stepped inside my apartment. “Wait. A. Minute.” He snapped each word out. “You’re the one who withheld information. So don’t give me some snotty attitude like I’m not sympathetic to your situation.” “‘Withheld information’? What, were we on stakeout together? You have no idea what my situation is.” And just like that, I was in his face, yelling. Jack paled, his lips folding in the way they did when he didn’t like something. His eyes looked black. He yelled back, “You know what I mean. You should have told me you’re epileptic!” He was always so controlled; his answering anger caught me off guard. More calmly, I asked, “On the fourth date? Would there have been a fifth date?” “I don’t know. But I do know you should have told me before we spent the night together.” “Sorry I’m not up on epileptic etiquette,” I said bitterly. “It’s still kind of new to me.” I watched the anger dissipate from his face and body. “I know. I remember. The accident was eighteen months ago. Look, Tim, it’s not the seizures, okay? You should have been up front with me, but --” “Can we not do this now?” I interrupted, dropping down on the sofa. My adrenalinefueled burst of energy was long gone. I said tiredly, “I should have told you. I know. And I know it wasn’t working between us anyway.” Something in the quality of Jack’s silence made me look up. I couldn’t read his expression. I said, “And I do want to stay friends, so thanks.” I tried for a smile. “So will you please go away now?”

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He seemed to shake off his preoccupation. “Yeah. Of course. Sorry.” He opened the door. “Call me when you wake up. It turns out that Bud Perkins did keep his own private file on the Aldrich case.”

***** I slept till seven-thirty. When I woke, I felt a lot better -- a little embarrassed for coming unglued with Jack, but equally relieved to have gotten it off my chest. I showered and hunted around in the cupboard for something to eat -- along with lack of sleep and stress, missing meals was another trigger for my epilepsy -- and then gave Jack a call while Campbell’s soup heated on the stove. Jack picked up immediately, and I felt a little self-conscious after our earlier confrontation. “Hi, it’s Tim.” “Hey,” said Jack. “Have you eaten? I’m fixing wings.” I glanced at the canned soup bubbling on the burner. “No,” I said slowly. “Why don’t you come up and you can look Perkins’s file over while we eat.” “You’ve got Perkins’s personal file?” “Yeah. There’s a lot in it, but I don’t know how relevant most of it is. I figured you’d find it interesting.” To put it mildly. “I’m on my way,” I said. I turned off the burner, stuck the soup in the fridge. Stopping only long enough to slip on a pair of Vans and drag the comb through my damp hair, I shook my head at my mirrored self. I had a feeling trying to work out a friendship with Jack was a bad idea. I was still too attracted to him. But, unless one of us was planning to move, there didn’t seem much help for it -- and he was a valuable resource.

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I stepped outside of my apartment and locked the door. The evening air was mild, filled with the hum of the pool generator and air conditioners. The lights were on in the pool, the solar-powered tiki torches flickering in the twilight. I could smell the jasmine in the air -and a hint of tobacco smoke. I glanced over as I started up the stairs to Jack’s apartment, pinpointing the round orange dot of the cigarette of someone standing in the shadow of the blanket of bougainvillea cascading over the side of the building. I didn’t make anything of it until I saw the cigarette arc off into the night and a bulky silhouette detach itself from the deeper shadows. “You don’t listen too well,” the shadow said conversationally, walking toward me. The funny thing is, my initial thought was that he said too well rather than too good. A thug with proper grammar? He lunged for me, and instead of backing away, I moved forward and delivered an uppercut with all the power I had. Despite the fact that I was off balance on the steps, it was a good punch; I hadn’t had time to think and so my body was loose and my hand relaxed till the last moment. I put my total body force into that strike, driving my fist squarely into his sternum. It was like punching a bull. I tried to follow through to his chin, but he’d recovered from his initial surprise by then and blocked me, slipping left and countering with a straight punch. Ducking, I thought, Fuck. He’s a boxer. Most street fights aren’t about training or skill. They’re about two pissed off men throwing punches until one of them falls down. So a guy who can stay cool and keep thinking, and knows the basics, has an advantage, even if he’s on the slim side. Unless he runs into a bigger guy with a lot more experience and training -- which I’d just done. The punches began to fall, landing on my arms and shoulders. I had my guard up trying to protect my head, but there was no way I could stand up to that onslaught. His fist landed in my gut and I went down on one knee, nearly losing my balance. The stairs and railing

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prevented me from getting clean away, and that was my only hope at that point. Through the barrier of my arms, I tried to get a good look at him, but it was nearly dark by then. He kind of looked like Mr. Clean: big and bald and sort of jolly. He seemed to be enjoying pummeling me. Footsteps pounded on the landing above and then down the stairs, and somebody brushed over me and tackled Mr. Clean, who quit whaling on me and plunged back, crashing down the stairs with Jack on top. I lowered my arms, panting, muscles shaking, and hauled myself to my feet. Jack and Mr. Clean were rolling around on the cement courtyard, and I had to take a moment to admire the brutal efficiency of Jack’s attack. He swung with fine, fierce proficiency -- and he was better built for brawling than me, though not in Mr. Clean’s division. Mr. Clean changed tactics, snaking around like one of those Water Wiggles. He was a wild man, and he managed to wriggle out from under Jack, grabbing for one of the umbrellaed metal tables and tipping it over. I was down the stairs by then and caught the table edge before it cracked down on Jack. Mr. Clean rolled onto his feet, Jack scrambled up, and Mr. Clean drew a gun from beneath his lightweight sports jacket and pointed it at us.

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Chapter Six

I froze. Jack’s arms came up in a hold everything position. “Easy, pal,” he said. Mr. Clean’s eyes met mine, and they were as dark and fathomless as the barrel pointed my way. “Bang,” he said. I stopped breathing, but instead of firing he swung the gun at Jack and said, “Don’t move. Don’t even twitch.” He was backing up, moving swiftly to the front entrance, one hand stretched behind him to keep from walking into one of the other tables or lounge chairs. The gun swung back my way. “Last warning,” he said to me. “Stay out of the Aldrich case.” And then he was out through the arched entrance. “God damn it!” Jack snapped, and he went tearing up the stairs back to his apartment. I sat down on the bottom step, feeling like a puppet after someone had cut the strings.

Bang. I could hear the blast; feel bullets tearing into my body, plowing through flesh and bone. I felt sick, although that probably had something to do with the punches I’d received.

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Jack came racing back, taking the stairs a couple at a time. He shot past me and out through the apartment complex entrance. It was dark now but I could see the gleam of the gun in his hand. I put my head in my hands, getting my wind back. I was going to have a beautiful set of bruises in a few hours. It’d happened so fast, but that’s like anything. Fast and unexpected, like when a soccer mom runs a red light and smashes into your car. Like a lightning strike in your brain. After a short time Jack returned, walking through the arched entryway. Spotting me still sitting on the stairs, he came over and dropped down beside me, resting his gun on his knee. “Okay?” “Yeah.” “Do you know him? Did you recognize him?” I shook my head. “I think it’s the guy from yesterday. Same voice, I think.” “I’ll file the report on this one. I want that asshole.” His face was all angles and sharps in the uneven light. The little white scar on his forehead stood out clearly. Meeting my gaze, he suddenly grinned. “That was a helluva punch you threw, Mr. North. You can handle yourself okay.” “Define okay.” “Nah, the dude was built like a brick wall.” His cheek creased. “You’ve done some boxing.” “College.” He nodded. After a moment he said quietly, “The guy’s connected. I’ll guarantee it.” “You mean like mob connected?” He nodded. “I guarantee you we’ll find him in a mug book.”

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“Tony Fumagalli?” I said doubtfully. “No one seems to know -- or will say -- why Eva broke her engagement to him.” “Maybe she figured out what he did for a living.” “They called him the Gentleman Gangster in the press. It shouldn’t have been a newsflash.” He didn’t say anything. I was crazily conscious of his shoulder against mine, his bare arm brushing my bare arm. Jack shrugged. “Tony F.’s out of play but there’s always Frankie, his son. He inherited the family business when the old man’s brain turned to mush.” Speaking of brains turning to mush. I wiped my forehead on my arm and said, “Maybe there’s a problem with Tony’s alibi. Even so…would it really matter? Would anyone prosecute a senile old man?” “They might.” Jack sighed. “I agree it doesn’t seem worth the taxpayers’ money.” “Maybe Mr. Clean’s not mob connected.” “Mr. Clean.” He snorted with amusement. Then he shook his head. “You don’t hire guys like that off the street. He’s a pro.” He smiled at me and his dimple showed. “You’ve got someone seriously annoyed with you, Tim.”

***** Splashing cold water on my face, I used one of Jack’s immaculate towels to dry off and stepped out of the bathroom. His place was very neat. Everything-in-its-place-scary. I glanced in his bedroom as I walked past. The bed -- a waterbed -- was tidily made, black and brown striped pillows stacked comfortably on a black comforter. I wondered who he was sleeping with these days. I hadn’t noticed anyone coming or going, but then I’d tried hard not to notice. And Jack had always been discreet about his social life, even when I was part of that social life.

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I found him in the kitchen tasting a honey-colored dipping sauce. “That’s good,” he announced. “Smells good,” I agreed. He gave me a searching glance, picked up a plastic baggie stuffed with ice cubes and tossed it to me. “Here, Rocky. Ice your hand.” I caught the bag, glanced down at my hand, and he was right. The knuckles were puffy and pink. I applied the ice pack and glanced around. “Anything I can do?” “The Perkins file is on the coffee table. You want a beer?” I walked over to the sofa, sat down feeling the protest of newly punished muscles on top of yesterday’s aches and pains, and picked up the file. A stack of newspaper and magazine clippings slithered out and spilled on the carpet. Jack was right. Perkins had kept anything and everything related to Eva Aldrich. I scooped up the fragile clippings. There were also sheets of legal paper covered in faded handwriting. Perkins’s unofficial notes? I flipped through, absorbed. “You want a beer, Tim?” Jack repeated. I glanced up and he had a funny half grin. “Huh? No. Thanks. I don’t want to push my luck. How did you get hold of this?” “My first partner was one of these old-timers who knew just about everyone on the force. I got hold of him and he put me in touch with Perkins’s wife. He’d only kept one file -- this one.” “Wow.” What really wowed me was that Jack had bothered to do this on his day off. It was way beyond the call of duty. I looked up. “Thanks. I really appreciate this.” He shrugged. Turned back to the oven. I continued reading through the folder. Perkins must have kept up the file until shortly before his death. There were several photos that I recognized from the Life magazine spread of that evening, and there were a couple of those Where Are They Now features from the

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early ’70s. A lot of the stuff I’d seen on microfilm and microfiche, but some of it was new -and a bit lurid. There was speculation about drugs and alcohol and Eva’s sexual orientation -none of which had shown up in the earlier articles about her death. Was there any foundation in fact or was this all based on rumor and gossip -- and boosting circulation numbers? I barely noticed when Jack set a plate of wings and a Coke beside me. He sat down across from me and ate silently while I frowned over Perkins’s notes. At last I looked up out of the years and distance and said, “According to Perkins, only two people at the party were unaccounted for at the time of Eva’s murder: Stephen Ball and Gloria Rayner. He didn’t seem to consider Burack or Fumagalli real suspects at all.” Jack said, “For what it’s worth, I think Fumagalli’s alibi is unbreakable. Over a dozen people saw him at the Tropicana.” “He could have hired someone.” “We’ve been over it,” he reminded me. “That wasn’t a professional hit.” He was right. “They found the knife,” I said. “It had been wiped clean of prints and dropped in the swimming pool. That information was never officially released to the press. I wonder why not.” “Could have been a lot of reasons,” Jack said. “Usually it’s because we hope someone’s going to accidentally trip himself up during questioning.” He tipped his head at my plate. “Are you going to eat something?” “Oh, right.” I set the file aside and picked up a little drumstick. “The murder took place during a party at the Garden of Allah, but Eva was found inside Stephen Ball’s adjacent villa. The murder weapon was a knife from Ball’s own kitchen, so the killing almost certainly wasn’t premeditated.” “I thought you’d find that interesting.”

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“I can’t believe this never came out before. It’s not even made clear in the official reports.” I bit into a wing, crunchy with baked parmesan cheese and oregano and garlic. My eyes widened. “Wow. That’s really good.” I reached for another wing. Suddenly I was starving, and even the fact that my various bruises and sore spots were starting to make themselves felt didn’t distract me. Jack and I munched for a few minutes in an unusually companionable silence. He neatly wiped his mouth on his napkin. I finished off my Coke. “I think Ball did it,” I said. “Perkins doesn’t come right out and say so, but I think he leaned that way too. She went to Ball’s villa during the party -- why, if not to meet him? He didn’t go with her, so he must have given her a key because she got inside somehow. And he’s the only remaining principal who won’t give me an interview.” “That’s not exactly conclusive,” Jack pointed out. He rose, went to the fridge and got himself another beer. I declined a second Coke. “I know, but why won’t he talk to me? What does he have to hide?” “It’s not a news story to him,” Jack pointed out. “It’s part of his life. A painful part.” “It was fifty years ago.” “Yeah, but all the same, it’s a touchy subject for someone or that goon wouldn’t have shown up this evening warning you to back off.” I swallowed hard, remembering that gun pointed my way. Bang. I dropped the last chicken bone onto the pile before me. “True.” “By the way, I want you to come down to headquarters tomorrow and look through the mug books.” “It was dark. I didn’t really get a clear look at his face.” “Still.” I sighed. “Okay.”

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Jack’s gray eyes were alert. “Problem?” “Not really. It’s just a pain in the ass not driving. It takes up half the day making bus connections. Taxis are expensive. And I really didn’t get a good look at him.” “How long do you have to be seizure-free before you can reapply for your license?” “At least three months. And, as you know from personal experience, I’m not seizurefree yet.” His gaze slid away from mine. “Anyway,” I said into the somewhat awkward pause, “I should be going. Thanks for letting me see the file.” “You can keep it for now. No one knows about it. You might as well.” “Seriously?” He nodded. “Thanks.” I picked up the file, rose, and he said, “You don’t have to go, you know.” I stopped and stared at him. Jack gazed steadily back at me. “How about coffee and dessert while you tell me what you’ve found out from your interviews? Might help to run your findings past someone else.” “Uh…okay.” I sat slowly back down. “I haven’t found out much in the way of new information.” “So you said, but you’re willing to tap Stephen Ball for murder, so you must’ve come to some conclusion from talking to people.” He went into the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine. “I’ve seen Gloria Rayner twice. The first time we mostly talked about her. Last time we talked a little about Eva, but she’s pretty cagey. I know she could tell me a lot more if she chose. I’m hoping the third time will be the trick.” “Gloria Rayner? She does those AARP ads?”

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I could just imagine Gloria’s opinion of being remembered for her AARP work. “She was one of those ’50s blonde bombshells. She and Eva were best friends -- and rivals, I think.” “Romantic rivals or professional rivals?” “Both, as far as I can tell. I know they were both trying for a role in a William Wyler film.” I watched Jack moving efficiently around his small kitchen. The overhead light shone down on hair as black and glossy as a raven’s wing. “And I’ve seen Roman Mayfield once.” “He’s the astrologer?” “‘Seer to the Stars.’ I forgot to tell you, he’s the one responsible for leaving the tarot card on my front door.” Jack stopped and stared at me. “He admitted it?” “Pretty much.” “He admits leaving a tarot card -- like somebody left on Aldrich’s body?” “I don’t think he looked at it like that. Or maybe he did. He’s an oddball, but…” I stopped, remembering his kindness and patience that afternoon. “But what?” “He’s a…genuinely nice person.” Jack looked unimpressed. “He didn’t have a motive that I can see. He’s gay, for one thing. His relationship with Eva was strictly platonic, from what I can tell. Anyway, my point is, the card wasn’t left as a threat. I think it was supposed to be sort of a come-on, actually.” “He sounds like a nut.” “Probably, but he’s figured out a way to make a living at it. And, like I said, I think he’s harmless.”

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“Don’t underestimate a potential threat just because he’s an old man. If he was capable of killing once, he’s still capable.” I looked up, surprised at his serious tone. Jack carried in coffee and dessert plates on a tray, and I had to bite back a smile. The tray struck me as farcical. Not that Jack wasn’t civilized, but the bruise on his cheekbone from Mr. Clean’s fist sort of undermined the cosmopolitan effect. I took the dessert plate he handed me and said, “And I’ve talked to a lot of people who were on the periphery of Eva Aldrich’s world, read every article on her I could find.” I tried the strawberry nut crisp. It seemed to be a baked mixture of fruit and mashed up pecan cookies and nuts topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. “This is really good,” I said thickly, and swallowed. Jack smiled at me, a slow smile -- that endearing dimple appearing unexpectedly. I suddenly ran out of things to say, and we ate our dessert in silence but for the scrape of forks on plates. Finally I glanced at the clock on the bookshelf and set my empty plate aside. “I should go. It’s late and you’re working tomorrow.” “I go in late tomorrow.” “Yeah. Well, I still should go.” He studied me without speaking, and then put his plate down. I stood up and he stood up. “Thanks for dinner,” I said. “And, now that I think of it, thanks for saving my ass earlier.” His eyes were so dark and intense I could hardly look away. I felt crazily selfconscious. “You don’t have to go, Tim,” he said. “Why don’t you stay?”

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Chapter Seven

I wasn’t exactly sure if it was excitement or anger, but my heart was thudding so hard I could hardly get the words out. “What are you doing, Jack?” “Asking you to stay the night.” Come to think of it, it was mostly anger pounding through my veins and tightening up my throat. I got out a reasonably calm, “Why? You already said you weren’t interested. You made it clear.” “I know.” He shook his head. “But…” “But what?” I didn’t manage to control my temper quite so well that time, and I saw his eyes glint. Jack said quietly, “I know how this seems, but I’m not playing games with you -- I like you a lot, Tim. That hasn’t changed. I still find you very attractive. That hasn’t changed either.” “What has changed?” “I was mad that you didn’t tell me about your seizures. I think that’s the kind of information that needs to be shared with a potential lover, but…more than that, it seemed indicative of some other problems.”

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“What other problems?” Then I put a hand up. “Never mind. I don’t give a fuck what you thought my other problems were.” I turned and headed for the door. “Wait!” He caught my arm as I yanked open the door. It was a hard grip, but it gentled almost at once into a caress sliding down my biceps and forearm and then reluctantly releasing me. Goose bumps prickled all down my skin; I felt that touch in every pore, every hair on my arm. My heart slowed, the beats heavy against my ribs. “I keep making it worse,” Jack said. He sounded so rueful, I hesitated. Seeing my hesitation, he put a hand on my shoulder, drawing me back inside and shutting the door. The warm weight of his hand slid down my back and drew me close. Our lips touched -- he tasted like coffee and strawberry nut crisp. “Stay,” he whispered.

***** The waterbed gulped as we settled on the comforter, and I had to bite back a nervous laugh. The first night I’d had a lot to drink, too much. Tonight I was cold sober and very conscious that this was probably a bad idea. I pulled my T-shirt over my head. Jack’s shirt was already off, his tanned chest lightly furred in silky black, his nipples brown and flat. He reached for the top of my jeans about the same moment I brushed my fingertips against his nipple. He smiled and I smiled, lightly pinching the tiny buds. “Oh, yeah,” he murmured. He undid the buttons of my Levi’s and his hands slid knowledgeably inside the encasing denim. “Use your tongue, Timmy.” I fully intended to, but paused, closing my eyes and savoring the feel of Jack’s big hand feeling me over. I savored his warmth through the soft cotton of my briefs, and then his fingers slipped through the fly. I pushed my hips into that exploration and moaned, my dick coming up hard and a little painfully in the binding Levi’s.

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“Lift up,” Jack ordered. I raised my hips and he tugged on my jeans and briefs, helping me maneuver out of them. He kicked his own off in a couple of quick, limber twists, and I reached for him, the mattress sloshing beneath us. We kissed long and deep. I could feel the tension quivering through his lean body, echoing my own aching need. I dragged my mouth away, gasping for air. “Jack, you’re sure about this?” I didn’t want to know if he wasn’t, so I was a little startled to hear my voice. “Hell, yes,” he rasped. His eyes looked unfocused as they found mine. “Why? Changed your mind?” I shook my head and he captured my mouth again, hot and hungry. One thing about Jack, though, he wasn’t selfish. His hands were everywhere, lingering, exploring, fingertips teasing, tracing my mouth, ears, eyes; palms stroking my ribs and sides; hands cupping and caressing balls and buttocks, all this attention leaving me breathless and distracted. I tried to respond in kind, licking his nipples, nibbling his ears, sucking his lower lip. “Mm. Nice. You taste sweet,” he whispered. No way was this going to last long. I hadn’t been with anyone since Jack, and that had been over six months ago. His legs wrapped around me, I rocked against him, belly to belly. Caught between the press of our bodies, our stiff cocks poked and scraped against each other -- part pain and part pleasure. It quickly switched from a gentle seeking for rhythm to something electric and a little desperate, bodies arching and grinding and thrusting toward release. Jack came first. He gave a little shout and then semen shot between us, sticky and wet. He laughed, and I remembered that about the first time. He laughed when he came -- a genuinely joyful sound.

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Noticing that I was still writhing beneath him, he wrapped his hand around my straining dick, pumping me once, twice. I sucked in a ragged breath and then I was coming too, Jack’s hand slipping on wet heat. Sweet pulsing relief rippled through me, sharp peaks of pleasure like sound waves singing through my nerves and muscles. It was good, but it didn’t last nearly long enough. Relaxed to the point of inertia, I rolled over beside Jack, listening to his breathing settling back to normal. “That was great,” he said drowsily. He kissed my ear -- I think he was aiming for my temple. “Mmm,” I murmured. And it had been great, but I still felt a little let down. Probably nothing more than physical exhaustion; it had been a long damn day, and it was liable to be a long damn night -- which was the last thing I needed, and more than likely to tempt fate. But Jack turned his head on the black pillow and studied me with peaceful gray eyes. “Okay?” “Yep. Great.” “Okay if I sleep?” So it had just been a mutual jerk off. I nodded wearily, sat up. His hand smoothed over my back. “Hey.” He drew me back down. “Where’re you going? There’s room in this birdbath for two.” I hesitated, remembering the last time -- wondering if he’d forgotten. “Turn the light out, Tim,” he said. I turned the light out and gave in to the tug of his hand, settling down beside him once more.

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“Night,” Jack said, his breath light and warm against my face. Judging by the sound of his breathing a few moments later he must have plunged instantly into sleep. “Night,” I murmured, and dived in after him.

***** I opened my eyes to a long row of pristine and beautifully pressed shirts hanging in an open closet. It was clearly not my closet. There was a shoe rack on the floor beneath a second row of trousers and pants, and one of those belt caddy things. Jack actually hung up his Levi’s. Lifting my head, I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Early still. Five-thirty. Jack’s alarm wasn’t going to ring for another hour and forty-five minutes. I laid there in the rosy morning light and studied his sleeping face: the curve of black lashes against his purpling cheekbone, the relaxed line of his mouth, the stubborn jut of his bristly jaw. I thought about kissing those softly parted lips, but things were liable to be different in the daylight. Jack’s lashes quivered, lifted. His eyes -- almost blue in the tentative sunlight -scrutinized me for a moment, then he smiled, a sleepy, sort of sweet smile. I felt my belly tighten with desire. “Morning,” I said. “Morning.” He reached up and brushed the tiny gold stud in my ear with a fingertip. “Sleep okay?” “I did.” I was a little surprised at that; I’d enjoyed the best night’s sleep I’d had in a long time. “Sore?” I grimaced, glancing down at the bruises mottling my arms and shoulders. “He landed a few good punches, yeah. I’ll feel better after a swim.”

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“I’ll swim with you.” He grinned, the dimple showing briefly. “But not just yet.”

Round two was lazy and loose, both of us taking time and trouble, trying this, that, and the other -- we both seemed to like the other a lot. Jack had an instinct for what felt terrific, an astonishing delicacy and playfulness given his strength and vocation. Before long I was in a state of screaming -- and only Jack’s mouth on mine kept that from being literal truth -- tension. He fingered my balls, weighing, teasing, fondling -- then just when I thought I couldn’t take another second of it -- he moved to my cock, tracing one finger along the cleft, running the circle of finger and thumb up and down my swollen length. I needed to feel his hand around me. Needed to feel that firm grip working me, needed to feel the blaze of friction grazing up, gliding down. I fumbled my hand on top of his, trying to guide him, moaning in abject relief when his fingers wrapped around me. “Yes. Yes. Yes…” The pull and pump sped up, and I thrust fiercely against Jack’s fist. I’m not sure why it was so much better than jerking myself off, but it was. Something about handing over that control, letting someone else drive. And Jack had a real sense for what felt great, that mix of imagination and empathy -- or maybe it was just a hell of a lot of experience. I wanted it to last forever, but a few more knowing tugs and I was coming in creamy surges, reduced in moments to boneless satisfaction. “Oh…wow,” I breathed as Jack finally rolled over onto his back. He turned his head and grinned at me. “On a scale of one to ten?” “Is that Richter scale? Cities toppled.” I eyed him, lying there, legs splayed, thick cock still stiff and erect.

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I listened to the soothing rustle of water beneath us, and all I wanted was to close my eyes and go back to sleep, but I made an effort and pushed up, positioning myself between Jack’s long brown legs. “What are you up to?” He smiled a languorous smile. I touched the sticky pearl at the head of his cock. “Speaking for yourself, yeah?” And I took him into my mouth. Salty taste, familiar scent…oh, Jack… He groaned, “Oh, yeah!” And his back bowed. His shaft was very straight, thick, strong -- beautiful as it jutted out of the dark nest of curls. It deserved my full attention, and I gave it to him, sucking hard, then soft, taking him deep inside and then barely grazing the slick head with my tongue. Jack encouraged me with throaty noises and soft shivers. His eyes were shining and warm, his hands gentle as they locked on my shoulders, drawing me closer, urging me on. I kissed his cock, his balls -- nuzzled lower and he bucked. I smiled, rose, and fastened my lips around his shaft again, probing beneath the crown with my tongue. “Oh. My. God,” he groaned. I began to suck him hard, pursuing, insisting, and I felt surrender well up and flow through him -- the white flag spilling into my mouth. At last he showed signs of returning life, shifting, urging me up beside him, folding me into his arms. We drifted there for a time, snoozing lightly while the waterbed lulled us.

We woke the next time when the air conditioner kicked on. It was going to be another scorcher of a day. I pulled away from Jack, my skin sticky and damp where I had rested against him. “A swim sounds good,” he mumbled. I nodded, sitting up and looking around for my jeans. “I’ll meet you downstairs?”

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“Or we could just shower and have breakfast.” I glanced over my shoulder. He looked supremely relaxed -- and content. “I need to work the kinks out,” I said. He smiled -- a very sexy smile. “I like your kinks.” Well, one thing was for sure: he wasn’t one of these guys who couldn’t wait to kick you out after getting his rocks off -- not normally, anyway. Our first time he hadn’t showed much interest in lingering. I said, dragging my Levi’s on and standing up, “So…what other problems do you think I have?” “What?” “Last night you said my not talking about my epilepsy indicated other problems.” His brows drew together. “Come on, Tim. I didn’t know you.” “You don’t know me now, but you’re willing to sleep with me again. What changed?” All the easy contentment was gone from his face; his gaze was unwavering, and his mouth unsmiling. His game face. At least I wasn’t going to hear a bunch of platitudes to coax me back into bed. “All I knew about you was that you used to be a reporter and that you were on disability.” His eyes met mine directly. “You didn’t seem disabled, and in my line of work I’ve known a lot of people who try and take advantage of the system. You said you were estranged from your family and you didn’t seem to have any friends or outside social life.” He shrugged. I listened to this with mounting anger. He was so exactly what my wounded selfconfidence didn’t need. I said, “My parents -- my mother -- didn’t take the news that I was gay very well. In fact, she pretty much gave me an ultimatum. I could have my family or my ‘lifestyle.’ And my dad, though he didn’t agree, just went along with her. Then when I got

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hit, suddenly she -- they -- decided all was forgiven, and I should move home -- after essentially not speaking to me for five years, they want me to move home.” “Sometimes it takes a close call like that to wake people up.” What I really didn’t need to hear was Jack taking the part of my parents. I said, “So you’re right. I don’t get along with my parents and I cut myself off from most of my friends after the accident. So, if that makes me a loser --” Jack didn’t look away. “You asked me, I’m telling you. I didn’t think you were a loser, but I thought you had some problems and my professional life is stressful enough without looking for complications in my personal life. But you were smart and funny and cute as hell, and I wanted to go out with you anyway.” I was so nonplussed by the cute as hell comment that I couldn’t think of how to respond. “But it was obvious to me right away that you were hiding something.” I opened my mouth to object and he qualified, “That you weren’t really open, weren’t really candid.” He shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of experience with people not being candid.” “I’ll bet. You’re a judgmental prick.” Jack acted like he didn’t hear that. “And then I found out what it was -- and it wouldn’t have been that big a deal except that you seemed to think it was.” I turned my face and stared at the sunlight filtering through the slats of the blinds. The shadows looked like a ladder climbing up the wall. A long way to the top of that ladder. He added flatly, “And it still worries me that you take the risks you do. Stupid risks. Like swimming alone and walking down a deserted back alley. Not wearing a Medic Alert bracelet or necklace or something.” I faced him, but couldn’t read the expression I caught on his face. That mix of tenderness and disapproval -- what did that mean? That he didn’t want to feel whatever it was he felt? I turned away again.

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“But besides being smart and funny and cute as hell, you’ve got guts and discipline and the meanest right this side of North Central Avenue.” My mouth twitched, but I didn’t really feel like smiling. I understood where Jack was coming from, and I appreciated his honesty in a way, but I also felt hurt and a little disillusioned. I was glad I’d asked him, glad that he’d been candid -- before things went any further between us. Hearing the truth had…tempered my enthusiasm, so to speak. “Last night was good, wasn’t it?” he said softly. I nodded. “So we’re friends again?” “Sure.” I found my T-shirt, pulled it on. “After all, even if I am a judgmental prick, I do make damn good chicken wings.” I did laugh then.

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Chapter Eight

We swam together that morning, and then Jack went to get dressed for work and I went inside to have breakfast and read over Bud Perkins’s private file. Stephen Ball’s party at the Garden of Allah had started around eleven o’clock, following the premiere of Ball’s film The Professional. Over thirty Hollywood luminaries had been in attendance. Eva Aldrich had arrived late and alone. Having just publicly broken off her engagement to mobster Tony Fumagalli, she was the object of a lot of speculation, and her movements throughout the fateful evening had been easily tracked and verified. There were a number of stunning photos of her; she had been at the peak of her beauty, and if her heart was breaking, it didn’t show in Kodak color. Eva had danced three dances and retired to the powder room for a long chat with Gloria Rayner. She had danced a fourth time -- this one with Stephen Ball -- drunk a champagne cocktail with the director of Danger in the Dunes, and then slipped outside at approximately two o’clock. Stephen Ball had discovered her lifeless body in his villa at threefifteen, and the authorities had been summoned. The only reason Ball hadn’t been instantly arrested was that he had been observed walking from the hotel itself to his villa -- followed almost immediately by his horror-

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stricken exit -- by guests in the hotel swimming pool. Ball had not been inside the cottage long enough to commit murder -- nor was there enough blood on his tux to account for having stabbed someone to death. But Bud Perkins had theorized that Ball could have slipped away from the party earlier, met and killed Eva in his villa, then showered, changed into another tuxedo and returned to the party. True, there was the problem that these theoretical bloodstained clothes had never been found, and that no one had seen Ball make an earlier trip to the villa, but then no one had seen Eva heading for Ball’s villa either. And, more interestingly, no one could verify seeing Ball at the party after Eva had left. It was clear to me, deciphering Perkins’s faded scrawl, that he had believed Ball was guilty, but he had also noted that Gloria Rayner had been MIA shortly after she and Eva had exited the powder room. Also there seemed to be a difference of opinion as to the nature of Eva’s and Gloria’s discussion. One witness reported they had been arguing, two others stated their conversation had seemed “serious but friendly.” Gloria herself claimed that she had been comforting Eva over her recent breakup with Tony Fumagalli. Somehow I had to wrangle an interview with Stephen Ball. Not that I expected him to confess to me or anything, but I felt that speaking with him would maybe give me the direction I needed to take in the book. If I couldn’t get an interview with Ball, I’d have to rely on whatever I could glean from my conversations with Gloria and Roman Mayfield -- assuming Mayfield would hold true to his promise of another interview. I had the impression that Gloria had once had a thing for Ball, but since he wasn’t numbered amongst her many husbands, it must not have been reciprocal. Either way, armed with Bud Perkins’s notes, I felt I had the necessary ammunition to move the next interviews into deeper water.

