Irreversible Error

Copyright

Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author‟s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Irreversible Error Copyright © 2010 by Wolf Phoenix Cover Art by Paul Richmond http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ ISBN: 978-1-61581-624-8 Printed in the United States of America First Edition October, 2010 eBook edition available eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-625-5

Dedication

Dedicated to Linda Way, without whom nothing would be possible.

Judge not, that ye be not judged. —Matthew 7:1

Chapter 1

HIGH above the rest of the Houston, Texas courtroom, draped in his black robe, the handsome and distinguished Judge Maxwell Silver sat peering out over his dark-framed reading glasses at the defendant. He always liked to look the defendant straight in the eyes as he passed sentence, especially when it was a death sentence. To the observer in the courtroom, it appeared that the silver-streaked, dark-haired gentleman was focused in on his duty as a District Court Judge, but Judge Silver knew the truth: he wanted to see if the convicted perp showed any fear as he was sentenced to death. The good judge had always felt that the bastards thought themselves so brave when they were gunning down their victims, but almost always there was that glint of cowardly fear in their eyes at this moment. Just once he would like to see a defendant scream out, “Yes, I did it, you son of a bitch! And I‟d do it again!” But instead they either said nothing or protested their innocence. What a pathetic bunch of losers they all were. He had no qualms. He felt they all deserved to die. Putting on his Godlike, booming voice, he spoke down to the assemblage, never taking his eyes from the defendant. “John Simon, you have been found guilty of capital murder by a jury of your peers. Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence on you?” Go ahead and say something, you sorry piece of shit, the judge pleaded in his head. Say anything. You have nothing left to lose, you pathetic pile of garbage. Say how the DA didn’t really make his case or how your lousy, greenhorn, court-appointed lawyer didn’t put up any defense. It won’t do you any good, but you might as well have your say. The fresh-faced attorney he had appointed spoke up: “The defendant has nothing to say, Your Honor.”

“I would like to hear it from the defendant himself, if you don‟t mind, Counselor.” He glared at the scruffy defendant in his orange jailhouse overalls—no jury to impress at this stage of the proceedings. The young white man squirmed under the assault of the penetrating ice-blue eyes of the judge. He just wanted this to be over, but the judge seemed to want to hear him speak about his fate. He wanted to scream his innocence to the heavens. He wanted to protest the fact that the triggerman got five years for turning state‟s evidence and pleading guilty, leaving him to take the rap for the death of the store clerk, when all he had done was wait out in the car. It didn‟t seem right. Yeah, he had known there was a stickup going on inside the convenience store, but nobody was supposed to get hurt. He wouldn‟t have shot the guy. He would have just run away if the guy reached for the gun he kept under the counter. Yet here he was, about to be sentenced to death for killing someone he had never even laid eyes on. The judge‟s eyes seemed to bore into his soul, demanding a statement. He knew it wouldn‟t make any difference. Travis Houston, Assistant District Attorney—an uncanny younger version of Maxwell Silver—sat at his table looking at the defendant, knowing he had done his job. After all, it was an election year and the Republicans needed some high-profile capital murder trials. The DA wasn‟t up for re-election, but Judge Silver was, as were a number of other Republicans from the county, to the state capital, to the nation‟s capital, all running on law and order and family values. The high crime rate in Houston was a gift that kept on giving to the politicians. Stupid drug addicts robbing gas stations and all-night markets to get their fix kept the wheels of politics turning. What if it all stopped? It would be like when the Berlin Wall came down and Bill Clinton won the Presidency. George Senior may have gotten credit for ending the Cold War, but it had backfired on the Republicans. They had nothing to scare people with. And so what if he didn‟t even give the guy a chance to plead out? So what if he used the creepy triggerman to get the conviction? This guy was slime and deserved what he was getting. Yeah, go ahead, little man, say something stupid for the judge. It will give us all something to remember about you, because tomorrow there’ll be another one just like you standing right there. Yeah, say something memorable so that people will remember this case and

remember me, Travis Houston said to himself. The young assistant DA was fully aware of the fact that Judge Silver used to stand right where he was standing now and had climbed to the bench due to the publicity he had received prosecuting a high-profile capital murder case. That‟s how politics worked. The silence was beginning to hang too heavily in the courtroom, and Judge Silver was losing patience with the defendant. “So, do you have anything to say, Mr. Simon? This is your last chance to be heard.” The defendant could feel the saliva filling his mouth and knew he needed to swallow before he began to drool in fear, so he gulped down his own spit, horrified at the loudness of the swallow as it echoed through his head. His mouth opened. He at least wanted to proclaim his innocence, but instead, “I have nothing to say, Your Honor,” was all that escaped his now dry mouth. The judge‟s steely stare felt like a stream of needles stabbing through his eyes into his brain. He could feel the contents of his stomach churning and threatening to move up toward his mouth. He swallowed hard again and dropped his eyes to the tabletop in front of him. “Look at me, Mr. Simon,” the judge commanded. Another coward, he thought, just another little worm of a man who hasn’t got the guts to look me in the eyes. Feeling sick inside, the defendant raised his eyes, back into contact with those of the judge. “John Simon, in accordance with the laws of the State of Texas, you are hereby remanded to the Sheriff of Harris County, who will release you to the custody of the Texas Department of Corrections, where you will be executed by lethal injection.” Judge Silver could see the naked fear that lay behind the empty eyes of the defendant. And uncontrollably, that old Beatles‟ song played in his head: “Bang, bang, Maxwell‟s silver hammer came down on his head. Bang, bang, Maxwell‟s silver hammer made sure that he was dead.” No remorse. No regrets. It was his job, and in doing it, he assured his re-election, because this would be all over the evening news and in the morning paper. He made a mental note to call Beverly, Mrs. Judge Silver, and let her know that he would be staying in town tonight. She would not be

surprised, but she did like to be informed. Staying at his condo in the city after sentencing hearings was his regular routine. He needed to unwind in his own space and in his own way on those evenings. The perfect wife for him in every way, Beverly understood. The silence of the courtroom made its way into the judge‟s head, snapping him from his brief reverie. The defendant and his counsel were still standing, as though they were frozen in time. “Court adjourned,” he announced, rising from his large, throne-like leather chair. “All rise!” the bailiff shouted. Judge Maxwell Silver exited through the door behind his chair and the courtroom erupted into a frenzy of reporters rushing toward the exit doors as the defendant was led away by the sheriff‟s deputies. The man‟s mother, a plain woman wearing no makeup and clothed in her cheap, frumpy print dress—her Sunday best—graying hair piled on top of her head in a church lady‟s knot, looked longingly after her son as he disappeared through the side door, back to jail. She would visit him tomorrow to let him know that she still loved him, and she would pray to God for his immortal soul. How could this be happening to her boy? It only seemed like yesterday that he was a helpless baby in her arms. Her heart ached, but she proudly stood up with her head held high and walked toward the back of the courtroom. She would run the gauntlet of the reporters in the hallway, as she had every day since this nightmare began, her eyes forward, her mind and heart fixed on Jesus. After all, He had saved the thief on the cross next to Him, and she prayed He would save her son. It was all she had left to cling to. In fact, the reporters had lost interest in the boring little woman, and let her pass unnoticed as they hurried their way toward the front of the courthouse, where the cameras were pointed and poised to capture their on-the-spot reports of the sentence, as though there had been any doubt. But their job was as much the creation of drama as it was reporting the news. Housewives would have their soap operas interrupted with “breaking news” bulletins on the sentencing, as if they really cared or even knew anything about the trial. Most would sigh with dismay as they missed the exposure of a secret that they had invested months of loyal viewing in anticipation of, just to have it obliterated by a dramatic-voiced young woman talking about a man

whose name didn‟t seem familiar. Infuriating them further came the encroachment into their show by the assistant district attorney, Travis Houston, patting himself on the back for getting the conviction and inviting questions from the press about the case. By the time the media was through milking everything they could out of the spectacle of another death sentence in the “Death Sentence Capital of America,” the show was over and the four o‟clock news came on, replaying the videotape of the interruption. Oh, well, soon they would go to the weather segment and life would return to normal. And tomorrow the slow-moving soap opera would reveal the missing piece of information by ricocheting it through the other storylines. All was not lost after all.

Chapter 2

THE shiny, black luxury sedan cruised its way east on Hyde Park like a dark ghost gliding through the sticky, humid night air, catching the reflections of the street lights on its hood, top, and trunk, while the porch lights of houses reflected dimly in its fenders, doors, and dark tinted windows. It was like a stealth bomber making its way toward a target. At Whitney it made a right and rolled to a stop in front of a neat, white wood-frame house. The passenger window lowered to the sound of its gently whirring motor. Peering inside was the face of a young black man. The automatic door lock clicked, and the driver‟s voice said, “Get in.” Ducking his tall frame through the door into the cool, air-conditioned space of the passenger‟s seat, the young man stretched his legs forward until his large feet came to rest on the floorboard under the dash. After pushing the buttons to lock the door and raise the window, the driver drove on through the residential neighborhood to Pacific Street, made a left, then another, making the block. The two sat in silence as the car moved slowly north across Fairview and through the neighborhood of neatly restored old arts and crafts bungalows, until it reached West Gray. Making a right and heading toward downtown, the car rolled quietly through the better-lit street for a few blocks until it ducked left into a very different neighborhood, one where the brave were encroaching with their luxury townhouses into Freedmen‟s Town, where small clapboard shotgun houses crowded up toward the sidewalks, allowing just a small bare-dirt yard for the black children from within to play. The urban pioneers were betting that those small houses would go the way of the ones that used to stand where their new, fancy brick residences now crowded into the neighborhood,

nestled in the shadows of downtown Houston. Once past the new townhouses, the sleek black shark plunged into the depths of the old neighborhood. Teenaged boys and kids came running from every direction, surrounding the car as it made its way slowly through the narrow streets. It was like a scene from a thirdworld ghetto where beggar children run after the cars of Westerners, hoping for a handout. The driver handed a twenty-dollar bill to the young black man in the passenger seat as he hit the button that lowered the right-front window. Clutching the twenty tightly but exposing it to the young men running alongside, the passenger stuck his right hand out the window. A black hand clutched the passenger‟s extended fist and, without missing a beat, pushed a hard lump into the tightly clenched palm, which released its grip on the twenty while clasping the rock. The driver raised the window as the young black passenger drew his hand back inside. The shiny black ghost made its way north to West Dallas Street, turning right onto the well-lit avenue, making its way past the new police station that coexisted within two blocks of one of the city‟s most active crack-dealing neighborhoods. It was as if the Houston Police Department had no idea that across the street and around the corner the war on drugs was being waged and won by the drug dealers. No one seemed to care. At Bagby Street, in the glowing light of the skyscrapers that soared from the center of the city, the car made another right turn and headed south alongside the service road of I-45, back toward West Gray. One block short of the busy intersection, the car pulled over to the curb. “You know what to do,” the driver said, punching the door lock button. The locks clicked open and, unfolding his massive frame, the young man silently stepped out onto the sidewalk, disappearing into the night.

PEDRO “PETE” ESCOBAR sat in the little office right inside the lobby entrance of Midtowne Tower, a great green glass monstrosity that soared above the intersection of West Gray and Bagby Streets, right at the curve to the Pierce Elevated, which marked the change of name of

I-45 from the North Freeway coming into the city from Dallas to the Gulf Freeway, which ran south all the way to Galveston and the Gulf of Mexico. He was doing his night job: security guard to the exclusive condo building. His day job was as an officer with the Houston Police Department. Ten years he had busted his balls for the HPD, and still he needed to hold down a second job to make ends meet. With three little girls, two in Catholic school, not to mention another baby on the way, making ends meet was never easy. Pete hoped this one would be a boy. It would have helped for his wife to work and bring in another check, but who would take care of the kids? His mom had stayed home and raised him and his brothers and sisters, and that‟s what he wanted for his own children. So he came seven nights a week to Midtowne Tower, where he sat in this little office, watching the security monitors and making hourly rounds through the hallways of the luxury high-rise to keep an eye on things. The tenants were well-heeled, mainly male, and mostly gay. After all, it was not only within walking distance of downtown, it was just at the edge of the Montrose area, the center of Houston‟s gay life. It was all right; he didn‟t mind. Everyone greeted him with a smile, and at Christmas-time the gifts were plentiful and of excellent quality: everything from food baskets to the kind of shirts and sweaters that he couldn‟t afford for himself. The security for the building was high-tech and of the latest design, but still a live security guard was needed; no matter how much you tried to educate people, they were constantly careless about letting strangers through the security doors. You know, just being polite and holding the door for whomever was coming up behind them. That‟s why he would make the rounds on every floor, just to make sure that nobody was roaming the halls, looking for an easy mark: an unlocked door or a person not paying attention to their surroundings as they walked between their front door and the building‟s entrances, front and garage. He took pride in the fact that nothing bad had happened since he had been working there. Vigilance was his policy, constant vigilance. He swept through the monitors often and stayed off the phone so that people could get through if they needed to. He noticed the front door open as a tenant buzzed a guest in, and it reminded him to check the time. He looked at his gold wristwatch,

the one the condo board had given him last month for his thirtieth birthday, another nice gift: 9:50 p.m. He needed to start a walk-through in ten minutes.

GLANCING at his watch, Pete Escobar stepped out of the elevator onto the fifth floor. 10:15 p.m. exactly, not a minute earlier or later; he was right on time. He walked slowly down the hallway, looking from side to side, then straight ahead. When he came to number 504, he noticed the door was ajar, and he could hear what sounded like strangled screams of pain coming from within the residence. Drawing the gun from its holster and quietly pushing the door open, he entered the narrow hallway that ran from the condo‟s entrance to the two-story living room beyond. The sounds of distress were more pronounced once he was on the other side of the muffling influence of the front door. He made his way forward, past the closed bathroom door to the doorway into the galley kitchen on the right. He pulled up short and peered around the corner into the kitchen. It was empty. Then he heard a man‟s voice. “Shut up, you old fuck, and take my dick before I slit your throat.” Officer Escobar edged forward down the narrow hallway, the soaring two-story wall of windows coming more and more into view around the corner at the end of the hall. The view was a spectacular display of skyscrapers lit up in the night, so close that it seemed you could reach out and touch them. The security guard refocused on the sounds of pain coming from just beyond the hallway, from somewhere inside the living room. As he carefully cleared the end of the hall and the entire living room came into view, he could see the source of the cries. There, in front of the awe-inspiring skyline view, was a couch facing toward the windows, and juxtaposed against the back of the couch was the sight of a well-muscled, gyrating, naked black ass atop a long pair of muscular black legs, rising out of a pushed-down pair of blue jeans. Framing those dark legs were two pale white legs with a pair of dark slacks stretched from ankle to ankle. Both men were bent forward over the back of the couch so that neither of their torsos showed. As Pete Escobar came up close behind the two men, neither

seemed aware of his presence. In fact, by the time he was squarely behind the two, the pulsating black butt had reached a crescendo of violent thrusting. Just as the officer raised his gun into position, a guttural sound of pleasured pain came from the black man as he slammed his hips forward and began to shake spasmodically. “Hold it right there,” Escobar commanded loudly. Springing upright to his full height of six feet six inches, the black man towered before the five-foot eight-inch Escobar. The black man raised his hands high above his head, clutching a switchblade knife in his right hand. The room went deadly quiet just before a sound like thunder tore through the silence. In the slow motion that accompanied the shock of the moment, the neck of the black man stretched slowly as his head snapped forward and upward, presaging the eruption from his face of dark red fluid mixed with jagged chunks, like lava from an angry volcano. The sounds of the hurling pieces splattering against the towering, picturesque windows punctuated the end of the violent percussive bang of the .45. As if the scene were not gruesome enough, the head of the young black man fell forward, hanging only by the skin at the front of the throat. As it pulled the torso with it, the faceless skull hit Judge Maxwell Silver‟s back, where what remained of its contents oozed out. And time stood still. It seemed that the universe would not restart itself. Both the judge and the cop questioned in their own minds whether they wanted it to. Neither was sure what was ahead, and both were afraid to find out.

THIRTY minutes later the condo was swarming with policemen, plainclothes and uniformed. There were crime scene investigators going over every square inch of the place, upstairs and down. The loft bedroom above the kitchen and toward the back had the appearance of being ransacked, as did its adjoining bathroom. The same was the case downstairs in the living room; however, the kitchen seemed untouched. A jagged scar in the doorjamb indicated that the front door had been

forced open. The obviously shaken owner of the condo, Judge Maxwell Silver, reported that he had returned home sometime after ten o‟clock p.m. to find a burglar in his residence. He added that the startled intruder had held him at gunpoint, using the judge‟s own firearm, which the perp had found. And just as the man was about to shoot him, despite the judge‟s assurance that he wouldn‟t identify him if he spared his life, Officer Escobar came to the rescue, rushing in behind the intruder and shooting him. Pete Escobar‟s account corroborated that of the judge, and had it not been for the fact that there had been a homicide involving a police officer, off duty or not, the matter would have been dropped right there. In fact, other than the report to Internal Affairs and the obligatory presentation to the Harris County Grand Jury, the investigation pretty much stopped right at that point. To the cops on the scene, it seemed pretty cut and dried. Burglar gets surprised by homeowner and cop and gets shot and killed: end of story. No one there put much effort into critically examining the crime scene. No one seemed to notice that the story given by the victim and the officer didn‟t seem to fit the physical evidence. The judge didn‟t have one drop of blood or tissue debris on his face or on the front of his body, yet both the cop and the judge reported that the judge had been standing between the perp and the windows across from the officer. The splatter pattern was massive, disturbingly so, and still the judge escaped unmarked. Yet no one seemed to notice, and no one questioned it. It was as though everyone arrived with a fact sheet in hand, making no effort to question the preset story. The next day on all the early-morning local news shows there was a report about the shooting of an unidentified armed robber at the condominium of Judge Maxwell Silver. An officer from the Public Affairs Division of the HPD appeared before the cameras, assuring the citizens of Houston that their police department had once again saved the day. Judge Silver was unavailable for comment, it was reported, because he was understandably shaken by the event.

FOUR weeks later, Internal Affairs ruled the discharge of Officer Escobar‟s weapon on the night in question justified, and the Assistant DA who handled such matters went before a grand jury and got the necessary “No Bill” to close the case. The report was given a thirty-second spot on the local evening newscasts, because, frankly, most people had already forgotten the incident. It was old news. A week after that, the Condominium Board for Midtowne Tower gave a special award to Officer Pedro Escobar for “service over and beyond” in connection with his brilliant and timely rescue of Judge Maxwell Silver. The judge himself presented the plaque, and a special bonus check for $10,000. And just like that the story went away, forgotten by everyone except those personally involved. A city of four million people doesn‟t hold onto things very long because there are always other events coming along and grabbing the headlines.

Chapter 3

SITTING at the small, round table in the breakfast nook end of her kitchen, Lilah Patterson stared vacantly at the cold, latte-colored contents of her coffee cup. The petite, attractive, 38-year-old black woman would have had to get up and walk over to the microwave to revive the sweet concoction that lay lifeless and neglected in its porcelain container. Her wandering mind realized that the coffee should have been black and bitter this Saturday morning to match her mood as she faced the prospects of the day. She had promised herself that she would go in there this morning and begin what she had refused to face up until now. As she shifted her gaze from the tabletop to the dark hallway across the den from the kitchen, her thoughts rushed through the unbelievable events of the past six weeks. Still trying to avoid accepting what had happened, she prayed every day and every night that it was all a horrible nightmare from which she would awaken, screaming, in her bed, signaling its blessed end. But it was either real, or she was still trapped inside the endless dream. How could she get up and walk through the door at the end of the hall and face what was inside? What would her long-dead, hero husband, Derrek, have made of the boy? Peering across to the living room wall, she studied what amounted to a shrine of pictures dedicated to her long-lost and beloved husband. “I‟m sorry, Derrek. I guess I wasn‟t a very good mother to our boy.” And then, just as quickly, her penitent thoughts turned to anger. “Why weren‟t you here? We needed you!” she shouted at the photo gallery. Then again, in the torrent of emotions that turned and twisted like an agitator in a washing machine, she was overcome by guilt for

blaming her beloved, who had his own light snuffed out in the line of duty as a policeman. And now, this. What had she done to deserve this life of madness? Lilah‟s mind flashed back to that night six weeks ago when, for the second time in her adult life, her world was turned upside down by an act of violence. That warm June night, she awoke at two a.m. with that feeling that only mothers have about their children—that instinctive, emotional realization that something is wrong. After getting up from her bed, she made her way to her son Marcus‟s room and quietly opened the door, expecting to see his long, muscled body sprawled out amongst the twisted bedclothes. The room was in the same cluttered state that it always was, but Marcus was not there. Even though he was 18 and just graduated from high school, it wasn‟t like Marcus to be out this late without having alerted his mom to his plan. Although logic told her there was nothing to worry about, what began as a tiny seed of fear quickly grew to a full-fledged panic as her mind went to the scariest places imaginable. But as she replayed the events in her head this Saturday morning, she knew that even those thoughts had fallen far short of the truth. She had called the home of his best friend, Ahmad, to see if perhaps he was spending the night and just forgot to tell her. Ahmad‟s sleepy-voiced mother reported that Ahmad was asleep in his bed and Marcus was not there. Lilah apologized for waking her and resumed her worrying at a more fevered pace. Where could he be? His car was not in the driveway, and on another check of his bedroom, she found his cell phone on the nightstand. She couldn‟t even call him. Her worry was mixed with frustration and anger toward the boy. He was always running off and leaving his cell phone at home. The whole idea behind her getting it was so she could call him at times just like these. She was going to give him a good talking to when he got back home. Once she knew there was no way of getting in touch with him, she realized that the only thing left to do was to go back to bed and try to get some sleep. Even though school was out, as a teacher she still had to attend in-service tomorrow, and she needed to get some sleep so

she didn‟t doze off during one of those often-boring seminars that they were required to attend. But sleep didn‟t come easily for a mother who didn‟t know where her boy was. Fitfully tossing and turning, Lilah caught mini-naps between bouts of worry that dogged her until the alarm went off at six a.m. Marcus was still absent from the house when the time came for her to leave for work. Leaving a sharply worded note ordering him to stay until she got home on the counter near the refrigerator, where he would surely go first, Lilah departed for her job. She was tempted to stay home to “greet” him when he showed up, but missing in-service was severely frowned upon, and she enjoyed her job as much as she needed it. Being a single mother was difficult on many levels, not least of which was the need to provide for the financial requirements of her family of two. Marcus would be leaving for college in August, University of Texas. And despite the athletic scholarship he had received as a prized all-star quarterback recruit, there would still be many expenses to be paid, including the new, yellow Mustang convertible she had bought him as a graduation present. Even though he was in the doghouse at the moment, she had to admit that he had earned his car, graduating as valedictorian of his class in addition to his exploits on the football field. But even that wasn‟t going to save him from the talking-to he would receive when she got home that afternoon. The bad dream only got worse when she returned home at four p.m. to find the Mustang not in the driveway and the note right where she had left it next to the fridge. She called Ahmad‟s number again. This time the teenager answered the phone. “Ahmad, is Marcus over there?” “No, ma‟am, Mrs. Patterson. He‟s not here,” he replied. “Do you know where he is?” she pressed. “No, ma‟am.” She had always liked Ahmad‟s politeness. She was glad that Marcus had such a nice young man as his best friend. “When was the last time you saw him, Ahmad?” She was beginning to feel the panic growing inside her chest as the thudding

beat of her heart began to be noticeable. “Not since yesterday afternoon, ma‟am.” “Did he say anything about plans or going anywhere?” “He just said he was going into Houston, but he didn‟t say where or anything.” The worried mother in her couldn‟t let it go at that and pressed on. “Are you sure he didn‟t tell you any more than that?” The voice on the other end paused as if to think about the question, which gave Lilah a split-second of hope that he would tell her the answer she sought. “No, ma‟am. He didn‟t say what he was going to do. But, Mrs. Patterson, sometimes he….” Ahmad suddenly stopped in mid-sentence. “Sometimes he what, Ahmad? What were you going to say?” Deafening silence. Now, the panic was evident in her voice. “Ahmad, please tell me what you were going to say. I promise I won‟t get mad or let Marcus know you told me.” “Mrs. Patterson, I don‟t want to say nothin‟. I‟m not even sure.” “Look, Ahmad, I‟m afraid he may be in some kind of trouble, and I need to find out where he is. Please, tell me anything you know.” Once again a maddening pause fell into the conversation. Just as Lilah was about to plead once more for an answer, Ahmad‟s faltering voice came over the line. “Well, sometimes he would go into Houston to….” Ahmad paused again. “To what, Ahmad? To what?” “He said he was going to make some easy money,” Ahmad said in a very low voice, as though he was afraid he would be overheard. “What does that mean? Ahmad, what did he mean by „making some easy money‟?” Now she was really scared of what her son might have gotten himself into. “I don‟t know, ma‟am. He wouldn‟t ever tell me what it was.” “Are you sure, Ahmad? This is really important.” “I‟m sure. I tried to get him to let me go along, but he wouldn‟t.

He said he didn‟t want to get me involved.” “Do you think that‟s where he is now, Ahmad?” “I really don‟t know, Mrs. Patterson. I really don‟t know. Please don‟t tell Marcus I said anything. I don‟t want him to be mad at me. He‟s been my best friend since grade school.” “I promise I won‟t tell him, Ahmad. But are you absolutely sure there‟s nothing else you can remember about what he said or where he might be? Please, think really hard,” she pleaded. “No, ma‟am. That‟s all I know.” Knowing that the boy wasn‟t likely to tell her any more than he already had, she realized it was time to turn the search elsewhere. “Thanks, Ahmad. You‟ve really been a help. If you think of anything else, please let me know. Okay?” “Okay, Mrs. Patterson. Good-bye.” Her conversation with Ahmad had turned the bad dream she seemed caught in more toward the realm of a nightmare, and she knew there was only one thing left to do. Calling the police, Lilah made a missing person report on her son, hoping that when they found him, he wouldn‟t be in some kind of trouble that she couldn‟t get him out of.

TWO excruciating days had passed without any word from Marcus, and whenever the phone would ring and it would be someone calling to see how she was doing or if she had heard anything, she wanted to scream angry curse words at the caller for ringing her phone and not being Marcus. Every time she answered the phone, she was sure it would be her baby‟s voice on the other end, calling to say he was all right, but every time it was somebody else: a friend or relative, somebody who really did care. But she secretly resented their intrusions and questioned their sincerity, just wanting them to stay off the phone in case Marcus was trying to call. Then it came. Not the call that she was expecting, but a ring of her doorbell at eight thirty that Sunday morning, when she was all dressed for church and trying to decide whether or not to go. She didn‟t

want to leave her vigil near the phone, but she really needed the blessing of the Almighty in her life and didn‟t want to offend Him in her deepest hour of need by skipping out on her usual Sunday attendance. The decision turned out not to be one she needed to make, because the uniformed officer standing at her front door had already charted the course of her day. “Ma‟am, are you Mrs. Lilah Patterson?” the short, husky white man asked. “Yes, yes, sir, I am,” she haltingly answered. “Ma‟am, we found your son‟s car, and we need you to come downtown and see if you can identify a body that we think could be your son.” The officer was completely lacking in tact as he stood before a mother who was already beside herself with anxiety. Because of that lack of sensitivity, he was completely caught off guard when she began to collapse on the other side of the doorway, almost hitting the floor before he could step forward to catch her. “I‟m sorry, ma‟am. I really am,” he said as he lowered her onto the floor. She had not lost consciousness, and looked up into his pleading eyes. Not knowing what to say, the officer just continued his apology. “I‟ve never had to do this before. I‟m really sorry, ma‟am.”

WHEN Lilah Patterson entered the morgue in downtown Houston, all the horrible memories of that day, fifteen years earlier, when she had stood in this very room identifying Derrek‟s lifeless body, came flooding back. But denial held tight, as she continued to believe that it was a mistake, that her baby, her Marcus, would not be on that table, inside that body bag. The soft, comforting voice of the young woman who had introduced herself as the assistant coroner brought her back to the present. “Mrs. Patterson, I‟m sorry to tell you that, due to its bad condition, we haven‟t been able to identify the body, and I want to warn you that this is probably going to be very upsetting. The face is almost completely destroyed. The gunshot entered the back of the skull and practically tore the face to shreds as it exited. So I‟m going to have

to ask you to try to identify the body by any identifying features other than the face, a birthmark, a scar, or something like that,” she said. “He didn‟t have a birthmark or any kind of scar on his body,” Lilah quickly asserted. She remembered the day he was born, when she had carefully examined every square centimeter of his little body, counting his fingers and toes. He was perfect, flawless. And by the grace of God he hadn‟t suffered one scarring cut or tear on that perfect body through the next eighteen years. “Well, would you take a look and see if you can identify him, ma‟am. I know this isn‟t easy.” The assistant coroner unzipped the body bag from top to bottom, revealing the well-muscled body of a young black man lying out below a mutilated, unrecognizable head. Lilah Patterson gasped in spite of her determination to remain strong. What had happened here? Why was the face of this body like a package of ground meat? It was gruesome beyond her imagination. She had to force her eyes down past the obviously damaged neck to the long expanse of the body. She wanted to say it wasn‟t Marcus, but the skin of the corpse was flawless, and his build was just like Marcus‟s own, and the feet, the great big feet—everyone had kidded him about his feet since he was a little boy. Everything made it hard to deny that it was her baby lying there, but she couldn‟t believe it. She just couldn‟t admit it was him. She didn‟t want it to be him. They had to give her more proof than this. There had to be more. “I‟m—I‟m just not sure it‟s him,” she said quietly. “Could it be him, ma‟am?” the young woman asked. “I guess it could be—no! No, it‟s not my baby!” she shouted. “It‟s not him!” The young assistant coroner dealt with this every day. There was a reason she was assigned to this duty. Of everyone in the department, she had the gentlest touch in these situations. In a very low and conciliatory voice, she soothingly pursued her question. “Ma‟am, I know this must be the hardest thing you‟ve ever been asked to do, and I‟m so sorry to have to ask, but do you think you could identify the clothes the man was wearing? Do you think that would help?” Silent tears flowed slowly, one by one, down the cheeks of the proud black woman as she stood in horror above the dead body, hoping

that her instincts were wrong, hoping that by saying it wasn‟t her son, it would make it so… clinging desperately to the last hope that she had. And now the nice woman—yes, she seemed very nice—was asking her to identify another piece of evidence in hopes that she would admit what her heart refused to. Instinctively, her well-educated brain threw up another defense against the gentle assault of the assistant coroner. “I don‟t know what he was wearing that day,” she said, hoping to dismiss the need to examine the corpse‟s missing clothing. Still gently, ever thoughtfully, the young woman pressed forward. No matter how sad it might be, she had a job to do, and she had been told by her boss, the coroner, that the police were pressuring him for the identity of this young black man. “Ma‟am, I know this is very distressing for you, but if it is your son, wouldn‟t you want to know, so you can take care of him?” The inner mother heard the words and realized the truth they contained. If this body was Marcus, she needed to know it so she could be there to help him on his journey to meet the Lord. A look of peaceful determination came over her as she stiffened her back and rose up to her full height before answering, strongly but softly, “Yes. Yes, you are right. I better look at those clothes and see if this is my baby.” The assistant coroner produced a plastic bag. Reaching inside with her latex-gloved hands, she brought the contents out and carefully unfolded them on a nearby table. “If you would, ma‟am, please look at them, but don‟t touch them. They are evidence. If you need me to turn them over so you can look at both sides, just ask me.” When the young woman stepped back from the table and Lilah approached, she knew immediately that they were Marcus‟s clothes. It was his favorite navy blue FUBU shirt, his best pair of baggy blue jeans, and his over-priced, giant-sized basketball shoes. She tried not to notice the bloodstains that were splattered on the shoulders of the shirt and tried to only remember how his face had lit up when he opened the box with that shirt on his birthday, just three months earlier. And those shoes; she had always wondered where they came from. He said that his friends took up a collection to buy them for his birthday, but she wasn‟t sure of that story. She knew they cost at least $150. That was a

lot for “friends” to pay. Then she remembered what Ahmad had said: “Marcus said he was going down to Houston to make some easy money.” Unfortunately, the pieces were beginning to fall into place. “Yes, those are his clothes,” she said with a firm resolve. There could be no more denial.

SEATED across the interview table from Detective Mercer—a stocky, doughy-faced man—in a small interrogation room, Lilah Patterson was about to hear the words that would pierce her aching heart like a dagger. The detective explained that her beloved Marcus had been shot to death by an off-duty police officer during the commission of an armed robbery of a judge in his condo near downtown Houston. She was given the details as reported by Officer Escobar, including that Marcus had been armed with the robbery victim‟s own pistol, which had been discharged during the crime. He had also been found in possession of crack cocaine and the paraphernalia necessary to smoke it. It was like that dagger lodged in her heart was being twisted deeper and deeper. She could hardly believe her ears. She had observed nothing whatsoever that indicated Marcus could be capable of such things. She felt that she was fairly close to her son―well, as close as a mother could be with a teenaged boy―and she was stunned that he was using drugs and capable of armed robbery. So, in a state of shock, she sleepwalked through the questioning by Detective Mercer of what she knew about Marcus‟s whereabouts on the night of the crime.

NOW, six weeks later, she sat at her kitchen table staring across the room at the pictures of her late husband, wondering what he would say if he were here. Derrek would surely have been able to prevent this from happening. After all, Derrek was gone now, shot himself by an armed robber, which afforded him superhero status. Still, she just knew that if Derrek were here, somehow things would have come out

differently. Realizing she couldn‟t put it off any longer and having made a promise to herself that she would face cleaning out Marcus‟s room today, Lilah got up slowly from the table and carried the cold cup of coffee to the kitchen sink, where she poured it down the drain, rinsed the cup, and placed it on the counter next to the sink. The weight of the world dragged on her as she made her way down the dark hallway to the door at the end. She hadn‟t been in Marcus‟s room since the night he disappeared. She hadn‟t even been able to go in there to retrieve clothing for his funeral. Instead, all new things had been purchased to lay him out in. Not that it mattered anyway, since the casket had had to remain closed due to his mangled face. Slowly she turned the doorknob and pushed, following the door as it swung into the room. It looked just as it had that night: the clutter of dirty clothes on the floor and draped over the desk chair, the tangled bedclothes piled on the bed. And then the smell, the smell of Marcus, hit her full in the face and stunned her senses, sending her staggering forward until she fell, facedown, across the bed. Clutching the sheets to her face and breathing deeply, she inhaled the essence of her lost son, and for the first time since the whole nightmare began, she let herself go. A deep, primal scream escaped her lungs and gushed through her throat on its way to erupting from her mouth. She turned her face toward the heavens as she clutched the bedding of her beloved son to her bosom, screaming to God, “My baby! My baby! Why did You take my baby?” She just laid there for a long time, sobbing out the pain that had resided deep in her heart for the past six weeks as the tears streamed from her dark eyes like springs of sorrow. A mother‟s agony gripped at her soul. An irreparable scar was on her spirit, one that she would take to her grave. Even the loss of her beloved husband had not been this painful. She just wanted to die, to go be with them in the arms of the Lord. “Please, Lord, take me too. I have lost my reason for being,” she pled. It was true. When Derrek died, she had wanted to die as well, but she had Marcus, and he needed his mother. He was only three, and in those bright, black-button child‟s eyes she saw her way to go on, her

reason for moving forward. But not this time. What was left for her now? She rode the pain and let it take her on its cruel rollercoaster. After what seemed an eternity, she was cried out and found herself sitting on Marcus‟s bed. She looked around and saw the chaos that had always been his room since he was a little boy. “Why should I put everything away, Mama? I‟ll just need to get it out again tomorrow,” he would say, as a bright smile revealed his teeth and brought that twinkling sparkle to his eyes. “Why make the bed, Mama? I‟m just going to get back in it tonight and mess it up again.” Maybe she had been too indulgent because of the loss of Derrek, but it was hard to be rough on a boy with such a winning personality. “Well, this room isn‟t going to clean itself,” she said to herself out loud. With a new burst of energy, she got up from the twin bed and began picking up the mess, gathering the dirty clothes into a pile so they could be washed and given to charity. Someone would be glad to have his expensive shirts and jeans; at least some good would come of all this, she thought. After she had all the clothes cleared away and had started the first load of them in the washing machine, she decided to go through the drawers of his chest, dresser, and nightstand, collecting anything else that might be of use to others. The chest of drawers and dresser yielded lots of good quality boxer shorts and socks as well as many T-shirts in good enough condition to donate. That having been accomplished, she sat back down on the stripped mattress and opened the top drawer of the nightstand. It was strange, because she had never been the kind of mother who snooped in her child‟s room. She didn‟t know what to expect as she pulled the drawer open and peered inside. Oddly, with all the disarray in Marcus‟s room, the interior of the drawer was neatly organized. There were several pens and pencils on one side and a stack of magazines and small paperback books on the other, and atop that stack was what appeared to be a date book. Lilah picked up the date book. As she removed it from the drawer, three items fell out on the floor. After retrieving them, she studied them carefully. One was a snapshot of Marcus standing in the mock courtroom of the Criminal Justice Department at his high school,

between two men. One was his teacher, Mr. Johnson, and the other was a white man who appeared to be in his fifties. The older white man in the photo was wearing a black robe like a judge, and he had his arm around Marcus‟s shoulders. She didn‟t know who he was. The next item was a graduation card Marcus had received. It was signed, “With deepest, personal best wishes, Judge Maxwell Silver.” The third item was a birthday card. It was signed, “Love, M.” Lilah looked back to the photo, then to the cards. Could the man in the picture be Judge Maxwell Silver? Why did that name seem so familiar? Somewhere in the back of her mind there was a connection that she couldn‟t seem to make. Opening the date book to the date of Marcus‟s death, she found scrawled in ink in the nine p.m. slot, “MS@HP&W.” She flipped through the pages and found the same entry, always at nine p.m., on at least one day a week, going back to sometime in February, over a month before Marcus‟s birthday. Lilah Patterson‟s mind went into overdrive. What did all of this mean? Who was Maxwell Silver? She shuffled the items in her hands as her mind turned over and over. Finally, the light came on. Maxwell Silver, Judge Maxwell Silver! That was the name of the judge that Marcus had tried to rob. Wait a minute! Wait just a minute! That man, Judge Maxwell Silver, said he didn‟t know Marcus. What was going on? Something wasn‟t right, and Lilah Patterson wasn‟t going to rest until she got some answers about her son‟s death.

Chapter 4

SLOWLY emerging from the hot dream he was having, Detective Erik Steppenwolf, SFPD, found that there was a very real reason behind it. The feel of a very wet and very warm mouth was languorously moving up and down between his legs. He looked around the room and realized that he was in his own San Francisco condo in his very own bed, and a quick look downward at the bobbing blond, brushy flattop reminded him exactly who was there with him this morning. His mind shot back to the night before. It was a typical Friday night. He was horny and knew exactly where to go and what to do once he got there. Folsom Street was Steppenwolf‟s prowling grounds. The raw realism of its night inhabitants, men like himself who knew what they wanted and weren‟t shy about getting it, appealed to his erotic senses. Unlike the Castro, Folsom Street wasn‟t about the games. It was about the hunt. Everybody there was on the prowl for the diversion of the night. Like a pack of wolves howling at the full moon, they were ravenous and predatory. It fit him perfectly. After getting his longneck Bud from the bartender, he settled along one of the walls, cruising the crowd with his eyes. There were familiar faces around. They looked in his direction, hoping for a sign that he would like a rematch of a previous encounter, but they would end up frustrated and disappointed if they put all their hopes for a hot night on the tall, dark, and handsome stud. Tonight Steppenwolf was on the prowl for “new meat.” As with most nights, he hungered for a fresh conquest: some nameless hot boy to ravish all night. So, patiently, he sipped his beer and waited. It didn‟t take all that long. When the leather boy walked in, all eyes went to the door, some more discreetly than others. There he was:

tonight‟s prey. Steppenwolf didn‟t allow his head to turn toward the boy; he followed him only with his eyes. Everything about the new arrival was exceptional, from the freshly trimmed, thick, golden flattop crowning the handsome but not pretty face, to his massively muscled arms and torso, clothed only in a revealing leather harness. Then there were his black leather chaps, which framed his thong-encased generous basket in front and the naked creamy globes of his ass, which were perfectly supported by well-worked glutes. Studying him with his police detective‟s eyes, Steppenwolf noted the items that were important to sizing him up as a hot catch. Everything was in order: tattoo armband on right upper arm, keys hanging loosely from the steel ring on the right hand side of the chaps. The hot leather boy was a bottom. After procuring a Bud longneck for himself, the golden stud turned from the bar and looked casually around the room until his crystal-blue eyes met Steppenwolf‟s own dark green ones. For just a moment their gaze locked across the full width of the dark, smoky hall. It wasn‟t long, but just enough for each to know if their interest was mutual. Upon breaking visual contact, the boy turned to his right and slowly made his way around the perimeter of the room, not making eye contact with anyone. As he passed in front of Steppenwolf, the detective discreetly made the final assessment of the boy. He was about five foot eight, a good six inches shorter than Steppenwolf, and he was wide bodied: massive shoulders and back atop short, muscular legs. Oh, yeah, he was Steppenwolf‟s type in every way. Without making any eye contact whatsoever, the blond bombshell came to a stop and backed into the space along the wall next to Steppenwolf, turning his body at a 45-degree angle, with his back and that smokin‟ ass in the direction of the taller man. Steppenwolf was impressed with the boy‟s style. This leather bottom knew exactly how to get his point across to the right man. Erik Steppenwolf, without a doubt, knew himself to be the right man, so he made his move. Leaning forward until his lips were almost touching the boy‟s ear, Steppenwolf growled in his deepest voice, “Daddy is going to his bedroom now, and if the boy wants to play, he should follow along.” Giving one of the boy‟s fabulous creamy ass cheeks a firm squeeze with his large hand, Steppenwolf headed for the exit.

Although he didn‟t look back, he knew that the boy was trailing him. As he stepped out into the cool night air, onto the streets of San Francisco and heading uphill to his condo, he could hear the footsteps of the boy behind him. Oh, yes, this boy knew exactly what “daddy” wanted, and Steppenwolf knew what the boy wanted. They walked the five blocks to Steppenwolf‟s place silently, the boy walking behind, until they reached the front door. Once Steppenwolf turned the key in the lock, he held the door open and waited while the boy slipped inside, waiting at the foot of the stairway. Resuming his position as leader, Steppenwolf led the boy to the top of the stairs of the old Nob Hill Victorian townhouse that had been converted into condos and let his prey inside his condo door. Maintaining the silence, no conversation and no names— especially no names—the two made their way to the bedroom, where they came together in a lust-driven embrace. As they pawed their way over each other‟s bodies, their hot passion for one another drove them both into a frenzy of exploration. The boy, in his impatient lust, clawed the tight white T-shirt up and over Steppenwolf‟s head, revealing the swirls of dark hair on his muscled chest. Instinctively, Steppenwolf‟s anxious hands found their way into the crevice between the hot boy‟s buns just as the boy‟s hands pulled the buttons of Steppenwolf‟s fly loose and grasped the ready, turgid member that sprang from its bonds. Grabbing the boy by his leather harness, Steppenwolf flung him down onto the bed. Pulling those short muscular legs up over his shoulders, the sexually charged police detective unsnapped the leather thong, removing the last obstacle to his assault. Steppenwolf plunged forward, hitting the target with the first thrust, driving himself deep inside. The boy let out a cry of pain, adding to Steppenwolf‟s excitement. If he had been in a more gentlemanly frame of mind, he would have asked the boy if he was okay, but his lust had brought him over to the dark side where he didn‟t care about the boy‟s comfort. So, while holding the boy‟s legs in the firm grip of his own muscled arms, he savagely continued his assault. Offering no words of protest, the boy‟s reaction went in rapid succession from strangled screams of pain, to cries of discomfort, then moans of pleasure, as the tall, muscular man maintained complete control over his body, holding him down while selfishly taking his own pleasure. They were now both

lost in ecstasy as they enjoyed the erotic state that had overtaken their mutual consciousness. Both would have happily spent eternity in that moment, but other urges soon overtook them as the pace of the action quickened, pushing them to the precipice. Then the avalanche of passion swept over both of them as they simultaneously reached orgasm, an overpowering rush of physical pleasure that hit like a tsunami. Both had quickly fallen asleep in the relaxation that accompanies much-needed release, but through the night they had awakened to the urge two more times. And now, this Saturday morning, the boy was doing what he could to bring the daddy back to life for another round. Steppenwolf found that he couldn‟t resist the extreme heat that this boy brought to his bed, and soon they were going at it again, with the same passion that they had enjoyed the first time. This boy brought out Steppenwolf‟s inner animal in a way that he hadn‟t experienced in a very long time, literally plunging him back into action. In the afterglow of passion that ensued, with the boy lying spent in his arms, Steppenwolf realized that he had found what he had been secretly seeking for a long time. He had to make a play to get this wild child to come back for more. Who knew where it might lead? “Now, we can exchange names,” he said with a hint of humor in his voice as he gazed into the boy‟s handsome face. A dazzling smile broke across the face below, causing those big blue eyes to twinkle. “Noah,” he answered softly. “Noah what?” Steppenwolf asked. But before Noah could answer, the phone rang. Steppenwolf‟s mood darkened. Who could this be, calling him early on a Saturday morning when he was busy with his personal life? It better be important, he thought, rolling over in the bed with his back to the hot boy and reaching for the phone. “Hello?” The female voice on the other end of the line was hesitant, seemingly unsure whether to go on. “Erik?” Steppenwolf‟s mind went into search mode. He recognized the voice, but he couldn‟t place it. “Yes?” he replied. “Erik, this is Lilah, Lilah Patterson.” Now the face came into focus with the voice, and the connection

brought a wave of emotions crashing through his mind. Lilah Patterson, how could he ever forget? His mind became a time machine, pulling him fifteen years into the past, back to Houston, Texas. Derrek Patterson! Pain surged through him like a knife being twisted in his guts. A police cruiser rolling down the street, a gunshot, a horrible death. The pictures flashed until he could gain focus on the memory.

IT HAD all started so well. The Houston Police Department had opened its ranks to openly homosexual men and women after years of discrimination. It was the beginning of a new city policy to reach out to the gay community, ending a history of warlike raids and attacks. Rookie Erik Steppenwolf made the move with the department, coming out of the closet, as it were. Well, just because it was the new policy of the brass didn‟t exactly make it a welcome change to the guys in blue. The rookie was greeted with distrust and a coldness that was palpable. When the day came to assign him a partner for patrol, the truth was plain to see. “Okay, guys, this is Patrolman Erik Steppenwolf. He‟s been assigned to our squad. Who wants to be his partner?” Captain Chamberlain asked. The silence in the squad room was deafening. Bad news traveled fast, and it was clear that no one wanted to ride with the “faggot.” It was as though the second hand on the wall clock had become the minute hand as Erik stood at the front of the unwelcoming room. Then, after what seemed an eternity, a voice came from the back of the room. “I‟ll take him.” A tall black man stood up and repeated, “I‟ll take him.” The man walked forward through the crowd and came to a stop in front of Erik. “Steppenwolf, I‟m Patterson, Derrek Patterson.” The uniformed man extended his large black hand, and Erik gratefully shook it. Oh, yeah, in their time as partners there had been some jokes, guys making kissing sounds behind their backs. And every once in a while someone would taunt them with jabs: “Erik and Derrek sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.” Or, “Erik and Derrek. With names like that, y‟all should get married. It sounds real sweet.”

