by Long, W. S.
Hunter closed his eyes and tried to hold back, but silently his eyes watered, his nose became congested and he couldn’t speak. Thankfully, the hotel security guard quickly moved and grabbed a box of tissue that had been on the side of the table and handed it to Hunter.
“I’m sorry to have broken the news this way. We’ll have you officially confirm it’s your stepfather, but right now the area where he was found is cordoned off until crime scene techs are done.”
Hunter nodded.
The female investigator raised a finger to ask a question. “Whose room is whose?”
“Mine is to the left, my stepdad’s is over there.”
She nodded, lifted her camera, and walked over to Carl’s room. “Deputy, there are two wine glasses here. There also appears to be lipstick on one,” she shouted. Then she started clicking away with her camera, doing close ups of the spoon, the wine glasses, and the immediate areas of the bed.
“Did your stepfather have a guest?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t stay the night here?”
“Oh?” The deputy flipped open his notebook and started writing. The hotel security guard took out his cell and texted.
Their activity unnerved Hunter, and he couldn’t figure out why.
“Where were you when your stepfather was entertaining?”
“I was with a friend. In the hotel. With whom, I’d rather not say.”
Deputy nodded. “You understand that if the investigation reveals foul play, we’ll have to take you in for more formal questioning, and you’ll have to say where you were.”
Hunter nodded. He hoped he didn’t have to divulge he was with Dimas. Carl’s death didn’t have anything to do with his boyfriend, so why risk Dimas’s golf career?
“I have to ask you some questions to make sure we’re on the right track and to rule out any possibilities. Please don’t take offense to the questions I’m asking you.”
Hunter nodded, curious to find out what the tech was doing because he saw camera flashes going off every second in Carl’s bathroom.
“Do you wear lipstick?” the deputy asked.
Hunter furrowed his brow. “No.”
“I’m sorry I have to ask, but have you ever had a sexual relationship with your stepfather?”
Hunter straightened from his chair, and his face reddened. “No!”
“I had to ask these questions to see if I can rule out suspects. Now, before I came up on the elevator, we ran a list of calls to your home with your stepfather in Ponte Vedra. Several domestic calls were made. One was several years ago.” Deputy Myers showed on his phone the date and time and the complaint caller’s information. “Your mother called in to report that your stepfather was drunk and was hitting you. When deputies arrived, you denied any physical abuse although the deputy noted that your face was red and you had been crying. There was a car that crashed into the side of the house. They later took you to the hospital with severe lacerations and bruising to your arm, collar bone and shoulders, and your mother and you refused to give any details. Everyone refused to press charges. Then there’s the call almost four years ago. Neighbors called because your stepfather started breaking the windows of your car and calling you—”
“Faggot. He was calling me a pussy and retard too.” Hunter beat back the tears. “We had just lost a junior tournament. He was mad. He came out to watch the tournament. It was the first and last time he caught a collegiate tournament of mine. He thought I was weak, and made the team lose.”
Deputy Myers sat there silently for a moment. The hotel security guard pinched his nose and sat down at a chair away from both Hunter and the deputy. “If your stepfather’s death was caused by foul play, you’d have motive to rid of him. I’ve been a deputy a long time.”
“He wasn’t a bad man.” Hunter wiped his tears with the tissue, and then blew his nose. “He just became a different person when he was drunk. It was like Jekyll and Hyde with him. Give him several drinks and he could become a monster. He wasn’t always like that.”
Deputy Myers cleared his throat. “We need an alibi from you from around midnight to a couple of hours ago.”
Hunter nodded. “All I can tell you is I was with someone.”
“Excuse me, deputy,” the dark suited man interrupted. “Our records show that at two in the morning a call was made from this room to the front desk, and then transferred to room service. Room service arrived around two-thirty with two hamburgers and two glasses of wine. We just pulled a security feed that shows that Mr. Carl Mullins poked his head out of the room around two-thirty to accept the food and signed for the check.”
“I don’t see any remnants of room service here.” Deputy Myers scanned the living room.
