Pretty Pretty Boys, Page 2

  Hazard had changed. That was the understatement of the year—maybe of the decade. Gone was the scrawny boy with a mop of dark hair always falling into his eyes. That boy, the boy Somers had gone to high school with, the boy with the scarecrow build and scarecrow eyes, had disappeared into someone who was . . . stacked. That was the only way to put it. Emery Hazard was a beast. The blue check shirt—with coffee stains, had he been nervous? or just in a hurry?—strained to cover his shoulders and revealed massive arms. His dark hair no longer fell into his eyes; it was long, especially for a police officer, but still in a conservative cut and part. The eyes, though—the eyes were still scarecrow eyes. The color of straw at the end of summer, almost the color of honey, but hard. Hard like they could crack the universe if it swung a little too close.

  And Hazard wasn’t looking at Somers. It wasn’t that his attention was fixed on Cravens. Somers wasn’t even sure if Hazard could hear Cravens. Hazard wasn’t looking at Somers, actively not looking at him, and Somers had the feeling that he could douse himself in gasoline and jump through a ring of fire and Hazard would just keep staring at Cravens with that painfully fixed expression that showed just how hard he was trying not to look at Somers.

  Jesus, Somers wanted to say, was it really that bad?

  Somers hadn’t forgotten high school. He hadn’t forgotten filling Hazard’s locker with shaving cream, he hadn’t forgotten teepeeing his house, he hadn’t forgotten stealing Hazard’s books and dumping them into the Grand. He hadn’t forgotten, for goddamn sure, the day he’d held Hazard’s arm while Hugo held the other and Mikey Grames, the twisted fuck, sliced up Hazard’s chest. Somers hadn’t forgotten his encounter with Hazard backstage after Guys and Dolls, and he hadn’t forgotten shoving Hazard down the steps and saying, “Just wanted to see if a faggot’s neck could break like anybody else’s.”

  Somers knew his face was heating; it came with his fair skin. He hadn’t forgotten any of it, not any of the shit he’d pulled. But when he’d learned that Emery Hazard was going to be his partner, Somers had hoped—hoped against hope—that Hazard might have forgotten a little. Judging by how rigidly Hazard stood, by his pallor, by the way he looked at Cravens like she was the only person in the room, Hazard hadn’t forgotten anything either.

  It was going to be a long, hard climb out of that shit, Somers decided. But he was going to do it. Somehow, he could do it.

  “That’s all you need to hear from me,” Cravens said. She was good like that, didn’t carry on, didn’t get too puffed up with the job. “Somers here has offered to show you around the station, and then you boys have work to do.”

  At Somers’s name, Hazard’s eyes flicked towards him. The gesture was involuntary, Somers could tell; Hazard snapped them back towards Craven as fast as he could. But Somers had seen what he’d expected to see: hate, fury, and loathing. All right, Somers said to himself. It felt like the mental equivalent of rolling his shoulders like a boxer warming up. All right, I deserve that.

  “Who?” Hazard said.

  Cravens, already sinking into the chair behind the glass desktop, glanced up as though surprised they were still here.

  “Who is going to show me around?” Hazard repeated. His voice had firmed up: brusque and neutral, but intense, like the gauges were swinging to red and the pressure was building.

  “Somers,” Cravens repeated, obviously confused, and pointing with her hand across the desk. “I thought you two—”

  “Yeah,” Somers said, springing to his feet and giving a jerk of his head towards the door. “I went by John-Henry back then. A real mouthful. Now it’s just Somers. Come on.”

  Hazard gaze moved from Cravens to the middle ground, never quite reaching Somers face. Then Hazard gave a nod, and Somers ushered him out of the office. The bullpen had emptied, thank God, except for two uniformed officers.

  “That’s Miranda Carmicheal,” Somers said, nodding at one. “She issues about half the monthly speeding tickets single-handedly and every time you look, she’ll be busy with a stack of paperwork. That,” he nodded at the other, who reclined behind a newspaper with his feet on the desk, “that’s George Orear, who’s in charge of the fleet, at least on paper. Gets here about eight in the morning, leaves at five, and he only moves from that desk when he has to go to the can.”

  Hazard’s lip curled, but he said nothing.