Erik didn‟t take it very well, but Derrek had a sunny personality and urged his slightly younger partner to ignore them. “You know, there‟s all kinds of prejudice in the world, man. I should know. But you got to just shrug it off and realize it‟s a reflection on them, not on you. At least that‟s what my old grandma used to tell me. And you know, she‟s right. That doesn‟t mean I still don‟t want to slug some face every once in a while, but it wouldn‟t be cool. You know what I mean, man?” Then he would laugh, and everything would seem okay. Soon Erik was hanging out at Derrek‟s house with him and his wife Lilah and their little baby boy Marcus. They were all the best of friends and would do anything for each other. They were truly partners. Then it happened: the gray winter‟s morning that had changed everything forever. Derrek and Steppenwolf were finishing up their shift, just a few more minutes to go. Like most junior partners, Steppenwolf was the driver and Derrek rode on the passenger side. They were rolling down Tuam Street after patrolling Montrose. As he was making the curve in the street heading toward the precinct, Erik was distracted by a guy walking down the sidewalk. He was clad in tight, faded Levi‟s and a black leather biker‟s jacket that left his wellrounded ass showing, firmly lifted by that light blue denim. If Derrek hadn‟t grabbed the wheel at the last second, Steppenwolf would have missed the curve and driven up onto the sidewalk. “Whoa, dude. You are such a butt pirate,” Derrek quipped. “I guess it‟s a nice ass and all—if you‟re into that—but man, I‟ve got a life to live here.” He smiled broadly at his partner. Steppenwolf was always grateful for the slack that Derrek cut him and that sense of humor that made everything work. “Sorry, man. I guess I‟ll have to let that one go. I don‟t know why the hottest guys are always out when I‟m on duty.” “Ah, man, everybody always wants what they can‟t have. Well, that‟s what my old grandma used to say,” Derrek retorted. “Hey, man, is there anything that your „old grandma‟ didn‟t have something to say about?” It was Steppenwolf‟s turn to poke fun. Derrek smiled. “No, there isn‟t. That‟s why I‟m so fuckin‟ smart, man.” They both laughed. Derrek pointed to the convenience store on the left up ahead. “Hey, man, pull in there. I need to coffee up. I got to be alive when I get home to Lilah, if you know what I mean.” Derrek

winked provocatively at his partner. Steppenwolf pulled the police cruiser up to the front of the store and parked, leaving the engine running. “You need anything, man?” Derrek asked as he climbed out of the car. “No, thanks,” Steppenwolf answered. While he waited in the patrol car outside, the hot guy in the biker jacket came walking up to the store. He thought about calling him over to talk. Who knows? Maybe he could get the guy‟s number or something. But the guy didn‟t look his way and just strode on past, disappearing inside the store. Steppenwolf still couldn‟t help thinking about the guy, and decided that if he came out before Derrek, he was going to make a move. Then all hell broke loose. The sound of two shots rang out from inside the store, and before Steppenwolf could open the door to the patrol car, the front door of the store swung open and the guy in the biker jacket came running out, still holding on to his gun. Steppenwolf jumped out of the car and hollered at the guy, “Stop! Stop or I‟ll shoot!” He had his revolver out and beaded down on the still-running robber. He fired his weapon, and all that target practice paid off as the first and only bullet found its mark, square in the perp‟s back, sending the guy stumbling forward before he fell facedown onto the broken asphalt of the parking lot. Steppenwolf ran over to the motionless body, where he checked for a pulse. Nothing. Then he remembered Derrek, who had not run out of the store to assist him. Steppenwolf turned and ran back toward the door of the store, intuitively knowing what was waiting inside. Even a scary premonition did not steel him for what he found. It was Derrek, sprawled out facedown in a pool of his own blood, right inside the door. He hadn‟t even had time to draw his pistol. Steppenwolf ran to his partner‟s side, turning him over. “Derrek! Derrek! It‟s me. It‟s going to be all right, man. It‟s going to be all right.” But Derrek was as motionless as the dirtbag outside in the parking lot. The bullet had gone right into his chest, probably right into his heart. Steppenwolf instinctively put his hand over the wound to stop the bleeding and began CPR. It wasn‟t working. Realizing he needed to call for help, Steppenwolf stood up and looked past the counter to find a phone. Seeing the store clerk lying with a bullet wound in his head, faceup on the floor behind the counter,

Steppenwolf knew that his best bet was to get back to the patrol car and radio for help. As soon as she heard the panic in the voice coming over the radio, the dispatcher knew that there was a real problem. “Officer down! Officer down!” the voice screamed. To this day those words play in the head of Detective Erik Steppenwolf, SFPD. It‟s a continuing nightmare that never really goes away. Oh, yes, life moved on, but that nightmare still wakes him up screaming in the night. He still plays the scene out in his head, wondering what, if anything, he could have done to change it all. What if he had called the guy over to talk? Then Derrek might have come back out of the store in time to have missed the robbery. What if he had gone in with Derrek? With two cops in the store, the guy probably would have just run away. Guilt always finds its own way. It is the insidious enemy of sanity and logic. It doesn‟t want to be relieved. It wants to live forever in the tormented mind of its victim. It was the beginning of the end in Houston for Officer Steppenwolf. On the night of Derrek‟s funeral, in a state of guilt, he made his way to an adult video store to fuck his sorrow away. Inside the dark maze of the movie arcade, he found just what he was looking for: a hot, young, masculine guy willing to join him in the privacy of a viewing booth for whatever. The guy looked about his own age, mid twenties. He was short and slender with dirty-blond hair and a mustache. Steppenwolf didn‟t even think twice as he grabbed the guy‟s ass with one hand and his own belt with the other. “Man, I‟m going to fuck your ass,” he growled at the young man. When the guy reached into his pocket and brought out an HPD badge and a pair of handcuffs, quickly snapping them onto his wrists, Steppenwolf‟s mind didn‟t quite get what was going on. All he could think was: this guy‟s pretty kinky. Then the words that broke through the veil of denial came from the other guy‟s mouth. “HPD. You‟re under arrest, pervert!” He‟d gotten busted in a bookstore sting. Shit! In deference to the loss of his partner and his obvious sorrow, the department decided to “take it easy” on him. Steppenwolf was allowed to resign without prejudice and charges were dropped. He knew it

could have been a lot worse, but it was just another thousand-pound weight on his back. It had been Lilah who, in the midst of her own misery, offered him a solution. “Why don‟t you go to San Francisco, Erik? It might be the best thing you could do for yourself. I know if there was someplace that I could go and get away from all this, I would,” she counseled. She had been right. The horrible memory of Derrek‟s death would haunt him for the rest of his life no matter where he was, but at least he could go on with his career in law enforcement in a far more friendly atmosphere in San Francisco. So he applied, and with a very good recommendation from Captain Chamberlain, he was accepted. Fifteen years had passed, and San Francisco had become his home.

“ERIK, are you there?” Lilah‟s voice brought him back to the present. “Yeah. Yeah. Hello, Lilah. What a blast from the past. How you doin‟?” he answered. “Not good, Erik. Not good.” She started crying. Steppenwolf realized that she was in major distress. “Lilah, baby, what can I do for you? You know I‟ll do anything I can.” “It‟s Marcus. He‟s—he‟s dead, Erik.” And she began telling Steppenwolf about what had happened to her son. “I just know something is wrong, Erik. Things just don‟t make sense. Can you help me find out what really happened?” “I‟ll be there on the next flight to Hobby,” he assured her. Hanging up the phone, Steppenwolf looked at the other side of the bed. It was empty. He got up and searched the apartment. Noah was nowhere to be found. He must have left while I was on the phone, he thought. And I didn’t get his number. Shit! I wanted to see that boy again, he said to himself. His mind turned back to what Lilah had told him, and he realized that finding Noah would have to wait. From what Lilah had told him, his detective instincts led him to believe that she was right. Something was wrong with the facts surrounding the death of his old partner‟s son. He owed it to Derrek to go find out. He picked up the phone and booked a flight to Houston Hobby.

Chapter 5

AS STEPPENWOLF stepped off the airplane onto the concourse, he was hit square in the face by the stifling combination of heat and humidity that is uniquely Houston. He had forgotten how oppressive summer could be on the Gulf Coast. Lilah was waiting for him at the gate. Although it had been fifteen years, he was amazed at how good she still looked. It was as though she had been in some time warp since he last saw her. Her face still had that radiance he remembered from so long ago. He wondered if the same could be said for him. Yes, like any self-respecting gay man, he had taken care of himself—regular trips to the gym and moisturizers on his face and body—but he knew that the gray was beginning to salt his wavy, dark-brown hair. He struggled with the decision to let it go natural or to cover the gray, but as long as he could still score in a dimly lit barroom, he let it go. “Erik, you look great,” Lilah said as she reached out and up to give him a welcoming hug. “I would have known you anywhere. You haven‟t changed a bit.” “It‟s you who hasn‟t changed a bit. You are as beautiful as ever, and I‟m going to accept what you said about me because it‟s exactly what I wanted to hear,” he said as he gave her a firm squeeze around the back. Just as they stepped from the airport terminal into the parking garage, the rain started falling, a warm, messy drizzle, as could be expected on an early August day. The drive from Hobby to Lilah‟s suburban home wasn‟t far, but in true Houston fashion, the drizzling rain snarled the freeway traffic, even on a Sunday afternoon.

The dark, steely sky changed whatever residual warmth they shared on their reunion into a gloomy summer chill of a mood as they drove silently, both deep in thoughts about the real reason for their being together again after fifteen years. It was as though Marcus rode in the back seat—or more like his ghost accompanied them on the drive. Steppenwolf thought of the toddler he remembered as Lilah recalled her tall, handsome teenaged son. And of course, for Lilah, the memory was interrupted by the painful, stabbing image of the faceless Marcus on the coroner‟s table. No matter how much she tried, the horrible picture flashed, unannounced, into her head over and over again. Once they navigated the wet, tangled mess that was the freeway system that day and arrived at the modest, brick suburban home that Steppenwolf remembered, they ran from the car through the rain into the front door. Now it was his turn for the haunting ghosts of the past to rush into his head. Although the furniture wasn‟t the same, he still recognized the interior of the home where he had spent so many hours with his best friends, and as he traversed the hallway and emerged into the living room, the wall of pictures memorializing Derrek came into view. It was almost too much, even after all this time. He realized that, although Lilah had given him pictures of his partner when she saw him off for San Francisco, he had avoided looking at them. It was just too painful. Yet being confronted by this gallery from his past made him realize that his avoidance had not been the right thing to do. In denial, he had failed to confront the pain and allow it to hurt, then heal. Now, in this moment, all he could do was hurt. And he did. Lilah, seeing Erik stop like a statue in front of the wall and reading the pain in his eyes, quickly drew his attention back to the present. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked cheerily. “I‟m going to make some for myself.” Steppenwolf was grateful for the rescue. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be good,” he said as he made his way to the breakfast nook, lowering his bag to the floor next to the table. “Lots of creamer and no sugar.” Lilah joined him at the table after she started the coffeemaker. “I hope you didn‟t have too much trouble dropping everything and coming,” she said sincerely. “No, it‟s fine. I had lots of vacation time. You know, for me,

living in San Francisco is like being on vacation all the time, so I‟ve built up a lot of personal leave time. And I‟m never sick, so I was way overdue for a break. This is a hell of a way to get one, though, Lilah. I still can‟t believe this has happened, and I‟m glad to be whatever help I can be.” “Thanks, Erik. That means a lot to me. I really need some help. I don‟t know what to do,” she continued. “Did you do like I asked and leave everything the way it was after we talked?” “It was hard, but yes. At least everything is like it was by the time I called you. You know, I was cleaning up his room when I found those things.” “That‟s good. I‟d just like to go through everything and see if there are any other clues as to what was going on with Marcus at the time. You‟re just lucky that you found what you did. Most teenaged boys would have hidden things better from their mothers.” “I know. I was determined not to be one of those mothers that poked around in their child‟s room. I always respected his privacy. Now I‟m questioning myself all the time as to whether that was the right thing to do.” “I‟m sure you‟re second-guessing a lot of things right now, but you‟re going to have to put your doubts away for a while, Lilah. Believe me, I know all about it. But you need to keep your head focused on the present so that we can get to the bottom of this.” He tried to caution as well as console. “Marcus never gave me any real trouble, and I just can‟t believe that he could have done the terrible things they said. And then when I found that book and those cards in his drawer….” She went silent and looked down at her hands, not knowing what to say. Realizing that the coffeemaker was done, she got up and made her way to the kitchen. “I know I sound like one of those mothers who think their child is perfect,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Steppenwolf, “but that‟s not what I thought. I know he was eighteen, and I knew he was growing up. He just seemed so busy with his sports and other things at school. I guess I just thought he was too busy to get himself into serious trouble.”

“Well, we‟ll check it out, Lilah. From what you told me, it sounds like something was going on that the police didn‟t take the time to look at.” He tried to reassure her without injecting his own thoughts about it. An eighteen-year-old is capable of almost anything, was what his hardboiled homicide detective‟s inner self was thinking. But Lilah didn‟t need to hear that right now. Lilah placed the coffee mug on the table in front of him. “Why don‟t we take our coffee and go into Marcus‟s room and see what we can find?” he said. As he stepped through the doorway, Steppenwolf‟s vision was pulled to the wall just left of the entrance. There stood a bookshelf filled from top to bottom with trophies: big trophies, little trophies, and every size in between. Marcus had been an overachiever, no doubt about it. No wonder Lilah thought he was too busy to get in trouble. “Wow, that‟s some trophy case. You must have been very proud.” “Oh, I was. I only wish Derrek could have been here to see him on the field. You know, he made All State and was the Texas Player of the Year this year. He was going to UT on scholarship this fall.” Steppenwolf wished he could fend off the feelings he was having at the mention of Derrek‟s name. He realized he needed to get over it. After all, if Lilah couldn‟t talk to him about Derrek, who could she talk to? He was allowing his guilt to kill Derrek all over again. “That‟s amazing,” he said. “Derrek would have been really proud, I‟m sure.” It was the first time he had said the name of his long-dead partner in years. It was somewhat cathartic. It felt better than he would have thought. His eyes moved from the trophies to the photos on the wall next to the bookshelf. There were pictures of Marcus playing football, and in formal wear with pretty girls at dances, and some with him in what looked like period costumes. “What are these pictures?” he asked, as he pointed to the latter photographs. “Oh, Marcus was in drama and choir. Those are pictures of him in musicals. He was the leading man in productions of „West Side Story‟ and „Carousel.‟ He had a wonderful voice,” she added. Steppenwolf couldn‟t turn the detective off in his mind. The kid liked musicals, huh? He made a mental note, but didn‟t say anything to Lilah about it. “Where did you find the date book and the cards?” “Over here in the nightstand,” she answered.

Steppenwolf sat on the side of the bed and opened the top drawer of the nightstand. Taking out the date book, he looked up at Lilah. “Is this right where it was?” “Yes, I put it right back where I found it after I called you.” Carefully opening the date book, Steppenwolf removed the two greeting cards and the photo. He held the two greeting cards open and compared the writing at the bottom of each. “Yeah, these seem to be signed by the same person—„M‟ and Judge Maxwell Silver seem to be the same person. And you think this is the guy in the judge‟s robes in this picture?‟ he asked. “I‟m only guessing, but it seems to fit,” Lilah answered. “I tend to agree,” Steppenwolf answered as he turned his attention to the date book. “Now we have all these entries, including one for the night of the homicide—sorry, Lilah. I‟ve been a cop too long.” “It‟s okay. That‟s why I called you.” “Now it says here, „MS @ HP&W‟. Do you know what that means, Lilah?” “Your guess is as good as mine. I figured the „MS‟ to be Maxwell Silver, but I have no idea what „@HP&W‟ means. Does it mean anything to you?” “Do you have a map book, you know, the kind with all the city streets on it?” He had an idea, but he needed to see if his memory was right after this long a time. “Yeah, I‟ll get it.” Lilah left and returned with an orange-bound book of maps of the Houston area. “Here you go,” she said as she handed it to him. Using the full-city map at the front, Steppenwolf quickly found the page he was looking for. Turning to that page, the answer revealed itself. “Okay. „HP&W‟ stands for Hyde Park and Whitney. It‟s the intersection of two streets in Montrose.” “That‟s where they found his car—in Montrose,” she responded with enthusiasm at the discovery of new information. “At this intersection?” “No, it was in a parking lot on Pacific Street at Grant,” Lilah

answered. Still not quite sure about his memory of the Montrose neighborhood after fifteen years, Steppenwolf scanned the map. “That‟s it. The parking lot backs up to Hyde Park. He evidently parked the car next to the bars on Pacific Street and then walked east on Hyde Park until he reached Whitney, where he met „MS‟,” Steppenwolf surmised, “and we can pretty well guess that „MS‟ is the judge. Looks like we‟ve got a dirty old man on our hands.” Lilah looked puzzled. “Why would he meet the judge in Montrose?” Just like everybody else in Houston, Lilah knew what “Montrose” was code for: GAY! But she couldn‟t let her mind go there, not in connection with Marcus. Steppenwolf looked at his longtime friend and wondered how best to say what he was thinking. If he was right, there was only one explanation for why a boy of eighteen would meet a man the age of the judge on a corner in Montrose. He decided not to go there just then. “Let‟s see what else is in the drawer,” he said, hoping Lilah wouldn‟t press for an answer to her question. Under the date book was a stack of paperback books and magazines. He went through them one by one. The paperbacks were pornographic storybooks, and the magazines were the kind with nude pictures. As he went through the paperbacks, he looked at the titles and covers before putting them, facedown, back in the drawer. He would tell Lilah what they were later. The magazines, five of them, were in order from top to bottom: one “Playboy”, two “Playgirls” and two “Inches.” They told the story that he was reluctant to share with his dear friend. The boy had been gay. “Have you looked at these?” he asked. “No, I called you as soon as I saw the date book and cards. And when you told me to put them back where I found them, I did and shut the drawer.” It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words, and Marcus had left several pictures to tell the story. Steppenwolf slowly picked the paperbacks up out of the drawer and handed them, along with the magazines, to the boy‟s mother. The look of disbelief became greater and greater on Lilah‟s face as she looked at the cache of porn found in her boy‟s nightstand drawer. “It can‟t be,” she said in a shocked voice.

“My Marcus couldn‟t be gay,” she said in angry denial. Then she remembered her friend sitting on the bed. Lilah Patterson had known Erik Steppenwolf for years and never once thought of herself as prejudiced against gay people, but her own words betrayed her horror at the thought that her own child could be gay. Now, her long-held liberal views on the matter were being put to the ultimate test. Steppenwolf knew what she was going through. It was just another shocking revelation about her son. It was as if God himself was piling on the poor woman. “It‟s all right, Lilah. I understand. I‟m sorry you had to find this out now and in this way.” “Oh, Erik, I‟m so sorry,” she said as tears ran down her cheeks. “How could I not have known? I always thought we were so close. I can‟t believe I didn‟t even have a clue what was going on.” She was truly shocked that she knew so little about her own son. “It really doesn‟t matter much anymore,” Steppenwolf added. “When was Marcus‟s eighteenth birthday?” “In March,” Lilah answered. Thumbing through the date book, Steppenwolf found the first entry: February 2. “What day in March?” he asked. “March 16th,” Lilah answered. “It looks like Marcus had his first meeting with the judge on the second of February. We‟ve got ourselves a child molester to expose,” Steppenwolf said in a serious, matter-of-fact voice. Stunned, Lilah sat down beside him on the bed and began to cry. “My baby! My poor baby! What did that bastard do to my baby?” Steppenwolf hugged Lilah around the shoulders with his right arm and let her cry for a while before continuing with his questions. “Did Marcus have any close friends I could talk to?” Through the tears and sobs, Lilah managed to answer. “His best friend was Ahmad, but he told me he didn‟t know anything.” “Do you think you could get him over here so I could talk to him?” “I guess so. I‟ll call and see if he‟ll come over,” she answered as she wiped the tears from her face and began to regain her composure.

“Don‟t tell him about me until he gets here. I don‟t want him to be afraid. Just tell him you have something of Marcus‟s you would like to give him,” Steppenwolf directed.

JUST a few minutes later, Ahmad arrived, clad in a navy blue FUBU shirt just like the one Marcus had been wearing on the night of the murder. When Lilah opened the door, she had to catch her breath, because she first thought it was Marcus and it had all just been a bad dream. The thought was fleeting as she realized it was Ahmad. “Hi, Mrs. Patterson,” the boy said in greeting. “I haven‟t seen you since the funeral. Are you all right?” “I‟m as well as could be expected, Ahmad. Thanks for coming over,” Lilah said, opening the door wide enough for the boy to enter. When they reached the living room, Steppenwolf was standing there. “This is Mr. Steppenwolf, Ahmad. He‟s a longtime friend of the family.” “Nice to meet you, sir,” Ahmad said as he extended his hand to the tall white man. The man made him nervous and suspicious, but he tried not to show it. “It‟s nice to meet you, Ahmad,” Steppenwolf replied, noticing how polite and gentle the boy was. “I‟m trying to help Mrs. Patterson get to the bottom of what happened to Marcus.” Now Ahmad was getting really nervous. “I already told Mrs. Patterson all I know, sir,” Ahmad said, trying to keep his nerves under control. “It‟s all right, son. You don‟t have anything to worry about. It‟s just that we‟re beginning to doubt what the police said happened that night, and we were hoping that you could maybe tell us some things that would help us,” Steppenwolf said in his best reassuring tone. After all, he was a professional homicide detective. But the boy was only getting more scared. “Really, Mr. Steppenwolf, I already told Mrs. Patterson everything I know.” “Just relax, Ahmad. This can just be between you and us. We

won‟t tell anybody what you tell us.” The boy looked over at Lilah and then back at Steppenwolf. His eyes seemed to be pleading, not with Lilah, but with Steppenwolf. It took a moment, but then the detective got it. The boy had things to say that he didn‟t want to say in front of Marcus‟s mother—or anybody else he knew, for that matter. Steppenwolf turned toward Lilah. “I think Ahmad would be more comfortable talking to me in private. Is that right, Ahmad?” Steppenwolf said, as he turned his eyes back to the boy. Ahmad seemed embarrassed and looked down at his feet, avoiding eye contact with Lilah. “Yes-yes, sir,” he stammered in almost a whisper. Steppenwolf knew he had been right and was grateful to have figured it out. “Let‟s go into Marcus‟s room and talk, just you and me, how about it?” Once they were in Marcus‟s room and the door was closed, Ahmad seemed to relax a little. Steppenwolf noticed the boy sadly looking around his dead friend‟s room. “Why don‟t you have a seat here on the bed?” he said, pointing to the twin bed. Pulling the chair away from Marcus‟s desk and turning it to face the bed, Steppenwolf sat down facing the boy. “You and Marcus were very close, weren‟t you, Ahmad?” “Yes, sir,” the boy answered. “How close were you and Marcus?” Ahmad‟s ebony tones could not hide the blush that came on his face as he sheepishly looked down at his feet. He said nothing. “It‟s okay, Ahmad. We‟ve figured out that Marcus was gay. Were you two boyfriends?” A look of even greater embarrassment came over the boy as he raised his obviously pained face to look, eye to eye, at the older man. “Yes, sir,” he stammered, “we were.” “You don‟t need to be embarrassed with me, Ahmad. I‟m gay too. I‟ll keep your secret. I won‟t even tell Mrs. Patterson unless you say it‟s all right. Okay?” “Okay,” Ahmad answered, beginning to show signs of relief.

“So, you probably knew a lot about everything Marcus was doing, didn‟t you?” The door now wide open, Steppenwolf knew to step through. “Pretty much, I guess,” Ahmad answered, his nerves less and less visible. “Ahmad, do you know why Marcus went into Houston the night he was killed?” The boy hesitated. Steppenwolf knew that he was still very reluctant to give up his boyfriend‟s secrets. Then, taking a deep breath, Ahmad started talking very quickly, as though he was afraid if he didn‟t say it all, he would forget part of it. “He was going into Montrose to fuck some old guy for money. I didn‟t want him to, but he said it was easy money, and we needed it.” “Why did y‟all need the money, Ahmad?” “Well, Marcus was a superstar, you know, and he got that scholarship to UT and all. Well, he wanted me to go with him, but my family couldn‟t afford for me to go to UT, and I didn‟t get any scholarships or nothin‟, but Marcus said he knew a way to get the money. That‟s why he would go into Montrose—to fuck old guys and make money. I tried to get him to let me go too, but he said I wasn‟t strong enough to survive the streets.” Ahmad stopped talking for a minute as the tears started welling up in his eyes and tracking slowly down his smooth, dark cheeks. “I guess he wasn‟t strong enough either,” he continued slowly through his tears. “It‟s all my fault. If it wasn‟t for me, he wouldn‟t have gone down there and done that.” The boy started sobbing uncontrollably. “It‟s—it‟s all—it‟s all my fault,” he stammered through his tears. For just a moment Steppenwolf didn‟t know what to say as he allowed the boy‟s pain to wash over him, undermining his ability to remain objective. “No, no, Ahmad, this isn‟t your fault,” he said, finding his voice once more. “This is the fault of some old chicken hawk hiding behind his judge‟s robe. Now, I want you to tell me everything you know so I can nail the son of a bitch.” Steppenwolf was angrier than ever now. These dirtbags roamed the streets of every city, preying on young boys that needed money—prominent, well-heeled, society types who took advantage of the needs of young boys just like

Marcus. “Ahmad, was Marcus making quite a bit of money doing this?” “Uh-huh,” Ahmad nodded in the affirmative. “Do you know where he kept the money?” “Yeah, in a bank,” the boy answered. “Do you know which bank?” “Just a minute,” Ahmad said as he stood up and walked to the closet. He stood on his tiptoes, reaching high on the top shelf for a shoebox. Grasping it in his hand, he brought it down, opened the top, and from inside produced a passbook. Looking at it he said, “Houston National Bank,” as he offered it up. Steppenwolf took the bankbook and looked inside. It showed a balance of $12,000. Marcus was either very well paid or he was a very busy boy. He quickly scanned the deposits, all in cash, $200 each. The dates reached back to before February, prior to the first entry for “M.” Then he compared the dates of deposit with the date book that was in Marcus‟s drawer. There was an entry in the date book corresponding to each deposit except the last one. Marcus had not been paid for the last night he “worked.” It was all there. Now, all he had to do was to go to the police and show them the evidence. Judge Maxwell Silver was going down.

Chapter 6

THE combination of Monday morning, coffee jitters, and jet lag were taking their toll on Steppenwolf as he sat in the tiny conference room at Houston Police Department headquarters. After waiting nearly 45 minutes to see the detective in charge of Marcus‟s homicide case, he had had time to examine the features of the room critically. Obviously, it was designed to be claustrophobic and blindingly lit. That made it much more effective as an interrogation room, a place that made the interviewee squirm with discomfort. Having always been on the dispensing end of this treatment, Steppenwolf had never appreciated the genius behind the design of such rooms. Today, however, he did, as the bright lighting just added another misery on top of his aching head. Finally, a beefy detective came through the door. He extended his right hand as he entered. “Detective Leroy Mercer, I understand you‟re here on one of my cases.” Steppenwolf got to his feet and grasped the detective‟s hand in his. “Detective Erik Steppenwolf, San Francisco Police Department,” he returned the greeting before stating his business. “Yeah, Detective Mercer, I‟m here on the Marcus Patterson homicide.” Eyeing Steppenwolf, Detective Mercer acknowledged his recognition of an old colleague. “Yeah, I remember you. We were rookies at the same time here in Houston.” Steppenwolf was somewhat relieved that he would be dealing with someone he knew, but as he looked across the table at his colleague, he couldn‟t help but notice that time had not been very kind to the guy. He was portly, to put it nicely, and his face was doughy and blotchy. Could they really be the same age? Then he recognized the

look that was coming across the table at him. Yeah, this guy remembered him, all right, but not in the way he would have liked. If his intuition was right, this wasn‟t going to be a cakewalk. Detective Mercer picked up where he left off. “What can I do for you, Detective Steppenwolf?” Suddenly Steppenwolf didn‟t know quite where to begin, but he had to begin somewhere. “Marcus Patterson‟s dad was my partner here in Houston, Derrek Patterson. If you remember me, you probably remember him being gunned down in a convenience store robbery fifteen years ago.” “Yeah, I remember that, but I never put the two names together. So, what are you telling me here?” Detective Mercer seemed a little irritated. “Well,” Steppenwolf continued, “Marcus‟s mother, Lilah, called me after she found some items in her son‟s room that seem to put a different light on the facts of the case.” “I‟m sorry for her loss, but I don‟t see how anything could change the facts that a kid hopped up on crack broke into somebody‟s condo and tried to rob and kill them.” Now Mercer was really sounding put off. Steppenwolf opened the file folder that he had brought with him and showed the items to Mercer. “See, this is a picture of Marcus with his criminal justice teacher and a judge. Is this Judge Maxwell Silver?” Mercer looked at the photo. “Yeah, that‟s the judge. So what?” It was becoming clear to Steppenwolf that Detective Mercer was getting confrontational and defensive. He produced the graduation and birthday cards. “See, this one is signed by the judge and this one appears to be signed by the same person. The M‟s on both are the same.” “So?” Steppenwolf continued. “It‟s Mrs. Patterson‟s understanding that the judge said he didn‟t know Marcus.” “He probably just didn‟t remember,” Mercer shot back tersely. “Somebody like the judge makes appearances at criminal justice

programs all over the area, so I don‟t see the significance of a photo and a couple of cards. He‟s a politician. He probably sends out hundreds, maybe even thousands of ‟em a year.” “Well, don‟t you think this inscription here: „Love, M‟ is a little personal?” Steppenwolf could see that he was going to have to make every point because Mercer wasn‟t interested in reopening the case. Mercer looked incredulous, “Well, if that is from the judge, but don‟t you think you‟re making a big leap? Have you had a handwriting expert examine it to see if it‟s a match?” “No, but I know that a big department like you have here probably has access to someone who could.” Mercer wasn‟t going to move off the dime. “You‟re awfully quick to come in here and give us something to do, Detective Steppenwolf.” It was going from bad to worse, and Steppenwolf realized he was losing the battle. But knowing he was right, he pushed on. “Here‟s one more thing, Detective Mercer. It‟s Marcus‟s date book. On the night of the homicide, there‟s this entry at nine p.m.: MS@HP&W. I think it stands for „Maxwell Silver at Hyde Park and Whitney,‟ and if I‟m right, that means that he met the judge at nine o‟clock that evening. That‟s not in keeping with the scenario of a burglary, now is it?” It was clear that Mercer was now in a real mood about the whole thing. “And what conclusions do you draw from your evidence, Steppenwolf?” “That the judge knew Marcus and was meeting him for a sexual liaison on the night of the homicide, and that the judge is covering up what he really knows about the homicide. Look at this bank book.” Steppenwolf presented his last bit of evidence. “All the way back to February second, this same notation appears in Marcus‟s date book, and on the day after each notation, this bank book shows a deposit of $200. I think it‟s clear that Judge Silver was paying Marcus for sex. And one more thing, Detective Mercer,” Steppenwolf moved in for the kill, “Marcus Patterson didn‟t turn eighteen until March this year. The whole thing started when he was still a minor. I think the judge has some questions to answer.” Mercer‟s face grew dark and menacing as he went on the attack.

“If you think I‟m going to take on a district court judge just because Tinkerbell flies in from Fairy City and starts telling me what my job is, you‟re mistaken.” There it was. Steppenwolf had heard it all before, even in San Francisco. He leaned across the table and raised himself up onto his hands, growling in his most menacing voice, “Maybe if I rammed my big faggot cock up your fat ass, it might satisfy that little itch that ignites your homophobia, but you‟re not pretty enough for me to get it up. Now, I didn‟t come here to discuss my sexuality or to satisfy your curiosity. I came here to find out what happened to Marcus Patterson, and if you can‟t or won‟t help me, then I‟ll find somebody who will.” Detective Mercer was struck dumb by Steppenwolf‟s attack. He was in no way accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner, but the echoing memories of childhood spankings sent tingling goose bumps shooting through his ass cheeks. Doing all he could to hide what was running through his mind, Mercer sat there, glowering across the table at the “fairy from San Francisco.” Steppenwolf slowly drew back into his chair across the table, calmly and civilly continuing. “I would like to examine the case file, Detective.” Having recovered from his state of shock, Mercer fired one more salvo. “I will say one thing for you, Steppenwolf. You‟ve got a hell of a nerve. You come in here, tell me what my job is, and then demand to see my file? I won‟t tell you where you can cram the file because I don‟t think HPD has any reason to let you examine it. Now, if you‟d like, I‟ll enter your evidence in the file, just in case somebody wants to reopen it later.” Rising deliberately and methodically, Steppenwolf began gathering his items of evidence up and placing them back inside the folder. “I don‟t think I would trust you not to „lose‟ it on the way to the file room, Detective. So, I think I‟ll just take it with me.” “Whatever you want,” Mercer retorted. As Steppenwolf rose to leave the room, he calmly added, “That‟s all right, Detective Mercer, you don‟t have to get up. I can find my own way out.” He turned toward the door.

“This isn‟t San Francisco, Steppenwolf. If I were you, I‟d be real careful,” Detective Mercer shot back, not wanting to give up the last word. “Thanks for the warning,” Steppenwolf returned fire as the door shut behind him.

BACK at his desk, Detective Mercer picked up his phone and dialed. “Hey, it‟s Mercer. There‟s somebody down here nosin‟ around in the Marcus Patterson case.” He stopped and listened to the voice on the other end, then answered, “He‟s a police detective from San Francisco named Steppenwolf.” Once again he waited for the voice on the other end to speak and responded, “Okay. I‟ll do what I can.” Inside Marcus‟s Mustang down on the street, Steppenwolf pounded on the steering wheel with both hands, trying to expel the frustration he was feeling. What a prick that Mercer is, he thought. “I wish I had that fat son of a bitch in a dark alley somewhere. I‟d kick his ass,” he said out loud to himself before starting the car and pulling away.

EVERYBODY has a vice to turn to when they‟re mad or sad, frustrated or depressed; sometimes it‟s the same thing they do when they‟re happy. For some it‟s drinking or drugs, for others it may be shopping or gambling, still others find comfort in overeating. Erik Steppenwolf‟s mind always turned to one thing at such times: sex. And as he wheeled the yellow Mustang convertible out Westheimer through the Montrose section of Houston, he wanted only one thing: to fuck. He turned right off the main drag and plunged into the neighborhood where the City of Houston had, some years ago, persuaded the gay community to hide its bars, off the beaten path and out of the view of passersby. But as much as he wanted to salve the wounds opened by the

“HPD dick,” Steppenwolf‟s mind was also dogged by the memory of his mission to find out what had happened to Marcus. So he decided to drive from the parking lot where the cops had found the car and up Hyde Park Street, where Marcus had most likely walked that night, to Whitney Street. As he drove slowly down the street, he noticed that there were hustlers hanging out on almost every corner even now, at eleven o‟clock in the morning. Yeah, his intuition had been right all along. It would appear that Marcus had found his way into the dark world of hustling. Poor kid, he never stood a chance. Steppenwolf knew that it was a black pit that lured hundreds of young men every year. Most would end up like the ones he saw today: drug-addicted street whores, just barely making enough to support their habits. Maybe, with his athletic talents, Marcus would have escaped, but the odds were against him, and he ended up with the worst possible outcome. He had fallen victim to a homicide. As a detective, Steppenwolf knew that he was going to have to gather a lot more evidence before he could bring his suspicions back to the HPD. He also knew that he couldn‟t get the hustlers down in Montrose to open up about what they knew by just talking to them. Knowing they were tough street kids who were suspicious of everybody, he also knew he would have to go where they hung out, so he tried to remember back to his time in Houston and hoped that the bars hadn‟t changed too much. Then he remembered the place he needed to be. It was a strange combination for those who didn‟t understand the reason behind it, but the hustlers and drag queens often hung out in the same bars. Long experience as a detective in San Francisco educated him to the fact that if you wanted to know what was going on in the hustler world, the best person to talk to was a drag queen who made it her business to know what was happening. So he made his way to a bar he remembered that was a wrinkle room in the daytime and a drag show bar in the evening. Every head turned in his direction as Steppenwolf entered the doorway from the bright late-morning light outside into the smoky darkness of the club. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw a pathetic, gaudy excuse of a stage at the far end of the room and just a few people sitting on the bar stools that surrounded the U-shaped bar.

He knew that these were the serious-drinking regulars who would hurry down every morning as soon as the doors opened. They were a pathetic-looking lot, older, not attractive, and not caring to be. But there was one exception. An androgynous man who appeared to be in his late fifties, with bright platinum hair cut in a short pixie framing his attractive, painted face, sat on the back side of the bar facing the door. He seemed aloof and proud and disdainfully disinterested in the sad assemblage that shared the club with him. Steppenwolf‟s instincts told him this was the person he needed to talk to. Making his way around the bar until he was across the corner from the proud queen and ordering a Bud longneck, he settled in, standing, not sitting. He had removed the starched shirt he had worn to the police headquarters before he came into the bar and was now clad in a T-shirt and faded Levi 501s that fit him like a glove. He nonchalantly sipped his beer while deliberately ignoring the queen, and soon “she” snapped up the bait. “Well, you‟re certainly a refreshing change from these brokendown old drunks,” she said in that falsetto tenor voice that drag queens all seem to have. He tipped his longneck in her direction and, remembering his best Texas drawl, greeted her, “Howdy, ma‟am.” The drag queen smiled broadly, “Why, it‟s a man,” she said with great dramatic humor, stretching out the word “man” into at least three syllables. “I‟m Lola, Lola Brigida,” she said as she batted her lashes then opened her eyes wide for dramatic effect before going on. “What‟s your name, sugar?” she asked in a Southern accent right out of Tennessee Williams. “Steppenwolf,” he answered in his normal voice. “I guess since you think I gave you my drag name, you‟re giving me yours,” she retorted with mock disdain. “No, it‟s my real name—well, my real last name. My first name‟s Erik, but I go by Steppenwolf.” “That‟s a remarkable last name,” she prodded. “Is that German or something?” “Nah,” he became less formal, “my mom was a biker chick. She

didn‟t know who my dad was, so when she checked into the hospital, she gave Steppenwolf as her last name because she liked the rock band. Remember? „Born to be Wild‟,” he sang badly. They laughed together at the absurdity of his story, which was only half finished. “Yeah, and she had a crush on Ricky Nelson since she was a kid, so she gave me his real first name, Erik. Pretty fuckedup, huh?” They both laughed again, and Lola returned to her Southern belle act. “Why, that‟s a charming story, Mr. Steppenwolf.” “So Lola is your real name?” he poked back. “It‟s the only thing anybody has called me for years,” she insisted. “Why, you must be from out of town or you‟d know who I am,” she said in a chastising tone. “San Francisco,” he returned. “Well, I‟m practically famous,” she said with great drama, her hands waving like Gloria Swanson‟s. “Back in my youth I lived in New York, and I was the inspiration first for the song, „Lola,‟ you know, the one by The Kinks, and then Mr. Barry Manilow himself wrote a little ditty called „Copa Cabana,‟ and he told everybody I was his inspiration. You know, we worked at the baths together.” He couldn‟t help but poke at her story. “So how did such a famous drag queen end up here?” He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his hands in a sad, mocking gesture around the drab room. She immediately started defending herself to him with hands waving. “It‟s absolutely true, sir. Then there was this rich Texas oilman who insisted I leave my life in New York and come here to keep him company in his River Oaks mansion. Now he‟s gone and I find myself in this sad and depressing excuse for a show bar.” She disdainfully looked around, finally bringing her gaze to rest on the now-dark stage. “Anyway—” she changed her demeanor and lightened her mood, “—you must come and see me tomorrow night at Ralph‟s. I emcee the wet Jockey short contest there on Tuesdays. It‟s a lot of fun, and you can get a glimpse of the old girl‟s stuff.” He smiled at her self-promotion. “I might just do that, Miss Lola,” he said, returning to his Texas drawl and tipping his longneck in

a toast to her. Lola batted her eyes playfully at him. “I‟ll do my best to keep that handsome smile on your face, sir, and maybe I‟ll even make you laugh.” Steppenwolf gently turned the conversation to where he needed it to go. “Maybe you could do something else for me,” he said in a more serious tone. Not ready to give up the comic scene, Lola once again batted her eyes at him and smiled lasciviously. Steppenwolf nurtured the moment by grinning at her. “No, not that. Well, at least not right now.” He gave her a wink and a smile. “I need your help with something else.” Realizing he was serious, Lola calmed herself from the dramatic high she had been enjoying with the handsome man. “Well, it‟s hard to refuse such a handsome man anything,” she said, still camping it up in spite of herself. “Like I said, I‟m from San Francisco, and I‟m here to help an old friend.” He reached into his back pocket and brought out the photo of Marcus with his teacher and Judge Silver. “Have you ever seen any of these men?” Lola looked carefully at the picture, then, laying it down on the bar, she pointed to the judge. “This must be „the judge‟; at least that‟s what the boys on the street call him.” Steppenwolf couldn‟t believe his good luck. “So the street hustlers talk about him?” “Oh, honey, the black boys all have a story to tell about him. They say he‟s an insatiable old whore,” she said, the animation returning to her gestures as she shared the street gossip. “Do they say what he likes to do?” he pushed, although he probably didn‟t need to, because Miss Lola was on a roll. “Why, he likes big black dicks right up his ass, and lots of them, mind you.” She was in her element. “They say he picks one up, takes him home, then once they‟re done, he brings that one back, dumps him out, and picks up another one. All night long! They say sometimes he

even picks up a bunch of them and gets gangbanged, the old bitch.” She paused for effect. “I wish I could afford to do that,” she sighed. Then she laughed. “Okay, so I‟m a little jealous,” she added. Steppenwolf smiled at her personal joke to give it its due before continuing. He then directed Lola‟s attention back to the photo. “What about the boy?” he pressed on. “Have you ever seen the boy around?” Lola examined the picture closely, holding it up to her eyes and then far away before sheepishly reaching inside her bag and bringing out a pair of reading glasses. She placed the glasses on her nose and once again examined the picture. “Oh, no, I‟d remember this one. He‟s just a little piece of chocolate heaven,” she observed. “Well, maybe not so little,” she added with a dramatic flourish. “You‟re sure?” “Oh, yes, honey, I‟d remember him,” she said emphatically. “He‟s dead. He was shot, and that‟s why I‟m here.” “Well, that‟s just a shame, now isn‟t it? What a waste. How old was that precious boy?” “Just eighteen. And I think that the judge knows something about it.” “Wait a minute. I think I heard something about that. There was talk on the street about the judge getting robbed by a crackhead. Most of the boys said he deserved to be shot himself.” “Lola, do you think that you could help me meet some of the boys who know about the judge? Will some of them come in here today? “Oh, no, they are the night shift, so to speak, so they won‟t be coming in today. But if you‟ll come to my show tomorrow night, some of them will probably enter the contest. I‟ll ask them to talk to you, but you do know that time is money for those boys, so you better bring some cash.” “I got you. I‟d sure appreciate anything you could do, Lola,” he said sincerely. Not able to let it pass, Lola, returning to full drag camp, winked lustily at the tall handsome man, and quipped, “Anything for you, Mr. Steppenwolf, anytime.”

Steppenwolf got the attention of the bartender, “A drink for Miss Lola,” he said, “whatever she‟s having, and a Bud for me.” “Why, thank you, sir,” she vamped. “I don‟t suppose you‟re a bottom, are you, Steppenwolf?” He smiled at her as they clinked their drinks together. “No, ma‟am, can‟t say as I am,” he said in his fake drawl. “Well, you know what they say about drag queens,” she cooed. “It‟s true. We‟re all tops.” She paused for effect. “Oh, what I could do to you.” They both laughed and chatted as Steppenwolf used the occasion to catch up on what was what in Montrose these days. She so entertained him with her wit and charm that by the time he left her sitting at the bar, his anxiety at the hands of Detective Mercer was gone and his need for a lusty encounter was replaced with an obsession to get to the bottom of what had really happened to Marcus on that night in June.

Chapter 7

AS

THEY sat in the kitchen over breakfast the next morning,

Steppenwolf told Lilah what he had learned the previous day: how Detective Mercer had refused to cooperate with him and about the outrageous Lola Brigida and her knowledge of the judge and his proclivities. “How would you like to go with me to a wet Jockey shorts contest tonight?” he asked. Lilah showed her amusement at the very idea by smiling wickedly. “Oh yes, I‟m sure that all the guys would be happy to see a woman ogling the men in a gay bar,” she said with a wry laugh. “Oh, they‟d probably just take you for a drag queen,” Steppenwolf shot back, keeping his voice perfectly deadpan. Lilah‟s expression turned from amusement to that of someone who was the victim of an incredulous insult. “What? You think I look like a drag queen?” she retorted in mock anger. “Well, black men often make the most convincing drag queens,” he said without letting up one bit. Staring at him, Lilah wordlessly conveyed her feelings of being insulted. No longer able to keep it up, Steppenwolf laughed heartily. “No. No, I‟m just kidding. Nobody would mistake you for a drag queen.” But he couldn‟t help himself. “Your hands aren‟t big enough.” He continued laughing. Realizing he was just picking on her, Lilah joined him in his joke. “You are impossible to read sometimes, you know,” she said. “Part of my job,” he said.

After returning to her own thoughts for a few moments, Lilah looked across at her old friend. “I don‟t understand why Marcus didn‟t tell me,” she said. “I thought we were so close that he would feel he could tell me anything.” Reaching across the table, Steppenwolf took Lilah‟s small hand in his large but gentle grip. “He was trying to, Lilah. He just didn‟t know how.” “What do you mean he was trying to tell me?” “Well, he wasn‟t exactly going to a great deal of trouble to hide those things in his nightstand drawer. He even put them up in the top drawer.” “Do you mean he was hoping I would find them and ask him about them?” she asked. “That‟s my take on it,” he said softly. “And there I was, thinking I was doing the right thing to respect his privacy.” Recognizing that she was about to start beating herself up again, Steppenwolf quickly came to her rescue. “Lilah, come on. You can‟t keep punishing yourself about Marcus. Your mind just wasn‟t going in that direction.” “There must have been other signs,” she continued as she attempted to fathom her son‟s life. “I really want to understand, Erik. Please tell me. I want to know.” “Well, for one thing, how often did Ahmad spend the night over here?” he asked, trying to help her come to her own realization about their relationship. It was like a light came on behind her face as she linked the information together. “Oh, Ahmad,” she said with understanding. “I guess I didn‟t even think about that. They‟ve been best friends since they were little boys in grade school.” “Exactly,” he said. “See, you can‟t always tell. Most parents take their gay children‟s „friends‟ for just that—friends.” “How did your mother find out?” “She didn‟t,” he lied, concealing the pain the mention of his

mother brought to mind. “She wasn‟t in my life by then,” he added. He didn‟t like talking about what had happened with his mother. “Oh, I‟m sorry. I forgot,” she quickly inserted. “It‟s all right,” he added, realizing he needed to be thinking more about what was best for Lilah right now. “Ahmad is a nice boy. Is that what he told you the other day?” she asked. “Yeah, they were in a relationship. Ahmad said they loved each other and were looking forward to going to Austin together in the fall.” Lilah paused a moment, mulling this new information over in her mind before commenting. “I‟m glad he had somebody,” she said with sincerity. “Everybody needs somebody who loves them and that they love.” Steppenwolf said nothing. Once again things were going in a direction that made him uncomfortable. “What about you, Erik?” Lilah continued. “Is there somebody in your life back in San Francisco?” “No,” he answered, hoping the subject would change. Lilah, succumbing to the romantic woman in herself, couldn‟t help but go the extra mile. “I guess I always thought you would go to San Francisco, find true love, and live happily ever after.” Steppenwolf knew that there would be no silencing his friend until he satisfied her curiosity. “Well, there was someone,” he almost whispered. “But things didn‟t work out.” His mind did combat with itself to keep from falling into the pit of depression that the subject of Matt and all that had happened would surely drag him into. Quickly he dismissed the subject. “It‟s over now, and I try not to think about it.” But he couldn‟t help it, and he did think about it. His memories reached out from nine years earlier and tore at his psyche. His sweet Matt, gone forever. Steppenwolf still wrestled with the questions in his mind as to whether it could have been different or not. He couldn‟t help blaming himself for what happened. He knew he had let Matt down, causing Matt to feel that he had to leave when he needed Steppenwolf most. The parting words of his lover still stung across the span of time:

“I love you so much, but I don‟t feel like I can count on you.” And he was gone just like that—went home to his mother. The next time Steppenwolf heard from Matt was at the reading of his will. He left everything to Steppenwolf: his fortune and the Victorian townhouse on Nob Hill. But there was no enjoyment in the inheritance because guilt was all he could feel. Lilah could read the pain in his face and decided not to push it. “I‟m sorry,” she said, this time squeezing Steppenwolf‟s hand across the table. Steppenwolf grappled to change the subject. “I‟m going to call my old captain, Captain Chamberlain, and see if he can get me access to that file.” “That would be a good idea. Maybe he can help.” Lilah made the turn with him into the new subject. “Yeah, what time is it?” He looked at his wristwatch. “Nine thirty,” he reported out loud. “He ought to be in by now.” Realizing it had been fifteen years since he had last seen Captain Chamberlain, he suddenly wondered if his old commander was even there anymore. If he was, he must have made a few moves up the ladder by now. “Can I use your computer to check on the captain?” he asked Lilah. “Believe it or not, I don‟t have one. But Marcus does,” she added. “It‟s in his room on his desk.” As he dialed the number from the HPD web page, Steppenwolf was glad he had remembered to check. Chamberlain was now an assistant chief. That extra rank could come in real handy in dealing with Detective Leroy “Dickhead” Mercer. Unbelievably, when Chamberlain‟s voice came over the phone, Steppenwolf recognized it like he had talked to him just yesterday. “Hey, Steppenwolf, how you been doin‟?” The chief was as friendly as ever. “I‟m doing fine, Chief,” he returned the greeting. “How you been doing?” “Fine. Fine. I can‟t believe I‟m hearing from you after all these years. Are you here in Houston, or are you calling from San Francisco?”

