Suddenly Melissa, who was obviously not Minnesotan at all but oh-so-casual Californian, had Todd's complete attention. He sat forward in his chair and cleared his throat. Just sound cool. Just sound collected. And intelligent.
She continued, saying, “Didn't anyone from L.A. call to let you know I'd be in contact?”
“Actually, no.”
“Oh, I'm sorry! And here I'm calling out of the blue and babbling on and on.”
“That's okay. I'm just pleased someone's calling me back. Thank you very much.”
“Of course. It's my job, after all. Actually I'm calling you this morning because I saw you on TV last night, you know, at ten o'clock. Nice work.”
“Thanks,” replied Todd.
“It's so sad, though. Was he really just a kid?”
“Yeah, just seventeen.”
“Do his parents know yet?”
“That's a good question. Actually, I don't know.” Trying to get control of the conversation, Todd said, “But if you saw me on TV last night that means you must be here in town.”
“Yeah, I am. I flew in with Tim ten days ago.” In a light way and with a slight giggle, she added, “I travel just about everywhere with him.”
Which meant, of course, she had power. Big power. Todd had no idea if she worked for Chase or if something like a studio had in fact hired her to keep an eye out on one of their biggest investments. Regardless, she was obviously the gatekeeper—a purposely sweet, cheery one at that—to one of the most powerful Hollywood stars. So what was this call? The nice letdown? Was she calling to tell Todd that, no, he didn't get the interview? Perhaps. And perhaps he was getting this call simply because he was part of the media and Tim Chase's keepers certainly didn't want to piss off anyone who could make ripples, however small.
“So,” Melissa continued, keeping the spotlight on Todd, “what are you going to do? I mean, is there anything new on the case?”
“Not really. Not yet.”
“So was the kid gay?”
“Well, the police haven't confirmed it yet, but, yes, he was,” replied Todd, finding it odd that she was taking such an interest. “He was a teenager and he was gay and he was a runaway.”
“Wow. How sad. And now he's dead. What are you going to do next? I mean, do you have another report to do?”
“Oh, yeah. One at five and then a larger one at six.”
“I see. So do you have to talk to the police again?”
“I've got to talk to everyone—the police, people in the apartment building where he lived, his friends, and hopefully his parents.”
This, he thought, even as he spoke, was weird. Publicists didn't keep you on the phone for seemingly no reason. They had better things to do, like press releases to write, influentials to schmooze, not to mention about a million phone calls to make. So what was going on here? As friendly and as sweet sounding as she might pretend, Todd definitely found himself squirming. What kind of game was this? He had a distinct feeling that she'd done her homework and that she knew a good deal about him. So could it be that instead of a thanks-but-no-thanks call she was actually feeling him out? In other words, was this an interview? It was, wasn't it? Shit, realized Todd, could he be that close to Tim Chase?
Wanting to sound as real and intelligent as possible, he quickly thought of a tack, saying, “I'm sure most if not all the other stations will be exploiting the victim's sexuality, but I think that's too cheap. I want to keep it as personal and real as possible. From what little I do know at this point, I doubt this kid was killed simply because he was gay. Rather, I'm going to try to show how a family broke down over one particular issue and what that eventually led to.”
“You mean, like the permanent destruction of the family?”
“Exactly.”
“Cool,” replied Melissa with such an accent that it sounded as if she was saying kewl. “You know, that almost sounds like the theme to Tim's movie. You know, The Good Heart, the one he's filming here.”
“Perhaps.”
“Listen, Todd, getting to the point of why I called, Tim only likes to do one television interview per town. It just gets too competitive otherwise—you know, who's going to run the first interview, who's going to come up with the snappiest angle, the juiciest gossip. Let me tell you, it's a recipe for disaster.”
“Sure, sure.”
“So we have to be really careful about who we choose. And that means we kind of have a different process for doing these things.” She paused, and in a kind of bright but fake way, she asked, “Am I making any sense?”