The security representative nodded. “Early in the morning we walk the halls. Because of the number of guests that stayed for the tournament, we had a large number of room service calls, so around five this morning, each floor was checked, and food carts cleared out. The next time a room key was swiped to gain entry into the suite was about a half an hour ago. We don’t keep track of exits from this room, but the RFID key card system told us when an entry is made.”
“That would have been the time I came in,” Hunter said.
“Do you have your keys?” Deputy Myers asked.
“Yes.” Hunter fished out the room key, but now he wasn’t sure which suite was which, so he put two keys out.
“Which one is the key to this room?”
“I’m not sure,” Hunter answered.”
“And the other key?”
“Where I stayed last night,” Hunter said.
“And you still can’t tell me who you were with?” the deputy asked.
“No, I can’t say.”
“Can I get any help on this?” Deputy Myers asked hotel security.
“I would have to take both keys and read them using the RFID chip reader to see which room is assigned to which.”
“That would violate my privacy and the privacy of the other person,” Hunter said, his voice coming across sterner than he intended. “I’m not a person of interest, right?”
Deputy Myers shook his head. “Not yet, but I’m trying to make sure you’re not. Clearly, you could have the potential motive to have your stepfather dead. Preliminary reports of his death suggest some blunt force trauma to the back of his head. We’re not sure if it was from a fall, or from some sort of weapon. The impact point is rather small and required a lot of force.” The deputy hesitated. “What’s usually used if it’s murder is something nearby, like a bat, a heavy stick. Even golf clubs if heavy and swung a certain way. Do you know where your stepdad’s golf clubs are located?”
“It would be downstairs with the bell valet. I think the tournament officials took them from me to transfer back to the hotel.”
“That’s good then. Since you’re not in possession of the golf clubs, you won’t mind if we test each club for any forensic evidence.”
“I have nothing to hide, so test away.”
“Except the identity of who you were with last night,” the deputy mumbled. “And if you’re trying to protect this person, he must be very famous.”
Hunter involuntarily gasped and then flushed. It dawned on him that Deputy Myers had been fishing for information, and Hunter’s reaction just confirmed it.
The security manager, who’d ignored this exchange, glanced up from his cell phone. He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, then crossed his arms. Hunter wasn’t sure what the hotel representative had just read off his cell phone, but the fact that he eyed the keys on the table and then his cell phone again made Hunter uneasy.
When the dark-haired hotel security manager gritted his jaw seconds later and stared at Hunter almost in disbelief, Hunter went numb. The hotel must have security video showing Hunter going into Dimas’s room last night, and then leaving this morning. They had cameras in every hallway. They could easily confirm Hunter’s alibi. But now they knew Hunter’s horrible secret and in learning this,
they could expose Dimas too.
“Deputy, I’m being called by the hotel manager, so excuse me.” The dark-haired man stood up, glanced briefly at Hunter.
“Sure,” Deputy Myers said.
As the dark-suited man approached the door, he glanced back to Hunter. Again. That moment was like a gut punch. Carl was dead. His life was upside down, and the secret of the man he loved will no longer be a one if the hotel and the deputies had their way.
He wanted Dimas with him, to tell him that everything was going to be okay, and this feeling of loneliness and sadness would go away. But Dimas wasn’t there, and the inquisitive deputy, and the photo-taking crime scene tech only made Hunter sadder.
He wondered what happened to Carl. Why was he up so early in the morning? What made him go outside that early? And if it was murder, who would want to kill him?
His spine shuddered when he remembered Dimas’s words earlier in the morning. “I’d fucking kill him.”
* * * *
Dimas laughed. He hadn’t expected a series of questions in Spanish. But he answered them anyway. He had to give her credit; the journalist’s questions were direct and on point. At least in this tournament, no one asked him about Tiger Woods, or Rickie Fowler. Golf analysts when he started the pro tour had compared Rickie’s game with Dimas, even though their style of play was completely different. Dimas was not offended by the comparison, since Rickie was a great player, but he was tired of comparisons made by the media to him and other Asian, or Asian-mixed players like Tiger, or Rickie.
