But alas, it was just Murphy asking him about the witness he had to Thora’s being grabbed off the street. “The Aunt confirmed the identity,” she told him, sounding slightly distracted. He heard noise in the background, and figured a belligerent perp had just been dragged in. “So I’m thinking I should probably have a talk with this guy. He got a problem with cops?”

Roan considered that. He just didn’t know enough about Eric Chiang to say, but why didn’t he go to the cops in the first place? It was possible Matt talked him out of it, but Chatty Cathy probably would’ve mentioned it if he had. “Possibly. He’s flaming.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t like cops.”

That was true. The relationship between the gay community and the cops had improved; it was much better than when he and Murph were championed as “liaisons” between the communities. The relationship between cats and cops would never be good, though; that one was a lost cause. “He works at Panic as a bartender.”

There was a very long pause on her end of the line. “The gay disco?”

“Is there another Panic around these parts?”

She sighed heavily. “Holy shit. That’s going to be a tough one. Doesn’t that place have guys in cages and shit?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been.”

“Bullshit!”

“No, really. I hate house music. If real guitars and drums aren’t involved, I don’t want to hear it.”

She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Are you seriously telling me that you’ve never once been to Panic? Even I’ve been to Lipstick, and I hate the scene!” Lipstick was a lesbian bar, essentially Panic’s gender opposite. He’d been there once as a cop, to break up a bar fight. (Yes, it was a stereotype that lesbians were more aggressive than “regular” women, but there were some women out there- regardless of who they chose to sleep with - who could brawl as eagerly and stupidly as a man. Especially if you got them liquored up, and they thought you were hitting on their girlfriend.) But otherwise Lipstick was classy and civilized, and a hell of a lot quieter than Panic.

“I’ve been to Lipstick too. I liked it. You and Kim should go more often. Especially if it’s tequila shooters night.”

The length of the silence that ensued told him Murphy was glaring evilly at the phone, and considering slamming the receiver on her desk just to hurt his ear. Ultimately, she decided not to. “You’re just a big old dyke in a man’s body, aren’t you?”

“Me and my dick resent that statement.”

“Leave it to a man to bring his dick into the conversation.”

He sighed, trying not to laugh. “Is there any way I can win this?”

“I’m a woman, so no.”

Well, that was fair enough, he supposed. He gave her Eric’s address, but told her he was probably already at Panic since he’d been getting ready for work while he and Paris were talking to him earlier. This got a groan of disgust out of her. “Do you know how hard it is to get the straight guys around here to go into a gay bar? They act like they’re going to get cooties if they step in the door.”

“A lot of those macho assholes are insecure about their own sexuality. Believe me, I know. Nobody wanted to ride in a patrol car with me, remember? Like I’d actually rape their flabby asses. They think highly of themselves, don’t they?”

“Well, you were a cat too.”

“Oh right - so maybe I’d give them fleas as well.”

She chuckled breathlessly. “Or turn into a lion and then teabag them.”

“A fate worse than death.” He’d turned down his road, and saw the “Blue Bug” - his nickname for Diego’s Volkswagen Beetle - sitting in the driveway. He didn’t realize he’d linger after dropping Paris off, but he supposed he should have expected it. (What if he had medically bad news for Paris? Oh shit, he didn’t want to know.)

“Can you sweat this guy, see if you can bring him in to make a statement voluntarily?”

“This is just your way of making me go to Panic, isn’t it?”

“Hey, track him down wherever you want. But if you can get him to come in of his own accord it’d be easier for all of us.”

“For all of us? I think not.”

“At least you don’t have all this paperwork to deal with.”

Which was true. The absolute worst part of the cop job - worse than the violently unstable crackheads or the heartbreaking murder scenes - was all the goddamn paperwork you had to sit down and fill out. It’s what you really felt like doing after nearly getting killed. Going from sheer terror to sheer boredom in under sixty seconds could wear on a body pretty fast.

