by Lanyon, Josh
I didn’t see Bruce Green in the crowd. I was sorry because I had changed my mind about talking to him.
I had changed my mind about a lot of things.
Chapter Four
Robert’s apartment was not sealed. No official yellow tape stretched across the front door proclaiming it a crime scene. As I hesitated on the walkway it seemed to me that it looked like it had always looked. California standard issue white stucco, complete with yellowing palm trees and the soothing rumble of the nearby Hollywood Freeway.
I let myself in using my key. Locking the door behind me, I leaned against it breathing softly, eyes straining in the darkness.
From the other side of the wall came the muffled bawl of heavy metal music, but inside the cold apartment all was silent.
I didn’t want to risk turning on the lights. I switched on my pocket flashlight and swung it slowly around the room: your typical West Hollywood studio apartment furnished in early Montgomery Ward. A white sofa bed sat across from an “oak” armoire that doubled as an entertainment center. A Bowflex exercise machine took up half the living room. I glanced over the counter into the kitchenette. There was a sink full of dirty dishes. The apartment smelled stale — worse. I traced the stench to dead flowers in a wine bottle on the counter.
Pressed for time, I crossed to the armoire. Opening the top drawer, I sifted through the undershirts, underpants: several packs of condoms, shirt studs in a leather box, a packet of drugstore prints. I thumbed through the prints quickly. Tara and the kids building snowmen, raking leaves, celebrating a birthday, trimming a Christmas tree. Life without father. I tucked them back between the Lycra leopard bikinis.
It was weird going through Rob’s stuff. More painful than I expected. Pretty stupid getting choked up over his sock drawer, I jeered at myself. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. I raked a latex glove through my hair, wincing as fine hairs pulled.
Rising from my haunches, I moved to the closet. On the upper shelf were two bulging shoe boxes fastened shut with straining rubber bands. When I reached for them a hard and flat object dislodged and fell, whacking me on the head. I swore then waited tensely to see if there was any response to that bump from the apartment next door.
Nothing. The neighbors were probably deaf, judging by the muted thump of drums and bass guitar. I recognized Great White’s “What Do You Do for Love.”
My flashlight picked out a high school yearbook, loose Christmas cards and a dildo. A dildo in a coat closet?
“For God’s sake, Rob!” I muttered, as I had been muttering for years. Like it was Rob’s fault he was dead and I was nosing through his personal belongings.
I snatched the dildo up, tucking it deep in the kitchen trash bin, freaking at the idea of Rob’s sisters or Tara going through his apartment and finding it. Just who was I trying to protect?
Returning to the living room, I lifted down one of the shoeboxes, folded myself cross-legged on the carpet and removed the lid. Bills, bills and more bills. Paycheck stubs. So many bills. So few paycheck stubs. I wished like hell our last conversation had not been about money.
I finished flipping through the stuffed box admitting that even if there was something there to find I probably wouldn’t recognize it. People don’t keep bank registers like they used to. There wasn’t a lot to make of some loose ATM slips and several returned checks in their envelopes.
I moved on to the next box. Bingo. Letters. Packs of photos. I pulled out the first envelope, recognizing that wild, green ink scrawl. I smoothed out the letter, scanned it quickly. It was signed “Black Beauty.”
Talk about your purple prose. “Sacre bleu,” I murmured.
I folded the letter up again, stuffed it in the envelope. From outside came a soft brushing sound against the wall.
I went rigid.
There was the scrape of a key in the front door lock. I crunched the lid back on the box and scrambled into the closet, pulling it closed.
Through the wood I heard the front door open and then shut. A band of light appeared beneath the bottom of the closet door. I stared at it in fascination.
A floorboard creaked.
I wondered if Robert’s murderer was prowling around on the other side of the door.
In the crowded darkness Robert’s clothes brushed against my face, Robert’s scent filled my nostrils. It was as though he stood there beside me during any one of the dozens of pranks we’d played as kids. I felt like if I reached out I would brush his hand. I realized I needed to take a piss.
Sweat poured out all over my body as I waited in the stifling darkness. I was surprised the intruder couldn’t hear my heart booming away; to me it sounded as loud as if someone were kicking an empty oil drum.
I stiffened as I heard a voice, low. The words were indistinct. Were there two of them? I pressed closer to the door, trying to hear, trying to recognize the voice.
Male. That’s all I could tell.
A few more unintelligible words, and then the unmistakable ping of the phone being hung up.
The floor creaked again. The band of light beneath the door vanished. The front door closed as quietly as it had opened. I heard the snick of the lock.
Silence.
I waited quite a while just to be sure.
I expelled a long sigh. Cautiously, I opened the closet and stepped out.
The overhead light switched on. Detective Riordan leaned against the front door, one hand resting casually on his jacket lapel, shoulder holster within easy reach.
“That’s one of the oldest tricks in the world, Adrien-with-an-e.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant his or mine. I stood there breathing in and out in time to the heaving of the beige carpet. From a distance I heard Riordan drawl something else, and then the floor rose up and hit me in the face.
* * * * *
I came to lying on Robert’s sofa. Riordan bent over me, sharply, insistently, patting my cheek.
