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people clustered around,
several of them cops. Chris leaned forward when he recognized Detective Laine
standing apart from the uniformed cops, taking notes in his notebook.
    “A call from an unknown source tipped off police
to the body.”
    Laine looked straight into the camera. He was too
far away for Chris to read his expression.
    “No identity has been released at this time,” the
announcer stated. “Up next: Terror in a peaceful community.”
    “Nasty stuff, isn’t it?” Trevor dropped into the
depression where Chris had been sleeping earlier. He held up the bag. “Why
don’t you round up some glasses and a corkscrew? I’ll find something more
interesting to watch.”
    After pouring the Cabernet, Trevor flipped through
Chris’s DVD collection, pulling out one of the movies Bobby had given Chris.
Chris had almost forgotten them. Curious, he let Trevor put it on. The
startling blue of a clichéd kidney-shaped pool appeared on the screen as the
camera panned around.
    Chris wasn’t a big porno fan but he watched without
protest as a trio of guys—two hot blonds and dark, sexy Bobby—moved away from
the pool and climbed a set of marble steps to a pool house, where they got down
to what was apparently the heart of the movie. The production quality was poor,
but there was some amateurish spark between the three actors that made up for
the bad lighting and rough sound.
    “So that’s where he learned that,” Chris murmured.
    “What?” Trevor’s pale blue eyes were already
hooded in passion. “Something wrong?”
    “No, it’s just...I know that guy.”
    “Who?”
    “The dark-haired one.”
    “Yeah?” Trevor leaned forward. “Didn’t know you
were a porn groupie. He an item?”
    “No.”
    “You mean not now?”
    “I mean not ever.”
    “Too bad.” Trevor sipped his wine and flicked his
tongue out over his full lips. So, tell me all about your deliciously kinky sex
life...”
    “Hey!”
    Trevor grinned and turned back to the video. Still
woozy from the wine and drugs, Chris dozed off with his head on Trevor’s
shoulder.
    He awoke to find himself alone in his bed. Naked.
Blearily he saw the slip of paper taped to his dresser.
    “Too bad it didn’t work out. Guess next time we’ll
stay away from the wine. Sorry about your truck.” It was signed with a loopy T
and a cell-phone number.
    Chris wondered how far things had gone last night
after he passed out. He didn’t feel sore; they hadn’t fucked. He glanced at his
watch. It was barely six. Too early to call. Later. And he would stay away from
the booze and the pills. He had the feeling Trevor would be fun in bed. If they
ever managed to get there.
    In the bathroom he grabbed his shaving gear and
turned the shower on. His bedside phone rang. He ran out of the bathroom and
scooped it up. Maybe Trevor was calling for a rematch. Only silence met his
initial greeting.
    “Hello?”
    Nothing.
    Christ, he hated wrong numbers who wouldn’t admit
their mistake. “Who is this—” The phone went dead.
    He clicked recall but all he got was unknown name,
unknown number.
    “Asshole.”
    He dumped the phone back on his bedside table and
went in to take his shower.
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CHAPTER
7
    Sunday,
3:15 am, North Mission Road, East Los Angeles
    “PACK OF FUCKING jackals,”
Martinez snapped.
    The uniformed officer who had been called in to
help with crowd control threw him a wary look. “Sir?”
    “Just watch everybody, Schmidt,” David said to the
confused man. Personally he could never figure out where the crowds came from,
but no matter what time of day or what location, they always seemed to show up.
And they always managed to get in the way if you let them. “Keep them all clear
of the crime scene.”
    “Sneaky bastard is what your average reporter is,”
Martinez added, as though someone might have missed his point. “Don’t ever
trust ’em, Schmidt. Them or lawyers. If any of those assholes so much as pokes
a nose-hair over that