by Dorien Grey
“Dick,” the readily identifiable voice said, “it’s Glen O’Banyon. I just got back from the Glicks’ interview, and I’ve got to be in court at two, but if you’d like to meet me at Etheridge’s for a quick lunch at around twelve-forty-five…”
“Sure,” I said.
“Good. I’ve got to run by my office for some court papers, so I should be just about on time. See you there.” And he hung up.
Busy man.
*
Etheridge’s is directly across from the City Building, and I’d met O’Banyon there several times when I’d worked with him on a previous case. He had what I could only think of as a permanently reserved booth in the back of the restaurant; I’d never seen anyone else sitting there. The waiter, whose name I’d learned over previous lunches was Alex, saw me come in and escorted me to the booth without my having to ask. I’d semi-hit on him one time while waiting for O’Banyon, and he’d made a point of subtly mentioning his other half, Jerry. Well, you can’t win ‘em all.
I was just pouring myself a second cup of coffee from the carafe when O’Banyon arrived. He was about halfway to the booth when he stopped to talk with someone. Finally, he made his way to the back and sat down, as always first putting his briefcase on the side of the thickly padded bench closest to the wall. He reached across the table for our customary handshake.
“Sorry for the delay,” he said. “Judge Kurst had a question for me.”
“No problem.”
He took his napkin and put it on his lap then reached for the coffee carafe.
“You’re looking good,” he said. “Chasing murderers seems to keep you in shape.”
“On the outside, maybe.”
He smiled and nodded.
“So what’s—”
Alex came up to ask if we were ready to order. Neither of us had looked at the menu, but even I knew it fairly well by now, so we just ordered our regulars—a Caesar salad for O’Banyon, the chicken and dumplings special for me. Alex smiled, gave me a quick wink, and left.
“…going on?” O’Banyon finished, picking up in mid-question.
I hoped I wasn’t going to sound too far out in left field but figured there was no time to beat around the bush.
“Well, first off, I was wondering how the interview went. None of my business, probably, but that never slows me down.”
He smiled again.
“So I’ve noticed,” he said. “It went quite well, I think. Captain Offermann suggested a possible conflict of interest in my representing the Glicks while ‘being involved,’ as he put it, with one of their escorts. The fact of the matter is that I did not pay for Phil’s…company…at any time.
“We met that evening he accompanied Stuart Anderson to Senator Marshfield’s campaign fund-raiser. To say I was impressed is something of an understatement. When he mentioned he was a model for ModelMen, I called the Glicks the next day to find out more about him. They arranged, on their own, to have Phil spend the evening with me. I assume, of course, that they reimbursed him for his time, but that had nothing to do with me. We went out to dinner again a few weeks later, strictly socially, and strictly dinner.” He sighed heavily. “I must say, though, that Phil is an incredible piece of work.”
Indeed, I thought.
“But back to the Glicks’s interview. It went as well as could be expected. If it had been merely Stuart Anderson’s death, the police would have had a lot more reason to come down on ModelMen and its escorts, but Billy Steiner’s murder weakened that particular approach. And had it been merely Billy’s death, the police would have had a lot stronger case for demanding ModelMen’s client list on the grounds that the perpetrator might well have been one of the clients. But with both a client and an escort dead…
“And then along came Laurie Travers, and everything went back up into the air. So, the result was mostly a fishing expedition. Lt. Richman raised the question of which of ModelMen’s escorts were known to be bisexual. Not much grass grows under that one’s feet, that’s for sure.”
“I think they’re going to arrest Gary Bancroft,” I said. “Probably fairly soon.”
He had started to take a sip of coffee but paused the cup halfway to his mouth and looked up at me without moving his head.
“Yes, I’d think so, too. What do you know that I don’t?”
I told him everything I knew, suspected, conjectured. I told him of Gary’s past—what I knew of it—of his being Iris’s son, of having been abandoned when he was very young and of my assumption he had some pretty serious anger issues. I realized full well that the prostitute’s death had been the key; if she hadn’t been killed, I don’t know how long it would have taken me, if I’d have managed to reach any solution at all.
I then proceeded to muddy the waters by telling him about Matt, about his tendency to play rough, about his still not totally clear relationship with Gary. He was as good a candidate for Anderson’s and Billy’s murders as Gary was. It was Laurie Travers’ murder that tipped the scale toward Gary.
O’Banyon took his sip of coffee and returned his cup to the saucer. He looked at me without speaking for a moment then said, “And why did he kill Stuart Anderson and Billy Steiner?”
God, I wished he hadn’t asked me that! I didn’t have one single solid fact to back me up, just gut feelings and intuition, neither of which carries very much weight in a court of law. Well, I’d been right to go with my instincts often enough in the past.
Luckily, Alex arrived with our food, and we concentrated on eating in silence for a few moments while I gathered my thoughts and tried to put them in some sort of order that would make sense to O’Banyon.
