Steve is standing in front of a round bunker-type building that houses Hamilton’s surfboard business, the place where he was found dead two days ago. The owner of the industrial park, a middle-aged man with a gray ponytail and tinted glasses is with him. According to the ME report, Hamilton died of a heart attack. The only anomaly was a comment about unusual swelling around Hamilton’s lips.
“You think somebody might have killed him?” the building owner asks.
“I’m just looking into his death.”
“Well, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. Ray didn’t have enemies, a lover, not a fighter”—he chuckles and winks—“if you know what I mean.”
“Thank you. I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”
The man leaves, and Steve steps inside the shop. Half a dozen surfboard blanks lean against a wall, and in the back are three finished boards, each like a piece of art, immaculately shaped and polished to a deep luster. The rails and backs are orange, and the fronts are white and emblazoned with an airbrushed RH logo and the words “Ray Hamilton Classic.”
A half-finished board rests on sawhorses in the middle of the space, and on the floor is an airbrush and a spill of orange paint. A respirator mask with orange paint splattered on its lens sits on top of the unfinished board.
Steve bags the mask and leaves.
* * *
He drives to Hamilton’s condo, and the property manager lets him in. The home is a mess. Soda cans, beer bottles, and food rubbish litter the living room. The kitchen looks unused. The stove has dust on it, and the fridge is empty except for half a jar of pickles well past its expiration date and a bottle of hot sauce.
He continues to the bedroom and pinches his nose against the strong odor of unwashed sheets and clothes. Though there’s a dresser, it looks like every piece of clothing Hamilton owned is on the floor. Sprinkled among the clothes beside the bed are condom wrappers.
“A lover, not a fighter,” Steve mutters out loud.
Hamilton was definitely getting lucky. He looks closer at the sheets. They’re soiled to the point of disgusting, but he doesn’t see any blood.
Movement in the front room causes Steve to turn, and he looks through the bedroom door to see a kid in his late teens with sandy, curly hair shuffling through some trash on the coffee table.
The kid sees Steve and startles.
“Looking for Ray?” Steve asks, knowing he’s not but hoping to put the kid at ease.
“Ray’s dead.”
“I know. I just didn’t know if you knew.”
“I know.” The kid’s Adam’s apple bobs as he fights back his emotions.
“Are you looking for something?” Steve asks with a glance at the coffee table.
“Who are you?”
Steve shows his identification.
“Oh.”
“You don’t seem surprised?”
“Ray told me his story, about how messed up he used to be.”
“Bother you?”
“No. He wasn’t like that anymore. Some bad stuff happened in prison that changed him.”
Steve feels his own Adam’s apple get stuck, thoughts of Danny momentarily blinding him.
“You two were close?” he asks.
The kid nods, shrugs, then slides his jaw forward to catch his feelings again.
“He was kind of old for you,” Steve says.
“Age is irrelevant.”
“He tell you that?”
“It wasn’t like that.” The kid looks down, and Steve feels genuine love and grief, emotion that can’t be faked. “I came onto him. I knew I was gay before I met Ray, and he was the greatest guy I ever met. He never forced me into anything.”
“How long were you together?”
“Since last summer.”
“Was he seeing anyone else? Any other kids?”
His eyes snap up. “I told you. It wasn’t like that. I’m almost eighteen.”
“Okay,” Steve says, backing off. “Why are you here?”
“I left some of my stuff here.”
Steve follows his eye slide. Barely visible beneath the mess, under an old issue of Surf Magazine, the corner of a baggie sticks out. Steve hands the kid the weed.
“Thanks,” he says. He starts for the door but, halfway there, reconsiders. Turning back, he asks, “Why are you here?”
“It’s my job to make sure guys like Ray get a fair shake. Seemed kind of young for a heart attack.”
The kid furrows his brow, considering it, then shakes his head. “No way. Everyone loved Ray.”