Fatal Shadows

by Lanyon, Josh

  The phone slipped off my shoulder. I lost my place on the calculator. Accidentally hit “clear” instead of “total.” “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw him, cherie, last night at Ball and Chain.”

  “What’s Ball and Chain?”

  “Morbleu, I forget the sheltered life you lead. Ball and Chain is a leather club.”

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” I said faintly.

  “Vous m’avez entendu, bébé. Guys in black leather. Handcuffs and chains.”

  The kind of thing Robert toyed with.

  “He was probably undercover or something.”

  “No! You’re not listening to me. I’ve seen him there before. He’s a member. He’s a master.”

  “He’s a —” I couldn’t finish the thought, let alone the sentence. My mind literally boggled at the idea of Riordan decked out in black leather. Riordan in a biker cap. Riordan in black leather pants. Was some guy wearing Riordan’s collar right now? Was some guy wearing Riordan’s marks on his ass right now? It seemed comical, ludicrous.

  Then I got another mental image of him, broad chest covered in blond pelt, muscular forearms, big smooth cock jutting out of a silky nest. Riordan ordering me down on my knees, his hand tangling in my hair as he pulled my head toward his heat. The laugh died in my throat.

  Claude was running on, jubilant at “catching le grand gros porc out.”

  I interrupted. “Claude, shut up for a second. Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure! I told you I recognized him. I told you I didn’t trust him. Well, doesn’t this simply change everything!”

  “What does it change?”

  “Everything. I’m going to have it out with him. I’m going to warn him that if he doesn’t back off maybe his pals downtown would like to know about Detective Reargun’s extracurricular activities.”

  “Holy Hell!” I caught the face of the woman who stood at the counter, a stack of The Cat Who books in hand. I turned away, lowering my voice. “Are you nuts? You’re going to threaten a cop?”

  “Not any old copper,” cooed Claude. “Mr. Tie-You-Up-And-Beat-The-Shit-Out-Of-You-Before-I-Shoot-My-Load-Up-Your-Ass Detective Reargun.”

  I closed my eyes, the better to focus — or maybe to hide my eyes from the launch of Claude’s Hindenburg. “Let me get this straight. Are you trying to get arrested? Even if you’re right, Riordan won’t stand down. You’ll only make him determined to nail you. Jesus, you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t find an excuse for blowing your head off.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I couldn’t believe Claude was this dim. Riordan was not the right temperament for a blackmail victim. Even I could see that. Although he apparently engaged in activities that made him a prime target.

  “Claude, snap out of it! If Riordan really believes you killed Robert —”

  “Moi?” he shrilled. “What about him? He’s as much a suspect as I am now.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Robert used to go to that club. Maybe he met Riordan there.”

  Robert had kinks — enjoyed his kinks — but BDSM? I couldn’t see him putting up with the restraints and discipline of being a bottom — he wouldn’t have been able to remember half the rules — and no sane person would allow Rob to be his Top.

  “Come off it!”

  “You come off it! Why are you defending the dude?”

  “I’m not.” Hastily I scribbled down the three Cat Who books and a copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, took the customer’s money, nodded thank you. She grabbed her books and stalked off.

  “You are,” Claude insisted. “You are. You’ve got a thing for that — that —” His French having failed him, Claude concluded, “fucking oaf.”

  “Claude, just use your head for once.”

  “Sounds to me like head is what you’re using.”

  “Give me a damn break!”

  The dial tone met my ears. I ground the words I wanted to say between my teeth, then replaced the phone.

  Glancing up, I stiffened. I hadn’t heard anyone come in, but Bruce Green stood on the other side of the counter.

  Chapter Seven

  “Hi,” he said. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “Now is not a good time,” I said.

  If Green felt the frost in my voice he gave no sign.

  “Trouble?” He nodded at the phone. “I couldn’t help overhearing. The police again?”

  “No. Look, I called Boytimes. They never heard of you.”

  Green regarded me, looking genuinely perplexed. If he was acting he deserved better roles than this. Then a slow tide of red swept across his raw-boned features. “Uh, the truth is, I’m not on staff at Boytimes. I do freelance work for them.”

