During Anthony’s incarceration, Mr. Walker had become a partner in a fancy DC law firm. A few weeks before his release, he’d come up to Eastern State to remind Anthony to come see him when he got out. Anthony had obeyed and was glad he had. This gig as a private investigator was right up his alley. Fortuitous was the only word for it. He grinned, displaying the gap between his two front teeth. Fortuitous was last on his list of vocabulary words for the day—and it wasn’t even two o’clock yet.
He liked the work, though, to be honest, a job he’d enjoy less than being in prison would be difficult to imagine. Investigation work was interesting and allowed him to develop new skills. He’d never get rich, not until he earned his law degree and passed the bar exam anyway, but the money paid for night school and the essentials. Even better, it kept him from going back to prison like every other con he knew.
With his arms full of files, Anthony walked up the steps for his two o’clock meeting with his benefactor. The receptionist—a tall, voluptuous redhead like the women he’d dreamed about in prison—showed him into Mr. Walker’s office. He liked the way her ass swayed when she walked. He liked it a lot.
“Hello, Tony.” Mr. Walker came toward him, hand out, and Anthony pumped it twice. “Thanks for meeting with us today. Tony Vincent, this is Philip Potter, one of my clients.”
Anthony would correct anyone else for calling him Tony. Mr. Walker, however, as his role model and personal savior, could call him shithead if he wanted. Anthony extended a hand to Mr. Walker’s client—a man about his age with sandy blond hair and a goatee, in a suit he could only describe as stylish.
Potter pressed the end of his fingers in an awkward handshake. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Vincent.”
Fairy. No big deal. Anthony had encountered fairies before. Lots of them. As long as Potter kept his hands to himself, Anthony didn’t have a problem. Who he slept with was his own business.
They took seats around a small conference table. Anthony rapped his folders on the table, lining the edges up neatly before setting the stack down and folding his hands across the top.
“Well, Tony,” Mr. Walker said. “What have you found out?”
Anthony cleared his throat. “Based on my initial investigation,” he said, trying to sound as professional as his role model and mentor, “I believe we have a serial killer in the area with a thing for fairies.” He saw Potter flinch but kept talking. “In the last three months, bodies of half a dozen teenage boys, including Daniel Bradbury, have washed up in Maryland, DC, and Virginia. All were shot in the head, probably with the same weapon. The bodies were disposed of in a similar manner too. Rolled up in a sheet or blanket with rocks, then wrapped with duct tape and dumped in the Anacostia.”
The way Mr. Walker regarded Potter surprised him. Tender. He almost expected to see him put an arm around Potter. Anthony continued with his report. “Two of the six still haven’t been identified. Probably runaways—no telling where they’re from. I haven’t found much on the other four.” He shrugged. “Families won’t talk. One father said his boy got what he deserved. The rest acted like I had the wrong number or something.”
“Do the DC police know about the other cases?”
Anthony had wondered the same thing. “I don’t think so. Different jurisdictions. Without the families pushing, the local police don’t seem real interested in investigating.”
“Keep digging,” Mr. Walker said. “Maybe we can find something to generate more interest in these cases.”
“Yes, sir.” Anthony was being dismissed, but he wasn’t finished. He drummed his fingers on the folders, thinking about what to do.
“Was there something else?” The question had come from Potter. Made sense. Homosexuals were probably better at reading body language than normal men—especially a prison-hardened body like his.
He nodded. “The boys had more in common than a bad family life.” He waited, counting to three in his head. He noted with satisfaction that both men leaned closer to him.
Mr. Walker broke the silence. “Yes?”
“They turned tricks.”
Mr. Walker gaped at him. “What?”
“Street hustlers,” Potter answered.
“Yes, sir, male prostitutes. At least the boys we know about.” Anthony opened the file with the police records for the four boys who’d been identified. “Two had a history of petty crime—shoplifting, purse-snatching, that kind of thing. All four had been arrested at least once for prostitution or a related charge.”
