Roland clenched his hands into fists. “Watch your mouth, faggot.”
Though not prone to violence, Philip could take care of himself. He and Roland were about the same size, but Philip had a good twenty pounds on the older man and, because he walked so much, believed he was in better shape. If push came to shove, Philip thought he could hold his own.
He stepped closer and stabbed the air in front of Roland’s face with his index finger. “If you think you can walk in here and intimidate me the way you did James, you’re in for a rude awakening.”
They glowered at each other. The stunned younger brother watched from just inside the door. Emboldened, Philip took another step forward and his robe came undone. For all intents and purposes, he was stark naked in his apartment with his deceased lover’s father and uncle. Too angry to be embarrassed and having nothing to lose, Philip uncorked a well-aged bottle of Righteous Anger. Emotions he’d kept to himself since he’d met James erupted. Every thought he’d ever had about the man who’d mistreated and abused James came out.
Roland’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish in a bowl, but made no sound. Philip wasn’t sure if his adversary’s silence was due to his words or his open robe.
Roland seemed to pull himself together. He clenched his lips into a thin line and sneered. “Now you listen here—”
“I’m not finished!” Philip stepped closer, feeling power in his nakedness he never would have felt fully dressed. Roland’s discomfort was obvious. He glanced down at Philip’s manhood and backed up another step. Philip thought about putting a foot on the coffee table for more swing, but instead pulled his robe together and knotted the sash. “You have exactly one minute to explain why you’re here.”
Roland looked to a red-faced George, but got no help. He faced Philip and said, “Forget you ever knew James Walker. We’ll give you a thousand dollars to move out of town, to someplace like California with more of your kind.”
Philip took a step back. He couldn’t decide which of Roland’s words offended him most. That the father and son shared a belief in voluntary amnesia gave Philip pause, but wasn’t worthy of comment. Where he lived, however, was another matter. “Why would I want to move? DC is my home and the only place I’ve ever wanted to live.”
“We’ll make it two thousand.” Roland folded his arms across his chest and stood with his legs apart.
Philip could tell Roland was accustomed to getting what he wanted. But then, so was he—enough not to let this jerk walk all over him. “Make it fifty thousand if you want, I’m not going anywhere.” Roland’s audacity pissed him off. “What difference does where I live make to you, anyway?”
Roland seemed to reconsider his approach. He turned back to his embarrassed brother, then eyed Philip for a long moment. “Listen, Potter.” His voice was less angry, almost pleading. “My brother and I have high profile positions. Reputation is everything in this town. Surely you understand. If word gets out about you and James, well… it would ruin us.”
Philip’s mind reeled. He wondered about the sudden concern. The risk of people finding out had been much greater when James was alive. Why hadn’t Roland come before? What motivated the brothers to visit today?
Then he knew. Roland Walker didn’t want anyone to know about his shameful treatment of his one and only son.
Philip stared at him, seeing him for what he was. No amount of finery could improve his appearance. He was wretched. A sorry human being. “What do you think people will say when they see his obituary?”
Roland shot a glance at George. “There isn’t going to be an obituary. We’ve paid quite a lot of money to keep his death out of the papers.”
Now Philip understood why James had believed getting kicked out had been the best thing his father had ever done for him. “What about his funeral?”
Roland gave Philip a long look. “No funeral. I told the coroner the deceased wasn’t my son. Seems the body hasn’t been identified.”
“My God. Is there anything you won’t do?” Philip could imagine nothing more cold-hearted than a father leaving his own flesh and blood in a morgue with John Doe on his toe tag. “What will happen to his remains?”
“According to the coroner, unidentified bodies are used as cadavers for medical research.”
Philip wanted to pull out his hair.
George stared at the hardwood floor and wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Philip said, “Let me see if I’ve got this right. To preserve the so-called family name, you abandon your one and only son—the last to carry the precious Walker name—without a decent burial. Then, to keep his death quiet, you spend more than enough money for the tuition James wanted so badly he killed himself when he didn’t get it.” Philip scowled. “Rotten luck to end up with the likes of you for a father.”