  “Yeah, right.” I started to turn away and he grabbed my arm. Not roughly, but with force enough to stop me. I gazed at his hand. Fine dark hair sprinkled the back of his long strong fingers. His nails were trimmed, buffed, the cuff of his shirt snowy white. But what I thought was, I bet you’re hefty enough to stab a man to death and toss his body in a dumpster. To say I was fixated was to understate the case.

  “Did you talk to Kelly Abrahms, the managing editor? Or did you just talk to the switchboard?” His eyes were dark and sincere.

  I shrugged. “I talked to a couple of people. I don’t remember their names.”

  Green smiled. The smile was surprisingly attractive in his plain face. “Want me to show you my bylines?” His tone grew teasing. “Or better yet, my etchings?”

  I found myself responding to the smile, although my suspicions were not completely allayed. I don’t trust the media. Not even the gay media.

  “No. But thanks.”

  “Listen, I’m serious,” coaxed Green. “Give me a chance to explain over a cup of java.” He checked his watch. “Or better yet, how about a real drink? I know this pub a few blocks from here. You’ll like it. It’s comfy. Cozy. We can talk.”

  Although he had removed his hand I still felt the warmth of his skin against mine. Maybe I did need to talk to someone — anyone — even a reporter. Or maybe I just found the guy attractive. It had been so long I hardly recognized the signals.

  * * * * *

  The pub was called Doc and Doris’s. It was decorated in a Scottish motif: red and black tartan carpet, blackened beams. And it was indeed comfy, cozy with giant leather booths for privacy and a roaring fire at the end of the room. I ordered a Drambuie, and Green (“Call me Bruce”) had a Rob Roy. Bruce touched his glass to mine.

  “From bad beginnings great friendships have sprung,” he quoted.

  “Cheers.”

  Bruce took a long swallow, set down his glass and leaned forward on his elbows. “I have a confession.”

  “Another one?”

  He met my eyes. “I didn’t lie to you, Adrien. I wanted to write your story for Boytimes. You may not like it, but I think I have a responsibility to our community. You’re not the first gay man to be railroaded by the cops. Besides, think of the publicity for your bookstore.”

  “Is this supposed to be convincing me?”

  He flicked me a look under his eyelashes. He had very long lashes. “Past tense. It turns out you’re not the only gay man to attract the fascist eye of LAPD. Besides,” he offered another of those engaging smiles, “in theory I respect the right to privacy for non-celebrities.”

  In theory but not in practice? I said, “There wasn’t any story, Bruce.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” He sipped his drink. “Don’t misunderstand me; I did dig up everything I could about you. Everything the cops know, I know.”

  “What’s to know? My life is an open book. No pun intended.” I sat back, swirling the Drambuie, watching it catch the firelight. It had a soothing, near hypnotic effect. My nerves uncurled.

  “Let’s see. You’re thirty-two years old. A Virgo. Unmarried. No children.”

  He paused. I had nothing to say.

  “No priors. No convictions. Even
your video rentals go back on time. Affluent, white and well-educated, you fit the old gay stereotype to a ‘T’.”

  “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  Bruce chuckled. “See, that’s a turn-on for someone like me.”

  What was someone like Bruce, I wondered?

  I took in the expensive haircut, the just-right clothes, the manicured hands; I recognized the scent he wore. “The world’s only patented fragrance,” so the department store displays read. And if I wasn’t mistaken he’d had his nose fixed a while back. He was a man who paid attention to details. A good trait in a journalist.

  “Father deceased. Mummy is English. Formerly a dancer with the Royal Ballet. She never remarried. Question mark by Mummy. You graduated from Stanford University with a degree in literature, which is civilized but useless, but then you don’t have to work for a living.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  Bruce studied me speculatively. “Orange groves and horse ranches on Daddy’s side. Going by your TRW, no, I don’t think so.” He straightened his immaculate cuffs. “You currently live alone. Your former roommate, Mel Davis, has since moved to Berkeley where he teaches film studies.”

  Clark Kent had certainly done his homework on me — and I didn’t care for it. “Am I right or am I right?”

  I gave him a perfunctory smile. “I’m impressed.”

