The Role Players

by Dorien Grey

  Chris merely shrugged. “We’ll manage. Any idea when you might be home?”

  “By seven, I’m sure. Plenty of time to make it to dinner.”

  A clock somewhere down the hallway softly chimed eleven o’clock, and Max stifled a yawn, then quickly looked embarrassed. “Sorry.”

  “No problem,” I said. “You’ve had a long day. I’m about ready to hit the sack, too.” I glanced at Jonathan, who I could tell was still operating on pure adrenaline. He started to say something, but I squeezed his hand. “The sooner we get to sleep, the sooner tomorrow will come,” I said as if he were a kid, and he grinned and shrugged.

  “Okay.”

  We all got up, exchanged hugs all around, and Chris led us to our room. Max joined us only as far as their bedroom, where he gave us a small wave and disappeared into the room.

  Chris did the “perfect host” routine, checking that we had everything we might need, moving furniture around so the bed would open, getting pillows and blankets, pointing again to the bathroom right across the hall. Satisfied that we’d survive the night, he gave us both another big hug, said, “Sleep well,” and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 2

  Jonathan, of course, was like a tree full of owls, but as I drifted off to sleep, my arm across his chest, I sensed him relaxing and assumed he was right behind me in falling asleep.

  When I woke up, I was alone in bed. It was well after daylight and my watch, which I’d reset to Eastern Time, said it was 8:27. I got up, slipped on a pair of shorts, and opened my garment bag for my robe.

  Going out into the hall, I could smell coffee, and heard voices from the living room. The door to Max and Chris’s room was closed, but as I entered the living room I saw Chris and Jonathan side by side on the couch, a large stack of brochures and maps, and a copy of The New York Times spread out on the coffee table in front of them. Max was apparently still sleeping. They looked up as I came into the room.

  “Hi, Dick!” Jonathan said, keeping his voice down. “Chris was just showing me some of the places to go and things to see in New York!”

  “And you want to see them all,” I said, taking a chair on the other side of the coffee table.

  He looked surprised. “Well, sure!” he said.

  Chris gave me a subtle, raised-eyebrow smile. “No reason why not,” he said. “I told him it would only take about two years.”

  Jonathan gave him a quick look to make sure he was being teased, then flicked his closest hand across the sofa to punch Chris lightly on the thigh.

  At this point, Max entered the room, hair tousled, barefoot and wearing nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms. Obviously he wasn’t wearing shorts underneath.

  Way to go, Max! one of my little mind-voices said appreciatively.

  He was carrying a pot of coffee and two mugs, one of which he filled and handed me.

  “’Morning, Babe,” Chris said as Max refilled Jonathan’s cup, then Chris’s.

  He gave us all a sleepy grin, then said, “So I’ve noticed.”

  There was another chair close by, but Chris scooted over on the sofa to make room for him, and after pouring his own coffee and setting the coffee pot on a section of the Times, Max sat down.

  “So,” he said, settling back and extending his free arm along the back of the sofa behind Chris’s shoulders, “what’s the plan?

  *

  We talked it over while we drank our coffee. Chris and Max did most of the talking, since they knew a lot more about the city than we did…and decided that the most practical plan would be to get dressed, go out for a quick breakfast, and then head in the general direction of the Battery. Tait Duncan lived not too far from the World Trade Center, and once we got in the general area, we could adjust our sightseeing to the time available before our noon lunch appointment. Then, when Max had to go to rehearsal, Chris, Jonathan, and I would take the boat to the Statue of Liberty. Chris suggested we take the bus down to the Battery so Jonathan could see some more of the city, which Jonathan, not surprisingly, thought was a great idea, though I knew he was also eager for his first subway ride.

  When we’d finished our coffee, Jonathan said, “I’ve already showered, Dick, so why don’t you go ahead? And, Chris, I’ll clean up while you and Max do what you need to do.”

  Subtlety is an art Jonathan has yet to fully master, but he’s working on it.

