by A. P. Eisen
“Cliff?”
“What’s wrong?”
No need for pleasantries.
“Your mother is sick and wants to see you.”
The phone slipped in his sweaty hands. “Sick? What do you mean? Is she going to be okay?”
A heartbeat of silence. “Lymphoma. She’s getting chemo.” Listening to his father break down over the phone, Cliff’s eyes burned. Suddenly, all the years didn’t seem so important.
After coughing and clearing his throat, his father continued. “They think it’s treatable, but who really knows? Your mother…we talked, and if you’d be okay with it, we’d really like it if you could come by the hospital to see her.”
“I could come today.”
“She’s having a treatment today, and she’s usually not too responsive afterward, but tomorrow…if you have time.”
“I can make the time. I’ll be there. Thank you. Thank you for calling me.”
There were other things he wanted to say, but this wasn’t the time.
“You’re welcome. See you tomorrow.”
The call ended, and Cliff was left sitting in a daze, unable to come to grips with the gain and potential loss in his life. He couldn’t call Paul, but dammit, he shouldn’t be so scared to send the man a text.
Got a call from my father. My mother’s ill, and they want to see me. I’m going to go tomorrow after work.
He sent it and stared at the ground, unsure what to do next. His phone rang.
“Tell me everything. Are you okay?”
Paul’s deep, quiet voice steadied Cliff, and he drew a breath. “Are you sure you can talk?”
Amusement tinged his voice. “I called you, remember? Rob’s driving. We’re on our way to the Manors.”
“Oh, well, yeah. I had a really nice day. Took myself out to lunch, went to the movies, and bought some new clothes. I even got you a gift.”
“That was nice. Thank you. I can’t wait to see it. And then your father calls out of the blue.”
“It’s been fifteen years. I shouldn’t want to jump at whatever he asked. Not after the way we left it between us the last time we spoke. But it’s my mother. And even though she said she couldn’t accept me being with a man and turned her back on me…” He hunched his shoulders. “Can I deny her wishes when she may be dying?”
“Damn.”
“Yeah…” Cliff laughed weakly. “That’s about it.”
“I think you answered your own question, right? Until there’s no time left to make things right, you always have that last chance.” He paused for a moment, and Cliff imagined Paul was thinking about Harley. “You’ve never mentioned them much, only that they basically kicked you out. How does your father sound now?”
“Not that different.” That truth cut deeper than a knife’s edge to his skin. “And I’m sure plenty of people would tell me not to go—”
“You know what I say to that?” Paul cut in. “Fuck them. Only you know what’s right for you.”
“And who?” Cliff asked softly.
“Yeah. That too. I’ll be finished around seven or so tonight. Dinner?”
“Yeah, I’d like that. I guess I’m a little shaky.” Until then, Cliff hadn’t realized how much so. His shirt had soaked through with sweat, and the midafternoon sun swam before his eyes.
“I’m sure you are. Why don’t you go to my place and hang out until I get there?”
“I’m going to need to take a shower and change clothes, so I think I have to go home. But I can make us dinner.”
“No. You shouldn’t have to. How about I bring something over and we relax?”
“That sounds perfect.” It was everything he’d always wanted in a relationship.
“Okay, I’ll see you later. Gotta run.”
Cliff sat for a while longer on the bench, barely concentrating on the shoppers bustling back and forth. Since childhood, he’d watched Thornwood Park grow from a sleepy community of mom-and-pop stores to a busy suburban area where chain stores threatened their existence. More and more high-rise apartment buildings dominated, and even on the short drive to his home, it looked like every week new corporate parks were springing up along the highway.
With the evolving landscape had also come a change in demographics. Younger families moved in, bringing with them a softening of old values. Twenty years ago a pride parade downtown would not have been possible, and a place like the Wild Orchid would never exist, so while Cliff knew there was so much more that could be done, they’d come a very long way indeed.
