Geography of Murder (2 page)

"Bend over. Head between your knees. Take deep breaths."

I did as he ordered and the dizziness and nausea faded. I took a final deep breath and straightened, refusing to meet his gaze, sure I'd see contempt there. Or worse, pity.

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"Come on," he said gruffly. "We'll talk down at the station."

"Let me get dressed, at least—" I looked around for the rest of my clothes. I couldn't have come here like this, could I have? It had been cool last night. Where was my shit?

They both ignored me.

I protested the whole time they dragged me through the cockpit, out onto the carpeted deck and the stern loading platform. I squeaked with every step I took. The sound was loud in the enclosed boat. It didn't get much better when we stepped out on the deck. The rising sun was a curdled lozenge of yellow light over the mountains. A nearby forest of masts rose through the early morning fog. It must have been around seven. Around us, the sounds of an awakening dock were muffled by the dense air. Boat engines rumbled and turned over, voices shouted orders. Metal squeaked and booted feet slapped the wooden pier. A pair of pale-blue costumed figures carrying cases threaded through the clutter on the docks,. They passed us then disappeared into the belly of the ship. They looked like space aliens.

Tendrils of fog curled around my bare feet. A large, white-headed glaucous-wing gull hovered off the port bow then drifted toward shore. Its familiar kak-kak-kak followed us as Spider pulled me off a boat I now recognized:
Cutting Edge
, the Catalina 50, largest yacht in Phil's fleet. We moved so fast I kicked and tripped over gear and flotsam left out on the dock. They showed no regard for my rapidly bruising bare feet. I was stuffed into a black and white cruiser under the curious eyes of the entire population of Santa Barbara. I saw 16

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Phil Collins, Channel Charter's owner. My boss. My former boss, by now.

With my hands cuffed behind me, I had to lean forward on the already uncomfortable seat, which smelled vaguely of piss and vomit. The strain on my shoulders increased with each pothole and manhole we hit. Ten minutes of silence and growing fear later, we pulled up in front of a white stucco two-story building. I was dismayed to see a Channel 3 news truck and a cluster of people with cameras and microphones.

How'd they get here so fast? The uniformed driver in front of me swore, then Spider was beside my door. He pulled me out into the glare of lights and shouting voices.

"Is it true you were found with the body of George Blunt?"

someone shouted.

I stared at the woman who had thrown out the question.

George Blunt? Who was George Blunt? Was I supposed to know the name?

I'd never been to the Santa Barbara police station. Lucky me. Spider led me past a front desk manned by a big-bellied desk sergeant, and through a warren of offices and cubicles.

Posters and public service announcements covered the walls.

A cacophony of ringing phones and voices filled the crowded room. A cool wash of air blew in whenever the main doors swung open. I was shivering by the time Spider led me into a tiny closed-in room. A woman in a white smock came in after us and used swabs to collect blood from my stomach and hands. When she produced a needle, I balked.

Spider shook his head. "I will compel you to give us blood for tox testing. You're under arrest. You can't refuse." Then 17

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he nodded at the white smocked woman who deftly withdrew a vial of blood and slapped a band-aid over the puncture mark. I glared at Spider. After she was gone Spider pointed at a chair on the other side of a small metal table. I sat, the back of the chair cool on my spine. My latex leggings clung to my thighs but provided no warmth. I felt naked—hell, I damn near was naked. My shriveled dick pressed up against the latex. It was obvious I had no underwear on.

At least the cop came around and took the cuffs off. I leaned over the table, rubbed my wrists and tried to look tough. He took the seat opposite me.

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He sat across from me looking shell-shocked and
glassy-eyed. I might have sympathized, if I hadn't seen
the mess he left behind him on board the
Cutting Edge
.

I hadn't needed to see the media already camped out in
front of the station to know this was going to be a
publicity nightmare. I'd known that the minute I ID'ed
the butchered corpse. The only unknown here was the
mutt who had killed Mr. George Blunt, but I intended to
remedy that right now.

