Love Is Heartless, page 2
“You want to get rid of her so you can jack the rent. Or tear the place down and cram in a couple of fucking town houses.”
Colin had one of those faces that broadcasted every emotion, and now he looked injured. “No. I thought she’d be less lonely. And safer.”
Nevin jumped on that immediately. “You knew she was in danger?”
“Not from… this.” Colin shuddered. “Just, at her age, she could fall or something.”
“Or something.”
In his lap, Colin’s hands squeezed together tightly enough to turn the knuckles white, and he gave Nevin a beseeching look. “Is she going to be okay, Detective Ng?”
Something inside Nevin softened at the man’s obvious distress. “Nevin. And I don’t know.” That stretched the truth. Although Nevin hadn’t arrived at the scene until after the ambulance took Mrs. Ruskin away, he’d seen the faces of the first responders, and he didn’t think the lady was ever going to return to see the mud tracked into her house by careless cops. Not that it meant the assholes shouldn’t stop to wipe their goddamn feet.
Colin exhaled loudly. “She’s a nice lady. I come over to fix things that don’t really need fixing, and I’m pretty sure she schedules her housecleaning around me, so her place will be tidy when I arrive. We drink tea. We talk about movies and theater, mostly. She used to be a makeup artist. She met a lot of famous people.” He gave a weak smile.
Rain traced complex patterns on the windshield and drummed on the roof, making Nevin drowsy. He would need a good run when he was done here. Maybe he’d call Jeremy and see if he was up to it. Jeremy the brawny outdoorsman didn’t care about the weather. Hell, he was a tall enough guy he probably produced his own microclimate.
“So you came to fix Mrs. Ruskin’s toilet and fangirl over Rodgers and Hammerstein. What happened when you got here?”
“The front door was unlocked. She does that when she knows I’m coming. Saves her from having to get up if she’s comfortable in the living room. It’s… it’s hard for her to stand up, sometimes.” He swallowed audibly.
“So you just stepped inside?”
“I rang the doorbell first. I always do, so she knows I’m there. Then… I saw her.” His face turned more pallid.
“You better not barf in my car!”
Lips clenched, Colin shook his head. Nevin gave him a few moments to compose himself. It wasn’t like most people stepped into a crime scene on a daily basis, and Colin looked like the delicate type. Yellow plaid shirt, coordinating bow tie, and a pretty schoolboy face even though he was probably pushing thirty. He carried a little muscle on his slender frame—a lot of hours spent in the gym, Nevin guessed—and probably had only three or four inches on Nevin’s five foot four. He had a soft voice too. Nevin would have bet Julie that Colin spent his teen years hanging out with the drama club and getting bullied by most of the kids in his private high school.
“Sorry,” Colin whispered. He picked at one of the dried blood spatters on his shirt.
“Don’t do that. They’re going to want your clothes as evidence.”
Colin gave him a stricken look. “Evidence?”
“Yeah.” Nevin made a mental note to make sure somebody gave Colin something clean and decent to change into. Mrs. Ruskin’s dresses weren’t going to work. “What did you do when you saw her?”
“I… I ran to her. At first I thought she was dead, b-but I saw her breathing. I tried first aid, but it’s been a long time since I learned that and they didn’t really teach us….”
Nevin nodded. High school health classes weren’t usually all that big on how to treat elderly victims of a beating. “You’re the one who called 911?”
“Yes.”
“When you pulled up to the house, did you see anyone else? Anything unusual?”
After a moment of thought, Colin shook his head. “No. But I wasn’t paying much attention. I was distracted.”
“By what?”
Colin shot him a sour look. “My boyfriend dumped me last night.” He tensed slightly, maybe anticipating a homophobic put-down.
But Nevin shrugged. “This just ain’t your week, dude.”
“God, it really isn’t.” He leaned back into the plush leather and closed his eyes.
Nevin sketched a castle in his notebook. A modest one, but sturdy. He imagined it inhabited by a minor prince who wanted to keep his family safe while he went about documenting the history of three rare species of dragon. After he drew the final turret—topped by a tiny flag—Nevin hummed a tune.
