Bliss Read online

  “I kind of agreed with her, in principle, but I mean, the laws are there. I don’t know.”

  “You said he was dealing.”

  “Yeah. That’s right. I told her that, but it didn’t seem to matter. Her family was always a bit anti-establishment, but now I think she sees me as a member of the enemy.”

  “What happened with her brother?”

  “He was convicted. Three days ago. That was probably what brought things to a head, made my being a cop unforgivable to her.”

  I got him another beer, which he took with a thanks.

  “You know, we haven’t been intimate since that trouble with her brother started. And I never went elsewhere—except for, you know, that business with you, which I kind of thought didn’t count. It was just, like you said, relief. Well, I figured I would wait her out, be faithful in my own way—you know, the old traditional thing.

  “Anyway,” he paused and gave a bark of bitter laughter, “Tonight I found out that she hasn’t been waiting me out, not at all.” He paused, then added, “His name is Frank. He’s kind of a low-life, mixes with vaguely illegal activities, but he’s smart. And he’s never been caught—except by me, with her, tonight—in our bed.”

  Ouch! I thought. I looked over at Sam, and saw that virile male again. Talking about his problem seemed to have dissolved his air of defeat. Now he looked angry.

  I put a hand on his thigh and gave it a comforting squeeze. The contact, however, produced a sexual thrill. I didn’t remove my hand, and he gave me a startled look.

  I smiled at him. “You look tense.”

  He stared, and laughed. I felt something come alive in him. I ran my hand along his thigh.

  In response to my action, he allowed his legs to fall apart, which I decided was my invitation.

  I got up, stretched, then moved to between his legs, knelt down, and pushed my face against the crotch of his trousers. At this he chuckled, which surprised me. I pulled back slightly, and looked up at him.

  He was grinning. “And me not even in my uniform.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” I said, moving forward again, “you’ll always be in your uniform.”

  Sam laughed and leaned back, his hands behind his head. I reached up, unbuckled his belt, and lowered the zipper.

  A minute later, I had him groaning.

  We were well into it, and Sam was groaning, when I felt his hands suddenly pushing on my shoulders. Instinctively I resisted, sensing the imminent climax. Whatever his problem was, I wanted his cum in my mouth and wanted it badly, so I redoubled my efforts and the pressure on my shoulders lessened as he groaned even louder and bucked while his cock pulsed and shot hot semen into my throat. I moaned with satisfaction and held my lips in place until the climax was complete.

  Then I sat back and looked up at him—and saw a changed man.

  “What?” I said, puzzled.

  Sam jerked his head towards the hallway. “Horst!” he whispered. “He came in!”

  “What!” I got unsteadily to my feet and looked around, then back at Sam. “You sure?”

  Sam had gotten to his feet as well. He nodded. “Yeah. I tried to push you away when I heard the click of the front door lock.”

  “Oh!”

  Sam grinned despite himself. “You sure were kind of impossible to detach.”

  I grinned back, a bit half-heartedly. “Maybe you weren’t trying that hard.”

  “I was, actually.”

  I shrugged. “Well, you know: man enjoys his work, hard to get him out of the office.” Then I shook my head rapidly to clear it of lust, and said, “Where did he go? Did you see him?”

  “Yeah! He walked right past. I was kind of busy—climaxing! I didn’t get a really good look. But it was him alright. He walked past, down the hall. Then I heard his door close.”

  “Ouch!” I said.

  “Well, I’d probably better go then,” Sam said unhappily.

  I shook my head. “No. It’s not your fault. And if there is any trouble, you’re still welcome here. You can stay in Ted’s room.”

  I led him to the bedroom, and turned on the light.

  “Wow!”

  The place was spotless, the bed made up like a four-star hotel. I smiled at him.

  “It’s Horst. He’s kind of a superman as a housekeeper.”

  Sam nodded. Then he said, “I guess that means he cleans everything.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “No,” he said. “What I meant was, if he cleans everything that would mean no fingerprints.”

  “Huh!” I was momentarily distracted by a thought that almost came to me then, but veered away. “Well, the bathroom’s across the hall. And you know where the kitchen is, help yourself.”

  “You sure it’s okay?”

  I considered, then nodded.

  “Thanks!”

  “No problem—officer!” I grinned at his startled look at my lisping the last word, then went out and closed his door behind me. I turned and looked at the door at the end of the hall, which was Horst’s bedroom. It was closed and, I suspected, locked as well.

  It was.

  I knocked, not too loudly, but got no response. After knocking again, a little louder, I gave it up. Well, I told myself, this is your first time ‘sleeping on the couch.’ I shrugged as I turned away. It was part of every relationship.

  I didn’t, of course, sleep on the actual couch, not with Quentin’s room unoccupied. It didn’t bother me that the murder, or whatever it was, had happened in that room, in that bed. I wasn’t made that way. But I did suffer from heartache over what I thought might be a major, and possibly fatal, issue between me and Horst.

  * * * *

  The next morning, I awoke to the best surprise possible: Horst was sleeping next to me—not touching, but still, there—in Quentin’s bed. I turned to face him and stared at him. After several minutes I watched him wake up.

