Gumshoe Gorilla (20 page)

"Anything else interesting in the report?"

"No. That's the meat of it."

"OK. Thanks a lot Megan. I'll call you next week about dinner."

"You'd better."

I hung up.

Drug possession. Blood. None of this was making me feel any better.

And what was Daniel doing down on Renaissance Parkway, anyway? That was in the dead zone between the gay ghetto in Midtown and the corporate area in Downtown.

To refresh my memory, I had Sherwin call up a map of the neighborhood. Technically, it was zoned for business, but when I clicked on individual buildings most of them were listed as "between tenants". Years ago, the area had been a sort of artsy cafe district, anchored by three theaters. But with a thousand channels of television, the audience for live theater had dried up, and the theaters had closed. They were replaced by a string of sex shops and adult video stores, which had in turn been driven out of business by the internet. After all, who's gonna walk into a porn store to rent a video when you can download it cheap and anonymous at home? Now, the only businesses that were open on the block where Daniel had been arrested were a liquor store, a soup kitchen, a palm reader, a locksmith, a pawnshop, and one brave little deli that closed down at sunset.

So what was Daniel doing down there at one in the morning?

He could have been on his way to a gig for the escort service, I guess. But Vincent was with Daniel when he was arrested, and why would Vince tag along on a call? Unless Vince was in the business, too, and the client had asked for a three way. That was possible. But then what about the other two guys? And this business with the blood? And besides, there were no apartment buildings or hotels within a couple blocks of that address. So who would have called for his services, anyway?

The location sounded a bit like a pick up area. You know, one of those streets where homeless kids line up to sell themselves to johns who drive by in cars. But that didn't make any sense, either. Daniel is a call boy, which is a couple rungs up the prostitution scale. It's a lot safer, and a lot better paying. There was no way he'd be messing around with the other end of the business. And besides, as far as I know most of the street trade hangs out behind the bars over on Crescent, where it dead ends into the Federal building.

Maybe it was a drug buy. That kind of fit. After all, Daniel did have two Bliss tablets on him when they picked him up. But why would he go all the way down there to buy Bliss? The stuff is readily available at any of the gay bars in his neighborhood, if you know the right people to ask. And Daniel knew the right people.

Which left... nothing that I could think of.

I needed to go take a look at that street for myself. I locked up the office, headed down to the car, and drove the one mile south on Peachtree to Renaissance Parkway.

Seeing the neighborhood first hand did not improve my opinion of it. The buildings and the business were exactly as Sherwin had described, but his database had failed to capture the smell: urine, and trash, and the reek of homeless people. I parked the car, and walked around the corner to the spot where the police had arrested Daniel. There had to be something that would explain why he had come down here in the middle of the night. But whatever it was, I couldn't see it.

I did a more careful sweep of the area. There was nothing on the sidewalk besides old cigarette butts, so I moved onto the parking lot. I found a Bliss tablet lodged in a crack in the cement, some smashed crack vials, and more used hypodermic needles that I care to think about. No big surprise there. But I did find one thing that I didn't expect.

I spotted it glinting in the sunlight, next to an old metal drum. I bent over and picked it up, very carefully. It was a disposable razor blade, crusted with blood. A lot of blood. And it wasn't alone. When I glanced in the drum, I saw about forty more just like it.

I went back to the car.

Oh yeah, Drew. This is really gonna help your concentration. Just a quick look into Daniel's business. That's gonna stop your worrying.

Back in the car, I tried to sort things out. The more I learned about this mess with Daniel, the less I liked it. A drug arrest, bloody razor blades, and a boyfriend using a fake name. There was no way this added up to something warm and fluffy.

A little voice in the back of my head tried to tell me to calm down.

"Daniel is not some naive little kid," it said. "He's been around the block more than once, and he can take care of himself. Don't panic and do something stupid."

The voice was probably right. But then, they have a word for people who listen to little voices in their heads.

I told Sherwin to dial the number.

"Hello?" Daniel answered, breathing heavily.

"Uh... hi. It's Drew. Am I interrupting something?"

"Nah, just kicking a soccer ball around with some friends. HEADS UP!"

"Where are you, Piedmont Park?"

"Yep. You wanna come play? You can be on my team."

"Let me guess: shirts vs. skins, and you're skins. Right?"

"How'd you know?"

"I'm psychic. By the way, is Vince there with you?"

"Oh yeah. You should see him in soccer shorts."

"I'm sure he's a sight. I was actually calling to see if you guys have plans for tonight. I've got a job, and I might need a couple of cute faces to distract someone for a while."

"Uh... not tonight. We've got a gig."