Todd sat there, the phone pressed firmly to his ear. What the hell was she saying? Did he or didn't he have the interview?
Todd said, “I think I'm following.”
“Well, let me put it this way. Tim wants to meet you before we agree to anything.”
“I see,” he replied, hoping his tone didn't belie his surprise.
“Good. How about tonight? Tim was wondering if you could come over about nine for a glass of wine. How's that sound? Tonight okay?”
“Nine tonight sounds great.”
“Fantastic. Here, let me give you the address.”
11
Wanting to see if anything new had come in, Rawlins and Neal Foster met the guys on dog watch, Meyers and Erickson, not long after they came off their shift. They gathered at a booth at Perkins on Lake Street, where each of them drank coffee like water and ate breakfasts that were massive enough for two or even three. Discussing the murder of Andrew Lyman took all of about ten minutes, for there was nothing new, at least not in the few hours that Rawlins and Foster had crept away to sleep. Even Kathy Diedrich's formal statement, which Meyers and Erickson had taken at the beginning of their shift, had revealed nothing significant about the way in which she'd discovered the body.
Immediately afterward, Foster headed over to the medical examiners to take another look at the body, and Rawlins went to the downtown station in City Hall. Rawlins parked his silver Taurus alongside the huge red granite structure, the walls of which were as thick as a castle, then passed through the arched entrance on 4th Street. Entering the dimly lit lobby, he made his way past the large marble statue of Neptune and the small bust of Brian Coyle, the city councilman who had died of AIDS. Proceeding up the massive marble staircase worn smooth with age, Rawlins headed to the second floor, where a receptionist behind a bulletproof window buzzed him into the Criminal Investigation Division.
Everything here had been recently renovated, and the only hint that this was a turn-of-the-century building was the soaring ceilings and the huge windows, which were now covered with copper-colored miniblinds. While the Homicide Division used to be a true Bull Room, with a bunch of old desks in one large space and everyone shouting and moving about, it now more resembled a corporate office at the Pillsbury Company. The mauve carpet with its square pattern ran throughout, the cubicles, designed for two investigators each, were lined up in neat rows along the windows, and the modern desk chairs were not only ergonomic, but their mauve fabric matched the carpeting. Rawlins kind of hated it, particularly since there was no privacy. It didn't matter whether you were calling a suspect or a lover, everyone could hear everything—it was that tranquil, that professional-looking. The only indication of what went on here was a hanging clipboard that was packed full of arrest bulletins and the occasional gun belt draped over the back of a chair, neither of which you'd ever find at the Doughboy's.
Rawlins went directly to his cubicle, a long, rectangular space with two desks and one computer, which he shared with Foster. Without taking off his brown leather jacket, Rawlins sat down at the outer desk, then leaned forward and let out a distinct huff of air. No doubt about it, he thought, as he bent forward and bowed his head into his hands, this was all fucked up. That Andrew was dead was unbelievable. What was worse was that now he himself could be linked.
Leaning back, Rawlins glanced around the corner of the cubicle and saw no one. He then reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out th
e small spiral notebook. Opening the diary, he glanced at the first few pages, each one filled with Andrew's tight, precise handwriting, and each paragraph filled with details of his exploits. Seeing nothing of particular concern, Rawlins thumbed on, learning more than he actually cared to about someone else's life. Flipping toward the end, Rawlins saw his own name. Shit. He read a couple of more pages, which described everything, then pulled open his file drawer, found a file marked for receipts, and dropped the small notebook in the back.
Jesus Christ, how the hell had he gotten into this mess? Just what the hell had he been thinking?
He shook his head and forced himself to press on, for quite simply he had massive amounts of work to do. While last night he'd gone home to catch a few hours’ sleep, more often than not on a new case Rawlins simply stayed up, working through the night, looking at every angle, examining each and every piece of evidence. Every homicide investigator worth shit knew it and knew it well: if a suspect didn't surface in the first twenty-four hours, your chances of identifying one began to plummet as fast as a boulder dropped in a lake.
