Dead In Red

by L. L. Bartlett

  Made of cheap pine, the student’s desk had been painted glossy black and lacked the nicks and dings usually associated with such a piece of furniture. I pulled out the chair and sat down, turned on the goose-necked lamp. A blotter of faux leather covered most of the surface, and on it were a stapler, a mug filled with pens and pencil stubs, and a cork-bottomed coaster. Had Walt sat here with a beer or a cup of coffee to write out his bills?

  It had been a tactical error for me to let Richard go through Walt’s papers instead of doing it myself. Not that he probably missed much—but he wouldn’t feel a psychic vibe during an earthquake.

  Pulling open the center drawer revealed more pencils, pens, a legal pad, rubber bands, and Scotch tape. Just the usual junk. The contents of the other drawers were more interesting. Bold block letters labeled files as tax receipts, insurance papers, and one marked “Will.” I ran a hand over the files and papers. Someone had rifled through them after Richard. Looking for . . . something they hadn’t found. What that was, I had no clue.

  The will wasn’t that interesting. Walt had left everything to Tom. He probably thought he’d outlive his widowed, elderly mother.

  I folded the document and laid it on the desk. I’d give it to Tom tomorrow. Yet I wondered why Tom hadn’t gone looking for it himself, especially as he’d already been through the apartment, presumably right after the cops. Then again, he hadn’t been back to clear out Walt’s apartment, either.

  My gaze focused on the blank wall in front of me. Something didn’t add up. Tom flat out told me he didn’t want to know what else I’d find, and made it clear he was revolted by his cousin’s lifestyle. Yet he wanted Walt’s memory kept intact. Or was it just a matter of family pride? As far as I knew, Tom had never married, either. Was he worried his customers might think he and Walt were lovers? It was only when I’d shamed him that he’d told me to go ahead and keep looking into Walt’s death.

  The will bothered me, too. Why cut the old lady out? Did she know about, or at least suspect what Walt’s sexual preference was? Tom said it would kill her if the truth came out, so yeah, she probably did. Were she and Walt estranged because of it? I wasn’t sure Tom would answer me if I asked.

  I pawed through the rest of the documents. As Richard had said, the receipts were grouped by year in envelopes. I did a perfunctory check, but nothing looked to be of interest. It still bothered me that he appeared to have no real assets. Could he have had a safety deposit box somewhere that even Tom didn’t know about?

  The next drawer contained more file folders of uninteresting receipts and held six or seven envelopes of photos. The first couple were old family shots. Birthdays, dinners, other social occasions. A much younger Tom wore a green, cone-shaped, sparking Happy New Year hat, and toasted the camera. Happier times.

  Two newer envelopes had recently been disturbed. I fished through them, all the same subject matter: Walt, usually dressed in dark slacks and sports shirts, looking shy, posing with a cadre of drag queens. Single shots, group shots, and none of these pseudo-women were the same caliber as I’d seen at Club Monticello the night before. From cheesy wigs and gaudy blouses, to holes in their fishnet stockings, Walt’s “fancy women” were losers, pathetic souls who hadn’t been able to cut it in the straight world, and didn’t look like they were doing much better in their chosen haven. The background décor was just as seedy. I’d have to hit the less popular bars tonight to see if I recognized any of them.

  Shuffling through the pictures also gave me a sense that Walt’s alliances with his so-called fancy women were short lived. Tom had said that Walt wasn’t gay, but was that something Walt was likely to reveal to his straight-laced cousin? I pressed a photo of Walt and one of his fancy ladies against my forehead and a stab of pain lanced through my skull, revulsion flooding through me. Walt’s accident had left him impotent, but that hadn’t been the end of his sex life.

  Shoving the pictures back in the envelope, I pushed it away from me, wishing I could get that image—and the accompanying sensations—out of my thoughts.

  Anxiety forced me to my feet to pace the room, to walk off the tension and work up the courage to pick up the last envelope. I hadn’t thought of myself as a homophobe before this. Then again, accepting someone’s lifestyle on an intellectual level and inadvertently experiencing it were two different things. I thought of Maggie and the way our bodies had melded together a couple of days before—how right it felt—and welcomed the returning calm.