*****

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After breakfast I caught a bus for Isabel Street and spent a few depressing hours scanning mug shots in the hope of spotting Mr. Clean. One thing for sure: there was no particular criminal physical type. Crooks came in all sizes and colors -- everyone looked the worse for wear in this particular class photo. Even movie stars and solid citizens looked like the dregs of society in their booking photographs. I’d been flipping through pages of drawn and mascara-smeared faces when a uniformed officer brought me what appeared to be a printout of a composite sketch. “What’s this?” “Detective Brady also gave us a description of the assailant.” I studied the printout. Nodded slowly. “It’s not quite like I remember him but…it’s not really wrong either.” The officer nodded. “Close enough in the details to enter into a facial recognition program and run it through the database of criminals we have on file?” “You can do that?” “We have the technology,” she agreed. “Even if we’re not CSI.” “Yeah, it’s close enough.” She left me with the mug books and a Styrofoam cup of terrible coffee. Forty minutes later she was back with several printouts of digital photos. “It’s an all-star lineup,” she announced. “Any familiar faces?” I studied the rogue’s gallery of photos, all of them blunt-featured and bald Caucasians. They were a scary-looking crew. They all looked familiar -- and they all looked foreign. My gaze lingered over an arrogant, almost handsome face. Something about the shape of the head and the alignment of features… “Who’s this?” I asked. The officer examined the photo. “Clyde Wells.” She looked impressed. “Is this the dude?”

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I shook my head. “Maybe. I can’t be sure. Maybe.” I tried to read her face. “Who is he?” “He works for Frankie Fumagalli.” “Tony the Co -- ’s son?” “That’s right. Frankie took over the organization when the old man lost his marbles. Clyde’s one of his enforcers.” She gave me an admiring smile. “You don’t mess around, do you? You’ve got the A-list baddies mad at you.”

***** I’d wondered if I might run into Jack at the station -- and how I was supposed to react. I’d interviewed a few closeted cops when I worked as a reporter, but Jack seemed pretty relaxed about his orientation. Of course, I’d never seen him on the job; maybe he was different when he was on the clock. In any event, I didn’t run into him, so I left the police station and caught a bus back home. As the bus rumbled along, flashing in and out of shade, I found myself thinking about Tony Fumagalli. If his son and heir was bothering to send hired muscle after me, there had to be something wrong with Fumagalli’s alibi. Some weakness that wasn’t obvious at first -- or second, third, and fourth -- glance. But if the police hadn’t found the chink in Fumagalli’s armor, what were the chances that I would stumble on it? What I didn’t get was why it mattered to Fumagalli, with the old man now senile and living in a nursing home. By all accounts he was in increasingly poor health; by the time the book came out, Tony F. could easily be dead. And even if he wasn’t, prosecution was highly unlikely. But what if prosecution wasn’t what Fumagalli Jr. feared? What if there was something else at risk? What?

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It clearly had to do with Eva’s death -- or did it? It had to do with Eva, that much was sure. But if Fumagalli really had an unbreakable alibi for the murder, then the only other thing I could think of was the mysterious end of his engagement to Eva. Why had she broken the engagement? Someone had to know. Gloria and Roman had supposedly been her closest confidants; it was inconceivable that she hadn’t spilled the beans to one or both of them in the three days before her death. But was finding the answer to that riddle going to get me off the hook or just guarantee me being taken out? It was moot anyway because Fumagalli wanted me to give up writing the book, and I couldn’t do that -- wouldn’t do that. So either way, I had to keep going, and the more I knew -- knowledge being power -- the better my odds of survival. The pulse of bright sunlight and deep shade was starting to bother me. I didn’t suffer from reflex epilepsy, and so far I’d never had a seizure triggered by outside stimuli, but I was feeling a little susceptible at the moment. Not to seizures so much as life in general. I closed my eyes, put my head back, and immediately thought of Jack. I shut that line of thought off instantly. I liked Jack a lot -- too much -- and he basically thought I was a good-looking liability. Not a lot of room to go from there. Instead, I made myself think about the night of Eva’s murder. She had been found stabbed to death with a bloody tarot card stuck to her bodice. Where had the tarot card come from? Surely Eva hadn’t walked around with The Lovers card in her handbag? Roman Mayfield had done a couple of readings at the party, but not for Eva. I’d read several accounts of the evening, and they all had made a point that Eva did not have a reading. Granted, the readings had not been serious, more high spirits than a spiritual high. The card had come from Mayfield’s tarot deck, that much had been established, but Mayfield had left the deck with his cape -- yep, cape -- hat and driving gloves in the bar at

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the hotel, which meant that at least thirty people had access to it. Besides, by the late ’50s, the Garden of Allah was hosting more than its share of call girls, con artists, and riffraff. And, in fact, one theory was that Eva had fallen prey to a crazed transient. It wasn’t a popular theory, but it did have its merits. If someone had deliberately swiped the card and followed Eva out to Stephen Ball’s cottage, then her murder had been sort-of premeditated. Not completely premeditated because no one could have counted on Mayfield bringing his tarot deck to the party and doing a reading -- could they? Of course, the simplest explanation was that Mayfield had palmed his own tarot card and planted it on Eva’s body after he killed her, but that would be stupidly incriminating. Besides, what motive did he have? And besides that, his movements were accounted for during the evening. Although I hadn’t seen the accounting myself.

***** There were two messages blinking on my answering machine when I let myself into my apartment. One was from a bookstore letting me know that they’d found a copy of the original Life magazine with the photo layout of the night of Eva’s murder. The second was from my publisher, and the news was good. Stephen Ball had finally agreed to see me.

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Chapter Nine

I didn’t like Stephen Ball. In fairness, I hadn’t liked him even before we actually met. I never thought much of his acting and I loathed his politics. I’d seen way too many documentary clips of him testifying in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee about communists in Hollywood. He had retired from film and television at least a decade earlier, and now spent his free time on golf courses or attending lifetime achievement banquets. Our interview was held poolside at his Beverly Hills home. Ball was drinking Tom Collinses while the current Mrs. Ball -- a nineteen-year-old former Victoria’s Secret model -practiced her high dive at the end of the park-sized pool. “I’ll be frank with you,” Ball said after I’d been seated at the large umbrella-shaded table and handed a highball glass, “I’m not happy about this book of yours.” “Why’s that?” I asked. “Let’s not play games, son. You’re digging into Eva’s death and that’s a painful subject for a lot of us.” “It was a long time ago,” I said. “Half a century.” I sipped my drink and waited for his response. I didn’t bother pointing out that there weren’t “a lot of us” left.

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Ball had to be in his nineties now, but he could easily have passed for fifteen to twenty years younger. He was tall and deeply tanned with unnaturally coal black hair and equally coal black eyebrows and mustache. He’d had some work done around his mouth and eyes, but nothing too ridiculous. His eyes were so blue I half suspected contacts. They studied me coldly. “And you’re going to write this goddamn book with or without my cooperation,” he commented, “so I might as well give you the facts. If you’ve been talking with that fruitcake Roman Mayfield, you could use a few facts.” “You’re not one of Mayfield’s clients?” “Hell no.” He snorted. “Oh, sure, I read my horoscope in the paper. Everyone does, but that’s as far as my interest in the occult goes.” There had been a photo of a much younger Ball and the Seer to the Stars in Mayfield’s photo gallery, but maybe he had outgrown that interest early. I decided to move in another direction. “You were a leading suspect in Eva Aldrich’s death, weren’t you?” He said shortly, “She was found in my bungalow. Yes, you could say I was a leading suspect. Although I think the police always knew Will Burack was the real culprit.” “Meaning you believe Burack killed her?” “You’re goddamn right. He was the only one with a motive. That alibi of his was tissue paper. I don’t know why the cops didn’t force the truth out of him and that lying, treacherous broad he was shacked up with.” Like how did he think the police were going to force the truth? Rubber hoses and bright lights? Mildly, I asked, “You were having an affair with Eva, weren’t you?” “That was over a long time before,” he said, dismissing. He picked up his glass, drinking and watching me over the rim with his chilly blue eyes.

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“You were engaged to her for a short time when she first arrived in Hollywood,” I agreed. “She married Burack instead. So maybe it wasn’t an affair, maybe you were just sleeping together.” He gave a crisp laugh and nodded to me as though acknowledging a point in a game. “Maybe so. We’d just finished making a picture together. Danger in the Dunes. The old fire was still there.” He winked at me. “But she was engaged to Fumagalli.” “That dago!” He raised his glass to the swimwear model who’d made another perfect dive off the board at the end of the pool. “There was no way she was going to marry him.” “Do you know why she broke it off? Was it because of you?” “Probably.” He smiled a dazzling white smile. I suspected dentures. “Like I said, the old chemistry was there.” “What happened the night she was killed?” He picked up the pitcher of Tom Collins, topped off my drink and then leaned back, folding his arms across his tanned chest. He drawled, “What do you think happened?” “I think you arranged to meet her at your villa.” His gaze held mine for a long moment, and then he relaxed. “I guess there’s never really been much mystery about that. Yes, I gave her my keys and told her I’d meet her there in about half an hour. The party was winding down by then, but even so, I couldn’t get away as quickly as I wanted. Finally I managed to slip out. I walked out past the pool yard. I remember thinking how quiet it was. You could hear the music from the hotel. They were playing ‘An Affair to Remember.’ I remember how bright the stars were.” His smile was suddenly strained. “There were only a couple of people in the pool by then.” He fell silent. I waited.

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“The lights were on in the villa. It looked…welcoming.” He cleared his throat. “The front door wasn’t quite latched. I pushed it open and stepped inside. She was lying on the floor between the bedroom and the front room. Her eyes were open.” His own eyes rose out of the horrendous past and met mine. “I knew at once she was dead.” “I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. “She’d been wearing this dress…lots of filmy layers in a pale shade of pink. You know the kind of thing women wore back then. It was like…a cloud around her. It was splotched with her blood. There was blood everywhere. I’d never seen so much blood. They never did get it all out of that tile.” “Did you notice the tarot card right away?” He said slowly, “Not at first. She was, as I said, soaked in blood. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust, to recognize it -- lying on her chest -- smeared in her blood.” “Not pinned to her dress?” He shook his head. “It looked like someone had deliberately placed it on her.” I glanced at the tape recorder winding away in the bright sunlight. “For the sake of argument, if Will Burack didn’t kill Eva, who would be your second guess?” He stared at me for a long time, then he turned to watch his junior partner perform a tight little somersault off the diving board. “Gloria Rayner,” he said.

***** It was dusk by the time I made it back to Glendale. I met Jack going out through the arched entranceway as I was coming in. My instinctive delight dissolved. He was dressed for an evening on the town: boots, tight-fitting jeans, body hugging silk T-shirt. He checked for a moment, seeing me. “Hey, Tim.”

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“Hey, Jack.” “Good day?” He didn’t look guilty exactly, just sort of uncomfortable. “It was,” I said, and I was pleased that my voice sounded relaxed. A little flare of malicious humor prompted me to ask, “Hot date?” “Oh…” He offered a lopsided smile -- no sign of the dimple at all. “I wouldn’t go that far.” “You can go as far as you want,” I assured him -- and if I’d had dimples, they would have showed. No way was I going to let him know that this mattered to me. He already thought I was some pathetic loser; the last thing I wanted was for him to think I placed unreasonable significance on the fact that we’d had sex. In fact, I felt almost giddy with relief that I was able to pretend that it meant nothing -- that he meant nothing. I’m not even sure where it was coming from. Maybe from the same place that final wisecrack comes right after they line you up against the wall and point the rifles. “Have a good one,” I said, and I went on through the archway, leaving him standing there framed in the bougainvillea. Once safely inside my apartment I got a beer from the fridge and uncapped it with unsteady hands. I dropped down on the couch and chugged half the bottle, then sagged back and put the cold bottle against my hot forehead. It was stuffy as hell in the apartment, but that wasn’t my problem. No, my problem was I had a migraine coming on. And I still didn’t have an ending for my book, the mob was mad at me, and I was dangerously close to falling for a guy who didn’t give a damn about me. “Well, hell,” I said softly. I put the beer down, went into the bathroom, and rummaged in the cabinet for some Tylenol. Catching my expression in the mirror, I sneered. “Get a grip,” I said. Putting Jack out of my mind, I popped a couple of Tylenol and got to work.

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I had finished transcribing the interview with Ball and entering my notes into my laptop, when something occurred to me. Pulling my copy of Mayfield’s The Mystery of the Tarot off the shelf, I looked up The Lovers card.

Two Lovers stand in front of the Tree of Knowledge. The man represents the rational, conscious, practical mind. The woman symbolizes the intuitive, subconscious, and mystical. The man gazes upon the woman, the woman looks skyward toward an archangel who blesses their union. Upright, this card in a reading bids the querent unify both intellect and intuition. A choice must be made: will the querent follow the dictates of her heart or “use his head?” The answer lies in surrendering to a higher spiritual power. The card is also known as The Twins.

I stared at the page thoughtfully, then reached for the phone. I dialed Stephen Ball’s home. Naturally I didn’t get Ball himself, but I left a message asking him to call as I needed to verify some facts. I had a feeling it was going to take more than one message to get hold of Mr. Matinee, but I was prepared to keep calling until I got an answer. Turning off my laptop, I gave some thought to dinner. To my relief, the migraine turned out to be just a bad tension headache, which surrendered to the pain relievers and a ham sandwich. The lights were still out at Jack’s place by the time I took my shower and went to bed, but it was still early in the evening. And it was none of my business.

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It was still none of my business at one o’clock in the morning, when I gave up on sleeping and got up to watch some Perry Mason reruns. All the same, I couldn’t help noticing that Jack’s porch light was still on, as I heated up the teakettle. Settling on the sofa with a mug of tea, I watched Perry dispensing law and order. I wasn’t fretting about Jack anymore -- well, not much -- but my brain couldn’t seem to turn off. I hadn’t let myself think about Frank Fumagalli and his pet goon all day, but now that I had nothing else to keep me busy, I couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy. Okay, a lot uneasy. I had no idea what to do about Fumagalli. How far was he liable to take this? Would he put a contract out on me if refused to drop the book? Was that what happened to Raymond Irvine back in ’63 when he started research on his book? The doorbell rang and I spilled my tea. Even decaffeinated hot tea has an energizing effect when you pour it in your lap. I jumped up, shrugging out of my bathrobe, and then stood there, immobile, listening to the doorbell buzz a second time. Did hit men ring first or did they just knock down the door and blast you where you stood? I slunk over to the door, peeked out in time to see Jack turning away. I yanked the door open. He swung back to face me; his smile was tentative. “I didn’t wake you, did I? I saw the light was on.” “No. You didn’t wake me.” I made an effort to do the friendly thing, more for my sake than his. “How was your date?” He shrugged. I ran out of things to say. Why was he here? “Can I come in?” Without a word, I stepped back and let him in. He glanced at the TV, at my discarded bathrobe, and the mug on the floor. “Listen,” he said, and stopped. He gave me a funny, uncertain look.

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“I’m listening,” I said. “Tonight…I’d agreed to go to this concert over a month ago. I couldn’t cancel.” Something tight inside my gut slowly let go. “It’s okay,” I said. “You already said you weren’t looking for anything serious.” “I’m not, but…” His eyes zeroed in on mine. “I kept thinking about you all evening.” “You did?” Maybe I shouldn’t have sounded quite so surprised. “I did. I was wondering how your day went. And what you were doing. I kept thinking about last night.” “I…” I shrugged. “Me too.” Jack’s dimple showed briefly. “Anyway, I was wondering if you had plans for the rest of the night?” I wondered if I was still dreaming. Maybe I hadn’t woken up at all, and I was still tossing and turning in the bedroom, dreaming that I had put the kettle on and was watching Perry Mason reruns -- and that Jack suddenly appeared at my door saying nice things and wanting sex. It seemed like the kind of thing I’d dream. Jack was still smiling, but he tilted his head a little like he was listening for something he just couldn’t hear. His smiled slipped a fraction. “No?” he asked after a moment. My heart did one of those little end zone victory dances, but I did my best to stay stoic. “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I really wanted to find out how this episode of Perry Mason ends.” “Ah.” Gravely, he studied Perry’s grim, blue-jawed visage. After a long moment, he looked back my way. “It’s the ex-wife of the other rancher.” I gazed at him, and I couldn’t keep from smiling. “I think my schedule just opened up.”

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Chapter Ten

“You have a great laugh,” Jack said. “I have?” He nodded, threading my hair through his fingers. “I kept hearing it tonight, kept thinking how funny you’d find this -- or that.” He seemed almost puzzled -- nearly as puzzled as I at the idea that Jack had spent his date thinking about what I might find humorous. Especially since I didn’t remember laughing a lot around Jack. He leaned over and kissed me, his hand sliding down to my hip. I thrust up against him, and he said, “Do you want to fuck for real?” “Wasn’t last night for real?” “Last night was great. Can I fuck you?” I thought it over. Felt an unwilling smile tugging at my mouth. Maybe I really did have a weird sense of humor, because there wasn’t much funny about that. Ironic maybe. “Sure,” I said, “but go easy. It’s been awhile for me.” “I won’t hurt you,” he said solemnly, and I smiled. Yes, you will, I thought, but I didn’t say it.

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I turned over onto my belly and shivered as Jack ran warm hands down my sides. “Very nice. Sleek and brown, like a…a…” “An otter?” He chuckled. “Not exactly. Maybe a mink. You’ve got a temper like a mink, don’t you?” “Me? I don’t think so.” I closed my eyes as he ran a light hand over the curve of my ass. Very nice. Just palm against bare skin was lovely. “Do you have any lube?” “There’s some old stuff in the drawer next to the bed.” I heard the squeak of springs, the slide of the drawer, then the tear of foil. A moment later I heard the squirt of the tube and shivered. There was another pause before a fingertip insinuated itself at that sensitive pucker of flesh. Lots of warm gel and a gentle press. I expelled a long breath, consciously relaxing my muscles, but Jack’s entry was more caress than push. He slipped past the little ring of muscle, homing, pressing against the prostate. I shivered. “Good?” I could hear the smile in his voice. I grunted acknowledgement, easing myself onto his hand, unable to concentrate on more than that delicate pushing and rubbing inside me, wanting more of it…and deeper.

So fucking long. I’d forgotten how good this could feel… After a time Jack’s second finger slipped in, slick and warm with jelly; I moaned, humping back. His breathing sounded funny, rough and fast. “You’re beautiful like this.” He moved his fingers back and forth in that shattery massage that had me squirming on the bed. I needed the cock brushing the cleft of my ass to be inside me. “Now,” I urged. The voice didn’t even sound like me. “Fuck me now, Jack.” He moved his hand some more, refusing to be rushed, petting and palpating, and I didn’t know whether to swear or start sobbing with the need twisting through my guts.

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“Jack!” I groaned when I just couldn’t take it any longer. And there he was, guiding himself in, controlling the thick weight of his penetration -I could feel him shaking with need and hunger, but he held it in check -- until he was in, buried to the balls, and we both moaned together in relief that sounded like harmony. He rocked against me, and I rocked back, and we slid into effortless rhythm, like we’d been working on this routine for years, like we were fuck buddies of long standing -- or true lovers. Slow and sweet, push and pull, the timed thrust and instinctive contractions that changed after a time to something neither of us could control, something powerful and primitive. Our sweat-soaked bodies labored, the sheets twisted and tangled, lungs gasping for air as we pounded against each other…the hardness of bone and muscle, the softness of skin and genitals. One hand fisted in my pillows, the other milked my dick ruthlessly while Jack’s hands dug into my hips, and I knew I’d have bruises there and didn’t care. It felt good being held so hard, pierced so deeply. At last I began to come and I buried my face in the damp linen of my pillow and howled my relief. Jack kissed the back of my neck, and a few moments later I felt his body go rigid. Hotness pulsed into me, spilled through me. He was coming in my ass; I was wet with his semen. Jack trembled, transfixed as orgasm rippled through him in blinding waves, and then he collapsed on top of me and started laughing. And that was something we had in common because I loved that husky, breathless laugh of his. I chuckled too, and he stopped laughing and said, “Turn over, I want to kiss you.” I dragged myself onto my back, and Jack hauled me into his arms and covered my mouth. The kiss surprised me, wet and deep and hungry as though he couldn’t get enough. He was kissing me like I wanted to kiss him, but wouldn’t have dared.

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“Was that okay?” he asked at last, cuddling me against his side. “Fucking A,” I returned, and he laughed again, closing his eyes, growing quiet. I reached over, jerked the sheet over us.

***** In the morning we were relaxed and easy together, and the give and take of pleasure was quick and gentle. “Are we swimming this morning?” Jack asked, when I brought him a cup of coffee a little later. I sat down on the foot of the bed. I liked looking at him in my bed. Liked the brownness of him against white sheets, liked the pillow-ruffled softness of his hair, liked the contentment of his sleepy gray eyes as he sipped his coffee. “I am. Do you have time?” He glanced at the clock, considered. “I’ve got a few errands to run before work…but sure.” He took another swallow of coffee. “What’s your sign?” I asked, curious. His smile was wry. “Yield? I don’t know. What’s yours?” “Stay alert. Expect new traffic patterns.” He chuckled. “Seriously. What month were you born?” “I can’t be serious about astrology. That’s what you’re talking about, right?” I nodded. “I’m just curious.” “That’s how it starts. Next thing you know you’re dialing Madam Cleo, credit card in hand.” He sighed. “April eleventh. Aries.” He glanced at my face. “Is that good or bad?” I rose from the bed. “Beats me. Maybe I’ll ask Roman Mayfield. He left a message setting up another meeting.”

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“This is the guy who left the tarot card on your door?” “Yes. I didn’t tell you. I finally got to interview Stephen Ball yesterday.” “Still think he’s your murderer?” I found my swim trunks, pulled them on. “I don’t know. I don’t like him, but…I don’t know. He thinks -- or says he thinks -- that it was the husband. And if it wasn’t the husband, he says it was Gloria Rayner.” “What was her motive supposed to be again? They both wanted the same part?” “And maybe the same man -- Stephen Ball. That reminds me. I need to try to call him again.” Jack finished his coffee and threw back the sheets. “You make your phone call and I’ll meet you down at the pool.” He picked his jeans off the footboard. Even in the heat of the moment, Jack had managed to avoid throwing his clothes on the floor; I found that sort of endearing. While Jack went upstairs, I tried calling Stephen Ball again. Morning though it was, he wasn’t at home -- or least not at home to me -- and I had to leave another message. By the time I got outside, Jack was already in the pool doing laps. I dived in, the water chill and refreshing despite the fact that it was already getting hot; air conditioners were starting to hum all over the complex. Jack and I swam laps, which inevitably turned into a race, but it was friendly and I don’t think he took it too badly when I beat him by an arm’s length -- both times. We horsed around for a little longer and then swam for the stairs in the deep end. Climbing out of the pool, I felt the aura sweep over me…too much light flooding over me, bright and remorseless, bleaching out my vision. My heart sped up, but it was already too late. I felt that shift in balance, a dizzy drop though I was still gripping the railing. I put my hand out. “Jack…will you help me?”

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I came back to awareness of grass tickling my face, the heat of the sun, the smell of chlorine. Someone was speaking to me, quietly, slowly. “That’s it. That’s it. Take your time. Everything’s okay.” He was running his hand up and down my bare arm. I croaked, “Jack?” “Right here.” Swallowing hard, I breathed in the smell of the grass and soil and flowers and my own sweat and sickness. I felt sleepy, weak. “What’s…wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong.” Jack sounded definite about that. “You had a seizure. You’re okay now.” I opened my eyes, trying to focus. Jack’s face was hard, despite the gentleness of his touch. I closed my eyes against the truth I could read there, and hot tears threatened to spill from under my lashes. “Don’t,” he said tersely. “I can’t take you crying.” “No. Sorry.” I wiped the back of my arm across my face, tried to roll over so that I could push up. I felt so fucking feeble, still quivering with the physical and emotional shock; it must have been a bad one. Jack’s arm came around me at once. He was naked and wet -no, he was wearing a pair of swim trunks. And so was I. I remembered that we had been swimming. And then it got confusing. Just for moment I let myself rest against him. This is good-bye, I thought. This will be

the end of it. I don’t blame him. Closing my eyes, I was enfolded by comforting sensations: Jack’s sun-warmed scent, the brush of soft body hair, the hard pound of his heart beneath my ear. His heart was fast; I’d scared the hell out of him. I panted into his chest while Jack’s hands smoothed up and down my back, familiar and reassuring.

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“Everything’s okay now,” he said. I had a feeling he was talking to himself. I felt abjectly grateful to him for holding me -- for the protection his arms offered. I needed that now, needed that reassurance, that anchor to reality -- even if the safety of Jack’s arms was more of a dream than reality. I held tight to him, but I must have drifted off because I was startled to hear someone speaking overhead. The voice was fuzzy, loud. Jack answered quietly, “Chill out, Wallace. We’re fine. We’re going inside in a minute.” I pried my eyes open. We were sitting on the grass in the courtyard. I was plastered against Jack. Our landlord, Mr. Wallace, stood over us, an expression of extreme distaste on his face. I pulled away, got to my knees, and couldn’t seem to figure out what to do next. Jack rose, taking me by the arms and drawing me the rest of the way to my feet. Mr. Wallace stepped back as though fearing contamination. “This kind of thing can’t go on,” Mr. Wallace said. “There are other residents to consider.” What the hell was he talking about? What did he think was going on? I didn’t have the energy to figure it out then. “I have to sleep,” I said woozily, leaning back into the arm Jack offered. He helped me across the courtyard, opening my apartment door and letting us inside the air-conditioned dimness. “I have to lie down,” I told Jack. “I know.” He guided me down the hall to the bedroom, everything just as we’d left it little more than an hour earlier, bedclothes still tumbled into a ball. I folded onto the side of the mattress, vaguely aware of Jack moving around, shaking out the sheets. His silence seemed ominous. “It’s the stress,” I muttered. I rubbed my head tiredly. “I’m taking my meds. I’m doing everything right. It just happens sometimes…” I flinched at the snap of linen, avoided looking at him as he moved around the foot of the bed.

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Tears started in my eyes. Hell. Not that. I wiped my eyes on the back of my arm, and stretched out in the cool sheets. I wanted to say something, apologize, but what was there left to say? Instead I stretched out in the cool sheets, let my weighted lids drop shut. They flew open again as I felt Jack tugging at my clammy swim trunks. I couldn’t see him through the blur of tears. “Lift up, Tim,” he ordered, and I obediently raised enough for him to peel them off me. His touch was impersonal, nonerotic. I couldn’t read his face at all, but I didn’t need to. I closed my eyes again. Felt him packing pillows around me. Did he think I was going to roll off the bed? It didn’t matter. The nest of pillows was comfortable, and I turned on my side, putting an arm around one fat spongy pillow, snuggling into it. I felt the top sheet come floating down over me.

***** When I opened my eyes again it was dark outside. The bedroom light was on and Jack stood over me, frowning. I blinked up at him, then rose up on my elbows, mumbling, “What time is it? Did I oversleep…?” “Relax,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay before I left for work.” “You’ve been here the whole time?” At the horror in my voice, his grim mouth relaxed into a lopsided grin. “Pretty much. I want you to lock up after I go.” He was dressed for work in jeans, blazer, and one of those immaculate white shirts. Did police detectives work at night? I sat up, started to push back the sheet, and realized I was naked. Somehow I no longer felt comfortable trotting around nude in front of Jack. “Thanks,” I said awkwardly. “I’ll do that.” He hesitated. Then he bent and kissed me, his mouth cool and minty fresh.

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“I’ll see you tomorrow. We…should talk.” I couldn’t wait. Another chat where Jack explained why he didn’t want to get serious and why we should probably lay off for a while. I nodded. “You sure you’re okay?” “I’m great,” I snapped. “Good,” he returned equally curt, and turned away. I grabbed my bathrobe as I followed him into the hall. Jack let himself out without another word, without so much as a glance my way, and I locked the door after him.

***** I opened a can of soup for dinner, and spent a quiet, dispirited evening watching TV and flipping idly through the Life magazine I’d picked up the day before. I was drifting off to the sounds of canned laughter when the phone rang, shocking me back to awareness. I dug the phone out from under the sofa, answered, and was surprised to find Stephen Ball finally returning my phone call. And sounding none too pleased -- or sober -- about it. “I just had a couple of follow-up questions,” I said after apologizing for disturbing Mr. Hollywood after a hard day of golfing and drinking. “How much more can there be to say about this?” Ball demanded. “It happened half a century ago. I can’t understand why you’re stirring this up.” “Two questions and I’ll be out of your hair,” I promised. “Like what?” “Do you know how The Lovers card on Eva’s body got there?”

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“What the hell are you accusing me of?” he roared. “You know goddamned well how that card got there. Her killer --” I interrupted, “If her killer was Will Burack, how did he get hold of a card from Roman Mayfield’s tarot deck? No one saw him at the party that night and Mayfield left the cards with his cloak and hat and gloves in the bar at the Garden of Allah. Someone would have seen him in the bar.” Silence. Ball said, “Maybe it wasn’t one of Mayfield’s cards.” “It was. Mayfield identified it. The card was missing from his own deck. I think Eva must have had the card with her, but by all accounts Eva didn’t have a reading that night. So either she stole the card out of the pack when it was left in the bar or someone else --” “All right!” he flared. “I filched the card during my reading. Roman never noticed, pompous prick that he was. I slipped the card with my key to Eva when we danced that night. It was just…nonsense. Just romantic nonsense.” He paused and I could hear him breathing noisily down the line. “She was so beautiful that night. So…desirable. I wanted her and she wanted me.” Another piece of the puzzle snapped into place. The killer had not brought the card with him, but the card had meant something to the killer. Or…at least the image and words “The Lovers” had meant something to the killer. “One last question,” I said. “Can you recall whether the card was upright or reversed?” “What the hell are you talking about?” “Was the picture on the card upside down or right side up?” “How the hell would I…” I could hear the connection crackling emptily. He said a little unsteadily, “Upside down, I think. I can’t be sure…but…I seem to remember upside down.” “Upside down.” I felt a surge of energy. “And it looked like it had been placed on her body deliberately, you said.”

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“That’s right. Why would it matter?” Ball asked. “Maybe it doesn’t. But in a reading the meaning of the card can be changed depending on whether the card is reversed or upright. It wasn’t clear in the crime scene photos, and it was never mentioned in the report. In fact, according to all the reports, it was pinned to her dress.” “Maybe they didn’t want to talk about her breasts.” “I’m sorry?” “The top of her dress -- the bodice -- was ripped and you could see her breasts. Maybe they didn’t want to talk about that. The papers weren’t like they are today. They still had some standards, some morals.” “Uh…right,” I said. Ball went on talking, but I’d stopped listening. It was sinking in on me that I might have accidentally stumbled on the first real break in a fifty-year-old murder case.

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Chapter Eleven

“And that’s a picture of me and Eva with Louis B. Mayer.” Gloria stabbed at the black and white snapshot with a scarlet talon. “He died the same year -- just a month or so after Eva.” She gave me a sly look from beneath her false eyelashes. “You know what they say his last words were?” “Cut and print?” She laughed that smoky laugh. “Nah, but that’s not bad, baby. Nope, his last words were ‘Nothing matters.’” “That’s depressing.” Amused, she turned the next page of her photo album. “And here’s me and Eva with Tony at the Troubadour.” I studied the three faces. Gloria and Eva had made a pair of knockout bookends, one fair, one dark, Snow White and Rose Red -- and the frog prince sandwiched between them. Tony Fumagalli was not, by any stretch, a good-looking man: short, swarthy, heavy-jowled -- and chomping on a cigar in every picture. “So what was the attraction?” I asked Gloria. “Money, I guess. Power, definitely.” She started to turn the page. I stopped her. “So what went wrong? Did he slap her around?”

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“Now that she would have understood.” I stared at her, trying to put two and two together. Something that Eva couldn’t forgive or understand, something that neither Eva nor Tony nor anyone else wanted to talk about… “He’d been married before, hadn’t he?” I was thinking aloud. Gloria’s baby blues remained pinned on the photo of her and Eva and Tony. The Three Graces: Faith, Hope, and I’ll Break Your Knee Caps. “Annulled,” she replied. Annulled. But that could have been because Tony was of Italian descent and -- all things being relative -- a good Catholic. I scanned his pug-ugly face. Or maybe not. “Was he… gay?” I asked slowly. Gloria’s head tossed like a pony slipping its bridle. “Baby, was he ever!” “Are you serious?” She nodded. “He was as queer as a two-dollar bill. Evie caught him one afternoon prancing around in garters and hose and a corselette. Red garters and red corselette.”

