Dead In Red

by L. L. Bartlett

  “Any time, sailor,” said a skinny guy with a black tank top and painted-on white pants.

  I snagged the guy’s shirt strap. “You ever see this queen?” I shoved Veronica’s picture under his nose.

  God knows how he focused in such bad light, but his eyes lit up. “Veronica! Oh, she’s a sweetheart. Yeah, I’ve seen her. Every weekend over at Big Brother’s. She’s moving up in the world. Another year or so, and she’ll be the toast of the town.”

  “And where do we find Big Brother’s?” Richard asked.

  “Over on Pearl. But not until the Wednesday night show. She does a mean Brittany Spears. Doesn’t quite have the nose for it—but hey, you can’t have everything.” He danced by us and dissolved into the crowd.

  “Two days?” Richard almost whined.

  I glanced at my watch. “Technically, it’s one day and twenty-two hours. And I thought you were enjoying yourself?”

  “Sure, as a change of pace. But I wouldn’t want to do this on a regular basis.”

  “We ought to go over there and ask, just to make sure. But I won’t go flashing Veronica’s picture again. That could scare her off. As it is, if someone I’ve already shown it to mentions it to her, she’ll probably leave town in a hurry.”

  So off we went to our fourth bar that night.

  Big Brother’s was smaller than I anticipated; intimate was how it was advertised out front. Sure enough, a poster-sized color photograph of Miss Veronica Lakes in a white, baby-doll dress, blond wig, and pouting lips greeted us. Her co-stars, Margarita Ville and Sandy Waters, only rated eight-by-ten black-and-white photos.

  “I don’t think she looks like Brittany,” I told Richard.

  “I couldn’t pick Brittany out of a lineup,” he admitted.

  “God, you’re an old fart.” He followed me inside, where we made sure that yes, Miss Lakes would be appearing on Wednesday. Did we want to make reservations?

  We headed out the door. A glance at my watch told me it was after one. The sidewalk was still wet, but the storm and the lingering rain had passed, breaking the hot spell. Richard yawned as we walked toward the car. “I’ll drive,” I said, and unlocked the passenger side door for him, then moved to the driver’s side.

  Richard fastened his seat belt, crossed his arms over his chest, and settled back in his seat. “Home, James, and don’t spare the horses.”

  I pulled away from the curb and headed back for Main Street. Richard was asleep before we got there.

  I braked for a red light, one of those crazy ones with the strobing bar of white in the middle. Bloodied hands flashed before my eyes. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Not now, not when I’m driving.

  Bloodied hands. Rivulets of scarlet cascading down the wrists, soaking into a forest of dark hair past the wrists. No jewelry, no nail polish.

  Slowly the hands turned, palms out to face me. Strong, masculine hands.

  So much blood!

  Honk!

  The vision winked out. I jammed my foot on the accelerator and the car lurched forward. Richard didn’t stir.

  I was glad to have the wheel to hang on to—it kept my hands from shaking. I wouldn’t have to worry about some crazy coming after Richard if I crashed the car and killed us both. But the vision didn’t replay. I drove like an old lady, made it home and parked the car in the garage before giving up my death grip. I sat there, listening to the engine make tinking noises for at least a minute before I could move. The garage door opener’s light would go off in another minute. I gave Richard a poke to wake him.

  “We’re home.”

  He took in a deep breath and straightened. “I wasn’t asleep.”

  “Sure,” I said and opened my door. Richard did likewise.

  We got out of there and I closed and locked the garage’s side door before the light winked out. Brenda had left the outside lights on and I sorted through my keys to open the back door. Richard bumped into me. “God, I’m tired.”

  I opened the door. “Go to bed.”

  He saluted me and stepped over the threshold. “Yes, sir.”

  Stepping up behind him, I pushed him in the direction of the kitchen. “Good night.”

  Eyes closed, I stood in the silent pantry, listened until his footsteps faded, realized I was too wired to sleep. What I needed was a walk. A nice long walk to calm my nerves.

  I headed back out the door, paused to lock up, and started down the driveway.

