by Dorien Grey
As a matter of fact, I couldn’t, but didn’t want to admit it.
*
With the time difference between home and New York, and the fact that he had other things to do than devote his full time to me, I knew it was unlikely that Marty would be calling early, so as soon as we’d gotten dressed we went out for breakfast to a neighborhood restaurant Chris swore by. He was right; it was nearly impossible to eat everything on the plate. I had a Denver omelet, which could have fed four, and Jonathan ordered steak and eggs which, to no one’s surprise, he polished off to the bare plate. Max looked at him and shook his head.
“How do you do it?”
Jonathan grinned. “I’m a growing boy,” he said happily, then looked at me. “I guess that means I can’t have seconds?”
I reached over and punched him lightly on the arm.
*
Though it was out of the way, we returned to the apartment so I could check to see if Marty’d called. He hadn’t.
“Do you want to wait?” Chris asked.
I thought a moment. “Nah; if he does call, we’ll be back long before his shift is over.”
So we turned around and left.
Taking a bus to Times Square, we walked down to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, where hundreds of buses arrived and departed every day to and from New Jersey and all over the country. Jonathan, of course, was puzzled as to where the buses were, and Chris explained that, like the trains at Grand Central Terminal, the operation ran so smoothly you weren’t aware of them. The buses came up ramps beneath and behind the main terminal, dropped off and picked up passengers on several levels above us, and went on their way. We did a walk-through of the terminal, and then continued down 42nd, through the area still known as Hell’s Kitchen to the docks, where we turned north on 12th Avenue to 46th Street and the looming hulk of the USS Intrepid.
“Look at that thing!” Jonathan exclaimed in awe as we approached, taking pictures about every twenty feet.
“And the newer carriers are a lot bigger,” Max said.
“Wow!” Jonathan said.
I, of course, was completely swallowed up in déjà vu. Talk about time travel! I was back in Norfolk, sea-bag over my shoulder, walking up the gangway into the bowels of the biggest ship I had ever seen. I could imagine how Jonathan felt, and I envied him.
When we stepped into the vast hangar deck, Chris echoed Jonathan’s “Wow!”
Saved from the scrap heap, the USS Intrepid Sea-Air-Space Museum had just opened the year before, and was obviously still a work in progress. We toured as much of the ship as we could, going up on the bridge high above the massive flight deck. I, of course, as a common swabbie, had never made it anywhere near the Ti’s bridge the eleven months I’d been aboard, so it was a new experience for me, too. Jonathan had a thousand questions on how things worked and what the various pieces of machinery and equipment were for, what it was like to live on a ship this big, about all the ports I’d been to, and how 3,000 guys could live so close together for so long without going crazy. I knew he was referring to sex, and I told him I’d explain that part later.
We spent a lot of time looking at the planes and wandering around the flight deck, walking to the bow so Jonathan could get photos looking down the length of the ship, and of the island with its flags flying. He found just the right spot so we could get a picture with all of us with the island looming off to our left, and asked a nearby tourist to take a shot of the four of us.
It was another great day and, when we left, Jonathan asked if we could walk down Broadway to Times Square again, which we did. But this time it was different; Jonathan adopted the casual air of a native New Yorker. It almost worked, if I hadn’t known him better.
Ah, they grow up so fast, the little mind-voice I recognized as the mother hen in me sighed.
While I didn’t say anything, of course, I was eager to get back to the apartment to see if Marty had called.
*
He had. There was a message on the machine saying the NYPD was mailing him a copy of the complete report, but that he had gotten quite a bit of the basic information I might need from the phone call, and giving me his extension number. I immediately called him back.
But the voice that answered wasn’t Marty’s.
“Is Officer Gresham in?” I asked, already frustrated.
“No, he’s not at his desk right now.”
Damn! “Would you leave a note that…” I began, but the voice cut me off.
“Hold a second; here he is.”
There was a pause while the phone changed hands, then, “Officer Gresham.”
“Marty. Dick. What did you find out?” I didn’t want to waste any time.
“Okay, let me find my notes, here.” A slight pause. “The body was found around four a.m. in a high-crime neighborhood, near an alley at the back of an empty lot. The lot was also halfway between the roughest and sleaziest gay bar in the area and a bus stop—he may have been on his way home, though he must have been either drunk or stupid to be walking around in that neighborhood alone at that time of night. A squad car cruising down the alley spotted the body, face down, at the back of the lot, shot once in the back with a thirty-eight.
“Pants pockets empty and turned inside out. No sign of a struggle. No weapon found. All the earmarks of a classic botched robbery. They think the killer might have been somebody he either picked up at the bar or who had followed him from there, but…” Another pause.
“But?”
“…but though his pockets were empty, there were a bunch of torn pieces of paper scattered over and around the body.”
Interesting! I thought. “What were they?”
“They pieced together as many as they could find, and it was apparently a note from someone to the victim, though they couldn’t be sure. All it said was, ‘We’ve got to talk privately before G gets to town. Call me first thing in the morning.’ It was unsigned.”
“Did they establish the time of death?”