  *

  We arrived at Tait Duncan’s—an impressive, relatively new building facing Battery Park—at 11:50. The doorman phoned Tait’s apartment to announce our arrival, then showed us to the elevator, which we would have had no trouble finding on our own.

  The doors whispered open on the 19th floor, and as we approached the door to Duncan’s apartment, it was opened from within by an extremely handsome young man in a tailored business suit. He was not all that much older than Jonathan; not, my keen detective’s mind shrewdly deduced, Tait Duncan. He held the door open as we entered a small but elegant foyer, nodding to each of us as we passed.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said to Jonathan and me, then smiled at Chris and Max in turn: “Mr. Wolff, Mr. Rawls.”

  “Nice to see you, Keith,” Max said. “These are our friends Jonathan Quinlan and Dick Hardesty.”

  Keith nodded to each of us in turn, but did not offer his hand, and when Jonathan offered his, took it somewhat hesitantly. Releasing Jonathan’s hand, he made a sweeping, palm-up gesture to the open door to our left, through which we could see the vast expanse of what was apparently the living room.

  “Mr. Duncan is on the phone,” he said, “but will be with you momentarily. Please go in and make yourselves comfortable. May I get you a drink?”

  Who is this masked man? one of my mind-voices asked, sounding very much like the radio announcer from the old Lone Ranger radio show. He acted like a butler, but sure didn’t look like one.

  Max looked from Chris to me to Jonathan. “Bloody Mary?” he asked and we all nodded. He then looked to Keith and said, “Two Bloody Marys and two Virgin Marys would be fine. Thank you, Keith.”

  “Right away,” Keith said, waiting until we had entered the living room before turning toward a door on the opposite side of the foyer.

  Jonathan immediately crossed the room to begin taking pictures out the large windows, which framed the Battery, the harbor, and the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island.

  “Better save some film for the Statue,” I said, and he reluctantly handed me the camera, then just stood there, taking it all in. Chris and Max exchanged a broad grin, then moved to a circle of chairs at one end of the room.

  Jonathan reached out and took my hand without ever breaking his gaze out the window.

  “Can you believe this, Dick? Can you?” he asked, his voice hushed and talking as much to himself as to me. “I never, ever thought I’d be in New York City in an apartment like this and looking out at all…” he gave a quick head-up nod to include everything beyond the window, “…this!”

  “It is a lovely view, isn’t it?”

  We turned to see a tall, distinguished-looking man with grey hair in his mid-to-late 50s, moving toward us.

  Now, this is Tait Duncan, my mind-voice in charge of stating the obvious said.

  Gee, ‘ya think? several other voices chimed in sarcastically.

  Max and Chris got up and came over as Duncan reached us, left hand extended. “Tait Duncan,” he said. “And please excuse the left-handed handshake. I sprained my thumb rather badly a week or so ago and I just had the splint removed last Friday. It’s still rather sensitive.”

  “Jonathan Quinlan,” Jonathan said, turning around to shake his left hand a little awkwardly “Thank you for having us over.”

  “My pleasure,” Tait said, and then turned to me. “And you are Dick Hardesty, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, noting he had a pretty strong shake even with his left hand.

  He smiled and turned to Chris and Max, shaking each of their hands in turn.

&nbs
p; Keith entered the room carrying a tray with our drinks—two with celery stalks and two with large slices of dill pickle. “The dill pickles are the virgins,” he said without smiling. There was also what I assumed from the skewered onions to be a vodka Gibson for Tait.

  We moved to the same circle of chairs Chris and Max had chosen earlier, and small-talked while we drank our drinks. Tait was totally charming, and seemed especially taken with Jonathan. He said very little about himself.

  “I told Keith to set up the table on the patio,” he said, after our drinks were about three-quarters empty. “Shall we eat?”

