He followed her through another door, down a narrow hall, and into a tiny dressing room that was packed with a collage of show things. One entire wall was taken up by a rack of glittering gowns, the other by a large makeup table that was strewn with cosmetics. Three or four wigs were carefully perched here and there, and Todd spotted a half-filled ashtray and two Styrofoam cups with huge lipstick marks on them.
Shutting the door behind them, Tiffany nodded to a folding chair off to one side and said, “Have a seat.”
Todd sat as Tiffany took her place at the makeup table. She flicked on the lights surrounding the mirror, looked at herself, smoothed her eyebrows, and groaned. Then she took a cigarette, lit it, and dramatically spewed out a big cloud of smoke.
In his male voice, Jeff Barnes's dislike of Todd was clear as he asked, “Why the hell are you here?”
“I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Michael.”
“Like what?”
“If you saw him when he was down here that last time.”
“Oh, God,” he mumbled, rolling his eyes.
“Listen, Jeff,” began Todd, “I know you've never liked me. And I know you didn't care for my relationship with Michael.”
“The word bogus comes to mind.”
“I won't say that I didn't complicate things, but I loved Michael more than you can—”
“Oh, please spare me,” Jeff said, reaching up to his scalp and pulling off his wig and revealing a mostly bald head. “Yeah, he was down here, we talked, if that's what you want to know.”
“When?”
“That night. It must have been an hour or two after you played the madman and busted all of his grandmother's dishes.”
“What about the next night? It would have been early, right after work. He would have stopped by for a drink.”
“I don't know. I wasn't here and I haven't heard anything.”
“Well, when he was down here,” asked Todd, “when you saw him, was he with anyone?”
Jeff took a long, pensive drag on his cigarette, stared at Todd with his huge eyes that were further highlighted by all the makeup, and said, “Jesus Christ, is that all you care about?”
“What do you mean?”
“You just want to know if Michael had a fuck buddy, don't you?”
“Jeff, no, that's not why I … I …” Todd shook his head, bent forward, and covered his face with his hands. “I really screwed things up. I can't believe what a jerk I was. But now Michael's dead, and I've got to try and understand what happened. So, yeah, I guess I want to know if he was seeing anyone else. Did I drive him that far away? Had our relationship come to that?” Todd looked up. “And the other side of the same coin is that, yes, I need to know—the police need to know—if he was seeing anyone else, because perhaps, just perhaps, that was the person who killed him.”
Jeff, sitting there in the gown, ran a hand over his bald scalp, puffed on the cigarette, stared at the top of the vanity, and said, “Yeah, he came down here. He came in just like you did, right after I finished singing. And he sat right there, right where you are. He'd been crying and he looked like shit.”
“Oh, God.”
“He didn't want to leave you, but your little outburst scared the shit out of him. He didn't know what to do.”
“I was just under so much pressure,” pleaded Todd.
“I told him he didn't have to take that crap.”
“I loved him.”
“Well, there's good love and there's bad love,” said Jeff. “I told him exactly that—that there's good and there's bad love—and if your man is getting violent on you, then it's time to change things. I told him he should leave you, absolutely. Frankly, I thought you two were wrong from the beginning.”
“What did Michael … what did he say?”
“Not much. He just started crying again.” Jeff shook his head as his eyes started reddening with tears. “Poor, poor Michael. Do you know we'd been friends for over thirty years?”
“They were getting ready to offer me an anchor position at Channel Seven,” launched Todd, wanting, almost begging Jeff to understand. “These two worlds were colliding, my private life and my public. I couldn't handle it. You don't know what it's like being on television, what it's like to be rated on a daily basis. It's so sickening being judged on how you appear. If someone doesn't like your tie they call the station and say you're a dork of a journalist.”