An angry Roland pointed his finger at Philip. “He’s not my son! No son of mine would have ever taken up with the likes of you.”
Rage washed over Philip again. “Make up your mind. One minute he’s your son, the next he’s not.” He pointed back at Roland. “You’re pathetic.” He stepped over and opened the door, not caring that his robe had come undone again. “Get out of my house and don’t come back. I never want to see either of you again.”
“How dare you throw us out,” Roland sputtered. “George, are you going to let him treat us this way?”
“Yes, I am.” He glared at Roland. “It’s clear Mr. Potter loved James quite a lot more than you ever did. As your legal counsel and someone who loved James, I’d advise you to leave his apartment like he’s asked.”
Roland’s mouth flew open. “But, George—”
“Shut up!” George grabbed him by the elbow and headed toward the door. Joyless gray eyes regarded Philip. “I’m sorry to have intruded on you this way. We shouldn’t have come. Please, accept my apology and my condolences.”
Before Philip could reply, they were gone.
Chapter Nine
COULD IT really be only Wednesday? Philip peered through the passenger side window of Beau’s Continental. The unique way the doors opened made for an expansive view of the bundled-up pedestrians hurrying along the crowded sidewalk. Heavy traffic prevented the car from moving much faster than the boot-clad walkers.
Animus and adrenaline from the surprise visit by the Walkers had carried Philip through Monday. Thinking about the encounter made him mad all over again. The Walker brothers seemed to think money was the answer to everything. For them, James’s death had been simply another expense.
Arranging to move the body from the city morgue to a funeral home had been far more difficult than Philip had imagined. Ties to a family that never loved or wanted their son trumped his loving relationship with James at every turn. Buying a plot in a small cemetery outside of Alexandria had been much easier.
Meeting Roland Walker made Philip glad he’d never crossed paths before with the pompous, ostentatious jerk. His pricey haircut, manicured nails, designer suit, Italian loafers, and flashy jewelry may have dressed him up, but he was still a despicable human being. Philip could forgive a poor man for not helping his son. But Roland was wearing more money than Philip made in a year. Refusing to help James was nothing but mean.
By comparison, the brother wasn’t as bad. He’d at least said he loved James and acknowledged Philip’s love for his nephew. His tailored Brooks Brothers suit with wing tips polished to a high shine and a conservative, understated demeanor Philip found attractive in ordinary men in no way prevented him from disliking Mr. George Walker.
Even if he was extraordinary. Thick black hair, cut short on the sides but long enough on top to show off the natural wave, framed a handsome face with chiseled features. Whether the result of his legal training or a desire to be different from his obnoxious older brother, George struck Philip as quiet and reserved. His parting words and how he’d appeared embarrassed by Roland’s behavior were almost enough to make Philip like him.
Almost.
Until he thought about
what the brothers had done. He’d be willing to bet the lawyer put the whole plan together to preserve the Walker family name. Bad enough their cockamamie machinations came down to giving Philip money to leave town. But leaving James’s body at the city morgue, unclaimed and unidentified, was beyond cruel. What kind of men could do something so vile?
Since the Walkers had blocked any obituary from appearing in the newspaper, Philip had spent Tuesday on the telephone, calling friends and others who’d want to know about the graveside funeral he’d arranged for ten o’clock this morning. Paying for the burial plot, a coffin, embalming, and everything else required for the simple service had depleted his savings. He’d even returned the Christmas present he’d bought for James. He didn’t need a watch now.
Turnout for the service was better than Philip expected. Dreary gray skies, dirty snow, and icy puddles of grimy slush greeted those who came to mourn a man no longer tortured by a family that never understood him. Mary and Alex Parker, a few coworkers from the restaurant where James had worked, a handful of dance students, and several of Philip’s coworkers dropped white roses on the coffin. The few who knew about his relationship with James offered condolences.