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. Come on. Open those baby blues. Wake up.”
I fluttered my eyelashes. Unglued my mouth. “I’m awake.”
Riordan quit patting my cheek. Stared down at me.
“Jesus,” I mumbled as the full picture sank in.
“Wrong again.” He took my wrist in a cool, professional grip. Looked at his watch for a moment. Grunted.
I watched him passively. I mean, the thing had gone way past humiliation. I couldn’t feel much beyond a mild curiosity. Had he been following me? Would he have shot me? And why is it the best looking ones are always straight?
“You know, English, maybe you should consider another line of work. I don’t think you’re cut out for burglary.”
“Are you going to arrest me?” Like I said, it was just mild curiosity. I was too tired to get worked up about it.
His eyes flickered. “I don’t know. What are you doing here?”
I pushed up on elbow, fumbled in my breast pocket for my pills, managed to get the cap off. “Could I have a glass of water?”
“You’re stalling.” But he went into the kitchenette and returned with half a glass of water.
I sort of think if (God forbid) I had HIV or AIDS it would be more acceptable. If you’re gay and ill people half expect that anyway. But this … I can’t expect another guy to have patience with it. I don’t have patience with it myself.
He regarded me in silence as I sat up gingerly, popped the pills, took the glass and swallowed some water.
“Thanks. How did you know it was me?”
Riordan snorted. “That’s your black Ford Bronco parked a block down, isn’t it?”
“Oh.” I took another swallow and set the glass on the carpet. I raked the hair out of my eyes. My hand was almost steady. I realized he had removed my gloves. I glanced around but didn’t see them.
He shook his head. “Listen, Brain Guy, I thought you wrote a book once or something. Didn’t it occur to you that we would be watching this place? Don’t you think we’ve gone through all this?”
He indicated the shoebox lying where I’d dropped it. “What were you looking for?”
I didn’t like to say what had been in my mind: that maybe Rob had tried to blackmail someone. It seemed disloyal, though it was exactly the kind of far-fetched thing he would do.
I said, “Something you missed. Something that would point to who really killed Robert.” I met his gaze squarely. “I didn’t.”
Riordan grinned a crooked grin. “You do know, English, that that is what they all say?”
“I didn’t kill him.”
He considered me for a long moment with those light, keen eyes. He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. Then he said, “Suppose we go some place and talk about it?”
* * * * *
We went to Café Noir. Claude greeted us with menus, beaming at what he imagined to be my first date in eight months. I’m not sure if Riordan picked that up but he brusquely excused himself and started for the washroom, feeling his way through the gloom.
“Oooh la la,” twinkled Claude, leading me to an empty booth. “Très magnifique.”
“He’s a cop,” I cut him off. “One of the detectives investigating Robert’s murder.”
Claude looked aghast. “Why did you bring him here?”
His voice rose to a small shriek on the last word.
“Shhhhh,” I hissed. “Listen up. They know about the letters.”
“They’ve got them?”
“I saw them in a shoe box at Robert’s. Riordan made a point of telling me that they’d already been through all Robert’s stuff.”
“It was a trap?”
I opened my mouth but broke off as the men’s room door opened and Riordan stepped out. Claude jerked guiltily up from the table and hastened away toward the kitchen, giving my police escort a wide berth.
A second later Riordan dropped down across from me and said, “So tell me, Jonny Quest, just exactly what were you up to in Hersey’s apartment?”
“I already told you. You people have me pegged as the fall guy — or gay.”
His dark brows rose. “Excuse me? Have you been arrested? Have you so much as been officially interrogated? Even after I find you breaking and entering —”
“I have a key.”
He sucked in a peremptory breath. “Come on, English, I’m trying to be straight with you.”
I flicked him a deliberate look under my lashes. “Well, you can see what a waste of time that is.”
Our glances held — locked. After a moment Riordan laughed. Short and crisp, but a genuine laugh.
“You’re kind of a smart ass when you’re not flat on your face.”
Claude returned with gigantic foam-topped mugs of cappuccino. “De-caf for you, mon petit,” he informed me. He slopped Riordan’s in front of him and stalked off. I just hoped he hadn’t laced the detective’s with strychnine.
I sipped my decaf. I hate decaf.
“While I’m thinking of it, what’s the name of your doctor?” Riordan took out a notebook and pen.
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
I gave him the name of my doctor and he put the notepad away. That was a relief. I didn’t know if I was up to another interrogation right then.
I said, “There’s such a thing as patient-doctor confidentiality.”
“Relevant medical records can be subpoenaed. A doctor is not a priest. Besides, this might work to your advantage. You never know.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his restless gaze wandering over the other tables, the other customers. I deduced he was uncomfortable lest he be mistaken for one of my kindred. He needn’t have worried. Café Noir was not a “gay” restaurant, whatever that is.
“Have you found whoever it was that Robert was meeting that night?”
“We have only your word that Robert left to meet someone else. He went back to the Blue Parrot looking for you.”
I put my cup down with a bang. “Tell me this. Do you have any other suspects or am I it?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“I’m not asking you to name names. Are you considering the possibility that I didn’t kill Robert?”