“Todd, you know what I think?” said Jeff, looking right at him. “I think my dearest friend Michael was too good for you, that's what I think. He was an innocent, always had been, and he gave and gave and gave to you. On the other hand, you, the original closet case, took and took and took from him. All you were focused on was your career and your Emmys. No, that's not right. All you were focused on was your flicking image. How people saw you, you know, if you looked good on that little bitty screen and if your fucking tie looked good with your fucking shirt. It just wasn't an equitable relationship. Michael, the accountant, kept coming up with a negative net worth.”
“Jeff … don't,” said Todd. “Don't say that. Don't talk like that. I loved Michael. He changed my life in ways you'll never know. That night that he was killed I was coming over to tell him that he was right, I had to come out. I was going to tell Channel Seven about Michael and me. I was going to make things right.”
“Well, you were a little late, weren't you?”
Not willing to let go of the one shining kernel of truth, Todd pleaded, “I was late, but … but I did make it. Doesn't that count for something?”
“Todd, don't you get it? This isn't Sleeping Beauty. Nothing's going to bring back my dear Michael.” Dismissing him with a dramatic wave of her hand, she said, “Now go on, get out of here. I've got to change gowns.”
In preparation for her second song, Tiffany reached across her vanity, took another wig—the hair on this one was long and curled—and began tugging it on. Then she looked at herself in the mirror, saw how dreadfully sad her face had fallen, and immediately burst into tears. How in God's name could any of this be happening? Why had that Todd Mills come down here and asked so much? She only hoped she'd bowled him over with her version of the truth.
Tiffany pulled a couple of tissues from a box and dabbed daintily at her eyes and blew her nose. Though she'd never liked Todd Mills and had nothing but disdain for what he'd put Michael through, tonight she almost felt sorry for him. But, no. She couldn't let herself get sucked in. Oh, she saw how Michael had. A guy like Todd, so butch, such a rugged, handsome face. And that dazzling smile. Sure, Todd could be charming, but he knew how to turn it on and off as easily as a television. Cheap. He was cheap.
Regardless, this wasn't good, Todd's coming down here, wondering this and that. Not good at all, thought Tiffany, as she opened the top drawer of her vanity and pulled out a small telephone, her treasured pink Princess phone. Taking a pen so that she wouldn't break her long nails, she dialed a number that she had called all too frequently in the last week.
A few rings later the phone on the other end was answered by a machine, into which Tiffany angrily shouted, “Are you there? If you are, you sure as hell better pick up. Pick up the fucking phone, would you, you bitch? Hello? Hello?” But when no one came on Tiffany said, “Well, we've got a big problem. Todd Mills was just here. He came down here to see me and he was asking all sorts of questions. He knows something's up, God damn it all. He was asking if Michael went home with anyone, for Christ's sake. Shit, he could really screw things up if he finds out. I can't believe this. I'll be here for another couple of hours. I'll call when I get home, and you sure as hell better answer. Got it, girlfriend?”
16
Some thirty minutes later Todd was driving along Lake of the Isles Parkway when he let his Grand Cherokee drift to a halt on the side of the road. Staring across the long, narrow part of Lake of the Isles, his thoughts drifted. How many miles had Michael and he jogged around this lake? Hundreds? It wasn't quite three miles around, and ov
er the past two years they had run this course at least three times a week. Sometimes they made several loops, while in the summer they'd often do Isles, Calhoun, and Harriet. All three lakes. Well, they had only run that much once or twice a summer. That was plenty, certainly enough to keep them both trim and fit, which were the silent expectations of the gay community and the spoken expectations of the television industry.
Michael was everywhere down here. He knew every inch of the lakes, all these houses, and so many of the people. Michael had tons of friends in town, and he'd see most of them down here, for to walk or jog around one of the lakes was the quintessential Minneapolis experience. Being a native Minnesotan, Michael had played hockey as a kid, and so in the winter he was often down here at night on the huge rink, reveling in the frigid air. Michael loved this place, this city. Oz on the Tundra, that's what he called it. He knew it all. The parks, the theaters, the downtown buildings. Oh, and the restaurants. And he hated the megamall, would rant and rave about that bloodsucking giant tick of a suburban shopping center that existed, no, preyed off Minneapolis yet contributed no tax dollars to the city itself.
