Innuendo

by R. D. Zimmerman

  ALSO BY R.D. ZIMMERMAN

  Hostage

  Closet

  Outburst

  Tribe

  Red Trance

  Blood Trance

  Death Trance

  Mindscream

  Blood Russian

  The Red Encounter

  The Cross and the Sickle

  And by R.D. Zimmerman writing as Robert Alexander

  When Dad Came Back As My Dog

  The Romanov Bride

  Rasputin's Daughter

  The Kitchen Boy

  Deadfall in Berlin

  Innuendo

  A Novel by

  R.D. Zimmerman

  ScribblePub

  Minneapolis, MN

  the most original of the original™

  Innuendo

  Digital Edition Copyright © 2011 by R.D. Zimmerman

  Print Edition Copyright © 1999 by R.D. Zimmerman

  MOBI ISBN: 978-1-61-44601-1-4

  ePub ISBN: 978-1-61-44601-0-7

  Published in the United States of America

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the authors or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover Design by Christopher Bohnet / www.xt4inc.com

  Digital Editions produced by BookNook.biz. Contact us: hitch@booknook.biz

  eBook design by Rickhardt Capidamonte.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the usual suspects, including investigative reporter Gail Plewacki, producer Cara King, Sergeant Rob Allen, Dr. Don Houge, Gail and Betsy Leondar-Wright, Ellen Hart, Katie, and Lars. Special thanks as well to Rick Nelson for the inspiration and to Tom Spain for the green light.

  For Leslie Schnur, for making this series possible

  Innuendo

  Prologue

  In the last minutes of his young life, Andrew had never known such bliss.

  His eyes covered with a thin black blindfold, he blindly kissed his lover just when they were at their peak. Right there, right at the height of their pleasure, the very one the two men had been humping and groping toward for close to forty minutes, Andrew's mouth locked onto the other mans, sucking, biting, doing everything and anything but letting go. With his eyes covered from the very start, Andrew had no idea what his carnal partner actually looked like, yet he clung to the gorgeous body as if his life depended upon it.

  But soon, of course, it was over. They spent themselves within seconds of each other, and then as Andrew lay there reveling in the dreamy afterglow, he wondered if this mysterious guy was it, his Mr. Wonderful. Unable to bear the curiosity, he broke the one cardinal rule, pushing the blindfold up on his forehead and staring right into the eyes of the stunning man who'd just taken him to the stars and back.

  “Oh, my God,” muttered Andrew in total shock.

  “You dumb little shit,” snapped the other. “You shouldn't have done that, you really shouldn't have.”

  1

  Well, thought Todd, looking down at the mass of newspaper clippings and articles spread on his dining room table, what if it was true? What if one of the biggest stars in America, one of the most famous actors in the world, was really gay? And what if Todd, an investigative reporter for WLAK, actually got an interview with Tim Chase, who was in Minneapolis shooting a film? How would Todd approach it, what angle would he take?

  Raising his head, Todd stared out the balcony doors of his condo. An interview with Tim Chase was, to put it mildly, a long shot, but if by chance Todd got it, he'd have to handle it with the utmost care. After all, it was only a year or so ago that Chase had sued one of the supermarket tabloids over a headline that read “Mean Queen Chase Denies 7 Year Gay Romance & Buries Boyfriend in Poverty.” And he'd won too. Big-time. While the tabloid had sold completely out of that issue, the story had eventually cost the journal $8.5 million, a sum that Tim Chase's spokesperson said, “…clearly vindicated Chase's sexuality.” Todd still shuddered at the homophobia permeating that quote.

  A shrill ring broke his thoughts, and he quickly reached for the cordless phone lying atop the glass table.

  As if it weren't late evening and he weren't at home but still at work, he said, “Todd Mills.”

  “It's me.”

  “Hey, you.”

  Todd glanced at his watch, saw that it was just after nine, which meant that Steve Rawlins, Todd's lover, had less than ninety minutes to go on middle watch. With any luck, Minneapolis would remain murder-free at least until ten-thirty, when Rawlins's shift on Car 1110, which was manned twenty-four hours a day by homicide investigators, was over.

  “I wish you'd come home so I'd stop working,” said Todd.

  “Well,” began Rawlins in that deep, buttery voice, “that's why I'm calling. Something just came up.”

  “Don't say that.”

  “Unfortunately, it's all over the police bands. You haven't heard anything yet, huh?”

  “No.”

  But Todd was sure he would any minute. If it was all over the police bands, the tip callers—any variety of nerdy informants who sat by their radios—would be calling WLAK and every other station in town with the hot information. Which meant that it would not only be a late night for Rawlins, who would automatically be assigned the case, but for Todd as well. No doubt about it, Todd was going to have to scramble like hell just to keep up with the competition.

  “I'm guessing I won't be home until very late, if at all,” Rawlins said.

  “That doesn't sound good—what happened?”

  “Foster and I are on our way there now—I'm calling from his car. All I know is that some kid's gone and got his throat slit.”

  “Oh, God,” replied Todd. “Where?”

