Roan rubbed his temples, closing his eyes as he thought. “No. What it does is explain why he hasn’t gone to the press about this. All he needs is someone to mention he knocked up one of the victims - a fact he conveniently never mentioned - and he’s under the police microscope. But come on, Par, you know Eli; he doesn’t do his own dirty work. He strikes me as the type of guy who’d faint if he got a paper cut.”

Paris sat near him on the sofa, turned to face him, one leg bent under him casually like he was on Oprah’s couch. “Yeah, but he has motive and people who will do anything for him. He’s a good suspect.”

“Yes, but he’d never have hired me if he was guilty. No matter what he thinks of me as a stinking faggot, he knows I’m good at my job. I doubt he’d give me the satisfaction of nailing him to the wall.”

“So why did he hire you?”

Roan leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling. It was a good question, but at least he thought he had an answer for it. “To clear his name before they can drag him through the mud; find a genuine suspect. Of course he doesn’t tell me this because he’s afraid I’d balk at helping him.”

Paris touched his hair, stroking it back from his temple, an almost unconscious affectionate gesture. Paris was a very touchy feely sort of guy, which Roan had had to get used to since he’d never really been. Now he almost liked it. “Ten thousand dollars wouldn’t be enough?”

“To save his ass from the fire? No.”

“As long as you’re not bitter.”

He gave him a sharp look, which just made Paris grin. Looking at him closely, though, he noticed a strain around his eyes, a tightness in his jaw. Was he still mad at him, or was it something else? “Got something on your mind?”

“Other than you being an asshole?” He replied, but with some humor. His grin faded as he sighed, considering whether to tell him or not, and ultimately decided to go ahead. “Actually, I got a weird phone call today.”

“Weird how?”

He propped his elbow up on the back of the sofa, resting his head on his hand, tilting his face at an angle best described as rakish. “Remember when I talked to that reporter about the Hatch case?”

“Yeah. Did he call back?”

“No. It just put my name in the article, and the article is apparently available online. My sister found it somehow, and she was able to use the online phone directory to find our number. She left me a message.”

“Oh?” He kept his tone casual, but he knew this was important. Paris had had no actual contact with his family since he was infected; he occasionally sent a postcard to let them know he was alive and okay, but never left a return address or told them where he was or what he was doing. They didn’t know of his infected status either, and Roan honestly had no idea why Paris kept his distance from them since he told him he got on well with his family. “Which sister?”

“Annie - Antigone. She wanted me to call her back.”

He stroked the left side of Paris’s jaw with his thumb, feeling rough but almost invisible stubble. Paris leaned into his touch. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I guess I don’t have a choice, do I? She knows where I am. And she’s pushy enough that if I don’t call back she’ll just show up on our doorstep one day.”

“So call her and let her know you’re all right. That’s probably all she wants to know.”

He scoffed. “You don’t know Annie. She’s a lawyer, and she’s pushy as hell. She’ll want to know why I’m here, why I’m working for you, and where I’ve been all these years. I’m not sure I want to tell her, and sadly, she knows when I’m lying. She’s immune to my charm.”

He wondered what the subtext was here. “Do they know you’re bisexual?”

Par licked his lips nervously and avoided his gaze. “I never exactly told them. If they asked around at college, they may have figured it out …”

“If it makes it easier, just forget me. Tell her we’re friends and leave it at that. I won’t be offended.” Yeah okay, so maybe this made him a hypocrite since he wasn’t crazy about people who decided to spend their entire lives in the closet, but he’d actually hoped Paris reconnected with his family before the tiger strain burned him out. Paris wouldn’t admit it, but Roan suspected that he missed his family, and if they had to lie about their relationship so he could be with them again, so be it. He was willing to take that hit for Par.

His eyes snapped back to his instantly. “What? No. I love you and I’m not ashamed of that. Besides, my family is a bunch of intellectual lefties; we had a cat named Che Guevara when I was a kid. I’m also pretty sure my Uncle Ben was gay, and no one cared.”

“You haven’t mentioned him.”