So Michael knew a lot about the Twin Cities as well as life in general, but did he know that night he was murdered how much he meant to Todd? Staring across the dark waters and off into the night, that was all Todd wanted. Just to know that Michael knew. Jeffs sharp criticisms echoed in Todd's mind. Sure, Jeff was right on some accounts. Todd had been a shit, much too self-absorbed. But Jeff was only looking at the outer world. He wasn't seeing how Michael and he had connected on the inner, how together they were bumbling and struggling to find something quite profound. How they were almost there.
Todd wanted to be close to Michael, and without thinking he started up his Cherokee, put it in gear, and started driving along the narrow parkway. At the narrow end of the lake he took a right on Franklin and swerved around and up a hill, passing colossal house after colossal house. Like a homing pigeon, he turned right at the first stop sign, heading south on Irving and passing the Mondales'. He braked at 22nd Street, saw Lake of the Isles again appear off to the right, and continued up to 23rd, where he took a left. He was on automatic pilot, driving the same route he'd taken almost every day after work for these past few years.
But, like that part of Todd's life, Michael's house was now dark.
Todd slowly cruised by the large white duplex, saw the blackened windows. He hadn't been in there since the night of the fight. Was the place still sealed?
He drove on for another block, pulled over, and took his cellular phone from its holster. What were their names? Right. He remembered, and he called information and got the number of the couple who lived upstairs from Michael. Todd dialed, the phone rang, but there was no answer. No answering machine or voice mail either, which was unusual for two fledgling lawyers. So maybe they had moved out, as Janice had yesterday suggested was a strong possibility. In any case there didn't seem to be anyone home, so maybe he could get in without the police being called.
He took a small flashlight from his glove compartment and left his Cherokee right there, climbing out and proceeding down the sidewalk. Thinking better of it, he cut around to the alley, certain that there was less chance of being seen back there. Slipping through the darkness, he moved along quickly and soon reached Michael's place, where he ascertained that the whole building was completely dark.
Feeling more as if he were breaking and entering than coming home, Todd let himself in the rear door, which he shut and locked behind him. He stood completely still, listened for any movement, but could detect nothing. He reached for a light switch, thought better of it. Certainly the next-door neighbors were jumpy and certainly they'd been told to call the police if they noticed anything strange. With that in mind, Todd flicked on his flashlight and proceeded up the three steps to Michael's back door. It was hopeless though, for a new hasp had been screwed into the door and a police padlock slapped in place.
He stood there, thinking. Surely the front door would be similarly sealed. He turned the corner, aimed the flashlight up the back stairs to the second-floor apartment, then turned around and followed the stairs down and past the outer door. Continuing down the next flight, Todd descended into the basement, a cavernous space cut up by old coal bins, storage lockers, and a vast cedar closet. Running the flashlight from left to right, he saw the paint Michael had used last year when he redid the bathroom, Michael's skis, Michael's bicycle, Michael's Christmas-tree stand, and Michael's old table, the oak one that he bought and intended to refinish but never did. This would not be fun, thought Todd. At some point Maggie and he were going to have to go through all this.
He continued around the gas boiler and came to yet another staircase. One of the former owners had planned to build an extra bedroom or something down here, but aside from gutting a closet upstairs and dropping down a set of stairs, no progress had been made. Michael and Todd had, in fact, talked about building an office down here if and when Todd moved in. But like so many other plans, that wasn't going to happen, and now he aimed his light up the dusty stairs. Just as he'd hoped, this entry into the apartment had been overlooked and there was no padlock.
Pulling the apartment key from his pocket, Todd proceeded up the stairs and unlocked the door, which swung open with ease. In an instant he was inside Michael's apartment, perusing the dark space with the small beam of light. And facing the stain of death.
It was the first-thing that his flashlight fell upon, a big splash of darkened blood on the wall, a huge pool on the oak floor. The shock overwhelmed Todd and he couldn't move. Of course it was all dry, every little splatter and drip mark that streaked the wall, as well as the vast puddle where Michael had fallen, either dead or dying.
