The Last Thing I Saw (6 page)

“It sounds as though you did everything you could.”

“I didn’t really know Bryan all that well. We were just neighbors, but he was really a nice guy and I just feel so terrible for him. Why would anybody do that to Bryan? Maybe it had something to do with his reporter’s job—I don’t know. The police asked me who his enemies were, and I said I had no idea.”

“Detective Davis told me you and Bryan were into exchanging recipes. So if you were friendly enough to be doing that, I can see why you’re upset.”

He gave me a look. “You sound suspicious or something.”

“No.”

“Bryan saw me on the stairs one time carrying a cheesecake box. He said he had the best ginger cheesecake recipe in the world, and when he made one sometime he’d give me a piece. He never got around to it—he was so busy being on the news and all—but then when I wanted to make a cheesecake for a friend’s birthday on Saturday, I ran into Bryan and thought I’d ask him for that recipe. He said he’d make a copy, and I was supposed to pick up the recipe at four.”

“What do you do, Elvis?”

“I’m a sales rep for Old Plymouth Bay Candles.”

This helped explain the profusion of tall fat multi-colored candles around the otherwise simply furnished apartment, as well as the fruity aroma.

“When did you make your four o’clock date with Bryan? Earlier in the day?”

“I saw him in the morning when I was doing my laundry. He said he had somebody coming over at six, and they were meeting somebody else for dinner at seven, and could I come by at four o’clock? TV people are used to tight schedules and all that.”

“Right.”

“I said thanks, sounds good, and I did some stuff, and then I came home and showered and went upstairs right at four. Bryan didn’t answer, and I figured he went out for something or he was in the shower, so I went down and got my key and then went on in. And there he was on the floor by the coffee table in this incredible pool of blood. Oh God, I never saw anything like it. I mean, it’s not like in the movies. It’s like…I was in a butcher shop in Mexico one time, and it was like that. Gory and horrible and putrid, and right in the middle of it was
Bryan
, that nice, sweet, sexy guy.”

“You said he was expecting somebody to come by at six. Did he say who?”

“No. Just somebody he was going to dinner with.”

“And they were meeting somebody else at seven?”

“At the Westin, I think he said.”

So who was this that Kim was bringing along on our dinner date? He hadn’t said anything to me about a third party.

“Elvis, may I ask why you had a key to Bryan’s apartment? That’s pretty friendly in itself—I mean what with your relationship pretty much limited to cheesecake recipe exchanges.”

“I had a key because I used to look after Bryan’s cat when he was away overnight. The cat got cancer and died, but Bryan said to hang on to the key, since he might get another cat. He just never got around to it.”

“Did you know Bryan’s boyfriend Eddie Wenske?”

“Oh, sure. Eddie was a hunk. I even read his book about coming out in middle school. Bryan said he was…what? He disappeared or something?”

“He did. A couple of months ago.”

“Bryan was really upset. There was some bad stuff between them for a while, and they weren’t even seeing each other. Sometimes they’d stay at Eddie’s place and sometimes they’d stay here at Bryan’s, but for a long time Bryan never went over there at all.”

“You know a lot about Bryan’s life.”

“Well, we chatted about the men in our lives in the laundry room, and like that. Sure, we’d dish and commiserate.”

“And exchange recipes.”

Gummer gave me a look. “Can I just say something, Donald?”

“Sure.”

“I know you’re gay.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Because you are being very careful not to look at me below the neck. The strain is showing.”

“What if I told you that you are mistaken, Elvis? That back in Albany I have a wife and eleven children?”

He chortled. “Don’t worry. I won’t come on to you.”

“That’s just as well.”

“I dreamed last night that I was having sex with a guy who started bleeding and bleeding, and blood was coming out of his nose and mouth and ears and dick and ass, and even his navel ripped open and blood was pouring out. Right now, I can’t imagine ever having sex with a man again.”

