by Dorien Grey
“Hey, no,” I said. “This just came up, I swear! I called you before it happened.”
“Stuart Anderson.”
“You got your diploma from mind-reading school, I see. But, yeah, I’m afraid you’re right. How the hell did you know?”
Tim gave a little laugh. “You…a murdered gay guy—well, a murdered bi guy, you must be expanding your territory—it figures.”
He had me shaking my head.
“And how in hell did you know he was bi?”
“Because there was evidence of semen—his—on the sheets from his bed. He was taking an active part in the sex.”
I was now stepping over a threshold I didn’t really want to cross. But…
“The word I heard used to describe the cause of death was ‘hacked.’ Not ‘stabbed.’ What’s that all about?”
Tim paused. “I can’t give you the details, but let’s just say ‘hacked’ doesn’t quite do it justice. He was…dismembered. But the cause of death was one stab wound directly through the heart.”
“Jeezus!” I said. “How in hell could that happen in a hotel room? Wouldn’t it have taken an ax or a chainsaw?”
“No, just a relatively small sharp knife in the hands of someone who knew what he was doing.”
“Good God!” I said. “That’s horrible!” I knew I didn’t want to know the answer to the next question, but I had to ask. “And there’s something else…”
“Yes, but…”
“You can tell me,” I said. “I’m sitting down.”
He sighed. “Something was inserted into a body cavity.”
I waited. “Meaning…?”
“Meaning whoever did it shoved Anderson’s wedding ring up his ass.”
Chapter 4
Like you had to know that, right, Hardesty?
I didn’t say a word. In fact, I didn’t say a word for so long that Tim finally said,
“Hello?”
“I’m here,” I managed. Then I paused again but forced myself to ask, “How in hell do you do it, Tim?” I knew I didn’t have to explain what I meant.
“It’s my job,” he said calmly. “A lot of times I don’t like it, but like the cliché says, somebody’s got to do it. And if something I find rummaging around in a chunk of meat that used to have a person inside helps find out exactly how and why the person left it, it’s worth it. I just always remember that a body isn’t a person anymore; nothing I have to do to it matters to the human being it used to belong to.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said, and I knew that he was.
“So,” Tim went on, his voice once more that of the chipper little hunk I always think of him as being, “are we set for Sunday, then? Around noon at my place?”
“Sure, but why don’t we make it a little earlier and grab brunch. The parade starts at one-thirty, I think.”
“Great idea,” he said. “But we’d better call for reservations, like, tonight—everyplace will be jammed.”
“I’ll do it,” I volunteered “I might have to call around, though, to see what’s available. I’ll call you later.” Then I had a thought. “Have you ever met my friend Jared?”
There was a slight pause before Tim said, “No, I don’t think so. Should I?”
“Oh, yeah!” I said. “I was thinking of asking him to join us at the parade, if you don’t mind.”
“Fine with me. You can ask him if he wants to join us for brunch, too, if you’d like. Are we doing our ‘Dick Hardesty, Boy Yenta’ number here?”
I laughed. “No way! Shit, if I get you married off we couldn’t have our far-too-infrequent-as-it-is little bedroom chats. But Jared’s a special piece of work, and I know you’ll like each other. I’ll give him a call.”
“Okay.”
After we hung up, I dialed Jared’s number, not really expecting to find him home, and was surprised when he answered on the first ring.
“Just waiting for my call?” I asked without identifying myself. Obviously, I didn’t have to.
“Dick, hi,” he said. “I was just picking up the phone to call you. Chalk another one up to ESP. What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to join my friend Tim Jackson and me Sunday for the Gay Pride parade.” I said. “We’re going to try for brunch beforehand, too, if you can make it.”
Jared didn’t hesitate a second.
“Sure,” he said, “sounds great. Tim’s your buddy at the coroner’s office, right?”
“That’s him,” I said, “and I’m pretty sure you’ll like each other.”
“Meaning?”
I laughed. “Meaning I’m pretty sure you’ll like each other. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to set anybody up.” I paused for only a second before saying, “So, let me check around for reservations, then, and I’ll call you back with the time and place, okay?”
“I’ll be here,” Jared said. “I’m starting to put the final touches on my thesis, so I’m not going anywhere.”
“Talk to you soon, then,” I said, and we exchanged goodbyes and hung up.
I immediately called Calypso’s and Rasputin’s; both were booked solid. Then, on a whim, I tried Napoleon. I felt just a little bit uncomfortable even thinking of it, since that was where I’d last seen Stuart Anderson, and they normally didn’t do brunches.
But it being Gay Pride, I figured they might. I lucked out. They were, indeed, having a special brunch for the occasion, and I was able to get a reservation for 11:45.
Life goes on, I told myself.
Yeah, but not for Stuart Anderson, my mind answered.
*
I couldn’t get Anderson—and what had happened to him—out of my mind. How could someone not have seen something? The two of them coming in through the lobby, assuming Anderson had gone out and picked up a hustler; somebody covered in blood going out?
Chopping up a body is, I’d imagine, a pretty damned messy affair. There had to have been a lot of blood. How could the killer not have gotten it all over himself? Even if they’d both been naked, since the dismemberment took place in the shower, the killer couldn’t have washed off all that well. What about bloody towels?