What the hell is a corselette? I said, “Tony Fumagalli was a transvestite?” “Imagine if that had got around!” Gloria crowed with laughter and the poodle pack came scurrying in from the next room. She began tossing colored doggie candies out of the pockets of her mint green hostess gown. “Smoked chicken nothing! They should have named him rubber chicken.” Talk about a motive for murder. I could see Tony F. deciding he needed to shut Eva up before she spread that story around town. “Did he threaten her?” I asked Gloria. “I doubt it. He still thought he could get her back. You know, give her time to cool down. He didn’t know our little Eva. She had an appetite like a shark.” “An appetite for…?” “Sex, baby, sex!”

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I nodded understanding. “Do you think he was afraid she’d tell someone?” Gloria’s eyes were shrewd. “If he’d wanted to stop her mouth, he’d have had to kill her on the spot. What would be the point three days later? Besides, there are no secrets in Hollywood.” There were one or two left, but they did seem to be unraveling fast.

***** I was waiting for the bus on Beverly Drive when the long black limousine pulled up in front of me, and Mr. Clean, aka Clyde Wells, got out smartly from the passenger seat. My companions at the bus stop, all apparently employed in local domestic service, observed in interested silence as he opened the rear door and nodded encouragingly at me. “Mr. Fumagalli requests a word.” What word would that be? Murder? Unexplained disappearance? Granted, that last would have been two words. “I’ll give him a call,” I said. “Is he in the phone book?” As much as I’d have loved to talk to Fumagalli in controlled surroundings, I didn’t think going for a ride in his long black limousine was a smart move. “Mr. Fumagalli prefers face-to-face.” “Fist to face, did you say?” Clyde grinned. “That was a slight misunderstanding, Mr. North.” He nodded again to the dark interior of the car. I could see someone sitting there in the shadows: dark suit, dark sunglasses, and a giant pinky ring. “Please don’t keep Mr. Fumagalli waiting.” I thought it over. If Fumagalli wanted me dead, I’d already be dead. Of course he might want to oversee the next round of roughing up, but…probably not. I glanced at my bus stop companions.

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“My name is Timothy North. If something happens to me,” I said, “the last place I was seen alive was in Frankie Fumagalli’s limo.” An elderly woman in a peach-colored maid’s uniform giggled. “Now you’re just embarrassing yourself,” Clyde told me sadly as I moved past him and ducked into the backseat. Hey, I have seizures; not much embarrasses me anymore. I didn’t say that, though. I settled across from the man in the suit and Clyde slammed the heavy door shut. The limo glided off soundlessly. I watched my bus stop companions slide out of the frame of the tinted windows. “I appreciate your time, Mr. North,” said a dry voice, and I turned to check out Frankie Fumagalli. “May I offer you a drink?” He was in his late forties, slim and gray and tired-looking. He must have taken after his mother’s side of the family, because he had none of Tony’s ugly heaviness -- or raw power. In fact, he looked like any worn-out corporate executive after a long, hard day of mismanaging employee retirement funds. Tony the Cock’s son, Frankie the Weenie. “Thanks,” I said. He turned to the built-in bar, used a pair of tongs to drop a couple of cubes of ice into a short glass, poured a generous dose of Bulleit Bourbon, and handed it to me. I took a mouthful. Oaky and smooth, like liquid smoke. I swallowed, comforted by the velvet burn through my belly. “I think there’s maybe been a misunderstanding,” my host remarked, watching me with his sad, dark eyes. “I got a very…troubling visit from a couple of detectives with the Glendale Police Department. They seemed to be under the impression that someone in my employ might have been harassing you.”

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I said, “Mr. Clean in the front seat there has tried to throw me down a couple of staircases; maybe that’s what they were thinking of.” “I have no control over what my employees do in their spare time. If there’s some history between yourself and Clyde, I’d like to see it worked out in peaceable fashion.” He studied my face in the sickly light. “What do you think the trouble is?” “I think the trouble is you’re afraid if I keep digging into Eva Aldrich’s death I’m going to discover Eva’s reasons for breaking off her engagement to your father, and that I am going to publish those reasons in this book I’m writing.” “You couldn’t be more wrong,” he said, and he smiled. His teeth were surprisingly yellow, but I guess when you’re a mob boss no one can make you go to the dentist if you don’t want to. “If you were to publish something scandalous about my father, I’d simply sue you for everything you own -- and I’d make sure that you never worked again.” “But the damage would be done,” I said with a calm I didn’t feel. I’d never seen eyes deader than those gloomy black ones gazing at me unblinkingly now. “The book would be published and the secret would be out. It’s not much of a secret in this day and age, but you’re in a traditionally macho line of work, and image is everything, I guess.” After a moment, he observed, “I’ve noticed that cocky guys like you annoy a lot of other guys. Maybe that’s what’s happened between you and Clyde. Maybe you just…bug him. You’re starting to bug me.” I’d be lying if I said his words didn’t give me a qualm or two. I made myself ask, “Is that what happened to Raymond Irvine? Did he get on someone’s nerves?” “Who?” “Raymond Irvine. He started a book on Eva Aldrich back in 1963, but someone forced his car off the road on Mulholland Drive.” “Oh, the reporter,” Frankie said, lifting an indifferent shoulder. “Like I said, guys like you bug other guys.”

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My hands, clasped around the glass with ice, were growing cold. I said, “I’m not a tabloid writer. I don’t write gossip. Unless your father killed Eva, or had her killed, I’m not interested in writing about his sexual preferences.” “My father didn’t kill that bimbo! He didn’t give that for her!” He snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Then what’s the problem?” His hand rose as though he was going to throw his glass at me. He screamed, “My mama, God bless her soul, is still alive. You think she should have to read that filth? I want you to drop this goddamned book.” “Someone is going to write it,” I told him. “Sooner or later this big secret that you’re willing to have Clyde break my neck over is going to come out. You’d be better off letting someone like me write the story because I don’t give a damn about your father’s kinks. I can write it so that no one will think twice about Eva breaking her engagement. But if you knock off another reporter looking into Eva Aldrich’s death, you’re going to alert the interest of a lot of people -- including the cops -- and a lot of writers who aren’t going to be as sensitive as I am to this particular angle.” He stared at me for what felt like a very long time. I didn’t look away, and I tried not to show that I was wishing I’d left some final word for my parents or bothered making a will. After a few moments, I put my glass to my lips and finished my drink. “He didn’t kill her,” Fumagalli said again, at last. “I believe you.” The car was slowing. I glanced out the window and we were drawing up to the sidewalk outside my apartment building. “You break your word to me and it’ll be all she wrote. You get my meaning, Mr. North?” “Yes.”

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“And I don’t want any visits from Glendale PD. This conversation never happened, you got that?” “Yep.” Clyde jumped out and opened the door for me. I unfolded and got out into the bright sunlight. The heat felt good after the unnatural cold of the limousine. I glanced back in, but Fumagalli was staring straight ahead. “’Til we meet again,” I told Clyde. He slammed the door shut and grinned at me. “’I’ll be counting the minutes.” “Do you have that many fingers?” He shook his head like he would dearly have loved to pop me if he only had the time, and jumped back in the limo. Watching the car pull away, I wondered if maybe Jack didn’t have a point about pushing my luck.

Music drifted down from Jack’s apartment as I walked past the pool: Bob Seger’s “Beautiful Loser.”

He’s playing our song, I thought grimly, letting myself into my own apartment. I was in no hurry to hear what Jack had to say. I already knew what Jack would have to say -about everything from my joyride with Frankie Fumagalli to our own doomed relationship. I loosened my tie and went to the fridge. I still had a couple of hours before my next interview with Roman Mayfield. I toasted sourdough bread, spread it over with cashew butter and sat down with a glass of milk, flipping through the old copy of Life magazine yet again. A picture of Eva standing in the pool yard at the Garden of Allah caught my attention. Or rather, not Eva herself, but the crowded pool behind her. There were a few familiar faces, nearly forgotten starlets and blandly handsome young men, but one face stood out. He had hair back then, which is why I’d never particularly noticed him in the bobbing mass of

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young, laughing faces. I stared at the slightly blurred face staring past the camera, staring past Eva into the encroaching darkness. Roman Mayfield had gone swimming the night of Eva’s murder. And now I knew how, under the cover of darkness, someone could have waited for the right moment and washed away all that blood.

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Chapter Twelve

“Did you bring it?” Mayfield demanded as I was ushered into the room with the starry ceiling. “Bring…it?” “The exact hour of your birth. For your chart.” He planted a bony index finger onto some papers on the desk in front of him. “I forgot,” I admitted as I reached his desk. “Forgot?” “I’ve had a lot on my mind.” He was staring at me as though he couldn’t believe his ears. I said, hoping to redeem myself a little, “I do have an astrology-related question, though.” He put his head to the side as though considering whether he should deign to listen to it. Then he nodded. “Would Sagittarius and Aries make a good team?”

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The mismatched eyes lit with interest, although he asked sardonically, “Were you thinking of playing baseball or getting married?” “I’m just curious,” I said. “This is mostly theoretical.” “Isn’t everything? Hmmm…the Archer and the Ram. Yes, that’s a very good match indeed. In fact, it’s a 5-9 sun sign pattern, what we call trine -- which means positive and harmonious vibrations. Depending on the moon and other aspects, your chances for finding happiness and love in a permanent relationship with an Aries are excellent. In fact, the empathy and emotional fulfillment you’ll find with an Aries will rarely be as effortlessly achieved with another sign.” I felt a weird desire to burst out laughing. Maybe Mayfield read something in my expression because he tilted his head to the side and said, “Any misunderstandings with this person will soon be cleared up.” “That’s a relief.” He shrugged. “Mock if you will, but the stars don’t lie.” “I wouldn’t know about the heavenly ones, but the human ones sure do.” After a moment he indicated the chair behind me with his finger. I sat down. I felt nervous -- not afraid. The only real danger, I believed, was that I might be wrong. I might be way off base in my speculations, but I didn’t think I was. “What have you learned?” Mayfield asked. “I think I know who killed Eva. And I think I know how. What I don’t know is why. That’s the part that puzzles me.” “That’s the only thing that puzzles you?” His tone was dry. “Well, I’m not sure why you agreed to talk to me,” I admitted. “And I’m not sure why you stuck that tarot card on my door. It’s almost as though you wanted me to…” “Discover the truth?” I nodded.

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He smiled. “Fifty years is a long time to carry the burden of grief and guilt, wouldn’t you say?” “Yes. I suppose so.” “Yes.” He stared up at the cobalt blue ceiling with its blazing gold stars and mysterious moons. “My time is coming to a close.” “Is that what the stars say?” “It’s what my doctor says.” He permitted himself a grim smile. “And two specialists. It’s a cliché, but as my hour wanes, I feel the need to…make peace with the past.” Since I had already worked out this much, I’m not sure why it felt like such a jolt to hear it out loud. “You killed Eva?” I remembered the horror of those blood-drenched photos and I just couldn’t seem to reconcile that manic violence with this quiet, gentle man. “You already know that, my dear.” When I didn’t have an answer, he said, almost reminiscently, “She’d discovered that Tony was queer. Eva was a naïve girl in many ways, but even so it shouldn’t have been such a shock to her. She was disgusted by what she had seen and it made her cruel.” “To you?” He nodded “She was angry and bitter and more than a little wild that night, and I…was in love with her.” “You were?” That hadn’t occurred to me. I had pegged him as gay; that he might be bisexual never entered my mind. “Very much so. And I made the mistake of trying to tell her so that night.” “Oh.” “Yes.” A strange smile touched his pale mouth. “And, you see, at the time I had been experimenting with peyote -- mostly for spiritual reasons, though not entirely -- and we all drank a good deal all the time back then.” “You’re saying it was drugs and alcohol?”

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“The drugs and alcohol didn’t help, certainly.” He was silent for a moment. I thought of the times he had canceled our interviews, and I held my tongue. At last he said, “I was the only one in the pool when she came out of the hotel and walked through the courtyard to Ball’s villa. I got out and followed her inside. We argued. It was unlike either of us, really, those ugly, horrible things we said that night. She couldn’t separate me from Tony, you see, she thought we were the same, and she was worse after I told her I loved her.” He fell silent. I said, “And so you picked up a knife?” “There was a fruit basket on the table. She was cutting apples and pears up -- using the wrong size knife, which was so like her -- and -- I don’t remember. I really don’t. I only remember standing there after it was over. It seemed like a dream. Far away and long ago -it felt more like a distant memory then than it does now. I remember I was very angry with her for making me do that. I picked up the tarot card from the table, and I placed it on her.” “Reversed,” I said. His strange gaze rested on me. “That’s right. The Lovers betrayed.” “And the fingerprints didn’t matter because the card was yours to begin with.” “That’s true.” “And then you went outside to the pool and jumped in.” “There was still no one in the pool. I jumped in and washed off the knife and let it sink to the bottom of the drain. By the time Stephen walked outside, the pool was full of people again, but everyone was so drunk that no one remembered who had been there first. I wasn’t clever at all, but somehow the fates worked to protect me, and I suppose I believed there was some purpose to that.” I didn’t know what to say. He was still the same person who had showed kindness and compassion to me and he had committed an act of monstrous violence. “And all these years you’ve kept silent.”

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“I couldn’t see any value in speaking. It wouldn’t bring her back, and -- I was afraid. But I’m not afraid anymore, and I was almost happy when I heard this book was to be written. I thought that if you could discover the truth, I would confirm it for you, but you would have to do the work yourself.” “What do you expect me to do now?” “Write your book, of course.” “But…” He waved his hand in one of those vague, graceful gestures. “If you feel you must inform the police, go ahead.” His smile was acrid. “It’s not as though I’m a danger to society.” I stared at him. “It’s not like you paid your debt to society either.” Mayfield said quietly, “You have no idea what I’ve paid. But if you’d like a price tag, I’ve contributed hundreds of thousands of dollars to charity -- and there will be millions more upon my death.” “How…long have the doctors given you?” “Six months at the outside.” If that were true he’d be dead long before the book was published. I said, “Why are you leaving this up to me? I don’t want to have to make this kind of decision.” “This is the hand you’ve been dealt,” he pronounced, for all the world like the Sphinx delivering its riddle. “Sagittarius is the truth-seeker. Now you have the truth.”

***** Jasmine scented the twilight -- as did the smell of pot roast escaping from Jack’s kitchen window. I knocked on his door and a moment later it swung open. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that emphasized the strong brown column of his throat and the muscles in his arms.

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“I left you a couple of messages,” he said. “I know.” I handed him Bud Perkins’s file. “I thought you might want this back.” “Are you done with it?” “Yeah.” He studied my face. “Do you know who killed Eva Aldrich?” “Yeah.” “You’re kidding.” “No.” “Who?” “I guess you’ll have to read the book.” He didn’t say anything, just stared. Finally he said, “Did you want to come in?” “Not really.” His face did change then. He said, “I think we need to talk, Tim.” I said tiredly, “Maybe I can save us both some time. You feel like things are moving too quickly between us and we both need to take a step back. And I agree. It’s better if we leave it at friends.” He said, after a pause, “I see.” I risked a look at his face, and found I couldn’t read it easily. “Isn’t that what you were going to say?” “No.” “Oh.” I blinked. “What were you going to say?” “I guess it’s moot at this point.” He moved back as I stepped inside the doorway. I closed the door behind me and said, “What were you going to say?”

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He shoved his hands inside his jeans and offered a funny smile. “That I think I could be falling in love with you, and I’m not going to let that happen unless --” His eyes rested on my face. “It’s sort of beside the point now, isn’t it?” I shook my head. “I thought you were going to say --” I think I was more shocked than he was when my voice gave out. He didn’t move a muscle and I got control of myself and said, “I guess I was trying to beat you to the punch.” Jack frowned. “This is one of the things I don’t understand about you, Tim. It’s one of the things that worries me about getting involved with you.” I had that dizzy, breathless feeling, like when you’re a kid playing crack the whip, and you find yourself at the end of the whip. Things were moving too fast for me. I put my back against the door and said, “I’ve lost my nerve. I’m afraid to hope for too much, to trust that things can work themselves out. I thought you were -- repulsed.” “By your seizures?” I nodded. “I’m not repulsed. They scare me. Not the seizures themselves, but --” He swallowed as though his mouth was suddenly dry. “You would have drowned the other morning, Tim. If I hadn’t been next to you, you’d have slipped back in the water and drowned. You don’t remember that, do you?” I shook my head. I couldn’t look away from Jack’s face. He looked…stricken. “You reached for me, and then you seized. I had to drag you out of the pool. You’re not dumb. You have to know the danger, but you swim out there morning after morning by yourself.”

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“Is that why you don’t want to take a chance on me?” “I am willing to take a chance on you,” he said, “but you’ve got to be willing to take a chance too, and stop risking your life for no good reason. You’ve got to commit to keeping yourself alive and well before I commit --” I interrupted, “You said you couldn’t stand me crying.” His brows drew together. Then he said, “It’s not what you think. It rips my heart out when you cry. I want to fix it for you, and I can’t.” He reached a hand out, brushing my jaw. “I can’t do anything but love you, and I’m not sure that’s what you want.” I found that I couldn’t meet his gaze anymore. “Yeah, it’s what I want.” I stared down at my hands knotted in fists on my thighs, and I consciously relaxed them. “I think I’ve…loved you from the first time we ever went out.” I smiled a little, but it still hurt remembering how he had cut me loose, how quickly and easily he’d dropped me before. As though he read my mind, Jack said, “Me too. I knew six months ago when I couldn’t stop noticing you, wondering about you. I told myself I couldn’t afford to get involved with you, that it wasn’t going to work, but I couldn’t help watching you, wondering how you were doing, if there wasn’t some way…” “You hid it pretty well.” “You just weren’t looking. I used to drink my morning coffee watching you swim, waiting for you to get into trouble. I kept trying to think what the hell I was going to do about you.” Those dusk gray eyes met mine steadily, and something hard and dry and twisted inside me softened and let go. I muttered, “Okay, I’ll wear a Medic Alert bracelet or even a damn dog collar if that’s what you want.”

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It was a relief to be pulled roughly into his arms. “I think the bracelet is a good idea.” His mouth found mine. “While we’re on the subject of jewelry, how do you feel about rings?”

~*~

Josh Lanyon Josh Lanyon is the author of three Adrien English mystery novels. THE HELL YOU SAY was nominated for a Lambda Literary Award and is the winner of the 2006 USABookNews awards for GLBT fiction. Josh lives in Los Angeles, California, and is currently at work on the fourth book in the series, DEATH OF A PIRATE KING.

*****

MURDER AT THE HEARTBREAK HOTEL

Sarah Black

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Chapter One

Peter looked down at the young man in his bed. “I don’t allow myself this pleasure very often,” he admitted. Jacob’s dark hair was tangled and damp against the white linen pillowcase, and Peter pushed it back, smoothed it down just so he could touch Jacob’s face again. “And never before with someone who was my guest.” “I didn’t come here for this, Peter. I promise you.” Peter traced the lines of Jacob’s chin, his jaw, ivory skin already dark with whiskers. He had an appealing little dent in his chin, and his mouth was full and smiling. What an unexpected blessing, to have a man looking at him with gentle, patient eyes, to have a man open and waiting underneath him. Peter leaned over him, and Jacob smiled with his eyes wide open. Peter smiled, too, and kissed him. His mouth was sweet and Peter could feel Jacob’s hands reaching for him, tugging him closer, arms moving around his neck, those long, slender fingers sliding into his hair, a tender touch on his scalp. Then he felt Jacob’s hands moving down the long length of his back, Jacob’s chest against his, the coarse black hair tickling his skin, and Peter held on to his hips, pulled him up, still kissing him, reached to the bedside table for a condom.

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He knocked over the EMS radio he had turned off earlier, when he opened his bedroom door and invited this stranger inside. It hit the hardwood floor and the battery popped out, but he didn’t stop to pick it up, not with urgent hands tugging him close, and Jacob’s beautiful dark eyes inviting him in, saying, Take me, I’m yours. Tonight I’m yours.

***** The crystal blue light of an Alaskan spring morning filled the bedroom. Jacob was sitting on the side of the bed, the delicate bones of his vertebrae making an elegant curve down his back. Peter could see the bruises more clearly now. Most of them were old, nearly faded, just a faint blush of pale yellow or lavender. But they were unmistakably bruises, the marks of a fist. Jacob picked up the pieces of the radio and fit the battery back into the slot. “Is this right? Do you need it turned on?” Peter shook his head. “The fire station can manage without me for a few more minutes. Anyway, half the people on the island are volunteer firefighters. Jacob, listen.” Peter reached for him, put his hand flat against Jacob’s back, traced his fingers gently down the line of bruises. “I don’t mean to pry…” He stopped, wondering if he was about to make a mistake. “Is there anything I can do? Do you need some help?” Jacob set the radio down on the table and climbed back across the bed on his hands and knees, leaned over, and kissed Peter on the mouth. Peter studied his face. Jacob’s eyes were clear, relaxed and happy after a night of easy loving. His own face probably looked the same, and Peter didn’t want to put any shadows back on Jacob’s face with careless words. Jacob touched a finger to Peter’s mouth, as if he wanted to keep him from speaking. “I know you saw the bruises. I’m not trying to hide them. But I don’t want you to worry, Peter. I’m not going back to California. I took a new job with a symphony in Montreal, and I’m going straight there where I leave here. Did I tell you I was a musician?”

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“No, you didn’t. Hmmm, let me think.” Peter traced Jacob’s lips, then lifted one of his hands, studied the elegant long fingers. “I play the cymbals.” Peter laughed and shook his head. “Now, that’s the first thing you’ve said that I don’t believe. Violinist. No, cello.” “That would have been a very clever guess if I hadn’t come to your hotel with a duffel bag and a cello, Peter. It’s hard to sneak around with a cello. I’m a composer, as well. That’s what I really love. I dream of…” He looked across the room, and the window painted his face in bright, clear sunlight. “Well. I have lots of dreams. I want to write beautiful music, music that’s powerful, that can wrap around you and touch your soul. I want to make love with beautiful men, men with gentle hands. Like you, Peter. Men who know how to cook and fuck and laugh.” Jacob’s dark eyes looked down into his, smiling, and he leaned over until he could touch his nose against Peter’s in a butterfly kiss. “Men who can fuck, and then cook breakfast.” Peter laughed and climbed out of bed. “Then I guess I better make you a breakfast you can dream about.”

***** The kitchen smelled like heaven. Four loaves of bread baking in the oven, freshly ground coffee, bacon on the grill, a big ceramic bowl of fresh blueberries brought in by the gardener, Nelson. Peter had used a quarter pound of butter in the cinnamon bread alone. The dining room adjoined the kitchen, and there were already a couple of hotel guests at the table. Some groups stayed in their rooms, or in the big, formal living room, where you could keep a lot of space around yourself. The men staying at the hotel now were dining room guys, passing sections of the newspaper to each other across the table and making drowsy morning conversation. Casper, the big retired Marine down for his fourth year, filled everyone’s cup from the coffeepot on the buffet.

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He looked up when Peter started bringing in the food and putting serving dishes in the warmers. “That smells good, Peter. Five more minutes I was gonna start twitching with hunger.” Peter laughed and turned to him. “Uh-oh! The casseroles have five more minutes to cook. But I’ll try to get something delicious out here before anyone starts to twitch. I feel like some music this morning, Casper. What would you like to listen to?” Casper shrugged. “You can choose.” Jacob walked into the dining room, blowing across the top of a golden brown pottery mug of coffee. He was just out of the shower, his hair curling on his forehead, dressed in soft old jeans and a white T-shirt. “What would our musician like to hear?” Jacob smiled at him from across the room. “Let me take care of the music.” Peter was back working in the kitchen when he heard the sweet, sorrowful sounds of Jacob’s cello. The music sounded familiar, like a song he’d heard a long time ago, and forgotten. He leaned in the doorway to the dining room, drying his hands on the linen cup towel tucked into the waistband of his cords. Jacob was sitting in the corner, his cello between his knees, bare feet, and he was playing with his head bent over the instrument. His lashes were dark against his cheeks. Peter felt his heart do a slow stumble in his chest, at the beauty of the morning, the beauty of the music, happiness moving like a gentle wind through his hotel. Travis, who worked the night shift and always stayed for breakfast, came in and pulled up a chair. Jacob looked up, smiled shyly at Peter, and then bent his head over the cello again. Peter looked at Casper, who was at least his age, maybe a bit older -- forty-five, if Peter had to guess. “That music,” he said, his voice quiet. “I almost recognize it, but I can’t place it.” Casper put a hand over his chest. “Eric Clapton, man. ‘River of Tears.’”

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***** Travis had the slack weary face and red-rimmed eyes of a kid who had been up all night surfing the Net, trying to keep himself awake. His freshman psychology book lay untouched on the polished hardwood counter of the hotel’s reception desk. Casper was keeping an eye on him. Maybe it was the eye of a retired Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant for a lonely young vet just back from the war and out of the Corps. Travis seemed lost, like he didn’t know what to do now, and he wasn’t sleeping well or eating right. His lanky frame was getting thinner, and he came to work wreathed in bourbon fumes a lot more often than Peter was happy with. Peter wasn’t sure if there was something more intimate starting up between Travis and Casper. He actually suspected young Travis wasn’t gay. Peter got the feeling he was trying it on, looking for an identity that fit him better than Marine Corps green. How many times had someone called him a fag in high school, in boot camp, before he started to wonder if maybe they were right, and seeing something in him he couldn’t see in himself? Peter had told Travis’s parents that he could come out to Alaska after he got out of the Marine Corps and work at the hotel while he started college. Peter had bought the hotel from them when Travis was just a kid, and they’d happily moved to Seattle. Travis had told him more than once that he’d hated living in Seattle, and that Alaska was his real home. Maybe Travis was thinking it would somehow be more appropriate to be gay, to work at the Heartbreak? Peter had been trying to come up with a way to broach the delicate subject, to let Travis know that staff were not required to be any particular sexual orientation, that he could still work here no matter who he dated, but every time he tried to bring up the subject, his tongue twisted itself into knots and Travis looked desperate and managed to flee. The rest of the guests were the Heartbreak’s usual mix in this quiet spring season, lured by the hotel’s name and a few well-placed ads on the gay travel network. Mike spent a lot of

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time in his room, asleep or shoving his pain up his nose or trying to call someone who was not answering the phone. Jesse and Phillip were having exuberant make up sex that didn’t hide how shaky they were feeling. Peter thought it must have been a close call, whatever happened that almost caused them to split. This was Casper’s fourth year on the island, and Peter suspected he was thinking about staying. Casper would fit in well in Alaska. He was an enormous black guy with a shaved head, the scars of a professional warrior tattooed into his skin. Travis watched him with irritation and awe and lust, and Casper watched Travis with the tenderness and patience of a man who had spent years molding kids into men. They all looked up when Susan came walking into the dining room. She was dressed for outdoor work in a dark green slicker and rain pants, Public Safety logo in gold on the back, and a fleece pullover and fleece hat with earflaps in bright yellow. Peter smiled at the hat. It made her look like there was a minor sun rising out of her dark hair. “Susan, come sit with us and have some breakfast. You haven’t come on police business, have you? You’re not about to take someone into custody?” “I wouldn’t do that until after breakfast was served, Peter.” She shrugged out of her jacket and pulled a chair up to the table. “I could probably eat a bite.” She looked the roomful of men over with the eye of a cop, and her gaze lingered on Jacob’s dark head, still bent over the cello. Then she looked up at Casper. “It’s good to see you back, Casper. You’re early this year. Have you been out fishing yet?” “Nope, but I’m going as soon as I can tear myself away. Between Peter’s good food and Jacob’s music, I’m gonna have a hard time getting out of my chair.” Jacob looked up at her and smiled. “Hello. I’m Jacob Klein.” “Hi, Jacob.” Peter set a plate of sausage and egg casserole in front of her, then he moved back to the buffet and began filling a small bowl with blueberries.

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“Thanks for the concert, Jacob,” Susan said. “This is a real treat for me. I live in a house full of boys, and they all like Big and Rich.” Jacob laughed. “Hey, me, too! I can play ‘Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)’ on the cello!” “Don’t do it, kid! I’ll arrest you in a New York minute.” She slipped a book out of her pocket and set it next to her plate -- Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love. “Thanks, Peter. This was really good. You got anything new and interesting from our friends at Amazon?” Peter poured cream over the blueberries and set the bowl next to her plate. “Yes, they sent me a new tamale cookbook this week. But where am I going to find fresh masa in Alaska? I may have to grow my own corn and nixtamalate it.” Susan laughed and dug into the good food, and Peter looked over at Jacob. “What would you like, Jacob?” Jacob smiled at him, and Peter felt the color rise in his face. “Was that real cream on those blueberries?” “Yes, it was.” “I would love some blueberries and cream, Peter. I’ve never seen blueberries that were so fat and such a blue blue, if you know what I mean.” Jacob’s cheeks flushed with color. “They’re really beautiful, aren’t they, swimming in a bowlful of cream?” “Yes, they are. We have some blueberry bushes in the garden, though I have to fight the moose off. And the occasional bear.” “Bears? What do you do if there’s a bear in the garden?” “Nelson is supposed to run them off, but I usually call Susan. There isn’t a black bear in Alaska with the balls to stand up to her.” Peter went into the kitchen and got a blue-green pottery bowl from the cabinet that he thought Jacob might like. It was one of Sebastian’s, a bowl with the wide-open shape of hands cupped together to catch the rain, a bowl made for Alaskan blueberries with a beautiful evergreen-colored matte glaze. Sebastian had told him once he was trying to make a glaze the same color as Peter’s eyes, and this bowl was the closest he had ever come. Peter

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carried it into the dining room, filled it and poured cream over the berries. “Do you want coffee or tea, Jacob?” “Coffee,” he said, leaning the cello against the wall and pulling up a chair to the table. He ran a finger along the edge of the bowl. “Is this pottery? You know, pottery from a wheel?” Peter nodded. “My friend Sebastian made it.” “Sebastian?” Jacob’s voice was teasing. Peter smiled at him, but he could feel the color rise in his cheeks again. What could Jacob hear in his voice? “An old friend,” he said firmly. “Susan’s his little sister.” And Jacob grinned back and tucked into his blueberries and cream. “Tiny sent me, Peter,” Susan said. “He thought your radio was off, and he wanted to remind you about the contest tonight.” “Oh, that’s right! Thanks, I did forget, Susan.” He looked around the table. “I don’t suppose any of you men are Elvis impersonators?”