Colin turned his head to look at him. “Is that Neil Sedaka?” he asked incredulously.
“Breaking up is hard to do.”
“That’s….” Colin huffed. “You’re not what I would have expected in a detective.”
“Why not?”
“Well, there’s the car for starters. And your suit! I figured detectives wore off-the-rack black polyester. Yours is way nicer than that.”
“Off-the-rack doesn’t fit me.” He’d actually had department store salespeople outrageously suggest he try the boys’ department. So he’d found a Hong Kong tailor who occasionally came to Portland to do fittings. He’d measure Nevin up and discuss fabrics, colors, and styles. A month or two later, Nevin would receive a package with his new suits and dress shirts, and everything would look damn good on him.
Unexpectedly, Colin chuckled. “God. Show tunes and fashion. Now we can discuss interior design or hairdressing, and you can give me a medal for being the gayest guy you’ve talked to this week.”
Nevin thought about the hot twink he’d hooked up with a few days earlier. “Sorry, Colin. You’re not even in the running.”
“You mean I can’t even win at being gay this week?” Colin shook his head. “Too bad. I’m usually pretty good at that.”
“You can head over to the Silverado when we’re done here. That’ll restore your cred.”
This time Colin snorted. “Is that what you do after a breakup? Go to a strip club?”
“I’ve never broken up with anyone.”
“Seriously?”
Nevin wasn’t exactly sure why he was discussing his sex life when he was supposed to be questioning a witness, but whatever. It beat standing in the rain. “I love ’em and leave ’em. Sometimes they demand seconds, but that’s all they get.” He grinned. “Always leave ’em wanting more. That’s my motto.” Well, that and Don’t hand your heart to someone who’s going to stomp on it. Maybe some guys wanted relationships—True Love and fucking rainbow sparkles—but he’d seen what that wanting did to them. Jeremy still hadn’t recovered from his last ugly disaster, even though that had been years ago and the ex was a douchecanoe.
Colin shook his head. “Not me. I’m… what’s the opposite of a commitmentphobe? Back in grade school, I spent hours planning my future wedding even though everybody back then told me I couldn’t get married. I am going to wear a white tuxedo with a black bow tie, and Etta James’s ‘At Last’ will play when I walk down the aisle. My groom will wear a black tux with a white bow tie. And we’ll have chocolate-dipped strawberries, Bowie, and the B-52s at the reception.”
“Invite me,” Nevin said. “I like to dance.”
“Done. As soon as I find someone to marry me.” Colin’s smile disappeared. “I probably shouldn’t be talking about this stuff when Mrs. Ruskin….”
“Screw the shouldn’t be. Life goes on.”
“She’s a nice lady. We’re friends, I think.”
It was time to get back to business. “Do you know of any reason why someone would want to hurt her?”
Colin scrunched up his face. “You mean, like, enemies? I doubt it. She’s a nice old lady. She has a collection of spoons from every state, and until her knees gave out, she used to like to garden.”
“No exes?” Nevin asked, not really expecting a yes.
“Her husband died in the Korean War. No kids, and she never remarried. She told me not too long ago that she was always kind of into girls instead of boys but never had the guts to do anything about it. I told her eighty-three wasn’t too old to give it a try.”
“You’re a genuine goddamn romantic, aren’t you?”
“I guess.”
Nevin wanted to hate Colin Westwood, with his stupid bow tie, his rental properties, his ex-boyfriend, his fucking German sedan. The guy apparently had an inner life peopled with cherubs, chorus boys, and rainbow-hued wedding planners. But it was hard to hate a man who had weekly teas with an octogenarian and who was so clearly upset over her attack.
Nevin slapped the notebook shut and tucked it away. “Let’s go get that niece’s information, okay?”
“COMEBUCKET!” NEVIN followed the expletive with a complex series of hand gestures, none of which were visible to the bus driver who’d just cut him off. It wasn’t often he longed for the old days—driving one of the bureau’s Crown Vics and handing out traffic citations—but now was one of those times. He’d have fucking loved to pull over that asswipe and write him a ticket big enough to make him puke. Instead he snarled at the bus as it lumbered up the street.