I told Gummer I thought he’d get over that, and he said he was going to try.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Gummer didn’t want to go back into Bryan Kim’s apartment and he wasn’t sure the police would approve of my doing so, but reluctantly he lent me the key. Yellow crime-scene tape had been stretched across the door, but I unlocked it and shoved it open with my foot and ducked under the tape. Gummer’s mention of a certain type of Mexican meat market had been apt; Kim’s living room smelled like a slaughterhouse in a tropical country that made do without a lot of meddlesome government sanitary regulations. A throw rug was missing from the hardwood floor, apparently having been carried off by the forensics team. The stained floor next to where the rug had lain had been cleaned but only perfunctorily. I noted blood spatters on the nearby leather couch and even as far away as an end table with a lamp whose pretty silk shade was spotted. The scene suggested a great deal of violence.

Across the room were a good-sized plasma TV and an elaborate sound setup. The CDs next to it were current pop with some dance-club house music. On a shelf were framed photos of Kim in the company of what appeared to be a sober Korean-American family of five. Alongside the pictures was Kim’s local Emmy for “distinguished Boston news coverage.”

Among the books on a nearby shelf was Wenske’s
Notes from the Bush
. I checked the inscription, which read: “To Bryan—good reporter, hot number, beloved pal—Eddie.” I also noted that the book’s printed dedication was to
My parents, Susan and Herb Wenske.
There was also a copy of
Weed Wars.

It was neither inscribed nor autographed. Its printed dedication was
To Paul Delaney.
Who was Paul Delaney? He had to be someone important in Wenske’s life, but his name hadn’t come up.

Kim’s bedroom had a king-sized bed, neatly made, with a handsome Japanese cotton coverlet. The bookmarked book on the bedside table was
Mary Ann in Autumn
, the final
Tales of the City
volume. Kim had made it to page 73. The closet was stuffed with what looked like a small fortune in well-crafted dark suits, a supposed occupational necessity—though an Albany news anchor had once confessed to me that for him it was the other way around: he needed to be on television so he’d have an excuse to own all those suits.

It looked as if somebody had already been through Kim’s desk. The police? The killer? The drawers were empty and their contents had been arranged in neat piles on top. It was basically just entertainment brochures and advertising. Anything more personal or potentially revealing—letters, bills, bank and credit card statements—had been taken away, I guessed. There was no computer, just—as with Wenske’s desk—a space where one must have sat. So who took that? The police or the killer?

Kim’s tidy bathroom contained a lot of toiletries but nothing that told me anything noteworthy about who Kim was. The only pharmaceuticals in his medicine cabinet were Tylenol, over-the-counter cold remedies and some prescription Cialis, a 30-tablet box of 5mg each, the daily dose.

I checked the kitchen to see if maybe a large knife was missing, suggesting that the killer had not planned on attacking Kim and had simply grabbed a knife in a rage. But I had no idea how many knives Kim owned to begin with, so I learned nothing. Anyway, the nearly empty fridge and the Thai and Korean boxed entrees in the freezer suggested that not a lot of cooking had gotten done in this kitchen. And not a lot of cheesecakes baked. I looked around for a recipe collection but found none.

§
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Marilyn Fogle had said she was in the midst of a fund drive at the NPR station where she was vice president for development, and would I mind if she picked up some salad and panini at Panera and we ate them in her kitchen? Her ex-husband had their two teenaged daughters for the weekend, so we would be able to talk without any distractions. I offered to pick up the food, but she said not to bother, she had to pass Panera anyway on the way home from the station.

The house didn’t look like the abode of the vice president of anything, just a cozy clapboard ranch with soon-to-burst-into-bloom tulips along the walk up to the front door. The car in the driveway was a Subaru wagon of non-recent vintage with carefully nonpartisan good-cause bumper stickers plastered across the hatch.

At her kitchen table, Fogle produced a Karlsberg for me and poured herself a glass of Chablis. “I do apologize for the store-bought fare, but it’s that time of year, as I hope you will have noticed.”

“I have indeed. I admit I changed to another station on the car radio.”

“But not before you made your pledge, I hope.”

“Sorry, but I’m one of those people who steal it.”

She looked as if she wasn’t sure if I was kidding, so I told her I was. “My partner Timothy Callahan takes care of that. He tithes for both of us.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t you get tired of saying thank you to each of your gazillion contributors?”

“No, never. We’d go out and wash their feet if that’s what it took to keep public radio going.”

