His Name Is John

by Dorien Grey

  Although Elliott hadn’t noticed the car’s being illegally parked again, apparently one of the neighbors had called the police. When the tow truck pulled away, Al noticed him standing there. His eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed in an expression of pure fury.

  “You cocksucking, motherfucking fairy!” Al yelled at him, his face livid with rage. Elliott was sure he was going to come at him, and he prepared himself for a physical confrontation. Instead, Al merely glared at him, then shook his head menacingly, pulled out his cell phone and stormed back to the demolition site.

  Al clearly assumed it was Elliott who had called the police, given the earlier incident where he’d caught him taking photos. Well, that was Al’s problem, not his.

  * * *

  On Wednesday, Elliott called Larry Fingerhood to talk to him about listing the Sheffield property, on which work was nearly completed. He was delighted with how it had turned out, and had toyed with the idea of adding it to his collection of buildings he couldn’t force himself to sell. However, practicality dictated he couldn’t keep them all. They made arrangements for Larry to meet with him at the property on Saturday.

  Thursday morning, on his way from the bathroom to the kitchen to start breakfast, he made his usual detour to the den to turn on the morning news. Without looking at the set, he had just turned toward the door when he heard, “…North Sheffield, where a massive explosion has destroyed a vacant apartment building undergoing renovation. Flames spread to an adjacent empty building. Firefighters are still working to....”

  Elliott spun around to see his building in ruins, water streaming from fire hoses through a third-floor window, smoke pouring from the roof and out the front entrance. He felt physically ill and lowered himself into a chair, forcing himself to concentrate on what was being said.

  “Police and fire department investigators are on the scene, hoping to determine the exact cause of the blast, though a 9-1-1 call just prior to the explosion reported the strong smell of natural gas. And in other news….”

  He remained motionless, paying no attention to what was being said, as the picture on the set switched back to the studio. As the shock slowly began to wear off, his first thought was one of gratitude that apparently no one had been injured. His second impulse was to jump into his clothes and race to the scene, but he realized there was little or nothing he could do there, other than to answer questions, and he wanted to be fully pulled together before he did that.

  He pushed himself up from his chair and deliberately made his way back to the bedroom to get dressed.

  * * *

  Sheffield was still blocked off when he arrived, and he had to park two blocks away. A fire truck remained in front of what was left of the building, flanked by two police cars. Officers were stringing “Do not Cross” tape across the width of the property at the curb. Barricades blocked the sidewalk. There was still a sizeable crowd of onlookers.

  Elliott could see as he approached that while the front of the building was largely intact, looking up through a shattered third-story window showed that the roof was gone; and as he got closer, he saw the entire back third of the building was missing. He again gave thanks that the building was vacant—the chances of anyone in the rear units surviving a blast that powerful were slim to none.

  He’d called his crew while on the way over, to tell them what had happened and not to come to work. Walking up to a policeman just tying the end of the warning tape to one of the barricades, Elliott identified himself and was directed to two men standing near the front entrance, one in full fire gear, the other in plain clothes. Hesitating only a moment and taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and went through the open front gate to meet them.

  The rest of the day was a blur. He spent a good forty-five minutes with the on-scene investigators, assuring them that while he and his crew had occasion to have been from one end of the building to the other, including the basement, numerous times every day, they had not noticed anything out of the ordinary, and most specifically no odor of escaping gas. The most logical place for a gas leak was in the laundry room in the basement, where the main gas lines came into the building from the alley. It was also where the four gas driers were located. The investigators agreed that was probably the origination point of the explosion, but that the collapse of the rear of the building had eliminated any possibility of a positive determination until the debris was cleared away.

  He noticed the damage to Collina’s building next door appeared to be relatively heavy, and was glad it, too, had been empty. Calls to the insurance company and his lawyer—he had no doubt whatsoever that Collina would find some excuse to file suit for the damage to his building even though it was in the process of being demolished—filled out the rest of the day.

  It was only when he got home and fixed himself a drink that his adrenaline levels began to return to normal and he could allow himself to pursue the possible cause of the explosion. Actually, as far as he was concerned, there was only one possibility that made sense: Al Collina. It wasn’t just the confrontation over the towing of Al’s car, though he wouldn’t be surprised if it hadn’t precipitated it. It was the fact that Al wanted that property. Now that it had been destroyed, he probably felt Elliott would be more than willing to sell it to him. He might well use the threat of a lawsuit as a bargaining chip.

  Elliott had no doubt that the destruction of his building had been in Al’s mind ever since Elliott had first refused his offer to buy it, but that Al had deliberately waited until Elliott had invested the maximum amount of time and money into the project. However, waiting until it was in another owner’s possession would have taken the pleasure out of it. Impractical and illogical as that might sound to others, he knew it would be typical of Al Collina.

  The evening news once again mentioned the explosion, and less than two minutes later the phone rang.

  “Elliott!” Cessy’s voice reflected her shock. “Was that your building I saw on the news just now?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it was,” he replied.

  “Why didn’t you call me? Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?”