He was still growling under his breath as he pulled into his building’s parking garage. He was goddamn ravenous. After finishing with Colin, he’d intended to swing by Providence Medical Center with the slim hope of getting a statement from Mrs. Ruskin and then go for a run with Jeremy. Afterward Nevin was going to grab some tacos, shower, and try for a quick hookup. But when he got to Providence, the doctors told him Mrs. Ruskin hadn’t made it. No statement from her since he didn’t own a fucking Ouija board. He’d gotten tied up forever with Frankl and Blake from Homicide, both of whom decided Nevin should be the one to notify the niece of Mrs. Ruskin’s death since he’d caught the case first. Assholes. And the niece? She seemed more annoyed at having to make burial arrangements than torn up over losing her aunt.
Now it was too late and too dark for a run, Nevin’s stomach was threatening to consume his other internal organs, and he didn’t have the energy even for takeout. Screw it. His freezer must contain something he could nuke.
His fourth-floor apartment boasted one bedroom, a galley kitchen, and a view of the slightly weedy courtyard. He’d chosen this place because it was handy to freeways and downtown, had a secure parking spot for Julie, and housed a fitness center that was a decent substitute when he didn’t have time to get to a real gym. A few of his least lame drawings hung on the living room walls, while thank-you cards from victims he’d helped in the past clung to the refrigerator door with advertising magnets saved from junk mail.
He paused long enough to fling his suit jacket over a living room chair before he strode into the kitchen in search of dinner. What he found was an ice-entombed box of General Tso’s chicken.
“About as authentically Chinese as me,” he muttered as he threw the tray into the microwave.
By the time the appliance beeped, he’d changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants. He dumped his faux Asian food into a bowl, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and uncapped a bottle of Full Sail. Then he plopped down into his usual chair—the one directly facing the TV—and dug in.
Half the food was hot enough to scald, while the other half was still chilly. It made for an interesting eating experience, a sort of Russian roulette of a meal. He didn’t care. It tasted like dog shit anyway. And even though he normally enjoyed this brand of beer, tonight it was like swilling piss. He kept flashing on images of Colin Westwood in his bloodstained plaid shirt and the reality of an old lady dying from a beating with nobody to mourn her but her landlord.
Fuck.
He was way too young to be burned out. On days like this, he sometimes contemplated quitting the bureau. But then what would he do? He’d wanted to be a cop since he was fifteen. It was the only job he’d ever envisioned for himself—unless you counted his even earlier aspirations to be a thug. He’d majored in criminal justice, and being a cop was his only marketable skill. His only talent.
Just as he was poking morosely at the remains of General Tso, Nevin’s phone buzzed.
I’ll be there in 15. Dress code = punk. The text was from Ford Ott, the closest thing he had to family.
Not tonight, Nevin sent back, even though he knew resistance was futile.
Non-negotiable.
Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.
15 mins.
He considered throwing the phone against the wall, but that wouldn’t save him from Ford. He tried a different tactic instead. I don’t own anything punk. Wasn’t like he had combat boots and studded leather pants tucked away in his closet.
Just wear black.
Skank.
But Nevin set aside the bowl and empty beer bottle and trudged to his bedroom in search of something black.
“YOU LOOK like hell,” Ford said as soon as Nevin got into his truck.
“You told me to wear black.”
“I don’t mean the clothes, man. Although I gotta say, you look more FBI than NOFX.”
Nevin flipped him off. “We can always stop along the way and get an anarchy symbol tattooed on my forehead.”
“Too extreme. You might look cool with a Mohawk, though.” Ford reached over and mussed Nevin’s hair.
Nevin responded by punching Ford’s bicep. “I’d’ve hit you harder if you weren’t driving, fuckface.”
“Yeah, yeah. Always talking tough.” Ford pulled away from the curb and into traffic. He wore his usual: boots, faded jeans, and a worn T-shirt emblazoned with what Nevin presumed was a heavy metal band. Ford’s scalp gleamed; as soon as he’d noticed an incipient bald spot, he’d taken to shaving his head completely. As always, his pickup smelled slightly of fertilizer and soil, but apart from a few stray fast-food wrappers, the cab was reasonably clean.