A slight pause, then, “Uh…let’s see…here it is. Time of death estimated at around midnight or one a.m. I’ll know more when the full police report comes in. Do you want me to call you when it does?”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary unless there’s something in there that really strikes you as unusual.”
“Oh, and Trans-Con called. Gene Morrison changed his flight from Thursday morning to Wednesday night, Flight 224 nonstop from L.A. to New York, arriving at LaGuardia at eight fifteen p.m.”
I heaved a deep sigh. “Thank you, Marty!” I said sincerely. “I don’t know how I can repay you.” Well, actually, picturing Marty’s handsome face and how hot he looked in his uniform, my crotch had an idea or two, but I ignored it.
He laughed. “All part of my job,” he said, though we both knew otherwise.
Okay: two people I had to talk to—Tait Duncan and Gene Morrison. And I wanted to talk to Tait first.
Without even putting the receiver back on the cradle, I looked at Chris and Max who, like Jonathan, were sitting there looking at me, and started to dial.
“Sorry to commandeer the phone, but I’ve really got to try to get in touch with Tait right away.”
I recognized Keith’s voice when he said, “Duncan residence.”
“Keith, this is Dick Hardesty. Is Tait in? It’s really important that I speak to him.”
“One moment.” There was the sound of the phone being set down, then silence.
Finally, “Yes, Dick. What can I do for you?”
“Can we talk privately for a few minutes before rehearsal? I’ve come across some information I really should discuss with you.”
“Of course. I’ll be there right at six. And I received a copy of your contract. I’ll bring it to the theater and we can sign it when I see you.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you at six.”
When we hung up, I turned to Chris and Max. “When you talked to the police, did they mention anything to you about a note?”
&nbs
p; “A note?” Chris asked, looking at Max. Both shook their heads.
“No,” Max said. “They just asked mainly what we knew of Rod’s personal life—if he had enemies, what kind of bars he frequented, if we had noticed anything odd that final night of rehearsal…things like that. What kind of note was it?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, largely truthfully, “but it was torn up and scattered over Rod’s body.”
I knew they wanted to know more but I didn’t want to give away too much of what I knew…which, frankly, was precious little.
*
We decided that rather than trying to go out for dinner in the limited time we had, we’d take advantage of Jonathan’s second meatloaf, with instant mashed potatoes, packaged gravy, and frozen corn. Not bad, really.
We made it to the theater at about ten minutes before six. Joe was already there, making a light check. Chris spotted Carl, the costume lady’s son, sitting in the front row reading a book, and headed backstage to see if he could help Doris with the costumes before the cast arrived.
Max excused himself to get to work, but said, “Jonathan, if you’d like to come up to the booth while Tait and Dick are talking, you can get an idea of what goes on up there.”
“Thanks! I’d like that.”
At that moment the side door opened and Tait came in, walking over to us. He was carrying a small paper wrapped in brown paper with some sort of label I couldn’t read.
“Jonathan. Dick,” he said by way of greeting, and we exchanged a quick handshake. Not wanting to waste any time, Tait smiled at Jonathan and said, “Would you excuse us, Jonathan?”
“Sure,” Jonathan said, taking a seat in the last row as I followed Tait to his office. I knew Jonathan wanted to go to Max’s booth but, since the door to the booth was directly across the vestibule from Tait’s office, he didn’t want to look as though he was following us.
Tait unlocked the door to his office and stepped in, turning on the lights and immediately moving behind his desk to sit down, placing the package on the corner of the desk closest to him. He motioned for me to shut the door and I did, taking the chair across from him.
He noticed me looking at the package. “Temporary inserts for the programs until we can get them reprinted. They arrived Tuesday, with Cam’s name, photo, and bio listed. These inserts with the cast changes will have to do until the new programs get here.”
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out an envelope. “Which reminds me, the contract. I made an extra copy so we can each have one. Since we’d agreed on the terms, I took the liberty of filling it out. I hope you don’t mind.”
A little late if I did, I thought. I guess “control” goes beyond just giving orders.
Taking the contracts out of the envelope, he slid them across the desk toward me, with a pen from his desk set. I glanced over both copies quickly and signed them, initialing his changes in my fee and a note about reimbursement of airfare, then returned them and the pen to him for his signature and initialing. He signed and returned one copy to his jacket and gave me the other.
Leaning forward, he put his elbows on the desk. “So, what have you found out?”
“First, I’ve learned that Mr. Morrison arrived in town the night of Rod’s murder, not the morning after.”
A quick look of surprise crossed his face. “You’re sure?”
I nodded. “Trans-Con Flight 224. Got in at eight fifteen p.m.”
“I can’t imagine why he would have come in early, or why he didn’t tell me if he did.”
Before exploring the ramifications of that little exchange, I figured I’d better give him the rest of it first.
“What did the police tell you about finding Rod’s body?” I asked.
He gave me a puzzled look. “Nothing, really, other than that he was found in a vacant lot not far from a rough gay bar, and that he’d been robbed and shot once in the back, apparently while trying to run away from his attacker.”
“Did they say anything else?”