  He regarded me. “Actually, you’re pissed. Why?” He seemed hurt. “I’ve told you I’m not doing the story. This is off the record. Just you and me.”

  I finished my drink. Bruce beckoned imperiously to the waitress. The minute she was out of earshot he said quietly, “I don’t want to do or say anything to bitch this up.”

  I nearly said, “Bitch what up?” but he seemed genuine. I shrugged. “Okay.”

  After a moment his gaze fell. He said awkwardly, “Am I coming on too strong? I feel like there’s kind of a connection between us. I felt it that first day. At the funeral. Is it just me?”

  I opened my mouth, couldn’t think of anything intelligent and, for once, closed it.

  Bruce chinked the ice in his empty glass. “It’s been long time since I felt this way.”

  “I’m flattered.” Mostly. Also vaguely alarmed. It had been a long time for me too. Mel hied off to his ivory tower five years ago. Hell, I hadn’t had a date in eight months.

  “But —?”

  “No buts.”

  He laughed. After a second it clicked and I laughed too.

  “Not on the first date anyway,” agreed Bruce.

  * * * * *

  When I meet someone I always want to know who and what they read. A writer’s natural curiosity. Bruce said he read strictly nonfiction. Mostly biography. Right now he was reading Auden in Love, which he offered to loan me when he finished.

  Can this marriage be saved? I read mysteries. For one thing, it’s my job. For another, it’s what I like to read. One of my favorite crime writers is Leslie Ford. Ford was just one of the pen names of Zenith Jones Brown, an American who wrote prolifically from the ’30s through the ’50s. Her Grace Latham series is one of my never fail “comfort reads.”

  For some reason the fact that my favorite mystery writer should be a heterosexual woman irritated the shit out of Rob.

  Not just a heterosexual woman, Adrien. A white, rich, Republican heterosexual woman.

  Republican? Where do you get that?

  You know what I mean.

  No, I didn’t a lot of the time.

  Rob’s own favorite mystery writer was Michael Nava. But any gay writer would do. Maybe he read my attitude as disloyal. Maybe having spent years of playing Happy Families, of pretending his square peg was comfortable in a round hole, Robert just didn’t have any patience left. He was militantly gay: We are at war, Adrien. We are under siege.

  I was thinking about it that night as I lay in bed skimming Ford’s Date with Death. I looked across to the empty half of the bed and sighed. I laid the paperback aside — carefully, because the browned pages were fragile — and folded my arms behind my head, thinking again about Robert.

  When I told Chan and Riordan and Claude and everybody else that Robert and I were never lovers it hadn’t exactly been the truth. It hadn’t exactly been a lie either. You couldn’t call the panting, fumbling first sexual explorations of adolescence a love affair. But whatever you called it, Robert and I shared a lot of history, and the fact that we had matured into adults who couldn’t understand each other didn’t change that.

  Robert believed no one could ever really know anyone else.

  Come off it, Rob. Doesn’t that depend on the person?

  No. Because people don’t see you. They see their perception of you. They see what they want to see.

  Another cosmic rift between us. But maybe Robert did have more experience there than I. If Tara had really never suspected …?

  I considered what I knew of Tara. Not much. She had simply been an ever-present accessory of the teenage Rob. Like his Datsun B210. Or his fake ID. Always in the background, like in the yearbook photo. Thinking back, I was horrified at how careless — and callous — we’d been. And yet Tara said she’d never known, never suspected until they were married. Until, in fact, they were separating.

  There’s a reason whenever homicide occurs that spouses and ex-spouses are the hands-down favorite suspects of law enforcement. But there was no way Tara could overpower Rob, stab him to death and lift his body into a dumpster. Besides, she had been in Iowa.

  Of course Tara could have an accomplice. I could picture the type: a manly, brawny regular guy who knew exactly how to take out the trash. That was the way he’d put it too, taking out the trash. Hell-hath-no-fury? Was that a realistic motive for murder? Divorce hetero style? But that would mean Tara was involved with another man even while she was begging Rob to come back to her.

  Was she that devious?

  Was she that sharp?

  I snapped out the light, scooted down in to the blankets.

