Roan started the recorder in his coat pocket and folded his arms over his chest. He was tired of this. He was tired of this venal, stoned little man and his dirty sock smelling apartment, and he was tired of this whole sordid mess. Paris was dying; he was going to die. He wanted to be home with him, although he didn’t know what he would do if he was home. Lay next to him and listen to him breathe, just reassuring himself he was still alive? Sob uncontrollably, and hide in the shower until the hot water ran out and his skin was totally pruney? Take more pills until he could find the magic number that would make him stop feeling like the world was ending? “Was she upset over the end of the relationship?” he asked, deciding to reel this fish in and then club him over the head.

“We didn’t exactly have a relationship; we just hooked up a coupla times. But yeah, I guess she was upset about it.”

“And about being infected.”

He nodded like his neck was a loose spring, eager to play along with this scenario. “She said she was gonna kill herself, but I didn’t believe her. I mean, she was always a drama queen. But what woman isn’t, right?”

Roan shrugged, playing along with the sexism. “It’s the hormones.” He could imagine Murphy pulling out her taser and jabbing him in the neck with it, so he was glad she wasn’t going to hear this.

Gavin snorted in agreement. This penchant for snorting was starting to drive Roan up the fucking wall. What kind of annoying frat boy reject was he? “Yeah, must be. And Thora acted like she was always on the rag, y’know? Bitchy and always complaining.”

“What did she complain about?”

“What didn’t she complain about? Bitch, bitch, bitch.” Roan waited, and Gavin, feeling drunk and expansive, filled in the silence. “I mean, she knew goin’ in that no bitch is gonna tie me down, right? I’m a good lookin’ guy, okay? And I’m rich. Women throw themselves at me all the time. What am I, a monk?”

There was the motive. “And she was going to out you in her memoir, wasn’t she? As a lothario who was casually infecting women?”

He shrugged and shook his head at the same time. “Like anyone would have published that piece of shit. And people never believe anything in a blog.”

“Except the media.”

He rolled a single shoulder, and fidgeted anxiously. “Nobody would believe her. She was full of shit.”

“She was blackmailing you.” That was a guess, but one based on some experience.

Gavin stopped staring at the blank t.v. screen and looked at him sharply, sudden anger making him look almost sober. “She knew that I’d be disowned if my step-dad found out I was infected. The vindictive bitch knew it. She was gonna tell them about it and the drugs, and she knew I’d be cut off. Not only would I lose the money, but if Cliff did manage to get his ass elected - unlikely, but people are sheep - I’d lose out on that gravy train. The governorship ain’t shit, but Cliff’s an ambitious little prick, and all he needs to do is get his toe in the door and then he’s shooting for the top. And he’s just the kinda of oily hypocrite who always gets elected.”

“She was trying to sabotage your future. It was an attack.”

“Yes, exactly!” he agreed vehemently, sitting up. “She was threatening me. Since when is that legal?”

Roan wondered if he should tell him that knowingly having unprotected sex with an uninfected person when you knew you were infected was basically a felony assault charge - an attempted murder charge if you were tiger strain. But he wasn’t going to get him to continue digging his own grave if he was hostile towards him. “You were in a corner. What else could you do?”

“Right! I mean, shit, what would you have done?”

It was fun leading the witness, but the hard part was hiding your contempt. “Anyone who gets attacked lashes out. That’s just human nature.”

Gavin slapped his open hand down on the couch in enthusiasm as he bounced once, like a child given too much sugar and Ritalin. “Yeah! I mean, it was self-defense, basically.”

“She brought it on herself. She was asking for it.”

“She shouldn’t have threatened me,” he said, sounding sulky as he searched the coffee table for a bottle with some beer in it. “I know a lotta people think I’m stupid, but I’m not. She shoulda known better.”

Blaming the victim just never got old, did it? But this time it exhausted him. “What about Eric Chiang?”

That made him pause and look at him curiously. “Who?”

“The bartender at Panic. The one you stabbed.”

His pale eyes narrowed, and his look hardened, becoming belligerent in that special drunken way. “I didn’t stab nobody.”

“Did Eric threaten you?”

That made him scoff and go back to searching for a bottle with a drink left in it. “I thought you were cool.”

“I am. I’m just trying to understand what happened there. Thora got what she deserved, but I can’t see how Eric fits. Was he working with her?”

He sighed heavily, shaking a micro millimeter of alcohol in the bottom of a Jack Daniel’s bottle. “I dunno. Look, I’m sorry about the queer, all right? But there weren’t supposed to be any witnesses. He was gonna fuck things up.”

“And he wasn’t supposed to die violently, right? He was supposed to overdose on ecstasy.”

“Yeah, which is actually a fucking good way to go,” he said, gulping down the dribbles of Jack. “But that fucking man whore kept most of it for himself.”

“What do you expect of a hooker , though?”