Technically, the Glicks hadn’t hired me to find Anderson’s killer but to run interference for ModelMen. But to my mind, one thing equaled the other—if there was a tie-in, I wanted to know it. If there wasn’t, that would still be to their advantage in defending themselves.
I thought of the reception desk clerk’s comment about the parking garage—that runners often used it rather than going through the lobby. I had no idea whether Anderson might have rented a car, but if he had, and driven in with a hustler, or if the killer had somehow left through the garage, I wanted to know about it.
Of course, there was the problem of the police and me stumbling all over one another’s feet. I had the feeling I might be allowed a little more leeway than a straight PI, not because of my irresistible charm and razor-sharp insights but simply because, when it came to serious cases involving the gay community, I was a hell of a lot better able to move around in it than they were.
Lt. Richman, and possibly Captain Offermanns, head of the Homicide Division, realized that, so until the department got around to hiring openly gay police officers, it was a lot easier for them to do a little quid pro quo with me. But I wasn’t stupid enough to take this little arrangement too much for granted, or to try to press my luck too hard.
Was Anderson robbed? Were any of his things missing? Shit! How would I find out? Richman might well know, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t or couldn’t tell me. Maybe, if I could find out something I could offer in trade…
*
At the office the next morning, I tried to rough out exactly what I might do to earn my keep with the Glicks. I wished I had a photo of Anderson, since I planned to go to Faces that evening to see if anyone remembered his being there and whether he’d left with anyone that last Sunday night. On the far outside chance Phil might conceivably have one, I waited until I was pretty sure
he’d be up then called.
Billy answered, and when I asked if Phil was around, said, “No, he’s doing some catalog stuff for ManSport Outfitters. He won’t be back until late this afternoon. Anything I can do to help?”
Uh, now that you mention it…
“Probably not,” I said, forcing myself to shift focus from crotch to brain, “unless you might know if Phil ever had his picture taken with Stuart Anderson.”
Billy thought a minute, then said, “Yeah! He did! He went with Stuart to some function that big lawyer Glen O’Banyon gave, and they had their pictures taken with O’Banyon and Senator Marshfield. It’s right here. Do you need it?”
“I’d like to borrow it for a day or so, if you don’t think Phil would mind.”
“Nah, I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Billy said. “You want to come by and pick it up?”
“Great. I’ll be right over. Thanks, Billy…I’ll owe you.”
“MasterCard and Visa gratefully accepted,” he said. “See you when you get here.”
*
It was interesting to hear that Anderson had known Glen O’Banyon. O’Banyon was one of the wealthiest and most prominent attorneys in the city. Although his being gay was no secret, his wealth and power gave him access to the city’s upper crust, and he was constantly hosting or attending fundraisers and social events of one sort or another. Anderson would have felt comfortable in those surroundings and evidently sufficiently so to take Phil with him—no doubt as a “business associate.”
I’d done some work for O’Banyon and liked him, although we hadn’t been in touch recently. It occurred to me to contact him to see how well he had known Anderson. I called his office and was put through to his secretary, Donna.
“Donna, hi, this is Dick Hardesty. I was wondering if you could ask Mr. O’Banyon if he could call me when he gets a chance. Nothing urgent, but I would like to speak with him. He has my home number, I believe, if that’s more convenient for him.”
“I’ll give him the message, Mr. Hardesty,” she said in her usual cheerfully efficient manner.
I finished up a few things around the office then headed out for Phil and Billy’s apartment.
*
Billy answered the door in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, his face and torso glistening with sweat. I noticed he had a small tattoo on his left pec just above his nipple—a little field mouse sitting back on its haunches. I’m not big on tattoos, but this one somehow suited him perfectly.
“Come on in, Dick. I was just working out a little. Have to keep the merchandise in mint condition,” he added with a big grin.
After I’d entered and closed the door behind me, he motioned me to a seat.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks, I’m fine,” I said.
“So I’ve heard,” Billy said with another wicked little grin. It really fascinated me how such a cherubic, innocent face could suddenly turn so…well…sexy.
I wasn’t sure whether I should let that one pass or not, but being a Scorpio…
“Phil been telling tales out of school again?”
Billy picked a framed photograph off the top of a bookcase and brought it over, standing directly in front of me.
“He didn’t go into detail, if that’s what you mean,” he said, holding the picture out just slightly in front of his gym shorts where I couldn’t help notice that little Billy may have been small, but oh, my!
I reached out for the photograph, but somehow my hand kind of got…um…sidetracked, and Billy just pushed his hips slightly forward to meet it.
There was a moment of silence in which I could almost hear the crackle of electricity, until he said: “I was just thinking of taking a shower. Care to join me?”
I looked up into his absolutely beautiful face and his wide no-doubt-what-it-meant grin. I took the picture from him and laid it carefully on the chair next to me then grabbed him by the hips with both hands and started to slide his gym shorts toward the floor.
“How about a tongue bath instead?” I asked, pulling him forward.