After the female reporter was done, he asked if anyone wanted to ask him questions in Japanese. The TV crew laughed. Dimas studied the small group that had been asking him questions, and wished Hunter was among the group. He wanted to share this moment with him.
If only Hunter wasn’t so scared of what people thought. What Carl thought. He wondered if anyone would really care if Hunter came out.
Luckily, after almost an hour of it, the questioning ended. His agent, impatient, since he had to take off for New York, signaled the interviews were done. Dimas himself didn’t wait for the camera assist to come over and remove his microphone off his golf shirt: he removed it himself and stood up, shaking hands quickly with several people who were near the exit.
He practically ran up the stairs to his suite instead of taking the elevator, texting Hunter as he made his way up, and when he arrived in their room, he was disappointed to find it empty. He stepped into the bedroom and saw the latte sitting on the nightstand. He picked it up; it was room temperature.
But no Hunter. And still no text.
He wondered if Hunter was with Carl since Carl was supposed to check out today.
He’d been thinking all morning about the two of them, Dimas and Hunter. In fact, the idea of the two of them becoming more public distracted him most of the morning. He wanted Hunter and wanted talk to him, but his absence was painfully disquieting.
Where the fuck is he?
Chapter 3
Six Years Earlier
Dimas whistled. “Nice house.” Hunter never carried himself off at school as an entitled or privileged kid like some others on their golf team, but the large house clearly dispelled this myth. Dimas chuckled. Hunter and his secrets. He still marveled that Hunter Mullins was the stepson of Carl Mullins, the pro golfer, a secret he just recently been told. Dimas had been sworn to secrecy by Hunter not to tell the others on the golf team. He wanted to be treated like anyone else.
“Thanks,” Hunter said. “My mother likes the Victorian style.” Hunter parked on the driveway, not bothering to open up the detached garage door. “Come on.” They took their carry-ons and walked up to the front door. Hunter struggled to open the door with his key, when the door flew open. A petite strawberry blonde woman stood.
“There you are!” She threw her arms open and hugged Hunter.
“Hi, Mom!”
“This is my friend, Dimas,” Hunter pointed to Dimas, who promptly shook her hand. She grinned from ear to ear and cocked her head to Hunter. “I’m glad to meet you.”
“Thanks for inviting me for Thanksgiving, Mrs. Mullins,” Dimas said.
“It’s our pleasure. I’m glad you can join us. And please, call me June.”
Dimas stepped inside the house, putting his carry-on by the front door, next to Hunter’s, marveling on the polished wooden floors, and the Victorian details. He stepped into the foyer and the smell of turkey roasting in the oven greeted him. His stomach rumbled. They’d left Tallahassee about six hours earlier, and the Burger King breakfast was now a memory.
An hour later, they sat to dinner. Carl joined them shortly as the turkey was placed on the table. He’d played golf earlier, and Carl’s freckled cheeks were red from the wind and sun. As he started carving out pieces, he gazed over to Dimas. “Your last name is Japanese, but Hunter says you grew up in Peru?”
“Yes, my grandfather came over from Japan, Okinawa actually, to Peru around 1900 looking for work. He worked on farms, then stayed, married, and my father helped start a farm with him.”
“I would have never guessed you were part Japanese,” June said. She smiled, passed the mash potatoes to Hunter, who sat across from her, then the gravy. “Has anyone told you look like one of Hunter’s favorite TV actors?”
Dimas turned to Hunter, who sat on his right. “Oh? No.”
“Stop it, Mom. Don’t embarrass me,” Hunter mumbled, his face turning red.
“I can’t remember his name, but I remember the show, Saved By the Bell.”
“Well, I hope I don’t remind you of Principal Belding.”
Hunter shook his head. His face still red from embarrassment.
“It’s the Zack kid, you look like.”
