The Ninth Man (13 page)

Tim rummaged through the sack like a bear at a campground.

“God, I’m hungry!” he said.

I never could figure out how someone could carve up dead bodies all day and still be hungry, but, then…

“So, did you find out anything from your cop buddy?” I asked, waiting while Tim ravaged a drumstick.

“Um-hmm,” he said, grabbing a napkin and wiping his mouth. “Word’s pretty well out in the department.”

He inserted the straw expertly into the slit in the plastic lid of his Coke—I always end up stabbing furiously at it, usually smashing the straw beyond repair, sloshing Coke all over myself, or both in the process—and took a long drink, his eyes closed in mock ecstasy.

“But it hasn’t provoked much interest,” he went on finally. “I checked with my contact, and he was pretty close-mouthed. He’s aware that something is going on but apparently doesn’t know any of the specifics. What he’s heard is that there’s another serial killer out there, but that since he’s specializing in faggots, it’s not that big a thing. Now, if straights start dying…

“I overheard the medical examiner—I know damn well he knows my scene, and he’s pretty sympathetic to us—talking to some plainclothesman I assume is in charge of whatever investigation there might be.”

He reached into the sack for a breast portion, which he attacked with the same enthusiasm he’d shown the drumstick.

“Anyway,” he continued between bites, “the ME was asking the cop how the investigation was going, and it was plain as shit the cop was bored by the whole thing. No leads, no clues, absolutely no connection between any of the victims—and get this.” He jabbed the air with the half-eaten breast, emphasizing his point. “His reaction to the fact that McDermott and Rholfing were ‘roommates’ was ‘Well, it just goes to prove these fucking faggots never learn!’”

He stared at me in wide-eyed disbelief.

“Can you imagine that? Jesus Christ, I wanted to give that asshole an autopsy right on the spot! Even the M.E. couldn’t let that one pass.”

Tim finished the breast, dropped the bones onto a napkin with the remains of the drumstick, and licked his fingers.

“You’re not eating?” he asked as I stabbed furiously at the Coke lid with the straw.

“Not hungry right now,” I said, giving up and tearing the lid off the cup.

Tim shrugged and reached into the sack for more chicken.

“Anyway, the ME looks at the cop and says, very calmly, ‘These are human beings we’re talking about.’ I nearly applauded. The asshole turns about three shades of purple and says, all blustery, ‘Well, of course they’re human beings. We don’t show any bias in our investigations. But you know how hard it is in these home-o-sex-yool cases—they’re all so promiscuous.’

“He left a few minutes later, and if I never see him again, it’ll be too soon.” He paused and looked reflective. “I take that back. On an autopsy table, maybe…” He attacked his third piece of chicken.

We—I broke down and had the remaining drumstick—finished our lunch in relative silence. It was only when we were putting all the bones, napkins, and empty cups back into the sack that Tim looked at me casually out of the corner of his eye and said, “So, you keeping anything from your Number-one Son?”

Embarrassed, I blurted out everything I knew, including my certainty that whatever linked the victims lay about three years or more in the past, and my guilt over Rholfing’s death. I didn’t mention having met Ed Grayley, though—not that Tim would have been jealous. I just didn’t want to risk the possibility.

“Come on, Dick,” he said after I’d finished. “You can’t honestly feel responsible for Rholfing. Hell, you had no way of knowing.” He thought a minute, then shook his head. “But it sure is one hell of a mystery. I can almost see now what the cops are up against, even if they
are
convinced the deaths were just random.

“Three years is a long time, especially in the gay world. There could be any number of links—the same bar, the same organization, or work…no, not work, I don’t think—they all did different things, as I recall.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “You’ve really got your work cut out for you,” he said.

He was, as usual, so right.

After dumping the garbage in a trash receptacle, I walked Tim partway back to his office, and he promised to call me if he learned anything at all new. I left him at the corner a block from the City Building and watched as he crossed the street. Safely across, he turned, gave me a wave, and disappeared into the crowd.

*

Time. Time. What was it Martin Bell had said about his
friend Arthur Granger? Something about three years ago. Yeah, that fit. Definitely. But what had he said?

Then, about three years ago, he went through some sort of trauma—he never would discuss it…

I looked up Bell, Book & Candle and dialed the number. I recognized Bell’s voice even before he identified himself.

“Bell, Book and Candle. Martin Bell speaking. May I help you?”

“Mr. Bell, this is Dick Hardesty calling. Do you have a moment to talk?”

There was only a brief hesitation, then: “Yes. Yes, of course. What can I do for you, Mr. Hardesty?”

“When we spoke, you mentioned that Mr. Granger had had some sort of traumatic experience about three years ago which he would never discuss with you. Do you have any way of knowing what that might have been?”

There was another moment’s pause.