***** After breakfast Peter walked Susan outside to her truck. “Susan, have you heard from him?” She shook her head. “That’s really why I came by. The river started flowing up in Fort Yukon. It should get down to his camp in a week, maybe a little less. Supposed to be a lot of ice this year. You might try him on that fancy satellite phone you bought. Make sure he’s okay. I don’t know when he was planning to head down this way, but I suspect he’s coming soon.” Peter wondered if he heard the faintest note of warning in Susan’s voice. When the Yukon River’s ice broke up in the spring, and the river started flowing again, the great heavy chunks of river ice started flowing with it. Some years the ice compressed, piled up and flowed down over the land like a huge ice tsunami, ripping out homes and trees,

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gouging deep divots of rich black earth from the river banks. Sebastian had a fish camp on the Yukon River, forty acres of wild land for himself and his dogs. He was a musher, a longdistance sled dog racer. The winter racing season was over, and Peter had heard through Susan that a couple of his best dogs were pregnant. Breeding and training sled dogs in Alaska made Sebastian enough money he could live alone in a cabin in the wilderness, alone with forty dogs and four hundred books and a tiny pottery studio. Peter and Sebastian had been lovers off and on for years. Lovers and housemates and partners and best friends, but they had a hard time living together. No, they had an impossible time trying to live together. And Peter was sick of it. After Susan drove off, Peter looked over the garden. The garden paths were lined with black railroad ties and filled in with evergreen mulch, so they stayed dry and smelled good when you walked on them. The railroad ties edged the raised beds as well, making tidy green, geometric patterns that Peter loved. He’d wanted his kitchen garden to look like an Alaskan version of the pretty knot gardens he’d seen once in Williamsburg. The herbs were already running riot. The heated beds he had put in last season were growing enough cilantro to make Mexican and Thai food for the entire island for a month. He pushed open the greenhouse door. It was like a rainforest in there, muggy and dripping hot. The tomato seedlings would never grow with this much humidity, but the eggplants were sprouting at a truly alarming rate. He cracked a window, walked back outside to see a moose calf chomping down on the blueberry bushes. Where was the mother? Peter clapped his hands loudly, but the baby ignored him. Nelson came out of the woods that edged the garden, buttoning his pants. The gardener was always peeing in the woods. For some reason Peter found this faintly gross, but he supposed he should be happy Nelson wasn’t peeing on the herbs. Urine was supposed to be a good nitrogen fertilizer or something, but Peter had explained fairly early on that he kept a no-pee garden, since they actually ate the food they were growing. Nelson had just listened with a wooden face. Lots of men in Alaska peed in the woods. Sebastian did it -- something in the

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nature of a brown bear marking his turf, Peter had always thought. Nelson was a hard worker, and kept an excellent garden, so Peter wasn’t going to hold this outdoor urination against him. When Nelson looked up Peter pointed to the moose, and Nelson picked up a rock and threw it at the calf. It hit him in the hindquarter, and the baby yelped and bayed, ran off along the edge of the woods. Peter could hear the mother’s anxious bellow, the baby’s cries. He spread his hands in a what was that? sort of gesture, but Nelson ignored him, turned away and went into the garden shed. There were a lot of men in Alaska who were there because no place else would have them. Nelson was a good example, reading negative on the social skills chart. But Peter put up with him because he needed the help. There was nothing a good cook needed more than a lush and fertile kitchen garden. Nelson also didn’t seem to mind doing all the shit jobs around the hotel. He took care of the landscaping, drove the guests to and from the airport, hauled supplies and fixed the boats and cranky outboard motors, and unclogged the temperamental plumbing. The handyman before Nelson, Charlie -- now he had been a drinker, a big drinker, and he had nearly burned down the hotel dropping a lit cigarette onto the rug by his bed. That’s when Peter had built the tiny cottage at the back of the garden, so the various handymen wouldn’t actually have to live inside the hotel. The one before Charlie was called Big D. Big D, also a big drinker though his initial stood for Dave, had driven a van full of guests off the road on the way to the airport. He was legally drunk at the time, blowing 0.22 on the Breathalyzer. Peter still, to this day, wondered how six adult men had managed to get into a van with an obviously drunk driver, and not a single one of them had taken his keys or even just gotten back out of the van and come into the hotel and told someone, like Peter. No, they just sat there like sheep being driven to the slaughterhouse. It had been a miracle no one was seriously injured, but Peter’s liability insurance had more than doubled after that.

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When Peter went back inside, Casper was leaning over the counter, talking to Travis, who had been off duty for two hours. He was back behind the reception desk, though, like he needed to keep a large, wooden barrier between Casper and himself. “So sleep in the boat, kid. All I’m gonna do is throw a few lines in the water, hope the fish don’t bite, then I’ll read my book for awhile. Or I’ll just sit there, let the boat rock me to sleep, let the sun shine, not think about anything. That’s what you do when you go fishing.” Travis chewed on his bottom lip. “Yeah, okay.” “Casper, would you like a cooler of soda and a lunch basket? How about an Italian sub?” “Peter, thanks. That would be great. Yeah, I love your subs.” “I’ll get the cooler.” Travis disappeared into the kitchen, and Casper watched him, a faint frown between his eyes. Peter started picking up the newspapers and letters on the front desk. “So, you think he’s adjusting well, Casper? He’s only been home four months. That’s not very much time.” “No, it’s not. Early days.” Casper shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like he’s been sleeping like he needs to. I’m gonna try and talk to him. Make sure everything is working itself out.” “Casper, anything you say to me will be held in confidence. Travis will always have a home here, for as long as he wants one. He never has to worry about that.” Casper nodded and fitted his nylon fishing cap over his bald head. “Tell him I’m down at the boat dock, Peter.” In the kitchen, Peter pulled out a couple of long, soft loaves of Italian bread and sliced them lengthwise. He poured olive oil over the bread, then started slicing tomatoes. Travis brought a cooler in, filled the bottom with ice. “Nothing’s going on,” he announced. “I mean, like, if you were wondering about me and Casper.” “Okay.” “I mean, it’s nothing like…”

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Peter turned around. “Travis, you don’t have to report to me. You’re a grown man. But I’m always happy to listen if you want to talk.” Travis ran both hands through his hair, rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” “You’re going fishing with a friend. Men do it all the time. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.” “I thought you might have some rule about fraternization. You know, like with guests.” Jacob stuck his head in the kitchen door. “Hey. Am I interrupting?” Peter smiled at him. “Come on in. Travis, I think you should use your best judgment.” When Travis left the kitchen, Jacob leaned against the food prep island for a moment, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, then he reached out for Peter, reached for his shirt and tugged him close, and Peter thought that his hands were so young and eager and beautiful he couldn’t have resisted him. Jacob’s cheeks were flushed with color, eyes dark, like the velvet night sky in the Alaskan wilderness, all the light from starshine. “Peter, I know you’re busy.” Jacob’s arms were around his waist now, and he was trembling. Trembling and erect. Peter pulled him close, buried his face in Jacob’s dark hair. It still had that fresh scent from his shampoo, like cool mint and strawberries. “Listen, I have to leave tonight. Remember? Can I… Do you have a little more time for me?” Peter looked down into his face, traced his wide forehead, still clear and unlined, his sharp cheekbones and the curve of his jaw, ended with his fingers over Jacob’s mouth, a mouth he had kissed just hours before. Jacob smiled up at him. “Yes, Jacob. I have time for you. It’s…” His tongue stuttered on the words, felt suddenly awkward and formal. “It is my great pleasure.” Upstairs in his bedroom Peter let Jacob tug the shirttails out of his cords, unzip and slide them down with an eagerness that caused Peter to laugh a little, remembering what it felt like to be twenty-six. Jacob pushed him back into the armchair next to his bed, knelt

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between his thighs and reached for his cock. He tugged the boxers down over Peter’s hips, then slid those long fingers up Peter’s thighs to cup his balls. “Oh, God, Peter, you’re so gorgeous. Lean back a little. Let me get in here.” His fingers tangled in Peter’s pubic hair, gave it a little tug. “So this is what a natural blond looks like. Awesome.” Peter laughed, then moaned at the sensation of Jacob’s mouth on his cock, velvet soft, wet and hot. Jacob wrapped his tongue around the head in a slick little dance, and Peter gasped out loud, reached for Jacob’s silky hair. “Oh, Jacob. The way you touch me, I don’t know…” Jacob slipped the head of Peter’s cock out of his mouth, and his warm breath across his skin gave Peter a lightning jab of lust down into his belly. Jacob wrapped his fingers around him and squeezed gently. “Peter, I want you to come in my mouth. I want to taste you, and I promise I’m not just saying that.” His voice was wheedling, and he grinned up at Peter from between his legs. “I mean, I’m not just saying that to make you hot.” “But you are getting me hot, aren’t you?” His cock was enormous, iron-hard, straining toward Jacob’s smiling mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this turned on, his body waking up to sensation like a bear shaking off his winter’s nap. Peter reached out, touched his face, and Jacob lowered his head, took Peter’s cock in his mouth again. The delicate curve of his neck, and Jacob’s fingers stroking him, stroking the base of his cock, stroking his balls, and something opened in Peter’s chest, opened and tipped over, and he wondered if he might be falling in love. That would be good, to be in love again, to experience it all again, like the first time, all the excitement and tragedy and warmth and drama of being in love. And then he couldn’t think anymore. His thoughts scattered like a flock of dark birds wheeling into a pale sky, sensation like bright lights behind his eyes, cello music, and he spilled into Jacob’s mouth. His semen pumped out of him like yearning, or desire, and Jacob’s hands clutched his hips, held them together as one.

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They ended on his bed together, Jacob cradled in his arms. “Peter, do you travel much? Ever been to Montreal?” “No, I’m very tied to the hotel. I’ve always been happy with that, to tell you the truth. I bought it nearly fifteen years ago now. I must have been just a bit older than you are now. I was lucky. I came into some money from a great-uncle. He left it to me because I was gay. And out.” “Really? Wow. It doesn’t usually work that way, does it?” “No, it doesn’t. It’s a funny old world. He said he wanted me to have the money because I had the courage to be myself. Luckily for me he didn’t know me very well. I’m not brave. I just have no talent for acting.” “Why a hotel?” “So charming young cellists can come and stay with me?” Jacob grinned and ran a hand up and down the inside of Peter’s thigh. “This is one of the great careers for English majors. To tell you the truth, I think I’m a bit of a homebody. I like good company, and this way I can stay snug on my island, cook and read and talk to handsome men every day.” “Sounds like a fine life. But it’s a small island, Peter. You don’t ever miss the city?” “No, I’m happy here. In fact, my…my friend, Sebastian. This little town is too big for him. He needs to head off into the wilderness alone most every year. He makes me feel like a real big-city boy.” Jacob was quiet, his hand stroking Peter’s chest. “Jacob, that music you played earlier.” “You mean the Clapton song? ‘River of Tears’? I saw your face while you were listening to it. Does that song mean something to you, Peter?” “I don’t know.” His hands traced a line down Jacob’s back, a gentle touch over the healing bruises. “The music was so evocative, it reminded me of something, but I don’t know what. Sorrow, or loss.”

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“It feels like that to me, too, Peter. Sorrow and loss, but also a way out. Not so much like a man running away, but like a man walking away, walking away strong. Saving himself.” Jacob sighed, his breath blowing warm across Peter’s chest. “I like that song. I played that for myself. I’m gonna write some music for you one day, Peter. Music that feels the way I feel right now, while I’m wrapped around you all warm and sexy and happy and safe.” “Can you write music like that, Jacob?” “Yeah, I can. I’ve got extemporaneous written all over me.” Peter laughed. “You’ve got extemporaneous written all over you? Okay, close your eyes and spell it. I bet you can’t.” “Sure I can! I was the Pacific Heights Elementary Spelling Bee champ. I spelled ‘Albuquerque’ to win. Wait, I’ll show you.” Jacob scrambled off the bed and pulled his jeans on, no underwear. “The music, I mean. I don’t have my spelling bee trophy hidden in my cello case. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” Peter laughed a few minutes later when Jacob wrestled his cello in through the bedroom door. He pulled it out of the case, set the case in the corner, fitted the instrument between his knees. “Peter’s song,” he said, closing his eyes, and the room filled with mellow rich notes, as dark as red wine, as rich and silky smooth as Jacob’s hair. Peter lay across his bed, his body warm and liquid-happy, listening to Jacob play for him. He only heard the notes that one time, but the music stayed in his memory for the rest of his life. He would hear it sometimes, echoes of notes in his dreams, when he dreamed of Jacob.

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Chapter Two

Casper’s voice was as smoky and blue as a New Orleans jazz club at two in the morning. They had the karaoke unit out in the living room, practicing for the Elvis concert at Tiny’s Place. Casper wasn’t singing an Elvis song, though. He was singing that Brook Benton song, “Rainy Night in Georgia.” When he was done, Jesse and Phillip stood up and clapped. “Wow, Casper. That was --” Travis stood up and pushed past them out of the living room. “I gotta go. Get some sleep before I go on duty tonight.” Casper nodded and watched him walk out of the room, a frown tugging at his eyes. He turned to Peter and shrugged. “Okay, here we go.” Jacob turned the screen of his laptop so Jesse could see it. “I think go with a classic fifties Elvis look -- 501’s and loafers and a white T-shirt. You can roll a pack of smokes in your sleeve and sing ‘Hound Dog,’ ‘Jailhouse Rock,’ something like that.” Phillip reached for Jesse’s black hair, ran his fingers through it. “I guess we could slick you up with a little olive oil from the kitchen, give you a ducktail.”

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Jesse nodded. “Maybe you’re right. We can’t sing ‘Kentucky Rain,’ not with Casper singing a sad, rainy song.” He looked over at Peter. “So Tiny’s rule is nobody sings ‘Down in the Ghetto’? How come?” Peter shrugged and held up his hands. “I don’t really know, Jesse. It’s possible I wasn’t listening to Tiny at all, at the last hundred of these I’ve attended. Like maybe my ears were stuffed with small foam rubber earplugs.” Casper laughed, and Jesse turned back to Phillip. “We’ll have to go for cute ass in tight jeans and hope the audience is full of homeboys.” He stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “And drinking heavily. Who’s coming? Me and Phillip, Casper, Peter, Jacob…” “I’m not going,” Jacob said, back at the computer. He was pulling up lyrics so everyone could practice. “I’ve got to pack. I’m leaving for the airport about thirty minutes after you guys get back. I’ll have just enough time to hear about the winner. Mike, how about you? Think you can sing like Elvis?” Mike shook his head. It was after six, and he still hadn’t shaved or taken a shower, but he came down to get some of the tea Peter set out for the guests, about five ginger scones, crackers with pecan and blue cheese spread, tiny cucumber slices with salmon and dilled sour cream. The teapot was full of Earl Grey. “Sorry I’m not up to much, guys. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be more…” He shook his head. “So what’s the prize, Peter? For the winner?” “Grand prize is dinner for two at Tiny’s Café. He makes a mean meat loaf sandwich, two thick slices of meat loaf with tomato gravy on Texas toast, and you get seconds on the mashed potatoes, gratis. He also has the biggest moose burgers in town, half a pound at least, and…” “Oh, God! Don’t say another word.” Phillip leaned forward, holding his stomach. “I already feel sick, just thinking about it. Okay, who’s the ringer?” Peter hesitated. “I really shouldn’t…” “Oh, come on, Peter. You got a local Elvis who’s gonna blow us all out of the water?”

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“Well, Tiny himself does a mean Elvis. He’s got a voice like you wouldn’t believe, even better than Casper. He’s just gotten a bit big for those costumes. But when he was younger and thinner, he was the most famous Elvis in Alaska. He can still belt out a song strong enough to rattle the windowpanes. But I’ve got my money on Casper if he can convince the judges to let him sing Brook Benton. Or at least ‘Kentucky Rain.’ Sad songs about rain are very popular in Alaska.”

***** Peter pulled the hotel’s van up to the front door about seven, and Casper, Phillip, and Jesse climbed in, dressed in Levi’s and white T-shirts, hair slicked back. Jacob walked down the steps with them, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, shearling slippers on his feet. “I’ll be home in time to say good-bye to you, Jacob. Before you have to leave for the airport.” Jacob nodded and looked off toward the dark waters of the harbor. He was shivering a bit in his T-shirt. “Go back inside where it’s warm.” Peter leaned down and kissed him, hands on his shoulders, watched him walk back into the hotel and close the door behind him. Tiny’s Elvis contest was the monthly social occasion for the island. Elvis impersonators, men and a few women, came from all over the southeastern part of Alaska to eat moose stew and sing like The King. Tiny greeted them at the door. He was enormous, probably 6’6”, with a huge belly unconfined in tobacco brown Carhartt overalls unbuttoned on the sides. His Harley T-shirt didn’t cover the wondrous Subic Bay tattoos he’d gotten in the Philippines as a young sailor. With his black beard and crooked teeth and frizzed ponytail, he was the least Elvis-looking person in the room.

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Peter waved to Susan, who was conferring with the other two judges -- the town librarian who was also the reading teacher at the school and a retired doctor everyone said was hiding out from his kids and ex-wife. “What? Brook Benton?” Tiny’s shout carried across the room. “No fucking way, man. We are 100 percent Elvis.” Casper was grinning at him. “Come here, Tiny. I’ve got an idea.” Casper had him by the arm, dragged him across the room. Jesse and Phillip were giving the room a careful appraisal. “This many sequins and white vinyl jumpsuits should be illegal outside of Las Vegas,” Jesse said finally. Phillip raised his eyebrows. “If grown men are going to wear eyeliner, they should at least put it on while they’re sober. It takes a steady hand. That’s all I’m going to say about that.” “You two look very good,” Peter admitted. The rest of the Elvis contenders were closer to sixty than thirty, with the unmannered hair, stained teeth, and reckless approach to fashion that characterized men from the Alaskan bush. A few Elvises, in the interests of authenticity, were three sheets to the wind, their flasks bulging in their costume pockets. Jesse and Phillip were gorgeous and slender and well groomed and young, and already the lady Elvises were giving them points for being cute and clean. Tiny climbed up on the stage and picked up the microphone. Casper was working on the CD player attached to the karaoke machine. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road. First, the rules: We’re tribute artists, honoring The King. Anybody who just came to make fun of Elvis? You’ll find your ass full of gravel when you go sliding out the door and across the parking lot behind my foot. Two: Nobody sings ‘Down in the Ghetto.’ That song belongs to The King alone. Three: You’re too drunk to stand up and sing, you can’t go sober up and try again. You got to wait until next month. What else?” Tiny looked over at Casper, and Casper waved the mic at him. “Oh, yeah. We’re gonna start tonight’s contest by raising the bar just a

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little.” The music came on, ‘Rainy Night in Georgia,’ but Tiny didn’t leave the stage. He and Casper both had microphones, and they sang together, their voices as rich and dark as bittersweet chocolate. Peter didn’t think he’d ever heard anything like it, and the rest of the audience apparently felt the same. Everyone listened, eyes closed or full of tears, and the sound filled the small room with some magic, and some soul. When they finished singing everyone stared at them in silence, stunned, until Peter stood up and started clapping. The whistles and boot-stomping and shouts for an encore went on a good long while, until Tiny took the mic again and told everybody to shut the hell up. Peter had attended hundreds of these contests since he had lived here, and this one was about par for the course. Jesse and Phillip did a very nice ass-wiggling rendition of ‘Hound Dog’ that had all the women in the audience rattling the windows with wolf whistles and throwing dollar bills onto the stage. They were listening to ‘Kentucky Rain’ for about the eighth time when Susan pulled the police radio off her belt. She spoke into it, then stood up and made her way through the crowd. She gestured for Peter to join her. “Peter, I need you.” “Sure, Susan. Let me give Casper the keys to the van.” “Hurry, Peter.” Susan was already in the police unit when he came out with the lights flashing blue and red across the dim parking lot. “Susan, what’s wrong? Is there a fire? Half the fire department is inside.” She tore out of the parking lot, stomping down on the accelerator. “Somebody out at your place called 911. I don’t know what’s going on.” “911? What did they say?” Susan was silent, both hands on the wheel. They were driving very fast, and Peter reached for the dashboard. “Susan, they must have said something. Who called, and what did they say?” “It was a man,” she said, checking the rearview mirror. “The person who called, he said someone was dead. That’s all.”

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Peter’s chest felt like ice suddenly, frozen and heavy, and he couldn’t breathe enough to speak. “We don’t know what’s going on,” Susan said again, reluctantly. “They said it was Jacob, Peter. They said that Jacob was dead.” “No.” He felt a burning panic, like he was choking, his throat suddenly full of acid. “No. That can’t be, Susan. There has been a mistake.” Peter could hear the strain in his voice, the odd formality, and he had a sudden picture of Jacob shivering in his T-shirt and slippers, walking away from him, walking back into the hotel and closing the door. He looked over at Susan again. She was gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white. “Clearly there has been a mistake. Jacob is fine.” They came screaming into a black nightmare, lit by pulsing red and blue lights, the ambulance, the cop car, solemn men and women in uniforms standing in a cold rain, sorrowful faces, and Peter pushed through their arms and there was Jacob on a gurney, half his body covered in mud, and Peter tried to brush it off his face and that’s when he saw the rope around Jacob’s neck. It’s too tight, how can he breathe? Susan pulled him off. “Don’t touch it now, Peter.” Jacob had bare muddy feet, where are his slippers? “He needs his slippers,” he told Susan. “It’s cold out here. He shouldn’t be out here without slippers.” And then Tom had his arms around him. Tom was the senior EMT. He had mud on his face; he must have been doing CPR. “Tom, why did you stop CPR? That’s Jacob.” And Tom lifted him up, arms still wrapped around his chest, carried him to the front steps. “Peter. Peter, Travis found him. You need to go help Travis. He’s in a bad way.” And Tom pushed him through the front door and closed it behind him. There was a deputy inside, the other half of the island’s law enforcement department, a big, rawboned kid who was sitting on the edge of an armchair, twisting his hat between his hands. Mike was sitting on the couch, his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them as if

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he was holding himself together. Nelson was leaning in the doorway, face blank, his hands in the pockets of muddy overalls, hair frizzed from the rain. Travis was walking back and forth, leaning up against a wall, pushing himself off and walking again. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He was wiping them down his thighs, tucking them beneath his arms, balling his hands into fists, shoving them down into the pockets of his jeans. His clothes were streaked with mud. He met Peter’s eyes, then he closed his tightly, rubbed the heels of his hands across his eyes, smeared the mud and overflowing tears. Peter didn’t want to comfort him. He wanted to stay leaning against the wall, but he pushed himself off, went to Travis and folded him up in his arms, let Travis cry hoarse, racking sobs into his shoulder. “I’m here now, Travis,” Peter said, stroking Travis’s back up and down like he was an infant needing soothing. “We’ll get this all straightened out. I’m sure there has been some kind of mistake. It can’t be Jacob.” And Travis pulled back out of his arms, confusion on his face, then sorrow. “Oh, Peter. It is. It is Jacob.”

***** “I don’t know what happened, Peter. I mean, he was upstairs packing, and he came down looking for his journal. It was in the living room and he picked it up and said something like, ‘What are you doing down here?’ Then I heard somebody come down and go into the kitchen. I stuck my head in there to look and the door was open a little so I closed it but I didn’t lock it, Peter. You come in through the kitchen sometimes and I didn’t want to lock it.” Peter shook his head. “We never lock the kitchen door, Travis. Not until everyone is in for the night. You didn’t do anything wrong. What made you want to go outside?”

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“I don’t know. Something didn’t feel right, the sound of the voices in the kitchen, something was off about it, and then that door being open. I went upstairs and Mike was in his room, but not Jacob. His door was open, and his duffel bag was there on the bed, like he was packing, and I looked around but I couldn’t find him. So I went outside and he was… His face was down in the mud. I turned him over and tried to do CPR, but I didn’t see the rope. The CPR didn’t work. I mean, I couldn’t get a breath in, the rope…” Travis stopped then, crying, his hands up over his eyes. “I didn’t know what to do. I ran back in to call 911, but they say you’re not supposed to stop CPR once you start, but it wasn’t working, and I…” Susan interrupted him. She had her small memo book open on her knee and was making notes. There was also a small tape recorder on the table. “When you came back inside, Travis, after trying to do CPR, did you see anyone?” “Mike was coming downstairs. I guess he heard me screaming. I told him to call 911. I told him it was Jacob. Then I went back outside, and, you know, tried again.” Mike was still curled in a ball on the sofa. “Mike, did you see anyone else besides Travis?” He shook his head, and Susan pointed to the tape recorder. “No,” he said, wiping the edge of his sleeve across his nose. “I heard someone on the phone, the one on that little table in the hall, and I went out there because I was expecting a call. Jacob was on the phone and he looked, I don’t know, pissed off. He said, ‘Yeah, okay. Where are you, anyway? I want to see it,’ something like that. Then he hung up and took off downstairs.” “What was he wearing?” Mike blinked and rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot and rimmed in red. “Jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, that dark red one. I don’t know what else. Maybe those little slippers, the ones that looked like moccasins.” Peter stopped listening to the words. He could still hear their feelings, though, in the sounds of their voices, horror, sick fury, fear.

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Casper came tumbling through the front door with Jesse and Phillip, horror on his face. Jesse was crying, gulping back sobs, and Casper had a big hand on his shoulder. Susan started to explain what was happening, but Peter couldn’t listen anymore. He turned away from them, climbed the stairs to his rooms. He couldn’t quite feel his feet. In his bedroom Peter put his face down in the pillow, tried to find Jacob’s smell. It was faint, but it was still there, the tiniest bit of him. When Peter turned back around, he saw the cello sitting in the corner of his bedroom. He sat down in the armchair and held it the way Jacob had held it. Then he pulled it closer, wrapped his arms around it. It was awkward and bulky, the edges hard. The cello didn’t feel the same way Jacob had felt in his arms, but he could picture him here. In his mind he held a picture of Jacob, playing for him, his shy smile and the dark lashes on his cheek, so he put his arms around that picture, held Jacob close to him. And sometime during the night, the picture of Jacob in his mind stopped playing, bent over and kissed him sweetly.

Peter, I have to go now. He could feel the touch of fingers against his cheek, then Jacob was gone. Peter touched one of the strings just enough that the faint echo of sound filled the room. When he went back downstairs Casper was behind the desk, and Travis was curled up asleep on the couch, covered by a wine-colored cashmere throw. Travis had his hands tucked up under his cheek, dried tears on his face, and Peter thought he looked just like he had when he was a little boy. “Where’s everyone?” Casper poured him a cup of coffee and passed it across. “Mike’s upstairs. He was upset, Peter, shaky. I mean, even more than usual, and I think it was time for his snort. Jesse and Phillip went up to their room, too. Susan went into her office to call the state cops. I’m trying to find Jacob’s address. He didn’t leave any emergency contact information.” “He was moving,” Peter said. “He was moving to Montreal. I don’t know the name of the man he left behind. All I know is he had bruises on his body, Casper. And he was leaving the man, the relationship. Maybe the bastard followed him. Tried to get him to come back.”

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Casper nodded. “It happens, Peter. Probably more than anyone knows. But this is an island. It would be hard to come here completely unnoticed and leave the same way. They’ll find him if it was the old lover. Oh, Susan said she’s got the volunteer firefighters out checking the harbors and the roads, and a couple of guys at the airport. She’s sealed off the island, for tonight, at least.” Peter nodded, sipped his coffee. He didn’t care. He knew everyone was working hard, working together and helping out, trying to find Jacob’s killer, but he couldn’t muster the energy to care about any of it. It was all very important work but what did it matter in the long run? A light was gone from the world, and would never be replaced. So they would find the bad guy, bring him to justice, but Peter couldn’t muster the energy to care about justice. Jacob was gone. Casper walked around the front desk, clasped his shoulder, then he went to the couch, pulled up a chair next to Travis. He settled there, a cup of coffee in his hands. He looked like he was ready to sit there all night, in case Travis needed him. Peter went behind the desk, pulled out the satellite phone he kept for emergencies and Sebastian. He stared down at it. Well, he could hardly call Sebastian and beg him to come, could he? Peter was staring down at the phone, wondering what to do. Wondering who he could call. And what would he say, anyway? Help! Somebody help me, my heart is breaking! The phone was ringing in his hands. His fingers had dialed Sebastian’s number, but Sebastian wasn’t there, no one was picking up, and Peter felt a cold desolation in his belly. What if Sebastian never picked up again? That would be more loss than he could bear.

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Chapter Three

Cold drizzle through the short, dark night gave way to a miserable, rainy gray morning. It felt like the sun didn’t care enough about starting another day to rise properly. Peter was in the kitchen baking bread, long, white loaves of Italian bread for sandwiches. The men who had been out last night in the rain, looking for Jacob’s killer, would need some food. He had fed them all before, when other disasters had fallen on their town and everyone had come together to help out. They liked their sandwiches thick, stuffed with every bit of food he could shove between a couple of pieces of bread. They liked soup, too, but nothing fancy. Chicken noodle or vegetable beef, and lots of it, in thick, heavy bowls like the ones that Sebastian made. Peter reorganized the buffet a bit, filled up the big coffeepots and put bowls and spoons and paper plates out, a platter of sliced ham and salami and another of cheese, tomatoes and lettuce, pickles and sliced onions, and a big steaming pot of chicken noodle. Homemade noodles, so the broth was rich and thick. He turned the police radio on and broadcast that there was breakfast for the volunteers ready at the Heartbreak when they could be relieved. He left the radio on to listen to their chatter, but there wasn’t much talk. The last time everyone had gotten together they were

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looking for a child, lost while her family was camping, and you could hear the urgency of that mission in the radio comms. There was urgency now, too, but of a different kind. Because it was too late, and the best outcome they could hope for would be the thin, sour taste of revenge. Just for a moment Peter remembered the taste of Jacob’s mouth, so warm and alive, remembered it so clearly he could taste it. Jacob’s mouth curved into a smile under his own, as if Peter kissing him made him unbearably happy, made him reach for Peter and pull him closer and closer… The memory rolled through his stomach, then twisted itself into a knot. It wasn’t long before the house was overrun with cold and wet and hungry men. Mike stayed in his room, in bed, clutching the pillow to his chest. Peter brought him some hot, sweet tea, Constant Comment, set it on the bedside table. “Mike, are you okay?” Mike rolled over and looked at him. “Not really. He was the most inoffensive kid in the world, Peter. Gentle, open, so talented and beautiful… I heard him play yesterday morning, even though I wasn’t in the dining room. It was like he was something precious, better than the rest of us. What on earth could Jacob have possibly done to bring this violence down on his head?” “Is that the way it usually works? I don’t know anything about…murder.” Peter almost couldn’t get the word out. It felt like his throat was trying to close up, rather than to utter that ugly, violent word. Jesse and Phillip came downstairs, helped serve soup and sandwiches. Peter could see that they wanted to help, but they were young, too, and couldn’t help enjoying the drama just a bit and the milling crowds of grateful and tired firefighters with their brawny shoulders. But when they caught sight of Peter, they remembered Jacob, and the sadness fell over their faces again.

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So Peter stayed in the kitchen, wondered what he could cook that would take a lot of concentration, something that tasted as rich as sorrow. Maybe burgundy beef. Sebastian liked that. Maybe he would come, if Peter fixed some of the food he liked. Sorrow was real, but it was an indulgence, he decided, browning mushrooms and scallions in butter and olive oil. It was rich and flavorful, like pound cake. Sorrow was to sadness what pound cake was to Twinkies. This drizzly gray morning with its wet, cold wind, it wasn’t sorrowful. It felt like the sky was throwing a childish tantrum. No, sorrow was like a bright autumn day, Indian summer, the leaves already turning, the sunlight golden and warm as a pumpkin. It was the inevitability of autumn that made it so sorrowful, like the lines of age on Sebastian’s face, and his own. But there was nothing inevitable about murder. It was the opposite of inevitable, the sharp hacking cut with an axe down through a life, the future severed and lost like an amputated limb. Where was that Keats poem about autumn? Peter dried his hands on his apron and crossed into the living room. Where was the Keats? He pulled the book out, opened it to the table of contents. Jacob was like Keats, both young artists who were too fragile for the worlds they lived in. Oh, there it was. “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness…” Those British, they didn’t know mists. They ought to live off the coast of Alaska if they wanted to know what mist was. He walked back through to the kitchen door, reading, and didn’t hear Susan talking to him until she reached out for his arm and shook it. “What?” She looked around, then pulled him into the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway, astonishment on her face, slowly scanned the room. Peter looked, too. Every countertop was covered, copper bowls, measuring cups, bags of bread flour, glass bowls of eggs, blocks of butter. “What? I’m cooking.” “Okay, Peter.” She looked at him carefully. “Just, you know, checking on you. My friend.” “What’s your favorite season?”

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“Spring, I guess. Maybe winter.” “Which season feels like sorrow to you?” “I don’t know, Peter. Maybe this one. Hey. Sebastian’s coming.”