Even though it was far too late to do any good, Nevin launched a final protest. “I’m not in the mood to go out tonight.”
“Bummer.”
“Ford—”
“I’m in the mood for some feminine companionship, Nev, and we both know we pull better as a team. So shut your yap and forget about whatever crapstorm hit you at work today. You’re going to get drunk, we’re both going to dance, and if we’re lucky, we’ll find some temporary company.”
Nevin sulked.
Ford took them to a dive bar way out on Division. The hipsters hadn’t discovered the place yet—or if they had, they’d cleverly disguised themselves in torn leather jackets and creative facial piercings. The crowd was mostly younger than Nevin and Ford, although a few of the customers might have long ago owned the Ramones on vinyl.
While a band warmed up, Nevin downed a beer and scoped the place out. Ford stuck to drinking Coke—his biological parents had both been hardcore alcoholics, so he avoided the stuff entirely. Which was convenient for Nevin, who, knowing he had a pet designated driver, could get as sloshed as he wanted.
Nevin gestured with his bottle toward the small stage. “What’s the name of this band?”
“Dick Zipper and the Jizz Parade.”
“Yeah? I like it. Catchy and refined.”
“Nobody knows refinement like you, little bro.”
As it turned out, Dick Zipper sucked ass. But they played loud and fast enough that it didn’t matter. After another beer, Nevin squeezed onto the crowded dance floor and joined the other writhing, sweating bodies. He stopped now and then for enough beer to keep his buzz going. He didn’t feel good, exactly. But he was alive, and fucking hallelujah for that!
Eventually his energy flagged. He found Ford dancing with a bleached blonde, grabbed his arm, and dragged him to a relatively quiet part of the bar.
“I have to work in the morning,” Nevin yelled over the din. It was past midnight.
“You call that work? I’m the one’s gotta transplant rosebushes at dawn.”
“Suck on a rosebush, Four-door. I’ll catch a cab.”
But Ford followed him out of the bar and into the ringing quiet of the parking lot. “I’m hungry,” Ford announced. He pointed at the chain restaurant across the street. “C’mon. I’m buying.”
Nevin would have refused, but he decided maybe it would be a good idea to soak up the alcohol with some food. On unsteady legs, he crossed the street in Ford’s wake.
Nevin had never been to this particular location of the franchise, yet it smelled familiar: coffee, sausage, fake maple syrup. Being a cop meant he’d spent a lot of time in places like this, especially back when he pulled night shifts. The predictable assortment of customers filled about a quarter of the tables. Truck drivers, stoners, college kids, people who’d worked late somewhere else. There was also a healthy scattering of patrons from the club. They were easy to spot with their intentionally torn clothing and creatively gelled hair.
Their waitress was a tired-looking young woman with long hair pulled into a ponytail. She filled their coffee cups as soon as they sat down, earning a thankful smile from Nevin.
“Do you think they have cooks here?” Nevin asked as he perused the menu. “Or does it all come from the same prepackaged mix? They just press a button on a machine to say whether they want waffles or scrambled eggs.”
“You’re drunk.”
“So? Wasn’t that your plan?”
Ford opened his mouth to answer, then started waving at someone near the door. Nevin turned around to see. It was the blonde, accompanied by a slightly plump, pretty woman whose straight hair was the color of a fire engine. The women waved back and approached the table. Ford scooted over—the blonde immediately sat next to him—so Nevin did the same, prompting a grin from the redhead.
Apparently deciding introductions were in order, Ford waved a hand. “Nevin, this is Cat and, uh….”
“Riley,” said the redhead.
“Ladies, this is my little brother, Nevin.”
“Brother?” Riley asked, gaze darting between them.
“Close enough.”
That seemed to satisfy her, which was good. Nevin was in no mood to explain, and she didn’t need to know, that he and Ford had been in the same foster-home placement for two years until Ford aged out of the system. Nevin had aged out a few months later, and they’d shared a shithole apartment while Nevin went to the community college and they both worked a variety of sucktastic jobs.