  Despite his frequent mild impatience with her, he decided that a sister who cared was a nice thing to have.

  “No, Sis, there’s nothing you can do, but thanks. I feel bad about losing it, but no one was hurt, and it was insured, so it’s not the end of the world.”

  “I can’t understand how you can be so calm about it,” she said. “All the time and money you put into it…”

  He allowed himself a small sigh. “I know,” he said. “But when something happens that you have no control over and can’t change, you just have to accept it and get on with your life. I’ll be fine.”

  “Have you talked to Steve?”

  The question caught him by surprise; he realized he hadn’t even thought of calling Steve yet. As far as he knew, he’d never even mentioned the Sheffield building specifically.

  “Not yet,” he said. “I’ll call him later.” He didn’t add that he had no intention of mentioning the explosion when he did call. He couldn’t see any point in dragging Steve into things that didn’t involve him—a decision made more out of consideration for Steve than a desire to keep him at arm’s length. In Elliott’s mind, mentioning it would seem too much like he was looking for sympathy, and he didn’t want that.

  “Well, I…” Cessy began, then stopped. “Just a second, Elliott. Brad just came in.”

  He heard muffled voices as Cessy covered the mouthpiece with her hand to talk to Brad, then, “Here’s Brad.”

  Another brief silence.

  “Elliott. Cessy just told me about your building. I heard something about it at work, but I never thought it was yours. That sucks. They said something about a gas leak?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure it was gas. But I’ll wait until after the investigation before I say anything to anybody about
my suspicions about the how.”

  “Well, I won’t press you, but if you think it wasn’t an accident, you should say something.”

  “Yeah, I will. But like I said, I think I should wait until after the investigation results come in.”

  “Whatever. But I’m here whenever you want to talk.”

  “I appreciate that, Brad. I just don’t want to go opening up cans of worms before I’m sure it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Understood. Keep me posted on what they find out, okay?”

  “Okay…and anything new on John Doe?”

  “Yeah…a couple of things. We checked the cab company records for O’Hare pickups around the time Hill’s flight got in. I’d told you we’d learned that he had called to cancel his reservation at the City Suites, which lends weight to the idea that somebody—possibly his killer—might have met him when he got in. I told you the San Luis Obispo police weren’t able to get any fingerprints, but they did take Hill’s toothbrush and a hairbrush that might yield DNA evidence we can compare with what we got from our John Doe. It would have been easier for them to run a DNA test from their end, but they apparently didn’t want to go to the expense, so they’re sending them to us so we can do it here.” Brad paused, then said, “You still convinced Hill isn’t our John Doe?”

  “I’m as sure as I can be without having any facts to prove it.”

  “Well, this whole case has a hell of a lot more conjecture and circumstantial evidence than I’m comfortable with, but we can’t ignore anything. I do have to admit Cole seems to be setting himself up as a prime suspect in Hill’s disappearance. But until we get Hill’s DNA to compare it to our John Doe, we’ll just have to assume they’re the same guy.

  “To play it safe, we’re running Hill’s social security number through the system...the San Luis police had to get it from his publisher. For having been his partner, Cole didn’t seem to know much about Hill; he even had to look in one of Hill’s books to find the publisher’s name.”

  * * *

  Talking with Brad about the John/Hill situation had momentarily helped divert his mind from the loss of his building and the certainty that Al Collina was responsible for it. Once his conversation with Brad had ended, his anger against Collina reemerged, and he had to fight to control it. But he knew one thing with a cold, hard certainty—there was no way in hell Collina was going to get his hands on that property. He’d level the building and leave it as an empty lot until hell froze over first.

  He briefly flashed on the idea of turning the lot over to the city for a mini park until he realized that, while that might well foil Al’s plans to build on it, a park would only enhance the value of whatever Al threw up immediately adjacent to it. Al would come out ahead no matter what Elliott did, and that thought infuriated him. Eventually, however, he convinced himself to just step back and give the whole thing time to simmer down. Nothing had to be done or decided just yet.

  * * *

  Friday was filled with loss-related details—filings, paperwork, a visit to the site, innumerable phone calls, meetings with his insurance representative, two concerned calls from Cessy checking on how he was doing, and too many other things for him to remember in detail later. Somewhat against his better judgment he called Steve’s home phone and left a message asking him to call when he got home from work. He very much felt the need for a little relaxation, and Steve came immediately to mind. Maybe dinner out, or a round of the bars—anything to take his mind off his problems.

  He still didn’t want to drag Steve into it all, but knew he’d have to tell him about it eventually. He promised himself he’d do his best to keep it as casual as possible.

  Around four thirty, shortly after he returned home, his phone rang.

  “Elliott. Brad. I’ve been trying to get you on your cell, but your line’s been busy.”

  “Yeah,” Elliott replied. “It’s been a busy day. What’s up?”

  “Well, we got Hill’s toothbrush and hairbrush from San Luis Obispo today. We’ve sent it to the lab, but it will take some time before we know anything.”

