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David, and another call to David’s cell late in the afternoon yielded nothing.
    He didn’t bother leaving a message.
    The two-toned Chevy was still in the driveway. Where the hell was his husband?
    Chris took a shower in the master bath he and David had only fi nished renovating back in the summer. He came out toweling his short hair into spikes.
    Sweeney twined around his ankles, angling for food, so Chris followed him downstairs and fed him and the dog.
    The phone rang.
    It was Des, Chris’s best friend since college days. “Hey, stranger, you fall off the planet?”
    “Hi, Des. It hasn’t been that long, has it?”
    “You don’t even know, do you?”
    Chris sniffed. Des was always such a drama queen. “I don’t L.A. BYTES 35
    keep a calendar.”
    “You should. If you did, you’d know it’s been positively ages.
    Two weeks at least, maybe even three.”
    “I’ve just been a teensy bit busy.”
    Des laughed. “Oh, and the rest of us aren’t?”
    Chris popped the fridge door open and surveyed the interior.
    What could he do for supper? Should he bother preparing anything—how likely was David to be home? He’d picked up a pork loin to stuff, but why make the effort just for himself?
    “So aside from that, just how is everything?” Chris asked, eying a bowl of fettuccine and pesto and trying to remember when he had made it. As usual he had forgotten to label it.
    “I’d like you and David to come for supper Wednesday night.
    I’ve got a little party set up for my birthday. You did tell him, I hope.” Des’s voice rose a notch. “I’ve got a surprise for both of you. Ohhh, you’ll be so thrilled.”
    “I’ll have to check with David,” Chris said warily. Des’s surprise could mean anything from fi nding a new designer to showcase in his upscale men’s boutique in Beverly Hills, to his latest tuck. “But yes, I told him about it being your birthday.”
    “Tell him he absolutely must come. No squirming out of it for anything; not work, nothing. I’ve found the most fabulous sushi chef. He does amazing things with ahi and ono. You’ll just die.”
    Chris perked up. He loved ahi. “I’ll let you know. Let me talk to David.” His second line beeped. “Gotta go. Talk later.”
    Wandering into the living room he dropped onto the white leather sofa facing the bay window overlooking the reservoir at the bottom of the hill. A trace of mist clung to the hillside as it trailed down onto the glassy surface of the lake, giving the area its name. The lake looked like it was steaming.
    “Christopher Bellamere? This is Troy Garcia of the Los Angeles Special —”
    Chris slammed the phone down with a strangled curse.

    36 P.A. Brown
    Garcia was the kind of sleaze-ball journalist who made Roz look respectable. Neither Chris nor David had forgiven him for running the sleazy images of David’s former homicide partner, Jairo Hernandez, when Jairo, who had tried very hard to seduce David and take him away from Chris, had been shot and killed in a botched hostage taking crisis. That whole fi asco had nearly derailed their relationship, but ultimately led to David proposing to him and their subsequent marriage. When the phone started ringing again he let it go to voicemail. Climbing to his feet he entered his home offi ce tucked in the back of the house. There he turned off the phone and sat down in front of his workstation.
    Logging in, he opened his email program and watched the usual fl urry of messages come in. He discarded the spam and moved several business-related emails into their respective folders, then skimmed the others. Just as he was about to close his mail program, a new email popped into his inbox. The subject line read “Warning for Chris” and the handle in the From column was Sandman422—no one he knew.
    There were no potentially dangerous attachments. He opened it.
    It contained one line.
    MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS OR ELSE
    A second look at the email handle showed it was a Freemail