“Anything else?”
He checked the notes he’d prepared for the meeting. “No, Mr. Walker. That’s all I got.”
“Good work.” Mr. Walker stood, signaling the meeting was over. “Keep digging. Let me know the minute you find something I can take to the police.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Walker.” Anthony stood as well, securing his files under his arm and then pushing his chair back to the table.
Potter rose and offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Vincent.”
He nodded again, shaking Potter’s hand and then Mr. Walker’s. Mr. Walker led them to the door. It was speak now or forever hold his piece. Anthony stopped. “Oh… there is one more thing.”
Potter and Mr. Walker stopped, waiting for him to go on.
“All the arrests took place within three blocks of the bus station. Whoever is killing these boys picks them up in DC.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
AFTER THE investigator left, Philip remained standing, certain he was about to be dismissed from George’s office. He was an up-and-coming attorney with more important things to do than work on Philip’s case. They’d never talked about money, but given the circumstances of their meeting, George had to know Philip couldn’t afford the kind of fees his other clients paid. Philip would get a bill one day, and when he did, if he couldn’t pay it all at once, he’d work out a repayment plan.
The attractive redheaded receptionist stuck her head in the door. “Excuse me, Mr. Walker. Your three o’clock has canceled.” She stood with the door open, waiting for his instructions.
“Thank you, Miss Harris. Philip, would you like some coffee? Tea?”
Philip took his seat, seeing how he was apparently staying for afternoon tea. “Yes, thank you. I’d love a cup of hot tea, with a little lemon and sugar.”
“One lump or two?” She focused her beautiful face on him, and Philip wondered whether she’d been passed over for matrimony or wasn’t interested.
“Three?” His face grew hot. “It’s my only vice.”
Her beauty would have brought any other man to his knees. “Then three it shall be. The usual for you, Mr. Walker?”
“Yes, thank you, Miss Harris.” He turned to Philip after she closed the door. “Used to work for a Madison Avenue ad agency. She’s probably the best-paid receptionist in Washington, and at that, is worth twice her salary.” He walked over and sat on the sofa, across from Philip. “What did you think of Tony’s report?”
“I’m sick that the police aren’t already on top of this. Six boys have been killed. How many more need to die before they decide to do something?”
“The world isn’t a very fair place, I’m afraid.” George placed his arm along the back of the sofa. “Things would be different if the victims were little girls, unless they were prostitutes.”
Miss Harris returned with a silver tea service on a tray she placed on the coffee table. She poured steaming water over tea bags in two fine porcelain cups and removed the cover from a plate of chocolate chip cookies. “Can I get you gentleman anything else?”
“No, that will be all. Go ahead and take the rest of the afternoon off. I’ll lock things up when I leave.”
“Thank you, Mr. Walker.” She nodded at Philip and closed the door behind her.
“The public doesn’t care much about murdered prostitutes.” George removed the tea bag from his cup and placed it on the saucer. “People don’t understand how fortunate they’ve been not to have to choose between st
arving and walking the streets or stealing. I see a real bad guy every now and then, but most of the defendants are unlucky people in bad circumstances with few legitimate options for a better future.”
Philip studied him, wondering what had motivated James to steal from his kind uncle. “That’s what drew me to James—his situation. I couldn’t imagine how awful being tossed from the parental home must be for a child. Heartbreaking. He insisted he was eighteen, but I knew better. I made sure he did his homework, brushed his teeth before he went to bed, and picked up after himself.”
“You were the parent, and James was the child.”
“Yes, I’d say that’s an accurate description of our relationship, especially in the beginning.”
They talked until after six. Philip couldn’t remember when he’d last enjoyed conversation with another person so much. Other than a few comments about James, they hadn’t talked about people they knew and what they wore or who they dated. They’d talked about big ideas and debated the finer points of things, like transactional analysis, the relationship between poverty and crime, and the need to focus on ending war and world hunger.