  * * *

  “You’re late tonight,” Sophie told me as she ushered me inside the bakery, then locked the door behind me.

  “I was out.”

  “Investigating?”

  “Sort of.”

  She scuffed ahead of me in her worn slippers. Tonight it was tea. The cups were set out with a little white pitcher of milk and a plate of fresh-sliced placek—just as she’d promised days before.

  “Sit, sit,” she urged, taking her own seat.

  I sat.

  She poured milk into my cup, then added the strong, dark tea from an old brown pottery pot. “See, no need for a spoon,” she told me, proud of her cleverness. She pushed the plate closer and I took a slice, setting it on the napkin she’d provided. It was still warm.

  “How do you always know when to have things ready for me? I didn’t even know I was coming here until I started walking.”

  She shrugged, then leaned forward, her eyes worried. “You have a lot on your mind.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted, and broke a crumbly corner off my cake. “I got one of those flashes of insight when I was behind the wheel of the car. I don’t know if it was that or the vision that freaked me more.” I stuffed the morsel in my mouth, savoring its sweet, buttery—comforting—taste.

  “The bloody hands,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  Sophie nibbled on her own piece of placek. “I don’t know what to tell you. Only that . . . you have to do what you feel is right. That’s not always easy.”

  “Tell me about it.” I wasn’t sure how to tell her—how to phrase—what I was feeling. “The vision was much stronger tonight, telling me that whatever happens will come pretty damn quick. And when it does—I’m worried I won’t react in time to do what’s right, what’ll save lives, or time, or—anything! Dammit, I’m scared to death whatever I do is going to cost someone’s life.”

  “Your brother?” She shook her head. “Now you’re being paranoid.”

  “Can you guarantee it won’t happen?”

  “Nobody can. But, to ease your mind—I see things ahead for your brother.”

  “Good things?” I asked, thinking about Brenda, their wedding, and the future.

  She shrugged. “Eh . . . things.”

  Things?

  Like living as a veg in a nursing home?

  Crippled?

  Maimed?

  Okay, so maybe I was being paranoid. And then there was the incident in the parking garage. Should I ask her if I had a future? She hadn’t volunteered the information.

  Sophie sipped her tea, avoided looking at me. I sipped mine, did the same.

  Finally, Sophie pushed back her empty mug. “You have someplace else to go.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you can, come and see me on Saturday,” she said, rising from her chair, her expression solemn.

  Saturday. That meant whatever happened, this whole convoluted mess would be over with by then. Then again: If you can. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to. Her words had given me no peace.

  But she was right; I did have somewhere else to go.

  * * *

  I did a sweep around Norwalk Avenue, didn’t find Gene Higgins’s silver Alero, and so cruised the surrounding dark streets. Sure enough, two blocks over the little car sat parked under a dripping maple. Thanks to alternate street parking, Gene was going to have to move the car by eight o’clock or risk a ticket. So I had a decision. Stick with the car, or stake out his apartment until he emerged. If he emerged.

  I circled back to Norwalk and fou
nd a space with a clear view of the house. By parking so far away, Gene had obviously tried to make me—or someone else—think he wasn’t home.

  Talk radio bored me, and I could find nothing but loser love songs, hip-hop or gangsta rap on every other station. I snapped off the radio and hunkered down in my seat, gaze fixed on the homely gray house. Green numerals on the digital clock gave me the bad news. I’d been awake twenty hours, and fatigue had settled in with a vengeance. Now I not only had to hope I wouldn’t fall asleep, but that some cop wouldn’t find me and roust me.

  I had to be out of my friggin’ mind. Gene was probably nestled in his warm, comfortable bed and here I was cold, cramped, sleep-deprived and verging on misery. I didn’t have a clue what I was going to say to him if I caught up with him. Tell him about the sparkling red shoe? Ask him about Veronica?

  A car rolled past, its red taillights glowing. Already the sky to the east was beginning to brighten.

  An hour after that, I was sure my mind teetered on the verge of imminent brain death from lack of sleep and absolute boredom.