  Ex-lovers were another popular choice for homicidal maniacs both in fiction and real life. Robert had broken plenty of hearts, and in particular Claude’s. But despite Claude’s hard feelings, which he hadn’t bothered to hide (and wouldn’t he, if he had a murder to hide?), I didn’t believe Claude had killed Robert. He was heavy and muscular enough, and the news about his violent youth nonplussed me, but I still couldn’t credit the police’s suspicion.

  Because I didn’t want to?

  Or because my gut told me Claude’s gay blade days were far behind him? Despite the bloodcurdling poetry, I didn’t believe Claude could stab Robert to death. His pride had taken a beating, but did people kill over wounded pride? Claude was a gentle man. Sure he could get loud and emotional, but before Riordan had crossed our path I had never heard anyone accuse him of even so much as verbal cruelty. I thought of the many ways he cosseted me and other friends. I thought of his generosity: the ex-lovers he helped out, the free dinners he supplied to organizations like Project Angel Food, the donations he made to The Cause — whatever cause someone talked his soft heart into supporting.

  I sure as hell couldn’t imagine him premeditating a murder. Didn’t the presence of the chess piece indicate premeditation?

  All the same, where had Claude been that night? He must have had as lame an alibi as me, or the police wouldn’t still be snooping around. Unlike me, Claude enjoyed a busy social schedule. He should have witnesses to his innocence standing in queue, but apparently not.

  He was jealous. I did remember Robert commenting on that once. But then Robert thought anyone who couldn’t cheerfully accept his revolving door relationships was insanely possessive.

  Anyway, I couldn’t think of any connection between Claude and chess. I doubted if he knew castling from cholesterol.

  I snorted. Sat up and punched my pillow. I was still betting on the mystery man Robert had gone to meet that night. The man who had sent Robert roses. The man Robert had gone to meet when he walke
d out on me.

  I tried to think back to the days before Robert had died. Had he said anything that might give me a clue? I considered snippets of overheard phone conversations. The sad truth was I’d been so busy bottling my anger at his haphazard work, his obvious indifference to the job, I hadn’t paid much attention. I had noticed — and been irritated — by his sunny indifference in the face of my glowering disapproval. That in itself indicated his attention had been elsewhere, because when he had first returned to LA he had definitely been interested in picking up where we left off.

  What if Rob’s death hadn’t had anything to do with romance, ill-fated or otherwise? If Rob had been in some kind of trouble, would he have confided in me?

  I wasn’t sure. He confided in me less and less. You’re turning into an old maid, Adrien, he’d said when I lectured him about promiscuity in the age of AIDS.

  Only ten percent of people infected with the virus even know they’ve got it, Rob.

  It would have to be immaculate contagion in your case, wouldn’t it, Adrien?

  He hadn’t told me he was having serious money trouble. That news had come from Claude, and he had assumed that I already knew.

  But the eighty bucks missing from petty cash would not have solved Robert’s credit problems. So what did he need the eighty for? My best guess: To take someone out. To buy someone dinner. It kept coming back to this unknown other. Mr. X.

  Why hadn’t Rob just asked for the money?

  Because he didn’t want to hear it, Adrien, I answered myself. Only he had to hear it anyway. And my last memory of Robert amounted to me calling him a liar and a thief, and Robert telling me to fuck off. Now there’s a Kodak moment for you.

  I sighed. Tossed against the pillows. I watched the shadow of lace curtains patterned against the wall. Listened to pinpricks of rain against the windows. The wettest winter since El Niño, everyone kept saying. That’s something I missed, lying in bed listening to the rain with someone I loved. That’s something I missed, having someone I loved.

  But in the meantime there were still methods that worked. I rolled onto my side, face buried in the cool linen, one hand between my legs. Solo sex. The cheapest and safest of dates. I closed my eyes and Robert’s face floated into my mind. I pushed it away. Thought of Riordan. Thought of a big hand wrapping around my shaft, sliding up and down, pumping hard … harder. The head of my cock leaked a single salty tear to slick my own hand’s efforts. Yikes. Think of Bruce. Yeah. Better. Safer. Saner …