“I’m starving,” George said. “Care to join me for dinner?”
Philip stood. “No, I couldn’t possibly take any more of your time. Thank you so much for the tea and conversation. I’ve enjoyed the opportunity to get to know you.”
George didn’t seem too disappointed that his dinner invitation had been declined. Philip grasped his hand, wondering how he had grown so much more handsome in only a day’s time. “The pleasure was mine. I look forward to seeing you again.”
Soon, Philip hoped.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ANTHONY VINCENT added another page of notes to his file on the Fairy Killer, what he’d decided to call the person who was killing male prostitutes in the DC area. He liked the ring of it and thought it would make for good headlines when and if the story ever made it to the newspapers.
His search for the Fairy Killer gave him opportunities to put into practice what he’d learned about building a case in class and from Mr. Walker. Investigating Potter had been the logical first step, and he’d checked out. Anthony had parked outside Potter’s G Street apartment and watched as he walked to the bus stop to go to work. Without a car, he couldn’t be picking up boys in the District and dumping them in the river in Maryland.
Catching killers would be easy if they looked the part. Appearances could be deceiving, though. Still, Potter didn’t strike him as the killing type. Everything about the man said nice guy. Mr. Walker seemed to like him well enough. Anthony was comfortable ruling him out as a suspect.
After ruling out Potter and with nothing much to go on, he’d focused on the victims. Visits to the high schools the boys attended hadn’t helped much. Of the four, only Daniel Bradbury hadn’t dropped out and had still been in school.
He glanced at his watch and headed to the classroom of Daniel’s English teacher to talk with him about Daniel during his planning hour. Mr. Beau Carter, a nervous, fancy-dressed dandy he figured to be queer as a three-dollar bill, had been the only person at the boy’s school willing to talk with him.
“Good student?” Anthony asked.
“Yes, one of my best—at least until a few months ago,” Mr. Carter said with a Southern drawl. “Before then, Daniel was always prepared and a talented writer. He wrote for The Trumpeter, our school newspaper. I’m the faculty adviser, so I knew him well.”
“Did you know he was staying at a shelter for homeless boys?”
Mr. Carter frowned. “That would explain the change in his schoolwork. I knew he was having some trouble at home, but I had no idea….”
“Guess you didn’t know he was selling his ass on the streets for cash either.” Anthony watched for Mr. Carter’s reaction.
The man gasped, his hand flying up to his neck as if to clutch an invisible strand of pearls. Anthony thought about his Aunt Sophia and wanted to laugh, but he stayed serious.
“I wish I’d known,” Mr. Carter said, his voice thin.
“I’m sure, but there really wasn’t much you could do,” Anthony said. “Did he have any friends?”
Mr. Carter met his gaze. Queer or not, the man reminded him of a movie star—the guy in Camelot. He’d seen him on television a dozen times but couldn’t think of his name. Eyes that blue were rare.
“Daniel was very popular. The girls loved him.”
I’ll bet. Probably did their hair and makeup. “Did he have a girlfriend?”
Mr. Carter shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Boyfriend?” Anthony noticed Carter’s pallor and shaking hands. Yep. Queer as a three-dollar bill.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, avoiding eye contact.
But Anthony could see Mr. Carter knew exactly what he meant. He was a bundle of nerves. No need to push. “Let me elucidate. You know,” he said. “Friends that were boys. Guys he ran around with when he wasn’t in class.”
Mr. Carter’s glance darted around the room. Poor guy.
Anthony patted his shoulder. “Relax. This isn’t about you. I’m trying to find out who offed the kid. Maybe a friend of his knows something that could help. Maybe not, but it’s all I got right now.”
Mr. Carter stared at him. Anthony held his gaze and saw fear. He knew he was being sized up. After a long silence, Anthony saw Mr. Carter’s internal debate had ended and he’d reached a decision. “His best friend is Terrence Bottom. He’s the photographer for The Trumpeter and checks in with me after school every day.”
