Sure, he’d let a guy blow him back in prison. As long as Anthony kept his eyes closed, what was the difference? Besides, five years is a hell of a long time to rely on old righty and mental images of redheads with big tits and nice asses like Mr. Walker’s receptionist—the woman who’d turned him down for a date.
He’d learned a thing or two about homosexuals in prison. Wanting to have sex with men rather than women wasn’t a choice, and not all queers fit the stereotype. Homosexual or not, feminine men made him uncomfortable. In the big house, he’d avoided them like they had leprosy, preferring instead to exercise in the yard with manly guys more like himself. Like Hank—his best pal, cellmate, and the biggest, scariest dude on the block. The man’s biceps were bigger than the thighs of an average man. His massive chest practically exploded from a ribbed cotton T-shirt, tight enough to see the ridges of his washboard abs.
One night a year or two into his prison term, Hank had interrupted Anthony’s dream date with an especially curvy redhead. He said he’d liked looking at naked men for as long as he could remember and had figured out he preferred men to women before he dropped out of high school. “I like you a lot,” Hank said. “I know you ain’t into guys, and that’s all right. But hearing you whacking off over there drives me fucking nuts.”
Finding out something about someone Anthony thought he knew well had never surprised him more. “No, thanks,” Anthony had replied. “I’m good. Nice of you to offer, though.”
Knowing Hank could hear him put an end to Anthony’s nocturnal dates with big-tittied redheads. He doubled the number of sit-ups, pull-ups, and push-ups he did every day and took his showers cold. He’d been flat on his back a few months later, the blanket pup-tented over his crotch, when Hank had again offered to relieve his suffering.
He’d politely refused again and thanked Hank for his generous offer.
Three days later, he got hard in the shower watching another prisoner lather his legs and ass with soap. He’d attempted to hide the embarrassing erection, but it was too late.
“Loaded cannon in the shower!”
A crowd materialized in minutes, ogling him.
“Shoot your load here, honey.”
Anthony had pushed his way through the leering men and returned to his cell, where he’d tossed and turned, unable to sleep. When he closed his eyes, an endless parade of giant breasts and redheaded pussies tormented him. His raging cock bounced against his belly, demanding attention.
That’s when Hank had taken matters into his own hands—and then into his mouth. Anthony had known it was his cellmate, but he’d never opened his eyes, not even once in the three years after that.
He wadded up the empty bag of Bugles and tossed it in the floorboard. Half a block ahead, a car got his attention. The light changed and a yellow Lincoln Continental passed through the intersection. He cranked the Triumph’s engine to follow.
Mindful of the deserted streets, Anthony tailed his target from a distance, trying not to attract any attention. He followed the car west on New York Avenue and up Fourteenth Street. Determined to get the license plate, he pressed on. The Continental, now several blocks ahead of him, turned left onto K Street.
Anthony yanked the wheel hard to the left, careening onto K Street. At Nineteenth he slowed to make the turn, watching ahead for the yellow Lincoln and creeping through every intersection to scan side streets for the car in several of Terrence’s pictures.
At Nineteenth and G Street, he slammed on the brakes. In the distance he saw the Continental’s taillights as the driver parked along the curb on G Street. Anthony envied his skill. Five years in prison had kept him from perfecting his parking skills. By the time he’d parked, the driver he’d followed had disappeared.
Anthony strolled up and down G Street like it was noon instead of after midnight. He didn’t see or hear anything unusual. For the focus of his investigation to turn up on the same street where Potter lived struck him as more than a coincidence. Had Potter been lying about not having a car?
Strolling with his hands in his pockets, he stopped when he reached the Continental. Empty. He jotted down the number from the license plate.
He scanned the street again. Deserted. The owner of the big yellow car could be in any of the dozen or so apartment buildings on either side of the street.
Should he check the inside? He stepped closer and peered through the car’s window. Nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn’t locked. Maybe he could get a fingerprint or something.