That made Gavin snort humorously as he tossed the bottle aside. “Yeah, I guess I shoulda thought of that. But I felt kinda skeazy talking to him, like I could catch AIDS or the clap just by being within arm’s reach of him.”

“But you went to check on him. You must have suspected the hustler wasn’t trustworthy.”

He shrugged diffidently. “Something didn’t seem right about him. I thought it was because he was, you know, gay, but I figured out later he was probably tweaking. You can’t trust whores, but especially druggie whores.”

“Why didn’t you use a speedball on Eric like you did on Thora?”

“You know how expensive a good speedball is? I got connections; ecstasy was cheaper.”

The financially prudent murderer. If it wasn’t so repugnant, it might be admirable. “Well, thank you, Gavin. I think that’s enough.”

That made him look at him curiously, his eyes even more heavily glazed now. “What? What d’ya mean?”

“Enough of a confession. Thanks for your cooperation.”

Gavin was confused, his synapses so loaded down with booze and drugs that they were barely firing, but he still managed to call up a hostile look that Roan found queerly funny. (No pun intended.) “I didn’t confess to nothin’. What the fuck are you talking about?”

He repressed the urge to point out he’d used a double negative, and not for the first time, but what was the point? Wasn’t “Generation Y” the one without grammar? “I’ve been taping our conversation. It’ll make for an interesting soundtrack.”

His pale, dry lips curved up in a smug smile that would have made Roan hate him instantly if he didn’t hate him already. “That ain’t legally permissible. I didn’t say you could tape nothin’.”

“I’m not turning it over to the police, even though I should. It’d give them probable cause to arrest you, but you’re right, it’s inadmissible in court. Truth be told, I bet you have enough high priced lawyers to get out of anything thrown at you anyways.”

The smug smile increased, and he sat back against the couch, folding his arms behind his head. “You betcher ass.”

“So I’m sending the tape to Jay Bishop. Enjoy your life while you still have it.” Roan shoved himself off the wall and headed for the door.

He heard the couch springs squeak as Gavin shifted nervously, not getting up only because he wasn’t quite capable of standing. “ Wha’ ? What … what does that mean?”

At the door, he turned to look at him, and saw that the smugness had left his face, and he was struggling for logic underneath the blanket of alcohol. “You know, Thora’s hated older brother? He didn’t like Thora, but I think he’ll like her gloating murderer even less. You know I’ve heard he can destroy a person with a single phone call? And I believe it, because I’ve met him, and he’s a complete fucking sociopath. You two are perfect for each other. Too bad you both aren’t butt pirates, although, you want to talk drama queens? I’ve known some pirates that put most women to shame. They don’t call us queens for nothing.”

Gavin was still struggling to digest all this. He sat forward, his total befuddlement making him look ten years younger, a harmless pre-pubescent. “I don’t … Jay hated her. He’s not gonna care about this. C’mon.” His voice was uncertain, and at the end became pleading. He was now sober enough to be a little scared.

“I’m done here, and so are you.” He opened the door and stalked out, not waiting for a response, as he didn’t want to hear it. He’d heard enough shit from this asshole. He thought he heard him shout something through the door as he went down the hall, but all he heard was the voice; he couldn’t make out the words. It didn’t matter; he could probably guess what he said.

Once back in his car, he checked his phone. There was a message for him, which was Murphy, telling him that an arrest had been made in the rampaging Lincoln Navigator case: Trang Phan. No shock there. But she’d left a second message, saying there was a “new wrinkle” in the Parker Davis case, although she didn’t elaborate on what that was. He called her back.

For once, it seemed something had gone right. “Parker got himself an alibi,” Murphy explained. “The owner of the liquor store down on Fourth came in to complain to us about all the hookers who worked his parking lot from time to time, and as proof he brought in a few days’ worth of security camera footage. The night of Chiang’s murder - in fact, at the approximate time of his murder, according to the time stamp - Parker is clearly visible having a brief argument with the owner, who was telling him to get the hell away from his store. There’s no way Parker could have gotten from there back to Chiang’s apartment in time to stab him, not unless he had a helicopter or a teleporter, and he just ain’t that good of a hooker.”

Roan sighed in relief. He was worried what he was going to do about that, since homo hating Jay wouldn’t give a fuck about Eric or Parker. “That’s a stroke of luck for him, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I know. He should probably thank his lucky stars that Kevin is so sharp eyed.”

He felt a sudden coldness settle in his stomach. “Kevin?”

“Yeah, the guy brought the tapes to Vice. Kevin humored him and watched them, and caught it. “

Roan suddenly knew what had happened. Kevin went about trying to retrace Parker’s steps, and found the liquor store and the security tapes - maybe Parker even remember having a fight with the store owner. Either way, Kevin found a way to spring him, and without casting any suspicions upon his motives for wanting to help him.