“No, I‟m here in town,” Steppenwolf answered. “Well, I‟m sure you didn‟t call out of the blue just to chat. What can I do for you?” Steppenwolf told his old captain the story of Marcus and Lilah, reminding him of Derrek, of course. Chamberlain paused for a moment, digesting all the information, then spoke. “Yeah, I seem to remember Judge Silver getting robbed a few months ago, but I sure didn‟t know the suspected robber was Patterson‟s son. That‟s rough.” Steppenwolf interjected his request. “I would just like to look at the file and see if there‟s anything that can help Lilah understand what happened to her son. Detective Mercer seemed, shall we say, pretty angry about my interest.” If Chamberlain had any problems with the request, his voice didn‟t betray it. “Don‟t be too hard on Mercer. You know how we all hate to have somebody looking over our shoulder. I‟ll see what I can do, and I‟ll get back to you.” “Thanks, Captain—I mean, Chief,” Steppenwolf corrected himself. “Sure,” Chamberlain said. “I‟ll call you right back.” The sound of a click followed by the dial tone signaled the chief‟s exit from the line. About an hour later, the phone rang. After answering, Lilah talked briefly with the caller. Steppenwolf thought it was a personal call and paid no attention to her conversation. He was surprised when she called to him. “Erik, it‟s Chief Chamberlain.” Steppenwolf went to the phone. “Hi, Chief. How‟d you do?” “Not too well,” the chief answered. “Nobody seems to know where the file is. The DA‟s office says they gave it back to us. Mercer says he doesn‟t have it, and it‟s not in the file room.” Getting that uneasy feeling that the runaround was in progress, Steppenwolf‟s voice betrayed his disappointment. “I‟m not surprised,” he said. “There‟s a judge involved, so I guess I should have expected things to be difficult.” Assistant Chief Chamberlain hadn‟t got this far in the department

without understanding how things worked and how to respond in these situations. “I‟m sure it‟s not anything sinister,” he said in his most reassuring voice, the one he used in press conferences and media interviews. “It‟ll turn up, I‟m sure. I‟ll stay on it, and I‟ll let you know as soon as it does.” Steppenwolf had no bones to pick with his old commander, but he also knew the drill. It wasn‟t all that different in San Francisco. He remained mindful of the fact that he might need the chief again somewhere along the line, so he backed off. “You‟re probably right, Chief. It‟s probably in a pile of papers on somebody‟s desk. You should see mine back home.” He worked to keep it genial. “Well, anyway, I‟ll be waitin‟ for your call, Chief.” “Yeah, like I said, I‟ll let you know as soon as it turns back up,” the chief continued, trying to assure his old colleague. “I‟ll talk to you then,” Steppenwolf said cheerily as he concluded the conversation and hung up the phone. Turning to Lilah, though, his real mood became apparent. “The bastards are sitting on the file,” he said flatly. “We‟ve got to figure out a way to get them to cooperate.” “I may know somebody who can help,” Lilah said. “Who?” Steppenwolf jumped at the bit of hope. “I‟ve got a friend who works for a local civil rights group. I‟ll call and see if he can help us put some pressure on the HPD.” “That would be great if he can,” Steppenwolf responded. “Why don‟t you see if we can get in to see him tomorrow sometime? And I‟ll see what else I can find out down in Montrose tonight.” “Okay,” she said.

Chapter 8

SIPPING on his longneck, Steppenwolf explored the dark interior of Ralph‟s. It was a cut above the drag bar he had met Lola in the day before, but just barely. It had a more prominent stage in a corner just inside the door with more table seating in front of it, and the place was much bigger, with several larger rooms beyond the barroom. It also had a large patio area out back. He had arrived thirty minutes before the show was scheduled to begin, realizing full well that it was more probable than not that he had entered the “Queen Standard Time Zone,” where everything happened between thirty minutes and an hour after it was scheduled. But he had hoped to catch Lola before she went to the dressing room area and see if she had indeed rounded up anybody for him to talk to about his case. His tour of the place complete, he returned to the main barroom and stood at the sparsely populated, large, rectangular bar that left just enough room for patrons to stand or sit while passers-through crowded by them around the walls. As he scanned the room for Lola, he heard a voice to his right. “Are you Steppenwolf?” He turned his head and came face-to-face with a black man not a day younger than himself. “Yeah, I‟m Steppenwolf,” he replied. “Miss Lola said you would like to talk to me about the judge.” Bingo! Steppenwolf looked more closely at the man. He was far from what he expected. He had imagined that the men Lola would have him talk to would be more the age of Marcus and built like his former partner‟s son. In addition to being older than Marcus, this guy was shorter, about 5‟ 8”, and very slim, almost skinny. “What‟s your name?” he asked.

“Mike,” came the answer. Noticing how loud and driving the music in the club was, Steppenwolf suggested they go out on the patio to talk. Once there, he produced the photo of Marcus and the judge alongside Marcus‟s teacher, Mr. Johnson. “Is this the judge?” he asked. Mike stared at the picture, seeming to have a hard time seeing it in the dim night light of the patio. After giving him what seemed enough time, Steppenwolf led the guy to an area directly under a light where he could better view the photograph. “How‟s that?” he prompted. Getting a clearer look, an expression of recognition came over Mike‟s face. “Yeah, yeah, that‟s him,” he answered. “That‟s the judge.” His inner detective followed up. “Are you sure?” “Yeah, I‟m sure. That‟s the judge,” Mike said without hesitation. “And God knows I should know. I‟ve spent enough time with him.” Steppenwolf moved in for the kill. “Can you tell me about that? What was the judge into?” Mike suddenly seemed to withdraw and shut down. He remembered that he was here to do business. “Hey, not so fast, man. What are you into? Are you some kind of freak that likes to hear stories? I mean, what‟s in it for me?” Steppenwolf reached into his pocket and brought out one of the folded packages of twenty-dollar bills he had prepared for the evening and discreetly palmed it into Mike‟s hand. “Here‟s sixty dollars. Now, tell me what the judge was into.” Mike not so discreetly brought the small wad of money into the light and checked to see if it was sixty dollars. Satisfied that it was, he answered Steppenwolf‟s query. “The judge was just another john. He liked to get fucked in the ass, and he liked it pretty rough.” Steppenwolf interrupted. “What do you mean: pretty rough? Did he like to get slapped around or something like that?” “Not really slapping or hitting or anything like that. He just liked it hard. He said he wanted it to be like a rape. And he asked me to talk shit to him,” Mike continued.

“What kind of shit?” Steppenwolf once again interrupted to be sure he got the whole picture. “You know,” Mike went on, “like, „shut up, you old fuck, take my big black dick up your ass.‟ You know, that kind of stuff. And he liked to holler and scream in pain the whole time, but he didn‟t want you to stop or let up any.” Rape fantasy, Steppenwolf thought. “What about drugs? Were there any drugs involved?” Mike once again became quiet and seemed reluctant to answer the question. “Are you a cop or something?” he asked after a long pause. Steppenwolf weighed his answer carefully. If he told the guy he was a cop, he would clam up on him for sure, but he knew if he wasn‟t honest, Mike wouldn‟t be willing to come forward and make an official statement. “Well, I‟m working as a private detective for the mother of the boy in the picture. I‟m not working as a policeman, and I‟m not with the HPD.” Mike seemed convinced enough to answer the question. “Well, me and the judge would always stop between Montrose and his place and get some crack.” “Was that for you?” Steppenwolf asked. “Yeah, for me, but for him too,” Mike offered. Steppenwolf was somewhat surprised by the answer. It hadn‟t occurred to him that the judge might also be a junkie. He wanted to get as clear a picture as he could. “The judge smoked crack cocaine?” he pushed. “Well, primos,” Mike answered. While Steppenwolf knew what that meant in San Francisco, he wanted to be sure exactly what Mike meant. “Primos? Can you tell me what that is?” “Yeah,” Mike answered, “it‟s a joint with crack crumbled up in it.” “So the judge was smoking marijuana and crack together?” Steppenwolf once again wanted to be absolutely sure. “Yeah, man. He said he didn‟t like crack by itself. He always said

he was an old „hippy‟ and had been smoking pot since the sixties.” Steppenwolf was beginning to get the picture now. The squeakyclean image that the judge was projecting to the community had a few smudges on it. Then he remembered about the crack pipe found on Marcus. “What about paraphernalia? Did you bring your own crack pipe to the judge‟s place?” “Nah, he didn‟t like it in his car when we made a buy. He always had it there at his place when we got there,” Mike answered. There it is, Steppenwolf thought. It looked more and more like the judge had staged the robbery that night and planted as much evidence as he felt he needed to make it convincing. “Okay, Mike, just a few more questions. Have you seen the boy in the photograph around?” Mike once again examined the photo. “Nah, I don‟t remember seeing him down here. I know he didn‟t hang out with us regular guys.” Steppenwolf was about to end the conversation when Mike started speaking again. “Wait a minute. I think I do remember seeing this guy around here.” “Where?” “Sometimes he would show up down on Whitney Street. That‟s right. I remember now. It‟s like he would just come out of nowhere and only be there for just a little bit. Then somebody would pick him up. You know, like he was meeting somebody that he knew.” That fit in with what was indicated by the date book that was in Marcus‟s nightstand. “Did you ever see the judge pick up this kid over on Whitney Street?” It was like a puzzle had been solved in Mike‟s head. His face showed recognition of the answer to a question that had been bothering him. “Wow, man. He‟s the reason the judge stopped picking me up, isn‟t he?” As much as Steppenwolf would have liked to lead Mike to that conclusion, he knew that it wouldn‟t necessarily bring a true answer that he could use to sort things out. “Well, I don‟t know that, Mike. But maybe if you thought about it, you could figure it out. Did you ever see this kid get into the judge‟s car?”

Mike paused as he sorted through his thoughts, looking for a memory of the boy getting into the judge‟s car. “I can‟t remember anything like that,” he answered. “You know, sometimes the judge would pick me, and other times he would pick other guys. You know how it goes, and he wasn‟t always in the same car. But I do know that sometime after the first of the year, I didn‟t see him cruising the streets the way he used to. You know, people come and go down here.” Steppenwolf was disappointed that Mike couldn‟t definitely remember seeing Marcus with the judge, but the rest of the time frame gave him hope. “Look, Mike, do you think you could get some of your friends to talk to me about this? I‟m just trying to find out as much as I can.” Mike became suspicious again. “Why, man? What‟s this about?” “Do you remember hearing about the judge getting robbed and the robber getting shot?” “Yeah, I remember hearing about that. Is that what this is about?” “The kid in the picture was the robber, according to the police. It‟s just that something doesn‟t make sense about it. That‟s all I‟m doing. I‟m just trying to find out exactly what happened that night,” Steppenwolf answered. “Well, man, I thought at the time that the judge was asking for it. You know, you never know who‟s getting in your car down here. I just figured he finally got his real fantasy, if you know what I mean.” “That‟s what I‟m trying to find out. What about other guys you hang out with who might also know the judge? Can you help me out and hook me up?” “I‟ll ask around, man, but I can‟t make no promises,” Mike answered. “That‟s all I can ask, Mike. I‟d sure appreciate it if you could help me, if you know what I mean.” Mike, a savvy street hustler, knew exactly what Steppenwolf was saying: if he would hook him up, the detective would give him a finder‟s fee, so to speak. “I‟ll let you know,” Mike said. “Here,” Steppenwolf handed the guy a piece of paper, “this is the

phone number where you can reach me. Call me if you come up with anything, okay?” “Okay,” Mike said as he took the number. He looked Steppenwolf up and down. “You know, man, I wouldn‟t mind giving you a little action,” he smiled shyly. “Thanks, man,” Steppenwolf replied with a smile, “but I came to see the show.” “Maybe some other time, then.” Mike said over his shoulder as he turned and walked back inside. After giving Mike time to move on, Steppenwolf returned to the barroom just in time for the show. The stage was now bathed in multicolored beams of light, and a voice came out of the sound system from someplace offstage. Steppenwolf recognized it as Lola‟s. “Ladies and gentlemen, Ralph‟s is proud to present the one, the only, that international sensation, Lola Brigida!” A bright white spot lit the curtains at the back of the stage, which parted to reveal the star of the show. She was in full regalia. A huge pile of big, red, wispy curls crowned her head, and a glorious sheath of sparkling black sequins draped her amply padded body from décolletage to flawless shoes. She smiled broadly and, fully extending her arms, took the stage. And take it she did, singing in her own voice, no lip-syncing. “Her name was Lola. She was a showgirl….” She had claimed the song as her theme. It was like a bomb of enthusiasm went off in the room. The crowd that had gathered at the tables and spilled into every bit of SRO space available sprang to its feet, clapping and cheering their approval of the evening‟s star. After the crowd calmed, Lola launched into her program. She did spot-on impersonations of all the great divas: Madonna, Cher, Liza, Stevie Nicks, Whitney Houston, Patti Labelle, Bette Midler, et al. And as she switched from diva to diva, she turned her back, changing from wig to wig, completing the picture. Steppenwolf was amazed that such a talent could be found here. He hadn‟t really believed her outlandish story about New York the day before, but he was inclined now to give her the benefit of the doubt. After a one-woman grand finale, the crowd rose in a standing ovation that deservedly went on for what seemed an eternity, until she held her hands up to bring them to a stop. “Girls, girls, please! If you

don‟t stop, we‟ll never see the boys!” She rolled her eyes. “And I don‟t know about you, girls, but I came to see the boys.” She leered. “You know, the wet and wild boys? As a matter of fact, I think I‟m getting wet myself.” She pretended to reach down between her legs, then, bringing her fingers to her nose, she sniffed and made a face indicating that the smell was less than pleasant. “Tuna,” she said, wiping her fingers on the side of her skirt. The adoring crowd laughed their approval. “Okay, where are our contestants?” She combed the audience with her eyes. “What about you, sweetie?” The young man she pointed to looked embarrassed and shook his head from side to side. “Oh, come on,” she insisted. “Come to Mama, and let us see that cute little ass.” The object of her cajoling seemed even more uncomfortable. Lola extended her hand toward the audience. “Come on, girls, let‟s give the boy some encouragement.” The room broke out in a rowdy roar of catcalls, urging the young man on. Then the others at his table started pushing him toward the stage. “Come on,” Lola continued her verbal assault. “Mama will take care of you. Look at all these people who can‟t wait to see what you got.” She extended her hands across the width of the audience. “It‟ll be the easiest fifty dollars you‟ll ever make,” she pressed. The reluctant contestant, pushed by his friends and cheered on by the crowd, finally stepped up on the stage. His charm was in his embarrassment, not in his looks. He was actually quite plain, somewhat nerdy. “What‟s your name, sugar?” Lola asked him in her syrupy Southern drawl. The now red-faced young man answered as she pushed the microphone to his lips. “Brian.” “Okay, Brian. You‟re really cute,” she exaggerated as she directed him to go behind a white sheet, which had been stretched across one corner of the stage to form a small space for the contestants to strip down to their briefs. “Now, be a good boy and leave those underpanties on,” she leered and winked at the audience, which hooted and hollered its approval as a light came on behind the young man, backlighting him as he wrestled to undress in the tiny space provided. When Brian shyly stepped from behind the makeshift screen, his

hands cupped and strategically placed over his crotch, Lola launched back into her attack. “Do you know how to dance?” “I guess so,” he replied shyly. “Well, first off, you‟re going to have to reveal the merchandise, sweetie.” Brian slowly let his arms fall limply to his sides. Lola reached back to the table at the rear of the stage where the wigs were lying and grabbed a seltzer bottle. “Here,” she said as she brought the bottle into full view, “Mama will help. Maestro?” The music blared over the speakers as she squirted the cold water onto the front of his white jockeys. Brian flinched at the icy assault, and began dancing. “Dance, „pardner‟!” Lola commanded in her best John Wayne impersonation. As he turned with the music, revealing his back to the audience, she doused his white-clad cheeks with the water bottle. “Oh my, what a cute little ass,” she leered at the audience. The viewers continued to cheer the performance. Emboldened by the approval, Brian seemed to overcome his reticence and began undulating to the beat of the music. The crowd became even louder. Always the consummate performer, Lola instinctively knew when the point of maximum entertainment had been reached, and at that exact moment she intervened. “That‟s great, sweetie,” she cooed at Brian. “Let‟s give him a big hand for being such a good sport.” The audience applauded wildly as Lola directed Brian through the curtains at the back of the stage. “Just wait back there, sweetie, until the other contestants are done.” Brian started to leave, reaching for his clothing back behind the white screen. “Now, don‟t get dressed until we‟re through,” Lola reminded him as he disappeared through the opening. She turned back to the audience. “Mama‟s got to go back and do her own inspection.” She once again gave a big wink to the crowd, who laughed. One by one Lola embarrassed and cajoled other young men from the audience up onto the stage, where she repeated her relentless water assault on their nearly naked bodies while the cheering crowd egged them on. Just as it seemed she had reached the end of the line, having exhausted the supply of young contestants in the audience, she narrowed her aim on one last victim. “Well, what have we here?” she exclaimed in mock surprise. “Where have you been, handsome?” she continued. “Were you sucking dick in the bathroom or something?”

The audience burst into heckling and laughter. The object of her attack pointed to himself and silently mouthed, “Who? Me?” “Yes, you,” she said loudly. “Come on, sugar,” she started cajoling. “You know you want to.” To everyone‟s delight the grinning young man said, “Okay,” and made his way from the back of the room through the crowd and onto the stage. This one was in a league of his own. A short-lived hush came over the audience as it seemed to breathe a collective sigh. Even Steppenwolf found himself captivated by the boy. Lola seemed to instinctively know she had the prizewinner on stage and started in on her routine. “What do you think of this one, girls?” she said as she made a show of looking the boy up and down. The crowd roared its approval. The boy was a full six-feet-three inches tall and displayed a glowing halo of strawberry blonde curls framing his handsome, allAmerican face. His blue eyes sparkled in the spotlight, and even in his tight blue jeans and fitted white T-shirt, it was apparent that his body was perfectly sculpted by time spent at the gym. With an overly eager, campy voice, Lola began her introductory interrogation of the boy. “You know, I just love a man that I can look right in the eyes when I‟m wearing heels,” she cooed. “What‟s your name, pretty boy?” “Red,” he answered. “Well, how could it be anything else?” she flirtatiously continued in her best Blanche DuBois. “Just look at that creamy white skin. I think I‟ll call you „Strawberry Tall Cake‟,” she quipped, “because I could just eat you up.” She licked her lips largely and lasciviously. The audience laughed lustily and cheered as they shouted, “Take it off, baby!” Looking out at them, Lola feigned shock. “Ladies! Ladies! Give the boy a chance.” The crowd playfully booed. “You bitches!” Lola mocked them, then turned to the object of

everybody‟s lust. “Never mind them, sugar. They‟re just a bunch of queens in heat. Now, are you ready to get those clothes off and show us what you got?” Red smiled. “Sure am.” “Oh, look, girls, we‟ve got ourselves an eager one.” The crowd screamed its desire. “Okay, Strawberry Tall Cake, your fans are waiting.” She first pointed at the audience, then at the disrobing area behind the screen. Red disappeared momentarily until the backlight came on. Unlike the previous contestants, this one played to the room, dancing a silent striptease in silhouette to the uproarious shouts of the spectators. When he was through stripping down to his tighty-whities, he stepped, with a flourish, back into full view. Lola was ready. She raised one hand to her breast and the other with its back to her forehead as she batted her enormous fake eyelashes. “Girls, I‟ve got the vapors,” she vamped in her heavy Southern accent. “I hope he can catch me if I fall,” she added. The room went wild as the music began and the strawberry blonde Adonis began gyrating. His well-defined muscles rippled and his hips undulated in every direction as Lola, now fully recovered, sprayed him down with the water bottle. As his underwear became more and more transparent, his own excitement became visible. The spectators were in a frenzy now as the dancer showed exactly how hot he could be. The dark-red head of his gloriously growing erection pushed against the thin cloth, stretching it to the max. “Oh, my,” Lola exclaimed, “I think he‟s going to explode.” It was hard to tell who was more feverish, the crowd or Red. He appeared to be in his own world as he moved, trancelike, to the music, smiling at the audience as he sensuously stroked the wet cloth stretched across his gigantic member with his right hand. Lola, realizing that they were on the edge of breaking the laws against public indecency, intervened, holding up her hands to the audience. “A big hand for the big dick, girls,” she shouted, bringing an end to the music. The audience wasn‟t ready to stop the show. “No, no,” they shouted. “We want more! We want more!” they chanted at maximum

volume. Lola held her hands up, entreating the crowd to calm itself. “I know girls. I know,” she said emphatically. “I‟d like more of that myself,” she said as she pointed to the big-top tent that sprang from Red‟s soaked crotch. Then she turned to Red. “Baby, you better go backstage before the cops come and take us all away.” After Red exited through the curtains at the back of the stage, Lola turned her attention to her audience. “Down, girls, down!” The audience returned its focus back to the real star of the show, Lola. “Do you all want to go to jail?” Then she held for the pregnant pause. “Well, I would if they locked me up with him,” she threw her head back toward the dressing room. Everyone howled. “Well, let‟s herd them all out here and let you girls pick the wiener—I mean, winner.” Everyone was in such a good mood by then that they even laughed at that old saw. All the contestants returned to the stage, one by one, where they were reintroduced and then lined up for the vote. It was no contest, as everyone except Red got polite and well-contained enthusiastic applause. Red‟s almost brought the house down as Lola held her hand over his head. “The winner, in a landslide: Red!” she shouted over the applause. Lola sang a closing song, threw kisses to her standing, adoring fans, and exited the stage. The stage lights dimming out, the club returned to its former drab self and the patrons went back to their drinks and conversation. As Steppenwolf sipped on his beer at the bar, Red emerged from backstage. Once again he was fully clothed in his faded Levis and tight white T-shirt. A crowd of twinkies surrounded him. Obviously, they had been waiting for him. Red smiled and talked to them as they flitted about like a fluttering swarm of butterflies homed in on the same flower. After a bit, Red made his way out of the cluster of young men and walked to the bar, edging his way in between Steppenwolf and the guy next to him. Leaning forward, he gave his order to the bartender. Although he couldn‟t hear Red‟s voice, Steppenwolf saw him hold up two fingers. “I see you‟ve made your choice,” Steppenwolf said as he leaned close to Red‟s ear.

The bartender placed two longnecks down on the bar in front of Red, who turned with a smile toward Steppenwolf as he offered one of the beers. “Sure have,” he said as he peered deeply into Steppenwolf‟s dark green eyes with his own sparkling blue ones. “I choose you.” Steppenwolf smiled at the young man, then, looking over his shoulder at the crowd of younger men still camping it up in front of the show stage, winked and said, “You‟re letting your fans down.” “Always leave them wanting more,” Red quipped back. “At least that‟s what they tell me.” Steppenwolf appreciated Red‟s quick wit and self-confidence. “You seem to have quite a following. Is that just from tonight‟s performance—which I admit was quite a show—or are they your groupies?” “No, they know me. I‟m a barback down on Pacific Street, where they regularly hang out.” “So those boys admire your charms enough that they lowered their standards to come here?” Steppenwolf asked with a wry smile. “Well, something like that.” Then Red realized that Steppenwolf was poking fun at him. “I can‟t help it if I‟m irresistible,” he shrugged with a wink and grin. Steppenwolf laughed. “That you are, kid.” He held up the beer in a toast. “Thanks for the beer.” They clinked their bottlenecks together. “I‟m trying to get on as a dancer in the clubs on Pacific Street,” Red went on. “That‟s why I‟m here tonight. The guy who hires the dick dancers comes here on Tuesdays to scout new talent.” Steppenwolf made a show of stepping backward and giving Red the “once-over” from head to toe. “I guess you‟ll do,” he said, frowning as though he wasn‟t quite sure. Red played along, pouting his disappointment at the verdict and pretending to be on the verge of tears. “Oh dear,” Steppenwolf continued the act, “what can I do to make you feel better?” leering lasciviously at the target of his game. Red‟s face brightened as his pout turned into a dazzling smile. “I‟m sure we can think of something,” he said playfully.

Steppenwolf enjoyed playing with the young man. Red was fresh and fun, uninhibited and devastatingly cute. He was more than interested in taking things to the next level, but Red gave every appearance of being a top, and Steppenwolf knew that wouldn‟t work. He reached out toward the keychain that hung off the left-hand belt loop of Red‟s tight jeans, clasping the keys in his right hand. “You know,” he said, “these are hanging on the wrong side.” Red knew exactly what Steppenwolf meant. “No, they‟re right where they belong,” he returned with that amazing smile. He pulled down on Steppenwolf‟s keys with his right hand. “It‟s yours that are hanging on the wrong side.” “I guess we‟ve got ourselves a problem, then,” Steppenwolf said, frowning. “And that‟s a crying shame,” he added. “Maybe you‟d better get back over there to your fan club before they all flee back to Pacific Street, so you don‟t spend the night alone.” Red smiled. “No, that‟s okay. They‟re all cute, but it‟s my night off from Pacific Street, and I was looking for something different.” If Steppenwolf hadn‟t learned from bitter experiences of going home with the “wrong guy,” he would have taken advantage of Red‟s obvious hint, but he knew it would just lead to frustration. “Well, I hope you find it, then,” Steppenwolf said. “I need to head on out. I‟ve got things to do tomorrow,” he added as he finished his beer. “Thanks again for the brew.” Emptying his own longneck, Red sat the bottle on the bar. “I guess I‟ll move on too. If you don‟t mind, I‟ll walk you to your car,” he said. “That way the twinkie brigade won‟t follow me out.” Steppenwolf understood. “Okay, let‟s go.” As the handsome pair walked quietly down the sleepy, residential street toward the yellow Mustang parked near the far end of the block, a car rounded the corner ahead and sped up as it came toward them. The headlights were almost blinding as it approached, then they blinked to high beam as the car swerved toward them. It was then that Steppenwolf realized something was wrong. He pushed Red to the left between two parked cars and tumbled down on top of him in the grass between the sidewalk and the curb as the car tore by them before making the corner and disappearing.

Red started stirring and tried to get up. “Stay down,” Steppenwolf ordered, “in case they come back.” Red settled back into the grass and lay still under the press of Steppenwolf‟s body. Once he was sure the car wasn‟t returning, Steppenwolf got up and helped Red to his feet. “Are you all right?” he asked. Looking stunned, Red took a moment to answer. “Yeah, I think so,” he said as he brushed the grass trimmings off his shirt and jeans. “What was that about?” he asked. “I‟m not sure,” Steppenwolf answered. Not wanting to scare Red with the paranoid thoughts that were rushing through his head about Detective Mercer‟s warning, he decided to minimize his assessment. “Instead of walking home, maybe you ought to let me give you a ride. You know, in case it‟s a gay basher or something like that.” Red shakily accepted the offer. “Sure, sure, that would be nice,” he stammered.

STEPPENWOLF pulled the car to a stop in front of a townhouse a few blocks away. “Here you are,” he said. Red, still trembling, looked pleadingly into Steppenwolf‟s eyes. “I‟m really freaking,” he said. “Would you mind coming in for a while? I don‟t want to be alone until I calm down.” The confident young man that Steppenwolf had so admired earlier at the bar was nowhere to be seen. “Sure, I‟ll come in for a while.” Once they were inside, Red fell forward into Steppenwolf‟s arms. “Just hold me for a little bit,” he whispered as he shook like a kitten while the older man held him in a strong hug. Red then reached his mouth up and brushed his lips across Steppenwolf‟s own, and the fearful shaking became passionate trembling as the kiss was returned. The two men stood there entwined as their embrace stoked the fires within. Steppenwolf let his hands roam down Red‟s long, slender back until he reached the waistband of those incredibly tight jeans. He forced his right hand inside and downward. The jockey shorts that had been on display earlier that evening were no longer there. Steppenwolf‟s imagination went into overdrive as he felt the smooth,

soft skin of Red‟s incredible, creamy ass cheeks slide below his fingers and palm. Instinctively, his forefinger dived into the valley between those marvelous mounds of flesh. He could feel Red melt into his arms as he sighed with pleasure. “You know what I want,” Steppenwolf whispered roughly. “I‟ve never done that before,” Red responded as he stroked Steppenwolf‟s growing member through the denim of his jeans. The thought of being the first to enter the gates of pleasure that were before him practically drove Steppenwolf mad with desire. He turned his head down and buried it in the side of Red‟s neck, softly kissing the smooth flesh he found there and sending Red into another near-swoon. “I‟ll be gentle,” he promised in a soft, low voice. He could feel the gooseflesh rise along Red‟s neck and then make its way down to the now trembling ass cheeks. Red sounded breathless. “Okay.” He pulled out of the embrace and, taking Steppenwolf‟s hand in his, led him up the stairs to the bedroom. It had been a long time since Steppenwolf had actually made love to someone, but he hadn‟t forgotten how. He took his time as he gently stroked and kissed Red from head to toe, lingering wherever the young man seemed most engaged in the seduction. Red‟s moans conveyed his own enjoyment as he explored Steppenwolf‟s hard, muscled body. Neither rushed the process as they succumbed to the sensuous instincts of their libidos. And when Steppenwolf claimed his prize, he did it slowly and as gently as possible, giving Red as much time as he needed. Red groaned under the gentle assault, but made no plea for Steppenwolf to stop. Steppenwolf had rarely felt such ecstasy as he was experiencing this night. He made a conscious effort to pace himself in order to bring the greatest possible pleasure to Red, but also to prolong the incredible sensation that was coursing through his entire being. When Red‟s moans of discomfort turned to sighs of pleasure, Steppenwolf achieved transcendence as their bodies assumed a rhythmic melding of place and time that he had never experienced before. Steppenwolf rode that wave of ecstasy in a timeless, sensual trance that took him through the dark hours of the morning until they joined their orgasms with that of the sun as it burst its rays of bright heat into the morning sky.

“HEY, sleepyhead!” It took a few moments for Steppenwolf to come out of the deep sleep he was in and realize where he was and who was talking. Red‟s handsome face came into focus over him. Standing at the side of the bed, the young redhead was holding a tray with two latte-sized cups of steaming coffee. “Well, good morning,” Steppenwolf managed to say with a morning grin spreading across his face. “Coffee?” Red asked as he held the tray down to Steppenwolf. Steppenwolf threw the sheet back, revealing that a certain part of his body didn‟t need any coffee to wake up. Red smiled as he withdrew the tray and placed it on the bedside table. “I‟m still sore,” he complained halfheartedly. “I‟ll be gentle,” Steppenwolf grinned wickedly. “That‟s what you said last night,” Red said, “and I‟m still sore.” Reaching out and taking the young man‟s hand in his, Steppenwolf pulled him down on the bed. Red didn‟t need much convincing, and while the lovemaking session didn‟t reach the marathon proportions of the night before, it was still unrushed and full of sensual pleasure. Having achieved satisfaction, the two adjourned their party to the breakfast nook downstairs. Sitting at the small table, they drank the rewarmed coffee they had neglected earlier. Steppenwolf looked around the spacious, newly constructed townhouse, taking note of the expensive furnishings and décor. “Tell me,” he asked, “how does a barback manage a place like this?” Without batting an eye or betraying any embarrassment at all, Red calmly gave a two-word answer, “Sugar Daddy.” Steppenwolf smiled broadly. “Well, this daddy must have some sugar,” he responded. “He does,” Red volunteered. “He‟s a rich motherfucker,” he continued.

“You didn‟t say that with much love,” Steppenwolf pointed out. Red‟s demeanor turned to the serious. “That‟s why I‟m trying to get that job as a dancer. I want out.” “Why? Does he beat you or something?” Steppenwolf was being facetious. Red didn‟t allow his mood to be lightened. “Oh, I guess I ought to be grateful. He got me off the streets when I was a runaway kid. But he makes me do things I don‟t like.” Steppenwolf‟s curiosity was piqued, and his inner detective couldn‟t let it go. “What kind of things?” Red seemed embarrassed as he answered. “Oh, he brings other guys over—you know—he calls them „business associates,‟ and he likes to watch me fuck them.” Steppenwolf realized he had crossed a line. “I‟m sorry. I shouldn‟t have asked. I didn‟t mean to embarrass you.” He once again tried to lighten the mood. “Anyway, after last night, I‟m sure you‟re on your way to dancing in the clubs. Then you can move on with your life.” Red was ready to change the subject, too. “Yeah, that would be nice. What do you do?” “I‟m a cop.” Steppenwolf loved to throw that out and watch the expression of disbelief that came over people‟s faces. And as expected, Red seemed taken aback. “Wow, man, a cop? I can‟t believe it. I just got fucked by a cop? Man, that‟s hot!” Steppenwolf laughed. “Well, I‟m not a Houston cop. I‟m from San Francisco. I‟m a homicide detective, and I‟m here helping an old friend whose son got murdered.” “Helping how?” Steppenwolf explained what had happened to Marcus and how Lilah had called him to help. “That‟s interesting. Do you think I could help in any way?” Red asked. “I don‟t know. You got any experience in police investigations?”

Steppenwolf was being flip. Red seemed disappointed that he didn‟t have any experience to offer. “No, I guess not, but maybe I could do something.” Steppenwolf grinned. “Yeah, I know what you can do,” he said as he reached across the table and took Red by the hand as he rose from the table. Red smiled that million-dollar smile of his and started to get up when Steppenwolf‟s cell phone rang. “Yeah,” Steppenwolf said as he brought the cell to his ear. “Oh, Lilah, I was just talking about you.” He listened as Lilah spoke. “I‟m sorry,” he said as he looked across the table at Red, “but something came up.” Again he listened to Lilah. He laughed as he responded to what she said. “Yeah, yeah, you‟re right. You‟re right.” Lilah said something else. “Oh, I forgot all about that. I‟ll be there right away.” Lilah interrupted him again. “Okay. Okay. I‟m on my way,” he said as he pulled the phone down and turned it off. He turned back toward Red, “Sorry. I‟ve got to go. Can I call you?” “Sure,” Red responded. “Here, give me your cell.” Red took Steppenwolf‟s cell phone and, after dialing a number on it, passed it back. Red‟s phone started ringing. “Leave me a message,” he said to Steppenwolf. The answering machine picked up the call, and Red‟s voice came to life: “Hi! This is Red. Leave a message, and I‟ll call you right back.” Steppenwolf lifted his cell phone to his mouth and started speaking in a low, gruff voice. “Hey, Red Riding Hood, this is the Big Bad Wolf, and I‟m coming to get you.” Turning off his cell, Steppenwolf gave Red a quick kiss and headed for the door.

Chapter 9

WHILE Winston Rollins made a big show of examining the evidence that Lilah and Steppenwolf had brought to him, Steppenwolf studied him. The fifty-something black man was exactly what Steppenwolf had expected, but not what he had wished for. Rollins, the regional director of the Metropolitan Organization for Racial Equality, reminded the detective of almost all the leaders of activist organizations he had met within the gay community: highly educated, overly well-spoken, and impeccably dressed. It seemed that the leaders of minority rights groups believed to the core of their beings that if they could just look, dress, and speak like white, upper-middle class straight people that they would become acceptable to them. And here Mr. Winston Rollins sat in his $500 suit and $200 shoes in his well-appointed Museum District office, doing all he could to be impressive. Removing his reading glasses and slowly lowering them onto his shiny desktop, Winston Rollins looked up into the faces of Lilah and Steppenwolf as he delivered his verdict. “While I find your evidence compelling and your story intriguing, I don‟t know how I can get my board to go along.” “Why is that?” Lilah asked. “Well, Mrs. Patterson, if everything you and Detective Steppenwolf tell me is true, it does indeed appear that the Houston Police Department was far from diligent in their duties,” he began, trying his best to be diplomatic in the face of his decision to deny their request. “However, M.O.R.E. was established and funded by black Christian organizations across the nation, and I feel that it will be very difficult for them to get behind a case, no matter how serious the racial prejudicial breach may be, when there is this underlying issue of

homosexuality and prostitution involved. I‟m sorry, ma‟am, but that makes the whole thing—shall we say, unseemly?” Lilah was taken aback by Rollins‟s assessment. “Unseemly? Unseemly? Mr. Rollins, my eighteen-year-old son is dead because some well-connected white man seduced him into a life of homosexual prostitution when he was only seventeen years old. I think if anything is unseemly, it is the conduct of a man who hides behind judge‟s robes and preys on the young men of our community.” Wringing her hands in her lap, she found it difficult not to pound her fists on the elegant desktop before her. Rollins tried to be conciliatory. “Mrs. Patterson, I assure you I feel the same way that you do about this. It‟s just that I‟ve got to go before a board of directors made up of ministers and pastors from all over our community and get their permission to take on this cause. Surely you can see the difficulty that is presented. Have you tried to get one of the gay rights organizations involved in this?” Steppenwolf realized that he was going to have to get into the mix, although this was Lilah‟s meeting, arranged by her friend. “Mr. Rollins, you know as well as I do that a gay rights organization will not get the kind of response needed to move the Houston Police Department off its position. The department knows that they have nothing to fear from a gay organization in today‟s political environment.” Steppenwolf hated to go to the next level, but he could tell that there was nothing to lose here; the outcome was a foregone conclusion. “Now, if you‟d rather we take this someplace else, I‟m sure we can find someone to help us. And you can rest assured that we will mention your organization‟s lack of concern for a young man in your community whose murder was covered up for political expediency. And I promise you, Mr. Rollins, that I won‟t give up until I find someone interested in this case.” Winston Rollins had not reached his position with M.O.R.E. without being able to read the intentions of his fellow man, and he could tell that Detective Steppenwolf, SFPD, was not to be taken lightly. So he made an attempt to defuse the situation. “Detective Steppenwolf, what would you have me do? You know that I only have so much power in these situations.” “Come on, Mr. Rollins,” Steppenwolf continued, unabated,

“don‟t piss on my leg and tell me it‟s raining. You know and I know that you wouldn‟t be at this fancy desk if you didn‟t have every talent necessary to make things happen. Now, you‟re the spinmaster here. Spin! We‟ve got ourselves a star athlete who‟s an honor-roll student with a great future ahead and not so much as one blemish of any kind on his record lying dead in some old pervert‟s condo down in Montrose. Surely a man as capable as you could persuade almost anyone that something needs to be done.” Rollins knew that he was in a tight spot now, and decided that perhaps a little preemptive action could get him out of the hole Steppenwolf was quickly digging for him. “I see your point, Detective. Why don‟t I just call down to HPD and see if I can get some information on this?” He picked up the phone and hit the speed-dial button that would connect him with the Public Relations Office of HPD. After being connected with his contact, he began talking. “Hey, Harold, this is Winston Rollins over at M.O.R.E. I‟m trying to get some information on the shooting of Marcus Patterson at Judge Maxwell Silver‟s condo back on June 12. Can you find someone for me to talk to about that?” After a few minutes on hold, Rollins pushed the speaker button on his phone and started talking. “Yeah, Chief Chamberlain, this is Winston Rollins over at the Metropolitan Organization for Racial Equality, and I‟ve got a Detective Steppenwolf and a Mrs. Lilah Patterson in my office. They are trying to get some information on the shooting of Mrs. Patterson‟s son Marcus back on June 12. Can you help us out?” The voice of Assistant Chief Chamberlain came over the speaker on the phone. “Mr. Rollins, is it?” “Yes, Winston Rollins, Chief. Oh, and by the way, I‟ve got you on speaker phone, and Mrs. Patterson and Detective Steppenwolf are right here.” “Thanks for letting me know, Mr. Rollins,” Chief Chamberlain answered. “Now, I‟ve already talked to Detective Steppenwolf about this and told him the file on that case is missing. I‟m sure it‟s somewhere around here, but no one seems to know where it is right now.” Rollins interjected, “Yes, Chief, Detective Steppenwolf told me

that.” Chamberlain was uneasy at having one of the city‟s most active civil rights groups showing interest in the case. Damn that Steppenwolf, he thought. He’s not going to let this go. But he betrayed none of his angst to the caller. “I‟m sure it‟s around here somewhere. You know, we have literally thousands of active cases going all the time, and it‟s not unusual for files to get misplaced, especially on a closed case like this one.” Rollins knew from previous contacts with the department that, to the contrary, it was most unusual for a file to go missing. He‟d never known of this happening before. “Well, perhaps your people should renew their efforts to track down the missing file, Chief Chamberlain. After all, there‟s a dead boy here, and we‟re just trying to make sure that everything is as it should be.” Hearing the frosty rebuke quite clearly in Mr. Rollins‟s voice, Assistant Chief Chamberlain knew he had a problem on his hands. “I assure you, Mr. Rollins, I will do everything in my power to find the file and get back to you as soon as I do.” Instinctively, Rollins knew he had the chief on the defensive and didn‟t intend to let him off the hook. “Well, if I don‟t hear from you by tomorrow morning, let‟s say ten o‟clock, I‟ll call you back myself and remind you. Will that be okay?” Rollins knew full well that it wouldn‟t be okay, but experience had taught him that follow-up was always necessary in these situations. Chamberlain, knowing he was caught in the net, had no choice but to comply. “Yeah, that‟s fine. I‟ll let you know no later than tomorrow morning at ten.” “Thanks, Chief,” Rollins said politely before hanging up the phone and turning back to Steppenwolf and Lilah. “I see what you mean, Detective. It seems that HPD hasn‟t prioritized their search for the missing file. I think they‟ll be feeling a little more fire under their backsides now.” He grinned at his own assessment. “Mrs. Patterson, if you‟ll call me tomorrow after ten, I‟ll let you know what response they come up with. I‟m sorry there‟s not more I can do right now, but I‟ll have to withhold my decision on your case until tomorrow.” He rose from his chair, signaling the end of the meeting.

Lilah was still hopeful as she rose and shook his extended hand across the desk. “I‟d appreciate anything you can do for us, Mr. Rollins.” Steppenwolf also shook Rollins‟s hand but wasn‟t as hopeful as Lilah, which was why he didn‟t thank the director for his efforts. Out in Lilah‟s car, Steppenwolf was less contained in his assessment of the meeting. “Well, I don‟t think we‟ve got much help coming from there,” he said. “Why do you think that?” Lilah asked. “I‟ve been around, Lilah, and those who are screaming the loudest for equality for the black, brown, and yellow man are not so quick to grant the same rights to the „pink‟ man. I‟ve seen it all before. „Equality for us but not for you.‟” Steppenwolf rarely got charged up about gay rights, but he had just been served a slice of prejudice by somebody who supposedly was dedicating his life to „equality for all.‟ He always found it disappointing. “I‟m sorry,” Lilah apologized. “I guess I didn‟t realize what he was saying about that.” “Well, he realized what he was saying,” Steppenwolf shot back. “He knew exactly what he was saying.” “Erik, I‟ve known you all these years, but I never realized until now what you must go through all the time.” “No, Lilah, there‟s no reason for you to apologize. I‟m sorry I made you feel bad for me. I‟m a big boy. I can take care of myself.” But inside, Steppenwolf still felt the creeping incursion of depression and had to fight back the urge to go to the nearest adult video store for relief.

THAT evening Mike, the street hustler he had met at Ralph‟s, called to tell him about four other street boys who were willing to talk to him about Judge Silver, so he made his way down to Montrose to meet with them. Their stories were all similar to Mike‟s. Each had gone home with Judge Silver and played the burglar-turned-rapist game. Three admitted to doing drugs and one didn‟t; however, they all verified Judge Silver‟s primo habit. He collected phone numbers for each of

them and promises that they would meet with him later to give sworn statements about their involvement with the judge, but he knew that these guys were long on promises and short on dependability. It was a problem that he would have to figure out a solution to. If he were in San Francisco, it wouldn‟t be too hard, but here he didn‟t have all the same tools at his disposal. Once his work was out of the way, Steppenwolf headed over to the twinkie watering hole where Red worked, in hopes of running into him. As he walked in, he felt as though he had aged at least fifty years. The average age in the place looked to be sixteen. He knew better, because you had to be twenty-one to get in, but everyone here looked like it was not one day past their twenty-first birthday. There was some silver lining to his cloud, though, as several of the “boys” gave him the once-over as he passed them by. He began to feel somewhat better. At least here he was with his own, even if it was the younger set. After getting his beer, Steppenwolf made his way around the place, keeping an eye out for Red. Even in this place Red would stand out. By the time he finished his beer, he realized Red wasn‟t there. After pushing his disappointment aside, he reached for his cell phone and dialed Red‟s number, hoping he was home. The machine picked up on the second ring: “Hi, it‟s Red. Leave a message, and I‟ll call you back.” Now Steppenwolf was really disappointed. He needed to see Red in the worst possible way. “Hey, Red Riding Hood, it‟s the Big Bad Wolf.” Before he could say more, Red came on the phone. “Hey, Big Bad Wolf Daddy, sorry about that. I‟m screening.” “Are you feeling all right?” “Yeah, I‟m fine. I‟ve just got the evening off and didn‟t want to be bothered by you-know-who,” Red answered cheerfully. “Do you feel up to some company?” Steppenwolf asked. “Sure. Come on over.” Steppenwolf was there quickly; and, in no mood for a chat, took Red straight to the bedroom to make love to him. Afterward, they lay silently entwined in each other‟s arms where Steppenwolf found the comfort he needed to fall into a peaceful sleep.

Chapter 10

THREE days later Judge Maxwell Silver paced nervously inside his chambers, high above the streets of Houston in the Harris County Criminal Courthouse. Every so often he would try to see down to the street, but the height of his office made it impossible to view that level no matter how close he pressed his face up against the glass. But he was well aware of what was going on down there. Even in a county the size of Harris County, Texas, the courthouse was like a one-block neighborhood in a small town: everybody knew everybody. His bailiff had come to him during the morning break from his jury trial and told him about the protesters out in front of the courthouse this morning. Now, it was eleven a.m. and the midday local news programs were about to come on. Knowing that all five stations would be all over the “breaking news” down at the courthouse, Judge Silver turned on the small television he kept in his chambers, in hopes he was wrong. But there it was, just as he had feared. As he surfed with his remote, channel after channel flashed the “breaking news” screens. And the bailiff had told him what that news was going to be when he brought it to him at the beginning of the recess. There it was on the television, people with signs standing in front of the podium that had been placed by someone on the steps of the courthouse. The signs were directed mainly at the district attorney and the police department, but among them he could see what he hoped against hope wouldn‟t show up on the TV: a sign that read: “Judge Silver, come clean. Tell us what you know.” Judge Maxwell Silver froze in fear as he watched the drama unfold on the small television screen before him.

DOWN on the street, the orderly protesters silently stood before the podium, moving their placards gently up and down—just enough to get attention but not so much that passersby and the television cameras pointed in their direction couldn‟t read the messages that were emblazoned across them. The messages were calling for the HPD to release the records on the death of Marcus Patterson and for the Harris County DA‟s office to investigate the mysterious case. They also called for Judge Maxwell Silver to tell the truth about what happened that night in his condo. On cue, the assemblage brought the movement of their signs to a stop as Winston Rollins, their leader, stepped to the podium. As he looked out across the crowd he had called to be here at the appointed time and place for his announcement, he was proud of their discipline as they stilled themselves to give him the spotlight. Surveying the impressive gathering of media, he paused long enough for them to get ready. After pulling himself up to his full height, he began. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Winston Rollins with the Metropolitan Organization for Racial Equality, M.O.R.E., and I am here today to appeal to the fairness of our criminal justice system on behalf of the family of Marcus Patterson, a young man of our community who was brutally shot to death earlier this year in what was reported to be an attempted burglary of the home of Judge Maxwell Silver. Information has come to our attention that the facts of this case were erroneously reported by the witnesses, and that the Houston Police Department, after being presented with information that called their initial findings into question, refused to reopen their investigation, as well as mysteriously losing the case file. “Ladies and gentlemen, it seems more than a little convenient for Judge Maxwell Silver that the files have been lost, since he stated on the night of the shooting that he had no idea who Marcus Patterson was.” Winston Rollins, a showman in his own right, looked back over his shoulders toward the windows of the building towering above him before solemnly turning back to the microphone. “Judge Silver, you

know the truth! You knew Marcus Patterson! You knew him more than a grown man should know a teenaged boy! Judge Silver, I plead with you, Your Honor, tell us the truth!” Rollins‟s face was the picture of solemnity. After a moment‟s pause for effect, he continued. “Ladies and gentlemen, it has come to our attention that Judge Maxwell Silver, a criminal court judge right here in Harris County, was carrying on a homosexual affair with Marcus Patterson dating back to the time Marcus was a minor. Now we have young Marcus Patterson, a celebrated athlete and valedictorian of his high school class, shot to death inside Judge Silver‟s condominium, and it would appear that the Houston Police Department has chosen to help cover up whatever was going on up there by sitting on the evidence that might lead us to know the truth. “And I have also tried to talk to the District Attorney‟s office about this case, only to be told that they don‟t know anything about it and have no plans to find out.” Once again he glanced over his shoulder at the courthouse behind him. “Mr. District Attorney, we implore you to get to the bottom of this and do your job. Investigate the cover-up of the murder of Marcus Patterson by the Houston Police Department and Judge Maxwell Silver.” Then, as instructed, the crowd of protesters came to life, waving their signs and shouting their agreement with Mr. Rollins.