  “So this is the bullpen, obviously. Those four desks in that corner, those are ours. The detectives: you, me, Swinney, Lender. Upchurch is using his vacation time, and I don’t think he’s cleared out his desk yet, but we’ll get you sorted.”

  Still nothing from Hazard.

  “Car’s already got everything we’ll need—Upchurch and I kept everything spic-and-span. You want to stop by requisitions and pick up anything?”

  Hazard shook his head.

  “I’ll show you the place, then, and we’ll get going.”

  Somers waited and, when no response came, turned and led the way deeper into the station. The silence was weighing on him, and he found himself speaking to break the silence. “So, Orear—you know, that guy back there—Orear’s an interesting case. In 2003, Chas Elder accused him of assaulting him during a traffic stop. Never mind that Chas Elder weighed three hundred pounds and stood twelve inches taller than Orear. You know Chas?”

  More of that goddamn silence. It was like quicksand; Somers felt himself sinking in it.

  “Anyway, they stripped Orear of his gun and badge and left to petrify in the fleet. Turns out, Chas threw a punch—he’s a big guy, right, and one time, swear to God, I saw him pound a pumpkin into jelly, just a couple of hard hits. Anyway, Orear got cleared, but the worst part was, even after the whole mess shook out, Orear stayed right where he was. Said he had corns on his feet or some shit like that. I mean, my feet hurt at the end of the day, but I’d rather be out hitting pavement than buried alive, right?”

  “You want to talk about my fucking feet?”

  “What? God, no. I just meant—Orear, he’s like, an example. How this stuff can wear you down.”

  But Hazard had lapsed back into silence, and Somers knew his own face had to be cherry colored by that point. He pointed out the can, the locker rooms, requisitions, evidence, and the jail at the back of the building. “Three suites,” Somers said. The words just kept pouring out of him, and he knew he needed to stop, but he couldn’t. “We’ve usually only got drunks in here; a couple of them like it better than home. Can’t say I blame them, sometimes. Guy just needs some peace and quiet, right?”

  “You done?”

  “Uh. Yeah.”

  “What do you and Upchurch have?”

  “Cases, you mean?” Somers tried for a grin. “Oh, you know, big stuff. Mafia crime bosses, sleeper-cell terrorists, general murder and mayhem. Hey, wait, where are you going?” He caught at Hazard’s sleeve as the other man turned.

  Hazard knocked Somer’s hand away. “What the hell did you tell Cravens?”

  “What? Nothing.”

  “She kept talking about us like we were . . .” He seemed to be searching for a word and it wouldn’t come. “Buddies,” Hazard finally managed. “I’m going to put the record straight. I’ll work with Swinney or Lender, but I’m not—”

  “Jesus, don’t do that.” Somers scrambled to plant himself in Hazard’s way, and for a moment he didn’t think Hazard would stop. “All right, I told her we were friends. Back in the day, I mean. I told her we lost touch, and I—”

  “Why?”

  “Look, I—”

  “What the fuck do you want from me?”

  “Nothing. I just—”

  “Get out of my way. I’m done with this.”

  As Hazard barged past, Somers managed to say, “It’s the case.”

  Hazard froze and turned. “What?”

  “It’s this case. Well, it’s a lot of things. I feel really shitty about how I treated you in high school, and I wanted to make things right.”

  Hazard said nothing, only watching w
ith those scarecrow eyes.

  “I know I was a dick, but I was a kid, and I was—look, I was an absolute idiot, all right? And anyway, I read your application and I know all about the kind of stuff you did in St. Louis. You’re the real deal. I want to work with the real deal. Upchurch is fine, but he’s—I don’t know, you’ll see. He’s Upchurch.”

  Shaking his head in disgust, Hazard started to turn once more.

  “Swinney and Lender only do drugs.” Hazard froze, his back still turned to Somers, and after a moment Somers continued, “Meth cases, mostly, although there’s other stuff. But it’s boring; it’s the same old thing over and over again. Upchurch and I—you and I—we get everything else. Homicide, kidnapping, rape, everything. And you’re the real deal like I said, and—”

  “This case?”

  “Yeah. It’s—so, the department’s had some trouble lately. PR stuff, mostly, nothing legitimate, but that kind of a bad rep can stick for a long time, and Cravens’s job is on the line.”