***** It was a good thing that pound cake froze well. Peter baked and wrapped twelve loaves of lemon pound cake for the freezer, and kept two out for his guests. And for Sebastian, who didn’t appreciate his pound cake, but ate it anyway, ate it like he would eat anything, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich even. Peter went back to the pantry, got a couple of extra jars of that blueberry jam Sebastian liked. He knew it was him when he heard the commotion out front. Sebastian seemed to carry commotion with him. Maybe he incited it. Maybe it just happened spontaneously when he was near, something in the air around him, some commotion pheromone he gave off. Peter leaned against the doorway to the living room to watch the show. Jesse and Phillip were sitting on the sofa, very close together and big-eyed, holding hands. Travis was watching from behind the desk. Casper was reclined in the easy chair, taking one of his ten-minute naps. Sebastian stood in the middle of the room like a grizzly, wrapped head to toe in a disreputable collection of frontier furs and ratty brown canvas. He was huge, well over six-five, and looked like Atlas with the earth perched on his big shoulders. Jesse and Phillip had never witnessed an Alaskan striptease. The fur mittens came off first, dropped onto the floor. Then the scarf and neck gaiter, both fleece. When Sebastian pulled off the silver fur hat, he shook his head and his shaggy black hair fell into place down to his shoulders. He shrugged out of his down coat, dropped it on the pile. Next came the padded ski overalls, black nylon, unbuckled and slid down to his hips. Underneath was a quilted plaid flannel shirt. Jesse’s mouth fell open when Sebastian undid the buttons, one by one, dropped the flannel shirt on the pile. He sat down on the edge of the chair, kicked off

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his bunny boots, those huge rubber boots the color of vanilla ice cream that Alaskan men wore who worked outside. He skinned out of the overalls, stood up in thermal long underwear -- charcoal gray, knit from silk and cashmere yarns and softer than a baby’s ass. Peter knew that because he had bought them for Sebastian, three pairs, size XL-Tall. Sebastian opened his hands like a magician, and he was holding two tiny, squirming puppies, little baby sled dogs, maybe four weeks old. “Oh, let me hold them!” Jesse and Phillip each took a puppy, and the room erupted into yips and squeals and baby talk. Sebastian pulled off his socks, left everything in a pile on the living room floor, and padded barefoot over to where Peter was standing. Sebastian had the black hair and black eyes of his Athabascan grandmother, and the easy smile of a southern beauty queen. Peter rolled his eyes and handed him a peanut butter and blueberry jam on homemade white bread, wrapped in a paper towel. “You got some dry clothes for me? I’m freezing. I got soaked coming over on the ferry.” Peter couldn’t help but notice that Sebastian was freshly shampooed and shaved. He didn’t smell like a guy who had just spent six months in a Yukon River fish camp. He smelled like peppermint foot lotion. “And they say live theater is dead!” “Holy shit! Did you see that guy?” It was Jesse in the living room. Sebastian winked and took a big bite out of his sandwich.

***** After Peter closed the kitchen door behind them, Sebastian put his sandwich on the counter and tugged Peter into a big, bruising hug. Peter let himself have a moment or two of comfort, silk and cashmere and Sebastian’s big chest under his cheek, brawny arms tugging him close, but he was afraid to stay there too long. Too many people in the house, too much to do. He didn’t have time to break down.

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Sebastian’s big hands stroked his back. “Peter, what the fuck have you done?” Peter felt a frisson of shock. Sebastian was furious. “You know where Susan is?” “She was here just a minute ago.” He looked around the kitchen as if she might be hiding behind a copper pot. “Sebastian…” Sebastian picked up the police radio and keyed the button. “Cop-1, Cop-1, what’s your twenty?” “I’m in my vehicle. Who wants to know?” “Your brother.” “Stay put. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He set the radio down on the counter, turned to Peter. “You got any of my clothes in a box somewhere, Peter?” Peter turned around, blinking in surprise, a dishtowel in his hand. “Your clothes are where they always are, Sebastian. The bottom two drawers in the dresser.” Sebastian had his arms crossed over his big chest, shivering. “I thought you might have moved my stuff. To leave yourself some room, Peter.” He rubbed a big hand down his face, and Peter could see the misery. “You fell in love with somebody else. You took a kid into my bed, a new lover. I can’t believe it, Peter. And not one word to me.” Peter shook his head, and the sky outside spit and rumbled in misery. “It wasn’t like that, Sebastian. Just a weekend. Something unexpected and…dear.” Peter blinked hard to keep the tears from spilling from his eyes. “I didn’t have time to fall in love, but I might have. Jacob was sweet. A cellist, talented and, I don’t know, so eager and loving. And really young. You would have fallen in love with him, too. And now somebody’s killed him! Here, at the hotel!” Sebastian nodded. “I know, Peter. Susan told me. Sorry about the puppies. I had to bring them with me.” “Whose pups?”

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“Queenie.” “What happened?” Queenie was his lead dog, and she was young, only five or six. “I don’t know, Peter. Something fast. I found her in the morning. I’ve lost all the pups but these two.” “Any other dogs sick? Who’s staying with them?” “I’ve got a young couple -- teenagers, but the girl’s pregnant. They want to try, you know, to make it together, so I let them have the cabin for the summer. I’ll stay up here. I don’t have any other puppies.” “You’re staying here with me, aren’t you, Sebastian?” “I will if you want me to, Peter.” Sebastian looked at him carefully. “I don’t want to crowd you. I thought I might scout out some land. Maybe…I don’t know. We’ll see how it goes.” “Crowd me? Since when? You’ve been up the Yukon for months! Do the puppies need formula replacement still?” “I’ve been giving them evaporated milk and tiny bits of fish. They seem to be doing okay.” After Sebastian went upstairs Peter went back to the living room to collect his gear and check on the puppies. Travis had found a cardboard box with low sides, lined it with some of the rags they kept for boot cleaning. The puppies were playing, wrestling, two tiny balls of black and white fur, and Travis, Jesse, and Phillip were on their knees next to the box, watching them. Crowd me? I could have used some crowding this winter. Being eight

hundred miles apart is not exactly… Phillip looked up. “These are those sled dogs, right? That guy, he’s a musher?” “Yeah. He came in fourth in the Yukon Quest this year. That’s a big long-distance dog sled race.” “I’ve only heard of the Iditarod,” Jesse said.

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“We have dog races all winter long. Some are short, some really long, a thousand miles or more. Mostly in the interior of Alaska. That’s dog country up there.” “So that guy,” Phillip continued. “He’s…” “Sebastian.” “Yeah, Sebastian. He’s Eskimo?” “No. Athabascan. Listen, don’t ask him if he’s Eskimo. Not unless you want to have your ears chewed off about the native peoples of Alaska.” “But he’s yours, Peter?” A lifetime of memories together, like family, some really irritating, some full of love. Someone who would drop everything and come if you were in trouble. Someone who still loved you, even when you broke their heart. “Yeah,” he said, kneeling for a closer look at the puppies. “He’s mine.”

***** A row of apple-walnut pies was cooling on the counter, and Susan had had enough. She snatched Peter’s oven mitt off his hand and pushed him roughly into a kitchen chair. “I ought to lock you up as a danger to the public, before the entire population keels over with heart disease. I think you’ve used every stick of butter on the island.” Sebastian sprawled in a kitchen chair. He already had his fork in his hand. “Susan, leave him alone. Let him cook.” “Susan, can’t you see Sebastian is hungry?” She clutched her head with both hands. “If you two don’t shut up and let me think…” She looked up when Casper came into the kitchen. “Casper was Military Police. He won’t say anything if I duct tape your…” “Those pies done yet? I’m feeling weak. That apple pie smell is all over the hotel. It’s getting to me.”

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Peter crossed his arms over his chest. “See?” Susan put her head down on the table. “I’m tired, Peter. I’m really tired. And what I need to do is hear about Jacob. So maybe you and I should go talk in private.” Sebastian sat up. “You’re not dragging him off for some sort of private interrogation, Susan.” Susan raised her middle finger in his direction. Casper took the other chair. “Susan, how about some coffee and pie? You’ve been up since last night? You need to rest soon.” She hesitated, but Peter was up before she could speak. He brought forks, set a hot pie in the middle of the table, and brought Susan a cup of coffee. Sebastian and Casper leaned forward toward the pie, but neither one seemed to want to be the first to put a fork into the perfect crust. Peter stuck a fork into the middle, made a hole, and a billow of cinnamon and spice-scented steam came out. “Dig in.” Peter sat down and pulled up a chair. “Okay, Jacob. I don’t know much, Susan. The credit card he used for his room was in his name only, Jacob Klein. He had been living in California, in one of the small towns outside San Francisco. He was moving to Montreal. I mean, he was leaving here for Canada. He wasn’t going back. I know he was a cellist, but I don’t know with whom. And I know he had bruises on his back.” Sebastian looked up at this, his eyes narrowing. “Older bruises, maybe a week or more. I don’t really know about bruises, how they look when they’re older. Nobody’s ever…” Sebastian reached for him under the table, held his knee. “They looked like the marks of a fist. On his back, mostly, but also on his arms, like the forearms, and a large one on his thigh. That one…I thought somebody had kicked him.” Susan nodded, making notes in her memo book. The way Sebastian and Casper were digging into the pie, it was a good thing he’d made four. “He studied music in San Francisco, at that conservatory. The San Francisco Conservatory of Music. I think I heard him tell somebody, Travis, maybe. They were talking

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about college.” Casper put his fork down and pushed away from the table. “If I stay in Alaska, I’m gonna get as fat as Tiny. Peter, you need to put in a treadmill and some weights. An exercise room for when the weather is bad.” Susan studied him, then put down her pen and reached for a fork. She ate a big bite, then broke off a chunk of crust to nibble on. “That is good.” Peter stared at the pie. “My God, it looks like a wolverine’s been at it.” Susan tapped her pen on the table. “What I also need to know, Casper, is why you cancelled your reservations for June and made new reservations for April the day Jacob made his reservations to come here. Did you know him before?” The kitchen was quiet, except for the ticking of the oven as it cooled. “No, Susan. I didn’t know him.” Peter pushed away from the table, picked up the coffeepot. “Casper changed his reservations because I asked him to come early, Susan. I was worried about Travis. He seemed…stressed. I knew Casper was retired Marine Corps. I asked him to come make sure…” “Make sure I wasn’t some crazy fucking war vet? Casper was supposed to stop me if I started to climb a tree with a long-range scope on my M-16, started taking out the hotel guests?” Travis was in the doorway, his face pale as buttermilk, fists clenched against his thighs. “You think I could have put a rope around Jacob’s neck and pulled on it until he was dead, Peter? Do you? Were you gonna throw me a mercy fuck, too, Casper? Or would that be above and beyond, Gunny?” Travis wiped the tears off his cheeks with his fists, shaking with fury, then shoved his hands down in the pockets of his jeans. Casper stood slowly and turned around, and Travis stuck his chin out, tried to look tough. It didn’t work. Casper picked him up, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him back against the kitchen wall. “Who the fuck are you talking to like that? You tell me right now, did you hurt that boy?”

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“No, Sir! I did not!” “Why should I believe you? What do you believe in, Marine?” Casper bellowed the question, his voice as loud and deep as a foghorn, his face inches from Travis’s. Peter had never heard him sound like this. Was this some bizarro Marine thing? He reached for Sebastian, held on to the fabric of his T-shirt. “Tell me what you believe in!” “Honor, Sir! Courage! Commitment!” “Don’t give me that Parris Island bullshit! Tell me the truth! Tell me what you believe!” “Honor, Sir! Courage and Commitment. The core values of a Marine.” Travis was shouting back, his nose touching Casper’s. “I’m a Marine! I’m a Marine!” “Did you hurt that boy?” Casper’s voice was quiet now, menacing, the muscles in his neck corded up. “No, Sir. I did not. You have my word.” Casper put him down, kept his hands on his chest. Travis leaned back against the wall, shaking, as if he would keep sliding down, land on his ass without Casper’s big hands holding him up. “That’s all I need to hear. Your word is good with me, Marine.” “Well, okay, that was interesting.” Susan put her fork down. She had a tiny smear of apple pie filling on her chin. “I’m gonna need something a bit more factual and a little less testosterone-fueled.” “Susan, don’t be ridiculous. It’s Travis.” Susan turned to him. “Peter, I know Travis, too. And yes, I know he grew up here. But Travis was the last person who saw Jacob alive. Mike said he saw Travis run in from outside, hysterical and shouting that Jacob was dead. It appears Jacob got a phone call on the line upstairs that caused him to go outside. That phone up there is hooked into the intercom system. It could have been Travis calling from the front desk. And everyone in this town will tell you, and has been telling me, that Travis came back from Iraq and the Marine Corps screwed up and drinking like a fish. I just need to make sure, Peter.”

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Peter shook his head. “Fine. But you’re wasting your time. I believe you, Travis.” Casper slapped him on the chest. “I believe you, too.” Sebastian stood up. “Kid, you want a piece of pie to go with your interrogation?” “Sure.” Travis slumped in a chair. Sebastian poured him a glass of milk, and Peter cut a big hunk of pie. “We’re going to need more food,” Peter said. “People need to eat in a crisis.” He handed Travis the plate and went into the pantry to take inventory.

***** It was after ten when Sebastian finally pulled him upstairs. Peter sat down on the side of the bed. His arms and legs felt heavy and numb. He let Sebastian pull his shoes off and the sweater over his head. “Come on, stay with me, Peter.” Sebastian unbuttoned his chambray shirt, tugged it off. “What?” “Stay with me, Peter. Stay with the program. Time for a shower.” Peter shook his head. “I’ll just shower in the morning, Sebastian. I’m tired.” “You’ll sleep better after a shower. Come on, I’ll help you.” Peter looked up at him, at his wild hair, the huge shoulders, that strength that almost looked like a threat. Sebastian put a rough hand against his face. His hands were always rough, nicked and callused, from taking care of the dogs or from throwing pottery. “Come on, hunny-bunny, let me help you.” Maybe he needed help. Peter was exhausted, his thoughts scattering like dark confetti blown into a cold, pale sky. “Fine! Go ahead. Who’s stopping you? I’m not…” Sebastian jerked him up from the bed by both arms, folded him in toward his big chest and kissed him. “Hush now, baby. I’m here.” Uniquely, roughly, sweetly his own, Sebastian’s kisses were a bit overpowering even to a strong man, and no one would have accused Peter of being a particularly strong man after the last couple of days.

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In truth he felt a bit light-headed, so he let Sebastian hold him and cuddle him a little. But he was able to stay on his own two feet when Sebastian lifted his head, a minor victory, but one he would take. “Shower,” Sebastian repeated. “Baby, I hate to see you so messed up over this. I don’t know what to do for you.” “Someone’s got to mourn him, Sebastian. It wouldn’t be right to just…let it go.” “Yeah, I got that. Come on, now.” Sebastian pulled his clothes off and left them in a pile on the bedroom floor. He followed Peter into the bathroom. Peter stood there with the tile warm under his bare feet while Sebastian turned on the hot water and finished undressing him, then pulled him by the wrist into the big glass shower. Peter had built this bathroom during one of the times he and Sebastian were living together. They had discovered the joys of each other’s bodies slick with hot water and soap, and Peter had a shower built big enough for both of them. And it was nice to lean back in Sebastian’s arms, feel those rough hands lathering up, moving down across his chest, under his arms, down the length of his back, around to his belly, then down around his balls. Sebastian had both arms around him, one hand slick with soap wrapped around his cock, the other deeper between his legs, his balls held in rough fingers. Peter bent his head forward, let the hot water roll across the back of his neck. Oh, that was good. He was weak enough to melt into a puddle on the tiles, but Sebastian wouldn’t let him fall. Sebastian pulled Peter’s foreskin back, carefully soaped the head, dumped handfuls of warm water over Peter’s cock to douse the soap. “What are you doing? Forget it. I’m too tired to fool around.” He was half asleep already. His head was lolling back against Sebastian’s chest.

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“Just making sure my little Tootsie Pop is ready to taste,” and Sebastian pulled him back against his body so his rising cock was lodged against Peter’s ass. “Your little Tootsie Pop? Six months alone in a Yukon River fish camp. I’m the first ass you’ve come across, lucky me.” “Stop it.” “How was it, Sebastian?” “It was lonely, Peter. I was lonely for you.” Both arms were tight around Peter’s waist, and they swayed together, some quiet music Sebastian was humming in his ear. “I couldn’t believe it when Susan called me. She said Peter had had a fling with some lovely young boy and now he was dead, there was trouble, and for a second I thought she meant you, that you were dead. I got so dizzy I almost passed out. Then she kept talking, how you were hurting, and I was thinking, No fucking way. Not my Peter. How could Peter fall in love with somebody else? Why didn’t he tell me? Did he need me, and I wasn’t there?” Peter could feel Sebastian’s mouth moving down the back of his neck, palms splayed flat against his belly. “And then I thought maybe it was all just too much, too much and not enough, and you’d left me behind and moved on.” “Too much and not enough. That sounds like us, all right. Why’d you come if you thought I had fallen in love with someone else?” Sebastian lifted his head. “I wanted to help out. I thought you would be taking it hard if somebody was hurt here at the hotel. I wanted to help, but I wanted you, too. I thought I needed to come and remind you that you belong to me, Peter. Remind you that you don’t have any fucking business touching any other man than me, not in this lifetime.” “I’m tired, Sebastian.” Sebastian’s arms tightened around Peter’s waist, and he tugged him back against his broad chest. “How tired? I don’t actually need you awake for this next part.”

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Peter turned in his arms, but he kept his face hidden against Sebastian’s chest. Sebastian stroked the wet hair out of his eyes. “It’s okay, honey.” His voice was deeper than usual, almost tender. “I’ll take care of you. But I’m not going away so you can lay in bed feeling miserable and alone. Are you feeling guilty? Do you feel like you would be betraying that boy?” “I don’t think so. I’m too numb to feel much of anything. Sebastian, do you mind having Jacob’s cello in the bedroom?” Sebastian shook his head. “No, I like it there. I’m not blaming him for falling for you, Peter. None of it was his fault, certainly not getting killed. That really pisses me off, that someone would murder your boy right here at the hotel.” Peter stared up into his dark eyes. What was he thinking? Peter didn’t know, and was surprised at how uneasy it made him feel. It had been a long time since he didn’t know what was going through Sebastian’s head. There was something complicated in Sebastian’s eyes, something closed off and new. Sebastian was mad, but he wasn’t mad at Jacob. So that left… “Did he play for you, Peter? He brought the cello up here to play for you?” “Yeah, he did.” “Then let’s keep it right where it is.” Sebastian reached over Peter’s shoulder, turned off the water, but he kept his other arm around Peter’s shoulders, holding their bodies tightly together. He pushed open the glass door of the shower and grabbed the fluffy towel from the rack. “Hey, that’s warm! Did you put in heated towel racks?” “Yes, I did. Do you like them? I wanted to spoil you a little bit. I put them in at Christmas.” The towels were hugely expensive, Egyptian cotton in a lovely deep rose color, and nothing had ever felt softer or warmer to Peter than that towel in Sebastian’s hands, scrubbing gently at his hair and his back, around his neck and down his chest. Sebastian rubbed it against his own cheeks, gave his hair a quick shake, slid it across his back.

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“What’s with this hair?” Peter put his fingers in Sebastian’s shaggy black hair, watched as the layers fell perfectly back down to his shoulders and into his eyes. “Don’t even try and tell me you cut this yourself with the dog scissors.” Sebastian laughed. “I was taking some of the yearlings into Fairbanks and I got a haircut while I was there.” He leaned down, kissed Peter next to his mouth. “Maybe I wanted to come see you. I wanted to look hot, thought I’d impress you a bit.” “I’m impressed!” “Good.” Sebastian kissed him some more. “Why were you taking the dogs to Fairbanks? Were they sick?” “No, I sold them. I was meeting a buyer, I guy I knew from the Yukon Quest who was building up his stable. Are you gonna stop talking now?” Peter didn’t have a chance to reply, because Sebastian kissed him again, on the lips this time, kissed him like he meant business and no more fooling around. The temperature went up a few degrees, Sebastian’s hands digging into his shoulders, tongue moving urgently into his mouth, his cock rising sure as the sun against Peter’s belly. “I lied. I want you awake for this part.”

***** Sebastian was physically strong the way very few men were anymore -- strong like men who chopped their own wood, wrestled sled dogs across a thousand miles of frozen Yukon wilderness, hunted and packed a moose, butchered it for meat. His hands were rough, hard with callus, and Peter felt his knuckles. “No broken bones this year, Sebastian?” Sebastian closed his hands into fists, opened them again. “I don’t think so, but they feel a little stiffer than they used to, Peter.” He reached down and wrapped his fingers around Peter’s cock, lying hard and dark against his belly. “Some things are stiffer in the morning, some things aren’t.”

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“Maybe there’s something going around. I’ve noticed that, too. But you seem to be having your usual effect on me, Sebastian.” Sebastian was a man of few words, thought action was always preferable to chatter. He bent his head over Peter’s cock, wet, warm lips on the head, then Sebastian’s mouth was sinking on him, sucking him in, the cut ends of his hair sliding across Peter’s stomach. A slow tongue, a slow suck, hard hands, and then Peter could smell it, the familiar spicy warm scent of Sebastian making love, the way he smelled in warm, dark places. It felt like a hook and jerk in his belly, Sebastian throwing a line in the water and catching him, loving him, controlling him, and Peter gave in to him, of course, like he always did, loving the helplessness, because it was Sebastian. “Now, Peter. Give it to me now.” And he did, coming on great crashing waves of yearning and pleasure, jerking and bucking against Sebastian’s mouth, of course he did what Sebastian told him to do. He always had.

***** “Roll over.” “I can’t, Sebastian. I’m too tired.” His eyes were closed, and he was floating in a dreamy, cool cloud, his muscles as limp as vanilla pudding. He didn’t want to move. Arms thrown above his head, legs splayed out, he was warm and tired and safe and satisfied. Sebastian fell on him, nuzzled in his neck with a growl. “Fine. I’ll take care of it. Just lay still.” And so Peter lay still, happiness bubbling up in his throat like laughter, while Sebastian crawled across him, kissed his long throat, kissed his mouth, tongue sliding between his lips, and Sebastian raised his hips up a little, thrust against him like they were fucking, cocks dancing with each other, Oh God, Peter, please… Then he was coming, groans as dark and rich as the moonlight on his black hair, and Peter reached a lazy hand up to his ass, to hold

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him in place so he wouldn’t roll over and move away. Sebastian collapsed against him, head on his shoulder. “Jesus, Peter. Sometimes I think…” “You think what?” “I think you’ve got my soul in your kitchen somewhere, a little jar in the spice cabinet, next to the candied ginger. I can only go so far away from you, only for so long, before I have to come back and let you fill me up again.” “Why do you need to leave in the first place, Sebastian? You keep coming back, but for how long this time? Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing to drive you away. It’s like you’re just waiting for me to cut you loose.” “Yeah, right. Like you’re waiting for hell to freeze over.”

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Chapter Four

Peter woke with a snatch of remembered music fading from his mind. What had he heard? It was early, and the heft of the body by his side told him immediately that it was Sebastian’s forearm draped across his belly. He scooted back until their bodies were spooned together, and Sebastian’s warmth, the smell of him sleeping, began to lull him back to sleep. Then the sound of a door opening, a high-pitched shout, cut off in mid yell, the thump of a body hitting the floor and footsteps pounding down the stairs. Peter was up and into a pair of boxers in seconds. Sebastian was awake, too, pulling off the down quilt. “Peter, where’s my shotgun?” “The top of the closet.” “Slow down! Will you just slow down? Wait, let me get the gun first.” “Somebody could be hurt, Sebastian!” Peter jerked open his door and ran down the hall to the guest wing. The small table that held the telephone was overturned. Mike was lying still on the carpet, but Peter could tell he was still alive. He was holding both hands up to his head, and as Peter knelt next to him, he groaned and rolled over. “Mike, what happened? Lie still. I’ll call an ambulance.”

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Jesse and Phillip came tumbling out of their bedroom in flannel pajama bottoms decorated with… Peter stared. What the hell? It looked like erect cocks with balls attached, flying around on fluffy white Cupid’s wings. O-kay! Jesse’s were purple, and Phillip’s bright red. They stared down at Mike and Peter, on their knees in the hall. Peter could hear the yip and scrabble of puppies confined to a cardboard box coming from the room behind them. “Peter, somebody was in Jacob’s room. I heard something, like someone going through the drawers…” Mike gasped, went silent, and Phillip and Jesse froze, their backs pressed against the wall. Peter could hear Sebastian’s quiet tread in the hall behind him, then the unmistakable sounds of a shotgun shell being pumped into a chamber. “Sebastian, he’s hurt. I need to call an ambulance.” The rapidly swelling lump and abrasion on Mike’s forehead looked like a concussion in the making. Peter could picture his liability insurance skyrocketing by the minute. “Is anyone still in the house? I mean, anyone who isn’t supposed to be?” Sebastian’s voice was deeper than normal in the quiet of the hall. “Like who?” Phillip asked, gazing frankly over every inch of Sebastian, who had not wasted time on boxers. His pubic hair still showed the unmistakable signs of dried semen. “Like the bad guy,” he explained, patiently. “Do I hear those puppies in your room?” “Uh…” “Mike heard someone in Jacob’s room,” Peter reported. “He came out to investigate, and he got hit on the head. Where did the man go, Mike?” “Down the stairs.” Sebastian turned and ran down the staircase, the shotgun up and ready for action. Mike sat up, and Phillip and Jesse turned around and watched Sebastian. Phillip nudged Jesse with an elbow. “Athabascan, baby!” His whisper wasn’t quiet enough, and he turned around and glanced at Peter. “Sorry, Peter, it’s just that, you know…”

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“He’s gorgeous. Yes, I know. Can one of you get a washcloth wet with cool water for Mike’s forehead?” Peter turned to Mike, who was staring down the staircase. “Did you see who it was that hit you?” Mike shook his head. “Someone big, dressed in those brown canvas things everyone here seems to wear. Black ski mask. I think a man, but that was more an impression of size, Peter. Those ugly rubber boots. I don’t…” He closed his eyes, rubbed across his forehead. “I don’t know what else.” Sebastian was back a few minutes later, and he moved past his admiring fans in the hall, went down Peter’s wing and came back with a pair of faded old Levi’s, minus the shotgun. “The back kitchen door was open,” he said. “I did a quick look-see, and I think whoever was up here is gone now. But Travis isn’t at his post, and it doesn’t look like Casper has joined this party.” He looked over at Jesse and Phillip, hands on his hips. “Didn’t I tell you two to let the puppies spend the night in the garden? These two are going to be working sled dogs. They’re not going to freeze outside.” “But, Sebastian…” Jesse looked close to tears all of the sudden. “It was out in the garden that…” They were all quiet for a moment. “Yeah, okay.” Sebastian turned away. “Take them to the kitchen, then.” He watched as they went back to their room, emerged holding the cardboard box. “Peter, I called Susan from downstairs. She’s on the way.” Mike stood up. “Peter, I’m okay, but let me get dressed before the cops get here.” His nose was as red as the bump on his forehead. “Of course, Mike. And, while Susan is a friend of mine, she would not be able to overlook blatant signs of illegality.”

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“Like your bong on the dresser, man.” Sebastian nodded at the open doorway of Mike’s room. “You’re not supposed to be smoking up here.” “Mike, can I help? Help you find a rehab, or…” Mike’s voice was brittle. “Actually, Peter, I was just hoping to get some rest here. That’s why I came to Alaska. But I wouldn’t say the events of the last few days have been very restful. And now I’ve been attacked. Peter, your hotel may be the most dangerous place I’ve been in some time.” Mike walked into his room, holding the door frame for support, closed and locked the door behind him with a sharp click. “Blatant signs of illegality,” Sebastian repeated. “You just talk like that because you know it turns me on.”

***** Susan studied the lock on the kitchen door, inside and out, and stated the obvious: “Doesn’t look like anyone had to break in. Are you sure you locked it?” Peter ran a hand across his aching forehead. “No, I’m not really sure about anything. I usually lock the door, Susan. But my routine has been unusually disrupted this week.” Peter could hear the brittle politeness in his voice. Sebastian glanced at him. “Sit down, Peter.” He brought the coffeepot to the table and started refilling cups. “Just take some Tylenol. Why are you being so stubborn?” Peter pressed a hand to his queasy stomach. He needed food, not Tylenol. He was up and out of the chair before Sebastian sat back down. Peter could see Susan exchange a look with Sebastian, some brother-sister communication that Peter interpreted as just ignore him,

he’s overwrought from Susan and let him cook, I’m hungry from Sebastian. Waffles. Thick, golden brown Belgian waffles with bacon and blueberries. He glanced at the kitchen door. Was Nelson going to bring him some blueberries, or was he going to

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have to go outside and pick them himself? His nerve reared up and shied away from going into the garden. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. Susan put both hands down flat on the table. “We’ve got to consider two possibilities, and we need to figure this out pretty quickly. Either this had something to do with Jacob, or it didn’t.” “What, you mean his killing was something random?” Sebastian’s voice was skeptical. “The bad guy went into Jacob’s room last night, was pulling drawers open. He was looking for something Jacob had. That makes it not random.” “Agreed. So then we narrow it down to this: was this trouble waiting for him here, or did this trouble follow him from California?” Peter sprayed butter-flavored Pam over the big griddles, set them heating. “Sebastian, how many waffles do you want?” “Four.” Peter turned back to the fridge and pulled out the bacon. “Four. Right.” Sebastian knew these waffles were as big as plates. Was he just trying to piss him off? “Why don’t you just eat what I give you?” “Why don’t you stop asking me, then, if you don’t want to hear what I think? Just give me what you want to give me, Peter.” Clashing dirty looks. Peter started laying out strips of bacon. “Susan, Jacob had been hurt before. Somebody hurt him, we already know that. Why would we look for someone else, besides the bastard who already hurt him?” The burn of tears in his eyes was unexpected. Peter kept his face turned away from the table. “Peter, we found his lover. The man he was living with before. He’s a cop. And he hasn’t left San Francisco. He said they split up two weeks ago, and that things have been rocky for a couple of months. He admitted the bruises, said Jacob put a few on him, too.”

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“That is such bullshit!” Peter was furious all of a sudden, nearly threw the spatula across the kitchen. “How big is this shit-heel? Jacob was small, Susan. What was he, fiveeight? And the bruises were…” He stopped suddenly and closed his eyes. “I know, Peter.” Susan’s voice was gentle. “What’s the man’s name?” “I’m not going to tell you.” Sebastian stood up, joined him at the griddle. He picked up a fork and started turning bacon. “What are you doing, Sebastian?” “I’m just standing here, Peter. Don’t bite my head off.” “Okay, so the abusive ex-lover is a dead end,” Susan said. “He didn’t know Jacob was here, thought he was in Canada somewhere, wasn’t expecting to hear from him again. And his alibi held. He was at work during the time in question, and he never left California. So it’s something about Jacob and this place. Someone here. He must have seen something, recognized someone. Or something happened after he got here, or…” Peter looked at her. “Yeah, something happened after he got here. I happened. I let something happen.” The satellite phone started ringing, and Peter stared at it for a moment as if he couldn’t understand what it was. It was his line to Sebastian, and Sebastian was standing next to him. He picked up the heavy receiver. “Hello?” “Sebastian, is that you?” Peter passed the phone over. It was a young girl’s voice, upset. Didn’t Sebastian say something about letting a couple of teenagers stay in his place? “Charlie, calm down, what’s… Anything left? Okay, are you safe? Where? He did what?”

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Peter started separating the egg whites for the waffle batter. Whatever was happening, they were on a roll, a roll of disasters. They needed to just keep on their toes, keep limber, ready to dodge the next blow. But even he wasn’t expecting to hear Elvis, the lyrics to ‘Suspicious Minds,’ not sung exactly, more of a slurred shout by someone too drunk to remember the words, but who had taken the idea of the song to heart. Peter suspected Travis hadn’t liked being questioned in a murder investigation, even if it was only by Susan. Tiny and Casper each had him under an arm, and they were coming home in a cloud of bourbon and beer. Travis could sing, and did, even if he couldn’t walk. Tiny spotted Sebastian first, roared out a greeting. “Hey! Bossa Nova, baby! When did you get here?” Sebastian waved at him, but it looked to Peter more like he was waving him off, the sat phone still pressed to his ear. Tiny turned to Casper. “Hey, man! Did you know Sebastian was here? He’s got those sexy Elvis looks, man, even if he can’t sing for shit. You should see him dancing to ‘Jailhouse Rock,’ and every cock in the… Susan!” Tiny poured Travis into Casper’s arms. Casper gave the scene in the kitchen such a comprehensive scan that Peter was sure he wasn’t as drunk as his two companions. Casper nodded at him. “Let me put Romeo to bed. I’ll be back.” Tiny gave Susan a hug. “Peter, you cooking breakfast, bro? Waffles? Holy shit, I’m staying for breakfast. Make me four, man.” Sebastian stared at him, appalled, then disconnected the sat phone and turned to Peter. “Sebastian, what happened? Was it the Yukon? Is the river ice there yet?” He shook his head. “Peter, you’re not gonna believe…” He stopped, scrubbed down hard over his face with both hands. “Peter, that idiot kid I left there got tanked on home brew, kicked his pregnant girlfriend in the belly, then burned down the cabin.” Peter stared at him, his mind like a whiteout, blanked out like an Alaskan snowstorm. “What?”