  At the first quivering of those pale gold eyelashes I felt my heart begin to pound. Then there was the increased breathing, the slight movements of an arm, and finally the opening of those beautiful blue eyes, which, since he was facing me, slowly focused on me.

  A slight frown appeared on his brow and he said, “Why are you smiling?”

  I didn’t know I was smiling. But now I smiled wider and said, “Can’t I smile if I’ve got a beautiful man next to me in bed?”

  He seemed to consider this, but before he said anything, I reached out a hand and tentatively stroked his cheek.

  He didn’t respond, and I felt him raise a slight wall, which caused my heart to twist slightly.

  “Look,” I said. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  He said nothing.

  “Sam,” I continued, “Detective Solomon, I mean—he was thrown out by his wife, or something. He needed a place to stay.”

  The frown on Horst’s face deepened. “And a blow-job?”

  “Oh, right. How about I tell you about that after we get up?”

  He didn’t respond, not even to shake his head, but continued to study my face. His frown slowly gave way to an expression of quiet sadness, which was worse than the frown. His eyes became shiny with tears, and then these started to flow down his face. I felt paralyzed, not knowing what to do.

  “Please,” I said at last, “please, say something.”

  He gave me a slight nod and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he seemed to have mastered his emotion, though he still looked sad and hurt.

  “I know it’s crazy,” he said quietly. “I mean, that I can’t do the thing that most people do: walk away or put up a wall. I think—I think I’ve had walls up all my life; too scared.” He closed his eyes again, and two tears leaked from them. Then he sniffed and opened them again, and this time there was a little pride in them.

  “But I’m not going to, I don’t know, cling, or pursue you, either—”

  This little speech so twisted my heart that when he paused, I reached out and grasped his hand, holding it an
d kissing it.

  “Please!” I said fiercely, “listen to what I have to say first, okay?”

  He gave another small nod. I composed myself to speak only truth.

  “I just want to say,” I began, “as far as you are concerned—well, whatever else, you come first. Okay?” I sniffed, fighting back my own tears. “Whatever you have to say, whatever you decide to do, just remember that, accept it: you come first with me.”

  I kissed his hand again, and shook my head. “You have no idea how important you are to me. I can’t say how much—”

  I broke off, seeing that Horst was weeping freely now, his massive shoulders shaking. He turned his head into the pillow, as if ashamed of this display. I reached out and gently pulled him into my arms, holding him to me and kissing his face and lips.

  The tears might have put me off if it had been anyone else. But with Horst, I felt what he had said. He wasn’t clinging or needy. He was just expressing the profundity and depth of his love. This was him, and the realization awed me. Thinking of the previous night, I judged myself unworthy of that kind of love. But I wasn’t going down that road either. Worthy or not, I was sure of my love for Horst. I took hold of his head and forced him to look at me.

  “And,” I said, my voice strong and sure, “just so you know, there is no way I’m ever ditching you. If nothing else, please understand and believe that.”

  He moved closer against me at this, and encouraged by his reaction, I continued.

  “Look, I’m not saying anything about forever, man. I mean, I know that time is the great enemy of love. I want to keep strictly to what I know to be true. But what I hope, and what I truly believe, is that we stand as good a chance as any love ever, of lasting us a lifetime.”

  He was quiet then, his weeping ended, and the sense of closeness, of being together, physically and emotionally, was bliss. I let it go on for several minutes, waiting for Horst to make the next move. When he did, pulling away slightly so he could look into my face, I saw that magic had in fact occurred. His expression was one of love, open and radiant. He didn’t look happy, exactly, but I had hope.

  “As for Sam—Detective Solomon—” I began.

  He shook his head and put a hand over my mouth. I kissed it, but he kept it there, and finally I nodded.

  After another minute or so, he sighed, and melted against me again.

  Sometime later, I felt impelled to say, “Shouldn’t we talk about it?”

  He pulled away from me, and looked at me seriously.

  “Okay,” he said. “But I just want to say that I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean, you’re both cops, or you were one, and you’re both smart—”

  Now it was my turn to put a hand over his mouth as I glared at him.

  “Don’t you ever,” I growled, “say that kind of thing again!”

  “But—” he managed to say, despite my hand.

  “No!” I said. “And don’t say it’s true. What I’m saying is, it’s just not relevant, okay?”

  “But—”

  “No! Hear me out.”

  He nodded and I lowered my hand.

  “Look,” I said. “I’ve known lots of smart people, and I have come to the conclusion that smart isn’t important for a relationship. It’s this that matters.” I tapped the center of his chest. “And as to that,” I had to blink for the tears that formed in my eyes, “you are Olympic calibre. Okay?”

  He regarded me for a few seconds, then nodded.

  “It’s like Quentin,” I continued. “He only ever had people around him with good hearts. His ideal being the proverbial heart of gold.” I sniffed. “I don’t know what happened, or didn’t happen between you two, but as far as I’m concerned you are that heart of gold. Okay?”

  Horst didn’t say anything, but laid his head against my shoulder. That, I thought, was my answer—and it was enough.