“I think,” I said as I cut one of the dumplings in half and swirled it around in the cream sauce, trying to get a chunk of chicken to climb on board, “that if it was Gary, he didn’t necessarily set out to kill either one of them. With Anderson, I think it might have been something like spontaneous anger. Anderson apparently told just about everyone he came in contact with he was planning to send his eight-year-old son away. That could pretty easily really piss off somebody who’d been abandoned by his mother when he was even younger than that.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Billy was probably mostly an accident. Having an asthma attack while your face is pushed into a pillow with somebody really strong on top of you, forcing you down, well… And that Billy refused to get fucked without a condom might have made the killer mad. He did it anyway, and Billy probably wasn’t cooperating.”
“And the prostitute?”
I sighed. “That’s the rub. Why the hell would he steal a knife from Anderson and deliberately use it to kill a prostitute? I can’t imagine either Gary or Matt being that stupid. I can’t believe anyone being that stupid unless the killer is rubbing our noses in something.”
“And I still keep coming back to the fact that, of the three dead, one was gay, one bi, and one straight,” O’Banyon said.
I shook my head slowly, as if trying to shake loose a thought or two I knew was in there somewhere.
“I know,” I said. “And it just doesn’t make sense. But the fact of the matter is the police will pretty much consider Gary the prime suspect, with Matt, as soon as they find out about him, if they haven’t already, a close second, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
Alex came to take our plates away, refresh our coffee and, at O’Banyon’s request, leave the check.
“Do you think it’s Gary?” O’Banyon asked when Alex had gone.
I shook my head again.
“I really don’t know,” I said. “It’s too obvious, in a way. There’s an awful lot I still don’t know and want to find out.”
It suddenly occurred to me that, when it comes to investigating murders, the police have certain definite advantages in that they usually have a built-in objectivity. They don’t know the suspect as a person, never spent time social time with him. And never went to bed with him, my mind added.
O’Banyon looked at his watch.
<
br /> “Sorry, Dick, I’ve got to get to court. I’m sure you’ll be able to get to the bottom of this mess. I really like the Glicks, and to think that one of their employees might be a murderer, and especially that it might be Iris Glick’s…son, really boggles the mind. If there’s anything you need from me… Give me a call as soon as you find out anything, will you?”
“I will,” I said.
He looked at the check, reached into his jacket for his wallet, and extracted a bill, which he placed under the check. We rose to leave and, waving to Alex as he emerged from the kitchen with a tray of food, went out into the street. O’Banyon extended his hand for our parting handshake, but just as we were ready to release, he tightened his grip, and his face grew serious.
“Be careful,” he said then released my hand.
I nodded and gave him a small wave as he headed for the crosswalk leading to the City Building. As I headed for my car, I noticed the aroma of uncollected garbage. The sanitary workers’ strike showed no signs of ending soon, and the side effect was getting harder for average citizens to ignore.
*
Getting Gary and Matt together might take a little juggling, especially if, as both of them had indicated, there’d been some sort of rift between them. Just how deep the rift went I had no idea. I suspected it might go beyond Matt’s feeling betrayed by Gary’s not having intervened when Matt got fired from ModelMen.
I tried calling Matt first and got his machine. I left a message for him to call me as soon as he could. I then dialed Gary, and a sleepy voice answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Gary, it’s Dick. Did I wake you?”
“Yeah, but that’s okay. Had a late shoot last night. What’s up?”
“I was thinking of getting together with you and Matt. I’ve got a couple questions, and I can ask you both at the same time.”
There was a brief pause. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve pretty much cut all ties to Matt, and I prefer to leave it that way.”
Now I was really curious.
“Can I ask…?”
Another pause, then a sigh.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well,” I said, “I can appreciate that, but I’m afraid we really have to. Can I come by your place…now?”
There was a significant pause, then: “I’ve got to be at police headquarters at four-thirty for questioning. I suppose we could talk for a few minutes, if you really insist.”
“I’m afraid I do,” I said.
I suddenly realized I had no idea where he lived.
How the hell did anybody ever give you a license to practice, Hardesty? my little voice asked.
“Where are you located?” I asked.
“Belamy Towers, apartment 2801,” he said.
Belamy Towers? My, my! The boy lives well, I thought. Belamy Towers was one of the city’s newest and most exclusive apartment complexes. Well, he’d said he liked nice things.
I realized, too, that my earlier concerns about not confronting him alone had more or less gone out the window. I did think about calling Phil to let him know where I was going, but first of all, I wasn’t anywhere near the point of confronting anyone about anything, and it was very unlikely that, even if worse came to worst and Gary turned out to be the killer, he would try to off me in his own apartment.
Besides, remember the odds—six billion to one it wouldn’t be Gary anyway.
*
Belamy Towers stood at the top of a hill overlooking the river and downtown. I imagined it had a spectacular view at night, and at twenty-nine stories, it was visible from almost anywhere in town.
It was so new they were still putting the finishing touches on the impressive lobby, all marble and mirrors, and only about half the tenants had moved in. Even though I’m sure Gary was in great demand as an escort and a model, I still questioned how he could afford to live here.
Then, as I waited by the elevators, I noticed a bronze plaque set in the wall. It listed the building’s construction firm and the architect, and at the bottom were the words: “Glick Enterprises.” Question answered.