“Oh, he was a painter. He used to come to holiday gatherings with his “friend” Travis, who was a literary agent with a great love for Brook Brothers suits and Berlioz. They seemed like an odd pair since Ben was so free wheeling and Travis seemed so mainstream, and I couldn’t quite guess how they’d come to be such good friends or why. But in retrospect I can see it was just a case of opposites attracting.”

“Like us?”

Paris smiled at him. “Are we that opposite? I kinda think we’re a good fit.”

“And neither of us owns a Brooks Brothers suit.”

“A point in our favor.”

They were starting to digress from the point, though, and he could feel the low hum of attraction between them as Paris placed a hand flat against his chest. If they didn’t watch it, they’d be tearing each other’s clothes off within ten minutes, and while that was always a great deal of fun, he had to go meet Matt at Café D’Ante soon, and besides, he wanted to go out and see if he could go by Patrick Farley’s place beforehand, maybe run by Christa Hernandez’s place and see if he could talk to her Great Aunt. Maybe last night they could call an early end to the work shift, but there was no way he could justify it to himself two days in a row. Although part of him loved the idea of itemizing a bill for Eli and including notations for “Fucking”. “What are you afraid of?” He asked Paris, aware that this would probably short circuit this slow building, comfortable lust between them.

It did, quite rapidly. Paris let his hand drop away from his chest and broke eye contact, glancing at the stereo as if appealing to it for help. “You know what I’m afraid of, Ro.”

“Telling them you’re infected.” Par sighed heavily, which was an answer. “If they’re a bunch of intellectual lefties as you say they are, they’re not going to care.”

“I’ve disappointed them enough. I don’t want to disappoint them further. I mean, I know they’ll act cool about it, they’ll say they’ll support me, but I know it’ll break their hearts.” He grimaced and rubbed his face, and Roan suspected he was trying to hide the tears building up in his eyes. “I’ve done that enough. I’d rather just die suddenly and have them find out once I’m gone that I was infected. That way I wouldn’t have to pretend I didn’t notice how horrible I made them feel. That’s cowardly of me, isn’t it?”

“A bit.”

That made Paris look at him in surprise. Maybe he wasn’t expecting honesty. “Would fudging the truth have really killed you?”

“I have a reputation to uphold.”

Paris shook his head and rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’d be really pissed at you if I didn’t know you were right. No, wait, I’m pissed at you anyways.”

“I think I’ll take that as my cue to leave.” He slowly unfolded himself from the couch and stretched, some exhaustion from so much broken sleep making itself known in his tired limbs. If those forays late at night had proven anything to him, it was that he could make that disappear as soon as he started moving around.

Paris watched him with narrowed eyes, but if he was really angry at him, that vein on his neck would have stood out. He was more annoyed with him, which was bad enough. “Anything I can help with, or I am supposed to do some light filing and just sit here and look pretty?”

“I’d hope you’d call your sister. Really, I’m not doing anything thrilling, just seeing if people are home and willing to talk to me. I still have to make the connection between Eli and Cryer and Hernandez, which may be impossible.”

Paris’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Huh? I thought you said the Church wasn’t the connection between the four victims.”

“Right, the Church isn’t. But I have this feeling Eli is. He may be the cult leader, but he is separate from the Church. I bet the police didn’t even bother to break them apart.”

“Is this a gut feeling?”

“Kind of. But Eli goes out and has coffee; he goes out and eats.“ Ashley worked at a Starbucks, and Christa worked as a waitress at a trendy sushi restaurant called Kaisou, all within three miles of each other, and all within five miles of the Church. “They were his type, and I know for a fact that he’s been to Kaisou. He was fucking Melissa, and Patrick was a Church attender; if I can tie Eli at any point to Ashley and Christa -”

“You have the link between the victims,” Paris concluded, nodding at the logic of it all. “But, wait, doesn’t that make Eli a suspect again?”

“It could. Or it really could mean he is the next victim. Someone’s obliquely working their way down.”

“Oh shit. No wonder he was freaked out enough to hire you.”

“And yet he’s not freaked out enough to tell me the whole truth. Funny how that works.”

Paris suddenly smiled slyly, as if he’d just had a funny thought, and of course he felt compelled to share it. “A leopard doesn’t change his spots, Roan.”

“Oh god, that’s horrible. I’m calling the pun police on you.”