Oh, shit, he thought, and hurried through the kitchen, bumping into a chair as he rushed to the sink. His stomach swirled in a huge wave, threatened to rise out of his body. He gagged, caught his breath, then turned on the cold water. After a moment he splashed his face, next took a sip of water. He'd seen death before. A number of times actually. He'd seen it on maybe sixty percent of the stories he'd done for the CrimeEye, from gang assassinations to butchered lovers. But that blood had always been so distant, so remote.
Avoiding the back hall, he caught his breath and exited the kitchen via the other door. Everything was so quiet, so deathly still, and he stood on the edge of the dining room, slowly running the flashlight over the dark wood dinner table, the chairs. And the broken sideboard. The large piece of furniture was still tipped over, the wood cracked and splintered. A wave of shame rushed through Todd. He moved forward, scanning the floor. Where were the shards of china? Someone had obviously cleaned up. No, that wasn't what had happened. The crime lab had gone over all this. Right. They'd probably gathered every little shard of Michael's grandmother's china, hoping to find a trace of blood, a bit of material. Turning, Todd saw fingerprint dust on various parts of the smashed sideboard. Shaking his head, he couldn't believe he'd done all this damage, broken it all in such a fit of rage and frustration.
The scene screamed out of his memory. Todd flicked off the small flashlight and stood there in the dark, transfixed by memories of his shouting, his fury, his threatening gestures, the violent act. And, God, so much noise. When he'd dumped that piece of furniture the whole house had shook. It was no wonder that he'd scared the hell out of Michael and no surprise that Michael had gone down to see Jeff, seeking council and advice.
Moving into the living room, Todd peered through the dark and saw the black couch where Michael had sat when he'd stated his ultimatum. Studying the wall next to the fireplace, he saw the champagne stain on the white bricks, heard the explosion of glass and liquid all over again. Jeff had undoubtedly advised Michael to leave Todd because, of course, Jeff had always seen how much Todd withheld from Michael. The problem, Todd now clearly understood, was that during the day, in the light, he felt, acted, was perceived—and perceived himself—as straight. Wasn't that what people had expected of
him, wasn't he fulfilling their expectations? Good God, what a fool he'd been. And to think he'd exploded over Michael's request to come to a fucking Christmas party. A wretchedly boring one, at that, with nothing but— Something creaked.
Todd caught his breath, stood there in the dark living room. What was that? It sounded like a floorboard. Oh, shit, he thought, listening for something, anything. Maybe it was just the heat coming on. Maybe it was cold enough outside to activate the thermostat in here. Could be. Or it could just be a rodent.
No, that had been a footstep. Someone else was in Michael's apartment. His heart bolted. His eyes flashed from side to side. But he didn't move. Someone had come into this apartment before and killed Michael. Someone had come into Todd and Michael's life and ruined it. And that person, Todd sensed, was now hidden somewhere in this dark apartment. But why? To recover an incriminating item? Fear began to comingle with anger. He glanced at the set of fireplace tools and slowly reached over and took the iron poker. Michael's killer, the man who destroyed their world, was here.
Todd slowly began to cross the living room. Slipping his small flashlight into the jacket pocket, he gripped the poker with both hands and raised it head-high. His muscles tightened as he reached the hallway that led to the bedroom and office. He heard something else, the faint rustling of clothing. Someone was back here. But where? The bedroom, Michael's office, the bathroom?
Todd came around the corner, moving with constrained yet absolute purpose. He came to Michael's bedroom, paused in deep concentration. In the faint grayish light seeping through the windows, Todd saw the large bed he and Michael had shared and made love in covered with a smooth bedspread. The closet door in the corner was shut tight, the dresser undisturbed.
He inched down the hall, one grave, hushed step at a time. The night-light in the bathroom was on, illuminating the small room with a yellowish glow. The door was open all the way, pressed back against the wall, so clearly there was no one behind it. The tub? Todd took a half-step into the room.
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