He parked the GTO parallel to the front yard so the driveway would be clear for Diego to get out, and noticed how the winter had killed off most of the plants in the yard. The lawn looked pale with frost, and even the pine tree that towered over the house looked curled in on itself with cold. A season of death; a winter of discontent. God, he really needed a beer - he was getting maudlin. Or poetic; whichever one was worse. After a moment, he rubbed his eyes, and said, “Fine, I’ll talk to Eric again, see if I get him to make an official statement. But I’m adding this to the “owe me” column.”

“You can be such a whiny queen sometimes,” she teased.

“And that’s going to cost you too,” he warned, and hung up. He just sat there for a moment, listening to the engine tick softly, wondering if he was strong enough to go inside. Yes, of course he was - he wasn’t a weak person. If he had been, he’d never have survived this long. So why did he feel like he was growing weaker by the second?

He mentally cursed himself out for a few seconds, then climbed out of the car and headed towards the house, the frozen grass crunching under his feet. The door was unlocked, and he came in to find Diego waiting for him, sitting at the kitchen counter and having a Diet Pepsi. “Paris is upstairs taking a nap,” Dee told him. “He was pretty shagged out.”

He nodded, not surprised. “They’re not going to include him in the trials, are they?”

Dee shrugged, but he grimaced in sympathy. “I have no idea, but I think he may be too sick for them.”

“Yeah, I was afraid of that.” He went to the refrigerator to get himself something to drink, his throat was still rough from growling, but as soon as he opened the door he was shocked by how bare the shelves were. There were some cans of soda, a bottle of beer near the back, some take out containers from the Chinese place, a carton of half and half, the chocolate syrup, and a bright yellow bottle of mustard, but that was it. He was so accustomed to Paris doing the shopping (not that he ever gave him any choice; Par just kind of barged in and took it over, and Roan didn’t mind ceding it all to him) that he’d inadvertently neglected it. He told himself to stop tonight and stock up, and grabbed the beer. It wasn’t his favorite, but it would do. “You need to hire a personal assistant to do your shopping,” Dee said. He was being sarcastic, but said it so weakly it had no bite at all. He looked too depressed to be his normal smart assy self. God, how bad was Par?

He twisted the cap off the beer and took a gulp, aware that things were so much easier when he was alone. It was true that when you had nothing, you had nothing to lose. “You upping for the job?”

“Oh you wish, girlfriend.” He held up an injector in a sterile plastic wrap, and put it down on the kitchenette counter. “Vitamin B-12. Give it to Par when he gets up. It should give him a shot of energy for a little while. I’ll bring some more over tomorrow.”

“He’s that bad, huh?” Dee swore by B-12 shots to get him going on hard days, and he assumed that Dee pulled that from his own personal first aid kit that he kept under the front seat of his car. He had an odd first aid kit - along with the usual stuff, he also had the B-12 shot, caffeine tablets, Tylenol codeine, and a handful of condoms.

Dee stared at him, his hazel eyes both kind and harsh all at the same time. “You know he is, Ro. And you know what he’s worried about? You.”

He almost choked on his beer. “What do you mean?”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “He may be sick, but he’s still the same perceptive guy he’s always been. I don’t have any idea why, but you’re the one thing in this world he’s going to miss, and right now it’s killing him thinking he’s hurting you. I don’t care what you have to do, I don’t care how badly you have to lie, but as soon as he wakes up you need to go upstairs and convince him he’s not. He deserves some peace of mind if nothing else; it’s probably the only thing we can do for him at this point.”

“We?” He hated the way his voice thickened on that syllable. He hated Dee telling him this shit, but mostly he hated it because he knew he was right.

“Fine - you. But he’s afraid for you. He’s afraid you’re going to retreat into the cat, whatever the fuck that means.”

“He said that?”

Dee nodded, his lips thinning to a grim line. “And I think he’s right that you’re off your game. I don’t blame you at all - Paris is a better person than all of us, and you’ve been a better person since you’ve been with him. But I know this person, she’s a grief counselor, and I think you should probably see her before … well, this has gone on long enough. I know you’d prefer to muddle through this by yourself, Mr. Macho, but I’m not sure I can, and I’m not even married to him.”