He raised his eyebrows suggestively, and lowered his voice to a seductive tone as he purred, “Shall I assume the position, Officer?”

Roan shook his head and snickered, waving to him as he walked to the foyer and grabbed his coat and hat off the hooks by the door. “Call your sister, man whore. I’d love to meet her sometime. I bet she has a ton of embarrassing stories about you as a kid.”

“Thank you for giving me another reason not to do it,” he replied cheerfully.

He actually hoped he did call, and he thought that, fears and sarcasm aside, Paris would eventually. If he cared for his family as much as he seemed to, he’d reach out to them, even if he did omit certain facts about his existence.

After all, life was short - and for some people, much shorter than seemed fair.

****

Christa’s Great Aunt lived in a quaint little clapboard house that could have been made of gingerbread and iced with lemon frosting, but no one was home save for one of those little yippie dogs that could only shake and pee, so after scaring it off to the other end of the house by growling at it through the door, he wrote a note asking her to please call him and arrange a good time for them to meet, as he wanted to talk to her about Christa. He left one of his business cards folded inside the note, and slipped it through the mail slot in the door.

He had a bit more luck at Patrick Farley’s apartment, as he encountered a neighbor who was willing to talk to him. His name was Juan, a young Hispanic man with long, shaggy black hair who smelled of cheap aftershave and cigarette smoke, who had Korn blasting on the stereo the whole time he was talking to him. He was the neighbor across from Patrick, and had talked with him several times, including lending him some quarters for the laundry room. He knew that Patrick went to the Church, but he didn’t know he was actually infected; he assumed he was a “wannabe”, although he didn’t look like one of those “Anne Rice lovin’ motherfuckers”. (Roan loved that description; he was going to have to use that sometime.) He was at work at the time of the shooting - Juan worked for a pest extermination service (which explained the aftershave; it wasn’t bad cologne but lingering traces of insecticide) - but he came home and found his body. He was digging out his apartment keys when he noticed Patrick’s door was slightly open, and he knew that wasn’t right, especially in a place like this. He knocked on the door and attempted to open it all the way, but something was blocking the door, and then he smelled “it” - presumably blood and shit, the pungent, awful smell of death. He saw blood on the floor and an outstretched hand, as well as a big mess that looked like “spilled lasagna” (presumably the remains of Patrick’s head). He called 911 and was careful not to touch anything else, because he figured a non-white guy finding a dead white guy might give the cops “ideas”.

He only knew Patrick in a casual sense, but he didn’t think he was a bad guy, and he hoped the cops find the pendejo who did this. He was actually shocked the cops hadn’t arrested anyone yet, as he figured they were extra speedy when the murder victim was an “all American white guy”, but maybe the fact that he was “one of them” (infected) made them drag their feet. Juan also said as far as he knew, no one disliked Patrick, he was pretty friendly and pretty quiet, and he couldn’t think of anything especially suspicious around here in the days leading up to the shooting. Roan left him his card on the off chance he remembered something, and he said he’d call if he anything occurred to him. Roan actually believed him.

The sad thing? Patrick had been dead forty minutes by the time Juan found him - meaning that if anyone else had seen the open door, they hadn’t checked; or if they had, they hadn’t called it in because they hadn’t wanted to get involved. Roan knew he was overly cynical at times, but the world seemed extra callous nowadays, with people too concerned about their own asses to risk involvement in anything that might get them in trouble. Juan was actually one of the good guys, but he probably didn’t know that.

The rain had let up to a dismal drizzle, although the sky was so dark it seemed like dusk when it was actually hours away. He found one of the last parking spots in the sprawling lot beside the Café D’Ante and went in, bracing himself.

The Café D’Ante was one of those places that tried so hard not to be pretentious they were actually pretentious, a casual but trendy place that just tried too damn hard to be something it both was and wasn’t at the same time that it was irritating. It had lots of windows to let in light (on any other day but today), potted plants to give the place an air of life, and lots of little round tables covered with tablecloths as white as snowdrifts. The hostess who greeted him far too eagerly was a perky young brunette who was probably a former cheerleader, and wore a black satin vest, which all the servers had on as their “causal” uniform. He told her he was meeting someone, and when he started to describe him, she said, “Oh, Matt.” So that’s why he picked this place - he was known.