As it was, Rawlins had stayed at the scene of Andrew Lyman's murder for over five hours. He'd been in the apartment until the Bureau of Investigation team filmed every square inch and sucked up every single fiber and hair, and then he'd watched in near shock as the medical examiner loaded Andrew's beautiful young body into a vinyl bag, zipped him up, and rolled him away. He'd then checked with CAPRS and the local police station, neither of which had any logged complaints against Andrew Lyman or record of disturbance for this particular address. Moving on, Rawlins had interviewed several other residents, searched unsuccessfully for any additional witnesses, then finally taken the license plate numbers for eight cars parked in the rear of the building. As a matter of fact, he now thought, the registration checks on those vehicles should already be complete.
So where was he going to start today? First, of course, he wanted to read through the statement of the young woman who had found Andrew's body. Then he'd contact forensics, see if there were any early results, perhaps any hair samples. And when, he wondered, was the autopsy scheduled? He doubted that they'd learn anything new on the manner of death—Andrew had obviously been killed by a large, sharp object slashed across his neck, and Rawlins was ninety percent positive that it had happened right there in Andrew's own bed—but he was curious to see if there were any drugs in Andrew's blood. That was the one thing he didn't know about Andrew, whether or not he did any kind of dope. And, of course, he had to find out who Andrew had been hanging out with at the Domain of Queers.
A list. Right, he thought, opening his top drawer and pulling out a half-used pad. Just do what you always do: make a list and go down it nice and methodically.
He was just taking out a pen when his phone rang. He yawned as he reached for the receiver. Could it be Todd?
“Homicide, this is Sergeant Rawlins.”
“Hi,” said a hesitant male voice. “I'm trying to find the detective in charge of the murder of that kid. Someone put me through to you. Have… have I reached the right person?”
Rawlins was immediately awake. A tip call?
“Yes,” he replied. “That's my case. Who's calling?”
“You know, I don't think that's really important. I mean, I'd rather not say. I just can't get involved.”
Okay, maybe he'd get the name later. The important thing was not losing him, whoever he was.
In as even a voice as he could, Rawlins asked, “Is there something you'd like to tell me? Do you have any information that might be helpful to us?”
“That's just the thing. I'm not really sure. You see, I was down at Lake Harriet last night and… and I saw something kind of strange. It didn't really click until I read the paper this morning. You know, when I read about that kid getting killed.”
“What did you see?”
“Well, there was this guy—he threw something in the lake. I couldn't see what it was, but it looked like a piece of metal. I mean, I don't even know if it was a gun or a tin can, but it was just kind of weird.”
“Where exactly was this?”
“You know where the Rose Gardens are? I was near there in some woods. I mean, this guy, he couldn't see me.”
Was Rawlins understanding correctly? The woods just to the west of the Rose Gardens was a known cruising area. So had this guy been in there, hunting for anonymous sex, and seen something? Quite possibly. Rawlins thought for a quick moment. How in the hell was he going to get it out of him? Was his best chance being as direct as possible? Perhaps, but then again maybe not. If he was down in those woods he could easily be a closet case. And chances were that if Rawlins came right out and asked him if he was cruising, he'd hang up. A little information this guy didn't mind giving, but outing himself was, as they said in Russian, an entirely different opera. So how could he do this in the least threatening way?
“About what time was this?” asked Rawlins. “Um, a little after eleven.”
“And you were down in the woods by the Rose Gardens?”
“Ah… yeah. I was down there with my camera.”
“And this guy, he was where? Down by the lake?”
“Exactly. There's a small beach. He was standing down there.”
“I see. You know, this might be very helpful to us. I appreciate your calling.” Okay, thought Rawlins, he'd just simply lay out his own cards. “I'm gay, which is why I'm particularly interested in this case. You see, the young man who was murdered was also gay.”
“He… he was?”