  “Twenty-fifth and Bryant.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Todd…” muttered Rawlins, clearly irritated.

  “Well, you know damn well I'm going to find out sooner or later.”

  Rawlins hesitated before saying, “No, I don't have a name yet. All I know is that it's a young white male.”

  Todd grabbed a pen and jotted down the address and bit of information, knowing that no matter how hard he tried he wouldn't get anything more out of Rawlins, for the collision of their careers was one of the two most contentious issues between them. The second, which had only recently come up, was whether they should continue to have a monogamous relationship or perhaps agree to an open one.

  “I guess I'll be seeing you in a few minutes,” said Todd.

  “I guess.”

  They chatted a bit more, and then Todd hung up. As was his habit, he glanced again out the balcony doors at the dark sky over Lake Calhoun and made a mental list of whom he had to call and what he had to do. Next he went into full speed.

  Some fifteen minutes later Todd was racing north on Lyndale, thinking that, no, this wasn't like being an ambulance chaser, it was being an ambulance chaser, this push, this desperate rush not simply to be the best, but the first. And not simply the Johnny-on-the-spot, but the one with the most dramatic, the most real and gruesome of shots.

  Glancing at his watch, Todd saw that it was twenty-five minutes until the ten P.M. Yes, it could still happen. Before leaving his condo, Todd had called WLAK and requested an ENG truck, one of those boxy vehicles equipped with tape decks, video monitors, and a microwave mast. He'd then phoned Bradley, his photographer, at home, interrupting him
and his wife in the middle of their favorite show. And with any luck, Todd, Bradley, and the ENG technician would converge at the scene of the crime, get all set up, and start broadcasting live right at the top of the late news, WLAK’s 10@10. If things went perfectly, too, Bradley would still be able to get some tape of that all-important shot, the one of the body as it was rolled away. Then again, who knew just when they'd be taking the body away. The scene was sure to be a madhouse, swarming with cops, the Bureau of Investigation team, and the guys from homicide, namely Rawlins and his partner, Neal Foster, who'd been on duty on Car 1110 since three that afternoon. So it could be hours, perhaps as long as two, even three, before the medical examiner rolled out the victim.

  Driving his new Jeep Grand Cherokee, his old one having been smashed in a tornado that past summer, Todd took a deep breath.

  Brace yourself, he told himself. Who knew if this would be a great story, but it definitely would be a late night.

  In his early forties, Todd Mills was almost too old to be chasing around like this, at least by television standards. He was still in great shape, no doubt about it, and his face, which was almost rugged but definitely handsome with a small mouth and chin and eyes that were much too soft, still attracted attention. He had a full head of medium brown hair, too, the importance of which could never be overlooked in television. But this was a young person's job, and at some point in the not so distant future he was either going to have to make the leap to an anchor position, in which case he'd be one of only two or three openly gay anchors in the country, or he'd have to retreat, per se, to the position of a producer. And if he stayed in the area, Todd was betting on the latter. As liberal and open-minded as Minnesota liked to believe it was, there was only so far, Todd had come to feel, things could be pushed. In other words, he was highly skeptical that viewers would knowingly tolerate a homosexual every night in their homes, let alone see an openly gay anchor as a pillar of honesty and trust. And if even a handful of viewers objected to a gay anchor, that would be one too many for management, which could only be described as skittish.

  His truck hit a pothole, of which there were so many these days, particularly on Lyndale, an old street pocked with time, and the entire vehicle rattled. His fingers tightened on the wheel, and his mind skipped back to the official request he'd submitted to Tim Chase's publicity people just last week. What he wanted to find out, of course, was if what he'd heard about Chase was really true. He couldn't deny he'd been all but obsessed since he'd heard the story several months ago and particularly now that Chase was in town. Todd had heard lots of gossip about famous people from friends of friends who knew someone whose uncle was in the movie business, but this was as direct as he would ever get. Marcia, an old college pal, had called Todd up not even two hours after she'd heard it directly from John Vox.

  “Oh, my God, Todd, you're not going to believe this!” she'd exclaimed.

  While Marcia had appeared in a couple of commercials, she'd never made it literally beyond the role of a Skippy mom, and so she'd gone back to school and gotten a degree in accounting. However, John Vox, one of her instructors from Northwestern, had eventually left the university and been “discovered,” becoming not one of the big stars, but establishing himself as a quality actor known for his wide range. Now in his mid-fifties, his blond hair gone gray, his cherubic face interestingly lined with time, he was in recent years becoming America's favorite bad guy, playing every part from conniving con man to corrupt congressman. And just a few months ago when he was in Chicago playing some loan shark in a film based on an Elmore Leonard book, Marcia and he had had lunch at the Ambassador Hotel's Pump Room. They talked about it all, Marcia's life in the corporate world, her divorce, and eventually John's films, including one that he'd done a couple of years ago playing an evil traitor opposite none other than America's favorite, Tim Chase.