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“Burned down,” Sebastian repeated, sinking to the floor. “Charlie’s on her way here. She didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I told her to come. Peter, she’s seven months pregnant.” “What was the guy looking for in Jacob’s room?” Susan was chewing on a thumbnail. “He must have known that we took the duffel bag. I mean, we took everything, right?” She stared at Sebastian in shock. “What? What did you say? A fire?” Peter blinked. “Maybe he was looking for the journal. Jacob’s journal.” “What journal, Peter? Jacob didn’t have a journal in the stuff we took from his room.” “I don’t know, Susan. Didn’t you say he had a journal? Somebody did. I don’t remember. I mean, I never saw a journal, but somebody said he had one.” “There was no journal in his things.” Susan started paging back through her memo book. “You’re right, Peter. It was Travis. He said he was at the front desk and Jacob came downstairs and found his journal.” “So who else was in the room when Travis mentioned the journal?” “Let’s see: me, you, Travis, Nelson, Mike. My deputy, Howie. Maybe some of the EMTs.” “Wasn’t Casper there? Jesse and Phillip?” Peter couldn’t remember. His memory was getting fuzzy the last few days, scattered, flashes of intense feeling rather than actual memories. When he looked up again, and put a big plate of golden brown waffles on the table, the kitchen was empty except for Susan, staring blankly down at her memo book, tapping her pen on the edge of the table. “Where did everybody go?” “Tiny staggered out. I think that’s him snoring like a log truck on the couch. Sebastian left in a snit.” “What’s he in a snit about?”

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Susan made a note in her notebook. “Well, he told you his home had burned down, Peter. And then you replied by saying something about Jacob’s journal.” Peter felt a frisson of shock in his belly. “Susan, that’s ridiculous! His home is a fishing shack with an outhouse. My home is Sebastian’s home. He knows that. It has been for, what, fifteen years?” “I think closer to twenty,” she said. “I’m the one who should be in a snit! How long is he going to give me this time before he starts getting itchy feet, starts playing with his sleds and snowshoes and staring at the horizon like he’s a desperate con about to go over the wall?” “Listen, can I ask you something? Do you guys ever just have a conversation? You know, talk?” Susan stood up, put her memo book in her pocket. She took the top waffle off the stack. “I’ll have mine to go. Thanks, Peter.”

***** Peter couldn’t believe it. Jacob was living with a cop? A cop put those marks on his body? Cops were supposed to be like Susan. They were the people you turned to when there was an emergency. Cops were people who would come and help you when you were in trouble. Cops weren’t supposed to be hulking bullies who kept their younger, smaller lovers tied to them with the threat of violence, or with battering, hateful fists. Peter couldn’t get that picture out of his mind, of Jacob cowering, covering his head with his arms, while angry blows, fists and feet, rained down on his fragile, naked back. It wasn’t right. That he was a cop made it a hundred times worse. Peter picked up the phone and dialed the number Jacob had listed when he made his reservations. “Yeah.” The voice was sleepy and gruff. “Yeah, hello?” “Did you know Jacob Klein?”

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“Who the fuck is this?” “This is Peter Moon in Alaska. The police here told me you have an alibi for the night Jacob was murdered, so I guess that means you didn’t kill him. Do you have an alibi for the bruises up and down his back?” The man’s voice was hoarse and ragged, like he’d been screaming, or crying in his sleep. “Whatever I did to him, I never got him killed, you son of a bitch. He came to your hotel and he was murdered.” His voice broke. “Did you touch my Jacob, you sorry fuck? And now he’s dead? When we find out why, Peter Moon, we’re gonna find out that it’s your fault Jacob is dead. And then I’m coming for you.”

***** The living room smelled like Susan’s drunk tank. Tiny was snoring on one sofa. Jesse was covering him with the cashmere throw, and Phillip was trying to wrestle his bunny boots off. Casper came down the stairs. His face was damp, as if he had thrown cold water over his face. “Where’s Travis?” “I put him to bed up in my room. He’s too drunk to go home, Peter. We ought to watch him today.” “And how did that happen, exactly?” Casper gave him a narrow-eyed look. “I guess it happened the usual way, Peter. Unless you want to physically restrain him, which I believe is considered kidnapping, you can’t keep that adult man from drinking bourbon with me and Tiny.” Peter felt a bit shamefaced. “I’m sorry, Casper. You’re right. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.” It seemed like every time he opened his mouth he was making someone

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angry, deservedly so, because he was, in fact, acting like an asshole. “Casper, I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’ve put you in a terrible position. I don’t know what I’m thinking this morning.” Casper nodded. “You’ve got a full plate right now, Peter.” Peter had seen the Yukon ice break up once. He’d been up the river, camping with Sebastian. The power of the thing, the inexorable tumble and tear when the ice started moving, the noise of it, the shrieks and roars of the ice tearing itself to pieces had made him feel so utterly small and helpless, made him want to put his hands over his ears and hide his face in his sweater. He’d hated it, and of course Sebastian had pulled off his long undershirt, bared his huge chest to the sky, thrown his arms out like he was daring the river to come and get him, bellowed with joy at the cold, and the coming spring. Peter was starting to feel that again, the inexorable flow of events. Like the river was heading this way, and the ice was tearing up everything in its path. He turned on his heel and went back into the kitchen, got the five-gallon plastic ice cream bucket with the handle he used for picking blueberries. He went back through the living room to the front door. “Jesse, Phillip, there’s breakfast in the dining room. I apologize about the absence of any fresh fruit; I put out a fruit salad you might like, but…” They were both looking at him with sad, sweet faces, very puppylike. “Peter, you’re working yourself to death! Why don’t you let us fix lunch for you?” Jesse looked ready to slip a cardigan over his shoulders. Phillip would bring the slippers. Was he turning into Mr. Rogers? “It’s true I’m feeling a bit undone,” he admitted, “but cooking is what I do to relax!” He shushed them, headed for the door. “You two are doing me a huge favor already by watching those puppies. Puppies today might be the final straw.” The front gravel drive and lawn was still torn up from the emergency vehicles, the tire ruts full of muddy water. The sun seemed to be playing hide and seek with the clouds. One moment the sky was bright blue, the next cold gray shadows skittered across his face. Peter

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walked around to the back gardens, avoiding his beautiful kitchen gardens with the seedy and forlorn crime scene tape trampled into the mud. The baby moose was nowhere to be seen, but Nelson stuck his head out of the greenhouse, then waved and went back in, like a turtle ducking into his shell. When Nelson had first come to work here, he was so diligent with the gardening that Peter had kept a close eye for marijuana seedlings popping up between the parsley and the cilantro, but so far, nothing illegal. The blueberry bushes were neatly mulched, clean and a joy to pick. They were an Alaskan varietal, with extra early berries. Peter started filling the bucket, ate a few berries that were fat and warm and bursting with juice. The paths down to the boat dock were in good repair, too. Nelson kept a tidy garden, and Peter could see Sebastian down at the dock. He had one of the fishing boats tied up. The outboard motor was pulled up and out of the water, and Sebastian was shaking out the life vests. Peter sat down on the edge of the dock, ate a few more blueberries. Sebastian kept working. He was always working. If he didn’t have any of his own work to do, he would go out and find some, like he was doing now. Peter tossed a blueberry in his direction. Sebastian turned his back. O-kay! It wasn’t like he didn’t have a home. Sebastian had a home with him anytime he wanted one! As long as he wanted one. But what was their longest -- eight or nine months? That was as long as Sebastian had ever lasted before he started getting twitchy, before he had to head off into the wilderness and live alone like a brown bear in a cave. But did Sebastian really feel like this thing he’d had with Jacob, that might have… Peter tossed a fat blueberry Sebastian’s way. It fell into the bottom of the boat. Sebastian picked it up and tossed it out into the waters of the bay as if he was used to blueberries falling into his boat from the open sky. He looked good, faded Levi’s snug against his ass, and a polar fleece pullover the same color blue as the glaciers surrounding Icy Straits.

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Peter had put it in his drawer months ago, and Sebastian had put it on this morning. This was how Sebastian got all his new clothes. Their little spit of land was tucked up close against the mountains, and the deep blue waters of Glacier Bay out the back door looked endless. The humpbacks would be coming back soon. This was his place, and this was Sebastian’s place, too. He’d know that if he would just slow his restless feet down long enough to feel the pull, the ferocious tug of love that came with being home. Susan was right. He was in a snit. Peter lobbed a couple of more blueberries in Sebastian’s direction, endured being ignored, ate a few, closed his eyes when the sun was bright overhead and warmed his face. He got lucky on one toss, hit Sebastian in the back of the head. Sebastian stood up, rocking slightly with the movement of the boat, legs spread for balance. He put his hands on his hips, stared out at the water as if he were praying for patience. Then he turned around and stared at Peter, two vertical lines between his eyebrows. “I’m trying to get a boat ready so I can take your guests out on the bay, Peter.” No, he wasn’t in a snit. He was furious. Before he could think if it was a good idea, Peter snatched up another berry and bounced it off Sebastian’s nose. Sebastian was fast. He climbed up out of the boat and was across the deck before it could cross Peter’s mind to run. Sebastian straddled him, knees pressed against his hips, big arms on either side of his head. Sebastian stared down at him, then he reached into the bucket. “I could squash you like a bug.” He held a blueberry up to Peter’s mouth. “Why are you trying to piss me off? It’s not like you to make me mad and run me off before I’ve had anything to eat. I’m hungry, Peter.” He sat down on Peter, pinning him to the dock, and ate a handful of berries. That was as close to a whine as Peter had ever heard from Sebastian. They eyed each other. “Your lips are blue,” Sebastian said. “Listen, I don’t want to get into things yet. Things between you and me. We just need to get through these next few

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days. Let Susan figure out what happened to Jacob. You and me…that’s what I’ve got to depend on, Peter. You understand?” Peter stared up at him. No, I don’t understand. So what’s new? Sebastian was so big, loomed over him so large that he blocked out the sun. From so close, with the light on his face, Peter could see signs of age in Sebastian’s face, lines by his eyes and mouth, but they were sexy, warm like a ripe peach, and he still looked strong and unyielding as a mountain. Peter wanted this landscape every day. This was his mountain, and this was his view. Why couldn’t they find a way to be together every day? Why was that so impossible? “I’m right here, Sebastian.” “Good.” Sebastian ate another couple of berries. “So just stay there.” Peter wasn’t sure this was the sort of conversation where they were actually talking to each other. It was more that they were talking in the vicinity of each other. But he was enjoying the crush of Sebastian’s big body on his, enjoying the sun and the water and the blueberries. “I might have screwed up.” “What did you do, Peter?” “I called Jacob’s cop.” Sebastian snorted. “Ha. How ’bout that. And that means I just won ten bucks from Susan. How was it?” “It was bad. No more than I deserve, I guess. He was pretty messed up. He should be, that cocksucker. But…he was pretty messed up. He said that when we knew who killed Jacob, it would turn out to be my fault that Jacob got killed. He said something about coming to get me.” “Nah. I won’t let him beat the shit out of you, Peter. I think dealing with you is a pleasure I will reserve for myself.” Peter felt his eyes go wide, and Sebastian gave him a slow grin, his eyes hooded.

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Casper came strolling down to the dock, hands shoved down in his pockets, and Sebastian climbed off Peter and offered his hand and the bucket of blueberries. “It’s not domestic violence, Casper, no matter what it looks like.” Casper laughed and took a handful of berries, started popping them into his mouth like popcorn. “Peter, listen. Maybe the night shift isn’t such a good idea for Travis. He needs to have some hard, physical work to do, a regular routine, enough sleep and other people around him. And sunshine. You got any outdoor work like that for him?” Peter let Sebastian pull him to his feet. “I can find some if that’s what you think he needs, Casper. What do you think, Sebastian?” “The boats aren’t in the best shape, Peter. They could use some maintenance before the summer comes.” “Okay. When he regains consciousness I’ll talk to him.” Sebastian turned to Casper. “Listen, Casper. I don’t know Mike hardly at all, and I haven’t been around Travis much since he was a kid. But neither one of them strikes me as being a dangerous man. Or a man acting under some sort of desperate…whatever. What’s your take?” Casper nodded. “I’ll have to agree with you. But they weren’t the only men on the island. I think this island is too small to narrow the list of suspects down to just those who were at the hotel. The whole town knows when the Elvis contest is held at Tiny’s. That would be a perfect time to take someone down.” He pointed a finger at Sebastian. “Mike and Travis?” Casper shook his head. “Now you, my friend. You strike me as a dangerous man.” Sebastian gave him an easy, lazy smile. “Ditto.” Casper went off for a walk in the woods, with a promise of a boat ride in the afternoon, and Sebastian sat back down on the edge of the dock. “Peter, come sit down for a minute. Let’s think. What else do you know about Jacob? Did he say anything about parents, family? Which symphony was he in? Did he mention any friends, anything like that?”

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Peter shook his head. “I don’t really know anything about him. Other than… Well, I guess his character. His nature. People are usually at their best when you first meet them, Sebastian, but I think he was probably always sweet and gentle. But other than that, I don’t know. I can’t believe there was anything about him that would make someone want to hurt him.” “That’s probably the most naïve thing you’ve ever said, Peter. You didn’t really know him. You said so yourself. But you can’t talk to his cop again. Why don’t we do a little research? Google him. Get to know him a bit. Let’s see if we can figure out why he came here, if he was looking for something.” Sebastian turned and put a hand against Peter’s face. “Looking for something besides you, I mean.” They walked back up to the hotel, and Peter sat behind the computer and typed Jacob’s name into Google Images. They scrolled down through thumbnails of physicists and philosophy professors and then there was Jacob, looking very young and handsome in a tux, standing next to his cello and smiling shyly at the camera. He had performed at a benefit concert for the Monterey County Rape Crisis Center last Christmas. Sebastian leaned forward and studied the screen. “He looks Athabascan, doesn’t he?” “Does he? I didn’t think so. Ow!” Sebastian had twisted his ear lobe, hard. “What’s that for?” “Jesus, Peter! He looks like me, twenty years ago!” “No, he doesn’t, Sebastian! He doesn’t look anything like you! Besides, you’ve never worn a tux.” Peter shook his head. “You are so egocentric. You think I can’t fall in love with anyone but you! I can fall in love with anybody I want!” Sebastian was breathing hard through his nose, black eyes hooded. “You are too much, Peter. Okay, let’s keep looking.” In the news section, they found an article in the San Francisco Chronicle about the benefit concert, and the article quoted Mary Struthers, Executive Director of the Monterey

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Rape Crisis Center. “Jacob Klein has been instrumental in our current fundraising campaign, sponsored by the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra. But more importantly, he has been a volunteer at the Center for over five years. His compassion for women and their families has made him one of our most respected counselors.” Sebastian sat back, chewing on his bottom lip. “Peter, he volunteered at a rape crisis center?” “That sounds like him, Sebastian. He seemed to be a very giving --” “No, Peter, I mean, why a rape crisis center? Why there, exactly?” Peter thought about this. “I don’t know. Seems like most people…” “Most people would have had some personal experience with the place first. They wouldn’t have drawn it out of a hat. Five years a volunteer, but what happened to bring him there in the first place?” Peter was back on the keyboard, had the phone number of the Center and a little map from Yahoo, if he wanted to drive there. He picked up the phone. “The Internet is getting scary, Sebastian.” When he got through to Mary Struthers’ office, he found himself talking to a very suspicious woman. “I’m afraid I can’t give you any information about our volunteers.” “Ma’am. My name is Peter Moon. I’m the proprietor of the Heartbreak Hotel, in Gustavus, Alaska. Jacob Klein was staying at this hotel on his way to Montreal. He was murdered here two days ago.” The woman’s shocked gasp of breath told him she had not heard the news. “Where did you say you were calling from?” “Gustavus, Alaska.” “Give me your phone number, Peter Moon. I’ll call you back.” Ten minutes, and Sebastian was driving him crazy, studying the picture of Jacob. “Maybe Athabascan father, if his mother wasn’t Native.”

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“What were you doing twenty-six years ago? Ever have a fling with a girl from California?” Sebastian waved a middle finger in his direction, and Peter turned away from him when the phone rang again. “Peter? This is Mary Struthers calling you back. I just got off the phone with the local police there in Gustavus. I can’t even begin to tell you…” Her breath caught in her throat again. “I can’t begin to tell you. I knew him quite well, we all did, and I am only consenting to speak with you, and to the police, about his confidential work here because the Community Resource Officer there in town told me that they have very few clues about his murderer, and because she told me you were his friend. He began volunteering here. I think he was nineteen or twenty.” “Why? I mean, what in particular…” “That was the year his sister was raped. Miriam. She was fifteen, hurt badly. Very shy child. But she was brave, and went to the police. Jacob went with her. I think their mother had died the year before, so it was just the two of them. Anyway, they arrested the man, but then the police let him out on bail and he disappeared. Miriam couldn’t take it, not knowing where he was. She was afraid he was coming after her again. She had been so brave up until then, with Jacob by her side every minute, but when the man disappeared, she became more and more fearful, reclusive and withdrawn. She hung herself while he was at class at the Conservatory. He always said he didn’t feel guilty about leaving her alone that day, but I wondered. He had an audition he couldn’t miss. The Conservatory is extremely competitive, and Jacob had won a full scholarship. So he couldn’t really stop attending. Anyway, the point I wanted to make was that the man was never caught. The man who raped Miriam has never been caught.”

***** Susan brought some news at lunch. “They didn’t find anything that could be tested for DNA.”

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Peter turned from the buffet. “What does that mean, Susan?” “Nothing under his fingernails. He didn’t fight. The knot on the rope was in the back. It’s good in one way, I guess. He was taken by surprise, so he didn’t…” Her voice trailed off. “We’re going to have to figure out what happened pretty quick. The state cops are gonna be here tonight.” “Well, they certainly raced to the scene, didn’t they?” Susan sniffed. The remote villages had learned to do without help from the cities, help that was slow in coming and grudgingly given. “I believe what happened to Jacob had something to do with the hotel,” Susan said. She raised a hand to stop him when Peter began to protest. “Just listen. He came into the airport. He came out here. He stayed here, other than a few short hikes around the place. And he was killed less than forty-eight hours after he got here.” “He came in on the plane with us,” Jesse said. “He seemed okay, not really chatty, kind of down, but okay. We both figured…” He glanced at Phillip. “We figured that he’d just broken up with someone.” “Did he act like he recognized anyone? The pilot?” Jesse and Phillip thought about it, and then shook their heads. Susan started a list. “Okay, we need to check the pilot on your flight. Any other passengers?” “No, just the three of us.” “At the airport?” “The van was waiting for us. That man, the driver, he put all the bags in the back except the cello. Jacob told him he wanted to hold it, and he carried it between his knees on the drive out here.” Susan made another note. “Nothing happened on the way?” They both shook their heads. “When you got to the hotel?”

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“Peter came out the door to greet us. He was wearing those evergreen-colored corduroys and a turtleneck sweater the same color, and the sun was making his hair all shiny and gold, and when Jacob saw him, he said…” Jesse stopped, his face turning pink. “What?” Jesse glanced at Sebastian with an apology on his face. “He said, ‘Holy heart attack,

Batman!’” Sebastian looked up and met Peter’s eyes, smiled a funny little smile. “That’s what I think every time I see him, too.” Jesse and Phillip smiled in relief. “Then that driver…” “Nelson,” Susan said, reading from her book. “Yeah. He carried our bags in and took them upstairs. Peter showed us to our rooms. Mike was already here, out on the sun porch, but it was just like, ‘Hi, I’m Mike, Hi, I’m Jacob.’ Nothing more than that. We met Casper at dinner, then Travis came on duty late. I know Travis talked to Jacob about being in Iraq, something about taking classes. I remember Jacob told him that he studied music. But Jacob, he couldn’t hardly…” He stopped again. “I’m sorry, Peter. I don’t mean to embarrass you or anything. But Jacob couldn’t keep his eyes off you. I mean, he was like one of those ‘love at first sight’ guys, you know? It didn’t surprise any of us when you two went upstairs, because you were just so…I don’t know. Attracted to each other.” “Yeah,” Phillip said. “Your face was real tender, Peter. When you looked at him, I mean. Everybody noticed.” Susan tapped her notebook. “Okay, any mail delivered? Supplies?” Peter shook his head. “Tiny come by?” “Yes! Tiny came with some crabs the first night we were here. I don’t know if he met anyone, though. He just brought the crabs into the kitchen. Actually, he didn’t even come in,

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he had his boots on and he just handed them into me, said something about not wanting to mess up the floors.” “Okay. So the only thing that happened was…” Susan’s voice was reluctant. “Jacob fell for Peter. In an obvious way. So unless you have lots of people jealous of who you’re sleeping with, Peter, Sebastian is the only person with motive to kill Jacob. Motive and opportunity, because he doesn’t have an alibi.” Sebastian shook his head and sighed, ran his big hands back through his black hair. Peter pulled a chair out, noting clinically that his hands were shaking. “Susan, how can you even say that? It’s ridiculous. Sebastian? You must be joking. Don’t even say it.” “Really? Why is it impossible, Peter?” “Because Sebastian would never do anything to hurt me, or anyone else.” “Well, you and I know that, because we know him. We’re gonna have to find something more concrete, because the state cops are on the way and they’re going to find out I called him and told him about Jacob. He’s my brother so it won’t matter what I say. They will automatically discount my word. We know he was up the Yukon, but all we can prove is that he was on the other end of a phone the day after the murder. I called him the night Jacob was killed and there was no answer. He could have been anywhere. Okay, what we need to do next is fingerprint everyone Jacob met for the first time here on the island.” Jesse reared back, shocked. “Fingerprints? Why?” “Because there were only two hundred eighty-one people on the island when Jacob was murdered. And I know the whereabouts of most of our criminals. The majority of them were dressed up as Elvis tribute artists, singing, and directly under my eye during the time in question.” “Susan, listen. If we did something…”

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She shook her head. “I’ve already sent in criminal background checks on you guys.” She winked at him. “Shoplifting a pair of red Calvin Klein briefs when you were sixteen don’t count, buddy.” Jesse turned bright pink. “I never!” Phillip laughed. “That must have been me!” Susan continued. “So that means I’m looking for someone who was fingerprinted but never convicted of a crime, or someone who is hiding his identity. Like this man who raped Jacob’s sister, then disappeared. ” Peter stood up again and started reorganizing the napkins on the buffet. “Susan, I think he would have told me if he’d recognized someone. Certainly he couldn’t have kept it a secret if he had seen that man. I didn’t know him well, but he didn’t seem like the sort of man who could keep a secret, you know? I mean, you could read his feelings in his face. He was utterly transparent.” Sebastian stood suddenly and walked out of the room. Peter watched him go, barely listening to Susan. “Then maybe someone just thought Jacob recognized him. Or something happened between when you left for Elvis and he was killed. Less than two hours. Hard to imagine. But if it wasn’t something like that, then we’re back to Sebastian as having the only possible motive. Or you, Peter. And that is even more ridiculous to contemplate than thinking Sebastian could hurt that sweet young kid.” Casper stood up and started rolling up his shirt sleeves. “We’ll know the motive when we know the killer. We’re just guessing until then. Susan, you got your gear? You can take my prints first.” She nodded, pulled the cards and ink pads out of her bag. “Let’s try and do everyone he had contact with, from the pilot on the plane that brought him in here. I can only investigate what happened after he got to the island, Peter. If his sister’s rapist saw him somewhere else, on the plane from Seattle, in the airport, wherever, followed him and killed him, then he

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somehow got back off the island without us finding him. I don’t know, Peter. Let’s just do the basics, and see what comes up. God is in the details.” “Susan, do we have a problem with rape on the island?” Her face closed a bit. “Peter, anywhere there’s a problem with alcohol, there’s a problem with rape. Most of the time I don’t hear about it except whispers and gossip. I would say nine times out of ten, I don’t hear about it. But yes, we have a problem with alcohol. So we have a problem with rape.” Peter went into the kitchen. Sebastian was standing at the big window, hands on his hips, staring out at the brilliant blue water that seemed to go on forever. “Wishing you were somewhere else? You don’t have your bags packed, do you?” Sebastian turned around, but he didn’t speak, just looked at Peter for the longest time. Then he turned back to the window. “Nope. Wishing I hadn’t been gone so much, Peter. Wondering if you’ve had enough.” Peter couldn’t think of anything to say. He joined him at the window. How long since he had stood in the sunshine and enjoyed this view? “Wondering if I’ve had enough of what?” “Of me. Of us. Peter, want to walk into town with me? I’ll buy you a tangerine.” “A tangerine! There hasn’t been fresh citrus fruit in the store since Christmas!” “It’s spring, big guy. There was a crate of California tangerines coming across with me on the ferry.” Peter looked at him, felt his heart squeeze a little in his chest from love. Love warm and deep and forever. Sebastian was wondering if he’d had enough. Like he’d had enough of sunshine and stars. Like he would ever get tired of looking at the moon in the night sky. “Yes, thank you, Sebastian. That would be lovely. I can’t remember the last time we went for a walk together.” Peter heard his voice become very formal, the way it did when his

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emotions threatened to overtake him. Sebastian heard it, too. He reached across and took Peter into his arms. “His face was transparent, and what did you see when you looked at him? I don’t think you can read my feelings when you look in my face, Peter. I don’t even know if you want to. But that doesn’t mean that what I feel for you isn’t strong. What’s between us is like a tree that’s been growing a long time, with deep roots. I didn’t hurt your boy, Peter. I promise you, I would never hurt some kid just because he fell in love with you. How can I blame him for that? I did it. I do it all the time.” “Sebastian!” Peter was stuttering in shock, his arms reaching around Sebastian’s waist. “I know you didn’t do anything to Jacob. You couldn’t hurt someone. Don’t be ridiculous.” “It’s not ridiculous, Peter. It’s the most logical explanation.” His arms tightened, and he bent over Peter, spoke softly into his hair. “I don’t want to be arrested for young Jacob’s murder, Peter. Because they’ll haul me off, and you’ll be left alone here. With a murderer.”

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Chapter Five

When Sebastian was younger, just making a name for himself in the competitive world of Alaskan sled dog racing, a photographer had taken pictures of him camped out with his dogs on the third night of the Yukon Quest. The camp fire had turned his face to gold, and the camera caught him playing with them after a long day on the trail. The dogs were leaping, tongues out, trying to lick his face, and he was cuddling them in his arms. Alaskans loved their sled dogs, and the hint of Native blood in his dark hair and eyes made Sebastian the favored hometown son across much of Alaska. He only took sponsorship offers from the local businesses that he knew, the sno-go repair guys, the kayak rental places, the village knitting co-op run by his Auntie Ty. He missed out on the big money, going for love instead. And Alaska loved him for it. Peter always forgot how big a star Sebastian was until they went out in public together. Two black-haired boys with freckles on their noses came running out of the general store when they saw him, shrieking, “Uncle Sebastian! Uncle Sebastian!” Susan’s twin boys were just finishing an exciting first year of school, and it was rumored that the kindergarten teacher was requesting early retirement.

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Sebastian held his arms out, and each boy hung on to a forearm. He lifted them off the ground by his arms, swung them around and around until they went flying off, tumbling over each other in the grass. “Be careful!” Peter warned, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe off muddy hands and faces. Sebastian grinned at him. “Want me to toss you around, too?” He rubbed a shoulder as the boys scrambled up again and flung themselves at him, hugging him ferociously around the waist. “Actually, I probably won’t be able to do that much longer.” He addressed the boys, his big hands stroking their black hair. “I think you two are gonna be bigger than me when you grow up! When’s your birthday again?” “It’s June first, Uncle Sebastian.” Sam had lost his front teeth, and Peter bent over for a closer look. James gave a jack-o’-lantern grin; his teeth were gone, too. “Why do you want to know about our birthday, Uncle Sebastian?” “Oh, no reason. None at all.” The boys giggled behind their hands. “Uncle Sebastian, did mom say anything to you? About Super Mario Brothers for Nintendo DS?” “Never heard of it. But I might have something else that will be just about old enough by June the first. We’ll see. Where are you two supposed to be?” James was carrying a plastic grocery bag with a can of evaporated milk. He held it up. “Better get home, then. Dad’s cooking for you, huh?” “Hamburger Helper! Double Cheeseburger Macaroni!” In the store Peter went over to the tangerines. They were glowing like a basket of bright orange jewels against the weathered gray boards. Everyone in the store stopped what they were doing to talk to Sebastian and shake his hand. A younger man Peter didn’t know pulled Sebastian aside, asked him about his dogs.

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“Man, I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were retiring! Sampson said he got a couple of your yearlings, and I heard Douglas got some, too. What have you got left? Any puppies? You still gonna train some young ones?” Sebastian shook his head, glancing briefly at Peter, who stood frozen, a tangerine in each hand. “Sorry, man. You’re too late.” He reached for the waistband of Peter’s corduroy trousers, tugged him over until he could wrap an arm around Peter’s waist and pull him in close to his chest. “You know Peter Moon? Peter, this is Stone Macalister.” “Hello.” Peter didn’t offer a hand, hearing something in Sebastian’s voice. Stone appeared frozen in shock, then he jerked like an electrical wire had just touched his ass. “Right! Well, okay, good to see you, man.” They watched him scramble out the door. Sebastian kept his arm around Peter’s waist, kept him pinned against his chest. “I hate that prick. I know somebody who saw him spank one of his dogs with a trail marker.” “Retired?” Peter asked quietly. “You’ve dispersed your stables? Were you going to share your plans with me, Sebastian?” Sebastian turned him around, put a rough hand to his cheek. “You are my plans, Peter. But you’ve been kind of busy the last couple of days. I came because Susan called me, told me some kid was sleeping in my bed. But I’ve been coming back to you for my whole life. This time I was getting ready to come back for good. Do not fucking tell me I’m too late.” “Sebastian…” Sebastian jerked him closer, kissed him on the mouth, and Peter could feel something simmering, taste passion and anger and a whole stew of emotions on Sebastian’s mouth. Peter heard giggles behind him, turned around to see a couple of teenaged girls watching them. Their hair was elaborately braided and curled, and they were wearing enough eye makeup for Las Vegas. Were they young Elvis tribute artists in training, or just teenaged girls after school?

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“Forget it, he’s mine!” Sebastian glowered at them, and the girls laughed out loud at this piece of nonsense.

***** “What’s the matter with you? I’ve never known you to not want to talk. In fact, most of the time I can’t shut you up.” Sebastian spit a tangerine seed toward some of the Sitka spruce trees that stood tall and dark as Masai warriors, lining the road home. They had just had a short-lived argument over the question: was it littering to toss tangerine seeds and peel into the woods? Peter carefully placed his seeds into his handkerchief. “Nothing’s wrong.” Too many shocks, that’s what it was. Peter’s legs felt numb, like he was tottering home on peg legs. The EMS radio clipped to his belt kept bumping into his thigh and emitting high-pitched squeaks, and Peter finally reached down and clicked the off button. He had weekend duty with the volunteer fire department. “Susan says we have a problem with rape. We do? Who knew about it? I look around town, and I wonder which of these men could be rapists. I’ve known them for years. If they could be rapists, they could be killers. I just… It’s so ugly, Sebastian. It’s ugly and I hate it and I feel like closing and locking the doors of the hotel, not letting anyone in who might be a killer. Or who might be killed. I even feel mad at Jacob. He couldn’t just enjoy himself and then get on a plane to Montreal and go have a wonderful life? No, he had to be killed here, and I don’t want his ghost roaming around the hotel forever, looking for revenge or something. I mean, I just had a night. A night and a day, and it was lovely and precious and I don’t want it ruined…” “You don’t have to explain yourself, Peter. I never asked you to… Well. I never asked you. It never occurred to me that I needed to, so that just goes to show me, doesn’t it? I guess I’m kind of glad you had someone. Someone sweet and gentle is the way Jacob sounds, someone more like you. I wonder sometimes how mad you get when I show up with six months’ worth of dirty laundry and a bunch of sled dogs, mess up your pretty house, mess up your pretty life. Make you put your books down and come to bed.”

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“Ha. That’s how much you know. I can prop a book up on your shoulder, never miss a page. I don’t mind your dogs or your laundry or any of that, Sebastian. I never have. But I do mind you being gone. This time seemed…long. Too long, like more than I could bear. A couple of times this winter I thought, this is what it would feel like if he was gone for good. Like you were gone for good and I didn’t have anything to look forward to. You know what I’m talking about?” Sebastian shook his head. “Tell me some more. I like this little peek into your head.” “Did you mean it, what you said back at the store? About coming to stay?” “Yeah, I meant it.” “You’re not still mad at me?” “Maybe a little. I’ll deal with it.” “I guess what I want to know is why this time is any different from the other times you’ve come to stay?” “I sold all my dogs, Peter.” Sebastian was starting to sound pissed, raked both his hands back through his black hair. “And correct me if I’m wrong, Peter, but have I ever told you I was retiring from racing? Have I ever said before…” “All right. I get your point.” “No, I don’t think you do. Because I don’t break my word, I’ve never broken my word to you, ever, so I don’t see where you get off acting like you don’t trust me all of a sudden.” “I trust you.” “You’ve been having an argument with me the entire winter, and I wasn’t even here! That’s what it sounds like to me. If you’re gonna yell at me, Peter, you’re gonna have to do it to my face, give us a chance to kiss and make up. You asked me if I’m mad at you. Maybe the better question is why are you so mad at me.”