  I felt okay by the time I’d shuffled through the next set of photos. Same kind of stuff—the background decorations changed from New Year’s to Valentine’s to St. Paddy’s day. I turned the photos over. By the date imprinted on the back, they must’ve been processed just days before Walt’s death. I hadn’t seen a camera when poking around before and wondered if Walt had used a disposable one. I counted the prints: twenty-four. Next I withdrew the negatives. The strips were in four- or five-frame segments. One of them had been lopped off, its slanted edge different from the uniform cuts on the others.

  So that was at least one thing Walt’s visitor had come to retrieve.

  Or did I have that wrong? First the cops had gone through the apartment, then Tom. They had to have seen whatever foot-fetish stuff he had on hand. Tom had later eradicated it. But if the cops had seen these photos they would’ve done more investigating into Walt’s background and wouldn’t have been so eager to pin the murder on Buchanan.

  So why would someone come in and plant the photos? Being dead, Walt had no use for them. His family wouldn’t want them. Why not just trash them?

  The rest of the desk’s contents were of no consequence and I eased the drawer shut. But I took the planted envelope of photographs, along with Walt’s will, and locked up behind me. I wouldn’t be returning.

  * * *

  At ten p.m., Lambrusco’s, a gay bar two blocks from Main Street, wasn’t half as crowded or as flashy as Club Monticello. The cover charge was half the price and even the smokers on the sidewalk had a tired, used-up look to them.

  Richard’s steak dinner had revived his spirits and I was glad to have him along. We surveyed the poorly lit barroom and the sparsely populated tables. The patrons were also older than at their biggest competitor’s. The canned disco music wasn’t cranked up as loud as at Club Monticello, so we didn’t have to shout at one another either.

  “Think they wash the glasses here?” Richard muttered in my ear.

  “Ask for a bottled beer.”

  The bartender was not overworked and stood watching an overweight couple jiggling out on the dance floor. I ordered a couple of bottles of Canadian to placate Richard, and we commandeered two stools at the bar.

  “First time here?” the bartender asked. His name tag read “Kevin.”

  I nodded.

  “Slumming?” he asked.

  Richard eyed me, then tipped back his beer.

  “Is it that obvious?” I asked.

  Kevin shrugged. “We don’t often get newcomers. And tonight probably isn’t a good night to be here.”

  I wrapped my right hand around my beer bottle and soaked up feelings of unease the bartender had imparted. My gaze went back to Kevin, but he wouldn’t look me in the eye. I leaned closer to Richard. “Uh . . . I don’t want to alarm you, but something’s going to go down. And pretty soon.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Drink up.”

  He raised his bottle and took a swallow.

  I turned my attention back to Kevin. “You pretty familiar with the regulars?”

  He nodded. “Know most of them on a first-name basis. At least, the names they give me.”

  I took out Cyn’s picture and one of Walt with one of his fancy women, placed them on the bar. “Ever see any of these people?”

  Kevin squinted at the photos in the bad light. He tapped one. “That’s Walt and Veronica. She was one of our featured acts back in the winter. ’Fraid she’s moved on to bigger and better venues.” He tapped Cyn�
�s picture. “This one came in a few times with some queen I don’t know. Drinks Cosmopolitans.”

  “Do you usually get straight women her age come in here looking for a place to hang and not have to worry about assholes trying to jump their bones?”

  He shook his head. “This ain’t Club Monticello where they encourage that kind of thing. She didn’t fit in and—” he paused, sizing up Richard and me. “You don’t, either.”

  I swallowed some more beer. “What do you know about Walt?”

  “Nice guy. Shy. Made friends with lots of the girls.”

  “By girls you mean drag queens?”

  Kevin shrugged, glanced at his watch.

  “You see Walt lately?”

  He shook his head. “Not for a couple of weeks.”

  “He leave with anyone special the last time you saw him?”

