As he’d done nothing wrong, he wasn’t worried. Still, the summons made him nervous. In previous encounters, the police had been a lot less than helpful. Images came to mind of his ransacked apartment and the obscenity scrawled on his living room wall, now hidden. He also recalled the officer’s words on Christmas Eve.
“Your faggot boyfriend blew his brains out.”
He shuddered and wiped his brow once more before returning the handkerchief to his pocket. Yes, something to do with James’s death had to be the reason for the summons. Why else would the police want to talk with him? He thanked and paid the cab driver, then crossed the sidewalk to the police station.
The sound of ringing telephones, clicking typewriters, and boisterous conversation greeted him as he came through the door. The last time Philip had seen so many uniformed police, they’d raided a local watering hole where he and James sometimes enjoyed cocktails with friends. He straightened his back, added what he hoped would pass for a masculine swagger to his step, and approached the officer seated at a desk across from the station entrance.
“Excuse me, Officer. I’m here to see a Sergeant White. Could you please let him know Philip Potter is here to see him?”
The officer’s hairless head gleamed in the fluorescent light. He dropped his pen and looked up from the log in which he’d been writing. “Sergeant White?” The officer’s leering smirk told Philip his swagger had failed. “Yeah, have a seat. I’ll let the sergeant know you’re here.”
Philip found an empty seat between an older woman clutching a rosary in her hand and a forlorn older man in tattered clothes with several days’ growth of gray stubble. Philip folded his coat neatly over one arm and sat, noticing as he crossed his ankles and laid the coat across his lap that the man was in dire need of a bath.
As he waited, Philip tried to pick out Sergeant White from the crowd of officers roaming the station. A tall, dark-skinned woman who emerged from an office across the squad room drew his attention. She was striking, with her hair pulled back into a tight inky-black bun above her uniform collar. She came toward him, stopping for a moment to ask the officer at the desk a question. He pointed toward Philip. She nodded and continued toward him.
“Mr. Potter?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m Philip Potter.”
“Thanks for coming in. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you, miss, but I’d love a cup of hot tea with a little lemon and sugar. Is that possible?”
Her smile disappeared. “What do you think this is, a diner? Coffee I got. Water I got. What’ll you have?”
Shocked, Philip glanced at her nametag. Personalization always added weight to a stern lecture. Then he noticed the sergeant’s insignia and the name on the bronze plate. Shirley White. “Uh. I’m sorry… er… uh…. Sergeant. Water would be fine… if it’s not too much trouble.”
“I think we can handle that. Come on back to my office.” She addressed the officer at the desk. “Robinson, think you could round up a glass of water for Mr. Potter?” She showed Philip into the office and pointed to a pair of well-worn leather chairs. “Take a load off,” she said, taking her seat behind the desk.
He slid onto the seat closest to the wall, draping his coat over the back of the empty chair. Robinson leaned in and handed Philip a Dixie cup of water. His full frontal eyebrow made Philip think perhaps the man was trying to grow it long enough to comb back over his gleaming pate. “Thank you, Officer. I’m forever in your debt.”
Robinson snorted as he left the room, earning a frown from Sergeant White. Philip downed the water, crumpled the cup in his hand, and dropped it into the trashcan next to her desk.
“So tell me, Mr. Potter. How do you know Daniel Bradbury?” She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest.
The abruptness of her question startled him. “Daniel Bradbury?” Philip drew a blank. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Oh, come on, Philip.” She picked up a folder and flipped through the contents. “It’s okay if I call you Philip, isn’t it?” She shut the folder and dropped it on her desk “You do know him, don’t you?”
“Yes. I mean no!” The woman’s gaze unsettled him. “You can call me whatever you want. I still don’t know any Daniel Bradbury.” He wiped his brow with his handkerchief, reminding himself he had nothing to hide and no reason to be nervous.
She leaned in close, resting her forearms on her desk. “You know him. And I’ve got witnesses ready to swear you were with him.”