  It was only later, after we had showered and were sitting down to breakfast that Horst brought the matter up again. He did so by looking at me with a puzzled expression.

  “What?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  “Okay. Wondering what?”

  “I was just wondering, after everything we said, what that means for you and Detective Solomon. I mean, last night looked kind of intense.”

  I looked at him, thinking again how beautiful he was. Then I shrugged and gave a weak laugh. “It means I give a good blow-job. That’s pretty much it.”

  Horst looked at me and nodded minutely. Still, I had the sense that he was agreeing with me only partly, and keeping his own opinion.

  “You think there’s more to it than that?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  I considered. “And he kind of looks up to me, and wants to learn from me. I think that’s a big part of it.”

  Horst nodded slowly. Then he smiled. “I believe you,” he murmured, and, taking my hand, kissed it. We continued to hold hands as we finished our breakfast, and I took comfort in that. He was holding my hand, and that, I decided, was the main thing.

  Chapter 9: Missing Pieces

  After breakfast, Horst went out to do some shopping. I went and knocked on Ted’s bedroom door.

  There was no answer, and when I opened the door, I saw that Sam had left. His pack was still there, however.

  I extracted a pair of latex gloves from my pocket, and went to the closet, where I began to examine the oxygen cylinders, shifting each to do this. Again, I was struck with the size of the cylinders, thinking that Ted’s oxygen parties must use up a lot of the stuff. The cylinders being upright, I moved them one at a time by rotating it on its rounded lower end, sort of cork-screwing it along the floor, shifting them out of the closet and leaning them carefully against the wall of the bedroom.

  There were six cylinders, each exactly the same except for a unit number on the attached cardboard tag. On the cylinder itself everything was the same, including the label containing a yellow diamond with the word Oxygen in black at the center of this. To either side of the diamond was text, including the warning: Do not remove this label. I tried doing just that and found it impossible; the labels were glued on really well.

  When I had examined all the cylinders, I went to the closet itself, which I suspected hadn’t been searched properly. Surprisingly, the space was relatively free of dust. I had the image of Horst doing just what I had done, and vacuuming, possibly even wiping down the inside surfaces of the closet.

  I had my pocket flashlight with me, and I examined the space by its light. I had almost given up hope when I noticed something stuck to the side wall, near the floor. Squatting down, I saw it was a small, rectangular piece of orange paper. I pulled it away from the wall. It was an orange Post-it note that must have fallen off something.

  On it was written: “N,O”

  I wondered whether the comma between the letters was deliberate, or just a squiggle, that the word was simply: no.

  I took it into the kitchen, placed it on the table, and got my fingerprint kit. Applying the dust, I took a picture with my phone of the partial fingerprint that emerged. There was only the one. On the other side the print was smudged away.

  I got out a piece of wax paper from a drawer, folded it, and placed the Post-it in between. Then I put the whole thing into my wallet.

  I returned to examine the four cylinders again. One of the four was different, in that it was the only one on which the seal was broken. The gauge on the top of this cylinder registered zero, and when I turned the valve, there was no hissing sound.

  I dusted the entire surface of the cylinder, and took pictures of a number of fingerprints, whole and partial. I downloaded the pictures to my laptop and compared them with other fingerprints I had in my case file using the digital match utility.

  Several of the fingerprints on the cylinder matched Horst or Quentin. There were several other prints too, but none was the same as the single print on the Post-it note. This, I felt certain, was significant.

 
I made myself a coffee, dressed, and by the time I had finished, had a battle plan. Going downstairs, I called Detective Solomon, asking him to set up an interview for me.

  “You think you’ve got something?”

  “I think,” I said, “that I’ve got everything. But I have to check first.”

  I heard an intake of breath.

  “You want me there?”

  “I don’t think so. Not at this stage. Just get me the interview. I’ll get back to you when I know more.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll make sure they’re ready for you when you get there.”

  “Many thanks,” I said, and ended the call. I got into my car and headed out of town, to the industrial yards.

  * * * *

  The sign read The Frontenac Gasworks, and when I gave my name to the security guard, was waved through. “Thank heaven for the cops,” I murmured to myself as I pulled into the visitor parking lot and got out of my car.

  While I waited for the man to arrive, I walked along the storage area running my eye down the rows of cylinders. To the left were row upon row of cylinders with labels sporting the yellow oxygen diamond shape. But to the right were several rows with different labels. These had a yellow diamond joined with a green diamond. I looked closer—and felt a wash of cold pass through me. The yellow diamond said Oxidizer, the green diamond, Non-flammable gas, but the largest text on the label, to the left of these diamonds, said, Nitrous Oxide USP.

  I lowered my head, closed my eyes, and murmured, “Yes!”

  “Mr. McQueen?” said a voice behind me.

  I turned. It was the foreman, and with him was a smaller man.

  “This is the guy you want,” the foreman said. “You can use my office if you like.”

  I nodded and followed the foreman to his office. He left us there and I sat down, looking across the littered desk at the man who was looking back at me in a defensive manner.

  “You delivered to the Smith condominium unit?” I asked, and gave the address of the building.

  The man, after swallowing, nodded.