“This sounds like Wenske family-style missionary zeal. Where have I heard this before?”

She laughed. In her mid-forties, Fogle was rangy and a little bit stooped in a black pants suit and lemon yellow blouse. She had the beginnings of a wrinkled neck, a lot of sandy hair like her brother, and the same sly smile.

She said, “Yes, we’re all fanatics, I guess. Dad going after the Wall Street crooks, Eddie exposing the ethically challenged and socially misguided. And me keeping the world safe for
All Things Considered
. Mom
used
to take the world more or less as it was until she opened The Party’s on Us and became a mushrooms-and-cheese-in-puff-pastry zealot. Now she’s crazed and over-scheduled just like my brother and me.”

I almost asked her if she had a second brother, then realized who she meant. “I take it you agreed with your mother’s decision to hire me to search for Eddie.”

“You bet I did. I almost looked into hiring a private investigator myself. I got as far as the Yellow Pages. But to tell you the truth, my savings are not what I’d planned on at my age, this house is underwater and can’t be re-mortgaged until late in the century, and Bond, my ex, is out of work and almost no help at all. So for financial reasons I never made the call. Thank God, Mom has a little money from her mother, and you are what she’s spending it on.”

I felt a twinge of guilt, but only briefly, for I planned on earning my fee, even if it meant delivering bad news to the Wenskes. I said, “Bond. Did he trade in…you know?”

“No. If only. Bond re-strings tennis rackets. And he’s working on his novel.”

“I was an English major, and that could have been me.”

“He’s great with Becca and Lisa though. You might meet them. Bond will be dropping them off in about an hour. I know they’re pleased that you’re in the picture. They’re very fond of Eddie, and I know they’d be even more upset about his being missing if they didn’t have so much else on their minds. Though they couldn’t possibly be any more of a mess than I am. I wake up at night thinking about Eddie, and if I think about him long enough, I come down with a perfect bitch of a migraine.”

Fogle had laid out plates and flatware on the kitchen table and spread out the Panera good eats, and we helped ourselves.

“I know you’ve been in touch with the police,” I said.

“Oh, I’ve been more than in touch. I’ve been a total pain in the ass.”

“That’s necessary sometimes. Police detectives are busy people.”

“At first, I just thought Eddie wasn’t reachable because he was up to here in something he was working on. He could be like that, focused to the point of driving everybody else crazy who wasn’t in on his current mania. But when Bryan got worried, he called me and then I began to worry too. And now…with what’s happened to Bryan…I can’t…” Her voice broke and she shook her head. “I know I should be really upset about poor Bryan, but all I can think about is: What if the same thing happened to Eddie? And his body is…somewhere. Oh Jesus. Oh crap.”

“I know. It’s worrisome,” was my lame response.

“Donald, what do the police know about Bryan’s death? Anything at all? You said you were in touch with them.”

“They have no leads, as far as I know. The detective in charge is aware of Bryan’s connection with Eddie, and I expect you’ll hear from him, a guy named Marsden Davis who seems competent.”

“Good.”

“Does your mother know about Bryan? I’ll call her tonight.”

“I spoke to her. She reacted the same way I did. All she can think about is Eddie. She feels a little guilty—just like I do—because we were never that crazy about Bryan in the first place.”

“He sounded like a lot of work.”

“Yes, but Eddie said the one thing you could count on with Bryan was his professional integrity, and that meant a lot to Eddie. If Bryan had been as faithful to Eddie as he had been to Channel Six News, everything would have gone a lot more smoothly.”

“Faithful?”

“I don’t mean sexually. I have no idea what their arrangements were in that regard. Gay men have their mysterious ways. I know that. I mean emotionally faithful. And of course physically present. Bryan just seemed incapable of committing, and he had a history of jumping into relationships with guys and then panicking and jumping out again. But the two of them just seemed to hit it off in so many ways, and I know there was a strong physical attraction. In fact, I got a little tired of hearing about Bryan’s satiny muscular butt. I do know they were trying to make a go of it the second time around.”

The prosciutto and chevre panini were excellent, as was the big fresh green salad with walnuts and cranberries. The beer was helpful, too, though I thought better of asking for a second bottle.