“I guess. But more like regular partners, ‘playmates’ I think he called them sometimes.”
“Oh. Kinky!”
“Yeah, but I never inquired too much.” He gave a sheepish smile and shrugged. “I’m kinda vanilla myself.”
I wanted to cry: Well hurray for vanilla then!
There followed a silence in which I drank in Horst’s fine form and presence, and he seemed lost in thought. Then he turned his head, looking towards the hallway, and back at me.
“He’s dead then? Really dead?”
I nodded, studying the man’s face. He seemed totally ingenuous. I watched as his head lowered, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Immediately, I moved across and sat next to him. I put my arm around his shoulders—as far as I could reach. He didn’t object to this, and after a minute turned towards me and buried his head against my shoulder. I stroked his head gently, running my fingers through the fine golden hair. It was all very pleasant—as well as moving.
It was during this that it struck me: I had never before felt this combination of pleasurable physical contact and emotional sympathy. It felt strangely peaceful. The only disturbances were the grief at the loss of Quentin and certain fantasies that came unbidden, images of certain actions, like rubbing Horst’s belly, tweaking his nipples, or sliding my hand beneath the man’s towel.
After some minutes, however, Horst sat up and then stood up, my arm falling from his shoulder, and he stretched, slowly and impressively. It was my first view of him from the back, and it was just as rewarding as from the front. His naked skin, the broad V-shape of his torso, and the curve of his ass, the upper part of which was visible above the top of the towel—everything was mesmerizing. Horst possessed what is called a bubble butt, composed of two perfectly round ass cheeks. My eyes fairly glued themselves to their curves while in my head fantasies swam of their magnificence seen, not through the towel, but directly.
I thought that this ass had probably never fulfilled its most obvious purpose, sexually speaking. For Horst, however gentle-hearted, seemed to radiate masculine strength. I couldn’t imagine him as a bottom, and the thought made me sad. I told myself firmly that any hope I cherished in that direction would be a cheat, meant only to torture and delude.
“I’m gonna have a shower,” he announced suddenly. “Clear my head.”
“What? Another one?”
Horst turned and looked at me. “Yeah. So?”
“No problem,” I said. What I wanted to say, however, were things like: Want some company? Someone to soap your back? And when I heard the sound of the shower spray, it struck me that the sound was louder, clearer than before. He must have left the door open! This caused a new set of fantasies: that he was sending me a message, a hidden invitation. Mightn’t I just wander in, to use the toilet perhaps? Images of hot soapy water sluicing down those majestic curves made me weak, however, and I was too sensible to do anything foolish. I just let the thoughts and images come, and adjusted myself in my pants.
After several minutes, I reminded myself that there were other things to think of. Now that Horst was out of sight and I could actually think more coherently, the image of my friend rose up inside my mind’s eye—and I felt slightly sickened at what I had seen, and what that suggested about my new friend, Horst. For there had been slight, but definite bruise marks on Quentin’s face, bruises that opened the possibility that Quentin had not died a natural death, that he had been smothered. Which meant, of course, that someone—and that meant possibly Horst—had murdered him.
It was at this juncture that there came an authoritative knock at the condo’s door, which could only be the police.
Chapter 2: Cops
I opened the door on two plainclothes police officers, both fairly young. The woman, rather attractive, was all business. The man on the other hand, while tall, slim, and well-built, radiated an air suggestive of some inner, hidden issue. That both interested me and made me sigh as well.
They held up their badges, identifying them as Detective Deloris Hayberry and Detective Sam Solomon. The latter name triggered something in the back of my mind and I looked at the man again. Yes, I had met him when I’d been on the police force.
I led them into the living room, showed them my private investigator identification, and told them that, other than the deceased, the only other occupant of the condo at the moment was in the shower.
The detectives’ eyebrows went up. I explained that I was just visiting, and how I had found Quentin there, deceased.
Detective Hayberry took notes while Detective Solomon looked around. Then the sound of the shower stopped.
“By the way,” I said. “How is it that detectives were assigned to a case that was phoned in as a possible suspicious death?”
Detective Hayberry said, “It’s our new system.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “Computerized cross-correlation.”
“Okay. And what’s that?”
“Well, you gave your name and private eye licence number. The information was entered and correlated with the reason for your call, which raised a flag in the system. Since we were available, we were assigned.”
“Oh.” I still felt nonplused.
Detective Hayberry, smiled. “I think it’s the Captain. You have quite a reputation with him.”
“Oh.”
Detective Solomon seemed annoyed by this exchange. He cleared his throat and turned to his partner.
“What about checking in on the corpse?”
She nodded and, turning to me, raised her eyebrows.
“Last door on the right.”
When we were alone, Detective Solomon looked me up and down, and cleared his throat again, a habit I was beginning to find annoying. It was probably meant to intimidate.
“I don’t know if you remember, Mr. McQueen, but I was a rookie when you were a detective in the precinct.”
I nodded. “I remember. What made you go into detective work?”