*
Remember when you were a senior in high school, and there was that little blond your gut ached for every time you saw him, but you for one reason or another never got to do anything about and always kicked yourself because you hadn’t? Well, that guy, whoever he may have been, grew up to be Billy, and he fulfilled the fantasy in spades!
He didn’t have to say a word, but his every action made it clear you were the one in control, and that was exactly what he wanted you to be, and that he’d be more than glad to follow your lead wherever you wanted to go. Think about it. That was Billy.
I did end up joining him in the shower—by that time, we both needed one. God, he was an incredible mixture of sweetness and sex, and I’m sure he brought out the Me-Tarzan side of every guy lucky enough to go to bed with him. As I’d thought about Phil, the Glicks had found a gold mine when they found Billy. If Phil’s specialty was “whatever you want” and Aaron’s was “down and dirty,” Billy’s was definitely ego fluffing.
*
I took Phil’s photo to a local quick-service photo place a block from my office, had them enlarge it to a 4x6, then headed back for the Montero. I drove around the block looking for the entrance to their parking garage and, upon finding it on the street flanking the hotel, was interested to note the sign above the ramp said “Guest Parking Only.”
I found a place to park about a block away then walked around to the side of the hotel and down the ramp to the garage. Both the entrance and exit lanes were blocked by those retractable railroad-crossing-type barriers, but about six feet inside was a small attendant’s booth between the two lanes. No one was in the booth or in evidence in the garage itself. I noted that entry was gained by punching numbers into a small keypad on a box on a pole about ten feet from the barricade, the one on the exit side must have triggered automatically when a car approached.
I circled the barricade and checked the attendant’s booth. There were no signs of recent occupation, and it occurred to me they might not have a regular attendant.
I continued through the main part of the relatively small garage, which had been added during the recent renovation as a convenience for guests. Visitors and those attending social functions at the hotel probably used the large public garage across the street and a few doors down.
I reached the far wall at the end where there were two doors, one an elevator, the other a stairway. Instead of a button for the elevator door there was another keypad. The elevator could only be summoned by punching in some numbers, probably the same ones that provided access to the garage. So it would be difficult for anyone to gain access to the guest floors without having the keypad combination or being with someone who did, but not at all difficult to leave the hotel via the garage without being seen.
I took the stairway and found myself, not surprisingly, in the lobby. Out of curiosity, I stopped at the registration desk to ask about the garage attendant. I was told they had one on duty between 10:00 p.m. and 7:00 a.m., largely to keep an eye on the visitors’ cars against late-night vandalism. I made a note to return after 10:00 to check whether he’d noticed anything unusual Sunday night.
On my way back to the office, I stopped at the photo place to pick up Anderson’s photo.
*
I stayed at the office a little later than usual, planning to catch the tail end of the happy hour—if they had one—at Faces. I wanted to be there before the dinner rush really started but when I could be pretty sure all the waiters and bartenders would be on duty.
Faces, as I’ve mentioned, was several steps above the usual hustler bars—considerably more discreet. The hustlers tended to be generally better-looking, better-groomed, and subtler than the guys, say, at Hughie’s, the hustler bar closest to my office. There was some crossover traffic, of course, but not much. The guys at Faces might deign to check Hughies out on a really slow night, but most of Hughie’s hustler clientele didn’t want to both
er with the little games—like getting dressed up—hustling at Faces pretty much required. The hustlers at Faces seldom drank beer.
Finally, at Faces, generally you wouldn’t be moved in on without your giving some indication of interest first.
While I was hardly a regular there, I had been in often enough either for dinner—they had a fantastic French onion soup—or on other cases to casually know some of the staff. I’d tricked with one of the maître d’s a couple years before when he worked at another restaurant, and the turnover among the waiters and bartenders tended to be lower at Faces because of the money that could be made on tips from the wealthy businessmen comprising the other half of the clientele.
I got there at around seven, just at the end of the cocktail hour when the early diners started to arrive. I was happy to see that the bartender I’d spoken most often with—Kent—was on duty, and so was one of the waiters…Tod? I’d gotten info from before. That would make it a lot easier. And of course, I always made sure to fulfill my part of the quid pro quo with a sizable contribution to their personal charities.
As usual, there were a number of USDA Prime specimens seated at the bar, although it was a little early for most of the…um, what to call them? Johns was what they were, just as hustlers were what the guys waiting for them were, but somehow, they were a cut or two above the Hughie’s brand of either.
And once again I wondered where in hell all these good-looking guys had come from, and how they’d gotten into hustling, and where they’d be in ten years.
Yeah, yeah…and do they like puppies, and do they pay their rent on time, and…yawn, my mind said, neatly bringing me back to reality.
I took a seat at the bar, noticing a few casual glances from other customers probably wondering which category I fit into—buyer or seller.
Kent came over immediately.
“What’ll it be tonight, Dick? Old Fashioned?” Two marks of a good bartender—remembering names and remembering drinks.
“You talked me into it,” I said.
He grinned and moved a few feet down the bar to put it all together. I watched as he emptied the last from a bottle of bourbon then expertly snapped the neck off the bottle on a little device kept just below the bar. I’d always wondered why they did that until I realized it was to guarantee the customers the bottles couldn’t be refilled with cheaper stuff.