"Really? Booked this far in advance? Must be something special."

"Yeah. It's a little kinky. Sort of a long term arrangement we're working on. But I really can't talk about it."

"Hey, you don't have to explain client confidentiality to me."

"Great. By the way, thanks again for bailing me out last night. I've scraped together most of what I owe you for the lawyer and all. Can you wait a couple days for the rest?"

"Sure. I know that you're good for it. So how much longer are you boys gonna be down at the park?"

"I don't know. Maybe another hour. You gonna make it?"

"Uh... I've got an errand that I need to run first. But I'll try to get there."

"Cool. Just remember, I've got dibs on you for my team." "

I'll remember."

"OK. Take care of yourself Drew."

"You too Daniel."

I hung up, and thought about my next move. I took a few seconds to remind myself just how much trouble I would be in if I got caught doing what I was about to do. I forced myself to imagine getting arrested, losing my license, doing jail time. When all that failed to dissuade me, I started the car and drove north to Vince's apartment.

It was on twelfth street, a couple blocks from where the road dead ends into the park. One in a series of little two story brick apartment buildings that had been thrown up back in the twentieth century. It was cheap housing, borderline respectable. A lot of students and people who call themselves "artists" while they wait tables.

I drove past it and parked around the corner. I popped the trunk, and got out my nondescript brown shirt and brown cap, along with a satchel of nondescript brown parcels and a clip board. Thus disguised, I made my way down the street.

I got to Vince's building, and studied it for a moment. It took me a few seconds to remember which door Daniel had run up to when I dropped him off this morning. A woman came out of one of the apartments and walked to her car. I glanced down at the clipboard's screen, as if looking for an address. She ignored me, got in her car, and drove away.

Which left just me, Vince's apartment door, an empty parking lot... and a street full of passing traffic with a clear view of the building. What was I thinking? I must have some major brain damage to even consider breaking into a building like this in broad daylight. Oh well. I had been up all night. Maybe I could plead sleep deprivation at my trial.

I knocked on Vince's door, loudly. Once. Twice. No answer. If he had a roommate, the guy was in a coma. I moved in closer to the door, and adjusted the satchel so that it blocked the view of my hands from the street.

"OK, Sherwin. You know the drill."

"All right," my agent program muttered with a sigh. "And one, two, three..."

I was through the lock before Sherwin got to nine. It was close to my personal best. But then, this was an old lock with no security system to bypass, so it didn't really count. I stepped inside and shut the door behind me softly. Hopefully, no one on the street had called the police about my little breaking and entering act. But then, I wouldn't know for sure until the flashing blue lights pulled up outside.

Best to be quick about this.

Inside, Vincent's apartment was dark and cool. The shades were drawn, and a little window unit rattled from the bathroom. The place was a one-room efficiency, and the furniture was all inexpensive plywood stuff with the same color veneer. Institutional furniture, it had probably come with the apartment. There were a couple posters of shirtless soccer players up on the wall, and a picture of Daniel taped to the refrigerator, but that was it as far as personal touches. There was nothing on top of the dresser or the night stand. No pictures of family or friends. None of those little toys or souvenirs that invariably accumulate on horizontal surfaces, as people give you things that you don't really want but can't quite bring yourself to throw out, either. All in all, the place felt strangely unlived in.

A check of the kitchen nook turned up the fact that Vincent didn't do much cooking. There were no pots or pans, and the freezer was chock full of frozen dinners. He had exactly four knives, four forks, and four spoons. And about twenty sets of unused chopsticks from "Red Square", the Chinese take out place down on Tenth Street.

The bathroom was a little more interesting, more for what was missing that for what was there. Vince had a toothbrush and toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant, an electric razor, cologne, and styling mousse. But there were no half-empty bottles of aspirin or decongestant, no thermometer or packages of antacid. All the little things that you don't think of buying until you get sick, but that stay in your medicine cabinet for years afterward. So either Vince was such a paragon of health that he never even got a cold, or he hadn't been living in this apartment for long. It also made me think that he'd had to leave his previous digs in a hurry. I mean, who doesn't bother to take their aspirin with them when they move?

The contents of the closet tended to back up that theory. Our boy Vincent had a broad selection of clothing: silk shirts, soccer shorts, velvet tights, jeans. But everything was new. Not a single item looked like it had more than a month or two worth of wear on it.

So he'd left all his clothes behind when he moved, too? Vince was definitely on the run from something.

I went through the drawers of his dresser next, which turned up nothing but some socks and some designer underwear. What I really wanted to find was a document, a piece of identification, something that would connect me to his past, to his real name. I mean, he had to keep something, right?