He shrugged, then frowned—as if he recognized in the question something of a challenge.
“What a lot of people wondered, Mr. McQueen, is why you quit being a cop? Like Deloris said, you had a good reputation—in some circles.”
That last bit sounded like a dig. That didn’t bother me, particularly. It was the sort of thing one expected from this sort of young buck, who wanted to assert themselves when interacting with other males.
“I wanted a change. Be my own boss.”
The detective nodded, frowning slightly. “So, what’s the advantage of being a private—dick?” He said the last word with a slight sneer.
I felt a slight rush of anger, but let it pass into self-annoyance at being triggered in this way and finally into acceptance of imperfection. I grinned.
“Well, officer,” I said, lisping the word slightly. “Being a private dick allows you to be your own man. And it keeps you from being just a plain old dick.”
I looked him right in the eye as I said this, and was gratified at seeing the man’s face redden. Then his eyebrows went up and his expression became defiant and supercilious. This was a pretty cool customer. And then, when he hitched up his belt in a swaggering manner, I actually experienced a frisson of sexual appreciation.
The thing was, I found male preening of any sort more diverting than disturbing. And I had long since come to terms with my sexuality, so that any attack on it I saw as not my problem.
We regarded each other in silence for a while.
I smiled. “So, you became a detective. How’s it going?”
My opponent smiled mirror-wise. “Well, I’m Detective Second Class now, so—pretty good.”
Just then Detective Hayberry joined us. She looked at her partner, nodded briefly, then at me.
I smiled at her. “You’re new to the murder squad?”
She nodded, and I gestured towards Solomon. “What do you think of your partner? Bright and—” I looked him up and down, “—full of energy. Am I right?”
She blushed slightly, but with a trace of a suppressed smile. She knew about Solomon’s personal issues, I decided, and bore with them.
“Well,” I said, giving her a wink, “you just stick with him and I’m sure you’ll learn a lot.” Then, leaning towards her, I added in an undertone, “And, don’t worry, this sort of thing—it passes.”
She dimpled in response and glanced briefly at her partner—while he stared at me with suppressed outrage—and mouthed the words: I hope so.
I heard the bathroom door open, so I excused myself and met Horst, who was standing in the hallway, wearing a bathrobe, open at the chest. The sight of him like that, and with exposed muscular calves and bare feet, was breathtakingly erotic—which acted as something of a restorative for me.
“The cops are here,” I told him.
He nodded, though his face hardened. When he turned away to go to his room, I heard Detective Solomon call from behind me in an authoritative voice.
“Excuse me, sir! Could you please come into the living room?”
Horst froze, then turned. His face had quite changed now, no longer beautiful. Indeed, for a second there was something almost terrible in it, after which an expressionless mask came down over it.
I turned back to Solomon. “Can’t he get dressed?”
The detective considered. Then he said, “Hayberry, please go with this gentleman and see that he touches nothing.” He looked past me towards Horst. “Don’t worry, sir. The officer will be discrete.”
It amazed me that Solomon should put such a delicate business on a rookie female detective, and as she passed me, I saw that she too was discomfited. But she remained professional and I decided she would be the sort of cop who was good to work with.
I returned to the living room, where Solomon waited, looking smug.
“I need to get your full statement,” he said, looking around. “Maybe out on the balcony?”
I shrugged and followed him to the balcony door. Seeing the man from behind, I could examine him more fully—and decided that however flawed his personality, physically he was more impressive than I had initially thought. He had long legs, a narrow waist, fairly strong shoulders, everything well-proportioned and muscled—nothing like Horst, of course—but then, they had completely different body types.
Solomon was in his mid-twenties, which explained but didn’t excuse his behavior. It was typical of young bucks with badges, to have that intense, intoxicated sense of their own importance, which they camouflaged as authority, giving them something to prove.
Out on the balcony, it was hot and humid. There were several outside chairs grouped around a round, marble-topped table. The balcony itself was surprisingly large, and deep—being partially recessed into the building. The detective indicated I should take a seat, which I did. He remained standing, leaning back against the railing, facing me. He took out a pad and pencil with an air of self-conscious satisfaction one sometimes sees in people who were still a bit thrilled about being real, live cops. I had to suppress a smile.
I looked past him at the view, which was quite panoramic, the ninth floor just high enough to give a sense of detachment from the world below. Only the taller buildings were visible, basking in the late afternoon sunlight.
“Quite a view,” I murmured.
The detective hesitated, perhaps considering whether my comment was a double entendre directed at him, then nodded dismissively without turning around. Something in his officious manner goaded me into returning to an earlier point.
“You know,” I said, “You never answered my question.”
The man frowned slightly but didn’t speak. I continued doggedly.
“I think I know the answer. I think you became a detective so you wouldn’t have to hear people address you as Sergeant Sam Solomon.” I lisped the words in a sensuous fashion, something between Mae West and a drag queen. I had learned years before that this had a discomfiting effect on some types of male cops. It was subtly provocative without rising to the level of actionable impertinence. And the effect was one of a deliberate and unwanted seduction.