Then he remembered his criminal evidence class. And Mr. Walker had told him too. No. Evidence obtained that way made it inadmissible in court, no matter how good it was.
Anthony wondered if the Lincoln Continental and Potter were somehow connected as he walked back to his car. He pulled forward ten inches, twisted the wheel, and backed up eight inches, repeating the back-and-forth maneuver seven more times before he managed to pull away from the curb and onto the street.
By the time he reached the intersection, the yellow Continental was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
PHILIP POLISHED off his second cup of coffee and glanced at the clock. Nearly seven. The inability to sleep had made him an early riser. The extra time enabled him to read the newspaper, watch Hugh Downs and Barbara Walters on The Today Show, and add to Mary’s letter without Beau underfoot.
He missed his sister. Philip had telephoned Mary once or twice a week and visited almost every weekend for years. Since they’d left for Italy, he’d reached for the phone to call her every few hours. The weekly letter to her he’d started the day she left was already eleven pages long, with two more days to go before he mailed it and started a new one.
Philip looked around the apartment with disgust. Beau’s multicolored vision hadn’t quite come together the way he’d described it. Rather than edgy and groovy, the polychromatic theme read like a disturbed child’s psychedelic visions of circuses and carnivals. He disliked the gaudy color scheme more with each passing day.
Think positive!
Okay, the changes weren’t all bad. He loved the green in the living room and, because of the makeover, saw the space in a new way. Unless his landlord discovered the wild paint job and forced his hand, he’d wait a month or two before repainting and moving toward his own vision. Beau would understand, wouldn’t he?
No. He wouldn’t.
Philip sighed. Loneliness was less of an issue when he was by himself than when he was with Beau. He let out another long breath. Sure, Beau was attentive. That was the problem. He demanded the same from Philip. A few hours with him was exhausting.
Yes, Beau did prepare dinner seven days a week and was an excellent cook. That was a problem too. The food was always what Beau wanted to fix—butter-logged, deep fried, and seasoned with unknown hog parts. Philip had gained ten pounds since Christmas. He hated to complain. And it wasn’t like Beau held a gun to his head to make him eat. Saying no was just so hard, especially when the food was so good.
Resisting his advances was becoming more difficult too. Sure, Beau was attractive. Gorgeous, really. In his letter to Mary, he’d described Beau as a tall Robert Goulet. The jaw and mouth weren’t right—Beau’s lips were fuller, and he had those dimples and that cleft in his chin—but the eyes were the same. Philip was sure plenty of women and more than a few men would welcome Beau’s interest.
Telling Beau he needed more time wouldn’t work forever. Time wasn’t the issue. The problem was Beau.
Living with James had been easy. They could talk, or not. Do something together, or go their separate ways for an afternoon or the occasional weekend. No expectations. No demands. Easy.
Spending time with Beau was anything but easy. He insisted they spend every minute they weren’t at work together, but he never wanted to go anywhere for fear of being seen and found out. Philip had watched more television in the last few weeks than he’d seen in years—mostly reruns of things he didn’t care to watch the first time they’d aired.
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br /> Thinking about it made Philip mad. How much time had he wasted watching mindless drivel? He got up to turn off the television, but stopped when he saw police cars and a river behind the local news reporter. He increased the volume.
“…where this morning, a fisherman saw what turned out to be a body on the bank of the Anacostia River. Joining me is Sergeant Shirley White with the DCPD. What can you tell us?” The young reporter peered at Sergeant White, his face earnest, his short hair slicked back, the microphone in his hand shoved almost into her mouth.
“Well, based on our initial investigation, it appears a young man is dead.”
The reporter’s eyes lit up. “Can you tell us how he died? Did he drown?”
“He did not drown. We can’t say more until we hear from the coroner.”
The reporter paused, thinking. “Did he die of natural causes?”
She gave him a look Philip had seen in person. “The victim is between seventeen and twenty years old. You tell me.”