He gathered his bag and walked to his car, which was parked several blocks away. He passed by Flex and wondered if he should join the gym and do some circuit training. As he stood and read the monthly special on the window, a good-looking, well-built man stopped next to him. He looked slightly familiar, but Cliff couldn’t place him.
“Thinking of joining?”
“I don’t know. I run to keep in shape, but maybe I should do some weight training.”
“We’re running a special now, three months for fifty bucks. It’s a great deal.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. With my job, I don’t have much time.”
“Oh, yeah?” The guy leaned against the door and crossed his muscular arms. “What do you do?”
“I manage the Starrywood hotel.”
“Cool. Come inside, and I can give you a brochure. It has all the information, including pricing.”
Figuring it couldn’t hurt, Cliff followed the guy inside to the front desk. He took the glossy paper offered.
“Check it out, and let me know.” The man ran an approving eye over Cliff. “My name’s Shane Callahan, and I’m a personal trainer.” He licked his lips. “I’d be happy to work with you if you want. First session’s free.”
Uneasy at the direction of the conversation, Cliff decided to shut it down. “I’d better be going.”
“Let me know if you want to get together. To train.” Shane’s slow smile left no doubt he had other things on his mind besides training. Feeling dirty, Cliff couldn’t wait to leave.
“Sure. Thanks.” He stuffed the brochure in the bag with his earlier purchases and left Flex, hurrying to his car.
On the way home, he stopped at the supermarket and bought the necessary ingredients to bake cookies. Cliff found it took his mind off things.
He got home, unloaded the car, and went inside. The mail, all bills or junk as far as he could see, would have to wait. He set the groceries and his shopping bag on the counter and went straight to the bathroom, where he stripped off his clothes and got under the hot spray.
Clean and with fresh clothes on, he returned to the kitchen, where he took out bowls and measuring cups and soon had the cookie dough made. The first tray in the oven, he poured himself a glass of wine and took a hefty swallow. A check of the time showed it to be nearly five o’clock, and Cliff, who didn’t expect Paul to be there anytime soon, indulged in a second glass after taking the tray of cookies out. They smelled delicious.
“Hey,” he said to the empty house, “if a guy can’t drink in his own home, where can he?”
With his glass of wine in one hand and a cookie on a plate in the other, Cliff left the kitchen and got comfortable on his sofa. How many times over the past few months had he and Paul snuggled here while watching a movie, only to end up naked and wrapped around each other? Paul’s intensity whenever they touched, his utter concentration on Cliff’s ultimate pleasure, left Cliff no doubt he was fully invested in their being together. He felt it in the way their kisses turned from sweet to hungry and greedy. Paul’s worshipful touch when he spread Cliff open wide on the bed…his fingers, his lips…his tongue licking, probing, tasting Cliff, sending him tumbling over the edge.
Cliff nibbled at his cookie, leaving the wine for later. He wanted a clear head when Paul came over. As if on cue, the doorbell rang, and he jumped from the couch to hurry to the front door.
Paul stood there, dark hair spilling over his brow, shirt rumpled and tie undone, face slack with
fatigue, but so utterly desirable, Cliff pulled him in for a slow, warm kiss right there at the door. Breathing deep of Paul’s familiar spicy aftershave, he rested his head against Paul’s chest and knew he was in trouble. He was in love with Paul.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After interviewing Shane Callahan, Paul and Rob had returned to the precinct.
“Okay, so we’ve got Ulrich’s phone records and his calendar from his cell, home, and work for the past three months.” Paul rolled his chair closer to the computer screen. “Guess they anticipated what we’d need, because they also gave us the corresponding names for all the telephone numbers. I’m seeing calls to Callahan beginning not even two weeks after Jerry’s death. They increased in frequency two weeks after the first call.”
“Yeah,” Rob said, his chin propped in his hand as he too studied the records. “The more he saw him, the more he wanted him.”
“Then there’s the law firm. His calendar says they had a meeting scheduled last week. See it there? Thursday? From two to five. Radcliffe issue. We’ll check in with the firm—Hamilton and Stone.”