  Slowly, Hazard turned. Those burnt-straw eyes latched onto Somers, and again Somers had the impression that this man was running at full steam, that the gauges were deep in the red, and one wrong word could make everything blow. “What kind of PR trouble?”

  “The LGBT community.”

  A ripple of something—Somers couldn’t say exactly what, but it looked murderous—passed through Hazard’s face and then was gone, leaving the same look of brutal intensity. A soft chuckle, at odds with that look, escaped from Hazard’s mouth, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “So. I’m a PR hire.”

  “I wanted—”

  “Shut up.” Hazard seemed to think for a minute and then he said, “What’re we doing? With the case, I mean.”

  “We’ve got an interview this morning.”

  “Let’s go. I’m already sick of this shithole. And on the way, you’re going to tell me every fucking word between you and Cravens. Right?”

  Somers swallowed. “Right.”

  He had the feeling that climbing out of this was going to be a lot harder than he’d expected.

  THEY DROVE IN A TAN Impala with cloth seats and a pine-scented air freshener glued to the central vent. Neither man spoke, and Hazard took advantage of the silence to reorient himself. He’d lost his cool as soon as Somers had opened his mouth. No, it was worse than that. He’d lost control. It was like he’d been outside his head, watching, unable to stop as he got angrier and angrier. Every word Somers had said had been like dumping gasoline on a house fire.

  And it didn’t help that Somers was so breezy. Everything he did and said came off cool, collected, composed, like he didn’t have a fuck to give for anything or anyone. In spite of his determination not to look, Hazard studied the man. John-Henry Somerset hadn’t changed. Sure, his blond hair was shorter and crisply styled, and he’d added on a few inches of lean muscle. But the major things hadn’t changed. He still had his preppy good looks: his smooth, golden tan, his eyes like tide pools, jaw cut sharp as a straight razor. He still had that way of walking, his shoulders back and his head up, like he owned this city and the next one over and he expected everyone to know it. Perfect—the word popped into Hazard’s head. John-Henry was still so goddamn perfect.

  Somers shifted, as though sensing Hazard’s gaze, and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. His cuff slid back, exposing a stretch of darkly-inked skin. Well, Hazard thought. That was very interesting. The golden boy had a tattoo; maybe John-Henry had changed a little.

  “The guy we’re going to see, he’s a college student. His name is Rosendo, I think. I’ve got it written down. He reported vandalism this morning, and a patrol car went past. They passed it up to us.”

  “Because it has to do with what? This PR crap?”

  With a small shrug, Somers said, “Kind of. There’s been a lot of this going around.”

  “Vandalism? That’s what we deal with?”

  “This is about the most interesting thing we’ve had all year. And it’s not just vandalism. It’s a hate crime or the next thing to it. LGBT community is getting targeted for the most part, although it spills over.”

  “And I’m the band-aid?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “The fuck it isn’t. What were they going to do? Hire me, parade me around town, show everybody they were a progressive department and then—what? Shove me in a corner to do paperwork?”

  Somers didn’t answer.

  After a moment, Hazard laughed. “The LGBT community, huh? What? You guys finally have enough queers around here to throw a stick at? Guess things change.”

  “They—there’s always been a community here. You know, because of the college. But you’re right: things have changed.”

  The way Somers said it, with that earnest tone and Boy Scout look, made it clear what he meant: he meant that he’d changed, that Wahredua had changed, that the world had changed. That was a nice dish of bull crap, as far as Hazard was concerned.

  “Wroxall?” Hazard said. “That’s like two classrooms and a cafeteria.”

  “Maybe twenty years ago. They’ve grown. A lot. Enrollment is around fifteen thousand.”

  “Fifteen thousand? You’re joking.”

  “No. And Wahredua had to grow too. The city’s pushing ninety thousand. We’re officially a city, you know, not a town anymore. And the college has brought the blue vote. All the old hippies, organic farmers, musicians, deadheads. It’s different.”

  Hazard grunted; he’d believe it when he saw it. “Tell me about Cravens.”

  “She’s decent. She’s a politician, but only because that’s her job. She’ll stick by you, for the most part. She bakes some good cupcakes and brings them on Fridays.”