Her words precipitated a rush of questions about suspects and motives. Sergeant Jackson ignored them. “The investigation is ongoing. Further details will be released as they became available.”
Philip switched off the television.
The story hadn’t provided enough information to be certain, but it sounded like the killer had struck again. He glanced at the time—still too early to call George Walker’s office. He grabbed his wallet from the kitchen table and retrieved the emergency number George had given him.
The discovery of another body would increase pressure on the police to find the person responsible. As the one and only suspect, Philip decided this new development constituted an emergency. He picked up the phone and called George.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A BEMUSED group of teenagers watched from the steps of the high school as Anthony Vincent parked his turquoise Triumph Herald. He ignored them, pleased with his progress. With only five gear changes, he was getting better. This had been his best attempt yet.
Terrence Bottom’s dancing curls were easy to spot in the crowd pouring through the school’s double doors. Anthony leaned against his Triumph, watching as Terrence bounded down the steps. The way Terrence lit up when he saw him warmed Anthony’s heart.
“Anthony!” Terrence squealed. He ran across the street, threw his arms around Anthony’s neck, and kissed him full on the lips.
The students crowding the sidewalks gawked, whispering among themselves and pointing. Too shocked to react, Anthony stared into mischievous hazel eyes that were mere inches from his own. Terrence winked. Anthony’s hands moved to Terrence’s shoulders to put a little distance between them. Before he could push, Terrence broke the embrace.
“How sweet of you to pick me up. I could’ve walked.” His voice was loud enough for everyone on the block to hear. “You’re so good to me!” Then he walked around to the passenger side of the Triumph and stopped. “Do I have to stand here all day or are you going to open this door?”
Grateful for something to do besides standing there with his mouth open, Anthony walked around and opened the door.
Terrence slid in and tossed his curls. “Thanks, honey.”
The crowd had grown silent and waited for his reaction.
Terrence beamed up at him with a triumphant smile. The kid was something else.
The silence was deafening. Time came to a stop. Anthony considered the kids staring at them and made up his mind. If Terrence wanted to give them a show, well, why not? He smiled back and ran a hand through Terrence’s hair. “You’re welcome, darling.” He walked around to the driver’s side. As he was getting into the car, he nodded at the gaping students and winked.
Terrence leaned out the window and waved. “Bye, kids! See you tomorrow!” Then he whispered to Anthony, “Floor it, now!”
Anthony pulled forward, shifted into reverse and turned the wheel hard before backing up several inches. The third time he put the car in reverse, Terrence exclaimed, “Jesus! Where’d you learn to drive?”
AS THEY were late for lunch and too early for dinner, Anthony and Terrence practically had the diner to themselves. The collection of empty dishes around Terrence proved he could eat more than men two or three times his size. Anthony couldn’t help but wonder where it all went. The kid must have hollow legs. Good thing Mr. Walker paid his expenses.
Anthony pushed dishes and condiments to the side and fanned out twelve pictures on the table. “Do you know anything about the men who drive these cars?”
“Let me see.” Terrence scanned the photos and pulled one out. “Frank drives this Mercury. Nice guy. His wife’s name is Phyllis. She loves him but won’t suck his dick. Can you imagine being married to someone who won’t suck your dick?” Terrence selected another photo. “Military guy drives this Plymouth. He’s a general or an admiral or something. I don’t know his name. He wears a bra and panties under his uniform and pays extra for you to slap his face while he blows you.”
A pink-uniformed waitress with a shiny black bouffant appeared and began to clear the table. “Anything else?”
“I’d love some apple pie a la mode,” Terrence replied. “Could you squirt a little whipped cream on it for me?”
“Cost you a nickel extra,” she said, punctuating her remark with a loud pop of the gum she chewed.
“That’s fine.” Terrence reached across the table and touched Anthony’s hand. “Want anything, honey? I don’t want you getting tired before I’m finished with you.”