“Not that I can remember. I was in something of a state of shock, I think.”
“And they didn’t ask you about a note?” For some reason, I didn’t want to mention the fact of its having been in pieces.
The quick look of surprise I’d expected when I told him of Morrison’s having changed flights came again, now mixed with something else I couldn’t define. “The killer left a note?”
I shook my head. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the killer who wrote it.”
“No, they didn’t ask me…” he suddenly paled. “Wait! Yes, they did, and I was so shaken by Rod’s death I completely forgot!”
“Forgot what?”
“I gave Rod a note just before he left the theater that night!”
Well, I thought, there goes Tait as a suspect! He’d hardly have torn up his own note and scattered it over the body if he was the killer.
No? a mind-voice responded. What better way to turn attention away from himself?
He looked at me closely. “How did you know about it? Have you spoken to the police?”
I shook my head. “No, that would only call attention to the Whitman if I did. I have police sources back home. ”
He gave a slight “ah” nod.
“So why did you give Rod a note?”
“I was in a hurry to leave and I hadn’t had a chance to catch him alone all evening. I wanted to be sure to talk with him before Gene came into town.”
“May I ask about what?”
“About his promiscuity, which was getting totally out of hand. I knew Gene was aware of it. I could tell it in his voice when he’d call. He’d always ask how Rod was doing, saying he was hard to reach by phone, sometimes not answering Gene’s call for a couple of days. It wasn’t hard for him to figure out.
“I’d mentioned it to Rod several times, trying to make him see what he was doing to Gene and to the entire production. If he wanted to screw around, that was his business. But when he started hitting on the cast and crew of the play Gene wrote for him, he was really playing with fire. Gene is a very good friend, and I hated to think of him getting hurt, as I knew he was. I knew Gene would be in town a couple of weeks, with the play opening and all, and I wanted to warn Rod to watch himself and to explain what his actions could do to his career, let alone to Gene. Some of us—and Gene is a prime example—are adult in our bodies, but children in our hunger for love. There is no age limit on need.”
“I assume you did not tell Gene about the note.”
He shook his head. “No, I really didn’t want him to know about it. If he knew I was as aware of Rod’s promiscuity as I was, he might resent me for not telling him about it earlier.”
“And where is Gene now?”
Tait glanced at his watch. “Keith should be picking him up right about now. I didn’t want us to come together because I knew you wanted to talk to me in private.”
“Well, let’s assume for now that he has a logical explanation for coming into town early, and for not telling you. When I talk to him, I’ll see if I can find out without making it an outright confrontation.”
“Understood.”
*
We left Tait’s office a few minutes later and he excused himself to go backstage. Not seeing Jonathan in the auditorium, I knocked on the sound/lighting/stage manager’s booth, and heard footsteps as someone came up the short stairway and opened the door. It was Jonathan, who turned to call up to the booth, “Thanks a lot, guys.” He stepped into the vestibule and closed the door behind him.
“I never saw so many buttons and wires and levers and switches in one place before,” he said admiringly. “How can Joe possibly know which one does what?”
“Practice,” I said, grinning, and he reached out and punched me lightly on the shoulder.
As we were standing at the back of the center aisle, the side exit door opened and Gene Morrison and Keith came in. We exchanged smiles and greetings, and Gene suggested we all sit down for a few minutes and talk, sin
ce there was at least a half hour before any of the invited audience would be showing up, but Keith excused himself, saying he had some work to do in the box office, and then would open the main doors and collect the invitations as the audience came in.
Jonathan, knowing I wanted to talk to Morrison alone, said, “Is there anything I can do to help you, Keith?”
Keith smiled—had I mentioned that Keith was a very attractive young man with a very sexy smile? I didn’t think I’d ever seen him smile around Tait. Interesting.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, if you really don’t mind,” he said. “You could stand in the auditorium doorway and take the invitations. If there’s any problem, just ask them to come to the box office and talk to me. There are a number of things that have to be checked over and set up in the box office before opening tomorrow, and this would give me a head start.”
I suspected he was referring to the program inserts, but didn’t want to mention them in front of Morrison.
“Sure,” Jonathan said, smiling broadly. “I’ll be glad to.”
Keith turned to Gene Morrison and me. “Well, then, if you’ll excuse us….”
I noticed as Morrison and I sat down that Keith stopped briefly at a switch box behind the swinging doors to flip on the lobby lights. Then, while Jonathan went into the small lobby, Keith went quickly to Tait’s office, coming out almost immediately with the package of inserts and following Jonathan into the lobby.
“You make a very handsome couple,” Morrison said, nodding toward the lobby with a small smile that held more than a little sadness in it. “I envy you.”
That took me a little by surprise, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Thank you,” I said.
“He loves you very much,” he said. “I can tell.”
I was suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. “And I him,” I said.
Without looking directly at me, he said: “How very lucky you are.”
Then his expression changed slightly, as if bringing himself back to reality, and he said: “So, do you enjoy being a private investigator?”
Again, I wasn’t quite sure where this was going. “All in all, yes,” I said, “though there are moments….”