  “You know, John, I'm sorry, but I gotta ask you this,” said Marcia, leaning across the table. “I mean, I know he's married to Gwen Owens, and, my God, she's sooo beautiful and such a talented actress. And I know they have a little boy. But I've heard this rumor—and of course there was that big lawsuit when he sued some magazine or something—so you gotta tell me, is Tim Chase gay or isn't he?”

  The way Marcia told the story, John Vox covered his mouth with his fine white napkin, leaned back his head, and roared with laughter.

  “Well,” demanded Marcia, unable to bear it, “is he or isn't he?”

  “Let me tell you,” Vox finally said, his face all red, “Tim is a great guy. And a real pro, too. I mean, he's one of the finest actors around because he wants to do it right, get it right. He's very smart—always picks good scripts. And his wife, Gwen Owens, was a wonder—she brought their son and spent a week on the set. And make no bones about it, they are devoted parents.”

  “So, get to the dirt, already, alright!”

  “Well…”

  “Well?!”

  “Tim had a lover, a very nice guy, very handsome, who lived with him right in his trailer.”

  “You're kidding!”

  “No. And everyone knew it, from the gaffer on up.”

  “But what about… what about Gwen Owens? Did she know?”

  “Actually, things did get a little messy. I can't quite remember the sequence of events, whether she flew over and then Tim and this guy, Rob, had a huge fight, or…or they had the fight first and then Gwen came. I don't know. But Rob was there, all over Tim, for about two-thirds of the time we were shooting in Europe.”

  All of that was whisked out of mind when Todd turned a corner and saw an orchard of cherry lights throbbing in the late-September night. Parked this way and that, cop cars and an ambulance filled the narrow street, a d?j? vu image of autumnal pandemonium that conjured up the darkest time of his own life.

  Quickly scanning the area, Todd noted a boxy electronic news-gathering vehicle off to the side, which unfortunately wasn't theirs but WTCN’s. Great. That meant not only that the competition had beat him to the scene, but that his former coworker Cindy Wilson was probably lurking somewhere. Looking farther ahead, he saw a photographer with a WTCN camera hurry across the street, and beyond him a crowd of gawkers. Cindy, he guessed, was already worming her way to the body, going for some grisly shot.

  Driving at a crawl, Todd pulled in front of a thick old elm, parked, and got out. The night air was chilly and damp from a slight, early evening rain, and Todd caught the gentle but distinct smell of smoke. Yes, he thought, as he made his way across a mat of sodden elm leaves, the lucky ones were home in front of the first fire of the season.

  Wearing black jeans and a maroon shirt, black leather boots and a black leather coat, Todd crossed the street and zeroed in on the vortex of tonight's attention, a dark brick apartment building. Three stories tall, the structure was rectangular and squat, the kind that had been built in this neighborhood, the Wedge, in the teens and twenties. Studying the flurry surrounding the building, Todd noted the cops slipping on latex gloves as they rushed through the front door, and saw the dozens of people held at bay by a band of yellow police tape. Spying a knoll in the park across the street, he thought that, yes, that might be a good place to do the shoot. It wouldn't be the tightest angle, but they'd get the apartment building, the flurry of flashing lights, the cops darting around, and, of course, the tantalized crowd. A great background indeed.

  “Todd!”

  He looked over, saw Bradley pushing through the crowd, his camera, a large Betacam, held awkwardly under his arm. A tall thin man with skin as dark as the night, he had a small face, short hair, and now wore khaki pants and a blue nylon jacket.

  “What's up? What happened?” asked the photographer.

  “I don't know anything more—I just got here too.”

  “Any sign of the ENG?”

  “Not yet. It'll probably be another five minutes or so. I think they sent Jeff,” said Todd, referring to the technician who'd been assigned. “Listen, I gotta try and find Rawlins, see what
he can tell me.”

  “Sure.”

  “Why don't you get some footage—let's say fifteen seconds of cops, ten of real estate. And ten of the crowd out here.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  The band of yellow police tape had been set up at the sidewalk's edge, and fifteen or twenty people stood crowded around, trying to see what was going on. Todd peered through them all, but Rawlins was not among the cops out front. Undoubtedly he was inside along with the B of I guys, who were surely already going at it, documenting anything and everything.

  Coming up next to a guy with a shaved head and a pierced nose, Todd asked, “What happened?”

  “This guy got himself fuckin’ killed.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Our new caretaker, that's who.”

  “You live here?”

  “Yeah. And this guy—he just started a month ago, moved into the basement apartment behind the laundry room. Young guy too. A kid.”

  “That's awful.”

  “No shit.”

  “What was it, drugs?”

  He stared at Todd with angry eyes. “How the fuck would I know?”

  Todd shrugged. “What was his name?”

  “Fred Flintstone,” he said, turning away.

  It was a start, anyway, but if Todd was going to do a live story in a few minutes, he was going to have to dig up a hell of a lot more information. Glancing to the side, he saw a small woman with big blond hair, who was laughing and smiling and batting her eyes at a young cop who looked like he'd eat right out of her hand. It was Cindy Wilson. Some things never changed.