HIGH above the street scene, Judge Silver‟s eyes grew wider and wider as paralyzing fright came over him like a heavy blanket, smothering him within its darkness. On the one hand, he wanted to run screaming from his chambers down the hallway to the elevators and escape, but he couldn‟t tear himself away from the unfolding coverage on the television. Having been tipped in advance, the local media had already loaded up their archival footage from the night of Marcus‟s death and ran it again, reminding midday viewers of the case. Judge Silver didn‟t need them to remind him of that night. That memory had been running continuously in his head like a recurring

nightmare: The gun going off; the feel of Marcus‟s body falling onto his back; the horrific vision of Marcus‟s brain and face spattered all over the living room and running down the windows. No, he didn‟t need the media to remind him of that night. No matter how long he lived, Maxwell Silver knew he would be forever haunted by his memories of that night. He ran to the private bathroom in his chambers and retched violently as his breakfast spewed into the toilet bowl. His emotions put him back on the roller coaster his head had been riding ever since that night, except this time the hills and dips were higher and deeper than ever. Tears ran down his cheeks as his body was racked by the spasms of more and more vomit exiting his system, until all that was left were the dry heaves that seemed to go on endlessly as his mind went from remorse to terror and back again. Between heaves he raised his head, moaning to the ceiling in agony. His brain flashed back and forth between memories of Marcus, sweet, sweet Marcus, and the hideous aftermath in his condo. The dry heaves seeming to have run their course, he began rising to his feet only to have the next wave of horror sweep through his exhausted brain: and now, everybody would know. Everybody would know! He doubled over in pain as a new bunch of cramps cut through his midsection like a chainsaw. He fell to the floor, clutching his belly, writhing in agony and anguish.

BACK down on the street, Steppenwolf and Lilah stood at the back of the crowd watching Winston Rollins doing “his thing” for the media. Out of nowhere, Steppenwolf felt a hand reach from behind and grasp his arm just above the elbow. He turned to look, and it was Red. “Hey, Little Red Riding Hood, how‟d you know to be here?” Red smiled broadly as he winked and answered, “ESP.” “Come on,” Steppenwolf grinned back. “How‟d you know where I‟d be?” Red couldn‟t let it go. “Why, you‟re like the Pope, Big Bad Wolf Daddy, everybody knows where you are.” After enjoying Steppenwolf‟s puzzled grin and the continuing question in those

beautiful dark green eyes, Red decided to fess up. “Man, it‟s all over the TV. You can‟t miss it. It‟s like a bomb went off.” Steppenwolf smiled with satisfaction. It was working, then. Lilah had found the key in Rollins. Then he noticed Lilah was looking Red up and down, trying to figure out who he was. Introductions were in order. “Lilah, this is Red.” He motioned toward Red, then back to Lilah. “Red, Lilah, Marcus‟s mother.” “Oh, Lilah,” Red said, extending his hand, “Wolf Daddy has told me all about you.” “Wolf Daddy?” Lilah couldn‟t help but laugh a little as she warmly shook Red‟s hand. “Well, Wolf Daddy here hasn‟t gotten around to telling me about you, but I assume you‟re the reason he doesn‟t show up at my place until after breakfast most mornings.” Red blushed and smiled at Lilah. “I guess it is a little early to „take me home to Mama‟,” he quipped. “Mama? I‟ll have you know he‟s old enough to be my… my brother,” she joined the game, poking Steppenwolf in the ribs. “Has he been lying about his age again?” Before Red could come back, Steppenwolf felt another hand grasping his arm, this time rather roughly. He turned to see a uniformed policeman holding him by the arm just as another took him by the other arm. “Cuff him,” came a vaguely familiar voice from behind the two uniforms. As the handcuffs clicked into place, Steppenwolf saw who the voice belonged to: Detective Mercer. As the two officers led Steppenwolf away, he looked back at Red and Lilah, shrugging his shoulders. “I‟ll get you out,” Lilah shouted.

AFTER a short ride in the back of a patrol car, Steppenwolf found himself being led through the hallways of HPD Headquarters to the same little interview room where he had talked to Detective Mercer just a few days earlier. The officers escorted him inside the room, and Mercer, just a few steps behind, ordered, “You can take them off now.”

As the officers removed the cuffs from his wrists, Steppenwolf couldn‟t resist poking at Mercer. “Oh, I thought you brought me here for some kinky fun, Mercer. I‟m disappointed.” “Very funny, Detective Fairy,” Mercer spit back. Before Steppenwolf could snap back, the door to the conference room opened and a man in a suit came in, accompanied by a court reporter carrying her little steno machine As the young woman set up her equipment, the man in the suit approached Steppenwolf, extending his open hand, “Travis Houston, Assistant DA, Detective Steppenwolf. I‟d like to take your statement in the matter of Marcus Patterson, if you don‟t mind.” Steppenwolf couldn‟t believe it. The guy was being pleasant, almost friendly. On the one hand, Steppenwolf would have liked to poke at the guy and see if he was for real, but he decided instead to play along. “Sure, Mr. Houston, I‟d be glad to help. What do you want to know?” After the formalities of name, address, occupation, et cetera, Travis Houston dug into the information Steppenwolf had uncovered about the judge and Marcus, as well as the judge‟s proclivities with the other “boys” of Montrose. Steppenwolf told what he knew except when it came to the identities of his sources. “I‟m sorry, Mr. Houston, but as much as I‟d like to tell you who said what, I have a problem with that at this point.” Because things seemed to be going so well, Travis Houston was somewhat taken aback by Steppenwolf‟s reluctance to go forward. Forgetting for the moment who he was talking to—a seasoned homicide detective—the experienced lawyer made a rookie mistake, pulling out too high a trump card. “Mr. Steppenwolf, I could charge you with obstruction of justice.” A slow, almost sinister smile crept across Steppenwolf‟s face. “But you won‟t,” he answered coolly. After a pause for effect, the homicide detective from San Francisco spoke. “Look, man, I don‟t want to bust your chops. It‟s just that I‟m not ready to fully believe you‟re really here to help. I‟ve been around. I know the score. You‟ve got your old buddy the judge sitting over there in the courthouse, and

for all I know you may be down here to help him put the kibosh on this case. I mean, we‟ve shaken hands and all, but that don‟t make us best friends.” Houston was embarrassed to be caught with his threat hanging out and realized he‟d better level with this guy if he wanted anything out of him. “Okay, Steppenwolf, you got me. Look, I‟m as interested as you are in getting to the bottom of this. And I assure you that I‟m not here to help Judge Silver. Believe me, if he‟s done anything wrong, I‟ll be all over him, but you‟re holding the keys here. If you don‟t cooperate with me, I can‟t do anything. Get it?” “I get it, Mr. Houston, but I‟m not ready today to show my whole hand. Why don‟t you let me poke around a little more, and I‟ll let you know what I turn up?” “That‟s what I‟ve got the police for, Steppenwolf. If you‟ll just give me what you‟ve got, I‟ll get them on it. I promise.” Steppenwolf was not buying it. “Look, Mr. Houston, you‟ll have to forgive me if I‟m not exactly impressed with the capabilities of the HPD. I tried talking to „Fat Boy‟ over there,” he nodded his head in the direction of Mercer, “and he didn‟t seem all that interested, if you get my drift.” “You faggot son of a bitch!” Mercer snarled as he came at Steppenwolf with his clenched fists extended in a menacing manner. Steppenwolf sat perfectly still in the face of the charging detective, calmly growling his retort. “Come on, you fat piece of shit. I‟ve been beating the crap out of guys like you all my life.” Travis Houston suddenly realized he was in the middle of a fight and wanted no part of it. “Mercer, back off!” he shouted at the HPD Detective. Mercer, still red-faced, backed up and resumed his position on the wall. “I rest my case, Counselor,” Steppenwolf said with a flourish in the direction of Mercer. “I‟d really like to help, but I‟m not comfortable with things the way they are. I think you‟ve got some real problems all around this case, Mr. Houston, and I‟d suggest you start with Detective Mercer over there. He seems a little too interested in saving his own ass to me. I‟ll tell you what, Lawyer Houston, why don‟t you work on

putting together a team that is capable of and interested in investigating this case, and when you do, I‟ll be more than happy to cooperate. Until then, I think I‟ll just work on my own and leave you to your fool‟s errand.” Although Steppenwolf‟s words stung, Travis Houston was no fool. He knew the detective from San Francisco was right. “Okay, Detective Steppenwolf, you know I am limited here in what I can do, so I‟ll get back to you. You can go.”

WHEN Steppenwolf walked into the living room at Lilah‟s house, she was sitting on the couch next to Red, who was holding her in his arms as she cried. “What‟s wrong, Lilah?” he asked, concern in his voice. Lilah looked up with big tears streaming down her face. “It‟s something that was on the TV,” she said. “What?” Steppenwolf asked. “That horrible Georgia Harper was on,” Red answered for Lilah, who was still trying to compose herself. “You mean we made the Georgia „Harpy‟ show? That‟s great!” Steppenwolf said, smiling. “What did the old Georgia „Bitch‟ have to say?” he added. Lilah was still not ready to join in Steppenwolf‟s fun. “She was saying awful things about Marcus, Erik. I wanted to rip her big blonde hair out by its black roots.” Georgia Harper, a former prosecutor, had made a name for herself as a reporter who covered court cases for one of the big cable news networks. Her notoriety, gained by being an overly enthusiastic victims‟ rights advocate and prosecutors‟ advocate, had landed her an hour-long show during television‟s evening prime time, where she contemptuously spat and spewed at the defendants in every notable court case from coast to coast. Never mind that she didn‟t actually know the facts of any of the cases or the laws of states outside of Georgia; she was a relentless “persecutor” who ranted and raved as though her very life depended on the outcome of every case. In

medieval times she would have been a traveling witch-hunter, going from town to town bringing the accused “to justice.” Red chimed in, “We recorded it. Do you want to see?” “No!” Lilah practically screamed. “Please, don‟t show it again.” “Come on, Lilah. It‟s okay,” Steppenwolf interjected. “It doesn‟t matter what she said about Marcus. What does matter is that the bullies are hitting back, don‟t you see?” “No, Erik, I don‟t see. What do you mean?” “It means we‟ve got them on the run. They‟ve called in their media guns to try to shoot us down. They‟re scared, Lilah. They‟re scared.” “Okay, Erik, if you say so. But please, don‟t make me watch that bitch again.” “Tell you what, why don‟t you go in the other room for a little bit while Red and I watch. I really want to see what she had to say.” Lilah got up and started to leave the room, then turned back to Red and Steppenwolf, who were now sitting next to each other on the couch. “Now, you two „boys‟ watch the show. I don‟t want to hear anything going on in here.” She mustered a playful smile as she disappeared down the hallway and into her bedroom. Steppenwolf shouted after her, “Don‟t worry, Mommy, we‟ll stay out of the backseat.” Red and he had a little laugh, and after a quick kiss, Red pushed the “play” button on the VCR control. There she was, Georgia Harper, with her big teased and bleached hair framing those garish black eyebrows above her wild eyes, all of which detracted from her thin, darkly painted lips. “Presenting: Cruella De Vil!” Red shouted with a wink and a grin at Steppenwolf. They both laughed as they watched and listened to her report. Since they hadn‟t hit “record” at the very beginning, the tape started a little way into the report. In her high-pitched Georgia “cracker” accent, Ms. Harper was in prime form. “And I‟m sick and tired of these liberal groups coming after good, law-abiding people. I‟ve known Judge Maxwell Silver since he appeared on my special: Capital Punishment in America. He‟s a good man who cares deeply

about the rights of victims of crime in our country. He takes a brave stand down there in Houston every day in his courtroom, where he boldly sweeps the trash out of our society by locking away those evil scumbags that are a constant menace to the law-abiding citizens of our cities. Here‟s a clip of what he had to say about capital punishment on my special.” And there he was on the television screen, the man from the picture in Marcus‟s room, Judge Maxwell Silver. Steppenwolf was fascinated by his image on the TV. No doubt, the judge knew how to present himself. He sat there in his robes, hair neatly combed, smiling for the camera as he spoke of his philosophy on capital punishment. “No, I don‟t feel any compassion for those I sentence to death. After all, did they feel any compassion for their victims before they killed them? I say they didn‟t. If they had felt even one tiny bit of compassion, they wouldn‟t have pulled that trigger or thrust that knife. So, no, I don‟t feel any compassion for them. I feel they‟re just getting what they deserve, and it‟s my job to give them that.” Georgia Harper was back on the screen immediately—no dead space on her show. “There you have it, folks. Now does that look like a bad guy to you? Me neither! Now this M.O.R.E. bunch is trying to smear the good judge and make this kid, this Marcus Patterson, who broke into the good judge‟s condo and tried to kill him, into some kind of local hero. They say he‟s a football star and honor student. Now, folks, I‟m getting mighty tired of these athletes being given a pass when they misbehave. First it was OJ, and then it was Kobe Bryant. Why is it that we‟ve lifted jocks into this place in our society where they‟re allowed to get away with anything, even murder! I don‟t care if this kid was a star football player or not. That doesn‟t give him the right to break into somebody‟s place and try to rob them at gunpoint! “Well, we‟ll sure be watching this one, folks. But I‟m sure my friend Judge Maxwell Silver will be cleared of these vicious smears leveled at him by those who are the enemies of justice in our nation.” The show moved on to another case, so Red hit the “stop” button and the big-haired woman disappeared from the screen. “Lilah, we‟re done,” he shouted just before he snuck another kiss from Steppenwolf.

AT 11:15 that night, a white panel van followed a black car east on Hyde Park Street in Montrose. The black car came to a stop beside a group of young black men hanging out on the sidewalk. The passenger side window came down, and when one of the men approached the car, the back doors of the van swung open, allowing four uniformed policemen to jump out and run up on the group of men. “Freeze!” one of the cops shouted. Two of the street boys tried to run away, but they were nabbed by a couple of plainclothes cops coming down the sidewalk from the east. The men were put in the van and taken downtown to the city jail. In the gay hustler bars of Montrose that night, there was talk about a sweep the HPD had pulled, removing the hustlers from their streets.

JUST past midnight, Steppenwolf‟s cell phone rang. It was Lola. “Hey, Steppenwolf, baby, how ya‟ doin‟,” she said in her syrupy Southern accent. Recognizing the voice immediately, Steppenwolf answered, “I‟m fine, Lola, how you doing?” “I‟m fine, baby. But I got some news for you. The police did a sweep tonight and picked up all the boys off the streets.” “I‟m on it. Thanks, Lola,” Steppenwolf said as he hung up the phone. He wished he really was on it. It was hard to sleep that night. He couldn‟t help but worry that that smart-ass assistant DA, or even worse Mercer, was trying to get to his witnesses.

Chapter 11

THE pancake was flipped in the pan at the perfect moment, revealing its golden-brown underside and releasing its tantalizing aroma to blend with those of the hot coffee, warm maple syrup, and spicy sausage that were permeating the kitchen. Red stood at Lilah‟s side as she expertly plied the culinary skills passed down from her grandmother to her mother and then to her. She hadn‟t made pancakes since Marcus‟s untimely death, and she enjoyed both the feeling of satisfaction cooking had always brought and the companionship that Red provided on this morning. Marcus had always been fascinated with cooking, and even as a toddler had pulled a chair up to the stove to watch her every move as she performed what she had always considered a labor of love. Red was paying for his eats by performing tricks with a deck of cards he had found in the guestroom, where he and Steppenwolf had spent the night. “That‟s really good,” Lilah remarked. “Where did you learn to do that?” “Oh, I‟ve been doing magic tricks since I was a kid,” he said with a grin just as Steppenwolf wandered, sleepy-eyed, into the kitchen. “Yeah,” Steppenwolf said. “He disappeared out of the bedroom this very morning. I woke up and he had vanished into thin air, just like that.” Steppenwolf snapped his fingers. “That was purely self defense,” Red answered. “I was afraid you were going to hurt me, the way you were flailing around last night.” Red instinctively moved toward Steppenwolf in order to give him a kiss, then, remembering they weren‟t alone, stopped short. “Oh, come on, you two,” Lilah interjected. “Go ahead and give him a kiss, Red. I won‟t mind. I think you two are cute,” she added

with a smile. “Well, okay, if you insist,” Steppenwolf said as he grabbed Red and laid him back, making a show of planting a long, rough kiss on the younger man‟s lips. “Oh, you‟re impossible.” Lilah feigned disdain as Red, whose face now matched his name, rose back to a standing position. “Sorry about last night, Red.” Steppenwolf‟s mood took a turn to the serious. “I couldn‟t sleep because I was worried about that damn assistant DA and what he was doing with my witnesses. I‟ve got to call him and see what he‟s up to.”

TRAVIS HOUSTON was the picture of friendliness when Steppenwolf arrived to meet him at the city jail. “I didn‟t mean to worry you, Steppenwolf. I was going to call you this morning and let you know what was going on.” Seeing the look of disbelief that passed over Steppenwolf‟s face, Houston hastily added, “Really, I was. I just didn‟t expect you to get word of last night‟s sweep so quickly.” “I‟ll bet you didn‟t,” Steppenwolf answered, “but I‟ll take your word for it. Now, what the hell is going on?” “Since you seemed reluctant to reveal your sources, I thought I would just round up everybody who might be one and ask them myself,” Houston replied. “And how‟s that working for you?” Steppenwolf asked facetiously. “Well, I haven‟t really started yet,” Houston answered. “I was waiting for you to get here and identify them in a lineup.” “Very clever, Counselor, but what makes you think I‟ll cooperate?” “Oh, I‟m prepared to be very generous, Steppenwolf. I‟ll give you access to the police file.” Steppenwolf couldn‟t stop himself. “Well, isn‟t it amazing how that old thing suddenly stopped being lost?”

“That‟s because of your efforts, Steppenwolf, I‟ll not deny it. And I thank you for that. I have found it very interesting in light of what you have told me.” Houston wasn‟t through with his offer. “I‟d also like you to work with the DA‟s office in the investigation.” “How are Mercer and the HPD going to feel about that?” Steppenwolf asked. “I think you‟ve brought enough pressure on them that they don‟t dare object to much of anything at this point.” “Okay, Counselor, that sounds really nice and all, but what‟s the catch? Are you going to give me full access to everything you have, or are you just jacking me around, hoping I‟ll shut up and go away?” “No, I‟m serious, Steppenwolf. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do. If Judge Silver is guilty of anything, I want to hold him completely accountable.” “Okay, let‟s say you convinced me. What do you want me to do?” “Well, first, I would like you to pick your witnesses out of some lineups and help me convince them to tell me what they know.” “Well, I can pick them out, if you‟ve got them, but how are you going to get them to talk to you?” Travis Houston was ready with the answer. “I can do what you can‟t, Steppenwolf. I can give them immunity from prosecution for anything that we‟ve got on them in exchange for their testimony.” “Now, you‟re talking, Counselor. I was just checking to see if we were on the same page,” Steppenwolf replied. “Let‟s go.”

FOR the second day in a row, a podium was standing outside the front door of the Harris County Criminal Courthouse, and the media were assembled to get their daily feed. Travis Houston had skillfully leaked the nature of his announcement to make sure they were all in attendance, and it had worked. His careful planning had paid off dividends beyond his expectations, as crews from the national cable news networks were among the throng of hungry news people. The smell of a major scandal was in the air, and Georgia Harper‟s piece the

previous day had only fueled the fires of a developing story. Travis Houston himself sat in his office, waiting for the exact time he had set for his news conference—four p.m., just in time for maximum exposure on the evening news programs. Much to his satisfaction, things couldn‟t have gone better. All of Steppenwolf‟s “street boys” had been gathered up in the sweep, and all had accepted his offer of immunity from prosecution for their “activities,” including prostitution and possession of drugs as well as whatever paraphernalia the police searches had produced. It had been a slam-dunk. And now, for the pièce de résistance—the head of Judge Maxwell Silver. In the mind of Travis Houston, ambition was not a character flaw; it was necessary for a successful life and career. Competition was at the core of his nature, and he strove to be a winner in everything he did. He had been valedictorian of his high school class and an overachiever both athletically and academically at the University of Texas prior to being accepted to Baylor School of Law on a full scholarship. Nothing was wasted on the young law student. He studied hard and made law review. Recruited by every major law firm in Texas, as well as some prestigious national firms, the new lawyer had instead made efforts to further his interest in politics. Travis Houston knew the quickest way to the top of the political ladder in Texas was through the District Attorney‟s office. His mentor had pointed the way for him, and that mentor was now about to provide him with the ultimate boost—a big-time murder case. Yes, he had watched Maxwell Silver rise from an assistant in the Harris County District Attorney‟s office to judge of a criminal District Court, with the help of a murder case involving a Texas oil millionaire. Publicity. That was the ticket to the political arena. With a name like his—Travis Houston—and a lot of free publicity, he knew his goals were within reach. But unlike Judge Silver, Travis Houston had his eyes on a bigger prize. First, judge; then on to the State House in Austin. Who knows? Maybe even Washington, DC. He was only thirty years old; he had his whole life ahead of him. And with the murder conviction of a wellknown district court judge, he was on his way. At exactly four p.m., Assistant District Attorney Travis Houston took the podium on the courthouse steps in front of all those cameras and made his big move. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Travis

Houston. I‟m an Assistant District Attorney. In light of questions raised in the matter of the death of Marcus Patterson, the Harris County District Attorney‟s Office announces that it will take evidence that has come to our attention before the Harris County Grand Jury to determine the cause and manner of death of Marcus Patterson, an 18-year-old male, shot to death in June of this year. I would be glad to answer any questions you may have.” The press corps erupted in a frenzy of questions, questions that had been planted by the leaks Houston had engineered earlier that day. “Mr. Travis,” a female reporter managed to shout above the others, only to be interrupted by the man at the podium. “Mr. Houston. My name is Travis Houston. Go ahead.” The reporter jumped back into the hunt. “Sorry, Mr. Houston. Can you tell us what you believe the involvement of Judge Maxwell Silver is in this case?” Bingo! Travis Houston sprang into action. “The homicide in question did occur at the condo of Judge Silver, and we will be examining the statement he gave the night of the incident, but other than that, I can‟t reveal any other information about the case beyond the fact that it is under investigation.” It was like feeding candy to a baby. The media was ready to take whatever little they were given and run with it, and Travis Houston knew exactly what he was doing. He knew he didn‟t have to implicate the judge at this point; the media would do it for him. He had held the bait up to the hungry beast, and its consumption was only leading to a greater appetite.

ONCE again, high above the street, Judge Maxwell Silver watched in horror as the news conference came over the television in his chambers. He didn‟t want to be here today, but he knew he had to show up or it would be even worse. Now that argument seemed moot—nothing could be worse than what was happening down on the street. Once again he could feel his stomach churning as he watched helplessly while his life continued its somersault. Only the ringing of the phone on his desk kept him from returning to his private bathroom to begin a new round

of dry heaves. He hadn‟t been able to eat since yesterday. He reluctantly picked up the phone. “If it‟s the press, I can‟t be disturbed,” he said to his court coordinator. “It‟s Mr. Powers, Your Honor,” she replied. “Do you want to talk to him?” “Yes, yes. Which line?” “Line three,” she said before hanging up. Judge Silver pressed the button for line three and answered, “Yeah, I‟m glad you called.” Preston Powers was the “kingmaker” of Republican politics in Harris County, a very rich, very successful lawyer who worked behind the scenes to get the “right people” elected to office. He was also Judge Maxwell Silver‟s father-in-law. “Hey, Max, how you holding up?” “Have you got your TV on, Press?” “Oh yeah, I see it. Look, Max, keep calm.” Preston Powers knew he had to keep a lid on his son-in-law before this whole thing exploded beyond even his abilities to manage it. “They don‟t have anything on you. They‟re just fishing, son.” What Preston Powers considered to be “just fishing,” Maxwell Silver felt as a hook firmly embedded in his mouth. “Look, Press, maybe it would be good for me to go ahead and give a statement and come clean on this whole thing.” “Hold on, Max, hold on. Let‟s don‟t forget everything we learned in law school. Look, you need to stay real calm and focused. Make them prove it, son; don‟t give that snot-nosed assistant DA anything to work with.” “I already have, Press. It didn‟t happen the way I said that night,” Judge Silver‟s voice quaked over the phone. “Hell, son, I know that, and you know that, but that ADA doesn‟t know shit.” Preston Powers drove home the point he had called to make. “Don‟t say anything, Max. Just go about your business and act like everything is just fine. I‟ll send my best criminal guy over, and he‟ll take care of it.” “But, Press, I‟m a public official. I can‟t just say nothing.”

Maxwell Silver was in full panic and his father-in-law could hear it in his voice. “Goddamn it, Max, get hold of yourself! Where this Marcus Patterson case is concerned, you‟re not anything except a possible suspect. Forget all that „public official‟ crap. Now, sit tight until I get my guy over there, do you understand me?” Max Silver knew that Preston Powers was holding onto the other end of the only rope he had to grasp, so there was just one thing to do: comply. “Okay, Press,” he answered softly, “I‟ll wait.” “Buck up, son! Help‟s on the way.” Preston Powers went off the line. Overwhelmed by everything, Judge Silver retreated once again to his restroom, where the dry heaves from the previous day swept over him. His life was getting away from him, and he knew it.

ONLY a terrorist attack on the Port of Houston could have generated more sensational coverage than what hit the city‟s airwaves that evening. All five local newscasts led with the story, and all ran wild with speculation that Judge Maxwell Silver was involved in some terrible way with the death of a young star athlete. They profiled Marcus, with footage of him on the football field leading his high school to within a breath of the state championship. Now, the “armed robber” that had reportedly terrorized Judge Maxwell Silver back in June was being given all the sympathy the local news reporters could muster. Conversely, Judge Silver‟s veracity was being questioned about the night of the shooting. At the local level, the worm had turned. On the national cable news broadcasts, the coverage was equally sensational, but not weighed one direction or the other, except for the coverage by Georgia Harper, still a firm believer in the judge‟s innocence. “This is pure sensationalism,” she ranted. And indeed, she did have some expertise in that particular area. “I‟m telling you, folks, this is just another attempt by the defense bar to smear a fine, upstanding member of the judiciary they can‟t get around any other way. For years I‟ve watched these clowns try to vilify victims while

they do everything they can to walk their dirtbag clients out the doors of the courthouse and back onto the streets.” Once again she ran the footage of her interview with Judge Silver, illustrating what a “stand-up guy he is for victims‟ rights in America.” The anchors of the cable new programs, however, sensing that there might be more to the story, carefully walked the line of neutrality while putting the greatest amount of punch as possible on the fact that there was a criminal court judge involved in the case and an explanation was in order.

TRAVIS HOUSTON sipped his whiskey slowly, savoring the strong flavor and harsh sting. As he sat at the bar in his favorite watering hole, The Higher Court, his eyes were glued to the television that hung over the bar. The bartender looked at the screen and then at Houston. “Hey, man, that‟s you,” he said. “That‟s cool. Here you are, and there you are,” he said, pointing at the television. “Here‟s one on the house,” the bartender continued as he poured another double shot into a glass. Houston raised the glass to the bartender in a show of thanks, but said nothing. “I seen you in here before,” the bartender went on. “What‟s the deal?” Travis Houston realized the guy wasn‟t going to give him any peace, so he took advantage of the opportunity to tell his story. “It‟s a case where a judge may be trying to hide his involvement in a homicide.” “Really? Cool, man. What are you, the DA?” “Assistant DA.” Then Houston remembered he needed to say his name every chance he got. “I‟m Travis Houston, Assistant DA. That‟s my case there on the TV.” “Wow, man. So you‟re going after this judge?” “Yeah,” Houston went on, trying out his “humble” routine. “Somebody‟s got to do it, you know, and it fell on me.” The bartender bought in completely. “Wow, man, that‟s heavy.

It‟s a good thing we got guys like you to keep them big guys in line. Wow, a judge? That‟s really heavy, man.” Travis Houston realized he needed to get out of there before the guy said “man” again and made him lose his cool. That was part of being a good trial lawyer—knowing when to quit. Leaving the guy a big tip so he would remember him, he made his way to the door.

THAT night, Steppenwolf enjoyed watching Red‟s awesome debut as a dancer in Montrose, realizing that he had blown the case of Marcus‟s death wide open. Later they would celebrate the night away at Red‟s place, enjoying their day of mutual triumph.

AT THE Midtowne Tower, encapsulated in the claustrophobic confines of his tiny office, Pete Escobar jumped like a frightened kitty cat when his cell phone rang, interrupting his computer Hearts game. Ever since the beginning of the latest media blitz, he lived in fear. He found himself snapping at his wife and kids over the most insignificant things. In fact, he had volunteered for a double shift tonight to avoid going back home and facing Imelda‟s wrath over the argument they‟d had that morning as he left the house. Pete couldn‟t even remember what it was about. His mind would give him no rest from the speculation of what he knew was coming: an all-out investigation into the shooting death of Marcus Patterson. Looking at the caller ID, he noted that the identity of the caller was blocked. He prayed that it was the call he had been expecting. His hand shook as he picked up the receiver and raised it to his ear. “Pete here,” he answered, betraying his inner panic with the tremor in his voice. “Hey, Pete. How‟s it going?” the voice on the other end said in a casual, friendly manner. For Pete Escobar it was as if a dam broke, allowing his pent-up emotions to flow out. “Oh, man, I didn‟t think you were ever going to

call,” he said plaintively. “I‟m freaking out here.” “Calm down, Pete. Everything‟s going exactly like we planned it. Just keep your cool and it‟ll be all right.” The deep, masculine voice was sedate and soothing. “Do you remember what you‟re supposed to do next?” “Yeah, I remember,” Escobar answered in a voice that betrayed his lack of faith at this point. “Tell me,” the voice on the other end commanded. “Repeat it back to me.” “I‟m to cooperate with the investigators and stick to the original story until I hear from you again,” he responded. “Very good, Pete. And what else?” “Work on the other story so that it‟s convincing.” “That‟s right, Pete. Now, do you think you can keep it together?” “Yes, sir.” In spite of the hurricane of fear that was swirling inside his head, Officer Pete Escobar‟s police training had kicked in, and the formerly shaky voice was replaced by the one he had been taught to use on the witness stand. “I‟m okay, sir. I‟ll be fine.” “That‟s a good man. I‟ll be in touch.” The phone went dead, leaving Escobar holding it in his hand. He firmly returned it to its holster and shored himself up for the ordeal ahead.

Chapter 12

AS

HE came through the door into Judge Silver‟s chambers, Bull

Milam could see that he had his work cut out for him. The judge rose slowly from the large chair behind his massive desk like a very old man. He looked haggard and pale, not at all like the dashing, handsome politician who had repeatedly impressed the voters of Harris County. A trembling hand came slowly across the desk to greet an old and much needed friend. Bull clasped it warmly and firmly within his big, gnarled paws. “Hey, Max,” he said softly, “you‟re not lookin‟ too good.” “I know, Bull. And I feel even worse,” Judge Silver answered in a weak, gravelly voice. Looking at his older friend and colleague and noting the craggy face of a real Texas cowboy, Max Silver was still impressed by Bull Milam, one of the most notorious criminal defense lawyers from coast to coast. He had perfected the art of swaying juries with his down-home drawl and country-boy charm. “Have a seat,” Silver said as he motioned toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. Bull lowered his briefcase to the floor beside the leather wingback chair with one hand and removed his cowboy hat with the other, revealing a full head of white hair to rival that of Spencer Tracy. Laying that old, somewhat misshapen, gray flannel cowboy hat on Silver‟s desk, he settled in. “Sorry I couldn‟t get over here last night, but I was up in Fort Worth on another case. I guess Press forgot that when you talked to him yesterday, but I‟m here now.” “I‟m glad you‟re here, Bull. I know I need to talk to somebody about this whole thing, but I‟d rather it not be somebody I‟ve known most of my adult life.” “Look, Max, there‟s not anything you could tell this ol‟ Texas

boy that he hasn‟t heard before. I‟ve been gettin‟ Houston‟s rich and famous out of their scrapes for over forty years, so I‟ve pretty much heard it all.” Judge Silver paused and squirmed in his chair. “Yeah, I know that, Bull, but we‟ve been friends and colleagues since I came to work for Press out of law school, and I‟ve never told you the truth about myself.” “Hell, Max, you think I didn‟t know you liked the boys?” The judge sighed as his shoulders collapsed and his head dropped before he continued. “I didn‟t know it was that obvious.” “It ain‟t like you‟re swishy, Max. I don‟t suppose just anybody would notice, but like you say, I‟ve known you a long time. I‟ve been with you at lunch and watched your head turn every time some young guy walks by the table. That‟s how I make my living, Max, noticing those little things about people in the jury box and on the witness stand. I never thought it was any of my business who you chased around in your spare time. God knows I‟ve chased my fair share of split tail around the desk when nobody was watchin‟. So I‟m not here to judge you, Max; I‟m here to get you out of this scrape you‟ve gotten yourself into. Now, why don‟t you start at the beginning and tell me what happened that night.” Bull Milam sat quietly, listening intently and taking notes as Judge Maxwell Silver, keeping his head down to avoid eye contact, told him what had happened the night that Marcus had been shot. When Max‟s confession was complete, Bull thought for a moment and then calmly addressed his old friend. “Okay, Max, so you and Escobar rearranged the scene to make it look like the boy had broken into your place to rob you and Escobar came to the rescue, is that right?” The judge was embarrassed to have to admit his wrongdoing, even to his own lawyer. Lowering his head and hesitating, he whispered, “Yes, that‟s what we did.” “And Escobar‟s story matches yours?” “Yes.” The wrinkles on Bull Milam‟s face turned into deep chasms as he smiled broadly across the desk. “Look at me, Max.”

Silver raised his face to look at his old friend for the first time since he started telling his story, and while he wanted to be reassured by the smile he saw on Bull‟s face, he couldn‟t bring himself to believe it. “There you go, son,” Bull continued. “As long as you and Escobar stick to your stories, they can‟t prove a thing.” The judge really wanted to believe, but he knew how jurors in Harris County thought, and that gave him little comfort. “What about the fact that I knew Marcus? What are we going to say about that?” “So you knew him. So what? The kid was a hustler, and he knew where you lived. So he decided to come over that evening and shake you down or rob your place. I can make that into enough of a „reasonable doubt‟ to at least hang up the jury, Max. Come on man, it‟s not like you‟ve got some first-year lawyer appointed by the court. You‟ve got me; I‟ve done a lot more with a lot less. You know that.” “It‟s a lot easier to sit here and talk about it than to do it, Bull,” Max pleaded his fear. “You‟re not the one that‟s got to get on the stand and make that claim.” “Chances are it‟ll never even get that far, Max. So the DA will run an investigation, interview you and Escobar again, and drop the whole thing. There‟s not another witness to what happened that night, so as long as Escobar sticks to the story, you‟re home free.” Bull‟s confidence was beginning to rub off on Silver. For the first time in several days he felt the tension leave his shoulders and, beginning to relax, allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would be all right.

THE faint, stale smell of dried blood and flesh assaulted Steppenwolf‟s nasal passages as he and Travis Houston stepped inside the judge‟s condo at Midtowne Tower. That foul odor was all that was left in the condo, which had been emptied and cleaned since the time of the homicide. But even the most expert cleaning could not remove the telltale traces of blood that would remain on the carpet and walls. They had deliberately waited until darkness fell, partly to

maximize the fluorescent glow that would be produced by the tracing agent that Steppenwolf sprayed liberally over the carpet and onto the walls and impressive windows of the living room. The surfaces lit up like a disco when the ultraviolet light flashed on. The splatter pattern was massive and emanated from one spot at the back of the room, spreading out in a cone-shaped configuration along the walls leading to the plate-glass wall that provided the breathtaking view of the Houston skyline. And on that two-story window, the silhouette of a lacy fluorescent fan perfectly illustrated the pattern of flesh and blood that had been arrested in its projectile path toward the cityscape that lay beyond. The light pattern on the carpet showed the outline of the furnishings that had been in the room. Steppenwolf pulled the police photos out of the file and held them up to the room in order to get a sense of the height of the furnishings and how they had interrupted the splatter pattern. Pivoting on the spot where the pattern appeared to begin, he viewed the stairway leading to the loft above, the passthrough into the kitchen, and the opening into the room from the entry hallway, carefully noting the angles from each to his position in the living room. He then read Escobar‟s account of the shooting and that of Judge Silver. Something wasn‟t right. It didn‟t match the crime scene. Steppenwolf turned to Travis Houston, who had been quietly watching as the detective did his work. “Okay, let‟s get Escobar up here and see what he has to say.” The other reason for the night call, so to speak, on the crime scene was in order to be here when Pete Escobar was on duty. Houston dialed his cell phone, “Okay, Escobar, we‟re ready for you up here.” He punched the phone off and returned it to its holster on his belt. In less than a minute, Escobar found himself in the living room of the condo. The vision of Marcus‟s head snapping and the blood and flesh moving in slow motion toward the window flashed in his head. Can’t think of that, he said to himself. Can’t think of that now, he repeated in his mind as he reached deep inside to grab control over his nerves, finding the persona of Officer Pedro Escobar, HPD, and slipping it firmly over himself like a costume. “Okay, sir,” he said firmly, looking at Houston. “I came in here just like this—”

“Not so fast there, Officer,” Steppenwolf stopped him. He wasn‟t about to let Escobar hurry through his prepared story. “Let‟s just take it one step at a time, okay?” “Yes, sir,” Escobar snapped smartly as they had taught him at the academy. “Okay, let‟s go back into the outside hall,” Steppenwolf directed. After they got outside the condo, Steppenwolf started his methodical examination of Escobar. “Now, Officer, why were you coming down the hall that night?” “I was making my rounds, sir,” Escobar replied. “And then I came to the judge‟s doorway—” “Okay, Officer. You got to the doorway, and then what?” “I noticed the door was open, sir.” “All right. Now was it wide open or just slightly ajar or what?” “Just slightly ajar, sir.” Escobar found the use of formalities like “sir” to be helpful in maintaining his self-control. “So then I pushed through—” Steppenwolf quickly cut him off. “Look, Officer Escobar, suppose you let me ask questions and then you just answer the questions I ask. Okay?” “Yes, sir,” Escobar answered as he ducked his head to conceal the panic that the rebuke was beginning to awaken beneath his façade. Steppenwolf knew his arrow had hit its mark. He realized that Escobar was more nervous than he appeared. After all, why wouldn‟t he be? He was the triggerman in a homicide that was being reopened. Either Escobar was some kind of idiot or he was working his ass off to maintain control. Steppenwolf was betting on the latter. “Now, when you saw the door standing ajar, was there any sign of forcible entry?” The scene of the night of Marcus‟s death flashed in his head again. He could see himself placing his hand on the doorknob and pushing the door open. He could see that there was no evidence of forcible entry. His mind then raced forward to the moments following the shooting, where he had gone back to the door and jimmied it open with the large screwdriver the judge had produced from the kitchen

drawer, ripping into the wooden doorjamb in order to leave the marks that would bolster their story. “Yes, sir,” he lied. “I noted the damage to the doorjamb and realized something was wrong.” “You didn‟t mention that in your statement to Mercer, or at least it‟s not in here. So did you notice it or not, Officer?” Escobar writhed on the inside as he realized that this prick of a detective was going to take his statement apart with a fine-toothed comb. Must maintain calm, must maintain calm, his inner voice cautioned. Mustering his full cop-on-the-witness-stand persona, Escobar pushed forward through his fear. “No, no, sir, I remember seeing the shredded wood on the doorjamb. I just guess I didn‟t mention it that night.” “I see,” Steppenwolf answered with a hint of skepticism in his voice. “Okay, you notice the damage to the doorjamb, and then what?” “I could hear the voice of someone moaning in pain coming from the living room.” Escobar regained his composure and got back on track. “Okay, so what did you do?” “I made my way slowly and carefully down the hallway toward the living room, checking around the corner into the kitchen to make sure there wasn‟t anybody in there. And once I knew it was clear, I stepped up to the corner of the hallway, where it led into the living room, and looked inside.” The three men—Steppenwolf, Houston, and Escobar—following the path as outlined by the officer, now stood at the entrance of the living room. “Now, Officer Escobar, tell me exactly what you saw,” Steppenwolf queried. “Well, there was a black man standing with his back to me, and the judge was on the other side of the couch, facing me, with his back to the big window.” “Okay. Stop right there. Now, I want you to go over and show me exactly where the black man was standing and where Judge Silver was standing.” The vision of Marcus bending the judge over and fucking him came into Escobar‟s mind, but he pushed it aside and remembered what

he had told the investigators the night of the shooting, carefully moving to the spots in the room that supported that story. “The black man was standing right here,” he said as he moved to almost exactly the spot that Steppenwolf had determined as the point of origin for the splatter pattern. “Okay, Officer. Now, where was Judge Silver standing?” “Right over here,” Escobar said as he came to stand facing the spot where he had shown Marcus standing. “Are you sure, Officer Escobar, that the judge was standing there?” The question brought a fair amount of discomfort to Escobar. Well encased in his “police disguise,” he fought it off. “Yes, sir. He was standing right here,” he lied. “Okay, Officer. If you will, please return to the spot where you were when you first entered the room.” Escobar complied with Steppenwolf‟s request. “Now, you say the black man‟s back was to you. Did he indicate in any way that he was aware of your presence?” “No, sir. He didn‟t notice me.” “Okay. Did Judge Silver notice you?” “Not at first. He seemed fixated on the black guy. Then he did seem to notice me, but almost immediately returned his eyes to the black guy.” “He didn‟t try to signal you with his eyes or shout out anything to you?” “No, sir.” “By the way, Officer, you said that you heard moans of pain when you were making your way down the hallway, is that right?” Escobar suddenly realized he had gotten his story wrong. “I seem to remember hearing that, yes, sir.” “You „seem‟ to remember, Officer, or do you remember for sure?” Escobar paused and thought about the question. How could he minimize this flaw in his report? “You know, sir, now I feel confused about that. I think I remember that, but maybe I‟m wrong.”

“Well, Officer, was that moaning still going on when you entered the room?” “No, sir, not then.” “Was there anything to indicate a reason for that moaning that you thought you heard?” Escobar‟s head was swimming, and the panic he had successfully held at bay was now beating at his psyche. “No, no, sir. That‟s why I‟m feeling confused.” Steppenwolf pressed hard. “Think, Officer Escobar. Think real hard for me. Was there moaning or not as you came down the hallway?” “I‟m not sure anymore, sir,” Escobar answered in a measured voice as his mind fought against the panic that was slamming into his head like the waves of a stormy ocean breaking on a rocky coast. Steppenwolf, having gotten what he wanted, loosened the thumbscrews slightly. “Okay, Officer. Let‟s move on. So you‟ve got the black man—let‟s call him by his name, why don‟t we—Marcus Patterson. Is that all right with you, Officer Escobar?” “Yes, sir, that‟s okay.” Escobar was grateful to be moving on and pushed back the sick feeling that the mention of Marcus‟s name gave him. Keeping it impersonal helped him stay focused on what he needed to do. “Okay, we‟ve got Marcus Patterson standing here with his back to you and Judge Silver standing over here facing both you and Marcus Patterson,” Steppenwolf went on as he moved to the two spots in the room Escobar had indicated. “Then what happened?” “I shouted, „Police! Put your hands up!‟” “And then what happened—wait! Were you still standing just inside the entrance to the room at that point?” Escobar had to think that over. Where would he have been standing? “No. I had slowly moved to a position behind the black man.” “Marcus Patterson?” Steppenwolf interjected sharply. “Yes, sir, Marcus. I‟m sorry.”

Making a mental note that Escobar referred to Marcus by his first name in such a familiar manner, Steppenwolf proceeded. “So, Officer, show me where you were.” Escobar moved to a spot behind where he had indicated Marcus was standing. “By the way, Officer, did you have your gun drawn at this point?” “Yes, sir.” “When had you drawn it?” “Back when I entered the condo.” “Okay, so you already had your gun pointed at Marcus Patterson when you moved up behind him?” “Yes, sir.” “Okay. And this is when you shouted that you were a cop?” “Yes, sir.” “Then what happened?” “The black man—Marcus started raising his hands and I saw that he had a weapon.” There it was again. Escobar said the name as if he knew Marcus. “What kind of weapon, Officer Escobar?” “A .45, just like mine.” “Okay, Officer Escobar, go on.” “Okay, he was raising his hands, and I saw the gun. Then suddenly he started spinning toward me with the gun, and I shot him in self defense.” “He started spinning toward you, Officer Escobar? How far did he get in his „spin‟ before you fired your weapon?” “Not very far.” “Okay, Officer Escobar, let‟s pretend I‟m Marcus Patterson,” Steppenwolf began as he moved to the spot where Escobar had indicated Marcus had been standing, “and my back is to you like this. Now, I‟m going to start spinning toward you—I‟ll do it slowly—and you tell me to stop in the position Marcus was at the time you fired

your weapon.” Steppenwolf started his move. When he had twisted about one quarter of the way around, Escobar shouted, “Stop!” “So he twisted to about a ninety-degree angle?” “Yes, sir,” Escobar answered. “And you were standing right where you are with your weapon aimed at him?” “Yes, sir.” “Did you say anything else before you shot, like, „Stop or I‟ll shoot‟?” “No, sir. I just shot.” “Okay, and he was standing like I am now?” Escobar‟s mind was getting tired, and he just wanted the interrogation to be over. “Yes, sir.” “Where did the bullet enter Marcus?” As Escobar raised his finger to point to the place where the bullet had entered the back of Marcus‟s head, it became obvious that it would have been impossible if Marcus had been twisted into the position Steppenwolf was now in. Escobar‟s face went blank as he stared at his hand, poised in front of his face betraying his story. Silently, he just stood there. “Officer Escobar, show me where the bullet entered the body of Marcus Patterson,” Steppenwolf asked in a more demanding manner. Slowly and silently, as if against his own will, Officer Pedro Escobar moved his finger to the base of Steppenwolf‟s skull to exactly the same spot where he had watched in horror as the bullet tore into the head of Marcus Patterson that night. Steppenwolf spun quickly to face Escobar. “Then Marcus couldn‟t have been standing this way, Officer Escobar. Could he?” Just as time had come to a halt that horrible night, it did so again as Pedro Escobar, HPD, stood paralyzed by his own fear. His face showed that he knew his story was breaking down. Having stood by quietly as Steppenwolf interrogated Officer

Escobar, Travis Houston realized it was time for him to step forward. Steppenwolf had been masterful, but he needed to be sure that he didn‟t break Escobar down to the point of confessing to the truth before he was warned of his Miranda rights. “Let me stop you there, Steppenwolf,” he said before turning his attention to Escobar. “Officer Escobar, let me advise you that you have the right to remain silent and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you by the court. Do you understand these rights?” Officer Pedro Escobar more than understood those rights; he had been trained in the meaning of the Miranda warning and could recite it without hesitation. “Yes, sir, I understand.” Houston pressed on. “Do you wish to waive these rights and continue with your statement, or would you rather consult an attorney.” Be a man! Be a man, Escobar‟s inner voice shouted at him. Tell the truth before it’s too late! Instead, after a long pause, Officer Escobar took control of Pete Escobar. “I don‟t have anything to hide, but I better get an attorney, sir,” he answered in his best academy voice. “Okay, Officer Escobar,” Houston continued, “but I would remind you that since you „don‟t have anything to hide‟ and you‟re a police officer, I expect you to stay in this jurisdiction where I can find you. And I further advise you to get yourself an attorney as soon as possible. Do you understand me, Officer?” “Yes, sir, I understand.” “Okay. You‟re dismissed, Officer Escobar.” Appearing shaken to his core, Pedro Escobar walked slowly down the narrow hallway to the front door of Judge Silver‟s condo, knowing that the firestorm he had been dreading was upon him. He was going to have to maintain faith that everything would come about the way he had been assured. After Escobar‟s exit, Travis Houston turned to Steppenwolf, “Nice work, Detective Steppenwolf. You broke him.” “Thanks, sir,” Steppenwolf responded. “Are you sure we can trust him not to run?”