He shook his head, letting out a small, humorless laugh. “I don’t need to see a fucking grief counselor. I had my share of counselors and psychologists and social workers growing up; I don’t want anymore.”

He raised his eyebrows in the facial equivalent of a shrug, and slid off the kitchen stool. “I’m sure you don’t want anymore, honey, but you need it. I’ll call her, see what her schedule is.”

“Not for me you won’t.”

Dee waved his hand in a dismissive manner as he grabbed his Pepsi and started towards the door. “Remember what I said. Lie to him and make it good.”

“You don’t think I can get through this.” The funny thing was, even as he said it, he knew what a silly thing it was to say. Roan knew he probably couldn’t, and that was what was scaring him. He could take beatings, shootings, stabbings, even being forced to eat at Tim Horton’s, but not losing Paris. This was a slow motion nightmare.

Dee gave him a compassionate look that was almost pitying, so it was a good thing he was way out of punching range. “I’m not sure anyone could.” With a final sad, knowing glance, Dee left, and it suddenly seemed amazingly quiet and empty in the house. It occurred to him that he should get used to this, to this absence, and grabbed the B-12 shot and went upstairs, leaving his beer behind.

Paris was asleep, and had apparently slept through their entire downstairs conversation, which was a good thing. Par had always been a fairly heavy sleeper, but nowadays it had become disturbingly closer to comatose. When Roan bothered to set the alarm nowadays, Paris almost never woke up.

Currently he had the suede comforter wrapped around him like a cocoon, the blanket partially covering his face, and almost out of habit Roan checked to make sure he was still breathing. He was, just not very loudly or forcefully.

Roan could smell the cats all over him, the musky scent of cougar along with a trace sickly sweet scent of illness, and stripped off his clothes, tossing them in the corner hamper before going into the bathroom and starting the shower. He left the B-12 injection on the nightstand, figuring Dee must have told Par what it was.

So Par was worried about him? Dee was right - he couldn’t let him continue doing that. But lying to Par was such a tricky thing. He could fool most people, but Paris was nearly impossible to bullshit. What could he tell him? What would he believe? What would make him stop worrying about him? Christ, he didn’t know. He was horrible at this kind of thing.

Clearly. He hadn’t fooled Paris for one second, had he?

He stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain shut before turning the faucet up full blast, hot enough to almost scald. He let it drench him, washing away the faint traces of foreign cats, and then started to sob. He hated it, but there wasn’t much he could do to stop it, and he didn’t even try. He was just glad Paris couldn’t hear him.

****

He almost wished Dee had left him a B-12 shot, because after he got out of the shower he felt terrible. His head full on ached now, a painful throb like an infected tooth, and he was forced to figure out how he could handle Panic with a head that felt like a swollen, overripe melon. The first loud techno beat would make his skull explode, splattering his brains all over like the world’s grossest piñata. So he got dressed and went downstairs, and ate a few forkfuls of cold Szechwan noodles before popping a Vicodin. He could probably handle one with few obvious effects, mainly because his drug tolerance was so incredibly high he could probably take elephant tranquilizers and hardly notice it at this point. He ended up finishing the Szechwan noodles, mainly because he was starving and hadn’t realized it until now.

He’d dressed down, in jeans and hiking boots and a loose red t-shirt with the “Duff Beer” logo across the chest, and was painfully aware that he’d probably stand out like a seven foot drag queen at a Mormon church. He didn’t look like the type of guy who’d go to a gay disco, which was the point - he didn’t want to look like a guy who’d go to a gay disco. He didn’t want to belong. He just wanted to find Eric and talk to him, and if anyone hit on him, he might have to claim he was straight. (That might fly … for a bit. Maybe. He would swear he could pass.)

But as he washed down the last of the spicy noodles with a diet Pepsi that still seemed overly sweet, he heard movement upstairs. Paris was awake.

Part of him wanted to just grab his coat and dart out the door, but that was so cowardly he was ashamed of himself. Okay, no, he still had no idea what he was going to say to him, but he had to say something. Roan headed upstairs, to let him know what he was doing and where he was going.