Philip hadn’t seen George arrive and wondered how he’d found out about the service. The sight of him made Philip’s blood boil. The nerve! After the little scene at the apartment, how dare he show up? Philip bit his tongue. James’s funeral was neither the time nor the place to launch into the man for his role in the tragedy that had brought them there. He’d nodded when George had glanced his way and saw deep sorrow in his silvery gray eyes. Before Philip could say anything, Beau had taken him by the elbow and steered him back to his car.
Ah, yes. Beau. The gorgeous man weaving the Continental through the heavy lunchtime traffic had been a godsend. Philip had dated some attractive men, including James, but Beau Carter was the most handsome by far, with his wavy brown hair combed back, wide set deep blue eyes, a strong jaw, dimpled cheeks, and an intriguing cleft in his chin.
Since Christmas, Beau had been a near constant source of support, propelling Philip forward with his gentle yet insistent demands for action. Instead of allowing him to stay in bed with the covers pulled up over his head, Beau kept Philip occupied, saying he had too much to do to lie around and staying busy would help him sleep better.
Beau had packed up James’s clothes and taken them to the shelter. He brought sandwiches from a nearby deli, Chinese carryout, and bags of groceries. He’d asked Philip what he planned to wear to the funeral, and after repairing a hem and replacing a missing button, had dropped off the suit at the dry cleaners. He’d polished Philip’s shoes, ironed his shirt, and when he’d picked Philip up for the funeral, had straightened his tie.
“Thank you, Beau, for driving today and for everything you’ve done.”
“You’re welcome. With school out and the roads too bad to go home to Georgia for the holidays, I should thank you for helping me pass the time.” Beau’s smile came across a little rehearsed. The slight tilt of his head and the wink that followed a heartbeat behind rang a tad practiced and insincere.
Philip pushed the thought from his head. “I can’t imagine how I’d have managed without you. I’m forever in your debt.”
“Nonsense,” Beau said, turning his gaze away from the road long enough to flash a quick grin.
Rehearsed or not, Philip’s reaction was visceral. The man was beyond handsome. He’d be willing to bet most of the girls and at least a few of the boys in his classes at the high school thought so too.
“I moved here from Watkinsville in August, a week before school started,” Beau drawled. “I haven’t had the chance to make any friends. Grading papers, coming up with lesson plans, supervising the kids who put the school newspaper together, rereading books I haven’t read in years to make sure I know what I’m talking about…. It’s all very time-consuming.”
Philip loved the sound of Beau’s voice—deep, masculine, exotic. Sometimes his enjoyment of the baritone voice and the charming Southern accent kept him from hearing the words Beau spoke. “Well, I’m very glad to have met you. I only wish the circumstances—”
Beau cut him off. “You play the hand you’re dealt. The good Lord put me on that sidewalk on Christmas Eve at that particular moment for a reason.” He reached across the seat, placed his hand above Philip’s knee, and squeezed. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”
Philip liked having Beau’s hand on his leg even more than the way he said “particular.” His drawl gave the word several more than four syllables. The extra “ahs” somehow made it beautiful. Poetic. Musical.
Guilt descended over Philip like a shroud. Musing about Beau on the way home from James’s funeral—what was he thinking? What would James think?
The words popped into his head. He saw them on the page, but the voice he heard belonged to James.
“Forget me.”
Chapter Ten
SERGEANT SHIRLEY White glanced up from the chest-high stack of reports on her desk to the clock over the squad room door and winced. Three more hours and her shift would end. After what would best be described as one shitty damn day, she couldn’t wait to get home. She had a date with a long, hot bath and a glass of pink Chablis. Or two. Maybe even three.