“Yeah. He‟s got a wife and three kids with another one on the way. I‟ve checked him out. He‟s not going anywhere.” As Escobar continued making his way down the outer hallway toward the elevator, he got a second wind of confidence as he realized he had played it just right—just the way they had rehearsed it. He had done his part. The trap was ready to be sprung.

Chapter 13

STEPPENWOLF admired the way the bright sun brought out the fire in the ringlets capping Red‟s head, as well as the thick, translucent ginger lashes that framed his bright blue eyes. It was the kind of Houston day that made Marcus‟s yellow Mustang convertible the perfect car for a lazy drive down a tree-shaded avenue. And Red was exactly the guy that Steppenwolf wanted beside him to complete the sunny scene. He reached across the center console to give Red‟s firm thigh a gentle squeeze. Oh, yes, it was a beautiful day. Red flashed his dazzling white smile in appreciation of the attention. “Hey, I‟m kind of thirsty. Can we get something to drink?” Steppenwolf immediately complied with his young Adonis‟s request and wheeled the convertible up to the front of the convenience store. “Do you want anything?” Red asked as he opened the door and started climbing out of the car. As if from nowhere, a dark cloud passed over the sun, casting its shadow across Red‟s face and a chill over Steppenwolf‟s exuberant mood. “I think I‟ll come in,” Steppenwolf said as he thoughtlessly left the car running and jumped over the closed door in order to follow Red into the store. The younger man gave a shrug as he went on ahead. Steppenwolf was somewhat annoyed as he hurried to catch up. A sick fear was building in the pit of his stomach, but he didn‟t know exactly why. When he entered the store, he saw Red digging a soft drink out of the cooler in the back of the store, but before he could get there, Red had made his way up the back aisle to the checkout counter, soft drink in hand. Why won’t Red wait for me? he thought as he made his way to the front of the store.

Rounding a tall display just before the counter, Steppenwolf was confronted by the scene that his premonition had foretold. Six feet in front of him stood Red, eyes wide in terror. He was being held from behind by a gunman who was pointing a gun right at Red‟s cheek. “Hold it right there, man,” the gunman said in Steppenwolf‟s direction, “or the kid will get it!” Steppenwolf froze. The panic that overtook him prevented him from even finding his voice at first. “Give me your keys,” the guy shouted. Steppenwolf reached into his pockets and realized he didn‟t have the keys with him. “They‟re in the car,” Red said, “and it‟s still running.” “No! No!” Steppenwolf shouted. “Don‟t tell him that!” “But I‟m scared,” Red said, his face plainly showing his desperate fright. “Look, man, take me. Let him go and take me,” Steppenwolf pleaded as he looked into the face of the gunman. The menacing face of the robber twisted into an evil grin. “No, I think I want the boy.” “No! No! Take me!” Steppenwolf shouted as he studied the face of his tormentor. It was somehow familiar, but he couldn‟t figure out why. “Erik! Erik!” Red shouted as he reached over and began knocking on the glass countertop in front of the startled cashier. “Erik! Erik! Are you all right?” Steppenwolf bolted upright in the bed. He could hear Lilah knocking on the door as she called through it to see if he was all right. “Yeah. Yeah, I‟m all right. It was just a bad dream,” he said back through the door to Lilah. “Okay. I just heard you calling out,” she said. “I‟m going to start some coffee, if you‟re ready to get up.” He could hear her gentle steps going down the hallway toward the kitchen. His mind went back to the dream. Like all dreams, it seemed very real while it was going on, but now, in retrospect, its more bizarre

aspects were becoming apparent. He should have known it was a dream when Red called him Erik; he would never call him that. And the gunman. Who was the gunman? He felt sure it was somebody he knew, but for the life of him he couldn‟t figure it out. He searched his mind for every man‟s face he could remember, but none of them matched the gunman. He looked over at the empty pillow next to him on the bed. Red wasn‟t there. He had to spend the night in Montrose with his “keeper,” as Steppenwolf thought of the unknown guy. That’s probably who the guy in the dream was, he thought. In the aftermath of the troubling dream, Steppenwolf was painfully aware that he and Red had no agreement regarding exclusivity. Neither of them had brought it up, but lying here alone this morning, Steppenwolf weighed the possibility. For the first time, he realized that he was feeling pangs of jealousy toward the other man in Red‟s life. It seemed somewhat foolish, considering Red‟s new job as a “dick dancer” in the clubs. After all, there were strangers looking down his tights and fondling him right out in the open almost every night, and Steppenwolf was not naïve about the possibility that Red might be supplementing his income on the side with those eager customers. But the unknown sugar daddy brought out a different feeling. Was he falling in love with the redhead? Until this morning he hadn‟t even considered the possibility, and the thought of that possibility brought equal measures of hope and fear into his head. So he decided to change the subject in his mind and headed for the kitchen to join Lilah for some coffee. Lilah sat like a tea reader, staring deep into her milky coffee. She was having her own inner thoughts this morning. Hearing Steppenwolf‟s startling cries coming from the guestroom this morning had reminded her of all the times she had gone in to comfort her own son in the night when his dreams had brought him distress. She mused about the fact that while Steppenwolf had come here to help her resolve the mystery around Marcus‟s death, he had also brought with him his own personal needs. Having been accustomed to cooking and tending for someone on a daily basis, ever since Steppenwolf had arrived her need to be needed was being met by her old friend. And then there was Red. What a charmer that boy was. Together they were giving her a reason to move on with her life. But she knew

that, once this ordeal was over, Steppenwolf would be heading back to California, and from the looks of things he would probably be taking Red with him. The thought left her lonely, and it was in that moment Lilah realized what it was she really wanted. “Thanks for the wake-up call,” Steppenwolf said with a smile when he suddenly appeared in the breakfast nook, jarring Lilah from the depth of her thoughts. “Yeah, Erik. You sounded like you were in a war zone in there.” “I was, and there you were—Lilah to the rescue.” He grinned at her as he poured himself a cup of coffee before settling in across the table from her. “So, how is my heroine this morning?” “Oh, I‟m fine,” she said, putting her own unsettled feelings aside as she so often did for those she loved. She had learned the routine well while married to a policeman. “What was that bad dream about?” “Oh, it was just Red—” He brought himself up short when he suddenly realized the similarity between the dream about Red and the reality of Derrek‟s death. “Well, he needed to be rescued from a bad guy.” Lilah couldn‟t ignore the opening. “You really care for him, don‟t you?” Steppenwolf was caught off guard. “I guess,” was all he could bring himself to say. Lilah let her amusement at his discomfort come out as she pressed on with a mocking grin. “You guess? Oh, come on, now. You know you‟re crazy about that boy. Now he‟s even in your dreams.” Steppenwolf was like a schoolboy whose deepest secret had been discovered. Ducking his head and looking into his coffee cup, he repeated his previous answer. “I guess so.” Lilah laughed out loud. “Why, aren‟t you the shy one,” she continued. “I never would have taken the big, strong Erik Steppenwolf to be embarrassed by love.” The word brought a whole new level of discomfort to bear. “I‟ve never had too much luck with love,” he said into his cup. Empathy for others was one of Lilah‟s greatest emotional assets,

and she realized that her humor directed at Steppenwolf had hit a nerve. “I‟m sorry,” she quietly said. “I didn‟t mean to make you uncomfortable.” “It‟s all right,” Steppenwolf said as he looked up and across the table into her deep brown eyes. “No, it‟s not,” Lilah said softly. “You know, Erik, even though I‟ve known you all these years, I guess there‟s still a lot about you that I don‟t know. I shouldn‟t have presumed to know what was going on with you and Red.” “No, Lilah. It really is all right. And you‟re right. I am crazy about that boy. I‟ve been thinking about it this morning. I‟m glad you brought it up. I‟m so bad at talking to people, but you are my best friend and I shouldn‟t be afraid to talk to you about how I feel.” “No, you don‟t need to be afraid to talk to me, but I need to let you decide when you want to and not drag it out of you.” “Well, if you waited around for me to bring it up, we might never talk about it at all. This is one of those areas where I‟m not very „gay.‟” He smiled at his own observation. “I‟m just not the Chatty-Cathy type.” “That is true, Erik. If Derrek hadn‟t told me that you were gay all those years ago, I doubt I would have figured it out on my own.” “We‟re not all a bunch of Nellie Belles, you know,” he said in his deepest voice, laughing. “Most of „us,‟” Lilah made the quotation gesture around the word “us,” “aren‟t aware of that.” Steppenwolf grinned devilishly as he jabbed back. “Do you mean „black people‟?” he said putting air quotes around the words too. “Oh, you!” Lilah said as they laughed together. “You know what I mean. You, and for that matter, Red, don‟t seem gay to me at all, except maybe when you‟re kissing in my kitchen.” They enjoyed the much-needed laughter that ensued. “And I guess you‟re no worse than me,” Lilah said. “I‟m not good at telling people what‟s going on with me either. I was thinking about my own thing this morning.” “Do tell, madam,” Steppenwolf retorted, still enjoying the lighter

mood that had come over the conversation. “Oh, I was just thinking about how nice it has been to have you here. It‟s given me something to do around the house, you know, like it used to be.” She fell silent. Steppenwolf knew that her mind was taking a turn for the serious and reached across the table, placing his strong, white hand on top of her small black one and giving it a gentle squeeze. “And you‟ve made me feel so comfortable here, Lilah. It‟s like I‟ve been here all these years since Derrek….” Then he, too, fell silent. They sat there, quietly holding hands and looking into each other‟s eyes for a few moments, letting the feelings flow silently between them. Then Lilah tentatively began again. “And it just made me realize how important Marcus was in my life. You know, if it hadn‟t been for that little boy, I might have gone along with Derrek. I knew Marcus needed me to be strong and take care of him, and that was what I needed too—a reason to go on. And now? Erik, until you came from San Francisco to help me, I felt like my life was over. But you‟ve been such a help, not only in finding out the truth about Marcus but by just being here.” Slowly a single tear ran down her cheek. “I guess you‟ll be going back after this is over, and I‟ve got to go on with my life. A long-buried pain stabbed Steppenwolf through the chest as he sympathized with his friend. “What can I do, Lilah? What can I do to help?” She fixed her dark, sad eyes on his as she searched inside herself for the courage to ask the favor she had in mind. True desire won out over fear of rejection as she stated her objective. “I want another child.” Totally missing the implication of Lilah‟s statement, Steppenwolf rushed to assure her. “Lilah, you don‟t need my approval for that. If that‟s what you want, I think it‟s a great idea.” Lilah concealed her disappointment in herself for not being clearer in her message. After a brief pause to reform her request, she began again. “No, I want to have a child with you.” Steppenwolf was stunned by her request. That thought had never entered his mind; in fact, he had never considered being a father at

all—ever! “Wow, Lilah. I don‟t know what to say. It‟s not that I wouldn‟t like to help, but I don‟t know anything about being a father.” He could see the disappointment coming into those hopeful eyes. “You see, Lilah, I don‟t even know who my father is, and the men that my mom dragged home didn‟t teach me anything that I could use.” It was then that Lilah understood. “Oh, I‟m so sorry. I had no idea. It‟s just that I‟ve seen how willing you are to help others since you‟ve been here, so I just thought….” “You were right earlier when you said that you don‟t know a lot of things about me, Lilah. That‟s not your fault. It‟s just that I tend not to talk too much about my childhood. The fact is my mom said she didn‟t even know who my dad was. She was a biker chick, and there were always lots of guys around. Then when I was fourteen, she up and left me on my own. I‟ve never even seen her since then.” Lilah could see the pain creeping into Steppenwolf‟s face as he began to tell her about his past. “Stop, Erik. You don‟t owe me any explanations.” “I don‟t mind. It‟s just that I come into your home and I can see what a great mom you were to Marcus. You are everything that my mother wasn‟t, so I think you would make a great mom. It‟s just that I don‟t have the first idea of how to be a parent, dad or mom.” “From what I see of you, Erik, I think you would make a great dad, but I understand what you‟re saying. I know you‟re going back to San Francisco. That‟s where your life is. What I was thinking was more along the lines of you being a donor so I could have a baby.” “Lilah, you‟re a beautiful woman. Surely you can find a nice man and settle down and have a beautiful family together. What about that Winston Rollins?” Lilah laughed at the idea. “Winston? Why would I want a stuffed shirt like that telling me what to do every day of my life?” Steppenwolf smiled. “I see your point about Rollins. But isn‟t there anybody else?” “You know, I‟ve lived all these years without a husband or a boyfriend. I fell in love once, and I‟m still in love with that man. I know that may sound silly, but I don‟t think I could ever love anybody

the way I loved Derrek, and I don‟t want to. That‟s why I think that you offer a better choice. I can take care of myself and a baby; I don‟t need a man for that. I know that sounds kind of bad, and I don‟t mean it that way. But what I do need is a friend, and that‟s you. Look, you can be as involved or uninvolved as you want to be. I understand that. So would you at least think about it?” It was a lot to take in, but Steppenwolf realized that sitting before him was maybe the best friend he would ever have and she was asking him for a favor—a big favor, but a favor nonetheless. “I‟ll think about it, Lilah. Just give me a couple of days, and I‟ll let you know. Okay?” He gave her hand another squeeze to emphasize his sincerity. Then he smiled. “I probably ought to talk to Red about it.” Lilah returned his smile and knew in her soul that everything would come out all right. The ring of Steppenwolf‟s cell phone intruded on the moment, bringing the outside world back into their lives. It was Travis Houston. “Hey, Steppenwolf, get down here quick. Escobar‟s attorney called. They want to make a deal.” “On my way,” Steppenwolf said before turning off his phone. “Escobar is ready to confess,” he said to Lilah. “I‟ve got to run.” “What about breakfast?” Lilah called after him in a motherly fashion. “Don‟t have time,” Steppenwolf yelled back over his shoulder as he headed for the bedroom. Yes, for Lilah it was like old times. She smiled a small smile, feeling hopeful about her future for the first time since this whole ordeal began.

Chapter 14

THE flickering candle in the center of the table cast a soft golden glow on the faces of Steppenwolf and Red as they conversed over dinner in the cozy romantic restaurant Steppenwolf had chosen for the evening. Painfully aware of his shortcomings in the ways of love and lacking the courage to start the evening off in the intended direction, Steppenwolf chose instead to retreat to the comfortable topic of work. So now, instead of showing Red the feelings of his heart, he found himself expressing his doubts about Escobar‟s explanation of the events on the night of Marcus‟s death. “I don‟t know. I guess his story is plausible, but for me it just doesn‟t pass the smell test.” Red, showing great interest in the conversation, didn‟t seem reluctant to accept Escobar‟s account. “What‟s the matter, Wolf Daddy? Are you going soft on the evil judge?” “No, it‟s not that. I believe that Judge Silver is in this up to his neck, and Escobar did provide a believable motive.” Steppenwolf answered. “It‟s just too complicated, too involved. It‟s been my experience that when the story gets too convoluted, things tend not to add up. Escobar seems to be saying that four plus four is coming out six. The parts outweigh the whole. Do you know what I mean?” “Not really,” Red said blankly, which, combined with the yellow glow on his light red hair, would have opened the door for a blonde joke had it not been for the serious mood Steppenwolf found himself in. “What does the DA think?” “Travis Houston thinks he‟s hit the political jackpot. He‟s got a judge in his crosshairs, and he‟s literally salivating at the thought. You should have seen him drinking in Escobar‟s every word.” Red smiled. “I take it he believed what the crooked cop had to

say? Imagine that. Whoever heard of a DA believing a cop? Shocking!” Red widened his eyes and held up his hands in mock disbelief. “Hey, wait a minute! I‟m a cop! Remember?” “Oops! Sorry!” Red chimed in disingenuously. “Now you‟re getting all touchy.” Realizing that the evening he‟d planned was rapidly getting away, Steppenwolf tried to change course but didn‟t exactly accomplish his mission. “I‟m sorry,” he said with an easy smile. “It‟s just that I want to get this right. I‟m trying to get justice for Marcus and Lilah.” Red returned the smile. “We‟re all looking for justice, aren‟t we?” He raised his wine glass, and the two men brought their goblets together, causing the deep red contents to sparkle in the candlelight. “To justice,” Red added. Steppenwolf got lost in the green glow that the flickering yellow flame was casting on Red‟s blue eyes. He marveled at his good luck, to find such a handsome young man who shared an interest in his work. Although the conversation had gone astray, he now felt more confident that the evening was leading in the right direction. “To Red,” he said, raising his glass in the direction of his date before bringing it to his mouth. Demurely lowering his eyes, Red sipped the wine through his smiling lips. “Anyway, that‟s not what I intended to talk about this evening,” Steppenwolf interjected abruptly in order to change the conversation. “Oh?” Red said, denoting his willingness to follow Steppenwolf‟s lead. “Tell me, Big Bad Wolf Daddy, why did you bring me here?” It was that very boyish charm that always caught Steppenwolf off guard when he was with Red. “Well, two things, actually.” “Two?” Red said, flashing his teeth through a dazzling smile. “That‟s one more than I expected.” Red‟s eyes twinkled as he slipped his foot out of its loafer and across the gap between them, gently brushing the tender package that rested between Steppenwolf‟s legs. Steppenwolf reached his hand down and softly stroked the foot in his lap. “Make that three,” he grinned. “But that‟s not it, and if you don‟t stop, I‟ll forget the other two.”

Red withdrew his foot back to his shoe. “As long as you don‟t forget number three, Wolf Daddy,” he winked lasciviously. “How could I forget?” Steppenwolf winked back. “But I wanted to talk to you about something Lilah asked me to do.” Red‟s face contorted into a campy version of jealousy. “I knew that if I let you stay in that bitch‟s house she‟d try to steal you away! I knew it!” A broad smile ushered his face back to normal. Caught up in the playful moment, Steppenwolf couldn‟t resist a little punch back. With a deadpan, serious face, he looked across the table at Red. “Yes, she wants me to marry her.” He waited to see if Red would take the bait. “I‟ll bitch-slap that girl to death if she don‟t get her hands off my man,” Red retorted, reverting back to the role of over-the-top bitch queen. They both laughed within the limits appropriate for the elegant surroundings of the restaurant. Steppenwolf allowed them to enjoy the moment before moving the conversation forward, modulating his voice into a sincere tone. “Actually, Lilah wants me to father a baby with her.” Once the words had escaped his mouth, he teetered back and forth between wishing he could reach out to gather them back and hanging in silence, awaiting Red‟s reaction. “You‟re serious?” Red asked nonjudgmentally. Steppenwolf dropped his eyes. “Yes, I‟m serious.” “I think that‟s wonderful, Wolf Daddy. I can see you now.” There was no sign in Red‟s voice that he was expressing anything but his genuine feelings. “I think you‟ll make a wonderful father.” He reached his hand across the table and gave Steppenwolf‟s hand a reassuring squeeze. Relieved, Steppenwolf continued. “It‟s not like we‟re going to live together. I‟m going back to San Francisco once this case is over.” Red‟s face registered a look of disappointment. “Oh,” he murmured. “Lilah said I could be as involved as I want,” Steppenwolf hurried to add. “I haven‟t decided how much that may or may not be. You know, I don‟t even know who my father was, so I don‟t know anything

about being one.” “I‟m the same, but I think I‟d like to try,” Red said softly. “And you‟d make a wonderful dad, baby. You‟re so sweet and gentle. I know you would be great.” Steppenwolf realized this was as good an opening as any. “Maybe you‟d like to help me out.” Red first looked stunned and then confused. “What do you mean by that?” He raised his candlelit big blue eyes, looking directly into Steppenwolf‟s own dark greens, which were softly returning his gaze. “I mean, I would like for you to come back with me to San Francisco and share my life, whatever that may be.” Red‟s eyes brimmed with tears, which began slowly trickling down his glowing porcelain cheeks. He paused for a moment and then answered softly, “Yes. Yes, I think I would like that very much.” A wave of warmth and happiness began sweeping through Steppenwolf, starting at the heart of his being and rushing like a tsunami to his head, beginning to seep its moisture into his eyes and almost bursting out of his mouth before an inner fear took over and dammed up the surging emotion. Instead of saying what he was really feeling, Steppenwolf could only muster, “You‟ll love it in San Francisco.” As the tears continued streaming from the golden-lit pools of his eyes, Red smiled. “I love you too.” After dinner they went dancing. Their shirtless torsos glowed with sweat as they gyrated closely in the pulsing lights, showing those in the club that they were a couple enveloped inside their own world, entwined like two comets streaking through the universe that was the dance floor. Steppenwolf basked in the knowledge that, for tonight, the hottest dancer in the clubs of Montrose was dancing only for him.

WHILE Red and Steppenwolf danced, less than a mile away Escobar sat in his office at the Midtowne Tower, feeling somewhat relieved. It had gone just as he had been told it would at the DA‟s office that day. So far, so good! The doubts still nagged at him. What if it all blew up in his face? He tried to dismiss his fears, but no matter how far he

pushed them back into the recesses of his brain, they survived, dormant, just waiting for a panic attack to inflate them to full size and propel them back to the front of his mind. The cell phone on his belt rang, and Escobar practically jumped out of his skin. Oh, yes, the fear was just simmering below the surface, waiting to explode like a boiling hot bubble on top of a cauldron of menudo. Feeling the tremor in his hand as he fished it from its holster, Escobar answered the call. “Pete here.” Thank God his voice didn‟t betray his underlying raw nerves. “You did great, Pete,” the voice on the other end said. “That assistant DA bought it hook, line, and sinker. Good boy.” Escobar could feel the tension unknot inside his head, neck, and back. “Are you sure?” he answered cautiously, hardly daring to push his luck by truly believing. “Sure as can be,” the voice answered strongly. “You know my man on the inside is solid. He says that ambitious politician was eating right out of your hand. You just be sure that you keep your story straight in your head between now and the grand jury.” “I will. I read it over every day.” Relief was now beginning to take hold in Escobar to the point he could even quip about it. “Yeah, I‟ve read it so much that I‟m beginning to believe it myself.” “Don‟t get cocky on me, little man. This is serious business. There‟ll be time for celebration when we‟re done. Got it?” “Got it. Okay. So they won‟t go back on their deal?” “My man says that once the ballistics bear out your story, we‟re home free.” “No problem then,” Escobar responded. “They‟ll point the finger right at that fuckin‟ judge, or should I say that fucked judge?” “Very funny, wise guy. Just keep your head together, and we‟ll get through to the end. Then you‟ll get that last payment. Okay?” “Okay, boss.” “Sit tight, and I‟ll call if we need to talk.” “Okay.”

“Now, don‟t forget, fuckhead. Don‟t call us; we‟ll call you. Got it?” “Got it, boss.” After hearing the caller click off on the other end, Escobar returned the cell to his belt. Looking at the clock, he knew it was time to make a round.

THE gray light of the early morning met Steppenwolf‟s sleepy vision as it crept into the room. His half-open eyes roamed around the room for a couple of seconds before he realized that he was at Red‟s place in Montrose. The warm aura of last night was nowhere to be felt as his wine- and beer-soaked hangover mixed with the pale light that filtered through the closed drapes to cast a cold chill over his thoughts. Last night he had been so sure, but this morning… not so much. Here he lay in a bedroom paid for by some man he didn‟t even know—a man that was keeping his boyfriend. The voice from the back of his head was whispering, “What are you doing, man? What do you really know about Red? What if his sugar daddy comes back with a better offer? What if Red leaves?” There it was! That was the real question—the forever-nagging question of Steppenwolf‟s life. Like a rogue computer virus, his memory hijacked his brain and took him back to that day so many years ago. He was only thirteen years old. It was just another day. A gray, winter afternoon in Pasadena, Texas. Erik Steppenwolf walked home from school that day like most others, but when he got to his house that afternoon, something didn‟t feel right. At first his mind couldn‟t put it into perspective. Things looked pretty much the same: dingy, ragged, black Naugahyde couch and matching chair perched atop a dirty, brown-carpeted floor punctuated by marred and scarred pressed-wood tables supporting an unmatched pair of lamps. The undecorated, cold white walls and mini blinds added nothing to the ambience of the living room in the small rental house that Steppenwolf and his mother, Debbie, called home. Unfortunately, they didn‟t live alone—ever. There was always a man, a man with tattoos, long hair, and a habit of some kind, be it

alcohol or drugs, that he couldn‟t support without the kind-hearted assistance of Debbie, who pictured herself as an Earth-mother type. The men came and they went, rarely there more than a couple of months and never on hand for two holidays in a row. From young Erik‟s vantage point, they would show up at the breakfast table one morning, be introduced as “your new daddy fill-in-the-blank,” and then ride off into the sunset on their motorcycles, never to be seen again. The creep factor among this rogue‟s gallery was high, so Erik never missed them when they were gone and always lived with the hope that another one wouldn‟t show up to take his place. But by Saturday morning, Debbie would present another new daddy and the cycle would begin all over again. This time it was a guy named Lee. The only thing that made Lee different than his predecessors was that he was better looking and better groomed. He kept his blonde hair short, in a longish, brushy buzz cut, and he kept himself and his clothes clean. He rarely wore anything other than faded blue 501s and white Ts that clung like cellophane to his taut body, revealing everything there was to see. It wasn‟t hard for a young boy emerging into his own gay, pubescent realizations to understand his mother‟s attraction to this guy. It was right there for the world to see, covered, not concealed, by the faded blue denim clinging to his left thigh. Lee had a monster in his pants! And he seemed to want everybody to know about it. Despite a concerted effort not to, Erik found himself sneaking peeks at his “new daddy‟s” package every time he got the chance, and at first Lee seemed not to notice, or at least didn‟t say anything if he did. And if Debbie noticed anything, she also kept it to herself. This one was a pot smoker, but at least he had a job in one of the chemical plants on the ship channel, so he could afford his habit. In the beginning he was nice to Erik—played catch with him, took him for rides on his Harley—you know, acted more like a father than anybody before, and Erik began to trust and like him. But as time went by, things began to change. That is, Lee began to change. It probably wasn‟t all his fault, but when things went south, they went in a hurry. It started when Lee‟s union went on strike. Suddenly he was around the house all the time. He was always there when Erik got home from school in the afternoon and all through Christmas vacation. At

first it was great. Lee seemed to enjoy the free time and would spend a good part of it knocking around with Erik: going for cycle rides, movies, even a trip to the zoo in Houston one day. But then, as the unpaid strike dragged on, money started getting tight, so they couldn‟t do as much. They spent more and more time sitting around the house together, watching daytime TV. Lee started getting irritable, and even the pot didn‟t help. That‟s when it really started. Lee began noticing Erik sneaking peeks at the bulge in his pants. “What you lookin‟ at, faggot?” he would shout. Erik would blush with embarrassment, and Lee would push the moment. “Yeah, I seen you lookin‟, you little cocksucker.” And then he would grab that big slab of meat and give it a squeeze through the denim and say, “Yeah, you probably want to suck my dick, don‟t you, faggot?” Erik would protest, “No. No, Lee. I was just lookin‟. That‟s all.” “Shut up, queer boy! Get out of here before I shove it up your ass and tell your momma.” Lee would practically be screaming by then. Steppenwolf would go to his room and wait for Debbie to get home. About the same time that Christmas vacation from school was over, the strike settled and Lee went back to work, but things only got better because they weren‟t alone very often. Young Erik Steppenwolf was glad to have the house back to himself after school. He and his best friend, Ronnie, hadn‟t had a good jack-off session together since Lee went on strike, so they resumed their once or twice a week gettogethers. It seemed that Ronnie hadn‟t exactly been waiting around for his old buddy to be available and had taken up the slack with an older kid from his block, learning some new tricks in the process. That first afternoon the two boys were alone in Erik‟s bedroom and naked, Ronnie was ready to share what he‟d learned. “Hey, man, have you ever had your dick sucked?” he asked slyly. Steppenwolf, who was all ready for a good mutual masturbation session, couldn‟t believe his ears. “You‟d put my dick in your mouth, man, like you was a girl?” Ronnie seemed nonplussed. “Yeah, man. It ain‟t no big deal. I done it for Jerry.” Steppenwolf‟s dick answered for him by jumping in anticipation. “Sure, man, I‟ll give it a try as long as you don‟t bite it or anything like

that.” “No, man, I‟ll make it feel real good. Just don‟t cum in my mouth, though, okay?” “All right, man, but if I tell you to get the hell off, you better hurry, because I‟m about to blow right now just thinkin‟ about it.” “Just lay back and relax, Erik, and let me take care of it. Just don‟t cum, man, okay?” Steppenwolf laid back on his bed and let his good buddy go down on him. It was amazing! He kept getting close, just like jacking off, but managed to control it, so before he was ready, Ronnie stopped and sat up. “Hey, man, why‟d you stop? That was feelin‟ real good.” Ronnie looked him straight in the eye and said, “Because I want you to fuck me, man.” “Wow, man, I don‟t know if I can do that,” the young Steppenwolf answered. “Won‟t that hurt like hell?” “It did the first time that Jerry did it, but I‟m used to it now, and it feels real good. Come on, man. Jerry says it feels just like fuckin‟ his girlfriend‟s pussy.” Being thirteen, Steppenwolf had been pondering what pussy would feel like for what seemed like a long time, and his horny young boy‟s mind quickly rationalized the situation in favor of what his dick had wanted to do all along. “Okay, but you‟ll have to tell me what to do.” Young Erik turned out to be a fast learner and was satisfying his curiosity in no time. In fact it felt so good that fifteen minutes didn‟t pass afterwards before he was ready to go again. He felt he had died and gone to heaven. It was this lusty desire that brought hellfire itself down on his head. For “Daddy Lee,” work was a real struggle after the strike. Management adopted an attitude of demanding more productivity to justify the raise they had agreed to, and if they couldn‟t make up the difference that way, then they would cut back the workforce any way they could. His pot habit having grown considerably while he had

nothing else to do other than hang out all day, Lee had taken to sneaking joints to work with him. All it took was failing one random drug test according to the new contract, and Lee was a sitting duck. It wasn‟t a matter of whether or not; it was matter of when. While his stepson was home learning new pleasures, Lee was being summoned to the plant clinic to piss in a cup. Opening the front door of the small frame house, Lee could hear the moans of pleasure and pain coming from Erik‟s room. When he quietly opened the door, he was actually shocked at what he saw. He expected Erik had brought one of the neighborhood‟s teen whores over to knock off a piece, but instead he found the boy plowing his best friend‟s ass. “I always knew you was a faggot!” he shouted at Steppenwolf from the doorway. Then he turned to Ronnie. “You get your little faggot ass out of here and don‟t come back!” Ronnie hurriedly pulled his clothes on and ran out of the house. Lee had been smoking a joint on his way home, and the pot was hitting his head full force by the time Ronnie was gone. Steppenwolf was also getting dressed when Lee turned his attention back from Ronnie to him. Lee smiled wickedly at the boy. “Yeah, I seen you lookin‟ at my cock, boy. I knew you was wantin‟ it.” The subject matter of the conversation made it impossible for Erik to ignore the object of his curiosity, and it was morphing from being a snake in Lee‟s tight jeans into looking more and more like a bloated Gila monster. “And you always sayin‟ „No, Lee, no, I don‟t want your cock,‟” Lee said mockingly. “Hell, boy, you been beggin‟ for it ever since I come here. Well, today‟s your lucky day, pussy boy. You‟re finally goin‟ to get big daddy‟s dick. Get over here.” At first Erik sat in stunned silence, not knowing the right thing to do, staring, mouth agape, as Lee unfastened the large buckle on his black biker‟s belt before ripping his button fly open, revealing that he went commando underneath. “Get on over here, pussy boy, and start lickin‟ daddy‟s dick,” Lee commanded as he reached inside the leg of his jeans and pulled the gigantic, uncut monster out. When freed, it only grew in proportion. Steppenwolf held his position, sitting frozen on the edge of his bed in disbelief as Lee staggered toward him, his jeans around his knees now. Lee grabbed the boy by the hair and forced the swollen

member into his mouth. “And don‟t you bite me, boy, or I‟ll kill you right here.” Erik struggled under the onslaught, but realized that resistance was futile against the much bigger man. The truth was, his curiosity gave some compensation for the misery he was enduring, but then came the words that sent chills of horror through him. “Yeah, boy, daddy‟s goin‟ to fuck that tight little boy pussy of yours.” Fear gripped the young Steppenwolf as he contemplated his fate, and that fear overpowered any other consideration, bringing him to bare his teeth and bite down hard on the monster. Lee screamed in agony and slapped the boy away. “You little faggot bastard, I‟ll kill you!” he shouted as he stumbled toward Steppenwolf, who was sprawled on the floor beside the bed. The boy scrambled to his feet and started flailing his arms as he ran past the doubled-over man, through the doorway, and out of the house, clad only in his boxer shorts. Running like a maniac, he reached the corner where the quiet residential street he lived on intersected with the street that led out of the subdivision. Once there, he hunkered down in a hedgerow and waited for Debbie to drive by so he could intercept her on her way home from work. When Erik told Debbie what had happened, she kicked Lee out, telling him not to come back. It had been nearly a week since that day when young Erik Steppenwolf returned home from school to find a strange quiet hanging over the house. A quick look around revealed that Debbie hadn‟t even done the dishes that morning before she left, but the ultimate dark cloud descended over the boy when he went into his mother‟s bedroom. The bed was rumpled, and it was obvious that there had been activity involving at least two people before it was abandoned. The closet door was standing open; it was empty. The boy quickly went to the dresser drawers and pulled them open, only to feel as though he had been punched in the stomach as he discovered that they too were empty. For a few minutes he just sat there on the rumpled bed, allowing the denial to pass, only to have it replaced by a harsh reality: Debbie was gone, lock, stock, and barrel. Slowly he rose and made his way to his own room. There on his pillow was an envelope. Inside was a note. “Dear Erik, I‟m sorry, but I love him and can‟t live without him. I hope someday you‟ll understand. Love, Mom.” He was stunned. He kept staring at the note as though it would somehow reveal more

information, but the paper might as well have been a granite monument. Its message was inscribed eternally. “Love”! She had the gall to use that word. A portion of Steppenwolf‟s heart turned to stone on that cold, gray afternoon, and eternally inscribed on that bit of stone is the text of that note signed, “Love, Mom.” For three weeks he waited at home for Debbie to return until the school truant officer came and took him away. “Love, Mom.” He never saw her again.

RED stirred, rolling his head on the pillow until it came to rest facing Steppenwolf. His countenance was totally serene, his ivory skin glowing even in this dreary light. Yes, Steppenwolf saw Red through the eyes of love, and in those eyes only beauty lived. But a brief tilt of the head changed his view away from Red to the room itself, and the very surroundings threatened to crash the fragile peace that Steppenwolf felt when gazing at his beloved. “Good morning,” Red said softly as his blue eyes opened. He focused his attention on Steppenwolf‟s face for a moment and then said, “We‟ve got to get me another place to live until we go to San Francisco.” For Steppenwolf the gloomy haze lifted, and was replaced by bright, golden sunshine.

Chapter 15

“GOTCHA!” Travis Houston, Assistant District Attorney, was all alone in his office as he spoke to himself. His attention was totally focused on the document he held in his hands, a paper that he felt sure would propel him into a future he had been seeking his entire life. That document was the ballistics report on the two guns involved in the Marcus Patterson homicide. They clearly showed that the gun belonging to Judge Maxwell Silver was the murder weapon, just like Pete Escobar had told him. Literally, he held in his hands the “smoking gun.” Travis Houston realized that he owed Steppenwolf one. After all, he had dropped this plum into his lap. And a plum it was. He was going to ride this case right into the political arena, but Steppenwolf wouldn‟t be invited along for the ride. A “yes man” was needed for that. He liked Steppenwolf; he was a stand-up kind of guy. But he was not the kind of guy you wanted on your team if you were an ambitious politician. He cared too much about getting it right and not enough about getting it the way you needed it to be. That was rare in a police officer, or a trial lawyer for that matter. However, there wasn‟t time to waste on that enticing future fantasy, because there were a couple of things that had to be done today. First, he had to get Escobar in front of the grand jury and get that indictment he was aiming for. Then he needed to go out and have one of those courthouse-step press conferences to make his grand announcement. This one was going to blow right through the Houston smog and land him on the national news. Who knew where it would lead him in time? Oh, yes, he had a lot to do.

He picked up his phone and buzzed his paralegal on the intercom. “Get Escobar‟s lawyer on the phone and tell him to get his client‟s ass down here right now.” Reclining back in his office chair, he lifted his loafer-clad feet up onto his desk while raising his hands up to cradle the back of his head. “Gotcha!” he said again to himself.

WHILE Travis Houston contemplated victory, Steppenwolf‟s mind was occupied with something else entirely. Sitting in the cold room at the fertility clinic, thumbing through the magazines that the leering female thrust into his hands before leaving him alone to “take care of your business,” he questioned his decision to become a father. While he knew that Lilah would be the best mother in the world, he wasn‟t quite so sure of his own credentials. The lack of a father of his own haunted his thoughts, and while Red seemed pleased to pitch in and help, it brought little solace to his troubled mind. And then there were the magazines that were supposed to help— straight. Finding a little humor in the situation, he wondered if he should have presented himself as a flamer to get the point across that straight porn wasn‟t going to get the job done. The more he imagined himself doing that, the more tickled he got, which only detracted from his ability to perform. Finally getting up the courage to go back out to the nurse‟s station, he stepped up to the antiseptic counter and addressed the young woman sitting there. “These magazines are not right for me,” he almost stammered. “I‟m sorry,” she replied. “Are you offended, sir? I just assumed that they would help you out, but if you‟re a Christian and offended, I apologize.” The flamer idea was seeming better and better as he looked into the innocent blue eyes that stared back at him. But a different idea came to mind, and not able to resist the fun of it all, Steppenwolf put on his best Texas country accent and looked the young woman directly in the eyes. “I‟d like some of that queer porn, if you‟ve got it, ma‟am,” he said deliberately, loudly. Still clinging to her preconceived notions of what men want, the

girl gave him a puzzled look. “You mean lesbian porn, sir?” This is too good, he mused. “No, ma‟am, I mean where the men are, you know, doin‟ it to each other.” “Oh. Oh!” the young woman said, stretching the second “oh” out at least three beats. “I‟m sorry. I didn‟t know.” She twisted around in her chair and dug into a credenza behind her, producing the asked-for material. “Will this be all right?” she asked with a forced smile. “That‟ll be just fine, little lady,” Steppenwolf drawled before returning to the cold room to fill the waiting cup. Having dropped his pants, he began turning through the pages of the magazine until he found a bottom boy who reminded him of Red. At last he was able to get down to business. Thinking of Red‟s smooth ivory skin and imagining that it was his beloved who would be carrying his baby, Steppenwolf settled into a leisurely pace of enjoyment. He had read somewhere that a child conceived in love would have a happier life, and the one thing he wanted for his child more than anything was for him or her to feel loved and welcomed into this world and be happy. He resolved that tonight he would make the most tender and generous love he had ever made in his life to Red, and he also realized that the two of them plus Lilah would raise a wondrous child together.

AFTER the evening news programs aired that day, the assemblage at Preston Powers‟ office was somber, to say the least. The three men— Powers, Judge Silver, and Bull Milam—sat silently, digesting the three local news accounts they had just replayed on the VCR. Maxwell Silver finally broke the silence. “God damn it! God damn that lying Pete Escobar!” He looked back and forth between the faces of his father-inlaw and his lawyer, trying to gauge their reactions. “I‟m telling you, guys, it happened just like I said. I don‟t know why he‟s doing this.” “Shit, Max, I hope you weren‟t sitting up on that bench all these years being that fucking naïve!” Bull Milam roared. “You know that punk ADA got to him. Somehow, they scared the crap out of him, and now he‟s dumping the whole thing on you.”

“But why, Bull? Why would he do that to me?” “Hell, Max, why‟d you let that big black buck bend your ass over? That‟s all anybody‟s gonna want to know,” Bull snorted. Preston Powers realized that emotions were about to get out of control. The bigger-than-life Powers was the image of new Texas: sophisticated, fashionable, yet down-home friendly. His imposing stature added that dimension of presence to his well-developed leadership style. The fact that God had been kind to his hairline and waistline also made him all the more attractive to others, not to mention that million-dollar, Texas-sized smile that lit his face up like an El Paso sunset. Combining that smile with his clear blue eyes, Press Powers turned his talents as a peacemaker loose. “That‟s not important right now, boys. We‟ve got to figure out what to do about it. It don‟t matter who was fuckin‟ who back then. What matters is that the DA‟s office has got Max bent over now, and looks like that boy‟s got a real hard-on ragin‟.” “I know that, Press,” Bull answered in a calmer voice, “but hell, man, I don‟t like goin‟ in with my man all greased up and ready to fuck.” “I hear you, pal, but we‟ve got what we‟ve got here,” Preston continued, turning to his son-in-law. “Look, Max, is there anything that you can tell us that can help us out here? You must have some idea why the son of a bitch would turn on you like that. Did you piss him off or something?” “No, of course not. I‟m not stupid.” The other two men in the room shot Maxwell Silver a look he was not accustomed to getting since ascending to the bench. “Other than that! Okay? I knew I needed to keep him happy until this was over.” “Was he blackmailing you or something, Max?” Powers asked. “No, nothing like that. In fact, I‟ve not even heard from him since that night.” The judge paused a moment. “Well, except, you know, passing him in the hallway or something when I went over to clear my stuff out of the condo.” “Well, God damn it, Max, something‟s got up his ass about you!

He could have said a lot of things, but to blame you for the whole thing if you didn‟t do it? That just doesn‟t make sense, Max, and no jury is going to believe that he couldn‟t think of a better way to save his ass than pissing off a judge.” Bull Milam was turning up the heat in his voice and had the judge beginning to squirm. “No, no. Nothing. I can‟t think of any reason—” Maxwell Silver dropped his head. “God damn it! God damn it!” he muttered under his breath. “I can‟t—I just can‟t.” Preston Powers realized that the judge was breaking under the strain. “Can‟t what, Max?” Maxwell Silver‟s voice began to shake along with his hands, and soon his body was trembling as tears began slowly running down his face. Raising his eyes to his father-in-law and his old friend and attorney, he haltingly began speaking. “There‟s—there‟s more.” He began telling everything he had been keeping inside himself about what happened that night and the other nights leading up to it, revealing secrets he hadn‟t ever intended to confess to anybody. When he finished, Bull Milam was the first to speak. “Okay, Max. Okay. We‟ll get a private eye to check out your story, and we‟ll get to the bottom of this.” Preston turned a soothing voice toward his son-in-law. “Yeah, Max, we will. We‟ll do whatever it takes to straighten this out. Okay, son?” He gently patted his only daughter‟s husband on the back. “It‟ll be all right. It‟ll be all right.”

AROUND the corner from the courthouse, in The Higher Court bar, Travis Houston sat drinking his whiskey, replaying his very successful day in his head. His ego was given the extra boost of being remembered by the bartender, who called him by name when he strode in. “Hey, if it ain‟t Mr. Travis Houston,” the barman said. “I seen you on the TV a while ago, dude. You‟re my most famous customer.” Yeah, it was working out just fine, this case against the judge. With the help of Pete Escobar, he had the grand jury eating right out of his hand, ready to give him exactly what he wanted as soon as Escobar

finished. And then there was the press conference. The media went crazy when he stood at the microphone and announced that Judge Maxwell Silver had been indicted for capital murder in the death of Marcus Patterson. He had threatened his staff within an inch of their lives if they let leak that his office was investigating any more than a cover-up in the case before he took to the microphone. His private gloating session was interrupted by the excited voice of the bartender. “Hey, man, it‟s that Georgia Harper broad, talking about your case.” Travis Houston looked up to see himself on the national cable news program, speaking at the podium. “…and the citizens of Harris County can rest assured that the District Attorney‟s office will pursue the prosecution of Judge Silver to the fullest extent of the law, and, yes, that does mean that we will seek the death penalty for the murder of Marcus Patterson.” Then his face disappeared and was replaced by Georgia Harper herself. The “Harpy from Atlanta” was in rare form. Her twanging Southern accent overlaid the generally whining tone of her voice as she launched into her own take on the latest turn of events in the Judge Maxwell Silver case, as she called it. “You know, folks, I‟ve stood beside my friend Max Silver through this whole ordeal, but a reliable source from the Harris County District Attorney‟s Office called me just before the press conference to let me know what was coming, and I was assured by my source that they have Max Silver dead to rights on this case, including the fact that his own gun was the murder weapon in the case.” The overly friendly bartender interrupted, “Were you the „reliable source,‟ man?” He tweaked his fingers in the air to outline the quoted words. Travis Houston worked hard to conceal his inward smile. “No, man. In fact I threatened my staff that they could lose their jobs for letting anything out.” And he had, but there was that one exception when he told his paralegal: “Now that admonition about leaks doesn‟t apply to Georgia Harper. Just make sure she understands that she is not to use it until after my announcement.” The Harpy from Atlanta had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. Just yesterday she had been carrying

water for the good judge; now she was hauling barrels of it to pour on his guilty head. It takes an opportunist to know an opportunist, Travis Houston thought. Yes, sir, he knew exactly how the lady thought. All that was left was the coup de grâce, when Silver‟s lawyer would call to start negotiating a plea bargain. Let‟s face it: the good judge didn‟t want his proclivities in the bedroom—or shall we say living room—to come out into the public eye. He‟d want to plea out. But Travis Houston had no intention of letting the judge cheat him out of the public spectacle that this trial would be. Oh, no, he would make the judge an offer he would have to refuse. “Gotcha!”

Chapter 16

BEARING silent witness, the court reporter quietly pushed the keys on her funny little machine, writing every word uttered in the courtroom into the official record. Normally she would have been daydreaming about the weekend, past or future, or about shopping at the mall or going to the beach. Most people would be shocked to think that the quiet, pretty woman didn‟t actually pay attention to the content of her record some of the time, because on more days than not, the case wasn‟t all that interesting. And it wasn‟t necessary to actually pay attention in order to write down every word of the proceedings on the steno machine. The subconscious mind usually did all the work. In fact, sometimes it went better that way. But today was different. Today she was reporting the biggest case of the year, perhaps of the century, for Houston, Texas. And her fellow court reporters and other friends would be joining her for lunch, expecting all the juicy details. Across from her, seated in the witness chair, was Pedro Escobar, the star witness in the Judge Maxwell Silver capital murder trial. The courtroom was full of the media, as were the sidewalks far below outside the front door of the courthouse. The air inside and out was charged with the electric atmosphere that accompanies such events. Travis Houston, Assistant District Attorney, kept his eyes fixed on those of Escobar as he asked him the questions he needed him to answer on direct examination. “Now, where were you on the night of June 12?” Officer Escobar sat erect, eyes looking directly at those of Travis

Houston. “In my office on the ground floor of the Midtowne Tower.” “You say „your office.‟ What do you mean by that?” “It‟s the security room, sir.” Escobar was well trained by the HPD Academy on how to testify, and that included always being polite. Today, more than ever before, he was relying on that training. “It‟s where the security guard‟s station is located, along with the monitors for the security cameras.” “So can you tell us, Officer Escobar, what happened around ten p.m. on that evening?” “Well, sir, it was about time for me to make a round.” “A „round‟, officer? Explain for the jury what that means, in case they don‟t know.” “That‟s a tour of the building, sir, you know, up and down the hallways on each floor inside, as well as the garage.” “I see. Continue, officer.” “Well, sir, just before I left the security room, the phone rang. It was Judge Maxwell Silver.” “Just so we can be sure, Officer Escobar, can you point to Maxwell Silver?” Travis Houston was careful not to give Judge Silver the benefit of his title. It was the first time since entering the courtroom that Escobar had looked over at Max Silver. He reluctantly turned his head, then sat up tall in his chair as he pointed his right arm at Maxwell Silver extending his finger. “That‟s him, right there, sir.” “Your Honor, let the record reflect that the witness has identified Maxwell Silver, the defendant,” Houston interjected. “So noted,” the black-robed presiding judge announced from his lofty perch high above the courtroom. The court reporter “noted” it by writing only the words spoken by the participants, as was her duty. Travis Houston continued. “Okay, Officer Escobar, you say Maxwell Silver had called you just before you left on your rounds. What did he say?”