Before anything else I read him his rights again, and this time I got him to sign the card. No way I wanted him to weasel out of a confession by claiming he didn't understand, or I missed something. Jail house lawyers, every one of them.

While he shivered and stared wild-eyed around the interrogation room I studied him. He was jumpy and though his eyes looked dazed, they weren't red or dilated. He kept rubbing his nose and sniffing, so I knew he'd done something recently. He chewed the inside of his mouth, licking his lips like they were dry. He looked like he had all his teeth and he smelled good, something subtle and butch, not fruity. If he was a tweaker, he was an unusually clean, healthy one.

The guy was a user; how heavy I couldn't tell yet.

There was a soft tap at the door and when I cracked it open, Nancy passed me a sheaf of papers, and Jason Aaron Zachary's jacket. I sat back down without looking at him and flipped through the paperwork.

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Possession. Couldn't prove intent to sell. Six months in the county lockup, then he got kicked out—read overcrowded jails needed room for more serious offenders. One count of grand theft that had been reduced when he pled out, claiming it had been a mistake, that the guy who owned the car—a notorious local dealer called Trip—had lent it to him and the ADA didn't think they could prove beyond a reasonable doubt. Picked up for soliciting once on the stroll outside the Vault. My ears perked up at that. It would explain the gear. Nothing to suggest violence though. If experience taught me anything he was more of a sub than a Dom. Not the violent type.

Finally I looked across the table at him and studied him openly. I thought how ridiculous he looked. He had on a pair of skin-tight shiny black pants that made the most annoying noise whenever he moved, and nothing else. His bare chest and hands were covered in blood and goose bumps, his golden skin looking gray in the harsh overhead lights. His nipples were brown knots, and I couldn't help it. I stared at the small gold rings attached to the base of each nub. He bore a tattoo on his left pectoral. It was a brilliant russet and yellow
thing
I could only guess was a bird. In fascination I stared at the colors on the wings and whatever that was over its back, watching them move as he breathed and moved restlessly in the metal chair. He had another tattoo on his neck, one of those incomprehensible Chinese symbols.

Despite the signs of trauma, his skin looked like golden silk poured over a hard mold.

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I tapped my pen on the notepad I'd opened in front of me, annoyed at the dangerous thoughts in my head. "Name," I said.

"W-what?"

"Your name."

"I already told you—"

I didn't speak. Finally he sighed and rubbed his lips. His eyes were almost golden brown. I'd never seen eyes that color before. "Jason." His voice sounded hoarse, tinged with exhaustion. "Jason Aaron Zachary."

"Date of birth?"

He stared at the papers in front of me. He'd been in the system before. He knew what it was. He rattled off a month and year that made him barely twenty-two.

I compared what he said to what I had in his jacket.

Twenty-two. Eight years younger than I was. A kid. A kid who had just slaughtered a seemingly harmless old man. Except I knew there was nothing harmless about George Blunt. He'd been an unrepentant pedophile known to the SBPD but never sentenced to a day. We'd been trying to nail him for years, but he'd always evaded conviction and no one would talk about what they knew. A lot of local lawyers lived well on our efforts. So, had Mr. Zachary done the city of Santa Barbara a favor? Pity his luck at being caught red-handed, so to speak, if he had. When the guy should have been getting a medal he might be getting the needle instead. Tough break.

"So, why'd you do it?" I asked softly. Sometimes you could lull them into giving up more than they meant to if you were gentle with them. They didn't get very much of it outside. "He 21

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mess with you? George was a mean sonofabitch at the best of times."

"He was? I mean no, he didn't mess with me. He didn't even know me."

"So how'd he end up on that boat, in bed with you?" I leaned forward. "Want to explain that? I'll cut you a deal if you're square with me."

He rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had chafed. I watched the play of light on the dark hairs on his bare arms. His chest was hairless, whether by design or biology I couldn't tell. A thin line of dark hair started on his lower belly and snaked down under the waistband of his neoprene pants. If he was mine I'd shave it all off. I like them clean from top to delicious bottom. He was a sexy thing, no doubt about it. But he most definitely was not George's type, who liked them way younger, and female. I was mystified.

"He fuck with someone you knew? Go after your little sister, maybe?"

"I don't have a little sister. And I didn't know the guy."

"You knew who he was though," I said. "I saw you react when you heard his name. You knew George Blunt, didn't you?"

"I knew
of
him. Who didn't?" He sniffed and wiped his nose, trying to glare at me. Tough guy. I bet he was a pussy in restraints. Funny, I don't remember ever seeing him down at the Vault. I'm sure I wouldn't have missed him.

"Tell me about today."

"Nothing to tell. You woke me up, I was there." He closed his golden eyes. "He was dead."

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"Last night then. What time did you two get to the boat?"

"Us two didn't get anywhere. I never met the guy. You not hearing me?"

"I hear you just fine. You meet him at the Vault?"

"How do you know about the Vault?"

"It's my job to know where the lowlifes hang out in this city. So you did meet him there. What time?" I'd been in the place at ten, and he hadn't been there. Neither had George.

Rafe had been and we hadn't stayed long enough to do more than decide to go back to his place for some Dom fun. "You go right from there to the boat?"

"No," he snapped, but something passed over his face.

Liar
. I smiled at him and he flinched when I leaned over table.

"Who were you with?"

"No one—"

"Who was it?" I roared.

He jumped. But this time he whispered, "I don't know who he was. I met him at the Vault."

"Describe him."

I could tell the kid was thinking hard. "Blond. Young. Hot."

"Name?"

"I don't remember."

"How'd you end up on the boat? Where did Blunt come from?"

"I don't remember! I never saw the guy before in my life."

He clenched his hands into fists. I scribbled some notes, watching him. I was getting to him. These punks gave it away when they got pissed. I waited for the explosion. The tell.

Then I'd swoop in and nail him. I was getting excited. I told 23

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myself it was the thrill of closing in on a collar. It wasn't because of this golden boy in front of me.

He took a deep breath and sat back on the chair I knew was uncomfortable. He grimaced when his bare back met the cold metal. But his eyes were clear of rage and guile. The guy played innocent very well. I knew better than to fall for it.

Nancy came in again. More papers. These were bogus. I wanted to sweat the guy, make him think the evidence was mounting up against him. "Autopsy report," she said. I glanced at it. It was indeed, it just wasn't George's. But these days everybody watched CSI and they thought autopsies were done the minute the body went back to the morgue, not days or weeks later like real life. Sometimes junk TV played well for us.

"I don't—"

"Know him. So you keep saying. But you can't explain how you ended up in bed with him or how he got dead. Doesn't make sense. Doesn't look good, does it?"

"I don't care how it looks. I didn't
do
anything." He was growing agitated again. I decided to sweat him some more.

He brightened. "If you got my DNA, you must have the other guy's too."

"Sorry," I glanced down at George's 'autopsy.' "We got your blood at the scene, semen and your prints everywhere.

No third party. If you can explain that to me I'll get you out of here." I spread my hands. "Otherwise I gotta process you and send you over to county for arraignment. You talk to me now, maybe we can get you home in time for dinner. If this other guy did it, I can spend my time looking for him." Another lie.

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We didn't have any sign anyone but Jason and Blunt were on that boat. Either way this mutt wasn't going anywhere. But he didn't need to know that just yet.

"I didn't fucking do anything."

"Fine." I pretended to give up and leaned back in my chair.

I scribbled another note on the legal pad in front of me.

Casually I said, "You willing to take a polygraph? Clear you up in no time."

"Poly—You mean a lie detector?" He looked suspicious.

"Those things are rigged."

"Not true." They weren't admissible in court, but I found them very useful for ferreting out the truth. I made to stand up. "You ready?"