Dimas let out a hearty laugh. “Thanks, I get that a lot. You know the actor who plays Zack is part Dutch, part Indonesian. So, like me, he’s mixed Asian.”
“Do you speak Japanese?” June asked.
“I do speak some Japanese, but my grandfather says it’s good enough to be a tourist, but I’d probably would never be considered a native. I can’t read Japanese.”
“Your English is pretty good,” Carl said.
“My mother’s Canadian, so it was English and Spanish spoken at home, and I listened to my father and grandfather in Japanese.”
“My family’s Scotch-Irish, I suspect some German ancestry,” Carl chimed. “And Hunter will carry on that legacy.”
“I’m partly Scotch-Irish,” June said. “We came to live with Carl when Hunter was around five, and Hunter took Carl’s last name after the adoption papers were signed. I’ve been fortunate, we’ve been fortunate to travel to Ireland and Scotland, and look up our ancestry.”
“You’re on the same team as Hunter?” Carl asked as he passed the turkey platter. “And how is Hunter on the golf team?”
“He’s great. Coach thinks we can make nationals this year.”
Carl nodded. “He needs to work on his long game though. He under swings the shot and doesn’t consistently follow through.” Carl took a long sip of his white wine.
Dimas glanced over to Hunter, who had his head down, silent as he ate.
It must be tough living with a stepfather who’s a pro and trying to escape his shadow.
“Until he fixes those problems, he’ll never make it into the pros. Everyone’s trying to be the next Tiger Woods these days, and you see the mess he got himself in recently. But Hunter, and I’m being honest for Hunter’s sake. He’s got to make major changes in his golf game before he can even make it.”
Dimas didn’t say anything. He hadn’t expected Carl to take these shots at Hunter, not at the dinner table and not on Thanksgiving. Hunter didn’t say anything, and June’s flushed face displayed embarrassment too. He wanted to break the awkward silence.
“Hunter’s moving in with me at my condo. The condo’s not far from the Southwood Golf Club. As roomies, and extra practice we’ll have a better shot in pushing through and winning collegiate tournaments.
” Dimas took a bite of the green bean casserole.
“Well, I don’t know how he’s going to do that, unless he takes a part-time job or something. I’m paying for tuition and board at Florida State. That was the promise. When I was growing up there was never any promise that my college would be paid by my parents. As it is, Hunter’s barely pulling a C plus right now.”
“My psychology grade,” Hunter added, “didn’t help with my GPA.”
“So he doesn’t need distractions. No partying, no girls,” Carl said.
“Yeah, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about too many girls,” Hunter said.
“What does that mean?” Carl asked, raising his voice. He poured more white wine into his glass. Carl openly glared at Hunter and waited for a response, while Hunter chewed his food slowly.
“What do you think of the green bean casserole?” June asked. “It’s my mother’s recipe.” She smiled, weakly.
Dimas nodded. “It’s great. I love it. The food’s delicious.”
Carl sat back in his chair, moving away from Hunter’s personal space. Clearly, Hunter was intimidated by Carl. Dimas interpreted June’s interjection as proof that she often played peacemaker between the two. He wondered what happened when she wasn’t around and it was only Carl and Hunter.
The foyer and hallway opened from the formal dining room, and Dimas saw Hunter’s carry-on next to his. Something told him that it’d be better if Hunter and he weren’t here for this weekend.
“On the way in, my parents emailed me that they’re flying into Miami today.” Dimas held Hunter’s hand under the table and squeezed it. “I appreciate the offer to stay here this weekend, and this meal is amazing, but Hunter and I plan on spending the remainder of Thanksgiving with my parents. Great golf courses and great weather this time of the year in south Florida.”
Dimas studied Carl who seemed ambivalent. Hunter squeezed Dimas’ hand, acknowledging his thanks.
“Oh, honey, I was hoping to spend some time with you this weekend,” June said.
“I never cared too much for Miami,” Carl said. “Don’t get me wrong. Doral—that’s a nice course to play—but too many fags. They’re everywhere down there. Doesn’t even seem to be part of Florida.”