“He asked me to come up to his place right away.” “Okay. So, did you comply with his request?” “Yes, sir, it was my job to take care of the needs of the condo owners when they called.” “Okay, Officer. When you got up to Maxwell Silver‟s condo, what did you do?” “I knocked on the door.” “So, the door was closed?” “Yes, sir, and locked.” “Did Maxwell Silver come to the door and let you in?” “Objection, Your Honor, leading!” Bull Milam jumped to his feet in order to make his objection, but mainly to disrupt the young assistant DA. “Sustained,” the judge automatically ruled. “Sorry, Your Honor,” Travis Houston apologized for his lack of proper form, but without missing a beat he corrected himself and pushed forward. “Now, Officer Escobar, after you knocked on the door, what happened?” Officer Escobar, also a veteran, was unfazed by the interruption. “Judge Silver came to the door and asked me in.” “Go on, Officer,” the assistant DA served up the lead to his witness. “Well, he took me into the living room, where a young black man was lying face down on the floor.” “Now, let‟s wait just a minute right there. You say „a young black man‟; how did you know he was a young black man?” “Oh, no, sir, I didn‟t know he was young right then. It was a black man laying in the floor.” “Okay, so there was a body lying on the floor,” Houston said for emphasis. “So how was Maxwell Silver acting at that particular time, Officer?” “He was pretty freaked out, sir.”

“Can you describe what you mean by that, officer?” “Well, you know, he was acting nervous and talking real fast.” “So, was he agitated?” “Objection, Your Honor! Mr. Houston is putting words into the witness‟s mouth. Move to strike!” Bull Milam knew that he needed to distract the jury whenever possible. “Sustained!” the judge ruled. “I order it stricken from the record and instruct the jurors to disregard the word „agitated‟.” The court reporter recorded the judge‟s words, thus indicating his order into the record, but the word would remain there for subsequent readers to see. Whether the jurors actually ignored it or not, only they would know. But it didn‟t matter much, because Travis Houston corrected himself instantly. “Officer Escobar, how would you characterize Maxwell Silver‟s demeanor when you first saw him that evening?” “Agitated, sir.” Officer Escobar also knew the “drill.” “Thank you, Officer. Now, you said Maxwell Silver was talking „real fast.‟ What was he saying?” “He was telling me how it was all a big accident and he needed my help.” “Okay, Officer. Why don‟t you just tell us what the defendant said had happened before you got there.” “Objection, Your Honor, hearsay!” Bull Milam interjected. “I‟m going to allow it, Mr. Milam. Overruled,” the judge asserted. “Note my exception, Your Honor,” Bull Milam preserved his record. The court reporter wrote the words down. Travis Houston, unfazed, moved forward. “Okay, Officer, tell us what Maxwell Silver told you.” “He told me that the young man—I‟m sorry—the man….” “It‟s all right, Officer. You may call him the young man now, if that‟s what Maxwell Silver called him.”

“Yes, sir, it is. So, anyway, he said that the young man was a friend of his that had come to visit, and that they had gotten into a fight.” “When he said „fight,‟ did you think he meant a physical encounter?” “No, sir. I thought he meant argument.” “Do you know if that‟s what he meant?” “I guess not, but it didn‟t look as though they had had a fist fight or anything like that.” “Why do you say that?” “Well, the judge wasn‟t beat up or anything like that, and the place didn‟t look like there had been a fight. Everything appeared to be in order.” “Okay, Officer. Continue with what Maxwell Silver told you had happened.” “Well, sir, he said that the young man threatened him and demanded that he give him some money, and that when he, the judge, went upstairs to get the money, he found his gun in the bedside table, and that he was afraid of what the young man would do. So he took the gun downstairs and shot the guy as soon as he got to the foot of the stairs.” “Let‟s back up just a minute, Officer Escobar. You said Maxwell Silver alleged that the young man threatened him, is that right?” “Yes, sir.” “Did he indicate what the young man had threatened to do?” “No, sir, but I believed that he meant he thought the kid was going to kill him.” “Objection, Your Honor!” Bull Milam rose to his feet. “The witness said he didn‟t know what Judge Silver meant. This is pure speculation on his part, and it‟s not admissible.” “Mr. Houston, I will give you a chance to clear this up with your witness, but if you don‟t satisfy Mr. Milam‟s objection, I will sustain,” the Judge ruled from the bench.

“Of course, Your Honor,” Houston answered before returning to questioning his witness. “Now, Officer Escobar, you clearly said that the defendant, Maxwell Silver, didn‟t tell you how the young man had threatened him, is that right?” “Yes, sir.” “And that it was solely your interpretation that he felt afraid for his life?” “Yes, sir.” “And you have no way of knowing whether you are right or wrong about that, do you, Officer?” “No, sir.” Houston turned to the bench. “Does that clear things up, Your Honor?” Bull Milam jumped to his feet. “ I still object, Your Honor. Speculation!” “I think Mr. Houston cleared it up so that the jury understands that it is only the opinion the witness reached at the time, so I‟m going to allow it. Objection overruled.” “Note my exception, Your Honor,” Bull Milam loudly interjected as he resumed his seat at counsel table. “Duly noted, Mr. Milam,” the judge answered. “You may continue, Mr. Houston.” Travis Houston pushed forward. “Okay, Officer, going on with what the defendant said about what had happened, you say he stated he was afraid of what the young man might do, so he got his gun and went back downstairs and shot the deceased. Is that what he told you?” “Yes, sir. And then he asked me to help him.” “Help him what, Officer Escobar?” “Cover it up.” “What reason did he give for that?” “Well, you see, he had shot the guy in the back.” “Objection, Your Honor, nonresponsive!” Bull Milam rose quickly and bellowed.

The judge seemed confused as to what his ruling should be, so he turned to the court reporter. “Would the court reporter read back the question and answer?” The pretty young woman, after writing down the judge‟s words, picked her paper up out of the tray and read aloud the asked-for section. “Question: What reason did he give for that? Answer: Well, you see, he had shot the guy in the back.” After allowing the court reporter time to return her paper to the tray and place her hands back on the keyboard, the judge ruled. “Sustained. Repeat your question, Mr. Houston.” Travis Houston wanted to shoot a look at Bull Milam, but he decided not to give him the satisfaction. “Officer Escobar, what reason did the defendant, Maxwell Silver, give you for wanting to cover up what had happened to the deceased?” “He said he knew that he shouldn‟t have shot him in the back.” “He said that?” “Yes, sir.” Now, Houston shot a look of defiance at Bull Milam. “Is that the only reason he gave?” “No, sir. He said he was afraid of the kid and panicked. I felt sorry for him. He was so freaked out.” “So, you agreed to help him cover up the fact that he had shot the deceased?” “After a little bit, I did. I know I shouldn‟t have, but like I say, I felt real sorry for him.” “So what did you do?” “I had him sit down for a minute so he could calm down and we could think things through. Then we decided to make it look like a burglary.” “When you say „we decided,‟ you mean that you both decided that?” “Well, he came up with the idea, you know. He said, „Couldn‟t we make it look like a burglary?‟ And then I agreed that we probably could, and he said, „But I still shouldn‟t have shot the kid in the back

even if it was a burglary. Why don‟t we pretend that you came in and caught the kid holding me at gunpoint and shot him? Then you can look like a hero, and I‟ll look like a victim.‟ So, I agreed that we would do that.” “But the idea for the cover-up was the defendant‟s?” “Yes, sir.” “So then what did you do?” “Well, we began by messing the place up so it would look like the kid had ransacked it. Then he said, „What about the gun? It was my gun.‟ I told him to let me see it, and it was just like mine. So we fired mine into a pillow on the couch and placed his in the corpse‟s hand, you know, like he was holding it on the judge. Then we went and jimmied the lock on the door so it would look like the guy broke in. After that, I called 9-1-1.” “Then what happened?” “Well, HPD arrived on the scene, and we told them the story we made up about what happened.” Travis Houston did an internal exhale. “Pass the witness, Your Honor,” he said as he returned to his chair. “Court will stand in adjournment until ten a.m. tomorrow,” the judge announced, rising and leaving through the door behind his chair.

“BREAKING News!” broke out all over the airwaves as the menagerie of reporters rushed in front of their cameras outside the courthouse to report the testimony of Pedro Escobar. Travis Houston had played it just close enough to his vest in order to tout it as reason enough to bring the capital charge against Judge Maxwell, but held back the details so that they would blow up like a bomb after he presented Escobar on the stand at trial. It had been a masterful stroke. Every local station and all three national cable news networks broke in with live coverage. Reporter after reporter reacted with as much drama as they could muster without going too far over the top…. Well, every reporter

except one, who specialized in going over the top: Georgia Harper, who was live on the scene. More shrill than usual, the big-haired prosecutor-turned-celebrity court commentator played the role of the betrayed friend to the max. “Well, I‟ve never been so disappointed in my life,” she ranted. “I held Judge Silver in the highest esteem and reverence as a man of his word and a true soldier in the war against crime in this country. And now this! Not only does he murder a young boy in cold blood, he uses his power and influence on a policeman to help him cover it up. It‟s absolutely shocking, unbelievable! “Well, there‟s only one thing to do with such a charlatan as this: prosecute him to the fullest extent of the law! I think we should use his own words against him.” And for what seemed like the one thousandth time, the tape of Silver‟s appearance on Ms. Harper‟s “Death Penalty in America” program was run, showing him calling for the death penalty in such cases. “I‟m done with him,” she ranted. “I hope he gets everything that‟s coming to him.”

BULL MILAM jabbed at the off button on the television. “God damn it, Max! We‟re in deep shit. That fuck-head cop was good on that stand.” “Yeah, I know, Bull.” Still stunned by Escobar‟s fictitious account, Silver responded in a despondent tone. “That‟s why you‟ve got to let me get on that stand.” “To hell with that for now, Max. Right now I need you to help me think of some way to knock him down on cross tomorrow, or you‟re goin‟ up shit creek.” “I told you about the service.” “Yeah, I know you did, Max, but we can‟t find a single trace of that escort service anywhere, and unless we can find that, I can‟t cross him on it.” “Look, Bull, someone‟s pulling some shit on me, and I don‟t

know who it is. But it‟s all we‟ve got, and you‟ve got to use it. Then you can put me on that stand to clear this up.” “So that punk prosecutor can call you a faggot in front of that sweet little old church-lady juror that I ran out of strikes before I got to? God damn it, Max! Are you sure there‟s not something else you‟re not telling me?” “No, Bull, you know I‟d tell you if I had anything that would help. Look, you‟ve got to put me on the stand. I‟m a politician, for God‟s sake, Bull. I know how to talk to people.” “Max, you used to be a politician—now you‟re a murderer, and a queer on top of that. Oh, and one more thing: you‟re a fuckin‟ politician!” “I don‟t know what else to say, Bull. Just let me on the stand.” “Look, Max, I‟ll do everything I can to try to tear a hole in Escobar tomorrow, but you better get ready because it‟s looking real bad.”

STEPPENWOLF had been sleeping much better since Red and he had moved into the old sixties-style apartment on West Alabama in Montrose, but not tonight. Watching Escobar on the stand had brought back that uneasy feeling he had gotten when he first heard his revised version of the events on the night of Marcus‟s murder. Yeah, the ballistics had matched. The judge‟s gun, in fact, had been the one that killed the boy, but that didn‟t mean something wasn‟t wrong with Escobar‟s story. Feeling Steppenwolf‟s restless stirrings, Red awoke from a sound sleep. “Are you all right?” he asked in a sleepy voice. “Yeah, baby, I‟m all right. I‟m just thinking about the trial. That damn Escobar‟s story just doesn‟t make sense to me.” Red leaned close over Steppenwolf‟s face, almost touching him. “What difference does it make, Wolf Daddy, as long as that fucking judge gets what‟s coming to him?” “It makes a difference to me, Red Riding Hood. It just does.”

Red leaned on down and kissed Steppenwolf gently on the lips and began the seduction that would temporarily relieve his mind.

BULL MILAM strode confidently to the podium and beaded down on Pete Escobar with his most intimidating gaze. “Mr. Escobar—it is mister, isn‟t it, sir?” Escobar met Milam‟s gaze with determination. “Yes, sir, it is mister.” “And can you tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury why it‟s „mister‟ and not „officer‟?” “I‟m no longer with HPD, sir,” Escobar answered calmly, belying his anger at the question. “And why is that, Mr. Escobar?” Bull Milam punched the word “mister” to emphasize its importance and dig at his prey‟s thick skin. “I resigned, sir.” So you want to make me work for every little bit of it, you lying bastard, Milam thought. Okay, you shithead, I’m game. Gloves off! “You resigned, Mr. Escobar? Are you telling this jury that you simply resigned from the HPD?” “Yes, sir, I am,” Escobar answered coolly. “Mr. Escobar, isn‟t it true that you were „allowed to resign‟ from the Houston Police Department as part of your immunity agreement with the DA‟s office?” Before the former officer could answer, Milam plunged forward. “And didn‟t that agreement allow you to avoid prosecution for the shooting death of Marcus Patterson in exchange for your testimony against Judge Silver?” Still cool, Escobar answered in a level voice. “Yes, sir.” “So, sir—Mr. Escobar, it‟s not as if one morning you just woke up and decided, „I don‟t want to be a policeman anymore,‟ and just quit. In effect, Mr. Escobar, you were „allowed to resign‟?” This time Milam bracketed the words with his fingers. And once more, not waiting for an answer, Bull Milam verbally pressed forward, “That is to say, Mr. Escobar, you were asked to resign, were you not?”

Escobar did not rise to the bait. “I resigned, sir.” “Well, do you think, Mr. Escobar, that the Houston Police Department would welcome you back with open arms if you changed your mind?” Escobar was unwilling to yield ground. “I resigned without prejudice, sir.” “Without prejudice. Well, isn‟t that nice. What exactly does that mean, Mr. Escobar? Does it mean that you can go back whenever you want?” “I‟m not sure exactly what it means, sir. That‟s what I was told by the department.” “I see. Well, have you made any attempt to get your old job back with the HPD?” “No, sir.” “Why not, Mr. Escobar?” “I just haven‟t.” “You just haven‟t. How long were you an officer with HPD, sir?” “Ten years, sir.” “And I take it you had a good record on the force, Mr. Escobar?” “Yes, sir, I did.” “That is until now, is that right, sir?” “Yes, sir. “Well, we say until now, but aren‟t we really talking about up until you shot Marcus Patterson in cold blood in the condo of Judge Maxwell Silver?” “Objection, Your Honor!” Travis Houston was on his feet immediately. “Mr. Milam is putting words into the witness‟ mouth.” “Sustained!” the judge ruled. “Mr. Milam, I will ask you to save your commentary for final arguments, and will instruct the jury to ignore the words „in cold blood‟ and move that they be stricken from the record.” “I‟ll withdraw the question, Your Honor,” Milam replied,

knowing he had already punched his point into the jury‟s collective mind. Then, without a second passing, he turned back to the witness. “Mr. Escobar, isn‟t it a fact that there was an inquiry into your actions in this case?” Bull wished he hadn‟t asked the question before it cleared his lips. Even an old veteran makes an occasional misstep. “Yes, sir, there was.” Bull quickly began to cover his mistake. “In fact there have been two inquiries, have there not?” “Yes, sir.” “Now, Mr. Escobar, the finding of the first inquiry was predicated on the false report you filed on the night of the shooting, was it not?” “Yes, sir, it was.” “And you did falsely report the events on the night of the shooting as per your so-called agreement with Judge Silver?” “Yes, sir.” “And that resulted in a favorable outcome for you, did it not?” “Yes, sir,” Escobar answered before interjecting, “and for the judge.” “That‟s right, Mr. Escobar, the whole thing was dismissed as a burglary interrupted in progress, was it not?” “Yes, sir, it was.” “But there came a time, didn‟t there, Mr. Escobar, when the case was reopened, and the District Attorney‟s office began a new investigation into the events of that night?” “Yes, sir, there did.” “That must have been very troubling for you, Mr. Escobar. Did that give you a bit of a scare?” “Yes, sir, it did.” “And why was that?” “Because I knew the truth.” “Because you knew the truth?” Bull Milam raised his voice in indictment. “Do you know the truth, Mr. Escobar? Do you really know

the truth of what happened that night when Marcus Patterson was shot to death?” “Yes, sir, I do know the truth.” Milam‟s face was suddenly masked with indignation. “Then why don‟t you tell the truth, sir? Why don‟t you tell us what really happened that night instead of this absurd lie you made up to cover your own guilt?” he shouted. “Objection, Your Honor!” Travis Houston was on his feet, veins standing out in his own show of indignation. “Mr. Milam is badgering the witness.” “Sustained!” the judge shouted from the bench. “Mr. Milam, I will caution you to follow the proper rules of evidence.” “Withdrawn, Your Honor,” the skilled defense lawyer responded in a calm voice as he shook his head from side to side for effect. Then he paused, as if to gather himself. “Mr. Escobar, have you ever worked for an escort service named L‟Image Aubergine?” Escobar‟s face took on the look of confusion, as if he couldn‟t understand the question. “Sir, have you ever worked for an escort service?” “You mean like escorting funerals and motorcades, things like that?” “Mr. Escobar, I think you know exactly what I mean. Have you ever worked for an escort service that provided sexual companionship to members of the same sex?” “No, sir,” Escobar answered loudly and clearly. It sounded convincing to almost everyone in the room. Erik Steppenwolf, who sat in the audience directly behind the prosecutor‟s table, was not among the convinced. Suddenly a light came on, a light that was the first he had seen since the night Escobar changed his story. What was the name of that escort service? “L‟Image Aubergine”? The Purple Image? Steppenwolf made a mental note to check it out later. He knew there was some reason Bull Milam had asked that question, and he wanted to know why. Bull Milam continued on. “Have you ever heard of a male escort

service named L‟Image Aubergine?” “No, sir, can‟t say I have.” Bull shook his head once again, indicating his disbelief, before he proceeded to dissect Escobar‟s story on the night of the murder point by point, to no avail. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many theatrical tricks he played, he couldn‟t shake the prosecutor‟s star witness.

FROM then on the trial proceeded at the dictates of Travis Houston as he skillfully presented his witnesses one by one. The parade of witnesses, from Lilah to the ballistics experts, not to mention the sordid tales of the “boys of the night” from Montrose, pointed to only one possible conclusion: Judge Maxwell Silver shot and killed Marcus Patterson in a lover‟s quarrel and then conspired to cover it up. The evidence was damning. There was only one other witness to the shooting of Marcus Patterson, and that was Judge Silver himself. Only the accused could tell a different tale from that of his accomplice in the cover-up, and the media waited to see if Maxwell Silver would take the witness stand in his own defense. So when Travis Houston announced, “The State rests, Your Honor,” a rustling of papers were all that clouded the silence that fell over the courtroom. Bull Milam stood at counsel table and made his announcement. “Your Honor, the defense calls for a directed verdict of not guilty. The State has not made out their case against my client by a reasonable doubt. The State‟s own witness changed his story, and if that‟s not reasonable doubt, I don‟t know what is.” The judge sat for a moment as if he were pondering Milam‟s motion, and then with authority announced his ruling. “Mr. Milam, I‟m going to deny your request for a directed verdict. It is the jury‟s duty to decide questions of fact, so I leave it to them to make that decision based on the testimony. Motion denied.” Milam looked down gravely at his client as the crowded courtroom held its breath in anticipation of his calling Judge Maxwell

Silver to the witness stand. Bull Milam opened his mouth as every person in the room inched forward in their seat to hear his pronouncement. “Your Honor, the Defense rests.” A stunned silence preceded the judge‟s call for adjournment; then the courtroom burst into a flurry of pushing, shoving reporters making their way through the doors at the back of the room to hurry to their camera positions to announce the unbelievable: Maxwell Silver was taking the Fifth.

THAT night Steppenwolf used every search engine he could find on the Internet to locate a website for L‟Image Aubergine, to no avail. If it existed, it was so secretive that even the World Wide Web did not know of its existence. When Red returned from his gig that night, Steppenwolf asked, “Have you ever heard of an escort service called L‟Image Aubergine?” Red thought for a moment. “It‟s not an escort service. It‟s a local gay Mardi Gras krewe, and it‟s just called Krewe Aubergine.” “No, I‟m sure that‟s not the same thing. It came up at the trial, and I just wondered if you had heard of it.” “No, Wolf Daddy, I don‟t know nothin‟ about no escort services,” Red said, widening his eyes for effect before smiling and adding, “Why is it everybody thinks a dick dancer knows everything about whoring?” Steppenwolf‟s eyes danced and sparkled as he jabbed back, “Because they do!” “Somebody‟s sleeping on the sofa tonight,” Red said, still smiling. “Wherever you want it,” Steppenwolf said with a leer. “You know I‟m easy.” “I count on it,” Red answered as he started stripping his Big Bad Wolf Daddy down for action.

Chapter 17

ON THE day of Maxwell Silver‟s sentencing, the dawn was obscured by the weeping gray skies that foreshadowed the day‟s chilly events. Steppenwolf drove silently through the cold, rain-soaked traffic of the freeway, Lilah equally quiet at his side. In its own way, the end of the trial had been breathtakingly dramatic. The announcement by Bull Milam of the defense‟s decision not to present a case was stunning. Max Silver, the darling of the electorate, didn‟t have one person, not one friend, who would or could come forward and explain the events of that dark night when Marcus Patterson met his death in such a way that it would mitigate or minimize its gravity. Even the harpy from Atlanta, Georgia Harper, expressed shock at the decision not to present some sort of defense. “It is sad commentary,” she whined in her cracker whang, “that Judge Maxwell Silver, one of the most articulate men I have ever known, has chosen to remain silent about the charges against him. It just adds to the perception of his guilt. Once again, I am totally let down by a man I once thought of as a friend and ally in the war against crime. I don‟t see how the jury can do anything now except find him guilty.” The sentiment was universal, from print to electronic media to the numerous blogger sites that ravenously followed the daily events of the trial. No one held out much hope for the beleaguered judge. Even Bull Milam, famous or infamous for his fiery closing arguments, seemed pallid and unmoved by his own words as he addressed the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is a simple case of misdirection by a witness trying to cover his own misdeeds and a prosecutor who refuses to see the truth: that Pedro Escobar—not Maxwell Silver—was the cold-blooded murderer of Marcus Patterson.

My client is a victim of circumstance and should be acquitted.” But Travis Houston was out for blood as he stood before the jury box and delivered his own heated closing. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I agree with Mr. Milam: This is a simple case. On the night of June 12, Judge Maxwell Silver, faced with the loss of the young man he had lured as a minor—that‟s right, a minor—into a life of personal degradation and prostitution, murdered him. And feeling no remorse for his action, he manipulated Officer Pete Escobar into saying that he was the gunman. That‟s right, ladies and gentlemen—Judge Maxwell Silver, an officer of the court, a man sworn to uphold the laws of our land, thought only of the repercussions to his career. What could be simpler? “The good judge had everything to lose if the truth came out about his sordid sex life. You heard the boy‟s mother, Lilah Patterson, on this very stand tell you that he was only seventeen on the date of the first of numerous meetings with „the man in the picture,‟ that man being Judge Maxwell Silver. Do you think for one moment, ladies and gentlemen, that they were meeting in the notorious Montrose district to drink coffee and talk about young Marcus‟s future? Even Maxwell Silver himself didn‟t have the temerity to take the stand and testify to such a thing. Why? Because he knew that nobody would believe it. “Let‟s make no mistake about the nature of this so-called relationship between the deceased and the judge. This young boy, Marcus Patterson, was lured into prostitution by the offer of money, and not just a few dollars: $200! $200, ladies and gentlemen, offered by a man who sat in judgment every day in this very building, to a boy who desperately needed it so that his friend could join him at UT the next fall. Do you think the good judge and Marcus Patterson were simply discussing how they could help Ahmad Perkins get an education? No, ladies and gentlemen, that‟s not what Judge Silver was interested in. He was no more than a pedophile luring a boy into his lair. “And when Marcus Patterson announced the end of their arrangement, Judge Maxwell Silver refused to accept his decision. Then, according to the judge‟s own account to Officer Escobar, after an argument, he took out his gun and shot Marcus Patterson in the back as he attempted to leave. What could be simpler than that?

“Now, Mr. Milam has tried to cloud these simple facts by concentrating on what happened after that. Well, let me remind you that Marcus Patterson was already dead and lying on the floor of Judge Silver‟s luxury condo by the time Officer Escobar arrived on the scene. Now, the defense has made some allegations through today‟s closing argument and during the questioning of Officer Escobar that it was he who shot the boy, but, ladies and gentlemen, what possible motive could Officer Escobar have for the murder of Marcus Patterson? “I know that Officer Escobar initially said that he interrupted a burglary in progress, but then his conscience overcame his initial desire to help his friend, Judge Silver. Then he came clean about what happened that evening. And I ask you the same thing I asked you before: What possible motive could Officer Pete Escobar have for changing his story? He was cleared of any wrongdoing by HPD, and the case was closed. “No, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, there is only one reason that Pete Escobar came forward and told the same story he told you under oath from the witness stand: it‟s the truth! It‟s the truth.”

LILAH noticed the shiver from the chill that swept through Steppenwolf‟s body as he guided the car through the rain toward the courthouse. Pulling her own wrap closely around her shoulders, she commented on her observation. “It‟s chilly this morning, isn‟t it?” Steppenwolf, pulled out of his own head by her question, allowed for her explanation. “Yes, it is.” But it wasn‟t the morning‟s chill that caused him to quake; it was his memory of how fast the jury came back with the guilty verdict. And not only did they find Judge Maxwell Silver guilty of murder, they found him guilty of capital murder. Now, on this chilly November morning he found himself pulling into the courthouse garage on his way to the sentencing hearing, where the former judge would surely be sentenced to death. This morning, though, Steppenwolf wrestled alone with his own sense of guilt. He couldn‟t share it with Lilah. After all, she had come before the bench seeking justice for the loss of her child, and even the

tiny new life that grew inside her couldn‟t change that. She had been pleased with the verdict, feeling that the man who had first ruined and then ended the life of her son was getting what he deserved. Even Red was dismissive of Steppenwolf‟s concerns that justice had not been served. “Let it go, Wolf Daddy. That bastard deserves what he gets. You know he does.” But Steppenwolf was not so sure of that. The whole thing had a foul stench about it, like Pasadena on a muggy summer morning. Escobar had lied, he was sure of it. But why? It had troubled Steppenwolf‟s mind since he first heard the revised version of the events of that evening. Not that the original explanation was much better. Both men had lied, but Steppenwolf was certain that the truth had not come out. There was just one more piece of the puzzle that he turned over and over in his head: L‟Image Aubergine.

A HUSH fell over the tittering crowd as the trial judge took his place at the bench. “Will the defendant rise?” Maxwell Silver, former criminal district court judge, rose to his feet, along with his attorney, Bull Milam. “Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?” What seemed like a thousand faces of defendants standing before him in this same situation flashed before Maxwell Silver‟s mind. How many were there? How many times had he sat up there and looked down on the pitiful people who stood where he stood today? How many times had he mocked them inside his own head as they stood there, stupefied by their circumstance? Now he knew how they felt and why they seldom had anything to say. What was there to be said? He knew he was innocent, but he also knew that nobody else in the room, except maybe his wife, believed him to be anything but guilty as charged. No matter what he said today, it would make no difference. He‟d missed his chance when he didn‟t stand up to Bull Milam and take the stand to tell his own side of the story—the truth. Now, there was nothing to say, and the lump in his throat would have made it difficult if there had been. “I have nothing to

say, Your Honor,” he managed to push through the drawn, dry opening of his mouth. “Very well,” the trial judge responded. “Then it is my duty to sentence you, Maxwell Silver, to death by lethal injection.” There was the rustle of cloth in the courtroom as the assembled press allowed the edgy urge to leap for the back door to sweep through them, but nobody dared move until the judge dismissed them. Maxwell Silver stood like a statue. The only emotion he felt was that of relief. It surprised even him. But at least his public ordeal was over, and now he could be removed from the spectacle of the public eye and begin to contemplate the rest of his life. And despite Travis Houston‟s allegations to the contrary, the only person that came to mind was Marcus Patterson. That thought almost ruined Silver‟s proud stance, as the lingering emotion of the loss of the boy threatened to overcome him. But he sternly pushed it aside. There would be time for that later. Lots of time. Well, maybe not lots of time. Steppenwolf looked at Lilah. Silent tears streaked down her face as she also thought about Marcus. It’s over, baby. It’s over, she thought. Now I hope you can rest, my love. Instinctively knowing that Marcus was on her mind, Steppenwolf placed his right arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. But he could have done with a hug himself, because it wasn‟t Marcus that came to his mind. It was Escobar. Why did he lie? Steppenwolf‟s thoughts were interrupted by the shadow of a very pleased Travis Houston coming between him and the overhead lights. “We did it,” he beamed. “We did it, man.” Looking up into the beaming face, all Steppenwolf could feel was the churning in his stomach that the word “we” was stirring. “Yeah, we did it,” he managed to say, but the irony of the statement did not escape him. Yeah, he had helped send an innocent man to his death. In fifteen years of law enforcement, most as a homicide detective, he had never felt this way. Always before, Steppenwolf had felt the certainty that he had gotten the bad guy, but not this time. For all he knew, the bad guy might be standing before him now, but he knew better than that. What

he knew was that the bad guy was standing behind Officer Pedro Escobar. He just didn‟t know who or why.

TRAVIS HOUSTON entered The Higher Court Bar to cheers that evening. An impromptu party had been organized by the DA‟s office to celebrate his landmark career victory. Rob, his now-favorite bartender and biggest fan, led the cheering crowd in a lousy rendition of “For He‟s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Although it seemed a little cheesy, Travis appreciated the attention. After all, that was why he was in it. Walking up to the bar, he joined his Junior-Leaguer wife, who had made it in for the occasion. He was glad to note that Detective Steppenwolf, SFPD, was also standing at the bar. Steppenwolf‟s lack of enthusiasm for the case was not lost on the young prosecutor, but that didn‟t matter now that the conviction was on the books and the death sentence entered. Sure, there would be appeals all the way to the Supreme Court of the United States, and that could take as long as ten years, but by that time Travis hoped to be well into his political career. After kissing his pretty wife, the prosecutor turned to Steppenwolf. “Thanks, man, for all you did.” “Yeah, yeah,” Steppenwolf answered. “You couldn‟t have done it without me, right?” Travis‟s face turned earnest. “Oh, come on, man, that‟s no way to be. Okay. I couldn‟t have done it without you. You‟re the one that brought the case to me, Steppenwolf. I would expect you to be happy that the judge got his due.” “If the judge had gotten his due, he would be headed home today to start his probation for chicken hawking.” The expression on Steppenwolf‟s face went from dark to almost black. “Come on, man, he didn‟t do it, and you know it!” There it was: out there. Steppenwolf had promised himself he wouldn‟t go there, but he couldn‟t help it. His stomach wouldn‟t give him any other choice. Travis looked stunned. “He didn‟t do it? Come on, you know he did it.” “I‟m telling you I don‟t,” Steppenwolf growled. “And you don‟t

either.” “Come on, Steppenwolf, Escobar….” “Escobar?” Steppenwolf‟s voice was raising above the din of the noisy barroom now. “Escobar is a goddamn liar!” Travis Houston wasn‟t recognized to be the best assistant in the DA‟s office for nothing. His face went cool as he shifted into battle mode. “And you don‟t know that, Detective Steppenwolf,” he calmly shot back. “Bullshit!” Steppenwolf retorted loudly. “It‟s bullshit, Counselor. Escobar is a goddamn liar. The judge didn‟t kill Marcus Patterson and you know it!” Still cool, Houston stood his ground. “No, I don‟t know that.” “Then you don‟t know it because you don‟t want to, or you don‟t know it because you‟re stupid,” Steppenwolf growled at full volume, pushing away from the bar and storming through the crowd out the door. “Goddamn it!” he shouted as the door swung shut behind him.

THE beat of the dance music matched Steppenwolf‟s agitated gait as he pushed through the door into Ralph‟s later that night. He was glad that Red was making a special appearance in Lola‟s charity review that evening. It would be his last before the two left for their new lives together in San Francisco. Looking around the room, Steppenwolf realized that Red had already gone to the dressing room behind the stage. He pushed through the curtained doorway, expecting to be greeted by one of Red‟s dazzling smiles, but in his funk he forgot one of Red‟s rules on performance night: like Garbo, he liked to be alone. So Red‟s face didn‟t break out in its million-dollar smile. Instead, Steppenwolf was greeted with a two-dollar scowl. Turning from his conversation with Lola, Red fired a verbal dart. “What are you doing here?” Steppenwolf raised his hands to his face as he realized his performance-night faux pas. “Oh, I‟m sorry, Red Riding Hood. I‟m

having such a bad day, I forgot.” Red‟s face offered no forgiveness. “Okay. What‟s wrong?” “Oh, it‟s just the judge‟s sentencing today.” Lola‟s face brightened. “Red was telling me about that. „Ding dong the witch is dead‟,” she began singing. It only darkened Steppenwolf‟s mood. He held up both hands in surrender as he backed toward the door. “I‟m sorry, Red. I shouldn‟t have come in here. Break a leg!” “Kiss! Kiss! You handsome man,” Lola said as she waved in his direction, while Red blew an overly dramatic kiss. As the curtain closed over his back, Steppenwolf was overcome with an uneasiness. He had never broken Red‟s rule, nor had he seen him in that particular mood. Thank God for Lola, he thought. She always made him smile. But it was precious little comfort this evening. Steppenwolf grabbed a longneck and settled in along the back wall to wait for Red‟s final performance, but the cloud of darkness followed him, drizzling doubt and depression. The foamy residue at the bottom of the longneck slid quickly down Steppenwolf‟s throat in record time. He realized that Red was going to have to do the driving tonight as he headed back to the bar for another. The show, late as usual, had not begun, so there would be time for at least one more before the curtain went up, or maybe more. As he sidled into a space at the crowded bar, the guy on his right grabbed his drink and left. Almost immediately another body filled the gap. The chilly night outside wasn‟t dampening the heat inside the busy club. After ordering, Steppenwolf turned to check out the newcomer. In less than a second, his face turned from dour to leering; it was Noah, Noah from San Francisco. “Well, I‟ll be damned,” he growled. “I never thought I‟d see you again after you disappeared out the door.” The blonde, flat-topped stud flashed a smile of recognition at his old trick. “Neither did I,” he said. “Neither did I.” His smiling voice quickly turned sultry. “How you been doing, big daddy?” Steppenwolf‟s leer was quickly replaced with a warm smile, and his growl with a deep, smooth vibe. “I‟ve been fine, cubby, just fine.” Standing in the exact same spot where he‟d met Red, Steppenwolf

instinctively reached his arm around the waist of the leather-clad boy, giving what little love handle there was a playful squeeze. “How you doin‟?” he drawled. Mere seconds passed before the two made their way to the men‟s room and pushed inside a vacant stall. Locking the door behind them, rough kisses preceded dropped pants and roaming hands. And soon, as with most such encounters, Steppenwolf had the boy turned and bent over the commode. The assault was quick and brutal, both men panting and groaning, oblivious to the catcalls of the other occupants outside the stall. Once satisfied, their lust quickly turned to the business of replacing their clothing and exiting the close confines of the toilet stall. Their pants back in place, the two opened the stall door to face the gathered crowd outside. A shout of approval went up among the observers; that is, except for the one directly in front of the stall door. It was Red.

Chapter 18

THE ringing bell penetrated into the fog that surrounded the troubled dreams of Steppenwolf as the morning found him in his San Francisco bedroom. It took a few peals of the obnoxious bell to move his hand toward the receiver. Saturday morning, he thought, this better be important. “Yeah?” he growled in a sleepy, husky voice. “Excuse me,” said the well-mannered, Southern female voice on the other end, “is this Detective Erik Steppenwolf?” Still not ready to commit to niceties this morning, Steppenwolf growled back, “Yeah.” “I‟m sorry to disturb you, Detective Steppenwolf,” the polite voice continued, “but I really need to talk to you about a case you worked on down here in Houston.” It was like someone had flipped the switch of the overhead light on. Steppenwolf‟s mind sprang into action mode. “Yes, ma‟am, who is this?” he asked. “My name is Beverly Silver. I‟m the wife of Judge Maxwell Silver.” Steppenwolf‟s mind went into overdrive. Why would Judge Silver‟s wife be calling him here in San Francisco? “Yes, Mrs. Silver, what can I do for you?” Besides help railroad your husband off to jail, that is, his mind mockingly said to itself. “Detective Steppenwolf, I would like to talk to you about the case and see if you could help me figure a few things out.” “Well, Mrs. Silver, I don‟t think Mr. Houston over at the DA‟s office would be very happy with me if I did,” he said back to the lady

with the genteel Texas accent. Yet he wanted to scream out loud to her, Your husband is innocent, lady, and there’s not a thing anybody can do about it! But he didn‟t. “Look, Detective Steppenwolf, I‟m desperate, and all I want to do is meet with you. Can you come to Houston?” “That‟s a big trip for not so big a reason, Mrs. Silver, if you don‟t mind me saying so.” “I‟ll pay all your expenses if you‟ll come. Please?” What was it about Saturday morning calls from damsels in distress that he couldn‟t ignore? After all, they were damsels, and he was a queer. What the hell was up with that? “Okay, Mrs. Silver. I‟ll be there later today.” “I‟ll have my limo meet you at the airport.” A rich damsel too, he thought, as he replaced the telephone back in its cradle. Then he looked over at the other side of the bed. There was the back of a dark-haired head asleep on the pillow—one of the parade of one-night stands he had brought home after the disaster of Red in Houston. He hated to see them over there, morning after morning. It was supposed to be Red‟s head on that pillow. Instead it was just another guy that he didn‟t ever want to see again, another guy he was going to have to be a bastard to the next time he saw him. What was he doing? Life had sucked—and not in the good way—since that night in Houston. Then a light came on in his head. Maybe he could look Red up when he got back to Houston. The thought immediately hurt his head, but it also was stuck there as a dim ray of hope. What the hell. He would just have to wait until he got there and see what happened.

THE shiny white limo turned off of Memorial Drive. After making the semicircle up the driveway, it came to a stop before the whitecolumned portico of a huge, Southern-plantation-style house. The driver came around and opened the door, allowing Steppenwolf to get out in the shadow of the towering columns. A tall, stiff man greeted

him at the door. “Right this way, sir. Madam is expecting you.” Some crib, he thought as the man led him off the entry hall into an exquisitely appointed parlor. The lady must be truly loaded. Just how much did old Judge Silver make anyway? Maybe he should have held out for law school and a political career. “Detective Steppenwolf.” The man announced him like he was being presented to the queen or something. A stunning blonde of mature years and class gracefully rose from her chair and walked across the room to greet her guest. “Thank you, Sloan. That will be all.” The butler left and Mrs. Beverly Silver turned her attention to Steppenwolf, extending her hand, palm down. “Thank you for coming, Detective Steppenwolf,” she said in that lilting Texas drawl that Steppenwolf had noticed on the telephone. Steppenwolf, somewhat taken aback, didn‟t know whether to shake the lady‟s hand or kiss it. He opted for a gentle, formal grasp of her fingertips. “It‟s nice to meet you, Mrs. Silver.” “Please have a seat,” she said, pointing in a gracious manner toward one of two wingback chairs that were tastefully arranged before the fireplace. “Would you like some tea or coffee?” Steppenwolf didn‟t know what to say. He was intimidated by the setting and painfully reminded of his poor, white-trash roots. “I‟m having coffee,” she said warmly. “Could I offer you some?” This lady is pure class, he thought. “Yes, ma‟am. That‟d be nice.” Like magic, a woman in a maid‟s uniform appeared with a tray of cakes and coffee. Mrs. Silver, after asking how he took it, expertly poured a perfect cup of coffee in the fine china cup before passing it to him. “Please have some cake,” she added. “I know I can‟t resist them.” A playful look came into her eyes. Aristocratic, yet warm, Steppenwolf thought. He needed to overcome his anxiety and figure this woman out. What was she really wanting, anyway? “Detective Steppenwolf, I‟ll get right to the point,” she began. “I have always known about my husband‟s, shall we say, little foibles. We met at Baylor, when he was in law school and I was an underclassman.

He was considered quite a prize around my sorority house, and I set my sights on him the minute I laid eyes on him. He was the most handsome, charming man on campus, and I had to have him. “As you can see, Detective Steppenwolf, I come from a family with money.” She gestured around the room. “I was a spoiled only child and used to getting whatever I wanted. And what I wanted was Maxwell Silver. He was ambitious, and I immediately recognized that. You see, I needed a man as big as my Daddy.” The word “daddy” painted quite the Tennessee Williams image to what she was saying, Steppenwolf noted to himself. “Max made law review, and it was easy for me to persuade Daddy to take him into his law firm here in Houston, but Max wouldn‟t have it. He said he had his own plans. “The hard part came when I tried to persuade Max to marry me. He kept telling me he couldn‟t. He kept saying it wouldn‟t be fair to me. I couldn‟t figure it out. We went to every dance and party together, yet he wouldn‟t commit. Finally, one night, I broke down crying and he told me the truth. He liked boys. At first I was shocked. After all, I was raised Southern Baptist, and Baylor is a Southern Baptist university. It was against everything I was brought up to believe in. But I still loved him in spite of it. I was a very strong-willed girl and used to getting my way, so I told him it would be perfect for us both. He could have his boys, and I could have my storybook husband to preside over my dinner parties and take me to the dances. So we got married. I gave him a place to hide while pursuing a grand political career, and he gave me the envy of my friends at the country club. “Then all this happened. Heaven turned to hell for both of us. I know it‟s hard for most people to understand, but I love Max and would still do anything for him. And, Mr. Steppenwolf, I know he didn‟t kill that boy. I just know it. Max wasn‟t like that. See, he wasn‟t as big as my Daddy at all. He was really just a scared little boy himself. “So, Detective Steppenwolf, I have called you here to beg you to help me prove that Max didn‟t do this thing they say he did.” Steppenwolf looked deeply into Beverly Silver‟s pale green eyes and saw that she was being absolutely truthful with him. “Tell me, Mrs. Silver, did you and the judge talk about the case?” “Yes,” she answered calmly.

“What did he tell you happened that night?” “He said the whole thing was an accident. He said that he was with the boy and they were, shall we say, together when Escobar came up behind them and shot the boy.” “What did he mean by „accident‟? Is he saying that Escobar accidentally shot the boy?” “I think he meant that the officer misunderstood what was going on and shot the boy.” “So why did they make up the story that they originally told?” “So that nobody would know that he was having homosexual sex with prostitute boys. It would have ruined his career.” “Okay. That makes sense. So why did Escobar change his story? Did he say anything about that?” “He can‟t figure it out. He believes that somebody put him up to it.” “Okay. Still making sense. Mrs. Silver, do you know anybody who would have done this to your husband—that is, set him up like this?” “Detective Steppenwolf, there is only one man I know who has enough power to do something like that: my father.” New character, Steppenwolf thought to himself. Didn’t know there was a father-in-law angle to be explored. “Why would you suspect your father?” “Daddy never really liked Max. Said he was too pretty.” “You mean he suspected he was gay?” “Before Max and I married, Daddy told me he had found out, and I told him I didn‟t care, so we never talked about it again. That‟s the way we do things in families down here in Texas, Detective Steppenwolf.” “Don‟t let the San Francisco address fool you, Mrs. Silver, I was born and raised in Texas. I know how „we‟ do things down here. I know how we hide our imperfections—even from ourselves.” She smiled knowingly. “Have you confronted your father with this?”

“Oh, for heaven‟s sake, no. I wouldn‟t dare.” “Why? Would he cut off your money? Kick you out of the house?” “No need to be insulting, Detective Steppenwolf. My money comes from my mother‟s estate, and the house is mine. My daddy may have made a fortune in law, but my mama‟s family had land, and you know what that means in Texas.” Steppenwolf grinned. “Indeed I do, ma‟am,” he drawled. “I‟ve seen Giant.” They exchanged knowing smiles. “So, little lady, that means you have your own money and I can work for you and not your daddy?” “That‟s right, Detective Steppenwolf. That‟s right. So when can you start?” “Just one more thing. I want to do this thing right. I want to find the truth. So, Mrs. Silver, are you committed to finding out the truth no matter where it leads?” “Yes, I am.” “What if we find out that your husband is lying and Escobar is telling the truth?” “Then so be it. But I trust Max, Detective Steppenwolf, and I don‟t think that‟s where it will take us.” “Just saying, ma‟am.” “I want the truth, Detective Steppenwolf, no matter what it is.” “Okay then. I‟ll see what I can find out. Can you get me in to see your father?”

THE statuesque brunette beauty exuded competence while courteously and formally showing Steppenwolf into the impressive office of Preston Powers, Esquire. Lawyer Powers sat at his massive oak desk with the sprawl of America‟s fourth largest city stretching out to the horizon behind him as far as the eye could see. Only the most successful attorney could afford such an office atop one of Houston‟s

tallest, glass-encased skyscrapers. And Preston Powers could not only afford it, he wore it well. “Come in, Detective Steppenwolf,” he said as he rose, extending his Texas-sized hand in greeting. Reaching across the desktop, Steppenwolf matched the powerful handshake. “Erik Steppenwolf, SFPD,” he said reflexively in greeting. Then, smiling a somewhat sheepish grin, he inserted, “Well, not so much from the San Francisco Police Department today, sir. Sorry about that.” “Understandable. We all become caught up in our identities, don‟t we, Detective Steppenwolf?” Powers said casually. “I myself often introduce myself with my law firm name at social functions and catch myself. Have a seat, Detective. Do you want me to call you Detective or Steppenwolf or both?” Steppenwolf was impressed at the ease with which Preston Powers moved from topic to topic without ever so much as disturbing the air in the room. He was truly a master communicator. “You can call me Steppenwolf, Mr. Powers.” “Press. Just call me Press. That‟s what my friends call me.” “Press it is, then,” he responded, although Steppenwolf wasn‟t so sure that Preston Powers would consider him a friend by the time they were through. “Now, my daughter tells me she has hired you to do further investigation into the unfortunate case of her husband‟s conviction. Do you have doubts about the jury‟s findings in the case, Steppenwolf? After all, you did work with the DA‟s office to get that conviction. Do you know of something unethical that the DA did in prosecuting my son-in-law?” “No, to the last question. Travis Houston had all the evidence he presented and believed it to be true. It‟s just that I‟ve been a detective for a long time, and I just couldn‟t accept the testimony of Pete Escobar. It had a bad smell to it. It was too precise, too perfect in its implication of Maxwell Silver as a cold-blooded murderer. It just seemed like somebody was pulling some strings somewhere, and Escobar was the puppet.” “Did my daughter tell you that I was the one pulling those

strings?” This was going to be more difficult than Steppenwolf had thought when he came in the door downstairs. This guy was going to be hard to get ahead of. “Steppenwolf, my dear daughter thinks I am the source of all evil in the world,” Powers explained in his well-practiced Texas drawl. “Only God himself is more powerful than I am as far as she‟s concerned. Look, if I wanted to get rid of her husband, I would have done it a long time ago. I actually liked Max, and yes, I knew all about him. I am, after all, a man of resources, and I wouldn‟t let anyone marry my daughter without checking him out. Our boy Max has been sucking cock since he was playing high school football in that pissant little town he comes from in East Texas. I told Beverly all about it before her engagement party, but she didn‟t care. She said she knew all about it and wanted him anyway. “Now, Steppenwolf, someday you may have a daughter, if you don‟t already, and you‟ll love that little princess with all you‟ve got to give. But one day she‟ll grow up and go her own way, and there won‟t be a damn thing you can do about it. So, you let her go while watching over her the best you can from a distance. “That‟s what I did with Beverly. And Max? Well, he turned out to be okay, as sons-in-law go. He was always polite. They made a beautiful couple at the country club and other social events. And when he decided he wanted to go into politics, I did what I could to help. But I told him he‟d better be damn careful to keep his secrets secret, because playing hide the weenie doesn‟t sit well with the voters of Harris County, Texas, especially if you‟re playing it with boys.” “Did he know that you knew about his homosexuality before then?” “Judging from his reaction, I‟d say not. But I told him that that was between him and Beverly and had better stay that way if he wanted to keep getting reelected.” “So you didn‟t have any axes to grind with Max Silver?” “No. As long as Beverly was happy, I was happy. And until this whole thing blew up in his face, everybody was happy. But, man, what

a Texas titty twister this turned into. That fuckin‟ Assistant DA rode Max‟s ass to the political promised land. That cocky little bastard‟s going to fight like hell if you try to take his conviction away, you know.” “I know. But I‟ve got to do what‟s right here. This case has been digging at me like a burr under a mule‟s saddle. Do you know anything that can help?” “I know plenty, son, but I‟m not going to tell you what I know until Max says I can. I had him pay me a retainer so I could sit second chair with Bull Milam, so I‟m barred by attorney-client privilege. That is, unless you came to work for me on the case.” “You know, Press—can I still call you Press?” “Of course.” “I‟m working for Mrs. Silver, and it wouldn‟t look too good for either of us if I went on your payroll. You said yourself that she seems to have some, shall we call them, trust issues with you.” Preston Powers smiled a Texas-sized smile that lit his face up like the Texas sun on a warm spring day. He realized that he could trust Steppenwolf and felt that his “little girl” was in good hands. “I like you, boy. I‟ll get Bull to take you up to Huntsville so you can talk with Max. I think you‟ll be interested in a few things he has to say. I‟ll tell you this much, you and Max are on the same page. He says he‟s being set up by someone, but he says he doesn‟t know who.” As Steppenwolf left the meeting with Press Powers, he felt fairly sure that Maxwell Silver‟s father-in-law was not the puppet master he was looking for… but the man was honey-smooth and couldn‟t be ruled out.