By the time he returned to the bedroom, Paris had already found the B-12 shot and used it, judging from the used needle tossed in the metal wastepaper basket beside his computer desk. He didn’t know if the shot really worked that fast, but Paris did seem a bit more alert than before; maybe the nap helped too. When he told him what he was doing, Par chuckled, and said, his face splitting into a grin, “You, going to Panic? Oh, this I gotta see.” That didn’t really fill him with confidence. But he was glad Paris felt well enough to venture out, so he wasn’t going to discourage him.

Paris got dressed more or less to match him, wearing jeans and a loose, long sleeved gray sweatshirt, and joked that the bouncers might not recognize him without the skin tight t-shirt and the silver hot pants. The hot pants were of course just him being funny. (Right?)

By the time they reached Panic, the sun was going down, and the club was approaching its busy hours. The Vicodin was working nicely; his headache had faded to annoying background pulse, and he felt slightly disconnected from it, like he could hold it in his hands and examine it objectively. That was the really good part about Vicodin - not that it killed the pain as much as it made you cease giving a shit about it. Paris seemed more bright eyed than usual, almost like his old self, and he hoped Dee brought a motherfucking case of those shots tomorrow.

The bouncer on the door was clearly a gym bunny. He was a huge black man about the height, girth, and possibly approximate weight of your average refrigerator, his head shaved bald and reflecting the blue neon glow of the Panic sign far above him, and even though the light was fading rapidly, he was still wearing cheap black sunglasses, and in spite of the cold, he was only wearing Nikes, jeans, and a navy blue t-shirt stretched so tightly across his barrel chest that Roan was pretty sure when the shirt snapped off him - and he was sure it would - it would take out an innocent bystander’s eye. He looked like a statue carved of granite, with arms about as big around as an average man’s leg, but as they approached his face split into a wide grin that showed many nicely capped teeth. “Oh my god, you! I was so afraid something happened to you.” The man’s voice was so high and fragile, Roan almost burst out laughing. It was like hearing a five year old girl’s voice come out of Atlas. But he didn’t, because it was rude, and because, little girl voice or not, he bet the guy could snap him in half like a piece of frozen beef jerky.

Paris introduced him to Jimmy (apparently the big guy’s name) as his husband, which shocked him needlessly. “Him?!” Mighty Mouse squeaked.

Oh, that was nice. What an ego boost.

Things didn’t really get any better once they were in the small, dark alcove where they paid the cover and got the neon green plastic bracelets that signified they’d paid and would let them back in the club tonight if they left. Roan protested that he was not coming back, but it was apparently protocol to put the damn thing on. The guy manning that station, with platinum blonde hair shot through with cotton candy streaks of blue and pink and a big gold nose ring that he apparently stole off a bull somewhere, also recognized Paris, and was happy to see him back. Roan could see both a positive and a negative here: Paris was popular enough that everybody would be more than happy to talk to him. That was both the positive and the negative. Funny when it worked that way.

They walked through an inner door that led to a sprawling nightclub, split almost evenly between a large and packed dance floor and a small side area full of small tables and leather booths. There was a large black painted bar off to the immediate left in a distended horseshoe shape, and there were two bartenders behind it, both men wearing leather vests over shirtless chests, but neither was Eric. One was a Hispanic man with a very pretty, feminine face, and the other guy was a Caucasian who didn’t have six pack abs more than a twenty four pack - you could have washed clothes by hand on his abs. He must have done eight thousand crunches a day.

The bar was lit by yellow spots, giving it a topaz glimmer, while gel lights of red, blue, green, and purple lit up the dance floor in confetti like hues. The music that pounded through the club was some dance remix of a Nine Inch Nails song with an almost tribal drum beat, and he was glad he’d popped the Vicodin, as he was sure it would have cleaved his head in half like a rotten coconut. But hey, Nine Inch Nails - that was pretty cool. The place smelled like many hot bodies in a small space, sweat and lust and a nearly toxic mélange of colognes, aftershaves, deodorants, and hair products.

