IT TOOK ALL OF HAZARD'S willpower not to smile back at Somers when the man started grinning. There was something genuine about it, something honestly bright, that made Hazard forget, for a moment, how much he hated the prick. Fine, Hazard told himself as he got out of the Impala. He’d work with Somers on this case. Like it or not, Hazard was hooked. This case was pushing all the right buttons: ignorant bullies, LGBT victims, a chance to kick the ass of a boogeyman from his past. Hazard couldn’t walk away from that. Hell, you couldn’t have dragged him away from it. And if that meant working with Somers, he’d work with Somers. For now.

This part of Wahredua was completely new to Hazard; it had obviously been built in response to the college’s rapid expansion, but it showed signs of careful planning and execution. This quiet street, for example, already had large trees lining the sidewalk, and the taupe-colored townhomes were well built and maintained. A large swath of green, complete with a playground, capped the end of the block. The smell of the pastries—kolaches?—had faded, and now Hazard tasted the hot tar patches on the street and the mulch dust from the playground. They were summer tastes; he was surprised to find that they made him think of home and, even more surprising, happy days.

Whatever happiness those memories held, though, dissipated as he studied the townhouse in front of them. Two-stories, with a manicured flowerbed, a trimmed hedge, and an attached garage, it looked like it could have belonged in Anytown, USA, except for one thing: across the garage door, spray painted in foot-high letters, were the words, Die Fag! Someone had obviously tried to scrub away the letters, resulting in a blurry final e of Die, but the effort had also obviously been given up.

“Who lives here?”

Somers checked his notepad. “Rosendo Cruz Cervantes is the owner, according to the patrol that stopped by, but he wasn’t the one who called it in.”

“Who did?”

“The name here is Nicholas. Nicholas Flores.”

“Let’s talk to Mr. Flores.”

Somers let Hazard take the lead, and so Hazard followed the walk to the front door. He raised a hand to knock, but before he could, the door swung inwards, and someone—a man—hurtled out. Hazard twisted aside, moving more by reflex than conscious thought, and snagged the man’s shirt. The man stumbled, and a cardboard box flew out of his arms and tumbled onto the grass, spilling shirts across the yard.

“What the—” The man stared at Hazard in shock, and then his expression hardened in anger. He planted both hands on Hazard’s chest and shoved free of Hazard’s grip. “Who the hell are you?”

“Police,” Somers said. “Detective Somers.”

“Detective Hazard.” Hazard paused, taking in the details: the man in front of him was young—twenty-two, maybe twenty-three—and gorgeous. He had copper-colored skin, and thick, wavy black hair. Tall and slender, he was built like a dancer, and every movement displayed the perfect lines of his body. It didn’t matter that he was wearing a ratty t-shirt with holes and baggy sweats—it just made him look better. Hazard was trying to remember what he’d been going to say.

“We had a call,” Somers prompted.

“Right. Vandalism. We’re here to talk to—” Damn. He’d forgotten the name. He flashed Somers a pleading glance.

Somers, for his part, kept his expression smooth. “Nicholas Flores.”

“Nico.” The young man crossed his arms across his chest. A very well-defined chest, Hazard noticed, through the thin cotton. “That’s me.”

Hazard decided he either had to jump in and start talking or he was at risk of swallowing his tongue. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“I woke up this morning, came outside, and found that—” He jerked a thumb at the garage door. “I tried scrubbing it out, and then I realized I was being stupid. I called the police. Now you guys are here. That’s about it.”

“Mr. Flores, could we come in and talk for a few minutes?”

Nico snorted. “I’m not going back inside that place unless it’s to get the rest of my stuff.”

“Some sort of problem?” Somers asked.

“Yeah. I’ve been living with a miserable, lying, cheating waste of a human being. For eight months. Eight months. That sound like a problem to you?”

“Are you talking about—” Somers consulted his notepad. “—the homeowner? Mr. Cervantes?”

“Chendo. Yeah. That’s the soulless, conniving, sneaky—”

“Is Mr. Cervantes home?”

“If he were home, I’d be too busy ripping off his balls to talk to you.”

“Mr. Flores,” Hazard said, “it’s not in your best interest to say things like that. Especially not when talking to the police.”

“Why not?” Nico walked past Hazard—but close, close enough that his arm brushed Hazard’s chest—and stooped, gathering the fallen clothing and putting it back into the cardboard box. “It’s the truth. I’d put that piece of shit’s head through a windshield if I had the chance.”

“Were you and Mr. Cervantes in a relationship?”

Nico gave a bitter laugh, shoving another shirt into the box.

“Mr. Flores?”

Straightening to his full height, Nico met Hazard’s gaze. “No. I wouldn’t say we were in a relationship. You can’t have a relationship with a guy who goes around sleeping with everything that has a pulse, can you?”

“But you were involved romantically with him?”

“What do you care?” A crooked smile crossed Nico’s features. “You interested?”

Hazard felt his face heat; Somers intervened, saying, “We’re trying to establish the facts, Mr. Flores.”

“God, it’s roasting out here. Fuck it, I changed my mind. Let’s go inside and drink the rest of Chendo’s beer.”

Without waiting for an answer, he tossed the cardboard box onto the porch and disappeared into the house.