  I’d been staring at the house so long, it took a good ten seconds for me to realize someone had come out of the door to the upstairs apartment and had descended the steps to the street. A shot of adrenaline rushed through me as I stumbled out of the car—slamming the door and running across the street.

  “Gene! Gene Higgins!”

  Gene stopped dead, his head hanging. He didn’t move as I jogged to catch up with him.

  “What do you want?”

  “Tell me about Walt Kaplan. How you knew him. Why his body was found on the hill by the mill.”

  He took a step away and I grabbed him by the shoulder. The image of the bloody hands burst upon my mind and I let go as though scalded.

  Gene whirled on me, caught me with a fist to the gut. I fell flat on my ass on the still-damp sidewalk, doubled over onto my side, gasping for air.

  Gene crouched beside me. “Jeez, man, I’m sorry!”

  I looked up into his panicked face.

  “I never hit anybody before.”

  Anybody in a position to hit back, I’d bet.

  Crawling onto my knees, I struggled to catch my breath as I inched toward the curb and a parked car to haul myself up. Gene hovered over me, babbling apologies, but I couldn’t focus on the words.

  Once upright, I found I couldn’t stand straight, and hunched over, hands clutching my knees, my ass plastered to the water-beaded Sebring’s fender to keep from falling over.

  “You’re not going to sue me, are you?” Gene asked anxiously.

  I looked up at him, my breaths finally coming easier. “You answer my questions and I might not call my attorney the minute I get home.”

  “I don’t know anything. Ted found the guy dead by the building. End of story. Besides, the cops already arrested someone. Case closed.”

  “Their case against the homeless guy will fall apart as soon as the DNA evidence comes back from the lab. Walt had backdoor sex before he died. They’ll have a new angle to investigate and how long to you think it’ll be before they start asking you questions?”

  Gene said nothing.

  Time to bluff. “How did you end up with Walt’s pictures, and why did you take them back to his apartment? Uh, all but one. The last negative on the roll had been snipped—your picture. Did Walt tell you about the key over the door?”

  “You’ve got no proof.”

  “When the cops go back to Walt’s apartment, they’ll find your fingerprints. Walt was a bit of a pack rat. Did you know he kept shoeboxes filled with stuff to remind him of his past liaisons? And who knows what other keepsakes he kept from his time with you at the house in Holiday Valley.”

  “Holy Christ,” Gene wailed and smashed his fist against the roof of the car, leaving a noticeable dimple.

  I stayed rock still, hoping like hell he wouldn’t hit me again.

  “Where are they? Do you have them?”

  “I gave them to a reporter at the Buffalo News,” I lied. “I disappear from his radar and he goes straight to the cops with it and my suspicions.” Well, it sounded good.

  “Shit!” This time Gene punched his right thigh.

  “Pipe down,” I warned. “You want your neighbors calling the cops? Then again, it would make it easy for me to file a police report for assault.”

  Gene squeezed his eyes shut, about to cry.

  “Look, why don’t we go get some coffee and talk?”

  “I can’t— If it gets out— My parents— Cyn will kill me.”

  “It’s only a question of time before everything comes out. Either you cooperate and spill what you know or the cops are going to try to nail you for everything, and life without parole can be pretty damned boring.”

  Arms hanging limply at his sides, Gene stood in the middle of the sidewalk, his lower lip trembling, looking at least ten years younger.

  With some effort, I managed to straighten, my insides taking their time to settle back into their rightful places. “Coffee,” I repeated. Gene nodded. I gestured toward my car. “Come on.”

  He followed me like a docile lamb, got into the passenger side.

  The drive to Dunkin’ Donuts was silent. I stopped at the drive-up menu, gave our order and proceeded to the window. A perky blonde teenager held out her hand for the money, made change, and handed me the cups in less than thirty seconds. I handed Gene his before pulling over to an empty parking space on the far side of the building.

  As though on autopilot, Gene removed the cap from his cup and blew on it to cool it. I took a sip, burned my mouth and thought of Dana Watkins and her asbestos esophagus.