“Witnesses?” Philip sat up straight in his chair. “Are you accusing me of some kind of crime? Honestly, Sergeant, I have no idea who you’re talking about.” He dabbed beads of sweat from his upper lip and forehead with his handkerchief, then returned the folded cloth to his pocket. None of this had anything to do with James’s death. Why was he here?
She glared at him. “Did you or did you not give transistor radios to Daniel Bradbury and the other boys at the Relief Society Shelter on Christmas Eve?”
Radios? Oh, so that’s what this was about. Philip relaxed. “Yes, I dropped some radios off to add a little joy to what must surely be a difficult day. Is there a problem?”
The sergeant stared at him, arms folded back across her chest, head tilted away from him and to one side as she considered his words. “So you don’t know Daniel Bradbury? Never paid him for sexual favors?”
Philip gasped. “Excuse me?”
“Did you pay Daniel Bradbury to have sex with you?”
He placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward. “I assure you, Sergeant, at no time have I ever paid for sex. Nor do I know this Daniel Bradbury person you keep asking me about.”
“Are you sure?” The tone of her voice suggested she didn’t believe him.
He glared at her. “Absolutely positive.”
She pushed a photograph across the desk and watched as he picked it up.
He recognized the face. “Oh, him—the young writer.”
“So you do know him.” She slapped the desk with both palms, triumphant.
Philip dropped the photograph on the desk. “Yes. I mean, no. I met him when I dropped off the radios, but I’d never seen him before and I haven’t seen him since. Has something happened?”
Her gaze hardened. “I’m afraid so. His body washed up on the bank of the Anacostia this morning. He was shot in the head, execution-style.”
Philip sat back in his chair, shocked. “Oh my God. That poor boy.”
She gave him a moment and then dropped another bomb on him. “You were the last person seen with Daniel.” Her gaze made him feel naked, but instead of empowering him, as had been the case with the Walkers, he wished for a fig leaf or something so he could cover up.
His mind reeled, and it took him a moment to find his ability to talk. “Surely your witnesses have also told you that I left, without that young man or anyone else.”
She shrugged, clearly unimpressed. “You could have come back. He’s a pretty boy. Maybe you thought about it, returned to the shelter, and killed him.”
Philip marveled at her words. “Madam, I’ll have you know that after I left the shelter, I stopped at Sears & Roebuck and bought Christmas gifts for my four-year-old nephew. I’m sure the clerk would remember me. The delightful young woman was worried about whether she’d be able to drive in the snow to Morgantown, West Virginia, to spend Christmas with her family.”
He thought about mentioning James’s suicide and his treatment at the scene by police, but decided against it. Her sympathy wouldn’t help. Besides, he knew about the police. Telling her about the bad cop would only bring more trouble.
She stood up. “I’ll check that out. In the meantime, Mr. Potter, don’t leave town.”
Chapter Twelve
HAROLD DIDN’T mind being grounded to his room. There were worse punishments, like a whipping from Poppa or having to go outside to play. Except for his best friend, Abigail Dombroski, the kids in the neighborhood taunted
and teased him about being a sissy. She was the only person in the whole wide world who liked him exactly the way he was. Not being allowed to see her outside of school was the worst punishment of all.
At Abigail’s house he’d played with baby dolls, put on fashion shows with her collection of Barbies, and baked cakes for tea parties in her Easy-Bake Oven. Aside from using the oven to make the occasional after-school snack, he and Abigail had outgrown those toys. But they never tired of dressing up in the wigs, hats, high-heeled shoes, and discarded dresses they’d accumulated over the years and kept in an old trunk in the Dombroski’s basement.
Abigail had pointed out how much she’d like to have his coloring and the delicate features that made him a downright homely guy. A cheap wig, a little eyeliner, and lipstick had transformed him into a pretty girl. They spent hours honing their skills with hair and makeup, using each other for models to practice tips gleaned from magazines or conversations overheard in the girls’ bathroom at school.