His face hardened. “Hell yes. If we weren’t, you’d be wearing orange PJs right now.”
Not exactly words of comfort but I relaxed a fraction. If he planned to arrest me we’d be going directly to jail, not sipping cappuccino like civilized folk. For some reason I had been granted a reprieve. Why? Because the cops’ grounder case wasn’t such a ground ball after all? Riordan felt around in his pocket and then set something small and white on the granite table between us. I felt him observing me for any change of expression.
“What is it?”
“You don’t know?”
“I know it’s a chess piece.”
“You play chess?”
I answered warily, “Yeah.”
“What piece is this?”
I picked it up. “Queen.” It was one of those cheap pressed plastic pieces. Nothing unique or memorable about it.
“You and Robert play chess?”
“When we were kids. I haven’t played in years.”
“Why’s that?”
I shrugged, replaced the piece on the table top. “I don’t know. No one to play with.”
“Boo hoo.”
I re-revised my original opinion. Riordan was indeed an asshole. But he was probably pretty good at reading people — and manipulating them.
He added, “A piece exactly like this was found on Hersey’s body.”
“On his body?”
“Clutched in his hand.” Riordan studied me, and a weird half-smile curved his lips. “As Hersey lay dying, his assailant pressed this into his hand and folded his fingers around it. Held it closed. There were bruises on Hersey’s hand.”
“Fingerprints?”
“No fingerprints.”
I swallowed hard. Riordan reached across and pocketed the game piece. “Keep that to yourself. We haven’t released it to the press yet.”
“Why tell me?”
I couldn’t read the expression on his face. “Because I think you know what this chess piece means.”
I shook my head. “No. Unless the reference is to a queen. To Robert’s being gay.”
“That’s one explanation obviously.”
“I don’t have another.”
Riordan sipped his cappuccino. He did not look like a cappuccino kind of guy. “You think about it, Adrien-with-an-e. I bet it comes to you.”
* * * * *
The first Saturday of each month meant brunch with She Who Must Be Placated.
Lisa, my mother, has never forgiven me for a number of things, but being gay is not one of them. My main offense was my decision at age twenty-five that I was well enough to live outside the parental holdings. Worse, to start a “grubby little shop” on the money left to me by my paternal grandmother. As Lisa has no interest in my life as an autonomous adult, our brunches make for rather superficial conversation. Yet neither of us quite likes to give up this delicate tradition of chitchat over blueberry cream cheese blintzes and pots of Earl Grey tea.
Today, the weather being sunny, we brunched on the terrace overlooking the scrubby green hills of Porter Ranch. The February breeze whipped the white linen and scattered Sombreuil rose petals from the garden into the blueberry sauce. Lisa, still trim as a dancer in an Aran knit sweater and lavender leggings, was pouring tea into fragile china cups as I stepped through the French doors.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming, darling. What do you think of my hair?” she invited as I kissed her cheek.
“You look like Audrey Hepburn’s little sister.”
“Liar.” She preened.
I steadied the table as a gust of wind rocked it. The china rattled in genteel protest. “Maybe we should do this inside.”
“Why? I love this weather. It’s very nearly spring. The daffodils are out.”
“So is a hurricane advisory.” But I sat down across from her, shook out my napkin
— barely kept it from blowing away.
Lisa placed a cup in front of me. “And how are you darling? You look tired. You’re not overdoing again?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“You know what the doctors said.”
“Mm. How was the SPCA Ball?’
Lisa sat back and laughed her pretty silvery laugh. “Darling, it was a fiasco! You’d have laughed yourself sick. You must come next year, now promise, Adrien!”
“We’ll see.”
“You always say that.” She pouted briefly. She’s the sort of woman who looks delightful pouting — of which she is well aware. “It would do you good to get out. To meet people. To have fun.”
She was probably right about that, but somehow I didn’t think hanging out with a bunch of cat-crazy geezers was going to cure what ailed me.
I murmured noncommittally and picked up the gold-edged pink tea cup. The handle was too small to actually get my fingers through. I always felt like I was playing house at these brunches. All that was missing was a giant imaginary friend. I could have used a friend here.
Leaning forward, her violet eyes brimming with a melting tenderness, she said earnestly, “I know Mel hurt you terribly when he left.”
Oh God. “Lisa, really …”
She sat bolt upright. “Darling! I’d nearly forgotten. I have some awful news.”
I waited, my gaze wandering over the manicured lawn, the pool glittering in the sunshine, the apricot and coral rose bushes trembling in the wind.
“You remember that little friend of yours from high school? Oh what was his name? Well, he’s dead.”
“I know.”
Her eyes went wide like a startled fawn. “How can you know? I only heard from Jane Quinn this morning and she’d only talked to Annette Penick last night.”
I’d forgotten the maternal communication system, even more complex and infallible than Holmes’s Baker Street Irregulars.
“He worked for me, Lisa,” I reminded her patiently.
“Worked for you? When?”
“Up until he … died.”
“In Buffalo?”
“You’re thinking of Sioux City.”