Oh god, Kevin hadn’t fallen in love with Parker, had he? It was bad enough if he was paying for sex from that drugged up train wreck of a human being; it was worse if he fell in love with someone who could never ever love him back, or even like him beyond a simple client - employee relationship. Paris was right in that Kevin was very lonely - there wasn’t a lot of room in the closet - but if true that was beyond sad. He had to talk to him, but he didn’t know what he would say to him.

Roan got off the phone before Murphy could get suspicious of his silences, and drove to the nearest messenger service headquarters. He rewound the tape and listened to it to make sure he got everything he needed - he had - and he cut off the discussion after thanking Gavin for his confession, taping nothing but the interior silence of the car afterwards. Jay didn’t need to know he was playing him for his sociopathic impulses, nor did he need to know that Roan was gay (which he had essentially admitted there at the end). Then he went inside the business and arranged or the package containing the tape to be dropped off at Jay’s office tonight. He included a note that simply said: ‘This is the only copy. The cops can’t touch him, but she was your family. Do what you want - I’m off the case.’

It wasn’t the only copy; he’d quickly duped a copy. But he’d destroy it if Jay did what he suspected he was going to do.

Was this legal? Hell no; this was vigilantism. But it was probably the only way that Thora and Eric could get anything close to justice.

Gavin was dumb. He thought he was hot shit, but he forgot that no matter how big and bad you were, there was always something bigger and badder out there - it was evolution in action. You might sit on top of the shit heap for a while, but sooner or later someone would come along who could easily knock you down, and then someone would come along and knock them down, ad nauseum. The Bishops were one family he shouldn’t have fucked with, but he was so arrogant it never occurred to him. He was probably certain he’d never get caught. Funny now, since being caught by the cops probably would have been kinder.

He watched the bike messenger take off with the envelope addressed to Jay, a lean young man with the muscular legs of a Tour de France participant, and Roan wondered how he could stand to wear shorts in this cold. Roan felt cold all the way to his toes, his blood becoming liquid nitrogen as he sat in his car and cranked up the heat. He entertained the idea that the cold was all in his head, psychosomatic. If Paris ever found out about this, he wouldn’t approve.

So he wasn’t going to tell him about it. It was the final lie, the one he would always keep to himself.

On the way home he stopped off and got some Korean fried chicken, japachae, and samgyetang from this little Korean restaurant that was a favorite of Paris’s, and then he ran by a store and bought some chocolate chip mint ice cream, a bottle of wine (he hated wine, but Paris loved it), and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s “Black and Tan” ice cream, which had become a new favorite of theirs. Stout ice cream? That shouldn’t have worked, but it was pure genius.

When he got home, Paris was vegged out in front of the t.v. watching an old Simpsons episode, conscious and awake but laying down, with the blue plaid blanket that usually covered the sofa covering him instead. He chuckled, and called out, “Hey, you’re missing one of your favorites - it’s a Troy McClure one.”

“Really? Damn. Well, at least they repeat them eight thousand times a month.” He paused by the heater register and turned it up to seventy four. It would be too warm for him, but it would be comfortable for Paris.

“True. You’ve got endless chances to catch it again.” He then sat up, sniffing. “Do I smell Korean fried chicken?”

“Wow, you are such a chow hound.”

He grinned, looking so handsome and happy it was easy to overlook how unnaturally flushed his face was, and the slight glitter of sweat on his brow. “I can smell a won ton from three hundred yards.”

Roan smirked as he put the bags of take out on the kitchenette and started putting the ice cream and the wine bottle in the freezer. “I know you’re joking, but I still believe it.”

He shucked off his jacket and started making up plates of food for both of them, telling Paris about the development in Parker’s case. He left out Kevin being Parker’s savior, as he still didn’t know what he was going to do with this knowledge. He also told Par that he knew that Gavin Lorimer had killed Thora and Eric because Thora was threatening to out his infected status to his step-father, who would cut him off entirely from the family money tit, but since he had no actionable proof yet he had no idea what he was going to do with the information. Paris insisted he should at least call Murphy and let her know, and he agreed to, but he really didn’t know if he would or not. He wanted to wait to see what Jay’s initial reaction would be first.

Once the wine was chilled, he agreed to have a glass of it with Paris even though he didn’t like it, just because he lied and said he’d never tried white wine before, just the red. When he came back with the bottle and the glasses, Paris peered at him curiously. “Should you? Your pupils look a little big.”

So he knew he’d popped a Vicodin before he left. Again, Paris saw right through him, which could be as endearing as it was inconvenient and annoying. At least if he knew he was lying about Gavin, he hadn’t called him on it. “It’s worn off by now.”

Paris studied him carefully with his brilliant blue eyes, his scrutiny belied by the weariness he could see in them. “If your migraines are getting this bad again, maybe you should take a couple days off.”

And now he was giving him an out. He might have teared up in gratitude if he himself wasn’t exhausted. “Yeah, I was thinking about doing that. I guess, since I’ve already solved the case, there’s no harm in it.”

Paris flashed him a sad but warm smile, raising his wine glass in a mock toast. “That’s the spirit.”