Harold sighed. Not that he’d ever been in the girls’ bathroom. The older he got, the more aware he became of the limitations imposed by his gender. Urinals and stalls without doors in smelly rooms with no sofas. Bland, shapeless clothes and clunky, boring shoes. Ugly undergarments. No makeup. Yes, some men wore long hair now—hippies and musicians—but Poppa made him keep his hair cut too short for even the smallest curlers.
Except for rules he had no desire to follow, being a boy was okay. But being a girl was so much more fun. For a while he’d wished he hadn’t been born with a penis, but learning about monthly cycles and where babies came from had changed his mind. He didn’t want to be a girl. But he didn’t like the restrictions and limitations that came with being male either. Rigid expectations for husbands and wives appealed to him as much as brussels sprout ice cream. Inability to identify with either gender left him uncertain about which was the opposite sex. He’d figure it out one day. But for now, flying under his father’s radar required his full attention.
The Dombroskis’ basement had always been the one place where he could be himself. Mrs. Dee sometimes poked her head in the door to invite them upstairs for lunch or a snack, but at no time did she ever venture onto the steps. Harold never dreamed his father would come by Abigail’s house unannounced. But he had, and Harold’s already strained relationship with the Third disintegrated the second he got far enough down the steps to see Abigail touching up Harold’s makeup on what they both agreed was the best look yet among the many they’d tried for him. Poppa had come unglued at the sight of him in black high heels, fishnet hose, and the sleek black-sequined dress they’d made. Harold had never seen him so angry.
Mrs. Dee’s presence had spared him an immediate beating, but it didn’t prevent his father from grabbing Harold’s sequined sleeve and pulling him up the stairs. He’d lost one high-heel shoe in the living room and the other on the front porch as his father dragged him through the house to the car. Despite the shock on her face, relief washed over him when he saw his mother in the passenger seat.
Pete had kept his head down, studying his shoes as the Third lectured Harold about demons and screamed Bible verses at him all the way home. Nothing Harold hadn’t already heard so often he could recite it word for word, but this time had been different. Poppa, who they all knew to be a bit touched in the head, was losing control. By her worried expression, his mother sensed it too. Pete was enjoying his time out of the spotlight too much to say anything, but he likely knew it as well. The pressure was building. Sooner or later, the Third was going to do something really crazy.
Scrubbed clean of makeup and in his pajamas, Harold gazed out his bedroom window at the dreary winter landscape and wondered what would happen next. With any luck, his mother would call him to dinner and his father would act like nothing had happened. Not hearing from her meant she was still trying to calm him down. He wondered if Pete had anything to eat stashed on his side of the room. As mad as his father was, it might be days before he ate again.
A familiar knock interrupted his thoughts and Pete stuck his head in the door. “Mom said wash your hands and come to dinner.”
Harold studied his brother’s face but read nothing there. “How is he?”
Pete shrugged. “Seems fine. But you know how that can change.”
HAROLD FINISHED his milk and moved the starched linen napkin from his lap to his empty plate. Even as hungry as he’d been, the very idea of eating turkey one more time had curbed his appetite. But his amazing mother had transformed picked-over turkey into something he would ask her to make for his next birthday dinner. Judging from the empty plates around the table, he wasn’t the only one who’d enjoyed the dish.
“Harriet, you really outdid yourself this time,” his father said. “What did you call that again?”
She beamed with pride from her seat across the kitchen table. “Turkey Tetrazzini, and finally, that’s the end of our leftover turkey.” She stood, collecting as many dirty dishes as she could carry to the sink. “Will you be going back out this evening, dear?”
Harold watched his father, waiting for an answer. His mother did the same, and he didn’t need to glance at Pete to know he did too.
Poppa shook his head. “I don’t think so. You never complain, but I know you get tired of being left alone so much with the boys.”
Harold knew he wasn’t the only one fighting to keep his disappointment from showing. At least with Christmas behind them, they wouldn’t have to spend the evening making wreaths for Advent. He stared at his empty plate, waiting to be excused.