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They walked on quietly, the road soft underfoot, the woods around them lush with grass and ferns and tiny wild strawberries, and the trilling sounds of spring birds. Peter took his hand. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, Sebastian.” Sebastian glanced at him out of dark eyes. The new, ice blue fleece pullover made his eyes and hair look silky black. “Okay, let’s just put you and me aside for the time being. We need to think. We should be able to figure out who killed Jacob with a little brainpower, and we need to do it quick, before the state cops come down here and start reading me my rights. Let’s just think it through. It doesn’t matter about motive. It’s like Casper said. When we know the killer, the motive will make sense. Of course, out of all of us, Casper is the one I actually suspect has probably killed someone before. In the line of duty, isn’t that what they call it? You can see it in his eyes, like toughness or something. Travis has it, too, but his just looks like pain. Most of you were at Tiny’s place for the contest, right? Only Mike and Travis stayed behind.” “Nelson was in his cabin, I think. I guess he was around, because he was going to drive the van to the airport for Jacob’s flight. But it could have been anyone who waited until we left, then went up to the hotel. Anyone, Sebastian, could have seen the van, or even waited until we got to Tiny’s, seen who was there. Knew who was left back at the hotel. Anyone at Tiny’s could have run back to the hotel in fifteen minutes, if they were in good shape.” Sebastian shook his head. “For now, let’s just consider that those of you who were at Tiny’s for the Elvis contest could not have done it. Otherwise we have to consider the entire island. So are you thinking someone saw that the hotel was nearly empty and took the opportunity? That might be it. Here you go, little squirrels! Yummy! Fresh from California!” He tossed a curl of tangerine peel into the woods. Peter ignored him. “What about the phones? Somebody called the guest line, right? That upstairs phone?” “Everybody’s got cell phones. And I’ve got the numbers for the hotel posted around town. Anyone could have it.” “Are we sure Mike was in his room when Jacob got the phone call on the guest line?”

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Peter thought. What had Travis said? He’d heard the phone ring, maybe? No, Travis had said Jacob went down into the kitchen and talked to someone. It was Mike who said he’d heard Jacob on the phone. “If Mike is telling the truth…” “But why would we assume that, Peter? He uses drugs. He’s a lawyer.” “He is? Oh, fuck me, a lawyer got knocked on the head in my upstairs hallway? He’s probably one of those personal injury lawyers. How do you know? Did you hear him threatening to sue?” “He asked me and I asked him. He said, ‘So you ride around in a sled pulled by dogs? For a living?’ And I said yes and that I was also a studio potter, and what did he do for money? He said he was a tax attorney, and I said I didn’t let my dogs bite my ass…” “Sebastian!” “He’s got the hots for you, Peter. It might have been him. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He wanted you, and he was jealous of Jacob.” “Don’t be ridiculous. Somebody bashed him in the head this morning, Sebastian,” “Maybe he did it to himself, to throw our suspicions off.” “Oh, brilliant. Thank you, Mr. Holmes. He nearly bit his tongue in two when you came running out of the bedroom naked, holding a shotgun.” “Hey, that reminds me. Jesse and Phillip asked me if they could take my picture.” “Naked and holding a shotgun?” “Yep. I believe those young entrepreneurs are planning a calendar of Alaskan men. Something rugged and hairy and half wild. Wild men holding sled dog puppies to show our soft side. I’m not sure I want the puppies exploited like that. Some sick bastard could be staring at the pictures, pulling his…” “You don’t want the puppies exploited? God. I may have to retire, too, Sebastian. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed.” Sebastian flung an arm around his shoulder. “How about a nap when we get home?”

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“Fine, whatever. Anything for a peaceful life. So how long have you been planning to retire from racing?” “I started making arrangements this season. It was hard and long and cold, and I missed you like…like I always miss you, only more. I kept turning around to tell you something, and you weren’t there. I didn’t sleep good up at the cabin, and I think it was because I would reach out to pull you close, so I could keep us warm, and you weren’t there, and then I’d wake up and…and miss you again. At first I was mad at you because you weren’t with me. I thought the hotel couldn’t be so busy all the time, not the whole frigging winter, that you couldn’t get on a sno-go and make your way upriver to see me. Then I didn’t care anymore if you were supposed to be with me, or I was supposed to be with you. There is no such thing as neutral ground, Peter.” “Neutral ground? What do you mean?” “I don’t know. I think it used to matter to me, how long we spent in your place, how long we spent in mine. Now I think I was acting like a fucking child, stomping off to the Yukon alone. I guess I was happy there, Peter, living that life, but that happiness wasn’t enough to make it worth giving you up. Being alone is only good for me when I’m alone with you, and a bunch of dogs and books.” “Uh-huh.” “What, you don’t believe me? I would rather have you than the dogs.” Sebastian’s voice was wheedling, and he was grinning out of the corner of his mouth. “Would I buy a used car from this man? I guess I believe you, but let’s not put your sled and snowshoes in the long-term storage, either.” “That reminds me, I got you some new snowshoes. This Inuit guy I met upriver made them the old way, bent willow and moose sinew. So we can go camping or something, some slow weekend next winter. I’ve been ready to get out of racing for a couple of seasons now. There’re so many new kids coming into racing, most of them are not even from Alaska.

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They’re in it for the money, not the dogs. Not the fun.” Sebastian’s face was indignant. “Can you believe that shit?” Peter sighed. “Yes, Sebastian, of course I believe it.” “I’m the one out of step. That’s what you’ve been saying to me, isn’t it? The only thing I never considered, Peter, was that you wouldn’t be waiting for me. That you would decide to move on without me. Never crossed my mind.” Peter looked up at him, and Sebastian slipped his last piece of tangerine into Peter’s mouth. “You could break my heart without trying too hard, Peter, looking at me like that. You eat the last piece. Listen, I’ve been thinking. Maybe Susan was on to something, what she was talking about. Lots of people do that.” Peter was having trouble keeping up with these life-altering changes in topic. His head still felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool, his heart beating a desperate tattoo against his ribs. “Do what?” “People come to Alaska and hide out. It doesn’t have to be Miriam’s rapist. It could be something else. Maybe his cop lover arrested somebody who skipped, and he thought Jacob would recognize him. Maybe the killer made a mistake, got him mixed up with some Athabascan guy.” “Sebastian…” “Maybe the killer decided not to wait for Jacob to remember whatever he was going to remember, and tell you about it. We only have Mike’s word that someone was in Jacob’s room. Mike was sitting in the living room when Travis said something about Jacob having a journal, and he’s from California. He could have known Jacob before. We’re depending on his word too much, Peter.” Sebastian’s arm tightened around Peter’s shoulder. “Maybe the bastard thinks Jacob said something to you. And he’s just waiting for you to remember. Waiting to get you alone. You could be in danger.”

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Chapter Six

Tiny was gone from the living room when they got back from town. Elsie Seward, the housekeeper who claimed a family tie with the famous explorer from the wrong side of the blanket, was running the vacuum under the sofas. Most of the teenaged girls in town worked for her cleaning company at some point, making college money. Her face was settled into its usual calm and sorrowful lines until she caught sight of Sebastian. She switched off the vacuum and hugged him, her tiny, work-roughened hands patting him gently on the back. “Sebastian, I knew you would come!” “You did?” “This boy has been in such trouble, so lonely for you.” She nodded toward Peter. “And now keeping time with young California boys who play cellos! Goodness. Where were you at Christmas? We were expecting you. You need to stay close for awhile, Sebastian.” “I intend to, Elsie.” He glanced briefly at Peter, his eyes shadowed. “Listen, about those puppies in the kitchen. I’m gonna build them a pen out back later today, I promise.” “Either of them look like leaders?”

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“Maybe,” he said. “They’re Queenie’s pups. But I brought them for Sam and James. It’s time for them to get started with dogs.” Elsie’s A-1 Cleaning had been one of Sebastian’s earliest sponsors. “It’s too much to suppose I’ll ever have any privacy, living in this town,” Peter said, climbing the stairs ahead of Sebastian. “I wonder if Elsie knows anyone who might be a rapist.” “Privacy?” Sebastian said the word as if he was speaking in a foreign tongue. “I don’t think you’re going to have any privacy from the woman who changes your sheets.” His voice was wooden, and Peter watched him carefully. He didn’t really understand the way Sebastian was acting. It wasn’t like him. Normally when they had a fight, Sebastian would take a chain saw and cut down a few trees, chop a couple of cords of firewood, stack it, and by the time he was done, he’d be over it. He seemed to be doing a lot of thinking over the last couple of days. “We need to put Elsie on Susan’s fingerprint list of people Jacob met.” Sebastian snorted. “Elsie didn’t kill Jacob. She was at Tiny’s, wearing her blue suede shoes, when some bastard killed him.” “I know she didn’t do anything, but that’s a good example of how easy it could be to miss someone. And have you asked Susan if you can give the twins puppies? I mean, she has plenty on her plate already, Sebastian.” “I don’t want to talk about this right now, Peter.” Sebastian took him by the wrist, pulled him into the bedroom and closed and locked the door. A gentle shove against his chest, and Peter found himself with the door at his back. Sebastian loomed over him, a hand on either side of his head, pinning him in place. He felt a flutter of nerves, but he melted into a warm puddle when Sebastian smiled into his eyes and said, “Holy heart attack, Batman.” Sebastian picked up Peter’s right hand, pressed a kiss into the palm, and Peter felt the strange tickle of erotic feeling zipping around in his chest, down into his knees, and he had

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to reach behind him and put his other hand flat on the wall when Sebastian took his fingers into his mouth, sucked on them one after the other, the tip of his tongue circling. His teeth nipped down on Peter’s forefinger, and they stared into each other’s eyes. “Your fingers taste like you’ve been peeling a tangerine.” Sebastian looked curiously intent, concentrating on Peter’s face, and Peter lowered his eyes, feeling heat stain his cheeks. Why did he feel so shy all of the sudden? This was Sebastian, after all. They’d been lovers forever. What… Sebastian was tracing the lines of his face now, two fingers trailing across Peter’s forehead, down his cheek, across his jaw and chin. They dropped to his throat, then Sebastian slid his hand inside the collar of Peter’s shirt, moved the back of his fingers along the collarbone. “What are you doing?” Peter whispered. Sebastian put his free hand back against the door, beside Peter’s head. “I’m going to seduce you.” Peter laughed in surprise and Sebastian leaned in and took his mouth, used his big body to press Peter back against the door. His tongue moved into Peter’s mouth with that combination of urgency and arrogant need that had always found its way past any meager resistance Peter might have felt. He had never been able to refuse Sebastian anything. A knee between his legs, and Sebastian’s hard thigh pressed into his groin. But Sebastian didn’t reach for his belt buckle, didn’t reach for his cock, straining against the velvet-soft corduroy trousers. He just tugged Peter into his arms, held him closer and closer, kissing him like they had days to spend kissing, like warm, wet winds and Hawaiian sunshine were filling their rooms with the smells of tropical flowers, and when Sebastian lifted his head, Peter clung to him, his knees wobbly. “So what are you doing?” he asked again, resting his forehead against Sebastian’s big chest.

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Sebastian took him under the chin and lifted his head until they could look at each other. “I want you to fall in love with me again, Peter.” “Sebastian, I’ve always loved you. Don’t be silly.” “Then I don’t understand.” And Peter realized Sebastian was asking him about Jacob. He was asking for the truth about Jacob. “I was lonely,” Peter whispered. Sebastian nodded. “This is all my fault. I was out chasing my dreams, and I just…took for granted that you would be here. Give me a chance, Peter. Please. A chance for us. I want you to love me again.” And Sebastian reached for his mouth, kissed him as sweetly as if it were their first time. Sebastian tugged the shirttails out of Peter’s trousers, unbuttoned his shirt from the bottom up, stopping to run his hands against Peter’s stomach, laughing when Peter tried to suck it in. “Oh, please. I already know what you look like.” He leaned closer and whispered, “And I like it like that.” When Sebastian had the shirt unbuttoned he pushed it off Peter’s shoulders, down his arms, held his wrists captive with the shirt sleeves. Then he lowered his head, traced a circle around Peter’s nipple with his tongue. Rough heat, then the velvet of his lips. Sebastian sucked a nipple into his mouth, and the throb between Peter’s legs was so intense it was almost painful. Sebastian moved his hands to Peter’s bare back and held their bodies together. Peter tugged the shirt off his wrists, turned it right side out and laid it neatly on the stool at the end of the bed. Sebastian grinned at him, pulled his fleece over his head, tossed it on the stool. Peter resisted the urge to straighten it up. His need to tidy up wasn’t quite so strong when his cock was throbbing and chiseled out of granite.

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Sebastian tugged him closer by the waistband of his pants, let his fingers slide against Peter’s belly. He undid the zip, slid his fingers down under the waistband. Sebastian’s butterfly touch against the head of Peter’s cock made Peter lurch against his hand, reach for Sebastian, and pull him close. The heat was moving through him now, and he felt a hunger that was fierce, wild, like he’d not felt in… He thought back. A long time. Sebastian’s mouth was moving down his neck, a trail of heat. Since a long time ago, and only with Sebastian. “Okay, I’m in love with you again.” Sebastian laughed, slipped his hands down into Peter’s boxers, wrapped his fingers around the cock straining to escape. “One part of you is, anyway. Why don’t we just let this…” Bam! Bam! Bam! Peter nearly leapt out of his skin at the knock on the door. Sebastian didn’t move. “Uh, Peter?” It was Travis. “Peter, I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s just that there’s this really pregnant girl here asking about Sebastian, and Susan says can you come downstairs?”

***** Travis had clattered back down the stairs by the time Peter had moaned and cursed and buttoned his shirt, tucked it back in, smoothed his hair down, brushed his teeth, and washed his hands and face, the minimum necessary grooming before greeting guests. Sebastian watched him go through his routine with a little half grin on his face, joined him at the sink to wash his hands, dried them on the heated towels. Oh, God, it was so unfair; he had been about to get fucked, a long hard rocking fuck, like only Sebastian could do it. Peter was ready to howl like a dog in frustration. Sebastian’s jaw was like a rock. Peter watched him in the bathroom mirror. He could tell that Sebastian was enjoying the new heated towel racks. More than once over the years Peter had watched Sebastian heat water in a battered enamel pan on a wood stove, strip off in the cold and scrub down, wash his hair by pouring the water over his head into the sink in the corner of the cabin. It wouldn’t hurt for him to have this small luxury. Sebastian would never take it for granted,

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that was the thing. Every time he put his face into a soft, warm towel, he would remember it as Peter’s small gift to him. Downstairs Travis was hovering over a young girl who was, indeed, very pregnant. She had a numb, exhausted look, kept one hand on the side of her belly. Sebastian moved to her side. “Charlie, what’s wrong? Is the baby moving?” She nodded, but looked so done in Peter thought she couldn’t speak if she wanted to. “Sweetie, have you eaten?” She shook her head. She had long, straight dark hair and a heart-shaped face with a pointed chin. “Well, it’s time for tea. We have a good recliner over here, Charlie. You just lean back and put your feet up, and I’ll get something for you to drink.” Travis started to help her to her feet, but Peter gestured for him to follow. “Travis, I need you in the kitchen.” “She only knows Sebastian,” Peter told him after the kitchen door had closed behind them. “Charlie was looking a little overwhelmed. Let’s give them some breathing room.” Overwhelmed was a good word to describe Travis, too, Peter thought, watching him sink into a kitchen chair. He’d showered and put on clean clothes, but the bourbon fumes were still hanging on, and he wasn’t all that steady on his feet. “Peter, listen. I’m sorry about last night. I wasn’t on duty, and something happened. Mike got hurt. This morning, I mean.” He shook his head. “Casper and Tiny, they were talking to me about what I should do. You know, just in case. And I just felt… Well, I guess it got away from me.” “What you should do about what?” Peter pulled the smoked salmon and the sour cream out of the refrigerator. “If I’m arrested.” Peter turned around, stared in shock. “Casper said that military men, we’re all presumed to be a little more violent than the rest of the world. And law enforcement looks at us first. And Tiny, did you know he was in the brig for two years, down

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in San Diego? He beat up an officer, and the Navy threw him in jail and gave him a dishonorable. He said he was drinking more back then. Anyway, they were telling me what we needed to do just in case, and the whole thing, Peter, it was just too much. I’m not making excuses, but…” “But it sounds like you are making excuses, Travis.” Peter’s voice was gentle. “I can’t believe they would arrest you, but even so, I think we need to make a change. I’m pulling you off nights, and I want you on the day shift. Not the front desk, either. Sebastian tells me the boats need work before the summer. I need them fixed up.” Peter waved a vague hand. “Whatever you need to do to boats. Maintenance on the engines. Scrape and paint the bottoms. Whatever. Get them ready for fishing and maybe tours of the bay. Can you do that?” Travis sat up, looking interested. “Yeah, good. That would be good. I like repairing outboard motors. And the boats do need some maintenance. I noticed that when I went out with Casper. Sebastian was telling Jesse and Phillip he would take them out in a boat, go around Glacier Bay if they wanted to get pictures. That might be good, you know, something to do for the guys who don’t fish.” His fingers curled into fists. “Peter, do you think they might arrest me for killing Jacob?” Peter sat down with him at the table. “Travis, I can’t imagine anyone who knows you thinking you could hurt someone.” “But I have, Peter. Lots of times.” “What?” “I was a Marine Infantryman. We’re at war. I’ve killed people before, Peter. I think. I don’t know for sure. But I aimed my rifle and fired, and if I didn’t kill people it was because I’m a bad shot. And I’m not a bad shot.”

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Peter couldn’t think of anything to say. Looking into Travis’ face, looking at the pain and knowledge in his eyes, there was nothing to say. “Travis, go pick me some dill. I’ll make your favorite food for tea.” Travis stood up, smiling. “The smoked salmon pizza? With sour cream and dill? Thanks, Peter. You know, I’ve tasted some of that smoked salmon they make in Scotland. Those people, they don’t have a clue what to do with a salmon. Peter, that girl, Charlie. Is she okay?” “I’m not sure, Travis. Will you help her out if she needs a hand?” He nodded. “I think somebody hurt her, Peter. She’s got red marks and bruises on her arms, like somebody grabbed her and she had to twist to get away. You think it was the guy? The one who got her pregnant?” “I don’t know, Travis. Bring some cilantro as well, while you’re there. And some of the green onions.” Peter still couldn’t bear to go out in the garden. “After tea, we’ll see about getting her over to the clinic so they can check on her, make sure the baby is okay.” “I’ll drive her, Peter.” Susan walked into the kitchen and pulled out one of the kitchen chairs. She didn’t speak for a moment, but got to work tapping her pen on the edge of the table and staring off into space. Peter was coming to recognize this as her concentration face. You go, girl. Susan had a strong, tough mind and she was a reader. Peter hoped she was smarter than he and Sebastian. Especially since they hadn’t come up with anything new putting their heads together. Peter had always admired Susan’s powers of concentration and deductive reasoning. He was sure she would figure it all out. “You want to hear something weird?” Peter assumed this was a rhetorical question; when had he ever wanted to hear anything weird? But she just kept talking. “Nobody knows who the pilot was who flew them in here. It was a five-seater out of Juneau, and the airline claims that Dave was scheduled to fly that route but he got stuck somewhere doing an

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emergency medevac -- some guy wrecked his sno-go, had big-time head trauma. So they say either Angus or that Russian kid they call Vlad did the run. So now they’re hiding from me and running all over the place trying to make sure Vlad’s paperwork’s in order to be in this country and he isn’t some Russian mafia type trying to hide out in Alaska. But nobody really knows for sure who flew them in. Apparently the manifests or something are missing. And that’s not all.” “It’s not?” Peter hated the way his voice sounded so quavery and weak. “I really need that paperwork on Nelson -- when you hired him, references, like that. I can’t get him to come talk to me, and I can’t get him to hold still for fingerprints. He’s acting weird. I even sent Howie out here to try and find him but Nelson hotfooted it into the woods when he saw him coming. Do you even know if Nelson is his first or last name?” “Uh…” Peter thought back to the paperwork he had filled out when Nelson had first come to work at the hotel. “It’s his last name. First name is initial A.” “Peter, you don’t even know his first name?” “He had a Social Security card, Susan. He’s been here for nearly…what, four years? I’ve never had a problem. You’ve never had a problem with him, right?” “That’s true,” Susan admitted. “It’s been a long time since the garden staff at the Heartbreak littered up my drunk tank every weekend. But Nelson doesn’t have a bank account in town. He cashes his checks at the grocery store and buys his beans and saltines with cash.”

Beans and saltines? “Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious?” She studied his face. “Peter, why don’t you know anything about him?” “I guess…I don’t really like him. I feel badly about it, because he’s a good gardener, and he’s never done anything to, you know, deserve my not liking him! But he doesn’t make eye contact. He’ll look at you, then his eyes go skittering off like he doesn’t want direct eye

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contact. I don’t know. He’s sort of unpleasant, but nothing I could, you know, mark him down on an employee evaluation over. I know it’s kind of weird, but I feel like it’s wrong to be prejudiced against somebody because they are unattractive in their manner, you know, or in their physical appearance.” “Uh-huh. Jesus, Peter, you need a keeper. Has it ever occurred to you that your instincts may be telling you something? Not that it means anything about Jacob, but still. You’re so very civilized. And it’s not a civilized world. Oh, and here’s something else weird.” “There’s more? Do I have to hear this one?” “It’s about Jacob, Peter. His cop lover told me why he came to Alaska.” Travis came back in the kitchen door with the basket of herbs. “Peter, you want anything else?” Peter shook his head. “I’m gonna go…” He pointed to the living room. When he left, Peter stood and started rinsing the green onions. He put them on a little cutting board and started chopping. “Okay, I’m ready. Tell me.” Susan raised her eyebrows, but beyond a faint smirk didn’t mention his peculiar need to cut veggies in times of stress. “Jacob didn’t have a father. I mean, he wasn’t raised with a father. But his lover said that Jacob’s father came from Alaska. That his mom had been up here for school in Fairbanks and met his dad, and they fell in love, and Jacob was born in Alaska. The cop thought that Jacob’s dad was in the military, stationed at one of the bases up there. But then something happened, and his mom took him and went back to California. She was already pregnant with Miriam. But anyway, Jacob’s lover said that he used to talk about coming to Alaska, trying to find his father’s family. Did he say anything to you, Peter? About any of this?” Peter shook his head. “Sebastian has been saying that Jacob looked Athabascan. Oh, my God! Susan! Travis told me something, that Tiny had been in the Navy, and he was stationed down in San Diego and he got thrown into jail. Maybe Jacob’s mother…” His mind boggled at the picture of elegant, slim, beautiful young Jacob, holding his cello, and Tiny, with his

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enormous gut and wild black hair and Subic Bay tattoos covering most of his exposed skin, holding his spatula, working a moose burger on the grill. Still, Tiny could sing like… “No fucking way. Oh, sorry. Never mind. I refuse to even consider… Susan, about Jacob. I didn’t know him. We didn’t talk. I mean, it was just…” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know what he came here looking for. But I suspect it wasn’t me, Susan.” Susan propped her chin in her hand and watched him with serious eyes. “Peter, can I ask you something personal?” “What?” Peter stared down at the cutting board and started mincing the cilantro extremely fine, the sharp, bright green tang filling his nose. “What did you think you were doing? Did you really believe that everyone in this town wouldn’t know about you and Jacob? There are two hundred eighty-one people who live on this island, Peter. You are one of them. And Sebastian is one of them.”

***** Thank God for freezers. They would have a decent tea today, but much of it was being defrosted. He had the lemon pound cake, of course. All it would need was a nice, fresh, lemony glaze. The smoked salmon pizza was easy, and, of course, it wasn’t really a pizza at all, more like a giant loaded cracker, spread thickly with sour cream, purple and green onions, and smoked salmon. Peter could whip up a spicy crab dip in five minutes. He’d been making this one for years, luscious sweet crab in a base of cream cheese and mayo, and he had a jar of pineapple-mango salsa to go with it. Maybe some tiny crab cakes as well, that Thai recipe with lemon and cilantro. No, too similar to the crab dip, which was really more like a casserole anyway. He could slice and butter the whole grain bread, and put out some of those delicious parmigiano and cracked pepper crackers he’d made a couple of days ago.

A smooth, pale green tea might be nice. Something fresh and crunchy as well. Casper will eat anything if it’s sitting on a slice of cucumber. Peter pulled a couple out of the crisper,

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sliced them into wheels. He daubed sweetened sour cream on one plateful, decorated the tops with blueberries and chunks of pineapple. The other plate hmmm, let’s see… He went back to the pantry, returned with a glass jar of bright golden caviar. Perfect. After Peter had the tea arranged on the buffet in the dining room he went down to the cellar, pulled a couple of bottles of wine out of the cold storage. He had a lovely golden Riesling and a nice white Zinfandel. They were both light and fruity, but after the last few days Peter thought light and fruity might be exactly what they all needed. Jesse and Phillip were busy working on something, matching laptops click-clacking away. Casper was leaned back in the recliner again, taking one of his ten-minute naps. Mike had finally come down from his room, clean and dressed and looking very much like a lawyer on vacation. Was Mike going to eat his salmon pizza and then sue his ass? Most probably. Peter reached for the corkscrew. “Hey, Peter, would you buy a calendar called Rough and Ready?” “I can’t imagine any circumstance under which I would buy a calendar called Rough

and Ready.” He eased the cork out of the bottle. “But I’m sure lots of people would.” Especially if you read graphic novels and lusted after Spartans or gladiators. “You wouldn’t buy it even if Sebastian was on the cover?” “Especially if Sebastian was on the cover. Boys, come get something to eat.” Casper blinked open his eyes. Peer guessed that his brain was wired to register the call to the chow hall. Peter held a glass of wine up. “Casper, would you like tea or a glass of wine? This is a Riesling, and I also have a white Zinfandel.” “Riesling sounds good, thanks.” Casper took the glass, looked around the buffet table. “Peter, this is beautiful.” He took a cucumber slice with sour cream and caviar. “Thank you, Casper. Mike, what would you like to drink?” “I’ll have a glass of Riesling as well, thank you.” Peter handed him a glass, and he took it and joined Casper at the buffet.

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Sebastian and Travis came into the dining room, after apparently having settled young Charlie some place with her feet up. Travis loaded up a plate with enough food for a platoon, took the mug of tea Sebastian poured him. “She’s shy,” he explained, backing out of the room with the food. Peter raised his eyebrows, and Casper grinned at him and sat down next to Mike on the sofa against the wall. Peter had read about the Romans on their eating couches, and while the idea had its appeal, he couldn’t figure out what people did with their plates. Surely not the floor? So he had put in a couple of comfortable love seats against the walls, in case guests wanted to be more casual than the big dining room table, and had placed small side tables on either end, so people didn’t have to hold their plates and glasses. Sebastian was taking up most of one love seat, and Mike and Casper were sitting on the other. Jesse and Phillip were brainstorming Rough and Ready at the table, blowing parmigiano and cracked pepper crumbs over their keyboards in excitement. Peter checked Sebastian’s plate. He was still working his way through his first plateful, with a little some of everything, a mug of tea on the table beside him. Sebastian crooked a finger in his direction. “Do you want something else, Sebastian? Is there enough food, do you think?” Sebastian tugged him down to the couch by his sleeve. “You’re hovering, Peter. Sit down and eat. You’re making the guests nervous.” Peter looked around the room. Nobody looked nervous to him, but he wouldn’t mind sitting close to Sebastian for a moment. “Now, tell me what you want to eat and I’ll get you some food.” “I’m not really hungry, to tell you the truth, Sebastian.” Sebastian got up, poured a glass of the golden Riesling, put a couple of crackers and some crab dip on a plate. He brought them back to the couch and handed them to Peter.

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Peter took a sip of wine. It really was delicious, a spring wine, cold and faintly sweet and the color of sunshine. “Thank you, Sebastian.” Sebastian nodded, met his eyes, and Peter lost himself in them for a moment. He had learned over the years to savor these moments, to hold every precious second as close to his heart as he could. Sebastian looked as big as an oak, strong and hard, the lines around his eyes laughter, years of good humor, and happiness. Sebastian reached for his face, traced his bottom lip with a rough thumb. The sharp pang of desire went straight into his belly. It was very unlike Sebastian to touch him like this, to show any physical affection in public. They were both in their forties, with the reserve common in men that age. The tenderness of the gesture caught him by surprise, and he had to turn his head away. “I’m gonna work out in the garden after tea, Peter, maybe get some dog pens built for the puppies.” Mike was watching them. Peter lowered his eyes, then glanced up at Jesse and Phillip, giggling at the table. “I know you want a piece of that lemon cake up there,” Casper said, gently taking Mike’s empty plate out of his hand. “I’ve noticed you’ve got a sweet tooth like me.” Mike blinked up at him. “Yeah, I do. Thanks, Casper.” Casper brought the wine bottle back, filled both their glasses, then returned with the cake. He sat back down next to Mike. “I’ve been coming out here for four years,” Casper said, very quietly. “I see what you’re doing. You’re looking around, thinking everybody’s hooked up and happy except you. You’re thinking, once again you are sitting here alone, the last man chosen. But that isn’t the way it is in this room, Mike. You’re just feeling miserable. You need to spend a little more time looking at the people around you, and decide you don’t want to keep feeling like shit just out of habit.” Mike didn’t say anything. His glass of wine was suspended in the air. “Want to come fishing with me?”

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Mike blinked, his cheeks flushing pink. “I don’t know how to fish.” His voice was a bit accusatory, as if Casper had just questioned his manliness. “Do you know how to sit in a boat?” Mike set his glass of wine down carefully, sat back, and took a bite of lemon cake. “Yes, I do,” he said, finally. “It might be worth sitting in a boat, getting cold and wet and stiff, to find out what it is you want from me.” Casper leaned back, grinning. Then he laughed, a big, booming laugh, and for a moment he looked so ferocious and wolf like that Peter thought he might very well appeal to the legal mind. “Good. I’m looking forward to it. I’ll wake you up early.” Sebastian nudged Peter with an elbow, grinning.

***** Mike and Casper took a stroll in the mild evening light, both with their hands in their pockets, glancing at each other shyly as they walked down his garden paths. Peter could not believe it. He stood at the big kitchen window, shaking his head, watched them walk out of sight along a path through the woods Sebastian had laid out over ten years earlier. “I do not believe it,” he said, when Sebastian came into the kitchen carrying a stack of plates. “Why not?” “They’re just so different. I mean, they have nothing in common. Mike is a cynical ass and he uses drugs. Not to mention his unfortunate career. Casper is…” He stopped when Sebastian laughed at him and told him he sounded like a fool. “You’re developing this control thing, Peter. You want everybody to do what you want them to do. You’re shocked when adult men make choices that are different than the choices you would make for them.” Peter turned around from the sink, suds dripping off his hands. “I am not a control freak. How can you say that?”

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Sebastian piled plates in the dishwasher. Peter caught himself removing them for a quick rinse, then putting them back in the dishwasher in their proper place. They would not get cleaned shoved all in there together with sour cream dried on the glaze, and they needed these plates for dinner. It wasn’t like they were Felix and Oscar, the Odd Couple, for crying out loud. He just needed the plates cleaned right… Sebastian watched him, his arms crossed over his chest, but he didn’t say anything else. “Do you think it’s just because of the hotel? Maybe I’m getting, I don’t know, worse as I get older, more finicky. Am I such a control freak I’m running you off?” He tried to keep his voice light, but Sebastian pulled him away from the sink and into his arms. “Try not to think so much, Peter.” Sebastian’s neck smelled like fresh air, sunshine, Glacier Bay, and blueberries and Peter nuzzled into him, had to keep himself from wrapping his legs around Sebastian and clinging to him like a black bear cub stuck up a tree. And then Sebastian’s mouth was on his, and suddenly it was easy to do what he had been told to do, and not think so much. “Come upstairs, Peter. We have a little time before the cops show up and drag me off in cuffs.” “Sebastian, don’t even say that. Oh, God. I don’t think I can take much more.” “Stop fussing. Just come on with me.” Sebastian pulled him by the hand up the stairs, but Peter couldn’t concentrate, that picture was looming so hugely in his mind, of Sebastian under arrest, hands cuffed behind his back, and it was all his fault. All his fault. He needed a good cry, a long vacation away from here, something. “What you need is me, and us, back the way we’re supposed to be,” Sebastian said, and it wasn’t the first time Peter had suspected that Sebastian could read his mind. In the bedroom Sebastian went about closing the curtains, then he lit the small sandalwood candle Peter kept next to their bed. He turned and looked at Peter over his shoulder. “Get undressed.”