The elevator had that overpoweringly new smell that hinted of sawdust and fresh lacquer. The hallway of the 28th floor, when the doors opened with barely a sound, reflected the quiet elegance of the building. Thick burgundy carpet, simple but dramatic lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows at each end of the hall, two doors on each side of the hallway to the left of the elevators, one door on each side to the right. Directly across from the elevator was another elevator, which I’d not noticed from the lobby.
Two of the six apartment doors stood open, and I moved toward the ones on the right just far enough to take a quick look inside. In one, carpet was being laid; from the other the smell of fresh paint and a section of dropcloth extending into the hall indicated tenants had not yet moved in.
I turned back past the elevators just as the door to the one I’d not seen in the lobby opened, revealing it to be a freight elevator. A really cute guy wearing white coveralls and a painter’s cap emerged carrying several cans of paint. We exchanged smiles and a nod, and I reluctantly forced myself to head in the opposite direction to find Apartment 2801.
I had no sooner rung the bell when the door opened to reveal a rather subdued looking Gary. He gave me a small smile as we exchanged a handshake and he showed me in. The small foyer, with parquet floors, was painted the exact same shade as his eyes, and on two of the walls were a series of small seascape paintings. When we moved into the living room, I was more than a little impressed.
He had a corner apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows covering two-thirds of each of the two outer walls. The view was that of the river and downtown, of course, and again I could only imagine what it must look like at night. Either he had hired a top-notch interior designer, or Iris Glick had been right—Gary was a Renaissance man.
In either case, he had fantastic and expensive tastes, perfectly balanced, from the small islands of carpeting in a sea of polished wood flooring to the mist-blue walls to the comfortable but obviously very expensive furniture.
“Like it?” Gary asked.
“Wow,” I found myself saying, yet again demonstrating my worldly sophistication.
He managed a small grin.
“Yeah, me, too,” he said. “It’s a long way from Nebraska.”
He motioned me to a seat, and I took one where I could look out the window.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked, and I shook my head.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
He took a seat opposite me and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands folded.
“So, what did you want to see me and Matt about?” he asked.
I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath.
“Well, to be honest with you, I wanted to see the two of you together. The police are starting to zero in on ModelMen, and you’re going to be right up there on the top of their list, like it or not.”
“Me, not Matt.”
I nodded. “Afraid it’s heading in that direction.”
“Because of the hooker.”
“Yeah, mostly.”
“But how in hell can they tie her in with the other two deaths? Other than her and Billy both being found in a Dumpster. What did she have to do with that Anderson guy?”
Either he didn’t know about the knife, or was pretending not to.
“The police apparently have some pretty good evidence of the link,” I said.
He looked at me, eyebrow raised, and leaned even farther forward.
“Such as?”
“I’m not sure,” I lied. “The police don’t exactly take me into their confidence.” Which was largely true despite Lt. Richman’s occasional sharing of information.
Gary unfolded his hands and sat slowly back in his chair. I decided to take a couple steps out onto the high wire.
“Do you use prostitutes?”
I asked.
He looked at me a moment, then shrugged.
“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t have to. I can get women just about anywhere any time I want them, but every now and then it’s just simpler to go out and pick up a hooker. I do it mostly after I’ve been with a client who doesn’t reciprocate. Sometimes I’m too horny to want to bother standing around in a bar for fifteen minutes hoping to score.”
Fifteen minutes?
“And did you happen to pick up a prostitute the night Laurie Travers—that was her name—was killed?”
He looked decidedly uncomfortable and wiped his open hand over his face quickly.
“Yeah, damn it!” he said. “I picked up a hooker, but the chances it was the same one…I didn’t ask her name, of course. Picked her up on McLeod and Spruce, drove her to an alley not far away. She blew me, I paid her, and I left.”
“You left her in the alley?”
“No, of course not. I dropped her off at the corner a couple blocks away, near that all-night restaurant where the hookers hang out, on Cole.”
“And did anybody see you drop her off?” I asked, realizing it was a pretty stupid question.
Gary looked incredulous.
“In that part of town? At that time of night? There are probably bums and winos and hookers lurking in the shadows all over the place down there, like some cheap vampire movie. How the hell do I know if anybody saw me, and how could I expect them to remember even if they did? There was a bag lady with a shopping cart crossing the street as I was coming up the block, but she was gone by the time the hooker got out of the car.”
“Well, it’s something,” I said. But not much, I thought.
“Yeah, like finding a needle in a haystack. Anyway, after I dropped her off, I came home. And as far as it being the hooker who got killed, that whole area is crawling with hookers. There’s no way it could have been the same one.”
“Well,” I said, “I suspect the police may have a picture of her they’ll be showing you, and if it is the same one…”
Gary shook his head. “This is bullshit!” he said. “How in the hell could they suspect me? Just because I’m bisexual?”
“I don’t think it’s just a matter of your being bisexual. But you did know Anderson and Billy, and you and Steve are the only two escorts who openly admit to having sex with women as well as men.”