She led him to a window table at the back, where Matt waited, looking frighteningly eager. He’d changed from his yellow t-shirt and walking shorts to designer black jeans and a pale blue muscle shirt that wasn’t quite as tight and showed off the other tattoos on his arms: he had a “bracelet” of black tribal marks encircling his right upper pectoral, and a dark red kanji on his left shoulder. It looked like there was a small red and blue mark peeking beneath the collar of his shirt, but he had no idea what that tattoo could have been.

Roan had never really liked blonds, his tastes had always run towards darker men (his last three boyfriends - Connor, Diego, and Paris - all had black hair, their one common denominator), but there was something appealingly open and attractive about Matt’s face, well scrubbed with solid bone structure, a firm jaw and sharp cheekbones, his eyes large and golden hazel. In about ten years he’d probably be really handsome. He wore a cologne he didn’t recognize, something woodsy and smoky, and beneath that was the scent of soap and shampoo. Had he gotten cleaned up extra nice for him? Oh no.

Matt’s face lit up in a bright smile. “I brought the key.”

“Great, thanks.” The waitress hovered near by, and he just ordered coffee. He was hungry, but he wasn’t eager to face pumpkin ravioli with vodka aioli, or whatever pretentious “fusion” food they served here.

Matt was Matt Skouris, a nineteen year old city native who grew up in the fairly tony suburb of Harmon Hills. He admitted sheepishly that he was a high school drop out who had only recently got his life back on track, which made Roan guess he had a drug problem. Matt won some points for admitting that as well, saying he’d been dropping ecstasy and hitting the amphetamines (speed and coke) pretty hard since he was fifteen and discovered the party circuit. He was eventually forced into rehab by his parents and had been totally clean for eight months, but it wasn’t always easy.

Matt had ordered an appetizer, some kind of bruschetta thing (small pieces of toasted bread with some tomato mixture on it) and it smelled good enough that his stomach rumbled nosily. Matt clearly heard it and offered him some, and he didn’t refuse. It was pretty good.

Matt also told him he wasn’t actually Ash’s best friend, and that she probably barely considered him a friend at all. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be, but Ash was very aloof and nervous, he supposed because of the way people treated her when they discovered she was infected. She gave him a copy of her apartment key after an incident in her building involving an “invasion” that left three people tied up in their apartment for a whole day. It was a drug related crime (of course; it was the Wildwood) but since she lived alone and far from her family, she liked the idea of having someone around who would be willing to check up on her if she suddenly didn’t show up one day. He felt a drive to be nice to her because she was infected, and he knew what it was like to be singled out and treated badly because you were different.

Matt was very animated. He used his hands when he talked, and talked almost a mile a minute, but that might have been due to his complementary lattes from work. He had clearly traded amphetamines for caffeine, and while surely his blood pressure was better for it, he still got a nice buzz.

While Roan was chewing on a bruschetta piece, Matt leaned over the table and seemed to study him intently. “Too bad you aren’t gay,” he said.

Roan almost choked on a tomato chunk. “Excuse me?”

Matt rested his elbows on the table and put his chin in his hands, just staring at him like he was the best looking dessert behind the glass counter. “You’re the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen in person.”

He glanced behind himself to make sure he was talking to him. “Huh? Me?”

“Yes silly, you. Oh my god, you’re not telling me you don’t know how attractive you are, are you?” Roan wasn’t sure how to answer that, and was going to steer the conversation back to Ashley, but Matt gasped dramatically and continued. “Oh holy shit, you don’t, do you? Will you marry me? I mean, right this second? I know a chick who’s like a Unitarian minister or some shit like that.”