  “What’d you have to say to get her to hire me?”

  “She wanted to hire you. I didn’t have to say anything.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “She thought you’d be good as the department’s face. You know: brooding detective, great shoulders, killer ass. You could—”

  Hazard felt that same old house-fire burning deep inside him. “What’d you say?”

  “It was just a joke. C’mon, lighten up.”

  “Jesus, you really are the same, aren’t you? All right. Let’s get it all out on the table. Yeah, I’m gay. I like to fuck guys. Is that clear?”

  Somers was shaking his head, his eyes fixed on the road.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right. You think it’s funny or weird or gross. Fine. You want to give me shit about it. Fine. You want to make my life hell. Fine. I’m not the kid you used to push around. I’ve done this whole pony show before. If you think you’ve got something that the guys in St. Louis didn’t already try, you’ve got another thing coming. It didn’t work for them, and it sure as hell isn’t going to work for you. I’m not going—”

  “Jesus Christ,” Somers growled, his cool snapping for the first time since Hazard had seen him. Somers jerked the wheel to the right, and the tires rumbled against the curb. They pulled to the end of the block, and Somers unbuckled his seatbelt. “Get out of the car. Right now.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Somers kicked his door open and walked to the sidewalk.

  Hazard only hesitated a moment. He had his .38, and if it came to that, he wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in John-Henry’s perfect golden tan. But the best odds were that Somers was going to try to slug him. Somers was right-handed. He had muscle, but lean, more like a runner—he didn’t have Hazard’s bulk. Hazard knew the drill. He’d move into the punch, take it on his shoulder or arm instead of on his jaw, and then he’d land one that would knock Somers out of the county.

  When Hazard got to the sidewalk, though, Somers just shrugged out of his jacket, folded it, and held it out to Hazard.

  Hazard stared at the coat and raised an eyebrow.

  “Hold it for me,” Somers insisted. “And then why don’t you break my jaw or my nose or whatever the fuck you’
re determined to do, and then we can get on with our day.”

  Hazard hesitated again. Was this a fake-out? Would he swing as soon as Hazard reached for the jacket?

  “For God’s sake,” Somers grumbled. He tossed the jacket on the ground and took a step forward, tilting his head back and presenting his jaw. “I fucked up in high school. I get it. This is your chance.”

  “Yeah, and get myself out of a job on the first day. I’m not that stupid.”

  “You want to record me? You want this taped? I’ll say whatever you want me to say. You’ve got my permission to take off my fucking head, so go on and do it. I fucked up, so let’s make it right.”

  The heat of the day, even this early, prickled on Hazard’s neck; sweat dampened his armpits and the small of his back. Somehow, again, Somers had thrown him off balance, and Hazard couldn’t seem to get his feet planted.

  Somers took another step forward. They were close enough now that Hazard could feel the heat pouring off Somers, could smell the clean scent of Somers’s deodorant, could see the nearly invisible blond stubble on Somers’s jaw.

  “Are you going to do it or not? Either you hit me right now, as hard as you want, as much as you want, and you get it out of your fucking system, or you drop the chip from your shoulder and we go do this interview. I don’t know about you, but I want to do my job.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Somers waited a full minute, his eyes still locked with Hazard’s, before Hazard finally looked away. Somers grunted and got back into the Impala. After a moment, Hazard followed. Then he stopped, turned back, and gathered the fallen jacket. He dusted it off and climbed into the passenger seat. Wordlessly, he shoved the jacket at Somers.

  “Thanks.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” Hazard said, his eyes on the dashboard. “I’ll work with you. I’m your partner. I’ve got your back, as far as that goes, and you can count on me when it comes to the job. But if you think I’m going to forgive and forget because you’ve gone to college and you think you’re open-minded now and can crack jokes with your faggot partner, you’re wrong. I know you. I know the special kind of piece of shit you are. Even if nobody else knows, even if you’ve got them all fooled, I know.” Hazard tapped his chest where the three shiny lines still marked him, but inside, he was thinking about what Mikey Grames and Hugo Perry and John-Henry Somerset had done to Jeff, that summer when they’d cut up Hazard’s chest, what they’d done to Jeff when they’d really gotten going. “You made sure I’d never forget.”