BACK in his car, Steppenwolf had one more stop to make before heading over to Lilah‟s. Hopefully, Miss Lola Brigida would be sitting atop her regular bar stool this afternoon, sipping cocktails and staring at the wrinkles in the wrinkle room. He put the Mustang in first gear, pulled out of the parking space, and headed for Montrose.

And there she sat in all her regal beauty, the fabulous Lola. When she saw his silhouette in the doorway to the dark bar, she practically shouted across the nearly empty barroom, “It‟s the man!” Every head turned to check out the source of Lola‟s exuberant outburst. All the old queens and young, bedraggled hustlers in the bar followed him with their heads and eyes as he made his way around the large bar to where the queen was perched atop her bar stool throne. “Lola, I wasn‟t sure you would remember me,” he lied, giving her a heartfelt bear hug. “Honey, how could a girl ever forget you? I didn‟t call you „the man‟ for nothing. We don‟t get too many men in here, if you know what I mean.” They exchanged smiles. “So what you doing back in Houston, Steppenwolf? Did an earthquake wipe out San Francisco?” “No, no, Gay City, USA is still safe and secure. I came back for two reasons. The first is—” “Red?” “What are you? Psychic?” “No. I just know that you two were crazy about each other. It‟s too bad things didn‟t work out.” “Is he still around?” “And more popular than ever. That boy‟s really thrown himself into his work since you left.” “Does he ever say anything about me?” “Not so much. I don‟t bring it up, you know. It really tore him up that night.” “I know.” Steppenwolf went quiet for a moment, not knowing what to say. “What exactly happened?” “He didn‟t tell you?” “No. When he came back in that dressing room he looked like he had seen a ghost and been slapped silly. I asked what happened, and all he said was that he found out you had been fucking around on him.” Red was not the only one that had not talked with anyone about

what happened that night. Steppenwolf had also avoided any talk on the matter. He had told Lilah that things “weren‟t working out,” and Red wouldn‟t be going back with him to San Francisco. Having to face it again only brought back the pain and shame he felt that night as he walked out of the bar alone to his car. He had called Red a couple of times, but nothing he could say would take away the hurt he had caused Red, and his beloved refused to give him a second chance. His eyes going moist, Steppenwolf turned to Lola—she seemed like his best friend in the world in that moment—and spilled his guts. He told her about Noah, and how they had met in San Francisco, and how that night he had just showed up out of nowhere at Ralph‟s. “It was like my dick had a mind of its own, Lola. I didn‟t even think twice. I took that boy in the bathroom and fucked him. Just like that. It didn‟t mean anything. In fact, it wasn‟t nearly as hot as I remembered it being back in San Francisco. But when I opened up the stall door, there was Red. He ran out of there and back to the dressing room before I could say anything, and I knew better than to make it worse by following him in there. So I decided I would talk to him later and left. I really fucked up.” “You really did, honey,” Lola said in a consoling tone, touching him on the back of his hand. “I don‟t think he‟ll ever forgive me.” “Time will tell, baby. Time will tell.” Lola suddenly remembered that Steppenwolf had said he had another reason for being there and decided to change the subject. “What was that second reason you‟re here, sugar?” “Oh, I almost forgot.” Steppenwolf snapped out of his purple fog. “It‟s the Maxwell Silver case.” “I thought we‟d heard the last of that vile old queen,” Lola sneered. “I think that‟s what a lot of people thought, Lola. But I just can‟t get it out of my mind that something was wrong with the case. I just don‟t believe that Maxwell Silver actually shot Marcus. It just doesn‟t add up the way it should.” “I don‟t know why you don‟t just let that old closet-case get

what‟s coming to him. Why should we care what happens to him?” “You‟re right on so many levels, Lola. After all, he was a dirty old pedophile, but that doesn‟t make him a murderer. I got hired by someone to find out the truth, and I intend to do just that. Have you heard anything on the street or around the neighborhood that Escobar might have lied?” “The only thing I‟ve heard around here, honey, is what an asshole the judge is and how glad everybody is that he‟s getting what‟s coming to him. For some reason the boys didn‟t care much for him. You know, sometimes they do. Some of the johns are really nice to them and treat them like they‟re on a date. But some johns just treat them like whores and kick them back out of the car after they‟re through with them. I think the good judge was one of those. Nobody seems to miss him.” “Well, would you put some feelers out and see if there‟s anything that can help me? Believe me, if the judge was the triggerman, I‟ll prove it and go back to San Francisco. I told my client that. All I want is the truth.” “Okay, hot man. I‟ll see if I can find out anything. Oh, and I do have one tip for you. Red is working down on Pacific Street tonight. If I were you, I‟d get a fistful of dollar bills and get on over there and catch his act.” “He‟ll probably just kick me in the teeth.” “You never know, sugar. You may not be the only one who‟s missing someone.” “Thanks, Lola.” Steppenwolf left the bar with a smile in his heart and on his face.

THE deep beat of the dance music all but shook the asphalt on the parking lot as Steppenwolf made his way from the car to the front door of the club where Lola said Red would be dancing that night. Once inside the door, Steppenwolf‟s eyes scanned the large room in search of Red. It would have been impossible to miss him, as he undulated on the center dance podium of the room. No doubt about it, Red had quickly become a first-rate draw in the gay clubs of Houston‟s Montrose.

Steppenwolf took a shadowy spot along a back wall where he could watch Red doing his thing unobserved. It wasn‟t so much that he didn‟t have the courage to go right up to the object of his desire; he just didn‟t want to rush it. Oh, yes, there were lingering doubts, despite Lola‟s encouragement. What if Red ignored his advances or rebuffed him? It would be hard to take, but even more so if Steppenwolf had blown the opportunity to spend some time just watching Red do what he did so well: dance. A crowd of twinkies surrounded the podium where Red literally danced his ass off. Steppenwolf couldn‟t shake the memory of Red‟s naked body under his as they made love—made love the way that Steppenwolf never had before in his life. Like everyone else in the crowded room, he fell under the mesmerizing spell of the tall, chiseled strawberry blond Adonis as he practiced his magic. What was that? Something was different. Up and down his back was the tattoo of a large red striped tiger, the kind you would see embroidered on a Korean jacket. As his body moved, the tiger undulated in sinewy motions to the beat of the music. It added even more allure to the hypnotic act being methodically performed by the devastatingly handsome Red. Steppenwolf was impressed by the level of development Red had attained since he began. He had never seen anything to match it. Enthralled, the rest of the audience gazed, transfixed, at the gyrating, well-defined muscles, only closing their mouths and breaking their trances long enough to approach the podium for the chance to place a bill in the thin waistband that held up Red‟s bulging black g-string. Finally, unable to put it off any longer, Steppenwolf emerged from the shadows and approached the dancer he loved. Working his way carefully through the crowd so as not to bring too much attention to himself, he reached the base of the podium and gazed up at the magnificent body that danced above him. Red looked down, and Steppenwolf‟s heart skipped a beat. It was as if time had stopped for an eternal moment as anticipation hung heavily between the two men. Then Red‟s face lit up with a full smile as his eyes came alive with recognition. Dropping into a crouch to allow contact with what to everybody else in the room seemed like any other admirer, Red came face to face with his former lover. Steppenwolf reached out, and placing the folded dollar bill he clutched in his hand into Red‟s

waistband. He breathlessly waited to see what would happen next. Red leaned forward and whispered loudly in his ear, “Hey, Big Bad Wolf Daddy, what brings you to town?” Steppenwolf knew there could only be one right answer to that question. “You do, Red Riding Hood.” Red pulled back to study Steppenwolf‟s face, then leaned back in. “Come to my dressing room after the set.” And getting right back into the beat of the music like the true professional he had become, Red rose to his full 6‟ 3” height and began making the tiger tattoo resume its sensuous dance.

AS STEPPENWOLF entered the dressing room, it would have been easy to get distracted. It was filled, wall to wall, with perfectly sculpted “boys,” each as appealing as the next. That is, all except the strawberry blond near the back of the room. Even in what amounted to a harem of the most stunning men imaginable, Red was a superstar. Remembering his painful mistake, Steppenwolf kept his eyes forward and fixed on the prize as he made his way to Red. But once there, he felt like an unsure teenager. The always-confident Detective Steppenwolf was at a loss when it came to Red. Screaming a great warning cry of caution, his heart pounded in his hairy chest. He certainly didn‟t want to blow this moment. He wanted Red back more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. Red, on the other hand, was prepared for this moment as if he had been rehearsing it. Like a little boy welcoming Daddy home, Red rushed forward and threw his arms around Steppenwolf‟s neck, kissing him passionately on the lips. “I‟m sorry, Wolf Daddy. I‟ve missed you so much.” Steppenwolf was overcome in the moment, but not unaware of what Red was saying. “Oh, no, baby, it‟s me that should be sorry. I‟m sorry. All I‟ve done since that night is think about you and wish you were with me. Red, I love you and want another chance to make it work.” Tears ran down both their cheeks as they stayed in their embrace, as though worried that letting go would awaken them from

their dream. “You two get a room,” snapped one of Red‟s fellow dancers. “Kiss my ass,” Red shot back, smiling a playful smile. “I‟d rather be kissing Daddy‟s ass,” retorted the queeny stud, leering at Steppenwolf. “Sorry, cutie,” Steppenwolf said with a wink, “Daddy‟s ass is taken.” Red grinned his approval. “Do you want to take me home after I get off?” “What do you think?” Steppenwolf asked back. “Meet me here at 1:45.” “You can count on me,” Steppenwolf said softly, leaning forward to kiss Red tenderly on the lips.

THAT night Steppenwolf felt that he was in paradise as he held Red in his strong arms, making love to him through the night. For the first time since that horrible night when he ran into Noah, Steppenwolf was happy. As the morning sunlight wedged between the curtains and the window frame in Red‟s bedroom, Steppenwolf fell into a peaceful sleep, with Red securely in his embrace.

Chapter 19

THE heavy, metallic slam of the iron door behind Steppenwolf and Bull Milam as they were escorted inside the visitation area at Huntsville State Prison was an awesome reminder to everyone who passed through that they were not free to come and go as they pleased. Dungeon designers from medieval times must have handed that information down through the ages to this very day. The utter helplessness that swept over the souls of those who passed would leave a lasting scar on them through eternity. Reminding him of his own incarceration in the Harris County Jail all those years ago, Steppenwolf felt it again. The two visitors were led down a confining, government-green hallway until they stood outside a less-intimidating heavy steel door than the one they had just entered. Although it had a wire-reinforced window for the guard to watch through, its level of security was in no question. Once in, there would be no escape except by permission of the guard stationed outside. Swinging the door inward, the guard allowed Milam and Steppenwolf to step inside the small conference room that would have been claustrophobic had it not been for the large, wire-laced windows on either side of the room that allowed a second and third guard to clearly peer into the chamber. Death-row prisoners were under very tight scrutiny indeed. Bull smiled at Steppenwolf once the door closed behind them. “It‟s still creepy to me, even after all these years of coming here,” he said. “Yeah, it is,” Steppenwolf replied. “How can you be sure that they‟re not listening to everything we say in here?” Steppenwolf motioned with his eyes to the windows on either side.

“You don‟t, do you?” Bull said with a wink. “It doesn‟t matter much. We can only control what we can control.” In that simple statement Steppenwolf got the full measure of Bull Milam. Despite his monumental reputation as a miracle-worker defense lawyer, the man knew his limitations and was not caught up in his own press. Steppenwolf knew that Bull was a man he could work with and was glad to see it: no bullshit, just reality. “You do know that I‟m not completely convinced of the judge‟s innocence in this case, don‟t you?” Steppenwolf said. “Hell, son, I wasn‟t born yesterday. That‟s why I‟m here: to make sure you‟re working for Max, Beverly, and me. I’m not even sure Max isn‟t the guiltiest man on death row, but my job is to represent him no matter what. And the reason you‟re working for me is so that I can keep you from running to that grandstanding assistant DA with whatever you find out today.” “I know who I‟m working for, Mr. Milam, and you can count on me to keep my mouth shut. But understand that Marcus Patterson wasn‟t just some kid off the street to me; he was my dead partner‟s son. I want to know the truth, whatever that is.” “Call me „Bull,‟ son, now that we‟re on the same side. Let me tell you something I‟ve learned over the years. You can chase after „the truth‟ until you‟re blue in the face, but you still won‟t know it when you see it. It‟s usually right in front of our faces, but we don‟t want to see it. So we look all over hell‟s half acre for it, and it gets away. Truth? Justice? They‟re just about as real as Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Sometimes we just have to do the best we can with what we got and then let it go. Look, I like you, son, and I have a lot of respect for the way you helped the DA‟s office blow Max‟s cover, but don‟t pour your soul into this or you‟ll just set yourself up for the fall that‟s coming. Now, have a seat here next to me, and when Max gets in here you‟ll see what he believes is going on, and we‟ll take it from there. Okay?”

THE broken man who entered the room a few minutes later bore little resemblance to the once-proud judge that sat atop the bench overseeing

justice in his courtroom. His head hung down, and defeat weakly emitted from his eyes like the pale rays of an Arctic sun on a cold winter‟s day. He raised his head as his hand stretched across the table into the warm grasp of Bull Milam. “Hi, Bull,” he said weakly. “How you doing?” It was clear that the last thing on Max Silver‟s mind was the well-being of his lawyer. “Aw, I‟m all right, Max. How about you?” “Bull, you gotta get them to let me out of solitary. I‟m going crazy in there,” the frail voice pleaded with its old friend. “Max, you know we‟ve talked about that. You wouldn‟t last two hours out there in the general population. They know who you are, and they‟ll come after you as soon as they see you.” “I know, Bull. I know. It‟s just so lonely.” “That‟s why I‟m working to get you out of here altogether, Max. We‟ve got to keep working on your appeal, and that won‟t matter a tinker‟s damn if you don‟t live to see it through. So can you just promise me that you‟ll hang in there with me and Beverly while we do that?” “Okay,” came weakly from the mouth of Maxwell Silver, but nothing in his demeanor legitimized that answer. Bull quickly moved the conversation. “Max, this is Erik Steppenwolf, do you remember him?” Silver shifted the limpid blue pools of his eyes to take in Steppenwolf, and just for a moment, the pupils dilated and a certain long-absent twinkle lit up deep inside his eyes. If only he could be meeting this handsome man under some very different circumstances, he thought, maybe, just maybe…. Then his brain sent the memory of Detective Steppenwolf front and center. He dropped his eyes and allowed the long-present veil to come back down. “Yes, I remember Detective Steppenwolf. What the hell is he doing here, Bull?” “It‟s all right, Max. This time he‟s on our side. Beverly has hired him to continue investigating your case.” Months of pent-up frustration came rushing forward, animating the face of Maxwell Silver. “Case? Case?” he shouted. “Bull, there wouldn‟t have been any case if Detective Steppenwolf hadn‟t come in

here and stirred the whole thing up.” It was hard for Steppenwolf to sit silently in the face of this accusation being hurled at him by the man that had played some role in the death of Marcus Patterson, but he knew that in order to do his job and get the information he came for, he would have to suck it up and let the judge get it off his chest. “Max, I know that‟s the way you‟re feeling,” Bull interjected, “but Steppenwolf has been hired by Beverly and me to check out the things you told me about. It‟s our only chance here, Max, and you know that.” Turning his now icy gaze back and forth from Bull Milam to Steppenwolf across the narrow table, Maxwell Silver tried to clear his head so he could think about what Bull was saying. The truth was, he felt like a cornered cat. He wanted to come out screaming and scratching at his tormentors, but on the other hand, he felt he had no choice but to trust Bull. Of course, paranoia being what it is, his mind didn‟t allow him to forget that his father-in-law Press Powers had called Bull, and that had been a concern all along. But Bull had assured him that he didn‟t work for Press in any way, shape, or form. As for Steppenwolf, why would the son of a bitch that brought all this down on his head to begin with want to help him now? As his mind raced though its assessment of all the possible implications of this moment, Maxwell Silver‟s eyes narrowed and came to rest in a direct stare deep into the dark green eyes of a man he had considered his tormentor for quite some time. “Detective Steppenwolf”—the words, although coming from his mouth, almost seemed to come from somewhere outside the room to Max—“why would you want to help me now?” Choosing the most diplomatic route possible, Steppenwolf picked his words carefully. “Judge Silver, just so you know, Marcus Patterson was the son of dear family friends of mine.” Steppenwolf couldn‟t help but notice the sadness that came over Silver as Marcus‟s name was mentioned. “So I was acting on behalf of his mother to sort out what happened to her son. I couldn‟t just let things stand the way they initially were reported. It wasn‟t fair to Marcus or his mother. But that being said, Judge, I don‟t believe the DA‟s office followed the case as

far as they should have, and I believed that somehow—although I don‟t know how—there was something missing in the story. So when your wife called me and asked me to follow up on my investigation, I was glad for the opportunity. “Now, if you‟ll just tell me what happened that night, we‟ll start from there and see where it takes us. Oh, and by the way, Judge, I‟m working for you here, and whatever you tell me is just like you told it to Mr. Milam. Okay?” Bull Milam nodded his agreement with Steppenwolf‟s statement, and after a moment‟s pause while Maxwell Silver assessed his ability to trust the handsome detective, he began his strange story. “You see, Detective, I met Marcus on one of those visits I made to high schools in the area to encourage students in criminal justice programs. It was part of my community outreach program. He was a nice kid, and with that athlete‟s build of his—well, you know, I am gay, and I couldn‟t help but admire him. But I didn‟t make a move on him or anything. I wouldn‟t do that in that situation. I know that‟s hard for people to believe at this point, but I wasn‟t trolling for boys in the high schools in and around Houston. So I more or less forgot about him. “I kept that condo down in town so that I could discreetly fool around, and over a period of time I found that it was best for me to pick up street hustlers in the Montrose district. Unlike bar patrons, they didn‟t know me, and even if they did, nobody would believe them anyway. I know that sounds cold, but I was constantly reminded of my place in the community and what it would mean not just to me but to Beverly and others who counted on me to provide that image of a pillar of virtue that attaches to judges. And, yes, I know that‟s bullshit, but I played by the rules in public. “Anyway, in addition to my evening sorties into the streets of Montrose, I also liked to go to various Internet porn sites. It led to a lot of spam of a sexual nature coming to my computer. One night a piece of spam showed up directing me to a site called „L‟Image Aubergine.‟ It claimed it could make all your gay fantasies come true. So I checked it out. What it offered was an escort service providing „real men‟ to bring your deepest desires to life.” Steppenwolf felt the need to interrupt. “What do you mean by

„real men‟?” “Well, that was just it,” Silver continued. “They offered „dates‟ with real cops, real firemen, real jocks—you know, not just guys that wore a costume and played the part. They claimed that they could provide sexual encounters with whatever kind of man that you were interested in. So I entered their gallery of available men and found two people that I knew. One was Marcus. The other was Pete Escobar.” Now Steppenwolf was doubly stunned. It appeared that not only was Marcus involved in prostitution, but he was part of a very highclass prostitution ring. And just as Steppenwolf was processing that bit of info, the name of Pete Escobar came slamming into his head like a nuclear missile. “Escobar was a prostitute?” he blurted out. “Yes. And not only that, I knew he was, in fact, a Houston police officer as well as the security guard at my building.” It was as though all the weight of the past few months had lifted from Silver‟s face as he came alive with the delivery of his revelation. “Now, what did you say that website was?” Steppenwolf said once he shook the cobwebs from his head. This changed almost everything he had believed about this case when he walked through the door. As far as whether the judge was telling the truth or not, in Steppenwolf‟s estimation, the story was too incredible to be made up. He poised his pen above the pad to write down the name. “Oh, they‟ve taken it down now,” Silver said matter-of-factly. Steppenwolf turned imploringly to Bull Milam. “Of course you‟ve tried to find this?” “It‟s like it never was there,” Bull said flatly. “But it was, Bull. I promise it was there,” Silver whined plaintively. “I believe you, Max, but we‟ve got to find the proof,” Bull reminded him. “That‟s why I‟m here, Judge,” Steppenwolf jumped in. “Tell me, did you download that into your computer where we can find it—put it on a disk?” “That goddamned Press!” Bull snorted. “When Max told us about

it, Press went over and got Max‟s computer and destroyed it.” “Destroyed it? Do you mean he deleted the file?” “Hell, no. That maniac had that computer smashed to smithereens. There‟s not so much as a piece of it bigger than a dime,” Bull lamented. “Shit!” Steppenwolf commiserated. “Well, I‟ll see what I can come up with. Now, let‟s go on with your story, Judge. You say you found both Marcus and Escobar listed with this escort service?” “Yes, I did. Now, Escobar I‟d had my eye on for as long as I had lived in the building, but Marcus I had forgotten about until I saw his picture. And it was there—I mean, everything about him: his footballstar status, his drama experience over at the high school—” “His age, Judge? Was his age listed?” Steppenwolf had to know. “It was falsified. I didn‟t know he was a minor when we started. Look, I can‟t say for sure it would have mattered to me, I had it bad for the boy, but I really didn‟t know.” “And didn‟t try all that hard to find out?” Steppenwolf couldn‟t let it go unanswered. Maxwell Silver‟s shame showed as he lowered his eyes. “No. No, can‟t say that I ever asked. I didn‟t find out until he told me it was his 18th birthday, and by then it was too late.” For the moment, Steppenwolf decided to let Silver off the hook. “Okay. So what happened, did you contact the service?” “Yeah, I did. It was a very in-depth process. You had to give them a lot of personal information so they could check you out to see that you were who you said you were.” “Of course they did,” Steppenwolf butted in again. “After all, they were practicing a very illegal business, now, weren‟t they, Judge?” “Yeah, and I knew that, Detective,” Silver shot back defiantly. “Right then I was a lot more interested in discretion than I was with legalities. You know as well as I do, Detective, that with enough discretion laws can be circumvented.” “Touché, Judge. Touché.” Steppenwolf conceded. “So after they accepted me, they asked me who and what I was

interested in.” “Did they ask you to just describe what you wanted?” “Well, not exactly. They ran a very sexy, pornographic site complete with video enactments of different scenarios that one might be interested in.” “Such as?” “Well, you know, the cop pulling you over and you „talking‟ him out of the ticket. Jailhouse encounters. Biker gangbangs. Rapes. Just about anything that you could imagine.” “Okay, Judge, did you see one in there that you liked?” The pasty paleness that lockdown had brought to Maxwell Silver‟s face was suddenly replaced with a bright-red blush as he revealed his secret fantasy. “Yes. There was one where a man comes home and surprises a burglar. The burglar rapes the man, and then a policeman comes to his rescue. Then in a nasty twist, the cop rapes the man too.” Steppenwolf tried to not dwell too much on the visuals that overtook his imagination as the judge revealed the darkest recesses of his homoerotic fantasies. “Did this scene appeal to you just because you saw it on the site, or had this in fact been a longtime fantasy of yours?” “It was the strangest thing,” Silver said as he blankly stared off into space. “It was as though someone was reading my mind. That was my fantasy.” “Had you ever told that to anyone?” “Yeah, I guess I had told it to some of the hustlers I picked up. Come to think of it, I actually tried to do it a couple of times with some of them, but it never really worked right. It never felt real.” “But something about this service made you believe that they could make it feel real for you?” “Yeah, partly that, and partly the fact that I could cast the two guys the way I wanted to.” “So you picked Marcus and Escobar?” “Yeah. Like I said, I had wanted Escobar for a long time, and

Marcus had made a very favorable impression on me when I met him.” “So what did you have to do to set it up?” “Well, I had to give them my credit card number.” “Wait a minute. You charged these encounters on a credit card?” “Yeah.” “Do you have the records?” Bull butted in with the answer that Steppenwolf didn‟t want to hear. “Press!” Steppenwolf turned to Milam. “Can‟t we get them from the credit card company?” “Son, Press Powers can do things that nobody else I know can do. Those records have vanished from the face of the earth.” “God damn it!” Steppenwolf couldn‟t contain his disappointment. As for Maxwell Silver, his continuing paranoia towards his father-in-law and the possible connection between the bastard and his attorney continued to eat away at his confidence that anything good could come of this. Steppenwolf pushed on with his interrogation. “So how much did these encounters cost?” “$1,000.” “Each?” “Yes, each,” Silver answered. Steppenwolf couldn‟t help but do the math in his head and realize the lousy cut that Marcus was getting for the loss of his innocence. “So how did these encounters happen?” “Well, I would tell them the nights I wanted them to set it up, and they told me when and where to pick up Marcus and then leave the rest to him.” “So take me through it, step by step.” “I would drive over to Whitney and Hyde Park, where Marcus would be waiting for me on the sidewalk. I would let him in the car and bring him to within a couple of blocks of my place, let him out with a

set of keys so he could let himself in. Then I was to drive around for exactly five minutes before going home.” “Did you make any stops along the way?” Maxwell Silver didn‟t want to answer the question, but figured Bull had already told the Detective. “Yeah, we would drive through The Ward, and I would have Marcus buy me some crack.” “So you were smoking crack, Judge?” Silver realized he had revealed something he didn‟t need to. Sheepishly, he answered, “Yes, Detective. On the nights that I had encounters with hustlers, I liked to get high.” “Did Marcus smoke crack with you?” “No, he was very careful about his body. He was a blue-ribbon Texas high school football player, you know.” Silver said it with the pride of a father, which seemed a bit peculiar to Steppenwolf, all things considered. “So when did you smoke the crack, Judge?” “I would roll it up in a primo and smoke it while I drove around killing that five minutes before I went home.” “So you would arrive at your door stoned?” “Yes, I guess you could put it that way. I was feeling really good, is the way I would put it. Plus it helped get me in the mood for what was about to happen.” “Okay. Tell me what happened from the point you got to your condo door.” “I would find it ajar, which was the signal that somebody was inside. I fantasized that it was an unknown burglar. I would cautiously make my way down the entry hall to the living room, where I would encounter Marcus coming down the stairs. We would both act surprised to see each other. Marcus would then quickly reach inside his pocket and pull out a switchblade and point it at me. “He would say, „Shut up, you old fuck, and do what I say.‟ I would stand, paralyzed with fear, while he approached me. He was very large and menacing. He would grab me by one arm and spin me around while raising the knife to my throat. Even though a part of me

knew that it was just an act, it was horrifying. He would push me along in front of him until we reached the back of the couch. I could feel his hot breath on my neck as he would growl in my ear, „Drop them drawers, you old fuck. I‟m gonna get me some of that ass.‟ I would do as he said and drop my pants and underwear. He would push me down to where I was bent over the back of the couch and I would hear his belt unbuckle just before I felt the unbearable pain of his forward thrust.” Steppenwolf found himself a little too excited by the story and needed to arrest it long enough to get a breath and remember why he was there. The judge was painting quite a picture. Steppenwolf needed to short-circuit the tale before he got a boner. “Okay,” he said forcefully, “so Marcus pretended to rape you. Then what happened?” “It was set up so that, just as Marcus finished, Escobar would have snuck into the condo and caught Marcus in the act. He would shout for Marcus to stop and put his hands in the air. Then he would handcuff Marcus to the stairway banister. I would turn to thank the brave officer, and he would say he wasn‟t done with his investigation. He would then hold me at gunpoint, bend me back over the sofa, and rape me himself.” “And when he was done, what would happen next?” Steppenwolf asked to abort any attempt on the judge‟s part to add detail. “He would tell me that I better not tell anybody. He would take Marcus as if he were leading him away. They would go to the kitchen, where Escobar would uncuff him, we‟d all have a good laugh, and Escobar would leave.” “And you would what? Take Marcus back to where you picked him up?” “That was the plan, but it didn‟t turn out that way. You see, the first time, after Escobar left, Marcus told me that it turned him on watching Escobar rape me and he was horny, so we did it again. From then on, he would stay for a while. We would make love, and I would feed him before taking him back to his car. You see, Detective Steppenwolf, no matter what anybody may say or what you may think, I fell in love with Marcus.” Steppenwolf tried not to let his disgust show, but couldn‟t keep it

concealed. “Sorry, Judge, you had a funny way of showing it in the end, didn‟t you?” Tears of anguish began to pour down Judge Maxwell Silver‟s cheeks, leading him to lower his head onto the table. He sobbed for a while as the other two men sat silently, embarrassed, letting the moment pass. Silver at last raised his tear-stained face to Steppenwolf. “I think about him and cry every day. And the reason I want you to find out who did this is so that Marcus will be avenged. I have long since quit caring about what happens to me. Somebody had Marcus killed, and I want to know who and why.” What started out as a pain-wracked face morphed into a face of angry rage as Maxwell Silver delivered his deepest desire to his intended audience, Detective Erik Steppenwolf. “All right, Judge,” Steppenwolf said as he looked deeply into the angry blue eyes that returned his look like daggers. “I think you‟ve convinced me. So let‟s get down to the business of finding out what the hell is going on. Now, tell me what was different this particular night, the night that Marcus was shot.” “Everything was going along just like always. I heard Escobar step up behind Marcus and tell him to stop and raise his hands. Then, like a thunderbolt, the sound of the gun going off filled the room. And before I could figure out what was happening, I could feel Marcus slumping down over me, and a warmth. I‟ve never felt anything like it. I know now that it was the feeling of Marcus‟s blood pouring down on my back just ahead of his torso and head landing hard on top of me. I was in shock. I couldn‟t quite figure out what had happened and what was going on. You know, that crazy moment when time freezes up and you know something has happened, but you can‟t even think about it? It was like that. Then I heard Escobar scream, „Oh my God! What have I done?‟ “I could feel more of Marcus‟s blood running across the width of my back and dripping off onto the couch, but I couldn‟t manage to raise myself up. I was pinned under his body. I asked Escobar to help me up. He rolled Marcus‟s body off of mine, and when I stood up, I saw all that blood. It was everywhere. We both panicked. We started trying to figure out what we should do. I thought the best thing to do would be just to go with the obvious: he had surprised a burglar robbing me and shot him. We rifled through the drawers upstairs in my bedroom to

make it look like Marcus was burglarizing the place. We repositioned his body and put my gun in his hand as though he had found it and was holding me at gunpoint.” “Whose idea was it to move the body and put the gun in Marcus‟s hand?” “I don‟t remember. It could have been either one of us. I didn‟t want people to know about the sexual aspects. It wouldn‟t have looked very good if it went out over the television and in the newspapers that I got raped up the ass, now would it? No matter how you spin that, people are still going to think about it come election day. Politics suck in this country, especially when it comes to anything sexual.” “I‟ll give you that one, Judge,” Steppenwolf agreed. “But how did it come about that your gun was the murder weapon?” “You know, it took me a long time to figure that out myself, Detective. See, turned out that my gun was just like Officer Escobar‟s, and at first I thought we must have just accidentally switched them at the scene. But when Escobar turned on me with that lie he told and the ballistics came back the way they did, I knew something was wrong. Somehow, Escobar managed to switch the guns before it all happened. I don‟t know how or why, but he switched our guns out before Marcus was shot.” “That‟s interesting, Judge. But that‟s going to be awfully hard to prove without yet another confession from Escobar, and God knows he‟s already had too many of those to be believed again. But I‟ll start bird-dogging him and see what I can come up with.” “I hope you can find something, Detective. I‟m counting on it.” Judge Maxwell Silver was almost himself as he talked to Steppenwolf. For the first time since this whole ordeal began, he was beginning to believe that the truth would come out. Steppenwolf still had some hefty doubts about the availability of truth, and it wasn‟t just Escobar that he had doubts about. “I want to bring this out in front of both of you so we can get it straight between us. Bull, you said earlier that Press Powers can do things that nobody else you know is able to do. Are you sure that Mr. Powers isn‟t somehow pulling the strings on this little escort operation that seems to have surfaced and then disappeared? After all, he is the one who seems

to have destroyed all the evidence that there was of its existence.” For the first time that day, Bull Milam looked uncomfortable. “I know what you‟re both thinking, but I don‟t buy into it. I meant it when I said that Press Powers can do almost as much as God Almighty, but this just isn‟t like one of his gigs. Almost everybody who knows him will tell you that he‟s the biggest gentleman they know, that he‟s smooth and trustworthy and the greatest man in Houston, Texas. But there are those who have been on the receiving end of Press‟s wrath, and believe me they have a very different story to tell. If Press Powers comes after you, you‟ll know it. When he kicks a man in the balls, he likes to be smiling down on his face while he‟s doing it, and I don‟t mean some kind of pleasant smile. It‟s more like the smile of Henry Fonda in Once Upon a Time in the West. It‟s evil, like he knows he‟s grinding you into the dirt and enjoying it. Press doesn‟t like his revenge served cold. He likes to stab his enemies with a red-hot poker. So this kind of backhanded scheme just doesn‟t seem like it‟s his. He‟s not taking any joy in it, so I don‟t suspect him. But by all means, go back and talk to him; grill his ass if you want to. He won‟t mind. He‟ll only respect you more for it. I‟ll set it up.” Steppenwolf was not dissuaded by Bull‟s magnificent oratory. “Thanks. I think I will.” Maxwell Silver actually recognized the truth in what Bull had to say, but he felt even better about Steppenwolf, knowing that the detective from San Francisco wouldn‟t leave any stone unturned in his investigation.

Chapter 20

STEPPENWOLF bolted straight up into a sitting position in bed. It was the only way to escape the bad dream that was plaguing him. Looking around the room, he attempted to figure out where he really was instead of where his sleeping brain had taken him. It was Lilah‟s guest room that came into focus in the early-morning light. Unfortunately, Red wasn‟t next to him in bed. Although they had agreed to restart their relationship, Red had resisted the idea of them living together until he was sure that Steppenwolf really wanted him. At least that‟s what he said, and given the circumstances surrounding the Noah incident, Steppenwolf was hardly in a position to argue against a slower pace this time around. But in his heart Steppenwolf knew that Red was the one for him. The absence of Red was particularly troubling because Steppenwolf was overwhelmed by his dream and feared for Red‟s safety. As he looked at the empty pillow on the other side of the bed, he tried to analyze the dream to figure out why he was so frightened for his boyfriend. It came back to him with the same crazy clarity with which it had played in his head to begin with. He was going down the hallway in Maxwell Silver‟s condo toward the living room. When he rounded the corner into the soaring room, he could see Pete Escobar holding a gun to the back of Red‟s head. Steppenwolf opened his mouth to shout at Escobar not to pull the trigger, but it was too late. He could see the smoke come from the gun and Red slump forward as blood splattered everywhere. As he relived the moment, Steppenwolf shuddered, feeling his stomach knot up. Replaying the dream in his head, he remembered lunging forward and grabbing Escobar, then throwing him to the floor

as he shouted, “Why? Why did you do that?” Escobar looked toward the stairway that led down into the living room from the bedroom above. Steppenwolf turned to see a clown standing on the stairs. The clown gazed down on him with a mocking smile. “What‟s the matter, Steppenwolf? You can always get another boy. There are plenty of boys for someone like you.” It was at that point that Steppenwolf awoke from the disturbing dream. Who was the clown? he asked himself. It seemed like it was someone he knew, but not really. It was the question that would haunt his head the rest of the day. Before he could go on, he had to call Red and talk to him—make sure he was all right. “Hey, Wolf Daddy,” Red said sleepily after Steppenwolf identified himself as the early-morning caller. “What time is it?” “Sorry, Red Riding Hood, I know it‟s too early to wake the night shift. I was just thinking about you. Are you all right?” “Yeah, but I‟d be better if you were here right now,” Red said in a low, seductive tone. “I wish I were. I have something for you.” “I bet you do, Daddy.” “But I‟ve got to go into town and meet with Preston Powers this morning.” “You could stop by on your way. I‟ll fix you some breakfast. You know what they say: it‟s the most important meal of the day.” “And don‟t think I‟m not hungry for it, Red Riding Hood, but I‟m afraid I would linger too long over the ham and miss my appointment,” Steppenwolf said with an audible grin in his voice. “I hear you, Daddy, and speaking as the ham, I‟m sure I would do all I could to keep you lingering. How about lunch after you finish your appointment?” “See you then. Love you, baby.” After hearing Red‟s profession of love in return, Steppenwolf turned off his phone. Knowing that Red was okay, he was ready to go face Press Powers. Maybe he was the clown from the dream.

PRESTON POWERS smiled broadly across his big desk at Steppenwolf. “You know, son, I really like you. When you‟re through with this case, I‟d like to have you come work for my law firm. You‟re the kind of investigator that every law firm needs. You just keep gnawing at that bone until every last bit of the meat is gone, and then you chew up the bone.” “I‟ll take that as a compliment, Mr. Powers, but let‟s not get ahead of ourselves,” Steppenwolf said flatly. “Before I can take you up on that job, I‟ve got to figure out if you‟re going to be around to offer it once I‟m done.” Powers laughed out loud. “That‟s why I like you, son.” “Now, according to Bull Milam, you rushed over to Maxwell Silver‟s condo and destroyed a key piece of evidence in the case. Before you give your answer, Mr. Powers, let me just say that I‟m not exactly buying into the idea that you just did that in order to protect your son-in-law‟s reputation. As things have turned out, that computer might be the only thing that can prove his innocence. So, what the hell were you doing? Were you helping Silver or yourself?” Powers‟ face betrayed neither surprise nor anger at the question. “Both. Don‟t forget that I made that boy what he was, along with every other Republican politician in this county. The last thing I needed was for Max‟s peccadilloes to splash across the front page of the newspaper and every local television station in Houston. Max wasn‟t exactly acting like the poster boy for family values, now was he?” “So you were driven solely by your own hypocrisy?” “Call it what you will, son. It‟s politics. That‟s all it is. Without a majority, you can‟t win an election. Both parties have their coalitions. Ours happens to include a bunch of narrow-minded bigots who wouldn‟t exactly cotton to the idea of a gay judge. Surely you know that.” Steppenwolf found the response irritating. “So you just destroy evidence in a murder case? That doesn‟t exactly sound like family values to me.” Finally, Press Powers was reaching the limits of his patience.

“Look, boy, I know you‟re not that naïve. There was a lot more at stake than any one person‟s reputation, including my foolish son-in-law. I had done everything I could for years to cover for him, and he pays me back with this fiasco. Am I mad? Hell yes, I‟m mad! That ignorant son of a bitch fucked everything up. And don‟t forget that my daughter has had to go through this whole big mess. So, yes, I‟m mad as hell. But if you think that I go around committing felonies to cover things up on a regular basis, I assure you that I do not! I just did what I had to do right then. If I‟d known that computer would have helped Max, I‟d have guarded it with my life, because I‟ll tell you what family values are, Detective Steppenwolf: family values are about taking care of your own family. And there‟s not one thing in this world I wouldn‟t do to protect my little girl from this world, so I did what I thought would protect her. “As for Max, if I had him here right now, I‟d kick his sorry ass from here to the Red River and back for hurting Beverly the way he has, but as you can see, for some reason, she wants the bastard back. So after I got through kicking the shit out of him, I‟d drop him off at my daughter‟s doorstep and go back to playing nice with the boy. Whether she knows it or not, Detective, I love that girl and would do anything for her. If you ever have a daughter of your own, you‟ll know exactly how I feel.” Steppenwolf found himself wanting to believe Preston Powers, but knew that his task required him not to make a hasty judgment. “So do you have any idea who might have been behind some sort of effort to bring down your son-in-law, Mr. Powers?” Preston Powers‟ demeanor changed immediately when the line of questioning took a different turn, a fact that did not escape Steppenwolf‟s notice. The guy was an attorney, after all. Oratory was his stock in trade. “I‟ve been a Republican ever since John Tower made the switch, so it‟s in my blood to blame some Democrat somewhere for a mess like this, but not this time. This looks like something personal to me, Steppenwolf. Max was playing a dangerous game in a world that I don‟t think he understood, so it could be anything or anyone. Who knows? But I believe if anybody can find out, it‟s you. If my sources are right, that‟s your world, and you can find things there that the rest of us wouldn‟t even begin to imagine. So don‟t let my bluster get in

your way, son. I‟ll be happy to answer any other questions you have today or any other day, but I think your time would be best spent digging around in Montrose. I think you‟ll find your answer there.” “I‟m inclined to agree with you, Mr. Powers, but until I find out who was behind the murder of Marcus Patterson, I‟m going to keep turning over every rock I come to, no matter what slithers out.” Press Powers‟ lips curled up in a knowing, almost malevolent smile. “I‟m sure you will, son. I‟m sure you will.” “Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Powers, did you happen to look at the L‟Image Aubergine file on Silver‟s computer before you destroyed it?” “Sorry, son. I didn‟t need to examine the snake to know that it had to be killed. I just had it chopped up in little pieces so that it couldn‟t bite Max and the rest of us in the ass.” “Who did the chopping?” “A guy that works for me.” “Do you know if he looked at the files before he destroyed the computer?” “He‟s a janitor, and I doubt that he could do that if he wanted to. But, son, I don‟t take anything for granted. I stood there while he took a sledgehammer to it. Little, tiny pieces: that‟s all that was left by the time he shoveled it into the Dumpster.” “What about the credit records that Bull says you made disappear? Do you think you could get those back?” “Steppenwolf, I wish I could do all the things people think I can, but I can‟t. I guess my reputation exceeds my abilities.” Steppenwolf smiled wryly across the desk at Lawyer Powers. “Somehow I don‟t think that‟s exactly true. You know where to find the money, and my guess would be that is in the big banks around here, so I can‟t help but believe that you could retrieve a little useful information if you asked real nice.” Press Powers‟ face betrayed no deception as he countered the detective. “I tried to get those records from the bank in the past few days, and what I realized is that we‟re playing with somebody at least

as big as I am. They have disappeared. I only had Max‟s personal records destroyed. I figured that would be enough to keep him in the clear. It looks to me like someone else is trying to cover their tracks, and they‟re pretty damn good at it.” “So you tried to find those records yourself and were unsuccessful?” “That‟s what I‟m telling you, son.” “And with all your connections to the moneyed folks of Houston, you can‟t figure out who we‟re dealing with?” “Even the great Preston Powers has his limitations, it would seem. Maybe I‟m losing my grip after all. But I‟ll keep on trying to find out; you can count on it.” “Okay. I guess we‟re done here,” Steppenwolf said as he rose to leave. “We won‟t be done until we find out what‟s really going on here, son,” Powers said, communicating his own desires to find the truth. “You can count on that,” Steppenwolf said as he shook Powers‟ extended hand.

DURING lunch with Red, Steppenwolf was distracted and not very good company. Despite several attempts on Red‟s part to get his Wolf Daddy to tell him what was going on, the older man sat, silently turning thoughts over in his head. Who could be behind this if it wasn‟t Preston Powers? Houston was a big city with a lot of people, and it would seem that one of them—a very rich and very powerful member of the community—was pulling strings at the highest levels. The next move seemed to be a careful examination of Judge Maxwell Silver‟s cases to see if anything interesting turned up. The answer must be there. “Hey, Daddy, remember me?” It seemed that Red was losing patience. “I could have had lunch alone and enjoyed it just as much.” Steppenwolf snapped out of his head and flashed a grin across the table. “Oh, come on, Red Riding Hood, you know that I‟m a good piece of eye candy,” he said with a wink.

Red returned the grin. “Yeah, but I could get a picture for that. Come on, let‟s go see Lola. If anybody can get you out of your shell, I‟ll bet she can.” A few minutes later Steppenwolf and Red waded into the darkness of Lola‟s hangout, causing the same regulars to turn and follow them with their eyes. And as expected, there was the Queen of Everything in her usual place. “Oh my God,” she feigned her great surprise. “They‟re back together. I knew it. I knew it all along. You two were meant for each other.” Red gave Lola a warm hug and accepted her showy “air kisses” to each of his cheeks with a smile, then allowed the same for Steppenwolf. “Two beautiful men at once,” Lola said just loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. “If I just had a bottle of Wesson Oil, I could show you how excited I really am to see you both.” “You never disappoint, Lola,” Steppenwolf said with a wink. “How you been doin‟?” “Fine, sugar. Just fine. How about you?” She turned to Red. Reaching over and giving Steppenwolf a squeeze around the waist, the handsome redhead cooed, “He‟s fine, too, Miss Lola. And I do mean F-I-N-E.” “You‟re a naughty boy, Red, and I love naughty boys,” Lola retorted. But it became obvious that Lola‟s interest was really focused on Steppenwolf. “What brings you in, tall, dark, and handsome?” “Well, a couple of things,” Steppenwolf answered. “First, to thank you for giving me that little push back in Red‟s direction. As you can see, that was mighty helpful.” He gave Red‟s waist a strong squeeze. “Glad to help, although I don‟t know why. My baser instinct would be to steal both of you for myself. I guess I‟m getting less wicked in my old age,” she said with a shrug. Red and Steppenwolf exchanged that knowing look of disbelief. “I‟ll bet you‟re just as wicked as ever,” Steppenwolf shot back. After what had happened, Steppenwolf was not as amused as he might have been by her comments. “I think I‟d better hold tight to my boy,” he said as he pulled Red even closer.

Lola gave an immediate demonstration of her alive-and-well wicked side by turning her face, eyes leering, first to Red, then to Steppenwolf. “Oh, come on, sugar, as hot as you are, you can always find another boy.” The silence that ensued indicated that now everyone was uncomfortable. Steppenwolf fought back the emotional tightening of his abdominal muscles in order to get to the second reason for his visit. Pulling back from the discomfort, he forced a wicked smile of his own. “Seems the wicked old bitch isn‟t dead after all.” “Guess not,” Lola allowed. “Guess I was worried over nothin‟,” she added with an eye-batting smile, which diffused the situation she had created. “Now, sugar, what was that other thing?” Steppenwolf now doubted the timing, but proceeded anyway. “You know I‟m back on the Marcus Patterson case.” “That poor, beautiful boy,” Lola commiserated. “Have you found out anything new?” “That‟s why I‟m here. It appears that he was working for a highclass escort service named L‟Image Aubergine. Have you ever heard anything about that service?” “Sounds like it‟s out of my league,” Lola said, motioning around the dingy barroom. “A poor old drag queen like me wouldn‟t know much about that, and neither would the bedraggled bunch that hangs out here. You may need to get yourself into Montrose‟s high society to track something like that down. Doesn‟t sound like anything the old queens around here would know about.” “I guess you‟re right, Lola. I hadn‟t thought about that, but I don‟t think it catered to high society gays who were out. I have a feeling that it offered a very selective and discreet service to Houston‟s rich closetqueen set.” “That makes even more sense, sugar. That‟s not my neighborhood, so to speak. I‟m probably not going to be of much help, but come on, do tell. What did this selective service offer?” “For a very high price it offered to fulfill your wildest fantasy, and it had a stable of men that were right off Houston‟s straightest streets, real jocks like Marcus and even real cops like Escobar.”

Red suddenly perked up. “Really, Wolf Daddy? Escobar worked for an escort service?” “That‟s what I‟m being told.” A sad look of disgust came over Lola‟s face. “A dirty cop. Not much of a surprise, though, when you think about it. Well, except for you, sugar,” she quickly inserted, looking up at Steppenwolf. “Tell you what I‟ll do, sugar, I‟ll poke around and see what I can find, but don‟t expect too much. Even as dark as it is in here, it‟s not dark enough for most closet cases, and you‟re way beyond the world of those streets out there. I‟m sure that the good judge was just one of many hiding in the dark closets of Houston.” Steppenwolf knew that Lola was right and that his search was probably not confined to Montrose, as Preston Powers had suggested, but had expanded out into Greater Houston, a little ol‟ town of four million people. But if Maxwell Silver was telling the truth, there was one who knew: Escobar. Pete Escobar was the best bet he had to find who was behind Marcus‟s murder. It was time to do a little surveillance on former HPD officer, Pedro Escobar. “There you go,” the bartender said as he placed a couple of beers down in front of Red and Steppenwolf, along with a cocktail for the lady. Steppenwolf realized they hadn‟t even ordered any drinks since they‟d arrived, but Lola had. “This is on me, you two, to celebrate your renewed romance,” she said as she raised her glass to the handsome couple.