“Why?” Poppa picked up the newspaper and opened it. “Was there something you needed me to pick up?”
“No, thank you, darling.” His mother stopped behind his father and patted his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re going to spend the evening here with us. You’ve been so busy lately.” She reached around and hugged him from behind. “We miss you.” She let go, then picked up more dishes from the table and carried them to the sink.
“Why don’t you boys give your mom a hand with those dishes?”
“Yes, Poppa,” they said in unison, pushing away from the table and picking up empty glasses and the last few pieces of silverware.
Harold added, “We miss you when you’re not here,” and hoped he sounded sincere. But his words fell on deaf ears as his father’s eyes followed Pete across the kitchen, moving from his neck over his broad shoulders and down his back to linger on his waist. Poppa’s cheeks flushed as he buried his face in the newspaper. Harold wondered what he’d been thinking. As he watched, Poppa’s expression changed from embarrassed to stunned and then horrified.
Poppa dropped the paper like it had burned him and rose from his chair. “I’ve….” He looked at them in turn, and Harold could see he was frightened. “I have to go out.”
His mother’s face fell. “But Tripp, you just said—”
“Dammit, woman! I changed my mind.” He picked up the paper and stuck it under his arm, glaring at her.
Harold stared at the floor, silent. When Poppa got like this, attracting his attention was asking for trouble.
Poppa grabbed his coat and headed for the back door. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“What about dessert? I made your favorite. Apple pie.”
Harold, Pete, and his mom watched as Poppa kept walking, ignoring her. The Continental’s engine roared to life, then faded as the car backed out of the carport and headed out into the night.
His perfect mother pulled the big knife from the drawer. The way she stared at the blade as she twisted it from side to side caused a chill to run down Harold’s spine. She plunged the knife into the crust. “Who wants pie?”
Chapter Thirteen
TREATING BEAU to dinner wasn’t turning out anything like Philip had planned. He’d wanted to show his appreciation and gratitude for everything Beau had done for him. Since Philip’s culinary abilities weren’t quite up to the task, he’d invited Beau to a fancy restaurant where they could enjoy a
cocktail and conversation while others slaved over a hot stove and cleaned up the mess.
But Beau refused to be seen in public having dinner with another man. His job was at stake. Philip’s attempts to convince him that the risk they’d be seen by someone from the school was minimal fell on deaf ears.
They’d compromised, with Philip picking up carryout from the new Italian place over on Seventeenth Street. The extra cheese pizza would have been better served piping hot at the table and still in possession of all the cheese now stuck to the top of the box. Having to wash the dishes upon which they’d eaten the disappointing meal only added insult to injury.
With the dishes dried and put away, they retired to the living room sofa. Beau switched on the television to watch Daniel Boone, his favorite show. Philip’s favorite shows aired on Fridays at the same time on competing networks. At first he’d tried switching back and forth between them, but staying on his knees in front of the television with one hand on the channel knob was uncomfortable, and he ended up missing the best parts of both shows. He wished the network would move Tarzan to the Thursday time slot held by Daniel Boone so he wouldn’t have to miss every other episode of The Wild Wild West to watch his other favorite show. He couldn’t decide if he preferred a shirtless Robert Conrad or Ron Ely in a loincloth, but knew both beat Fess Parker in buckskins and a coonskin cap.
During the commercial break, Beau asked, “Where were you yesterday?”
Philip resisted the urge to respond that his whereabouts at any particular moment were none of Beau’s business, but he knew Beau meant no harm. Concern was written all over his face. He was quite a lot more direct than Philip expected from a denizen of the Deep South—even more so than Mary.
“You didn’t answer when I called, so I came by the apartment to check. You weren’t home either.”
Instead of the zinger that came to mind about missing out on a career as a private investigator, Philip answered Beau’s question. “I was chatting with a sergeant down at the police station.”
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