“Sounds good.” Rob scribbled some notes. “We can call and set up a time to talk to them, though they won’t tell us shit because of attorney-client privilege.”
Sometimes the rules meant to help ended up hindering instead. “Maybe you can check and see if that law’s changed.” He grinned. “You can do that, you know, just in case.”
“Asshole.” Rob threw a wadded napkin at him, and Paul ducked, laughing.
“Tomorrow we’ll go over to Starrywood and talk with Cliff about the room Ulrich rented. I want to know exact dates and see if anyone recognizes them. Plus, maybe schmooze with housekeeping. They notice things others miss.”
“Good idea.” Rob glanced at his watch. “Let’s get going.”
On their way to the Ulriches’, Paul called Cliff to see how he was doing. Hearing his explosive news, Paul turned silent for the rest of the drive, hurting for Cliff.
“What’s wrong? Cliff okay?” Rob asked.
Paul sketched out a brief retelling of their conversation, and Rob’s mouth tightened.
“Damn. That’s a curve ball. What’s Cliff gonna do?” Rob slowed down as they entered the Manors.
“See them. But it’s going to be hard for him.”
“I can’t imagine.”
As always, Paul marveled at the serenity of the Manors, with its sprawling mansions and lush, green lawns. So close to the hustle of the city, and yet from the quiet marred only by the sounds of far-off lawn mowers and chirping birds, you’d think it was an island unto itself. What went on behind the closed doors of the rich and powerful, however, was another story.
He only had to ring the bell once before the housekeeper opened the door. Paul wondered if she’d been eyeing them as they came up the long drive.
“Mrs. Ulrich told me to expect you. Please come inside.”
They followed her, not to the bright and cheery sun-room they’d been taken to the other times, but down a different hallway on the opposite side of the house. She stopped before a closed door.
“This was Dr. Ulrich’s office.”
“We’ll need to go inside,” Paul said and waited.
She hesitated, and Paul hoped she wouldn’t give them a hard time, but then she opened the door and led them into a darkened room. They stood in the center of the large, square space while she walked to the other end, saying, “I’m just cleaning things up for when the movers replace the furniture.” She drew the curtains and raised the blinds in front of the wide picture window, and sunlight flooded the room.
“Are they renovating the entire house? When did it start?” Paul pulled out his memo pad and pen.
“About two months ago. Dr. and Mrs. Ulrich went on an extended weekend trip, and when they came home, they were like a new couple. Mrs. Ulrich came to me and said she wanted to replace all the old furniture and start fresh. I was happy for her. The past months have been so hard on her.”
Paul recalled seeing the time blocked out on Ulrich’s calendar as OFF. “Because of the problems with their son?”
Rob wandered around the room while Paul asked the questions, but Paul knew his partner was listening.
“That, and that issue with the man who was murdered.” Her lips thinned, and her eyes flared with anger.
“What issue was there? The Ulriches weren’t involved.”
She pressed her lips together. “Yes, right. If there’s anything I can get you, please let me know.” She turned on her heel and marched out of the room.
“Damn, Paulie, what’d you do to the dragon lady? She looked like she wanted to take your face off.” Rob sat behind the large desk. “Look at this,” he said with disgust, shaking his head.
“What?” The teak desktop gleamed, bare of any items, save for a picture of the Ulrich family and several pens. “Looks perfect to me.”
“Exactly. No papers, no files. Neat and clean. Who could trust a man with a perfectly clean desk?”
Paul snickered. Rob’s messy desk was legendary at the Third Precinct, but he’d scoff, claiming, “I have everything at my fingertips and know where it all is.” Most annoying thing? He was right. Paul went back and forth but always put his files away in the drawer.
“Sorry, Pig Pen. Let’s see what’s in the drawers.”
Rob grunted and pulled them open. He took out pads, envelopes, and pens. “Nothing but blanks.” The second, deeper drawer held a travel mug, a bottle of water, and a bottle of Scotch. “Guy after my own heart. Probably came in here to unwind alone.” Rob peered inside. “Nothing else.”