Hazard glanced at Somers, who was trying—and failing—to hide a smile.

“Shut up,” Hazard said, before following Nico into the house.

The inside of the townhouse matched the outside: dark-stained wood floors, ultra-modern furniture and color scheme, lots of glass and steel and white. Along one wall hung a row of pictures, and many of them featured Nico and another young, Latino man embracing. Other pictures were of Nico, alone and in various stages of undress. Before Hazard and Somers could get deeper into the house, Nico returned carrying three beers by the neck. He took a drink from one and offered the others.

Hazard and Somers shook their heads.

“Fine, but you owe me a drink,” Nico said, his eyes locked on Hazard, his smile still crooked and, in Hazard’s view, hot enough to start a grease fire. Then, his face flattening in anger, he said, “I guess I’ll leave these for Chendo.” He swung the bottles at the row of pictures. Glass shattered, and beer splashed everywhere. Pictures clattered to the floor, followed by more glass breaking. The yeasty smell of beer filled the small entryway.

“You need to calm down, Mr. Flores,” Somers said. “Unless you’d rather take this conversation to the station.”

“Whatever you want, detective.” Nico took another drink and then nodded to a sofa and chairs. “You want to sit down and talk, let’s sit. You want to cuff me, well,” he grinned, “you can do whatever you want. You too,” he added to Hazard. “You can definitely do whatever you want to me.”

“Do you know where Mr. Cervantes is?” Somers asked.

“Off with whatever piece of ass he found.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“A couple of days.”

“How long exactly?” Hazard said.

“I haven’t seen him since Friday night. We had a fight. He went out to blow off some steam. I thought he’d come back and we’d work it out. Instead—” Nico cut off with a laugh and took a drink of beer.

“What happened?”

“He’s been texting me. Checking in. Really sweet of him, don’t you think?” He fished a phone out of his sweats and tossed it to Hazard.

On the screen, a text conversation was open with Chendo Cervantes. The list of recent messages had come from Chendo over the course of two days, beginning late Friday night and coming regularly through Monday morning. The most recent was from only a few hours before and it read, It’s nice to wake up next to a man who knows how to take care of my needs. Wish I could have said the same for you. The other messages were similar—taunts, boasts about sexual exploits, and humiliating descriptions of Nico’s inadequacies.

By the time Hazard had finished the recent texts, Nico had finished his beer. With the same hard, angry look on his face, he flung it at the wall of pictures. Another handful of framed photographs crashed to the floor.

“Oops. Sorry.”

Hazard passed the phone to Somers, who glanced at it and passed it back to Nico. “Mr. Flores, you understand I have to ask you this. Did you write those words on the garage? Maybe because of your dispute with Mr. Cervantes?”

“No. Why would I do it and then report myself?”

“Do you know who did?” Hazard asked.

“No.”

“No ideas? Nobody that Mr. Cervantes might have had an altercation with? Nobody with a grudge?”

“What about the hundred thousand rednecks that live around here? All those guys who say God hates fags. You know who I’m talking about. Jesus, this has been going on for months. It was only a matter of time.”

“You think it was only a matter of time before someone targeted Mr. Cervantes?”

“Chendo has a big mouth. Big ego, too. He thinks of himself as an activist.”

“Why did you call it in?” Somers said. “If you hate him so much, why not leave it and just walk away?”

“Because nobody should be able to do that and get away with it. I don’t care if it’s me or Chendo or anybody else. It’s wrong.”

“Are you an activist?” Hazard said.

Nico’s crooked smile flashed out again. “I’m a student, detective. Do you want to take me to school?”

“I think that’s all we need from you, Mr. Flores.”

Nico’s smirk stayed right where it was.

“We’ll take some pictures,” Somers said. “Dust for prints, take a look around.”

“Yeah, sure,” Nico said, but his eyes didn’t leave Hazard’s face. “I’m done with this place. You do whatever you want.”

“Do you have a phone number?” Hazard asked. “An address where we can contact you?”

Nico didn’t say anything, but the mocking twinkle in his eyes made Hazard’s face heat again. He scribbled something on the back of an envelope lying on the coffee table and tossed it in Hazard’s lap. Hazard glanced at it; his fist crumpled the paper, but not before Somers saw.

It had a phone number and then the words: Don’t forget you owe me a drink.

“Here’s my card,” Somers said, and Hazard thought he heard suppressed amusement. “If you think of anything else.”

Hazard led the way out of the house. Nico followed them as far as the door and called after them, “Chendo’s going to show up in a day or so. He’ll probably call you and pitch a fit about this. Tell him I said he deserves it.”

“Thanks for your help today, Mr. Flores,” Somers said.

Nico didn’t answer, but he watched them as they moved to the garage and Somers began to take pictures with his phone.

“He’s giving you the eye, man,” Somers said in a low voice as he snapped pictures.

“Shut up.”

“Once we wrap up this case, you better give that boy a call.” Somers was grinning now.

“Are you kidding me? He’s a baby.”

“He’s hot. Don’t give me that look. I’m straight, but even I’d hit that.”

“Please stop talking,” Hazard growled, “before I punch you in the throat.”

Hazard couldn’t hear it, but he knew Somers was laughing.