  With murmured general agreement, Tait rose from his chair. Taking what was left of our drinks, we followed him through the dining room and out onto a glass-enclosed patio about twenty feet square where a table was set for five. As we were sitting down, a strong gust of wind blew in from one of the partially opened sliding windows. Keith entered with a small wicker basket of dinner rolls and Tait waited until he had set it on the table before saying, “Would you close the window, Keith?”

  Without a word, Keith closed it.

  What’s the matter, Duncan? Can’t close the window yourself? I wondered as Keith left the room.

  “Open balconies and patios in high-rise apartments are generally far more practical in theory than practice, as I found out immediately after moving in,” Tait said. “The wind from the harbor is often at about gale force at this height. I had both patios—there’s another off the library—enclosed. It was either that or just not use the space seventy-five percent of the time.”

  Yeah, I thought. If there’s one thing this apartment is short on, it’s space.

  Once we were all seated, Tait poured wine for Chris, me, and himself, then filled two large ice-filled glasses…lime wedges already in place…with sparkling water. While it wasn’t surprising that he might know Max didn’t drink, I wondered how he knew Jonathan didn’t. The dill pickle slices in his Virgin Mary, perhaps, though Jonathan had eaten his almost immediately.

  Keith came back into the room with a large tray of covered dishes, which, when he had placed them on the table and removed the covers, revealed large Cobb salads, each with a side dish of quartered cantaloupe. He then put the covers on the tray and disappeared.

  When Jonathan commented on the several hanging ferns around the patio and said how much he loved plants, Tait smiled. “Then you must see my orchid collection,” he said.

  “You collect orchids?” Jonathan asked, obviously impressed.

  “Yes,” Tait said, apparently touched by Jonathan’s enthusiasm. “Perhaps you’d like to have a look at them after lunch.”

  Jonathan beamed. “That would be great!” he said.

  I was aware that several topics had not been mentioned since we walked in: The Whitman Theater Group, Tait’s involvement in it, or the death of Rod Pearce.

  We finished lunch and Keith came to remove the dishes and to ask if we would like coffee. Max looked at his watch and said, “None for me, thanks. I think I’d better be heading off for rehearsal.” Getting out of his chair, he said, “Thank you again, Tait, for inviting us. It’s always a pleasure seeing you in full daylight.”

  Tait grinned. “The pleasure’s mine.”

  When Max had gone, and we had finished the coffee Keith had brought, Tait turned to Jonathan. “Would you like to see the orchids now?”

  “Oh, yes! Please.”

  We all rose, and Keith appeared in the doorway.

  Turning to Jonathan, Tait said, “Would you and Chris mind terribly if I had a word with Dick in private? Keith has become something of an expert on orchids and I’m sure he can answer any questions you might have.”

  Jonathan looked at me. “Don’t you want to see the orchids, Dick?” he asked, then suddenly realized that Tait had set the whole thing up, and flushed.

  “That’s okay, Jonathan. I’ll catch them later.”

  I knew he wanted to take the camera, which was in the living room, but realized it might not be appropriate.

  Keith leading the way, he, Jonathan, and Chris disappeared into the apartment.

  Tait’s announcement that he wanted to talk to me alone somehow did not surprise me. I was pretty sure I knew what it was about.

  “Let’s go into the living room,” Tait said. “We’ll be a bit more comfortable there.”

  If you say so, Chief, I thought, following him.

  *

  “Now,” Tait said as we settled into two chairs facing one another across a beautiful, pure white chess table with glowing green chess pieces I had no doubt whatsoever were pure jade, “Max tells me you’re a private investigator.”

  I nodded, and he mirrored it.

  “Yes, well, as you know, the leading man in our upcoming production of Impartial Observer was murdered last week.”

  “I heard,” I said, “and I’m very sorry. Do the police have any leads?”

  He shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. They questioned me and everyone in the cast and crew, of course, but considering where his body was found and its proximity to a notorious bar that has, I understand, been linked with more than one other death in the past, I would imagine the police are focusing in that area. This kind of killing is simply too common in New York. There were no witnesses, no weapon was found, and no apparent motive other than robbery. And the arrest and conviction rate in such cases is, at best, extremely low. I suspect that as far as the police are concerned, Rod’s death may just be filed away and forgotten in time.”