  After ending the call, he went into the kitchen for a glass and some ice cubes, he returned to the den and poured a stiff drink. He’d downed about half of it when Steve called.

  Elliott did his best to engage in a few seconds of small talk before losing his battle with temptation and saying, “Are you doing anything tonight?”

  “Just laundry. Why? You sound a little strange. Is everything okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Elliott lied. “I just really feel like going out tonight, and thought we could have dinner and go to a movie or hit the bars. I apologize for the short notice, and if you don’t feel up to it, I’ll understand.”

  “No, that’s fine,” Steve replied. “Out’s fine. But are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. Seven o’clock okay?”

  “Sure. I can make it by then. Where shall I meet you?”

  “I’ll pick you up.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’ll see you then. And thanks.”

  “No thanks necessary,” Steve said. “I’ll be out front.”

  To forestall the possibility of any more thinking, he downed the rest of his drink and headed to the bathroom for another shower, removing his shirt as he went.

  * * *

  True to his word, Steve was standing in front of his building when Elliott pulled up.

  “Cornelia’s okay for dinner?” he asked as soon as Steve got in.

  “Sure,” Steve said, fastening his seat belt.

  “Sorry to keep you from your laundry,” Elliott said.

  “It’ll wait.” Steve glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

  They rode in silence for a couple of blocks until he realized Steve was waiting for him to say something. Maybe it was just part of his mood, he thought, but he realized he’d deliberately not said anything to see what Steve’s reaction would be, and he was pleased that Steve seemed to understand.

  “My building blew up,” Elliott said calmly.

  Steve turned to look at him fully. “That was your building? On Sheffield? I saw it on the news. I had no idea it was yours! I’m so sorry!” His voice reflected his sincere concern, but he was obviously trying to follow Elliott’s lead and not make too much of it.

  Elliott shrugged, only mildly disgusted with himself for saying anything at all. “Yeah, it was really a great old building and we’d put a lot of work into it. But I’ll be okay.”

  “Do they know how it happened?”

  “Gas leak, most likely,” he said, without further detail. “They won’t know until their investigation is complete.”

  “Well, I’m really sorry. I wish there was something I could do to help.”

  Reaching his free hand over to put it on Steve’s thigh, he smiled. “You’re doing it,” he said.

  * * *

  Dinner was exactly what he needed. He hadn’t really been aware of how tense he had been over the last two days until he felt it slowly draining away. As they talked, he had a quick mental image of ballroom dancers, with Steve taking the lead in guiding him effortlessly around the conversational floor.

  After dinner, they left the car near the restaurant and walked down to a couple of the Boys’ Town bars on Halsted. It was nearly midnight by the time they got back to Steve’s apartment, where he was more than happy to accept Steve’s offer to spend the night.

  * * *

  He opened his eyes to see the digital clock on Steve’s nightstand telling him it was 8:03 a.m. Granted, they hadn’t gotten to sleep until nearly 2:00, but even so, he was surprised that he’d slept so late. He turned over to find the other half of the bed empty. And as sleep faded, much as the tension had the night before, he realized that he had heard nothing from John during the night.

  He’d been sure his conversation with Brad would have sparked some strong reactions from John, but there’d been nothing, and that
at first puzzled him. Then, remembering John’s tendency, when Elliott was with someone, not to intrude, he was grateful to have had some uninterrupted “alone time” with Steve. In any event, his puzzlement was balanced with something akin to relief.

  “Ah, you’re awake.”

  He hadn’t noticed that Steve, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, had entered the bedroom, carrying two cups of coffee.

  “Yeah,” he replied with a grin. “You been up long?”

  Steve moved to Elliott’s side of the bed and waited while Elliott adjusted his pillow to allow him to sit up against the headboard, then handed him his coffee. “Not long. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  Taking a sip of coffee, and pleased that Steve remembered that he took both cream and sugar, Elliott shook his head. “Not at all. I was really out of it.”

  Steve sat on the bed beside him. “I figured you needed the rest.”

  He felt a flush of warmth as he—subtly, he hoped—watched Steve sitting beside him. It took all his willpower to keep from reaching out and running his hand all over that beautiful, perfect skin.

  “I had an interesting dream last night,” Steve said, and immediately all of Elliott’s thoughts of skin disappeared in a rush of adrenaline.

  He looked up from his coffee: “Yeah? About what?”

  “About your John Doe, oddly enough. I don’t remember the details, but like I said, it was interesting. Something about motor homes and mountains. Did you ever find out anything more about him?”

  Elliott reached over to set his coffee cup down on the nightstand. He didn’t trust himself to hold it.

  “As a matter of fact,…” he began.

  He told Steve everything he’d heard from Brad, being very careful never to mention John as other than the object of the investigation. He didn’t want to speculate on Steve’s dream or the implications of his even having had such a dream.

  “Wow, that’s really interesting,” Steve said when he had finished. “And to think all this came about because you cared enough about some guy you never met. I’m sure he’s grateful to you for trying to help him.”

  Elliott had no idea how to take that remark.