Free Bone by Bone by Carol O'Connell Page B

Saturday?”
    In the silver-framed portrait of two brothers, Josh had been wearing a wristwatch.
    Swahn returned with two bottles. He leaned down and handed one to his guest. Oren accepted the cold beer, but hesitated to pop the cap and drink with the man—given his errand in this house. He stared at the telephone, as if this would make it ring.
    “Expecting a call, Mr. Hobbs? Oh, shot in the dark, a call from Sheriff Babitt?”
    One casual wave of Oren’s hand took in the surrounding paper storm. “Did you share all of this with the sheriff?”
    Swahn set his own bottle on a table by a chair, but he remained standing. “I gave him everything that might help with the investigation.”
    “But not everything, right? You held out on him.”
    “Is that what Babitt told you? I suppose this means I’m on his shortlist.”
    “I’m sure you are.” Oren glanced at the phone. How long did it take the sheriff to make a simple call? He chose his next words carefully, aiming to rattle and topple a cripple. He studied the man’s face, hoping for giveaway tics and other tells when he said, “A cane makes a good weapon.”
    Swahn never blinked, nor did he miss a beat. “That it does.” He leaned his walking stick against a small table and made an effort to stand up straight, though it caused him pain, and he could not quite achieve it. One shoulder was lower than the other because of one leg twisted inward. The hand that had held his cane was empty but still frozen in a curl. Beginning with the scarred face, all the damage ran down the left side of Swahn, a man broken by half. “You thought I might do a lot of hiking in the woods?”
    “If my brother’s grave is near a road—you’ll make my shortlist.”
    The man retrieved his cane. “So Josh was buried . . . and Sheriff Babitt said more than you let on.” The atmosphere of the room had changed; the air was charged. “He also passed along some old rumors, didn’t he?” The tip of the cane rose in a warning. “Please don’t deny it. I’m aware that he’s been digging into my past. So now you think you know all about me.” Swahn lightly touched his scar, the jagged A, a show-and-tell exhibit for AIDS. “And you’ve just got to know—in addition to my other crimes—rampantly fucking men and spreading disease—was I also in the habit of diddling young boys in the woods?”
    “Were you?”
    The telephone rang, and Swahn ignored it, though it sat on a small table only inches from his hand. “I believe it’s for you.”
    On the third ring, Oren rose from the floor and approached the phone, skirting the man. He picked up the receiver and said, “Hobbs.” After listening to the sheriff for less than a minute, he answered the only question. “No, that’s not a case of cops being tidy.”
    Hanging up on Cable Babitt, he turned to his host. “About those old rumors. It surprised the hell out of your ex-partner when he found out you were gay. Jay Murray heard that rumor during his interrogation by Internal Affairs— after you were attacked. So tell me if I’ve got this right. You believe a whole precinct full of cops conspired against you for being a gay man with AIDS.” Oren splayed his hands. “But your own partner never heard that rumor? How is that possible?”
    “I can’t discuss this with you.”
    “Of course not. You signed a nondisclosure agreement with the LAPD. Lots of money at stake if you talk.” Oren sat down on the couch and stretched out his legs. “You and Jay Murray rode together for a year. All that time, and it never occurred to him that you were gay. He just took you for an overeducated geek, an awkward kid who had no shot with women. You don’t believe that? You were a rookie. So your first partner would’ve been an older guy, a mentor. I bet Murray gave you more advice about women than police work. Am I right?”
    He was right. He could see the first fault line in Swahn’s composure. Gears were shifting behind the man’s eyes as