FINDING Escobar‟s home address hadn‟t been all that hard, despite the fact he had been a cop. He lived in a well-tended frame house in the Garden Oaks subdivision on Houston‟s near northwest side. Steppenwolf had prevailed on Lilah to let him take her less noticeable Honda sedan on his stakeout. Marcus‟s bright yellow Mustang convertible would have been far too easy to spot by Escobar if it kept showing up wherever he did. So he doubled up his tall frame into the Honda and took a position a few doors down from Escobar‟s house for

the next several days to get a feel for the ex-cop‟s daily schedule. In many ways it was routine. Escobar would leave at about eight thirty every morning and drive down Durham to River Oaks where he would park in one of the mansion‟s driveways and disappear into a back entrance, remaining there until four p.m. when he would reappear, get in his car, and drive to a health club on North Shepard for his daily workout. Steppenwolf wondered if the owner of the River Oaks mansion was the person he was looking for, but a quick check revealed the owner to be a rich heiress who employed a staff of security personnel for her own protection. A check of the agency confirmed that Escobar worked for them and that they knew of his recent involvement in the Marcus Patterson case. Steppenwolf also checked out the owner of the security service to see if he might be the string-puller he was seeking. Turned out he, like Escobar, was a former cop who took early retirement and opened his own business doing what he knew best. No connection between the owner of the security service and Judge Silver could be found. In fact, the owner had never even appeared in Silver‟s court as a witness. Dead ends. All that kept turning up were dead ends where Escobar was concerned. It would seem that he had taken a straight and narrow path in his life after the incident that changed everything for him. He now had four children, the latest a newborn boy. He spent his evenings at home with his family and gave no indication of returning to his old life. It gave Steppenwolf pause, causing him to wonder if Maxwell Silver‟s story about the police officer‟s involvement in the escort business was a fabrication by a desperate man on death row. After all, Silver had been a crack prosecutor and a very successful politician, two jobs that require a great ability to tell convincing stories. But Steppenwolf hadn‟t gotten that from his prison visit interview with Silver, and he had noted that, despite the precision of his testimony on the stand, Escobar did not come off as honest. As a detective he had long ago learned to listen to his gut, and his gut was telling him that Escobar was still the key to the truth. He was going to have to risk establishing contact with Escobar himself in order to get to the bottom of his story.

FOR Pete Escobar, things had been very bad after the Judge Silver trial. He had lost both his jobs and had a baby on the way. Although he had received a large amount of cash for his complicity, he had to be careful how he spent it in order not to arouse suspicion. Even though he had been assured that everything would be okay, he didn‟t feel that way until he was contacted by an old police buddy who now had a security agency. They had been in the same unit when he was a rookie cop, where the guy had befriended him and showed him the ropes. Hearing of his dilemma, his old colleague called him up and offered him a job. The pay was more than he expected, and he needed a legitimate source of income. The job itself couldn‟t have been easier. All he had to do was babysit an old, rich lady at her home in River Oaks. He would show up every morning and just stay in the same room with her all day. She never went anywhere. Everything she needed was delivered to the mansion, so she just sat around watching television all day. Seems she had a slew of phobias that had overcome her in old age, making her afraid to venture out of the house and afraid for her safety inside the house. So he watched her. At the end of his shift there, he would go to work out, keeping himself in excellent physical condition, and then return home for a quiet evening with his family. Well, as quiet as could be expected with three little girls and a newborn son. Despite everything he had been through and all he had done wrong, Pedro Escobar loved his family. His stoic wife, Imelda, had put her own fears aside, even in pregnancy, in order to be there for him during the loss of his jobs. She was not one to nag, and she had loved him since they were kids in grade school together. Their journey through life had been long, and not without bumps in the road. But Imelda was the shock absorber of their lives, and she always floated them over the rough spots without adding personal drama of her own. It seemed that all she had for her husband and children was unconditional love. She didn‟t ask questions that might lead to difficult answers when her husband returned home late. As long as he came home safe and sound, she was happy.

Sometimes Imelda‟s unquestioned acceptance of his misbehavior left Pete feeling guilty, but never guilty enough to change his ways. Although there had been isolated incidents before, Pete‟s journey into the morass that led to his troubles began when he took the job at Midtowne Tower. He couldn‟t help noticing the approving looks he got from the building‟s well-heeled gay residents. Many of them were very handsome “Anglos,” like the ones he had noticed in his high school days and later on the force. Among those isolated incidents in his past was an encounter with a pale, blond kid back in high school who introduced him to a form of pleasure that was only joked about among his fellow Hispanic friends. Guilt and a strong fear of discovery, not to mention everlasting damnation to hell, kept him from indulging that desire often. But there had been those rare times along the way, and he had enjoyed them all in the moment, returning to guilty remorse immediately afterward. Even getting married to his high school sweetheart hadn‟t kept him safe from the urges that sometimes overcame him. The constant temptation that beset him at Midtowne Tower quickly became overpowering. Of course, there was the first time: the hot guy up on the eighth floor. Since the guy had a lover, it turned out to be a one-time thing. Unfortunately for the willpower of Pete Escobar, the dam had burst, and he often found himself knocking on the door of a resident who had extended an invitation, availing himself of the easy sex that was there for the taking. And a secret such as his did not last long in the gossipy gay community within the building. Of course, they kept it among themselves, but almost everybody wanted a piece of the action, so to speak. Pete began to feel like a sultan with his own personal harem, taking full advantage. He was making booty calls on his own, and sometimes more than one per night. A savage appetite had been unleashed in him. It came out of the blue, the call that changed everything. Just putting in another night shift at the tower, Pete answered the ring of the telephone. He didn‟t notice that the caller ID had been blocked, but even if he had, it wouldn‟t have been all that unusual. There was an unfamiliar male voice on the other end of the line. “Officer Escobar, Pete Escobar?” the caller queried. Not knowing who the caller was, Escobar chose a formal answer.

“Yes, sir, this is Officer Pete Escobar. How may I help you?” Pete combed his mind trying to determine if he knew the caller‟s voice, but nothing emerged. “You don‟t know me, Officer Escobar, but I‟ve heard a lot about you.” Pete became nervous. He knew there was a lot to hear about and had lived in a certain amount of fear because of it. He overcame his panic and uttered the logical question. “What have you heard?” “Don‟t be alarmed, Officer Escobar. It‟s nothing to worry about, I assure you. I‟m calling to offer you a job.” Escobar relaxed a bit. “A job? Well, it would have to be a lot better than this one to lure me away.” “Oh, I‟m not trying to lure you away from your current job, Officer Escobar. I am offering you an additional job that I think is right up your alley.” There was something in the tone of the caller‟s voice that brought on a sexual rush. One side of his brain sent a cautionary signal, but the other side was intrigued and launched the little voice in the back of his head to the forefront and out. “What might that be?” Erasing all doubts, the caller continued. “I hear you‟re quite a stud, Officer Escobar.” Danger! Danger! his brain flashed, but the other head, the one in his pants, had now seized control. “Where did you hear that?” “Around.” The coyness of the caller‟s response brought Escobar back down a bit. “Well, I don‟t know about that.” Calmly, the smooth voice continued. “How would you like to make some money doing what you already like to do, Officer Escobar?” The battle between the heads was now a full-fledged war for Pete Escobar. The caller knew he was a cop, that was clear from his constant use of the title officer, but the caller also seemed to know what was going on within the walls of the Midtowne Tower. Was it a trap? Was it an HPD sting operation? Was it the condo board checking on rumors

they had heard? Fear and anxiety took control. “I don‟t know what to say.” “You know you want to say yes, so just say yes.” “I don‟t know. That‟s prostitution, and I‟m a cop.” “Don‟t think of it that way,” the reassuring voice calmly pressed. “It‟s just a little money between friends for a favor. There‟s no need to make it sound so ugly. Everybody will get what they want, and nobody else will know about it, I promise.” The seductive voice was swaying Escobar to say yes. The fear in his head was quickly being swept away by the lusty fantasies flooding his thoughts. The caller seemed to know his weakness and was battering down the walls of resistance like a tidal wave against a dike. But Escobar found the last bit of high, dry ground to stand on, making one final attempt to say no. “What, exactly, do you want me to do?” While Escobar‟s head was galloping away with him, the caller maintained cool calmness. “I want you to come to work for my exclusive escort service, Officer Escobar. I only hire the best, and we provide services to the most exclusive clientele in the city. I am told you are the best, Officer Escobar, and those recommendations come from more than one person.” “The whole thing makes me nervous,” Escobar said shakily. “I assure you, Officer Escobar, I have more to lose than anyone who works for me. I run a very hush-hush operation: no ads, no directory listings. We operate solely by word of mouth, and I leave no stone unturned checking out my clients before anyone is sent out. And if it would make you feel more secure, you wouldn‟t be the only cop working for my service.” “Really? Who else?” Escobar knew it was a silly question as soon as it escaped his lips. “Now, I wouldn‟t be very safe to work for if I was that easy, would I?” The caller didn‟t wait for an answer. “We pay $200 cash per hour, and not many assignments last longer than an hour. What do you say? You‟ll get paid $200 every time you do something I‟m told you like to do very much.” “How does this work? Do I need to meet with you?”

“No, we will always talk by telephone. Get yourself a throwaway cell phone, and I‟ll call back tomorrow and get the number. Oh, and by the way, you‟ll be playing a cop, so make sure you have a clean uniform on all the time so that you‟re ready to go.” “A cop? Isn‟t that a little dangerous for security?” “Not at all. No one ever asks a cop where he‟s going, and I have clients who request real cops. You‟ll be seeing them. Don‟t all those guys you fuck get a charge out of you showing up at their doors in your cop‟s uniform?” Escobar knew he was right. “Okay. I‟ll be expecting your call tomorrow night.” “Thanks, Officer Escobar. You won‟t regret this, I assure you.” Slowly the assignments started materializing, some even within the building with men he had seen before. Most, however, were at luxury hotels downtown or in the Galleria area. The men were always well-dressed professional types, maybe a little older than he would have picked on his own, but the fantasies were almost always the same. “Mr. So-and-so, I‟m Officer Garcia with HPD. I have a warrant for your arrest.” Then the guy would begin to plead to work things out “any way I can,” which would lead to the fulfillment of the fantasy of many gay guys. And as for Escobar, it was a turn-on. He, too, had played this fantasy only in his head, when he would pull over a goodlooking guy in a traffic stop. But just as real-life often fails to imitate the imaginary worlds most of us carry around in our heads, Escobar had never had a guy offer sex in exchange for ignoring a ticket—or a woman for that matter. So the scenario also played into his own fantasies enough for him to really get into his work. Then one evening came the call requiring a different fantasy, one for a man in the building, a guy he knew on sight: Judge Maxwell Silver. Looking back on it, he didn‟t know why he was so shocked. After all, in a very short time he had discovered there was a lot more going on behind the closed doors of Houston than anyone would have believed, involving some very well heeled, respectable-looking men. So why would a criminal court judge be any different? What made it different was the fact that he knew the good judge when he saw him. Not only had he seen him in the building, he had testified in his

courtroom. He tried to turn down the assignment. “He knows who I am. I don‟t think this is a very good idea,” he told the caller. “I know he knows you. He knows too. He requested you by name,” the boss said. “How does he know I work for you?” “He‟s been a client of the service for a while, so he has access to the directory of our men. Trust me, the good judge isn‟t working any angle other than having a good time sexually with a man he finds extremely sexy: that‟s you.” Despite his hesitation and nervous fears, Pete Escobar found the first encounter with Judge Maxwell Silver thrilling. It was so different from the others, requiring a great deal more acting on his part. The first time he rounded the corner into Silver‟s living room and saw Marcus ravaging the judge‟s body, he could hardly control his own lust long enough to perform his role. The sight of the two handsome men was overpowering and led to one of the most exciting sexual experiences he had ever had. His turn at the judge inflamed him to heights of passion he didn‟t know existed. And so it began, at least once a week, sometimes twice: his rescue and rape of Judge Maxwell Silver. When they would pass each other in the hallways of the building or courthouse, they would exchange the kind of friendly nods that people who don‟t really know each other might make, never betraying any hint to a passerby of their “dirty little secret.” It only added to the thrill. Not expecting anything other than a regular assignment call, Pete Escobar answered his cell phone on that early-June afternoon like always. But the assignment offered him this time was anything but usual. “How would you like to make a hundred thousand dollars?” “Doing what?” Escobar asked bluntly. “We have a problem, and you‟re in the best position to fix it.” “What kind of problem?” “The judge is getting edgy and threatening to blow the lid off everything.” Now, this was enough to panic Escobar, because he knew he was also in this thing up to his neck. Logic escaped his mind as he went exactly where the caller wanted him to be. “What do we need to do—

kill him?” “No, not that. They‟d track it back to us. We need to scare him off.” “How do we do that, rat him out before he rats us out?” “That won‟t do it. We need to give him something to really be afraid of, and then convince him we‟re the only friends he has to turn to. Then, we‟ll lower the boom on him, but it‟s going to take something big to make that happen. That‟s why I‟m offering you $100,000.” His head racing, Pete Escobar couldn‟t imagine where this was going. “What is it you want me to do?” “Kill the boy and blame it on the judge.” The caller said it calmly and in a matter-of-fact manner. There was no hint of emotion or moral doubt in the statement. Escobar was stunned. Killing the judge somehow seemed more palatable than killing the boy. What had the boy done to deserve such a thing? If the judge was causing the problem, it only seemed logical to kill him and try to cover it up. “I don‟t get it,” he said. “That doesn‟t make sense to me.” “Of course it does. You do what you‟ve always done, rescue the judge, except this time you really rescue the judge, not from a rapist, but from a burglar who is threatening his life.” “I still don‟t get it. Why would that implicate the judge?” “Because you‟re going to use his gun.” “What? How would I do that?” “You told me the judge has a gun just like yours. Don‟t you have a key to his condo in case of emergency?” “Yes.” “Then go up there right now and switch your gun with his.” “Then what?” “It‟s really simple. When you „surprise‟ Marcus this evening, you shoot him with the judge‟s gun and then convince the judge that it‟s an accident. Then you point out that he can‟t risk the real story coming out about him and you and Marcus. So you go with the obvious story of

you surprising an intruder, but make it a burglary instead of a rape. The judge will fall for it. He‟ll be scared to death.” “So why use the judge‟s gun?” “Because later, if he tries to come forward with the truth, we can turn it around on him and show that he was the one that shot the kid.” Escobar‟s head was reeling. He couldn‟t follow the logic of what he was being told. “I still don‟t get it.” “What you get is $100,000 to do exactly what I tell you. It‟s important for us all, and I assume you could use the money.” Since that day Pete Escobar found himself replaying this part of the conversation over and over again in his head, wishing he had just risked saying no. But greed and fear overcame good sense as he walked right into the nightmare that had forever changed not only his life, but his self-perception. He sat in the steam room at the health club after his workout this day over a year later, listening to his head screaming: Say no! Just say no! Mercifully the steam room door swung open, distracting him from his thought Escobar hoped that the new entrant into the steamy environs would be some hot gay guy in need of a little pounding. It was just what he needed, and why he chose this particular gym for his workouts. Since all hell had broken loose in his life, he used sex more and more as an escape from his gnawing conscience. And today, as he mulled over the past, a distraction was exactly what he needed. The figure entering the steam room slowly made its way through the fog from the doorway to the back corner, where Escobar was already getting an anticipatory rise in his mandatory swimsuit. Oh, yes, he thought, this guy would do just fine. Even though the thick steam obscured a good view, his superior height was a good first sign. Escobar estimated the stranger to be at least six feet tall. He had an affinity for tall guys. And as the figure came closer and emerged from the fog bank that was being pumped out by the hissing steam jet, Escobar became even more interested. This guy was a muscled hunk. Oh, let him be a hungry bottom, he thought. I need a hungry bottom. Escobar‟s imagination fueled an erection as he fantasized turning the guy around and taking him from behind, something he had done on many occasions in the misty confines of this room.

After what seemed like a slow-motion erotic movie entrance, the full figure of the newcomer emerged into view, and Escobar realized that he recognized him. At first that seemed a good thing, a sure thing. He probably had done this guy before—but wait! Wait! This was not a good memory. This face was not in the happy, lusty memory bank. It was coming from somewhere else. Like a computer search engine, his mind went into action, trying to bring up the data on this tall, dark, and handsome man. Steppenwolf! Oh my God, It’s Steppenwolf, his mind screamed. And he’s coming toward me.

STEPPENWOLF did indeed come right up to Escobar, settling in on the bench beside him. He couldn‟t help but be impressed by the ex-cop: chiseled muscles beneath a swirling pattern of black hair. He thought back to Judge Silver‟s commentary of their encounters, fighting his own lust-driven thoughts. Yes, Escobar was prime beef, no question about that. Think of Red! Remember Red! his inner voice shouted. No more fuck-ups! He sat down right next to Escobar, leaned in close, and spoke in a low, menacing voice. “So we meet again, Officer.” Escobar stiffened as his inner defenses clenched every muscle in his body, down to and including his sphincter. But he knew to show weakness would be the wrong thing to do. “Steppenwolf,” he said, “I thought you would have returned back to San Francisco by now and found a nice fairy to settle down with. What brings you back to town?” Cool, Steppenwolf thought. He’s still a pretty cool character. But his detective‟s instincts also sensed the tension under the surface. He knew he needed to bring it out. “You bring me back to Houston, Escobar.” “Me? I didn‟t think I was your type, and if I am, you‟re not mine,” Escobar shot back. “What? I‟m not an older judge with a rape fantasy?” Escobar sat in silence, paralyzed with fear. “Isn‟t that your type, little man?” Getting his balance back, Escobar found his voice. “What the fuck you talking about? Are you one of those faggots that think

everybody‟s a faggot?” “No, not everybody, Escobar. But you are, aren‟t you?” “Man, I ought to kick your ass!” Escobar growled. “Bring it on, little man. Bring it on. But I‟ll bet you‟d rather fuck my ass, isn‟t that right?” “Get away from me, faggot!” Escobar shouted, getting up and moving toward the door. Steppenwolf laughed at the drama. “Okay, okay. Calm down, man. I just came here to talk to you.” Escobar turned and faced his tormentor. “I don‟t have anything to say to you, Steppenwolf. You fly in here, fuck my whole life up, and expect me to want to talk to you? Fuck off!” “Hey, man, let me give you my number in case you change your mind. I know you been working for somebody else, and that‟s who I‟m after, not you. So come on, man, remember your police days and do the right thing. There‟s a dead kid here, and somebody is behind it. You‟re the only one who knows who that is.” Then Steppenwolf pulled out his trump card. “What if it was one of your kids, your new baby boy? Wouldn‟t you want to know the truth?” “Man, you‟re way off. It was the judge. He‟s the one who killed that kid, and he got what he deserved. That‟s the truth.” “Officer Escobar knows better,” Steppenwolf interjected. “All I‟m asking is that you talk to him—you know, your inner police officer—when you‟re holding that son of yours in your arms. I know there‟s a cop in there who wants to do the right thing. Call me when you‟re ready to dump that weight you been carrying around, Escobar. I‟ll call your number and leave mine.” “Don‟t mess with my family, Steppenwolf. I‟m warning you!” “I‟ll call your number.” Escobar exited the steam room, skipping the shower to get the hell out.

“THAT‟S amazing, Wolf Daddy,” Red said after hearing Steppenwolf‟s account of the steam room showdown with Escobar. “You‟re the boldest man I‟ve ever known. I could never do what you do.” “This from the kid that‟s bold enough to strip down to almost nothing and dance in a gay bar,” Steppenwolf said with a grin. “Don‟t shortchange yourself, Red Riding Hood.” Steppenwolf found it enjoyable to take Red out on the town and show him off. He had to admit that Red had had a good idea about not moving in together just yet. It gave them time to date and do the things that people do to get to know each other outside the bedroom. And Red was a constant pleasure for his older “man.” He always sat as though captivated by every word that came from Steppenwolf‟s lips, his beautiful, adoring eyes fixed. “Actually, I have something I wanted to talk about with you tonight.” “What?” “I know we‟ve talked about going back to San Francisco once I finish my investigation, but I‟ve been thinking about sticking around Houston for my daughter.” “It‟s a girl? Lilah found out the baby is a girl?” Steppenwolf seemed almost shy about it. “Yes, she went to the doctor today and they did the sonogram. It‟s a girl.” “That‟s great,” Red answered. “Have you two thought about names?” “Not yet. But I‟m more interested in knowing whether you‟re all right with us staying here in Houston and being a part of her life.” “Interested? I‟m thrilled, Daddy! Well, I guess somebody else will be calling you „Daddy‟ soon.” “I guess so. But are you sure you‟re all right with it?” Steppenwolf pushed. “Yes, of course I am,” Red answered with his voice as well as those passionate blue eyes. “I wish my father would have cared enough for me to stick around.”

“Mine too,” Steppenwolf added as they both fell silent, getting individually lost in their own past lives. “That‟s why I decided I wanted to be a dad to my little girl.” “That‟s great. We‟d better find a place with a nursery and backyard,” Red said with a smile. “Yes, I guess we‟d better get on that.”

Chapter 21

THE side-by-side brick bungalows on Castle Court were perfect in Steppenwolf‟s estimation. They were exactly what he had in mind. Standing in the backyard of one of the homes, he, Red, and Lilah surveyed the layouts of the two. “See, we can take down the fences between the yards and have one big backyard for the baby to play in,” he explained his vision. Lilah was still having a little trouble accepting the idea of giving up her suburban home and moving into the Montrose area to raise her child. The houses were much older than hers, and while they had those extra flourishes and décor plusses inherent in their 1920s design, they reminded her a little too much of her childhood home in one of Houston‟s black wards. “That would help to make the yard bigger,” she said cautiously, “but I‟m still not sure it‟s worth the expense to update the plumbing and electricity.” “That‟s my gift to you, Lilah,” Steppenwolf tried to reassure her. “I promise, it will be as modern as the house you‟re in now.” Lilah was still not convinced. She and Derrek had bought that house when it was brand-new. She had lived in it all these years, and it contained all of her most precious memories. Could she just leave all those memories behind? Could she leave her and Derrek‟s bedroom, Marcus‟s bedroom, and yard? It was a painful thought. But on the other hand, she thought, this was her chance to make a new start, put the painful past in the rearview mirror and move forward into a bright tomorrow with her new daughter. She had always wanted a daughter, and now she was going to have one. And who would have thought that Erik Steppenwolf would be so thrilled with the prospect that he would leave San Francisco to join in the raising of his daughter? Then there

was Red. What a sweetheart that boy is, she thought. She knew this was the best thing, but the ghosts of her past nagged at her enjoyment of the moment. “All right,” she said at last. “All right. You two have convinced me. Let‟s do this.” Steppenwolf was relieved. He knew this was hard for Lilah, but it just seemed to make sense to him. He had decided to sell his very expensive condo in San Francisco and use the money to buy two houses next door to each other for himself and Lilah, then start his own private detective agency in Houston. It was a big move, but it seemed right. Making a good amount for his services to Beverly Silver, he knew that he would be able to get other clients after he solved this case. Maybe even Press Powers would call on him from time to time—that is, if he didn‟t end up being the culprit in this case, a view Steppenwolf had not yet abandoned. “How about you, Red? Are you sure this is all right with you?” “All right? It‟s great! I love this neighborhood—big oak trees along the street, beautiful old houses. What‟s not to like?” “Then it‟s settled,” Steppenwolf said, turning to the realtor. “We‟ll take them both.” As the group moved through one of the houses toward the realtor‟s car, Steppenwolf‟s cell phone rang. “Hello?” Motioning for everyone to go on, he hung back in the living room, continuing his conversation. “Okay. Okay. All right. I‟ll meet you there.” “What is it?” Lilah asked as Steppenwolf joined them in the car. “It‟s Escobar. He‟s ready to talk.” “Really?” Lilah asked. “So you‟re going to meet him now? “Yes, as soon as I get back to my car. You two go ahead. I‟ll meet you later.”

AS STEPPENWOLF entered the Wendy‟s at I-10 and Durham, he saw Escobar seated along the north wall of the place at an empty table. “What? You‟re not eating?” he said as he lowered his long frame into the narrow confines of the fast-food joint‟s version of furniture.

Escobar looked nervous, very nervous. “Can‟t eat. Can‟t sleep. Man, you don‟t know what this has been like.” “No, I don‟t, but I do know the only way to get rid of it is to spill it,” Steppenwolf said in as gentle a voice as he could muster. “Okay. Okay, here it is,” Escobar stuttered. “I just needed more money. You know what it‟s like being a cop. I had three kids and another one on the way. There was never enough money. I did my best. I even worked two jobs, man, but it was never enough. It just seemed like there was something that had to be fixed with the house or the car, or one of the kids needed something for school. It was just never enough.” “I get it, Escobar. I get it. So you got sucked into something you shouldn‟t have, right?” “Right. The guy offered me $200 to fuck guys. It was easy money, man. You know?” “Yes, I know. So what happened the night Marcus got shot?” “Well, that day the guy calls and tells me the judge is about to blow the lid off everything and we need to do something.” “Okay. So he wanted you to get rid of the judge?” “No, he said that would be too dangerous. He wanted me to shoot the kid and hang it on the judge. I was scared, man. I didn‟t know what to do. At first I told him no, but he offered me $100,000.” “And then you said yes?” “Yeah, I said yes.” Tears began to stream from Escobar‟s dark eyes down his cheeks. “That kid was a nice kid. He didn‟t deserve that. He didn‟t deserve that.” “I know,” Steppenwolf said. “His dad was my partner when I was a rookie with HPD.” Escobar‟s mood got visibly darker at this news. “His dad was a cop?” “Yeah. And he got gunned down in a robbery.” “Oh, man, I‟m so sorry. I didn‟t know you knew the kid. Not that that makes a difference. I just wish this had never happened. The money wasn‟t worth it.”

“It never is, is it? So who asked you to do this?” “The owner of the agency. I don‟t know his name, but I do know how to get in touch with him.” “How?” Steppenwolf hadn‟t noticed the car waiting in the drive-through line behind Escobar‟s window seat. It was an eighties Buick sedan, copper with a ragged beige landau roof. Just as Steppenwolf asked how to reach his prime suspect, the short, Hispanic driver of the car leaned back as the passenger pushed a rifle into the driver‟s side window, aimed straight at Escobar. “Get down!” Steppenwolf shouted, ducking for the floor as he grabbed for Escobar. Two shots rang out, crashing through the plate-glass window, sending pieces of it flying into the crowded restaurant. Panic broke out as the screaming diners ducked under the tables. Before anyone could catch their breath, the sound of screeching tires filled the air as the Buick tore out. “Are you all right, man?” Steppenwolf asked Escobar as he rose from the floor, still holding the former cop‟s hand in his own. Escobar didn‟t answer. He couldn‟t answer. Instead of Escobar‟s voice, Steppenwolf‟s ears were filled with the screams of shock that swept through the rising diners as they observed Escobar‟s bloodsoaked head lying on the tabletop where he had fallen forward when the bullets hit him. Realizing Escobar was gone, Steppenwolf grabbed for the cell phone that hung from the former-cop‟s belt and bounded through the broken window, headed for Marcus‟s yellow Mustang. Jumping over the side and into the open convertible, Steppenwolf tore out of the parking lot, hoping to catch the old Buick, which had sped off in a westerly direction. As he turned onto the feeder road for I-10, he saw the old sedan speeding west on the freeway toward Spring Branch. Punching the pedal to the metal, Steppenwolf raced down the entrance ramp to the freeway and joined pursuit, hoping at least to catch the license plate number before they could get away. Although it was only three thirty in the afternoon, Houston‟s infamous traffic was heating up to its rush-hour gridlock. Steppenwolf

had to weave maniacally through the cars on the freeway in hopes of catching up to the Buick. But try as he might, the constant obstacle of slow drivers in the fast lanes thwarted his attempts to gain ground. It seemed that every time he topped an overpass, he would see his quarry top the one ahead of him and disappear down the other side. The farther west he went, the thicker the traffic became, and by the time he could see the towering Beltway overpass ahead, everything ground to a halt. After-school traffic combined with Memorial City Mall comers and goers and the funneling of cars onto and off of the West Beltway had created a snarl that regular commuters on the freeway were accustomed to. And the old Buick? It just disappeared into the cluster fuck ahead. Having given up and heading back to the Wendy‟s, Steppenwolf returned to the scene after HPD had arrived in full force. There was an overweight plainclothes cop interviewing a witness in the parking lot. When the witness pointed in his direction, Steppenwolf knew the drill ahead. As he approached, he recognized Detective Mercer immediately. “Well, well, well,” the detective said. “If it isn‟t my fairy godmother come back to help me do my job. Detective Steppenwolf, what the fuck are you doing here?” “I was interviewing Pete Escobar when he was shot.” “Why am I not surprised, Steppenwolf? Why can‟t you just leave the Patterson case alone? You got your judge, didn‟t you? Isn‟t that what you wanted?” “I wanted the truth to come out.” “What kind of outfit are they running out there in San Francisco, some kind of fairytale world where everything ends happily ever after? You know something, Steppenwolf? I don‟t like you, never did. But I‟ll tell you a little something. Sometimes, the ending isn‟t so fucking happy. Grow up, man, and face the facts. The judge is on death row. Case closed, and that‟s that! Get over it.” “For your information, Mercer, Escobar just confessed to me that he was part of a plot to bring down the good judge, and that he was working for somebody with an axe to grind,” Steppenwolf retorted. “So fucking what? Did he give you pictures, documents, anything we could actually take to the DA or a judge and back up what he was saying?”

“No, but—” “Fuck „but,‟ man. There ain‟t no „but.‟ You try to get that DA to open that case back up with Escobar‟s last-word confession, and he‟ll laugh you out of his office and tell his secretary to ignore your calls forever. I‟m telling you, it‟s over, man. Don‟t you get it?” “I get it.” But Steppenwolf wasn‟t going to be discouraged by what he considered to be a lazy cop. He was going to get to the bottom of this if it was the last thing he did.

ESCOBAR‟S cell phone was yet another dead end. None of the numbers shown on it led to anything. But Steppenwolf continued trying to find whatever might remain of L‟Image Aubergine. Disappearing wasn‟t an easy trick to pull off, and whoever this was had to have left some trace of their existence. Nobody was that good. He pored over the case files of Judge Silver during his years on the bench and at the DA‟s office. It was laborious and tedious. Max Silver had prosecuted hundreds of cases and tried hundreds more. Every one of them could be the person behind Marcus‟s murder, but which one? At least he could rule out the executed defendants, but, of course, there was the matter of their friends and families. He was surprised to learn that Assistant DA Silver had been the one that signed off on his shooting of Derrek‟s murderer, so they had a connection long before any of this happened. But that had been routine for everyone involved except him, so he passed it by and moved from case to case, checking for possible motives. Nothing! Nothing that led to anything, anyway. He hated to admit it, but he was beginning to understand why the HPD and the Harris County DA‟s office were no longer interested in pursuing the case. Literally spending eight hours a day looking through records for anything that might match up, he continued to come up empty. Even though he had told Beverly Silver that he wasn‟t able to find a plausible connection based on his report of what Escobar had told him, she was unwilling to call off the investigation and continued paying for his time and efforts.

As much as he hated the guy, he kept in touch with Mercer to see if there were any breaks in the Escobar murder. And again, nothing. But at least Mercer was acting a lot more civilly about it. Seemed he, too, was troubled by Escobar‟s demise. Maybe there was something to the idea that there is a brotherhood among cops that can overcome a lot of other things. As for Red and Lilah, they were patient with his dark moods as he kept turning onto dead ends. They were busy with the houses, picking out décor: paint colors, wallpaper, et cetera. Their friendship became closer and closer as the houses got nearer and nearer to completion, as did Lilah‟s pregnancy. Sometimes Steppenwolf was envious of the release they were getting from their efforts and second-guessed his decision to leave it to them. But he comforted himself by looking forward to the big plans they had made for their mutual housewarmings. There would be a commitment ceremony in his and Red‟s home to mark the official date of their moving in together, and for Lilah there would be a baby shower in her new home.

YES, Steppenwolf did have those happy thoughts to hang onto as he continued to doubt his abilities as a detective. In addition to the commitment ceremony with Red, Lola was planning what she called a “groomal” shower a week before the ceremony at Ralph‟s. “After all,” she said, “we have to give all the twinkies of Houston a chance to say good-bye to their favorite eye candy.” It had been agreed that Red would quit his dancing job and become the au pair to the baby after she was born. Lilah was thrilled to have the help, and Steppenwolf was happy to have Red so hands-on with their new daughter. The morning of the shower, Steppenwolf woke up in Red‟s bed only to find his “boy” gone. There was a note on the pillow: Got a million things to do before the shower. See you there. Love, Red. The steamy memory of the night before made the absence of his love that much more difficult to cope with, but he would just have to wait for tonight to put that behind him, or should he say, behind Red. Steppenwolf returned to Lilah‟s suburban home to face the boxes

and boxes of records he had procured of Maxwell Silver‟s many cases. He wasn‟t sure there was enough coffee in the world to keep him focused this morning, but it had to be done. Somewhere in these boxes had to be the one clue that would unlock the door of this mystery once and for all. The ringing of the doorbell at ten was a welcome excuse to get up and get out of the records room he had created in Marcus‟s old bedroom. Standing at the door was a deliveryman. Thinking it was something Lilah had ordered, Steppenwolf opened the door to accept it for his friend. “Are you Erik Steppenwolf?” the courier asked. “Yes, I am,” he answered, somewhat surprised. “Sign here.” The courier thrust a clipboard toward the package‟s recipient, indicating a line that should be signed. Steppenwolf signed and took the package: a small manila envelope. The deliveryman returned to his van and drove away. Walking down the entry hallway, Steppenwolf tore at the tapesealed envelope‟s upper edge. Inside was a DVD inside a plastic case. “Play Me Now!” was written across the disk with Magic Marker. Turning on the TV and DVD player in Lilah‟s living room, Steppenwolf slipped the disk in, triggering the automatic play feature. The TV screen turned a deep shade of purple, and across the center appeared the words: “Welcome, Steppenwolf, to the World of L‟Image Aubergine.” Staring at the wording on the screen, Steppenwolf sat stunned. The words faded out and were replaced with: “We‟ve been waiting for you, but you couldn‟t seem to find us.” Then, one sentence at a time, the disk played the following: “We can make your wildest fantasy come true. We have assembled the hottest selection of men the world has ever seen, all just to fulfill your wildest desire. Maybe you‟re into other cops.” A picture of Escobar appeared on the screen. “Or perhaps you like jocks.” A picture of Marcus faded in. “Or extra-hot leather boys.” Steppenwolf was stupefied to see a picture of Noah appear on the screen, then fade out. “Have we got your attention now? We thought so. Yes, Erik

Steppenwolf, SFPD, we know what you want, and we know how to get it. Now, how much do you want it?” Then the most horrifying image of all appeared on the screen: Red tied up and looking terrified, except this wasn‟t a still photo, this was film. “They‟ve got me, Wolf Daddy. Help!” “God damn it! God damn it!” Steppenwolf shouted at the TV screen. “Where is he? Where the hell have you got him?” The purple screen came back: “Come to Red‟s apartment, now!” Steppenwolf was out the door and didn‟t see the last screen: “Thank you, L‟Image Aubergine. Have a nice day.”

STEPPENWOLF approached the door of 210 very carefully, gun drawn. There was a note stuck to the door, not in Red‟s handwriting: “Come to Apartment No. 212.” Pistol still out, the former cop approached the door to 212. It was ajar. Using his gun hand, he gently pushed the door open. The apartment was exactly like Red‟s except there was no furniture in the living room. The lights were off and the heavy, dingy white drapes only allowed a limited amount of illumination in the room. On the walls were clips of newspaper articles with a big red arrow pointing at the first article on the left. Above the arrow in red was scrawled the command: READ FIRST! Listening for any telltale sounds of trouble, Steppenwolf approached the newspaper clipping. It was about his shooting of Derrek‟s murderer. Next to that clip was the article about the investigation into the shooting, and finally the one announcing the “No Bill” decision of the Harris County Grand Jury under the direction of Assistant District Attorney Maxwell Silver. Oh my God, Steppenwolf thought. It was about that case. But who could it be? Who could that boy be acquainted with that could pull off such a well-planned act of revenge? Next to those articles were other newspaper clippings about a murder case shortly after Derek‟s death. “Millionaire Texas Oilman Charged with Capital Murder,” the first headline screamed. Steppenwolf studied the article and the accompanying press photos. Who is this guy, he thought, and how does this apply? Then he saw

down in the body of the article the name of Maxwell Silver, Assistant District Attorney. So it was one of Silver‟s prosecutions, Steppenwolf followed. Tacked next to that article were others. “Briginski Found Guilty!” “Son Pleas For Father‟s Life.” This article had a picture of the oilman‟s son. The face seemed somewhat familiar, but Steppenwolf couldn‟t quite figure it out. “Oilman Gets Death Penalty,” the next headline blared. Then the last of that set: “SUICIDE! Briginski Found Hanged In Jail Cell.” Then there was another group of clippings, articles about Maxwell Silver‟s murder trial, and oddly enough, pictures of Lola and Red, as well as Lilah. Oh, no, Lola, Red and Lilah are all in danger too! Steppenwolf thought. He had to warn them. He grabbed for his cell phone to begin making calls. Just then, as if by magic, a red line appeared on the wall next to the last articles, pointing to the doorway into the bedroom. Eyes peeled, gun drawn and pulled up to his shoulder, Steppenwolf entered through the open door. This room, too, was empty and the walls were bare. Then, just like in a horror movie, the creaking of a door hinge broke the palpable silence. The door to the walk-in closet swung slowly open. Steppenwolf‟s eyes first narrowed to see in the darkness and then grew wide with fright. Inside the closet, seated on the floor, was Red, bound by duct tape that held several sticks of dynamite to his chest. His mouth was also covered with duct tape, but his eyes, his big, terrified eyes, were telepathically screaming his fright to Steppenwolf. “Baby, what the fuck?” was all Steppenwolf could manage to blurt out. Then he saw the other face, previously obscured by the darkness of the closet, and Steppenwolf couldn‟t believe his eyes. “That goddamned judge killed my father,” the familiar face snarled, “and you killed my boyfriend.” “Lola?” Steppenwolf was dumbstruck. “You owe me a boy, Steppenwolf,” the familiar face snarled. “You owe me a boy.” “Lola, please!” Steppenwolf pled for Red‟s life.

“You owe me a boy, Steppenwolf, and I‟m taking this one!” Red‟s eyes pleaded for help, and Steppenwolf‟s heart was racing faster than it ever had. “Please, Lola, please! Let‟s talk about this.” “See you in hell, Steppenwolf!” she shrieked. And then he saw it, the plunger button in her hand, and her thumb… her thumb depressing the button, and the nightmare went into slow motion. As the wall of fire came his way from the explosion, Steppenwolf instinctively turned and dived back through the door into the living room. He could feel the hot fire burning his back as the debris field hit his shirt and jeans. His last word was, “Red!”

Chapter 22

RISING up from his bunk, Maxwell Silver prepared for his one-hour outside exercise period. Even though it would be, like all his other activities, without companionship, at least it was a brief respite from his cell. Things had gotten quite routine for him since the time he came here, and he didn‟t really expect to be leaving any time soon, if at all. Oh, yes, Beverly had been to see him, delivering the news of Escobar‟s confession, but he put little faith in it since there was no physical evidence to back it up. He remembered his disdain for any such assertions when he sat atop the criminal court bench. He had looked at all defendants as a bunch of losers and liars who would stoop to anything to wriggle off the hook. Yes, he had certainly had enough time to contemplate his lack of compassion for anyone who might have been in his situation. And Marcus, yes, Marcus. After all that had happened, he found he was overcome with a yearning love for the young man he had put in such danger. Yes, he was actually somewhat grateful for this incarceration. He may not have the company of others, but he had his shame as a constant reminder of his heartlessness. Regardless of whether or not he had pulled that trigger, he knew he had killed Marcus, and this was the only way he could pay his penance. So when he heard the turn of the key in his cell door, he was ready for another solemn walk in the small exercise yard set aside for those in solitary confinement on death row. He was so accustomed to the routine, yet something about today seemed different. What it was, he couldn‟t fathom, but something was different. He could just feel it. The portly guard he knew as Officer Potter stood at the doorway. “You ready, Judge?”

Maxwell Silver wasn‟t sure whether he liked to be called “judge” or not anymore. On the one hand it seemed wrong, but on the other, the familiarity of it made him feel somewhat better. After all, it had been his identity in his former life. “Yes, I‟m ready, Officer,” he answered. The two of them started down the hallway that ran through the cell block. Silver looked forward to seeing the other prisoners, standing at the windows in their doors along the way. At least his fellow inmates, although on the other side of steel doors, gave him the sense that he wasn‟t the only person in the world. But as they traversed the passageway toward the yard today, the first several windows were empty. Then, just as they got to the door at the end of the hall, routine came apart. The break in regularity took Maxwell Silver completely by surprise and totally disoriented him. He smiled broadly as the last door on the right swung open, allowing a white-suited inmate to come out into the hallway. A disconnect came into Silver‟s head as he momentarily believed that he was to have company today. As the former judge opened his mouth to greet his fellow inmate, he was suddenly seized with fear. He knew this guy, yet he couldn‟t place the name. “Remember me?” the inmate said in a menacing way. “Yes?” the judge answered with the question still unresolved in his mind. “John Simon, Your Honor,” the last two words were spit from the man‟s mouth. “I‟m innocent, motherfucker, and you‟re dead!” The inmate lunged forward with a shiv in his hand, landing a blow first to Maxwell Silver‟s chest and then to his neck, slicing through the artery. Seemingly regaining his composure, the guard seized John Simon, forcing him back into his cell and locking the door behind him. Then turning to Maxwell Silver, Officer Potter knelt down to see if he exhibited any signs of life. He didn‟t.

THE next time John Simon‟s church-lady mother came to visit him, she had a strange story to relay. It seemed someone had been depositing

extra money into her account, and when she asked the bank about it, they said it was an anonymous donor. Simon told his mother to accept it as a blessing from God. That‟s exactly the same thing her preacher had said, also reminding her of her obligation to tithe. But John Simon‟s mother wasn‟t the only one with money mysteriously appearing into a bank account, albeit a secret Swiss bank account. Officer Potter was looking forward to an early and very enjoyable retirement.

A

WHITE ceiling and gray walls were the next thing that Erik Steppenwolf was aware of as he regained consciousness in his hospital room. He started awake. “Red!” he shouted. “Erik? Erik, it‟s me, Lilah.” “Red? What happened to Red?” His eyes came to focus on Lilah‟s kind, pretty face. In her eyes he could see that she wasn‟t going to say what he wanted to hear. Lilah grasped his hand in hers. It was now her turn to console him for his loss. “He didn‟t make it, Erik.” Steppenwolf shed bitter tears as he realized Red was gone forever. After a bit he remembered the other question on his mind. “Lola? What about that bitch, Lola?” “Died with Red,” she said in almost a whisper. “You know it was Lola, don‟t you?” He looked deep into her sad dark eyes. “Yes, I know she took my Marcus too.” Lilah would like to have joined Steppenwolf in his tears and anger, but she knew he needed her more than she needed that, so she put it aside for now. There would be time for that later.

INSTEAD of a housewarming and commitment ceremony, Steppenwolf celebrated moving into his house on Castle Court by placing the urn

containing Red‟s ashes on the mantel in the living room. The urn was inscribed: Thomas “Red” Trieg. Funny, Steppenwolf felt he knew so much about Red, but he hadn‟t even known his real name. He just thought of him as Red. As he thought about it, he realized he knew very little about Red‟s past. He knew Red had been abandoned, as he had been, at an early age and made his way through the kindness of strangers, something Steppenwolf also knew something about. But Red talked so little about his past. It had been his own little secret. It didn‟t matter, though; Steppenwolf was determined to keep the memory of Red alive in his heart. As he placed the urn on the mantelpiece, he couldn‟t help but dwell on what he had been told about the explosion and fire after he was knocked unconscious. It seemed a neighbor had seen him inside the door of 212 as he ran from the fire and saved him by dragging him out. Red hadn‟t stood a chance as the explosion set off other explosives and gas cans Lola had placed through the building. The building burned to the ground. The only two fatalities were Red and Lola, their bodies burned beyond recognition. “Sorry, Red Riding Hood,” he said softly. “I guess your Big Bad Wolf Daddy wasn‟t big and bad enough.”

SIX weeks later Erik found himself standing at the bedside of his good friend Lilah at a different hospital and for a far happier reason. “Erik, meet your daughter, Erika,” Lilah said as she unwrapped the pink blanket, revealing a pink baby with black hair and sparkling bright green eyes. “Erika? Are you sure?” Steppenwolf asked. “Yes, I‟m sure. Isn‟t she beautiful?” Lilah held the baby up for Steppenwolf to take. “I‟ve never held a baby,” he said in a sheepish manner. “It‟s all right,” Lilah replied. “They‟re made extra tough to survive unprepared parents.” She smiled broadly. Taking his daughter in his arms for the first time, following

Lilah‟s instructions about supporting her little head, Steppenwolf looked down into those beautiful green eyes. When little Erika returned his gaze, the entire world changed for him. This was his future. “Hey, little girl, Daddy‟s here for you always,” he cooed. “You can count on me.”

LATER that day, while Lilah took a much-needed nap, Steppenwolf stood transfixed, staring in the hospital nursery window. Baby Erika lay there, sleeping peacefully—like a little angel, he thought. With visions of little girls dancing and playing in his head, he was jolted by the vibration of his cell phone. “Hello?” “Steppenwolf?” The voice sounded familiar, yet not, and far, far away. “Yes. Who is this?” “I hear she‟s beautiful,” the voice went on. A sick feeling came over Steppenwolf as he heard the voice again. “Who is this?” he asked again with a sense of urgency. “Why, you are a cad of a sexy man, Steppenwolf, to forget me so quickly,” the voice said in a strong, Southern drawl. “Lola?” “Why, yes, it is sugar. Surprise!” “Where the hell are you?” “Now, that would be telling, wouldn‟t it?” “You bitch, I‟ll get you if it‟s the last thing I ever do,” he growled. “That will be the last thing you ever do, sugar, if you ever catch me,” she said. The phone went dead.

STANDING on the gaudy stage of Cabaret Americain, on Silom Road in Bangkok, Thailand, was the drag queen who had emceed the show.

Her name was Lola, and she was quite the showgirl. Her big wigs and elegant gowns were a favorite among the drag aficionados of a city that had many. It was said she had swept into town one day and bought the rundown club, remodeling it and making it into one of the city‟s finest show clubs. “Ladies and gentlemen, and I hope there are some gentlemen in the house—oh, who am I kidding. I hope they are all a bunch of ruffian sex maniacs.” Everybody laughed. “Anyway, girls, I present to you for your entertainment pleasure, the foremost practitioner of the art of prestidigitation, and world‟s greatest illusionist, my husband—cry your eyes out, ladies—the Red Tiger!” The stage went dark before being illuminated with deep purple lights as the fog machines flooded the space. A bright laser strobe light radiated from the back of the stage, and out of nowhere came the shirtless silhouette of a slim but muscular male figure, undulating in the light. Then a flash exploded right before the silhouette, accompanied by a loud crack. A red tiger appeared and then disappeared into the foggy mist. When the smoke cleared, the dancing figure spun around to face the audience. It was Red.

Read the next Steppenwolf Novel—Acts of Redemption.

Coming in November 22, 2010 From Dreamspinner Press www.dreamspinnerpress.com

About the Author

WOLF PHOENIX, a 61-year-old former court reporter and retired teacher, lives with his three dogs, his wolf pack, in the Piney Woods of New Caney, Texas, thirty miles north of Houston. He is a U.S. Army veteran and world traveler. He says he was an imaginative child as he grew up on the windswept prairies north of Oklahoma City, marveling at the bright starlit night skies and spending hours playing Peter Pan and staging “shows” for his friends and family. He began his court reporting career in Washington, DC, working in the halls of Congress and various government agencies. He has had the privilege of reporting two U.S. Presidents, Carter and Reagan, and numerous other famous personages. His teaching career got a similarly prestigious start as he spent a year in London, England, helping English court reporters learn to use computer-transcription technology and American Stenograph machines. When he‟s not writing, he spends his time cooking, traveling, playing with his “wolf pack,” and hanging out with his friends in Houston. His life philosophy is: It‟s never too late to realize your dreams. You can contact him at [email protected].