The Survivors Club

an attractive grin. “I met a lot of girls in college.”

“I’m sure.”

“Did you go to college? Can you remember every guy you ever met, or even dated?”

“Nope. Not a one of ’em,” Tess lied.

Unfortunately, she remembered every single one of them. She’d pushed them to the back of the file cabinet and let the cobwebs grow. She said, “Tell me again about the tagger.”

He ran down the facts. His jog on the roof of the Hilton Atlanta. The sinking sun in his eyes, the jogger coming toward him and slapping the tag on him.

“You didn’t get a good look at him?”

“He wore a hoodie. And I was looking right into the sunset. It was just a shape, just a jogger—I didn’t pay any attention until he smacked me in the chest.”

“And you went after him.”

“Eventually, but he got a head start.”

“Height?”

“Shorter than me.”

“Sex?”

“We’ve been through this. It was dark, hard to tell, what he was wearing—a jogging suit with a hoodie.”

“I was hoping the beer goggles would help.” She glanced at the half-full beer glass at his elbow. “Quick— height.”

“Shorter than me.”

“You’re six foot one, two?”

“Two. I’d say, maybe, five eleven.”

“Build?”

“Slight. A jogger, or maybe more like a long-distance runner.”

“Do you think the tagging and incident in Houston are related?”

Sheppard hesitated. Then he said, “It had the same kind of feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“Like the joke was on me.”

Tess asked about the tag.

“I threw it away. I thought it was just some stupid punk playing a prank.”

“It had the number five on it?”

“Yeah, but they could have gotten that anywhere. I saw it kind of like tagging, like graffiti. Only I was the surface instead of a wall.”

“You were assaulted.”

“Yes.”

“You said it was like tagging. But you know what it makes me think of? Wilding.”

He thought about it. “But those are bands of kids, right? And they don’t just stop at assaulting somebody. They’ve killed people. So you think it was random. Some kid showing off for his friends? That I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“Could be. Anything else you can remember?”

Sheppard looked inward. She could see him trying to come up with something. When you tried, it usually didn’t work. But then he shifted his gaze to her, and if he’d been a slot machine he would have rolled three sevens.

“The shoes,” he said. “They were expensive. Athletic shoes.”

Tess thought: So the kid had money.

If it was a kid.

CHAPTER 19

Michael DeKoven had fallen asleep with the light on. He awoke at midnight beside his lover. Martin had crawled in under the sheets and was kissing his neck.

They made love. First urgently. Then slowly.

Martin was a model for those underwear ads they had in GQ and Esquire. He had the sleek but muscled tanned body that shimmered under the lights, perfect against the tight white underwear he wore while posing by swimming pools or against the sand, often with an equally disinterested female model.

Michael called Martin his “Tighty-Whitey,” in reference to the underwear—and other things.

Martin cradled Michael in his arms and said, “How’d your day go?”

“A man was murdered today.”

“Anyone we know?”

“An acquaintance. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re going to question me.”

“You? Why?”

Michael shrugged. “It’s a high-profile case, and I’ve had dealings with the guy.”

“Well. I’m sure you’ll pass with flying colors.”?Michael said nothing.

“Are you worried about this? If the detective is rude, I’ll—I’ll slit his throat. How about that?”

“That’s a little extreme.” Martin was always threatening violence against anyone who might hurt Michael. Which was ridiculous. Michael doubted Martin had a violent bone in his body. It was all swagger. But it was cute.

Michael was the one who pushed the limits. Now he said, “Look, I’ve got everything under control. You can be a little too protective—and we only have until this afternoon.”

Martin would be winging his way back to New York for another shoot. They saw each other less and less, and to be honest, Michael preferred it that way. The few times a year they were together, it consumed them both. It left Michael sated but also drained. His thinking was less sharp. And he couldn’t afford to make a mistake, not even on a micro level.

Sometimes, too, Michael’s dark side took over, and things got…out of hand.

He always felt bad afterward. But while Martin would act hurt and betrayed for a while, he always came back for more.

It was as if he hated himself for some reason, and felt he deserved punishment. He’d once said to Michael that he had always wanted to be someone’s slave.

They made love and then shared a breakfast out by the pool. Michael’s wife was, as usual, nowhere in evidence. She didn’t mind his dalliance with Martin, because they weren’t really a couple anymore anyway.

She said he kept too many secrets.

Martin bit into a strawberry and stretched his long, tanned legs out on the flags. Instead of the tighty-whities that made him famous as a model, he wore a long black pair of trunks with white laces at the fly. Delicious white laces, if you wanted to know the truth.

“What are you thinking?” Martin asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I know you have a dark side,” Martin said. “I know you have secrets. I wish you wouldn’t keep secrets from me.”

Did he actually pout?

Suddenly, Michael couldn’t take it anymore. He had too much on his mind. “I’m calling a car for you,” he said. He happened to look up at the shiny windows of Zinderneuf and saw his wife staring down at them. He smiled and waved, and she flipped him the bird.

CHAPTER 20

DAWN PATROL

Laguna Beach, California

Chad DeKoven’s mornings started the same way every day. His board clamped under his left arm, he opened