Anthony glanced at his watch. “That would be sometime in the next hour or so. Mind if I wait? I’d like to have a word with him.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
TERRENCE BOTTOM flounced into the room twenty minutes after the final bell. He wore the same khaki pants and oxford cloth shirts as the other boys, but stood out like he came from another planet.
It was the hair. Or at least, that’s what Anthony first noticed about him. The other boys sported crew cuts, flattops, or bowl cuts with bangs and hair over their ears. A few wore their hair parted on the side and glued in place with a dab of Brylcreem. Terrence’s unruly crown of golden curls danced and bounced on his head as he walked into the room.
He had a camera at his side, held in place by his right arm and a thick black canvas strap over his shoulder. From a strap across his left shoulder hung a black leather bag for accessories. The way he flitted around the room made Anthony think he was hyped-up on sugar or caffeine or something.
“Terrence,” Mr. Carter said, “this is Mr. Vincent. He’s trying to find out what happened to Daniel and wants to ask you some questions.”
Terrence scowled at Anthony, his distrust evident. “What’s it to you?”
Mr. Carter had stopped shuffling papers on his desk and watched him, waiting for his answer.
“Fair question,” Anthony said. “I’m a private investigator for a law firm with an interest in the case. Your friend isn’t the only victim. Five other boys died the same way.”
Mr. Carter gasped.
Anthony glared at him. “Do you mind?”
Mr. Carter seemed glad for the excuse to go. He picked up the papers from his desk and as he hurried to the door, said, “I’ll be in the teacher’s lounge grading papers. If you leave before I get back, please close the door behind you.”
Terrence sat in the teacher’s chair, leaned back, and pushed his hands into his hair to keep stray curls from falling into his hazel eyes. “Okay. What do you want to ask me?”
The clothes said teenage boy. Everything else—the voice, the golden mane of curls, the smooth face, and the slim build—reminded Anthony of his niece. He noticed the Adam’s apple. Definitely a boy. Anthony sat on the edge of the desk and faced him. “Tell me, Terry, how do you know Daniel?”
Terrence set his bag on the floor and placed his camera on top like it was the Holy Grail. He straightened and turned to Anthony. “My name is Terren
ce.” He scowled, waiting.
“Sorry, Terrence. I should have known better. My name is Anthony and I hate it when people call me Tony.”
“Apology accepted.” He smiled, pleased with himself. “So what was that question again, Anthony?”
The kid had spunk. Maybe it was the resemblance to his niece. Or maybe it was the oversized confidence. Either way, Anthony couldn’t help it. He liked him. Instead of knocking the mocking grin from his face, as he was wont to do, Anthony laughed.
Terrence snatched his camera up and snapped a picture of Anthony, smiling and leaning against the desk with his arms crossed. “Mind if I take a few more shots?”
Anthony’s face grew hot. Words escaped him. The lens clicked as the boy captured his embarrassment on film. He tried to act natural, his mouth closed to hide the space between his teeth. He watched the camera, shifting to keep the lens directly in front of him, concealing the battered profile of his nose as the shutter clicked. He raised his hand and the clicking accelerated. “Enough!”
Terrence placed the camera in his lap. “Want to come into the darkroom with me to see how they came out?”
Anthony laughed again. Talk about balls. “I think I’ll wait for the prints, thanks.”
“Pity.” Terrence bounced in the chair, one hand on the camera to keep it from falling to the floor. His mood changed and he grew serious. “I loved Daniel. He was my best friend in the world.”
“I’m sorry.” Anthony resisted an urge to reach over and tousle his hair. “How did you know him?”
Terrence tossed his curls, releasing the smell of Prell, reminding Anthony of his mother. “We had some classes together. He wrote articles for The Trumpeter too, so I ran into him a lot. But we didn’t really get close until his folks kicked him out and he came to the shelter.”
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