  “I wasn’t his babysitter.” Kevin looked at his watch again. “You ought to drink up.”

  Richard, who had only been half-listening, tipped back his beer.

  The uneasiness in my gut intensified. “We gotta get outta here,” I said, pushing off my stool.

  “What’s the hurry?” Richard asked, proffering his half-drunk beer.

  A commotion at the entrance made us look up. Kevin ducked behind the bar. I grabbed Richard’s elbow, hauling him off his stool. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  Six or seven menacing biker-wannabes blocked the main entrance, pounding their studded, leather-gloved fists. Bikers—like the one who’d tried to run me down in the ramp garage. As one they charged forward, overturning tables, sending pitchers and glasses flying, and delivering what sounded like Indian war cries.

  For a moment, the shocked patrons stood stock still, unbelieving as the Bee Gees wailed “Stayin’ Alive.” Then, like frightened birds, they scattered, heading for the sides of the room and the emergency exits. I tried to hustle Richard out, but his feet seemed glued to the floor.

  One of the customers tripped and the bullyboys converged, their booted feet finding a target.

  “Hey!” Richard was off.

  I stumbled after him. “Rich, no!”

  Richard charged into the melee. He was at least as tall if not taller than the bullies, but didn’t have their bulk.

  Fists flew, catching Richard off guard as he stooped to help the guy on the floor.

  Someone grabbed the back of my shirt, hauled me off balance, tossed me against the bar. The ribs that had barely stopped hurting screamed in protest and I sank to the floor, winded.

  Richard was in the middle of the fight now, arms pumping as he took out one, then another of the bullies, looking like something out of a cartoon.

  Long seconds passed and still I couldn’t breathe—couldn’t join in the fray.

  Richard ducked one punch, but caught another that sent him reeling.

  The main lights flashed on and suddenly the place was swarming with cops.

  The bikers evaporated in the chaos.

  My diaphragm finally relaxed enough for me to take in short, painful breaths.

  One of the cops grabbed Richard, hauling him to his feet. “Hey!”

  The cop shoved him against the bar and handcuffed him.

  Using a barstool, I hauled myself up, realized none of the bikers had singled me out.

  “You in on this?” The cop snarled at me.

  Kevin was back. “No, he and this guy,” he pointed at Richard, “tried to help out.”

  The cop glowered at Richard. “What were you doing fighting?”

  “I was trying to save some guy from being kicked. Then they went after me.”

  “Oh.” Still, the cop didn’t hurry to release Richard’s bracelets.

  “It’s a hate crime,” Kevin said. “Bikers picking on innocent gay people.”

  My insides seethed. “Bullshit. Officer, this guy,” I jerked a thumb at Kevin, “warned us we’d better leave. He kept looking at his watch. He knew these bikers were coming to disrupt the bar.”

  The cop’s sharp gaze was riveted on the bartender. “Go on,” he told me.

  “Could be a scam—break up the place and insurance pays for a quick facelift. Or maybe it’s been just a little too quiet lately. A little notoriety might bring in curiosity seekers who’d spend money. And by the way, are there any motorcycles outside?” The cop didn’t answer, but I’d bet a week’s tips there weren’t.

  Still wrapped over the bar, Richard craned his neck to speak to the officer. “You guys got here awful fast. When did the call come through?”

  Kevin kept quiet, his expression defiant.

  The officer’s glower could’ve blistered paint. He stormed off to confer with the other cops. Kevin glared daggers at me and slunk down the bar.

  “You okay?” Richard asked.

  I hitched in a breath and pressed a hand to my side. “I’m back to square one with the ribs. How ’bout you?”

  “I’m fine.” He struggled to straighten and I gave him a hand. There was something different about him. Something that had been missing from his eyes since the shooting three months before.

  “My God, you enjoyed it.”

  Richard didn’t bother to try and hide his delight. “Great, wasn’t it?”

  I noted the growing red puffiness under his left eye. “Brenda’s gonna kill us.”

  # # #

  CHAPTER 18

  The phone rang way too early. I blinked awake, grabbed it, hoping it hadn’t already awakened Richard and Brenda. “What?”