The call about a body on the bank of the Anacostia River had been the fart preceding the big load of crap messing all over her Friday. She didn’t need to wait for the coroner’s report for a cause of death. Close-range gunshot to the back of the head. At least the poor kid hadn’t suffered. Probably never knew what hit him.
The scene by the river offered a few clues. Shirley believed the boy had been killed late Christmas Eve, but she wasn’t sure. Water could speed things up or slow things down. But given the cold weather, she’d bet her momma’s fancy china the boy had been shot late Saturday night or early Christmas day.
Shirley thought back to the big holiday dinners cooked by her momma and served on that china. They bore no resemblance to the Christmas dinner she’d eaten this year. The hour to heat up the aluminum foil tray filled with rubbery turkey, bland dressing, thin mashed potatoes, watery peas, and tasteless corn was the most her oven had been on all year. She’d thought long and hard before deciding all she really wanted for Christmas was a sliver of her momma’s tender, moist turkey between two slices of homemade bread slathered with Aunt Esther’s orange-cranberry chutney. Right now she’d settle for one of those chewy, dry sandwiches from the Automat. Anything to wash the taste of this nasty coffee from her mouth.
She drained the cardboard cup, scowled, and flipped the page, searching for clues in the reports filed by the other officers she’d dispatched to the scene. A ballpoint pen, a stainless steel lighter, and a cheap transistor radio—nothing worth stealing—were found in the pockets of the navy peacoat the killer had secured around the body with several bands of duct tape. The victim’s wallet was empty, save for a Beatles Fan Club membership card. No cash. She wondered if robbery had been a motive as she continued reading.
A football-sized rock had been found inside the coat. She glanced back and saw the body had been wrapped with duct tape around the shoulders, hips, knees, and ankles. The victim had been taped up after he’d been shot to secure rocks to weigh the body down. The other rocks must have come loose. The killer was lazy or in a hurry. She liked that. Sooner or later, he’d make a mistake that would lead her to him.
Shirley was one of a handful of women in the DCPD, and though minorities comprised nearly a fourth of the force, she was the only colored woman. The men always tested her. They had to. Cop or not, very few men merely rolled over when a colored woman told him what to do. Those who balked found out quick that she wasn’t inclined to take much crap. She’d stood her ground, glaring eye to eye with men twice her size until they backed down.
The men she supervised didn’t know her brothers dwarfed the biggest men on the force. For most of her life, Shirley had grumbled about being the oldest child and the only girl in
a family with six kids. Then she became a cop. In the blink of an eye, the birth order and gender she’d cursed every day of her life became a blessing. Years as a bossy big sister had prepared her well for a career in law enforcement.
“Robinson, you find out anything from the boys at the shelter yet?”
A bald, middle-aged cop with conjoined bushy eyebrows and an annoyed expression on his face stopped typing. “Guy named Philip Potter dropped off a bag of radios on Christmas Eve.” He resumed typing. “Far as anybody knows, he’s the last person to have talked to Daniel Bradbury.”
Maybe robbery hadn’t been a motive. A killer bearing gifts? Wouldn’t be the first time. And it wasn’t like she had suspects falling out of the sky. “Got a number for this Potter?”
“Let me check.” Officer Robinson rolled up the platen to see another section of the report in his typewriter. “Yes, Sergeant.”
He said the words with respect, but she could see he hated her guts. She’d heard about the things he said behind her back and the rumors about his involvement in the Ku Klux Klan. He wasn’t one of DC’s finest. He was the bad apple that spoiled the whole barrel.
“Give Mr. Potter a call. Invite him to come down for a cup of coffee,” she instructed. “I’d like to have a little chat with him. And tell him he needs to be here in an hour. I have an appointment this evening I can’t miss.”
Chapter Eleven
PHILIP WIPED the perspiration from his brow with a silk handkerchief as the taxi made its way to the police station. He couldn’t imagine why a sergeant from the police department wanted to see him. He fingered the black embroidered letters along one edge and wiped his forehead again.
No Good Deed Page 5