They approached the empty end of the bar, and Mr. Abs came down almost instantly. “You! My god, where have you been?” He had neatly cut dark brown hair, brown eyes to match, and about a day’s worth of artful stubble. He was attractive, but in a rather calculated way, and couldn’t have been a day over twenty five.

“Around,” Paris answered cryptically, then put an arm around his waist, a possessive gesture meant to signal to the pretty bartender that he was off limits. “So Toby, where’s Chi-Chi? We heard he was working tonight.”

“Oh, he was, but he took a break. He was totally getting cruised by some jailbait, but Chi-Chi looks barely legal too, so that makes sense.”

“Did he leave with him?” Roan asked.

Toby glanced at him, and seemed to take a good long look at Par’s arm around his waist. He seemed to be thinking the same thing as Mighty Mouse - Him?! - but was too polite to say it aloud. “Technically no, but the kid left at the same time as Chi-Chi, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they were together somewhere.”

“Not out in the alley having a smoke?”

He shook his head. “It’s not really private there. Or legal.”

He glanced at Paris, and he knew they were thinking the same thing - Eric’s place was just a couple of blocks away. If he wanted to sneak in a quick fuck, he probably brought the guy back to his place. So they probably hadn’t needed to come here at all. What delicious irony.

On their way out, about a dozen guys in ages ranging from twenty to forty, from respectable looking to club kid to flaming Goth, besieged them, asking Paris where he had been and if he was all right. (Matt hadn’t been kidding when he said the guys at Panic had missed him.) He showed his wedding ring and introduced him as his husband again, a way of deflecting attention away from the question while presumably answering it, and while there were many “Congratulations” and men telling Roan he was a very lucky man, there were some more “Him?!”-s, and some obvious jealousy. He wondered how jealous they’d be if they knew Par was dying. He tried not to think about it.

They detoured through the alley to make sure that Eric wasn’t there, but Toby had been right: they found a bouncer (not Mighty Mouse, but a white gym queen who could have been his half brother) and a guy who could have been a patron (or his boyfriend) sharing a smoke and discussing the latest episode of “Project Runway”, but no Eric, and when asked, both said they hadn’t seen him out here.

It was a quick jaunt back to Remains of the Day, and back up the outer staircase to the apartment access. But as soon as they entered the inner corridor, Roan smelled burned microwave popcorn, and a meaty metallic scent underneath it that was all too familiar and too depressing. “Oh shit,” he exclaimed, and raced to Eric’s apartment.

“What’s wrong?” Paris asked. He couldn’t smell it.

Eric’s door was just slightly ajar, so Roan pushed it all the way open with his knuckles while pulling out his Sig Sauer. Seeing the gun, Paris paused and his eyes widened. “Oh god no.”

Oh god yes. The open door revealed that Eric’s futon had been pulled out into bed mode, and Eric was splayed on it with one arm and leg hanging over the side, on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It was hard to tell if the sheets were red, or simply turned that color by the blood; some of it was still dripping off his hand, puddling on the carpet.

Roan neither smelled nor saw anyone else in the tiny apartment, so he holstered his gun and approached Eric, hoping the dripping blood was a sign that he was still alive. But as soon as he was standing over him, he could smell the hideous scent of death beneath all the blood. He was dead; not long dead, maybe two minutes or so, but they still arrived too late to do anything for him.

He’d been stabbed, mainly in the chest but also once in the shoulder and throat; Roan counted seven small but viciously deep wounds in all, as well as one through the palm of his hand - a defensive wound. He’d tried to fight back, but he was overpowered. He didn’t see the knife anywhere, and there was a pretty decent half footprint in the blood in the carpet. As Roan pulled out his phone and called Murphy, he noticed blood had splattered the far wall, and left red droplets all over the naked torso picture.

“Oh my god,” Paris gasped from the doorway. “The poor kid.”

Murphy picked up the phone, and he told her, “Get down to Eric Chiang’s apartment now. Your witness has been murdered.”

And he really didn’t care what the coroner’s report on Thora said now. This was pretty much proof that someone was belatedly covering their tracks.