L. A. Heat by P. A. Brown

you might be interested in getting your
vehicle back.”
    “What’s this? Giving me a ride to grill me for
more information?” Chris couldn’t resist a smile at the thought of David coming
all the way up here to give him a ride.
    “No, no...I wanted to talk to you without
Martinez.”
    “Why?”
    “You don’t seem to like Martinez.”
    “You mean there are people who do?”
    David actually laughed. “Your body shop picked it
up from impound yesterday morning just as you instructed. I just called and
they said it’s ready.”
    Chris went inside to get dressed, while Laine
waited outside in his car, a wine-colored Crown Victoria that had a serious
dent in the passenger door. Chris had to jerk at the door several times before
he could get it open, and when he did it scattered flakes of rust all over the
cobblestone driveway.
    Heat swamped him immediately. He looked around,
wondering why the air conditioner wasn’t on. It was the middle of August, for
God’s sake. Belatedly he realized Laine’s window was down.
    “No air?” he croaked.
    “’Fraid not. Your tax dollars at work.”
    The window proved more stubborn than the door.
    “Here. There’s a trick to it.” Laine brought the
Crown Vic to a stop under a massive crape myrtle tree whose electric-pink
flowers trailed nearly to the hood of the car. Laine slid off his seat belt and
leaned over Chris. His arm brushed Chris’s chest, muscles bulging as he yanked
down on the handle.
    The window moved down a couple of inches. Hot air
poured into the gap. From inside the car Chris could smell soap and Kenneth
Cole. He was so close the pores of the older man’s skin looked like miniature
craters. A single bead of sweat poised on Laine’s temple, catching on a strand
of dark hair. Chris saw some silver mixed in with the sable. David had taken
his jacket off, and Chris saw that his arms were thick with more dark hair. He
was a real bear. David pushed again at the stubborn window. The glass
protested, but this time it went all the way down.
    He met Chris’s eyes. “There,” he said. “That
should help.”
    Chris nodded, wishing they’d start driving again.
Then he realized the other man was staring at his mouth. Without thinking about
it, Chris licked his lips.
    Instantly Laine jerked away. He swung the car out
into the street and eventually turned north on Silver Lake Boulevard. “Has
anything else occurred to you since Saturday night?”
    For some inexplicable reason Chris thought of his
dream. He shook the memory away. “You mean do I remember seeing someone with a
can of spray paint trotting down Hyperion? No.”
    “This Jay guy, you sure you never saw him with
anyone else?”
    “He didn’t come in often.” Chris rubbed the fleshy
part of his thumb. “The one time we were, ah, together he said he was from
Anaheim. I took it to mean he cruised somewhere else.”
    “He ever say where?”
    “No.”
    The cop left it at that, though Chris had the
distinct impression he wasn’t done yet.
    At the body shop the Lexus squatted regally
between a rusted-out Saturn and a newer-model Volvo. The late-morning sun
caught the metallic finish so that it gleamed like a newly minted gold coin.
    Chris climbed out of the Crown Victoria. He did a
walk around his Lexus, pleased to note that they had done a good job. There was
no way to tell how badly marked up the vehicle had been.
    He looked up to find that Laine had followed him.
“Thanks for bringing me,” he said.
    “Nice wheels. What color do you call this?”
    Chris pursed his lips. “Prasecca metallic. Always
thought it looked gold to me, but I guess the marketing department didn’t
agree.”
    “Yeah, they do like to fancy things up,” Laine
murmured, trailing a hand along the sleek curves of the SUV. He paused briefly
at the back bumper, and Chris wondered if he’d spotted a scratch. Finally he
circled around the other side and came back to the driver’s side. “Nothing’s
ever what it seems anymore,”