Paul prowled around the room, picking up books and shaking them, but nothing fell out. He examined the items on the fireplace mantle, noticing framed photographs of Ulrich at events, knickknacks, and several art pieces.
Rob picked up the garbage pail next to the desk. “Heads or tails?”
“Tails.”
“Heads I win, tails you lose. Oops, tails. Here you go.” Rob grinned, and Paul rolled his eyes.
“How the hell Annabel puts up with you is beyond me.” Paul pulled out a pair of gloves and snapped them on.
“Oh, I have my redeeming qualities.” Rob waggled his brows.
Ignoring his cackling partner, Paul picked up the pail, set it on top of the desk, and methodically pulled out each piece of crumpled paper, smoothing them flat and reading them to see if there was anything of worth. He discarded tissues, gum wrappers, and other garbage. One piece of paper had a scribbled note: Pick up MO—Thu.
Paul pushed the note to Rob. “What do you make of this?”
“MO? Who’s that?”
“Who or what? Maybe a money order?”
“What would he need a money order for? Guy like that could write a check for anything, far as I can see.”
Paul slid the note into a clear evidence bag. “No idea, but see if you can find a bank statement or something.”
“Nah. Nothing here. My guess is that he banks online, so we can check when we get back.”
“Sounds good.”
“What’re you doing here, poking around?”
Paul glanced over his shoulder. A defiant, sulky-looking Chase Ulrich stood in the doorway.
“Hi. It’s Chase, right? We’re the detectives investigating your father’s death. We met yesterday, remember?”
“Yeah, but what are you doing in his stuff? Shouldn’t you be finding out who killed him instead of going through his garbage pail?”
“All part of the work. We never know what we’ll find.”
“My dad hardly spent any time at home. He was either working, exercising, or screwing around.”
Surprised Chase would mention that, Paul decided it was fair game to ask him questions. “What do you mean? Was your father having an affair?”
Agitated now, Chase paced around the room, his hands alternately shoved in his pockets or rubbing together as he walked.
“Yeah. I heard him one night, like a month ago,
when I was home for the weekend. He was making plans, so I followed him to where he said to meet.” His face flamed. “I caught him kissing a guy at the hotel.”
“The Starrywood?”
“Yeah.” Chase nodded. “I watched them make out in the parking lot, then go inside the hotel.” He ducked his head and kicked the rug with his sneaker. “I didn’t stay.”
“What did the man look like?”
“Blond, big muscles. Kinda short but built.”
That described Shane Callahan to a tee. “Did you ever mention to your father that you saw him?”
“Yeah. I cornered him that night. My mom was at some charity dinner, and he got home around eight. We had a huge fight.”
“What happened?” Rob asked. “Was he angry at you for following him?”
“Yeah. He said I had no right to spy on him, sneaking around like a thief. And I told him he should talk about sneaking around. It was disgusting, cheating on Mom. And if he wanted to fuck a guy, he shouldn’t be married.”
It had to be hard being the child in the middle, Paul decided, watching Chase struggle not to lose his temper or cry.
“Did he answer you?”
“He said it was none of my business and I should concentrate on school and staying out of trouble.”
Not the wisest thing to say in an emotional moment, Paul thought, then plunged ahead. “Have you? Are you off drugs now?”
Chase’s mouth tightened. “Fuck you. I don’t have to answer that.” He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
“Looks like he already did,” Rob said. “Kid looks like shit, antsy as hell, pale, skinny. Catherine Ulrich is kidding herself if she thinks Chase’s problem is solved.”
“Sad. I wonder if Ulrich knew, and this was an ongoing battle between them. Maybe Chase got upset with Daddy never being at home and cheating on his mother with a guy and started in again.”
Rob scratched his neck. “Could be. We should find out how much money Chase gets as an allowance.”
“Good idea. We can ask Mrs. Ulrich. That could be key. Because if Sonny Boy’s back on drugs, he would need more and more. And if Daddy cut him off, he might’ve been angry enough to kill him. I’m sure he qualifies for a nice inheritance.”