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In the dusky room his eyes were dark and hooded, and Peter felt a shiver go through him, anticipation and the tone in Sebastian’s voice, a simmering undercurrent of anger. It must have been there all along. Peter unbuttoned his shirt, hung it in the closet, slid his cords and underwear and socks off and Sebastian stood there next to the bed, watching him, his arms crossed over his chest. He jerked his chin, and Peter climbed on the bed, sat up on his knees, and waited. Sebastian got the lube out of the bedside drawer, walked around the bed and pushed Peer over to his hands and knees. He dribbled a bit of lube across his fingers, slid them down the smooth skin of his ass until he pressed gently into his anus. He put that hand on Peter’s lower back, holding him still, and reached for the waistband of his jeans with the other. Sebastian didn’t get undressed; he just pushed his jeans and boxers down enough so his dark and angry cock sprang out, then he pulled Peter by the hips to the edge of the bed. Peter turned around and stared at him over his shoulder. Twin flames from the candlelight were burning in his dark eyes, candlelight and something more. “Sebastian. I’m sorry.” He didn’t speak, just shoved forward until the head of his cock was lodged against Peter’s ass. They stared at each other for a moment longer, then Peter turned back around and braced his hands and shoved his ass back, let Sebastian come inside him. Sebastian had him around the hips, then around the waist, then his hands reached up and stroked Peter’s nipples, gave them a little pinch. He leaned forward, thrusting deep, took a little bite from his neck, and Peter could feel Sebastian’s hair sliding across his skin. Then he stood back up, pulled Peter back until they were seated together, started rocking hard and thrusting in some fury or passion, love, or jealousy. “Don’t you ever let another man put his hands on you, Peter. Ever. Do you understand me?”

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“Yes, Sebastian. I understand.” He could hardly get the words out, the heat was rolling off Sebastian like a wildfire and he was burning up, possessed, and then Peter’s anger, the resentment, the months of waiting alone, gone, ash and smoke. Peter couldn’t speak, the waves of sensation were closing his throat, sweeping down across his belly and into his balls, and Sebastian slammed into him over and over. His hands were like a vise on Peter’s hips, and Peter knew Sebastian was close to coming, the sweat from his face dripping down Peter’s back. “Say it, Peter.” “You’re the only one.” Sebastian was bucking against his ass, dark groans with each wild thrust like they were torn from his throat. “You’re the only one.” Then Sebastian was coming, his body quivering and taut as an arrow, and when he was done he lay his head down on Peter’s back and cried.

***** The state cop had a spoiled, petulant mouth under a sandy red mustache and a soft chin that shook just a bit when he spoke. Peter regarded him with the gravest foreboding. Susan was sitting with him in Peter’s dining room, and he was reading copies of the witness statements. Peter noticed that he was licking the tip of a red pencil before making notes on the statements. That was disgusting. Could you get lead poisoning from a red pencil? The cop looked up at him, his expression peeved. “Would you mind?” “Would I mind what?” Peter spread the damask runner across the buffet, then put the stack of bread plates warm from the dishwasher on the gold cloth. “I’m trying to work here.” “So am I,” Peter said. “I’m serving dinner for the hotel’s guests in half an hour in this room.”

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“This whole place is a crime scene. Don’t push me. I could close you down, and I will, don’t mistake me.” Peter looked into the weak eyes of a bully. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner, Officer, but I will be serving in this room before the hour is up. I will be moving in and out. Feel free to find another room or another hotel altogether for your law enforcement work.” The cop, whose name tag said Mulligan, sat back in one of Peter’s good chairs, tilted it onto its legs. “Pretty fancy-looking place for an island this size. You got a lot of gays coming out here to experience the real Alaska, have a wild adventure or something? Frolic in Glacier Bay?” The sneer in his voice was faint. “This is one of those gay hotels?” “I’m not aware that the hotel has any sexual feelings of that nature,” Peter said. “But I don’t discriminate. If the hotel turns out to be gay, I’ll probably still keep it.” Mulligan looked irritated and confused, and Peter suspected this was his default expression. He looked pointedly away from Peter to Susan. “So, I think we can reasonably assume it had to be somebody staying at the hotel.” “No, not at all,” Susan said. She had already made this point in Peter’s hearing several times, but her voice was patient as she said it again. “Anyone could have walked here from town in fifteen minutes.” “But why would they?” Susan blinked. “Excuse me? I guess they would come here in order to murder Jacob.” “You’re on a first name basis with the victim?” “I met him, yes.” “So he was staying here. Was it some gay love affair gone wrong, or one of these sex triangles, or…” “No,” Susan said. “We have no reason to believe sex or his sexual orientation had anything to do with his murder. He was a person with a full and complete life, Officer Mulligan, and something in that life may or may not have triggered this horrible violence

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against him. We have the report on his sister’s rape and death, and the fact that the man responsible is still missing. We still have not gotten fingerprints or done a criminal background check on the pilot who brought him to the island or on Nelson, who works here as the maintenance person. Nelson is his last name, apparently, but I can’t get him to come into the office to --” “What’s the pilot’s name?” The red pencil was out again. “I’m not sure,” Susan began. “The company said the usual pilot for that flight was called for medevac, and they had somebody fill in, but the fill-in was either --” “Oh, come on!” Mulligan slammed his notebook shut. “That is the most basic information gathering. I didn’t come out here to do your grunt work. I’ve been a state trooper for eight years, and I will tell you that this is the worst mess of paperwork and confusion I have ever seen! You’ve got these gay men here at the time of the murder. One admits he saw the vic just minutes before he found the body. Then there’s this suspicious conversation with a stranger in the kitchen. Convenient, ain’t it?” He rocked back on the back chair legs again and pointed the red pencil at Susan. “Why are you looking for zebras, when you hear the pounding of hoof beats coming closer? You understand what I’m saying? I wonder if this boy Travis thought through his statement clearly!” “What about the journal?” Susan was making shushing motions behind Mulligan’s back, but Peter ignored her. “Jacob had a journal and it seems to have disappeared. Someone broke into his room to look for it. That suggests that it might be important.” “You ever see this journal yourself?” Peter shook his head. “No, but Travis said --” “Travis being one of two people in the hotel at the time of the murder. Travis being the person who heard this alleged, strange conversation between the vic and someone else in the kitchen. Travis being the person who found the vic less than five minutes later. So tell me

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about this Travis. He’s the vet, just got out of the Marine Corps, right? He had combat experience? Did it seem like he was suffering that combat stress?” Peter set a stack of plates down with a bang. He was starting to really feel afraid now. What had Casper said to Travis, something about military men being presumed to be more violent? This guy looked exactly like the sort of dim-witted functionary who would believe that sort of nonsense. “If you knew him, Officer Mulligan, you would know it is ridiculous to presume --” “Would that be knowing him in the biblical sense of the words?” Mulligan smothered a chuckle. “What I know is basic police work. He was here, his statement is questionable, you’ve got the whole gay thing; that’s motive and opportunity.” “What whole gay thing?” Peter had his hands on his hips, could feel his face flushing. “Just the usual. Your vic, he was a pretty young boy. One of ’em asks, one of ’em says no. Somebody gets pissed off, tries to force the issue. Violence ensues. That gay thing.” “There were no signs of a struggle,” Susan reminded him. “No skin under the nails, no defense wounds.” Mulligan pointed his red pencil at Peter. “You mind stepping out of this room so I can get some work done?” He moved the pencil over and pointed it at Susan. “Now, tell me about Travis.” It got worse, of course. Mulligan’s face was bright pink with glee when he called Peter back into the dining room. “Seems like you forgot to mention you were having some sort of sexual relationship with the vic.” “His name was Jacob and I think you’re calling him the vic over and over to upset me. Why would you do that?” “I’m just a policeman trying to do basic police work.” He cut his eyes at Susan, then looked back at Peter. “Were you and the vic, excuse me, Jacob, having any sort of disagreement?”

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“No.” “Then why was he leaving?” “He was moving to Montreal. I believe he had nonrefundable flight reservations.” Peter sat there woodenly, and watched Mulligan write this down. Did he really believe…? “And what did your other boyfriend think about this little fling you were having with one of the hotel guests? What is he, like, your steady boyfriend?” “I don’t have boyfriends, Officer Mulligan. I only sleep with men, not boys.” Mulligan sucked on his teeth like somebody had just shoved a lemon up his ass. “Sebastian McCann. Now that is unfuckingbelievable. I saw him on the Iditarod last year, and the Yukon Quest just a couple months ago. I still can’t believe he’s one of those gay boys. Oh, excuse me. He’s not a boy, right. You only sleep with men.” Peter stared at him, could see a lonely life of barbecue pork rinds and beer and delivery pizza for supper in front of the TV, always wondering why he was sitting there alone. What was wrong with everyone else, that he was there alone? Peter thought that they should all be afraid of him. It was the weak ones, the ones who were sad and not very smart who were the most dangerous, the most likely to attack. “When did you first speak to Sebastian McCann after the murder?” Peter tried to think, but he couldn’t remember. Was it the night of the murder, or the next morning? “I’m not really sure. Maybe in the middle of the night? Susan, can you remember?” Mulligan raised his pencil. “I’m asking you, not her. Did you call him?” “No, I…” Peter felt a frisson of fear in his stomach. “He was up the Yukon at his fishing camp.” “Did he know about your little boyfriend when he called?”

Little boyfriend? Peter stood up. “Susan, are you taping this interview?” “That’s standard procedure,” Susan said, agreeably.

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“Whoa, whoa.” Mulligan held a meaty hand toward Peter, palm out. “Next you’ll be calling a lawyer and then I’ll know something’s really fishy here.” “We have an attorney as a guest here, Officer. Maybe it would be a prudent idea to ask him to sit in. I’m feeling uncomfortable with the nature and tone of your questions.” Officer Mulligan sat back, grinning under that little mustache. “The nature and tone of my questions? Now, what do you mean, exactly?” “No need to answer. Peter, I think it’s my turn.” Sebastian had pushed through the door with Mike, and they both sat down at the table. Mike was wearing a pale blue buttondown oxford with a British school tie, very lawyerly. Mike put on his reading glasses and opened a legal pad, then looked carefully around the table. “Do I have your credentials, Officer? Are we ready?” He pulled out a small tape recorder, set it on the table so it pointed toward Mulligan. “Anytime, Officer Mulligan, is it? Naturally we just want to help law enforcement solve this terrible crime.”

***** Peter retreated to the kitchen, to the comfort of his stove and refrigerator and beautiful clean countertops and copper bowls. He had his favorite copper bowl tucked under his arm when Sebastian came into the kitchen and stopped short. “What’s the matter, Peter?” “Nothing, why?” “Are we having meringue?” “I can make some if you would like, Sebastian,” Peter said, pulling open the refrigerator door. “We’ve got enough eggs. I didn’t know you liked meringues.” He grabbed a couple of cartons, but Sebastian took them out of his hands, put them back in the fridge and closed the door. He tugged the copper bowl out of Peter’s hands, then pulled him into his big chest.

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“Settle down, Peter. I was making a joke. A food joke, you know? Meringues? The copper bowl?” Peter stared at him, his mind a blank. “What? A food joke?” Sebastian leaned over and kissed him, his mouth as warm and meltingly sweet as…meringue. “My poor hunny-bunny. You’re having a bad time.” Sebastian stroked his head, gave him a little cuddle and scratch behind the ears, and Peter felt so grateful for the attention he wanted to jump up and lick his face, just like one of the dogs, but he couldn’t, because the kitchen was rapidly filling up with men. “You asked Mike to help?” He kept his voice pitched low. “Of course I did. You should have, too.” Jesse and Phillip piled through the door, and Casper was right behind them. “You’ve been raided by the cops!” They both had their laptops. “Can we plug in and work in here, Peter?” “Of course.” “The Gestapo, man.” Phillip shivered. “He looks like he could be taking names and rounding us up for the camps!” “Phillip, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” Phillip and Jesse both shook their heads. “They sent gays to the camps once before, Peter. It could happen again. That cop, he’s got those cold eyes.” “He’s got intolerant written all over his face, Peter.” “Jesse, Phillip, I’m so sorry this has happened during your stay here. It’s the last thing I…” Peter heard his voice break, and he turned away. Casper wandered over to the stove. “Something smells good. We having Italian?” “I’ve got lasagna,” Peter said. “We have a really delicious Italian sausage lasagna, and a low fat veggie lasagna for our two healthy lads here.” He nodded toward Jesse and Phillip. “The veggies came from our own greenhouses -- delicious roasted eggplant and peppers.”

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“I want the sausage,” Sebastian said. “I’ll eat a salad if that will make you happy, and maybe one piece of the eggplant. But don’t push it. How many eggplant seedlings have you got out in the greenhouse? It looks like they’re ready to take over the planet.” Casper peeked into the oven. “Yeah, sausage for me, too. And salad sounds good.” He slapped a hand against his rock-hard Marine Corps belly. “You’re feeding me too good, Peter.” “You think Mike will be hungry enough to eat? I’m going to just have a bite of each myself. I really overdid it at tea.” “Yes, thank you. I’ll just have a bite as well, Peter.” Mike pushed open the kitchen door and joined them, his cheeks flushed with color and his hair windblown. Lawyering must make him happy. He looked better than he had all week. “Are you busy?” “No, of course not, Mike. Would you like something to drink? Maybe some tea?” Mike nodded. “I’m feeling rather thirsty myself. Chamomile? Something soothing. I think we could all use some soothing tea.” “Tea or bourbon,” Casper agreed. “But I’ll settle for a beer.” “Any other takers? Who wants tea?” Casper grabbed a beer from the fridge, leaned back against the pantry door, tilted the bottle up to his mouth. Mike strolled over to him, hands in his pockets, drawn as irresistibly as if Casper had him on a fishing line and was reeling him in. Jesse and Phillip wired up and plugged in, settled at the kitchen table. Sebastian pulled some carrots and green onions out of the crisper. “Peter, I’ll start on the salad. Can you get Nelson to bring in some fresh lettuce? We got any cherry tomatoes ready to eat?” “Maybe in the greenhouse,” Peter said. He picked up the phone and punched two, the line out to the garden shed. All the telephones had intercoms built in, so they could talk to each other. Nelson picked up with a grunt. “Yeah?”

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“Nelson, can you bring in a couple of heads of butter lettuce, some of that mesclun, a pint or so of cherry tomatoes from the greenhouse? What else, some parsley. I think there’re some scallions or green onions. Maybe some of that Italian basil.” Peter tapped his forehead, eyes closed. He couldn’t think right. He was so tired, and his mind felt like it was filled with fuzz. Oh, Jacob. It fell over him suddenly, the sorrow. Jacob’s happy young face filled his mind, his hands moving over the cello, the sounds of the music in his mind, and Peter felt such heartache, such pure golden sorrow, that he thought the crack of his heart breaking in his chest could be heard by everyone in the room. He opened his eyes and hung up the phone, and Sebastian crossed the room and pulled him into his arms.

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Chapter Seven

He stayed there, eyes closed, resting his forehead against Sebastian’s chest, until Susan came into the room, leaned back as if barring the kitchen door. “I never thought I’d say this, but that man is more annoying than the twins. Do I smell garlic? Maybe you can drug him with Italian food, Peter. Just keep feeding him until he gives up and goes away.” She crossed the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door. “You have any ginger ale? My stomach’s kind of upset.” Nelson came in the back door with the basket of salad fixings, the herbs in a couple of little bundles on top of the lettuce. The little garden shears were sticking out of the basket, a beautiful split oak basket with a wide, curved handle. Peter always thought of it as the Little Red Riding Hood basket. He’d paid a fortune for it at a craft fair years earlier. Susan looked up from the refrigerator and narrowed her eyes. “Nelson. Don’t even think about moving. I’ve been trying for days to get your fingerprints! Why didn’t you come in? I know you got the messages.” Nelson held very still, staring at Susan, then he reached for her, jerked her head back by the hair, grabbed the garden shears as he dropped the basket on the kitchen floor. Peter

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watched the tiny jewel red cherry tomatoes bounce in slow motion across the floor as Nelson pressed the sharp point of the scissors into Susan’s throat. Jesse gasped, and Peter saw Phillip reach over and take his hand, squeeze it. No one else moved. Nelson’s hands were grimy, nails dirty and ragged. Peter stared at those hands, pressing in so brutally against Susan’s smooth, clean throat. Nelson looked just the same as he always did, acne-scarred face, muddy brown eyes, but those eyes were wheeling in his head like a panicked horse’s and he was squeezing Susan’s neck with those filthy hands. “Nelson, what are you doing? Let her go! That’s Susan.” Peter sounded like he was talking down a wind tunnel, his voice echoing in his ears. “Back the fuck away,” Nelson said, looking at Sebastian. Sebastian was crouching, ready to spring. Peter met Susan’s eyes. She was breathing fast, her face shading to red, and Nelson was squeezing her throat, tighter and tighter. She looked straight at Peter, then dropped her eyes to his belt, and he felt the weight of the EMS radio. Peter put both hands on his hips, casually dropped his fingers until he could reach for the emergency call button on the top of the radio. Mulligan jerked open the kitchen door. “Where did everybody… Holy shit!” He stopped, reached for his gun. Nelson snarled and jerked the tip of the scissors into Susan’s throat. She closed her eyes, her breathing sharp and jerky, and a trickle of bright blood slid down her pale skin. “Bring the gun over here, cop. Don’t be stupid.” Mulligan lifted the gun, passed it over with two fingers, the way they did it in the movies. “Okay, now, everybody just stay calm here, we all need to just stay calm…” Nelson kept the scissors pressed into Susan’s throat, reached for the gun. “Get on your knees,” he said, gesturing, and Mulligan awkwardly groaned and creaked until he was down on his knees. His face was the color of a bowl of oatmeal.

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Nelson was looking wildly around the room, and his gaze fell on Mike. The point of the scissors was gouging her skin. His voice pitched high, skittering with nerves, and Peter could see that he was close to losing it. “That kid, he told you, didn’t he? He told you he saw me? I saw him talking to you. He knew who I was. I could tell by the way he looked at me at the airport…” Mike’s face was colorless down to his lips, except for the purple bruise on his forehead, and Peter was afraid he was going to pass out. “Nobody saw anything! I don’t even know what you’re talking about! Did you kill Jacob, you cowardly son of a bitch? Did you? Why? What did…” Nelson raised the gun, his hand shaking, thumbed the safety off and cocked the trigger. He fired, the sound like a bomb in the small space, but he didn’t hit Mike, because Casper stepped in front of him, and took the bullet in his shoulder. Susan jerked away from the sound of the gun going off in her ear, started to fall, and Nelson grabbed her by the hair again, the gun swinging around. Peter froze, his throat closing. Nelson had the smoking pistol shoved up hard against Sebastian’s heart. Jesse had shrieked at the gunshot, then he and Phillip piled out of their chairs and rushed to Casper. Mike was already leaning over him, ignoring Mulligan’s whispered instruction for everyone to stop moving, hold still. Casper was groaning, the blood rapidly soaking the front of his shirt. “Dishtowels,” Phillip said. “Jesse, hold pressure on the wound! Don’t worry, Casper, we know CPR!” Nelson backed out the door, the gun leveled, dragging Susan with him. “Get back, fucker.” He was talking to Sebastian, who was still crouched, snarling, ready to spring. Peter keyed the police radio. “Emergency Responders, Emergency Responders, gunshot victim at the Heartbreak. I need an ambulance. Hostage situation, perpetrator has a gun. Repeat, hostage situation.” His voice cracked. “He has taken a hostage. We have a gunshot

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victim.” What else was he supposed to say? Peter couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember the codes. Code twenty? Sixty? One of them was for an officer down. Who gives a fuck? “Just get over here! I need some help! He took Susan!” Sebastian had scrambled out the door after Nelson. Peter tried to shove the emergency radio into Mulligan’s hands. He was climbing up from his knees. “Just leave it! I’ve got my own radio!” “Fine.” Peter turned and gave the radio to Phillip. It was already squawking with the tinny voices of people coming to help. “Be careful, Peter.” Casper could hardly speak, grinding his teeth against the pain. Peter turned and ran. Nelson was walking backward across the garden, but Susan was fighting him. Sebastian was a couple of feet behind them. Nelson was screaming, his head swiveling back and forth between Susan and Sebastian. He must have known by then that he wasn’t going anywhere, not with both of them fighting him. He threw the scissors away, brought the gun around and pressed it against Susan’s head. She dropped like a stone to the ground just as he fired. Sebastian leapt on him, strong hands finding his throat. Sebastian had a knee pressed down hard in Nelson’s chest. He’d fallen against one of the raised garden beds, and Sebastian lifted his head by the throat, shoved him back down with his neck against one of the railroad ties lining the beds, and Peter thought later that he could hear the sharp crack of the bones in Nelson’s neck breaking. The gun fell out of Nelson’s hand and Peter kicked it away. Susan was face down on the ground, blood soaking her dark hair. Peter raised his head and yelled. “Jesse! Phillip!” Jesse stuck his head out the door. “I need a dishtowel, hurry!”

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He rolled Susan to her back. She was still breathing. The bullet had made a nasty gouge across the top of her skull, but Peter couldn’t tell if it had gone into her brain. “She’s still breathing.” But Nelson wasn’t. Sebastian’s hard, strong hands were still around his throat, squeezing. Nelson’s face had shaded dusky purple, tongue protruding from his mouth. Peter looked up at Sebastian. “I think that job’s done,” he said. “Sebastian! Sebastian, it’s done.” Sebastian stared at him, sweat pouring down his face, his mouth twisted in a snarl. He looked down at Nelson, then he pushed the body away in revulsion, stood up, scrubbing the palms of his hands up and down his thighs. “She’s still breathing,” Peter said again, pressing the dishtowel against Susan’s head. “I’m sure she’s okay. She’s gonna be fine. Everybody’s gonna be fine.” Jesse knelt next to him, gulping and crying quietly, and Susan opened her eyes. Peter smiled down at her. “Hi, beautiful.” Sebastian nodded. “She always had the hardest head, always.” Then he turned around and walked away into the woods.

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Chapter Eight

Susan pushed open the kitchen door. “Peter?” “Come on in. I hope you’re hungry, Susan. I’ve got lunch almost ready.” “I don’t want anything sweet, Peter. Those lovebirds at the reception desk are about all the sugar I can take.” Peter laughed. The sudden, passionate love between Travis and the young, very pregnant Charlie had taken everyone by surprise. Peter hoped… Well, he just hoped. Travis had taken Nelson’s place as maintenance foreman for the hotel, and Charlie had scrubbed down the tiny cottage that went with the job with bleach and hot water and lots of sunshine. The curtains she made for the kitchen window were decorated with bright, cheerful clusters of cherries, and she had carefully sewn the hems by hand. Peter had high hopes. “Where is he?” “Out in the new studio.” Sebastian had been building his pottery studio with a view of Icy Straits. “Have you seen Jacob’s pot?” She shook her head, and Peter led her into the living room. The pot was on the mantle, a tall, elegant shape, almost like a Grecian urn, with a wide curve and a narrow neck, and a matte blue-green glaze the color of the Pacific Ocean. The color of Peter’s eyes. Around the

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neck of the pot Sebastian had tied some small, carved pieces of ivory, very old. Susan lifted the first one and looked at it. The carving showed a whale on a beach and a Native man standing over it, holding a spear. The next one showed some tiny carved seals, no bigger than grains of rice. “Wow, Peter. Where did he find these? And why did he put them on Jacob’s pot?” “He’s convinced Jacob had Athabascan blood, had come here to find his heritage.” Susan raised her eyebrows. “Really? I thought Jacob was Jewish.” “You can’t tell Sebastian anything!” Peter lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “It makes him happy. He wants Jacob to be his little brother. I’m staying out of it. It’s between the two of them.” Susan gave him a strange look. “Okay, I don’t get it, but okay.” They went back into the kitchen and Susan sat down at the kitchen table. Peter watched her carefully. The new, short haircut suited her face, but the trough where the bullet had plowed through the top of her skull two weeks before was still scabbed and healing. He thought she looked too pale, her face thin. “You have another headache? Have you been taking your medicine?” She waved this away. “Don’t fuss, Peter. But I’ll take a cup of tea.” She was pulling a bottle of Excedrin out of her pocket. “I’ve got some news. Double news, really.” “How does jasmine sound? Or I have some Constant Comment.” “Jasmine, thanks. I went into Juneau, to the hospital to see Casper, and Mike was still there! He was sitting next to Casper’s bed, going through some papers, very lawyerly with his reading glasses and tie. They were listening to an audiobook, that new one from Charles Frazier. I don’t know, Peter. It was nice, very cozy and comfortable. Like they were comfortable together. Casper said he was better, that if physical therapy approved, he might be getting out of the hospital soon. I got the feeling they were talking about going home together. And they’re both coming for the potlatch. Jesse and Phillip, too, right?”

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“They sure are, cameras at the ready. Those papers weren’t subpoenas, were they? They didn’t have my name on them?” “I don’t know why you don’t like Mike. He reminds me of you a little bit, the way he talks. He’s just shaky, Peter. His breakup, it must have been rough.” Peter goggled at her, prepared to explain exactly the many ways he and Mike were totally different, but she ignored him and popped a couple of Excedrin, washed them down with the tea. “So what else is exciting in the world of law enforcement?” “That pilot…” Susan tapped the edge of the table with her pen. “Those guys are up to something. I don’t know what, yet, but whatever they’re doing, it’s illegal and I’m going to catch them. They picked the wrong island.” She reached for the cup again, a pretty golden brown pottery mug from Sebastian’s workshop, and wrapped her hands around the warm clay. “Never mind. But I bet you dollars to doughnuts those guys are smuggling. Something, I don’t know what.” She smiled, her eyes very chilly and dark. “Okay, I’ll tell you. Furs. That’s what I think. Endangered species furs, and there’s Russia just a hop, skip, and a jump away. Seals, polar bears…” She pulled a photograph out of her pocket and handed it to him. “I got this from that woman down in Monterey. It’s a picture Jacob had on his volunteer desk at the rape crisis center.” Peter studied the little photograph, a very young, smiling Jacob with his arm around the shoulder of a slender, fragile-looking girl with dark hair. Miriam. Susan took a sip of tea, closed her eyes wearily. “Listen. She sent me the mug shots too, Peter, from when Nelson was arrested. Monterey sent them along with the photo of Jacob and Miriam. I didn’t recognize him. I mean, I could see that it was him, but I had to look for it. I wouldn’t have known him with just a casual glance. I don’t know if Jacob recognized him, but Nelson must have thought he did, or would have. I think Jacob called him on the phone from upstairs to make sure he had a ride out to the airport, and Nelson got him to come down to the kitchen on some pretext, then just pulled him outside. Nelson probably had been freaking out for

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days, getting more and more paranoid. He meant to get rid of him, and to tell you that Jacob left while you were gone, but Travis came out to check on their voices too quickly. Nelson had a chance, like everyone does, Peter. And he used his life to hurt people.” “I wouldn’t have believed that Jacob left unless Nelson remembered the cello. If I had come home, and the cello was still in my bedroom, then I would have known something had happened. Maybe that’s what he was looking for when he went through Jacob’s bedroom the next night. The cello, not the journal.” “Well, if there was a journal, he must have destroyed it or something. We never found a trace.” “Susan, can I have this picture of Jacob and Miriam? For the potlatch? We can make the potlatch for both of them.” “Yeah, that’s why I brought it. Everybody is really excited down at Tiny’s. He’s got a huge pot of moose stew on the stove, and I must have seen twenty salmon sitting on ice. I think he’s gonna put them on the grill outdoors. This is the first time we’ve had a combination potlatch and Elvis contest! Oh, the people from the Women’s Crisis Center in Juneau called me, too. They said you can decide how you want to use the money we raise. Like, you can donate money in Jacob’s name to fund scholarships, or treatment programs, send it to their general fund for emergencies, or we can keep the money here, use it for local programs.” Peter shook his head. “Susan, I don’t know. What do you think? Maybe we should call Monterey? See what they recommend?” “I think an alcohol and drug education program, Peter. For the elementary school.” “Really? The kids need something that early?” “Yes, absolutely. I know it’s not anything flashy, Peter. I mean, you can’t put a brass plaque up with his name on it for something like this, but it’s a quiet sort of gift, like a stone thrown into a pond, and the ripples may go on forever. Ripples from Jacob’s life, and his

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death here with us, reaching out to how many people. Who knows?” She shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but Peter could see on her face how much this meant to her. “Maybe with this program, we could change… Peter, we could change everything.”

***** Peter didn’t know how to bring up the lost fishing shack to Sebastian. Cabin, not shack, he reminded himself. Don’t call it a shack. Sebastian turned him into the shower spray with soapy, slick hands. “Peter, stay with me. Stay in the moment. You’re thinking too much again. I think you’re developing that adult ADD.” Stay in the moment, okay. The moment was wrapping his brawny arms around Peter’s chest, pulling him back against a gorgeous body slick and dripping with sandalwood soap bubbles. Peter’s head was spinning. “Sebastian, listen. I’ve been thinking. If you want, why don’t we take some time, go up the Yukon this summer. See about rebuilding the fishing shack.” He closed his eyes. “Cabin, I mean. Your cabin.” Sebastian looked down at him, his dark face sardonic. “My fishing shack.” He shook his head, and when Peter started to speak, he reached up and put his fingers over Peter’s mouth. “Hush, baby. Just let it go, Peter. You concentrate on learning to let things go. I’m gonna concentrate on staying. You and me? We’ll try from here. From here with the warm towels and the heated towel racks.” Peter laughed. “Okay, Sebastian. But if you start getting…you know, the way you get, just let me go with you, okay? Take me with you, if you need to go. I’m not prepared to lose you.” Sebastian stepped out of the shower, put a warm towel over Peter’s head, then pulled another off the rack and rubbed it across his back.

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When he was dry he wrapped the towel around his waist. “Peter, listen to this.” He was putting a CD in the player, and Eric Clapton’s heartbreaking guitar filled the bedroom. Sebastian pulled him into his arms. “This is it, right? This is the music he played?” “‘River of Tears,’ yeah.” Peter closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around Sebastian’s waist. He was still warm from the shower, and the music washed over him, tragic, and just for a moment it felt like he and Sebastian were holding Jacob’s slender young body between them. Sebastian’s hands were tender on his back. “Thanks, Sebastian.” Sebastian was looking over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Peter…” Jacob’s cello was sitting quietly in the corner, where it had been all along. Sebastian moved over to it, opened the case. When he lifted the cello out, a small brown leather journal was tucked inside. Peter caught his breath. “I can’t believe it! Why didn’t I realize… Of course he would have put it in his cello case.” Sebastian reached for the journal, opened it to the last page with writing. The entry was dated the day he was killed, but it didn’t tell them anything about his killer.

That Peter -- !! Wowzer!! I think I’m in love. Sebastian closed the book and put it into Peter’s hands.

Ten Strange but True Facts about Sarah Black 1.

Sarah likes to drive around on empty, red-dirt roads on the Navajo reservation in a beat-up blue Ford Ranger. Unfortunately, she still doesn’t know how to change a tire.

2.

Every Christmas, Sarah tries to make her grandmother’s fudge recipe, the one on the back of the Hershey’s cocoa box. So far no luck.

3.

Sarah has a secret addiction to reading books from Mother Earth News about building your own house. Right now she is reading about Cordwood.

4.

Sarah will use any excuse to buy cashmere sweaters from Land’s End. She has even been known to do it without an excuse.

5.

When she was young, Sarah wanted to marry Barnabas Collins, the vampire from Dark Shadows.

6.

Life goal: To visit all of America’s National Parks.

7.

Sarah has lived in: California, Connecticut, New Hampshire, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Florida, Mississippi, Texas, Arizona, and Alaska. Also Italy.

8.

First pet: Janet, a red-eared turtle the size of a quarter. During a hurricane evacuation in 1968, Sarah’s father carried Janet in his pocket wrapped in a washcloth, inside a plastic bag.

9.

Sarah has a secret crush on Brett Favre, and will watch the Packers any Sunday to look at his shoulders.

10.

When she can’t sleep, Sarah gets up and reads a random selection from the Oxford English Dictionary.