The waitress’s jaw dropped and her eyes grew wide.
Anthony raised both hands, palms out. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
The waitress fled for the kitchen.
Anthony picked up the photograph of the yellow Continental. “What about this guy?”
Terrence’s brow furrowed. “I’ve seen him around, but don’t know who he is. He’s movie-star handsome. The guys call him Casper because he’s the ghost we’d like to get friendly with. Weird nobody knows him, considering how much he comes around. Go to the barbershop often enough and, sooner or later, you’re gonna get your hair cut.”
Chapter Thirty
PHILIP’S DAY at the museum passed at a glacial pace. He spent the better part of it cataloging a collection of thimbles, believed to be the largest in the world, willed to the Smithsonian by Minerva Tolliver of Lincoln, Nebraska. For more than eighty years, starting in 1872, she’d recorded the price, description, and interesting information about each and every acquisition in one of several leather-bound logs.
A number and a letter with each entry referred to one of seventy-two drawers in an oak rolltop desk that Philip believed might be worth more than the entire thimble collection. The gold digits appeared in the exact same position on each drawer in an ornate script that set the desk apart from any like it he’d seen before. Partitions divided the drawers into bins, each holding a single thimble. The largest drawer held fifty thimbles, with compartments labeled from A to XX in the same hand as the numbers on the drawers. The entire collection consisted of nearly three thousand thimbles.
He was fascinated by the detailed descriptions and the circumstances around each acquisition. By lunch, however, his interest had faded. As dozens of clocks struck three, he imagined himself dumping the contents of the drawers into a shoebox to see how long returning each thimble to its rightful slot would take.
As the afternoon dragged on, he wondered about Miss Minerva Tolliver and the life she’d lived in Lincoln. Had her obsession with thimbles consumed her? Or had she been lonely, filling her empty hours admiring her collection and writing about it? By the end of the day, he’d concluded she was a serial killer, taking thimbles for trophies as she knocked off quilters throughout the Midwest, writing down the fate of each victim in a code only she understood.
A symphony of chimes, gongs, and cuckoo birds announced quitting time. Philip grabbed his beret and benchwarmer from the coat rack and headed out to hail a cab. Barring a motorcade or traffic jam, he’d reach George
’s office in plenty of time for his six o’clock appointment.
He adjusted his watch and was about to do the same with the bracelet on his other arm when he remembered he wasn’t wearing it. That morning, his keys, wallet, and watch had been on the kitchen counter where he always put them after work, but the bracelet James had given him for Christmas was not. He’d seen it on the counter the night before and searched everywhere before deciding that Beau must have taken it with him when he left. He made a mental note to ask him about it.
Miss Harris showed Philip to George’s office. He rose from his chair when Philip entered the room, smiling as he walked soundlessly across the thick carpet, extending his hand as he neared. “Good to see you again.”
George’s pleasure at seeing him astonished Philip, causing his heart to skip a beat and a warm glow to spread through him. His delight to see George surprised him, though it shouldn’t have, given the care he’d taken to dress for today’s meeting. He’d done well—too well, in truth, since, save for different ties, he and George were dressed exactly alike.
Philip grasped his hand, enjoying the firm grip and the warm, soft skin. “Thank you.”
“Nice suit,” George said with a sly grin. “But I’m not sure about the tie.”
Philip laughed. “I don’t know that I’ve ever run across someone wearing the same suit before. Have you?” They looked each other up and down and ended up staring into each other’s eyes. Philip interrupted the awkward silence. “Thanks for seeing me after hours. I’m forever in your debt.”
“We pride ourselves on customer service here at Walker and Cochran. Come in, have a seat.” He pointed to the green leather sofa and matching easy chair. “Care for coffee, tea, maybe a snifter of brandy?”
Philip took a seat on the sofa. “Thank you, no.”
“Are you sure? I’ve got some expensive brandy that’s smooth as silk.” George stood in the middle of the room, waiting for Philip to answer.
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