  “You want to start at the beginning?” I prompted.

  Gene’s gaze seemed to be focused on the door handle. “It started off as fun. Cyn wanted to cut loose. Dennis was a great guy, but he had no soul for adventure. When he died, Cyn mourned him but was ready for new hobbies, new friends, an escapade or two. I took her to one of the gay bars on drag night and we had a ball. We kept going back, but we liked the smaller clubs best. Less people. More fun.”

  “She accepted that you were gay?”

  He nodded miserably. “Cyn has always been there for me. She’s more like a sister than an aunt. If my father finds out, he’ll disown me.”

  “How long have you been—” God, this sounded stupid. “—dressing up?”

  “Since I moved out of my parents’ house. But I never went out in drag. Never had the nerve until Cyn dared me. She bought some costumes at a charity auction a few months ago. She gave me the dress as a joke.”

  “But you didn’t take it as a joke?” I guessed.

  He wouldn’t look at me, but nodded. “She helped me build an outfit.”

  “But she kept the shoes.”

  His head bobbed again. “They didn’t fit me.”

  “And then you met Walt.” It was all falling together in my head. “He admired Cyn’s shoes, then later, once the two of you got better acquainted, he surprised you with a pair to go with your red dress.”

  Gene said nothing.

  “How does Veronica fit into this?”

  “She and Walt broke up before I came along. See, Walt used to brag about money. He dressed nice and always flashed a big wad of cash at the clubs—paid for lots of drinks. Veronica insinuated herself into his life. She kept hounding him for money so he dumped her.”

  “But she wouldn’t let go. She was angry he took up with you.”

  His head sank to his chest. “Yeah.”

  “Did she know Walt’s family owns the Kaplan Jewelry stores?”

  “Everybody did. Course, Walt didn’t let on that he had virtually nothing to do with them anymore.”

  “Then how did you know?”

  “I told you; we were friends. We spent a lot of time talking.”

  “At the clubs?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes we just went out for dinner. Walt and I weren’t . . . I mean, I like older guys, but we only did it a couple of times.
It wasn’t like we were—”

  “But you were with him hours before he died.

  “We had dinner at Eckl’s in Orchard Park that night.”

  “I know the place. And afterward?”

  Gene was silent, wouldn’t look at me.

  “After the sex, what happened?” I tried again.

  “Walt dropped me off at my apartment, said he was going home. Veronica must’ve tracked him down and killed him. I figure she dumped him by the mill to implicate me.”

  That wasn’t all. “Did you find him?”

  “Veronica called me.” Gene closed his eyes, let out a shaky breath. “I don’t even know how she got my cell number. She said they’d argued—about me. She said she’d dumped Walt by the mill. She made it sound like he was hurt—but alive.”

  It had been Gene’s revulsion I’d experienced when I’d first visited the mill. “Why didn’t you call 911?”

  “Walt was my friend. He’d never come out to his family. I wasn’t going to do it for him. So I rushed right over there and—”

  “Found him dead.”

  Gene nodded miserably. “She’d dumped him all right—naked. I wasn’t about to let him be found that way. But he was a lot bigger than me. I knew I’d never get him up the hill on my own so I put his clothes back on him. I hated to leave him there, but what else could I do?”

  “Why didn’t you call the cops?” I pressed.

  “I was scared. I still am. Of her.”

  “Have you heard from Veronica since?”

  Again he nodded. “She’s left threatening messages on my voice mail. Someone broke a window in my apartment. I think Veronica tried to get in. My landlady heard a noise and let her dog out. Since then, I’ve had a new lock installed and have tried to watch my back.”

  “What about Cyn?”

  “She was furious when Walt turned up dead. Like it was a stain on her character.” He turned anguished eyes toward me. “I told her about Veronica’s call, how she blamed me for her and Walt breaking up. How she wanted the ring.”

  That grabbed my attention. “You’ve got Walt’s ring?”

  Gene dug into his collar, pulled out a chain from around his neck. A sparkling, man’s diamond ring flashed. The stone was easily three or more carets. “How—when—did you get it?”