  “I understand,” I said, sure I had a good idea where this was headed, but waiting for him to get to it. I was aware that he was watching me closely without making it too obvious he was doing so. Most people would not even have been aware of it.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “Well, here is where we reach the Twilight Zone aspect of the situation.”

  He paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “Odd as this may sound, of all my business ventures, The Whitman Theater Group is the one of which I am most proud. It may not be the most financially successful, but it gives me a sense of satisfaction none of my other business interests can match.

  “Without wanting to appear immodest, I credit much of my success to intuition, and I have this uncannily disturbing feeling that someone at the Whitman may somehow be linked to Rod’s death.”

  I started to say something, but he raised his hand to cut me off.

  “I know, I know…the odds are eight million to one against it, and I have absolutely nothing solid upon which to base the feeling, but it is there nonetheless, and it’s strong. I cannot simply ignore it.

  “Even the remotest thought that someone at the Whitman could be involved is intolerable. And since Max and Chris mentioned that they were having close friends...one of whom was a private investigator…coming for a visit, I determined to have a talk with you.”

  I couldn’t resist wondering, to what end?

  “But you have no idea who might possibly be involved or why?”

  He shook his head. “As for the ‘who,’ I’m afraid there might be a number of possibilities. The ‘why’ may have been a little easier to understand had you known Rod. He was very handsome and, like a great number of very handsome men over whom people fawn, I don’t think he ever really developed a firm understanding of or appreciation for the feelings of others. He wasn’t intentionally cruel, but his ego far outweighed his common sense. He too often was simply unaware of how others perceived his actions. He was what I call a ‘bedpost-notcher.’ He’d move from conquest to conquest, pausing just long enough to make sure that each was hooked before dropping him and going on to the next. To Rod, it was all innocent fun. Unfortunately, he was the only one who thought so.”

  Again, I remained silent, sensing he was getting close to his point.

  He looked at me steadily and said, “I was hoping you might be willing to indulge my intuition. I am not a man who goes around looking for boogeymen under the bed, but if for no other reason than my peace of m
ind, I really need to be sure that none of my people were in any way the cause of Rod’s death. It has cast a deep shadow over everything and everyone, and I can’t be content until I know for sure that what happened to him cannot be traced directly to the Whitman.”

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me,” I said, “New York has to have more than enough private investigators, straight and gay, to be able to look into it for you. And Jonathan and I are on our first real vacation; we have to be back home in two weeks. While I of course appreciate your concern and am flattered that you’d want me to help you, the fact is that you don’t really know me from Adam.”

  He smiled. “Not quite true. I have business interests in cities all over the country—one of them yours—and when I called the attorney who handles my legal matters there…” Let me guess: Glen O’Banyon, a mind-voice said. Can we say “small world,” boys and girls? “it seems he’d not only heard of you, but has worked with you on a fairly regular basis. He speaks very highly of you.”

  He repeated his smile. “I must say anyone who can bring down the police chief of a city that size deserves my attention.”

  Leaning forward in his chair, hands loosely clasped and elbows on the arms of the chair, he continued. “New York is one of the largest cities in the world, and yet gossip and rumor spread as fast as in any small town. If anyone here were to have the slightest idea that I suspect any sort of link between Rod’s death and the Whitman…. I can’t risk having a shadow hanging over me or The Whitman Theater Group. If my intuition is wrong, it’s wrong, but I won’t be satisfied until I know.”

  Unclasping his hands, he sat back in his chair. “I realize what an inconvenience this is for you and Jonathan. But consider this: I’m willing to reimburse you for your airfare and pay double your normal hourly rare to indulge me, and I only expect you to do as much as you can in the time you’ll be here. You can set the money aside for a second visit…a real vacation…as soon as you can fit it in.”