“Um, Matt, why don’t we -”

But Mr. Caffeine kept on going. “How can you not know? You must look in the mirror to shave, unless you got electrolysis. I know this drag queen who had it done to his face, and he says it hurts a little bit but it’s totally worth it ‘cause you don’t need to shave for a long time. Even when you came in to the Starbucks today I noticed you right away; I even whispered to Shanaia to let me have you, since we tag team the front counter. You have the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen. Are they really that green? I was thinking contacts, but usually you can see contacts, y’know, if you stare hard enough you can make out the edge of the plastic. But I don’t see any edges. And your eyes kinda go down a little at the corners, not Asian, more really European, like the French, ‘cause a lot of French people have eyes like that. They’re like cat’s eyes, y’know, really striking. And they must be, ‘cause noticing a guy’s eyes is like eighteenth on my list, but on you I just saw them and that scar and that jaw of yours and I was like ‘Please god, let him be gay and into me’. You just look so … I guess rugged’s the word I want, but not exactly, y’know? Something like that. You just look strong and manly without being too butch or a muscle queen, you exude testosterone, but not in a caveman way, you’re like regal, and I just want to bury my hands in your hair. You don’t dye it, do you?”

Finally he paused, and Roan took a breath for him. Just listening to Matt made him feel like he was hyperventilating. “Umm, no, I don’t. And technically I am gay, but I have a boyfriend, so thanks for the interest. But no thanks. Can we get back to -”

Matt’s eyes widened so dramatically he wondered if the passing waiter had kicked him under the table. “You are gay? You’re fucking with me, aren’t you? You’re totally teasing.”

“No, I am. But I’m in a relationship, and this really isn’t relevant to the case. If I show you a picture of someone, can you tell me if they’ve been in the shop or not?”

“Oh sure. You’re honestly gay? Y’know, I have the best gaydar - I can’t believe I missed you. So tell me about this boyfriend of yours - is he cute? Please don’t tell me you’re one of those hotties who ends up with a guy who looks like a troll. ‘Cause I’ve seen that so often, and I don’t get it at all. I mean, who needs a sugar daddy that badly, y’know?”

If he said “like” or “y’know” once more, Roan was fairly certain he was going to punch him. No, no he couldn’t, he hadn’t given him Ashley’s key yet. With a sigh, he dug the picture of Eli out of his pocket, and said, “My boyfriend is the best looking guy I’ve ever seen. Now, can you tell me if this man is a regular at the Starbucks?”

Matt took the picture eagerly, but reared back slightly as soon as he saw it. “Don’t tell me this guy is your boyfriend.”

Roan rubbed his forehead. Motor-mouth Matt was starting to give him a headache. “No, that’s the man I was wondering if you’ve seen in the Starbucks.”

“Oh. Yeah, he’s in now and again. He’s no rabid regular, but he comes by at least weekly, usually Tuesday or Sunday.”

He stared at Matt somewhat skeptically. Could his memory be that good? “You know him that well?”

Matt nodded, handing the picture back. ”Venti espresso con panna half-caff with a shot of mocha syrup.”

Okay, now he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or scared. “Do you know all your customers that well?”

“No, just the ones I like or hate. Isn’t that weird?”

“Which one is he?”

He clicked his tongue in disgust. “Hate, darling. He seems like a kinda skeevy bastard, y’know? And he never tips. I hear he’s famous, like some kinda local celebrity, but I dunno. He used to make eyes at Ash, but she never noticed and claimed I was making it up. But I wasn’t! I mean, I know what a guy looks like when he wants a piece of that, I’ve gotten it enough in my lifetime, and it doesn’t matter if they’re gay or straight, the look’s the same. Nobody knows a man like another man, y’know?”

Wasn’t that interesting? Eli had an attraction to Ashley that wasn’t reciprocal - and she died anyways. It could be coincidence; it could mean a hell of a lot. Unless Matt was mistaken like Ashley seemed to think … but he actually thought dramatic overstatement aside, Matt probably could nail lust in a man at fifty paces. He struck him as a “party guy”, the type who’d happily give you a blow job in the back of your car ten minutes after you met him. Not to be disparaging, but … okay, yeah, there was probably no way that couldn’t be disparaging. But if he just shut up for five minutes he might be an okay guy. “Was he in the Starbucks the Tuesday before she died?”

He shook his head, making his five consecutive earrings jingle. “No, he was in Sunday. Along with his regular espresso he bought a double chocolate muffin. I know, ’cause I served him; Ash was busy fighting with a jammed napkin dispenser.” Despite his appearance and his magpie chattering, Matt would have made one hell of a witness on the stand. Gossipy as all hell, he saw everything.

Sunday? Ashley was killed on Monday. Holy shit, there was no way in hell that was coincidence. But which way was this going?