“Yes, most definitely.”
“Oh, God.”
Rawlins could hear it, the trepidation quivering in this guy's voice. Which meant what?
“Listen,” began Rawlins, “I don't want to get into anything too personal, but—”
“I'm sorry, but I can't tell you my name.”
“No, of course not. Of course you don't have to.”
“And if you're trying to trace this call, it won't work,” he said matter-of-factly. “I'm not at home.”
“Please, you don't have anything to worry about.”
“I just wanted to tell you about something that might be important.”
“And we appreciate—”
“I was down there,” said the tip caller quickly, “and I saw this guy who was completely bald throw something in the lake. Then he turned around and stuffed something in a garbage can. And… and then he got in his car—a white Saab convertible with a black roof— and took off. That's all.”
“That's wonderful, we really do appreciate it. I—”
“Listen, I gotta go.”
“Wait, don't hang up!”
“You don't understand.”
“Wait!”
Oh, shit, thought Rawlins, hearing the click on the other end. He'd lost him. Shit, shit, shit.
He held the receiver to his ear for a long moment, then slowly put it down, cursing himself for having come on too strongly. He'd been out of the closet for so long that he'd forgotten how frightened, how threatened, people could be by their own sexuality. Or how dangerous it could be for someone. Perhaps the tip caller was married and had kids. Or perhaps he was worried about work. Or maybe he was in the military. But Rawlins was quite sure of one thing: that guy hadn't been down in the woods taking pictures of birds or the moon. For Christ's sake, it had been going on midnight and it was a cloudy night. No, surely the caller had been tricking, surely he'd gone down there for what he couldn't or dared not get elsewhere, sexual contact with another man. Maybe he'd had sex with this bald guy. Maybe not. Regardless, he'd witnessed something he wasn't supposed to have.
Angry at himself for having lost the tipster, Rawlins sat there shaking his head, yet knowing what he had to do next. It might be nothing, but he certainly couldn't ignore it.
Right, time to go fishing.
12
Todd stared at the piece of paper and couldn't help but grin. This was none other than Tim Chase's address here in Minn
eapolis. And none other than Tim Chase himself, one of Hollywood's biggest stars, had invited Todd over for a glass of wine. About nine tonight. Unbelievable.
Unable to wipe the stupid smile off his face, he rolled back his chair and stepped out of his office. Still shocked, he stopped dead, stared down at the paper, read it over again. No, he wasn't delusional. Yes, this might actually happen. And as the thrill of it all started pumping through his body, he cut through the newsroom, out the side door, down the corridor, and proceeded directly toward the conference room, where this morning's meeting was still in progress. Holy shit, he couldn't wait to tell them. Were they going to love this or what? Management would wet their collective pants.
Turning into the room, he saw them all sitting there, a stuffy hodgepodge of decision makers who were deciding what was news and what wasn't. A couple of heads turned his way, including the steely white hair of Bill Summers, the executive producer, who all but glared at him. That guy, thought Todd, didn't know shit about what it was like to go in front of a camera, to have your work judged every time you appeared on TV not in terms of quality but in terms of clothing and the way you smiled. He didn't know a thing about hunting for a story, finding a source, or digging out the truth. All that jerk cared about was what brought in the viewers. All he wanted were good numbers, big numbers.
And damned if Todd was now going to bring in news of his possible interview with Tim Chase.
For one thing, it was still just that, a possibility. After all, tonight was just a preliminary meeting, a chance to talk over a glass of wine. There were to be no cameras, no tape recorders. In other words, it was a test in faint disguise. Only if Todd passed—i.e., only if Tim Chase, Inc., thought Todd would and could deliver the right kind of image that would enhance his fame and fortune—would he get the chance to do the real interview. And if Todd flunked, then that was it, bye-bye. And if the latter came true, if Todd didn't get the interview, he sure as hell didn't want to walk back in here and say, Oops, sorry, I lost Tim Chase.
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