Detective Solomon’s face reddened and his lips tightened, which told me I had hit a mark. He forced a smile and a laugh.
“Actually,” he said, his voice artificially jocular, “that might have been part of it. But mostly, I just wanted to get into detective work.”
I nodded. “But, do you think you have the requisite—skills?” I used the sibilance again, and watched as the man struggled to keep control of himself.
“I’m doing my best,” he said, his voice tight.
“Well, since you said you’re a detective second class, you must be doing something right.”
He looked both pleased and uncomfortable, uncertain as to whether I was sneering at him. His expression suddenly struck me as indicative of a symptom of someone insecure in his current rank. Bingo!
Solomon cleared his throat. I had the sense that he was now determined to take control, by going strictly into routine.
“Could you describe what you did and what you saw since you first entered the apartment?”
I looked at him, and smiled. “Just the facts?”
“That’s right.”
I told him everything. He said nothing until I had finished. Then he tapped the pad with his pencil and looked at me.
“You say the door to the apartment was open.”
I nodded.
“And you say you’ve never visited him here before.”
I nodded again.
“Why not? You were friends.”
“Well, Quentin was an idiosyncratic person, not easy to maintain a friendship with. I had lost touch with him a couple of years ago. Frankly, we had a disagreement. I gave him some time to cool off. After that he had moved out of town. It was only recently that I learned he’d moved back to town. So, I thought I’d visit, rather than call. See him face to face.”
The detective tapped with his pencil again.
“Knowing the deceased, do you find it surprising that the front door of his apartment was unlocked?”
“Quentin was generally surprising, so—no.”
It might have been the effect of my jabs earlier, but it struck me how fully closed off the man was now. And he rarely looked at me, with the excuse that he was making notes in his book. I observed all of this with interest.
“Very good,” he said and pushed himself away from the railing. After pulling up his belt again, avoiding looking at me, he said, “Please wait here,” and went inside.
Through the screen door I saw him conferring with his partner. After a minute or two he turned and gestured for me to come inside. I did so, noting the difference between the expressions on the faces of the two detectives. The woman was still entirely professional—calm, reserved, polite—while the man’s expression was hard, severe, and slightly unprofessional. For a moment I felt guilty for having poked him. Only it had been kind of hard not to.
Still, I thought the man’s rigidity, his having put up a wall suggested that he wasn’t actually a savage or cruel man. Such individuals were, in my opinion, nothing but waste material, practically speaking. But what he was—that, I admitted, was something yet to be determined.
Horst, meanwhile, sat on the couch, still in his bathrobe, his face without expression. He must have declined to change, probably as a gesture of defiance. Detective Hayberry’s face, I noted, was somewhat pink, and it occurred to me that, for all her professionalism, she was not entirely immune to the big man’s physical charms. I sat down next to Horst and Detective Solomon addressed us.
“Very well,” he said. “We have initial statements, and we have forensics on their way.” He looked at Horst. “Please keep your movements restricted to your bedroom and the bathroom for the time being.” Then to me, “And you, Mr. McQueen, I thank you for your cooperation. You are free to leave.”
He said this with such dismissiveness that it felt a bit like being slapped in the face. Despite the sting, I almost smiled
again at the detective’s obvious tactics. But when I turned to Horst, hoping for some sign of solidarity, I was surprised to see him regarding me with an expression approaching hostility. After a second or two of this, he got up and left the room. Shortly afterwards I heard his bedroom door slam.
The detectives had moved so that they could see down the hallway. Then they began to talk in lowered voices so that I felt completely left out. I got up and let myself out.
I left, feeling disappointed on several fronts. For one thing, I had hoped they would ask me to assist them, given the fact that I knew the deceased and my professional history. But that, obviously, was not the plan. Instead I had been dismissed, viewed with hostility, and ignored professionally. And I had that to deal with in the elevator ride down to the lobby.
As I drove off, I realized that the thing that most irritated me was the idea that my exclusion from the case might affect the outcome of the investigation negatively. Because my friend was involved, the idea that justice might not be served was especially irksome. I didn’t go home, but headed to the gay village, to a regular haunt of mine, having decided I was in need of a drink and the society of other gay men.
Chapter 3: Interrogation Room
The next day I got a call from Detective Solomon, doing his best to be polite, I thought. There still was an edge, of course, but I was willing to give him credit for the effort. He asked if I would come down to the station for a chat, as he put it. I wondered a little at that term, and decided it was not his own word. It probably came from his supervisor, Captain Harper.
I drove down to the station, where I was shown into an interrogation room by a cop who referred to it as an “interview room”. Having been a cop, however, I knew that the distinction between interviewing, questioning, and actual interrogation was merely one of shading. And I knew as well that the shading was something that could change in a moment.
Within a minute the detective came in.
“Hello again,” he said, placing a folder on the table and seating himself across from me. “I just want you to know that you’re not a suspect.”
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