  “Jeff?

  Long, aching seconds passed before the voice registered. “Sam?”

  “What’s this about you and your brother being involved in a brawl at a gay bar last night?”

  I closed my eyes and cringed.

  “Hello?” Sam tried.

  Squinting at my clock made me wince: 6:59 a.m. “How the hell did you hear about that?”

  “Hey, I’m on top of everything that happens in this city.”

  “It was a setup, and don’t you goddamn quote me. In fact, bury our names, willya?”

  “My, we’re a bit testy this morning. You get that setup angle from one of your . . . uh, pieces of insight?”

  “It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.” I gave him the Cliff Notes version of our adventures the night before.

  “I got Kaplan’s autopsy report, as well as photos. Pretty gruesome.”

  “What about those electrical burns?”

  “Poor guy was tortured before he was stabbed. Had a couple of fingernails ripped off, as well.”

  “Nasty.”

  “Looks like he was sodomized, but there was also scarring, so it wasn’t like this was the first time. You did know that, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Okay, I hadn’t until the night before, but he didn’t have to know that. “And the cops still think it was Buchanan?”

  “Not necessarily. The detective in charge wants to make further inquiries, but his superiors figure they’ve got an arrest and aren’t pushing. It’ll depend on what the DA says. They’ve scheduled a meeting for next week.”

  “Next week?” This whole situation would come to a head well before that.

  “Where you going next with this?” Sam asked.

  “My original suspect fizzled. But I might have a line on someone else. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “You do that.”

  * * *

  The mouse under Richard’s eye was puffy and purple. Add a beard to his mustache, give him a bandana and a gold earring, and he would’ve looked like a pirate. Brenda hadn’t exactly forgiven me for Richard’s new look—muttering something about ruined wedding pictures—but she made me a hard-boiled egg and toast for breakfast and served it without dumping it in my lap.

  “So what’re we doing today?” Richard asked, setting aside the sports section.

  I swallowed a mouthful of toast. “I’m working. Then later . . . I don’t know. All I’ve got is a flash of insight from Cyn’s office. I know she didn’t kill Walt, and it wasn�
��t Dana Watkins, the baker, or Ted Hanson, the miller, either. That only leaves Gene Higgins. I don’t have a starting place for him. He comes up clean on a Google search. No address. He’s not in the phone book—probably only has a cell. I was thinking of tailing him for a couple of days.”

  “That’s all you have,” Brenda interrupted, shoving her engagement-ringed finger under Richard’s nose. “A couple of days. We’re getting married on Friday. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

  Richard saluted her. “Yes, ma’am, but we’ll have a much better time in Paris if we aren’t worrying about Jeff.” He turned back to me, sounding like an excited kid. “We can use Brenda’s car. They already know yours.”

  “Cyn saw Brenda’s car on Saturday. It’s your car or nothing.”

  That didn’t please him, but he didn’t protest either. “Why don’t you see if you can get off work early?” he said.

  “Because Gene doesn’t leave the mill until at least five-thirty. And, besides, if I’m ever going to pay you back the gazillion dollars you’ve spent taking care of me these past few months, I need all the hours I can get.”

  Richard opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

  “You’re welcome to come play with me later if you really want.” I got up to leave. “I’ll be back home about four-thirty.”

  * * *

  Tom was vacuuming as I entered the empty bar, which meant he hadn’t gotten to it the night before. I’d probably get to mop the floor—oh, the thrill of steady employment.

  Tom saw me, waved a hello and continued his work. I tied an apron around my waist and grabbed a stool to wait for him to finish. Eventually he hit the off-switch, unplugged the cord and started reeling it in.

  “You must like it here. You come in early most days,” he said.

  “I gotta be somewhere. You got a few minutes?”

  “A few.” I handed him the envelope with Walt’s will.

  Tom took a seat at the nearest table, pulled reading glasses out of his shirt’s breast pocket and quickly scanned the paper, then let out a breath. “He left me everything?”