“No. No, I’m afraid I don’t, Mr. Hardesty. Arthur was really a very private person in many ways, and as close as we were, I had learned long ago never to intrude upon that privacy. He told me only what he wanted to tell me.”

“Did you ever surmise what it might have been?” I asked.

“No, I did not. I only know that Arthur was badly shaken by it. If I were to speculate, I would assume it had something to do with his sex life. I believe I told you that Arthur’s tastes were somewhat…bizarre.”

I had a feeling Bell wasn’t going to be able to open many new doors, but I pushed on.

“What can you tell me about Mr. Granger’s life around that time? Did he mention anything specific about his activities? His friends? Places he frequented? Anything you found unusual or out of the ordinary?”

“Mr. Hardesty,” Bell said, and I could almost see his beagle face breaking into a wry grin, “Arthur’s
life
was unusual and out of the ordinary. He was a brilliant man—a CPA by profession—but his personal life was chaos.

“As to friends, he had very few, I’m afraid. He preferred the anonymity of one-night stands and backroom bars. Nothing in his letters struck me as unusual…for Arthur.”

Strike two.

“Did he belong to any organizations? Any social groups? Go to any particular bar?”

The smile was still in Bell’s voice.

“To Arthur, variety was exciting. I never knew him to take a sustained interest in anything other than sex. And because he respected my opinion of his sexual tastes, he spared me the details of his many encounters. He…oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Hardesty, a customer has just come in. You’ll have to excuse me.”

“Of course, Mr. Bell,” I said, feeling the familiar flat line of frustration. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you for talking with me. Good-bye.”

Sighing, I hung up the phone.

Even though he and Alan Rogers had been together only a comparatively short time, there was an outside chance Gary Miller might know something about Rogers’s past. I dialed his number, not really expecting to find him home. Luck was with me.

“Good afternoon. Gary Miller here.”

“Gary. Hi. This is Dick Hardesty.”

His voice was as warm and sexy as ever.

“Dick, good to hear from you.” That man’s voice could melt the polar caps.

“I wanted to call to thank you for your hospitality the other night. I really enjoyed talking with you.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he said, and I could just see the East Coast being submerged in 200 feet of icecap melt water. “I’d always wanted to meet a real, live detective.”

“Flattery will get you anywhere,” I said. “But while we’re on the subject of detecting, there were a couple of questions I didn’t get to ask you while I was there.”

“I’d really like to ask you over to talk about it, but I’m afraid it will have to wait until I get back.”

“Back?”

“Yeah. My agent got me a sportswear contract I’d been praying for. It came through late yesterday afternoon. I’m catching a plane for St. Croix in about three hours. I’ll be gone a week—maybe two, if I’m lucky, but the minute I get back, I’ll give you a call.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” I said, and meant it. “But before you go, could you just answer a few quick questions now, over the phone?”

“Sure; I’ve got a few minutes.”

Keep your fingers crossed, Hardesty.

“How much about Alan’s past life did you know? I’m referring specifically to about three to four years ago.”

“Hmmmmm…”

I waited while he thought for a long moment.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” he said finally. “Alan, it seems, was a congenital liar in addition to his other charms, though I was too dumb to know it until it was too late. He gave me a lot of lines, but I doubt now very many of them were true. Whatever he told me, I believed…at the time.”

Shit! Another dead end!

“Did he say anything you can remember about the period not too long before you met—say about a year before? Anything about his friends, where he might have hung out, any groups or clubs or organizations he belonged to? Particularly, any trouble he may have been in, or any incident he was reluctant to talk about?”

“Not that I can re—oh, yes! One time, right after we first met, he gave me a long story about how he’d been involved in something dark and sinister, and he was sure someone was out to get him. But he didn’t elaborate—Alan was pretty vague on specifics. I believed him when he first told me—thought it was kind of exciting, in a way—but I wouldn’t give you a dime for the story now.”

“This story,” I prodded, feeling a surge of excitement, “what do you remember about it?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve been working pretty hard to erase Alan from my head. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. It’s…” His voice broke off, and there was a sharp pause. Then: “Dick, you aren’t suggesting there was any truth to that story, are you? Do you think Alan’s death might actually…that he didn’t…just die? But why? How? Why wouldn’t the police have told me…”

“Hold on, Gary,” I said, interrupting to try to calm him down. “I’m not suggesting anything. I just want to know more about that story, if you can remember it.”

I clutched the receiver, waiting. Gary’s words came slowly at first, in little fragments of sentences as he tried to remember.

“Alan…had gotten…mixed up with…or hung around with—I forget how he put it…a bunch of unsavory characters, and they’d all gotten drunk one night and did something really serious. I got the strong impression from the way he told it that it was tangled up with organized crime, if you can believe that, and that the guy they’d done this thing to, whatever it was, was going to come looking for them to get even. Something like that. Does it make any sense to you?”

“Not much,” I said, only half-truthfully.

“Well, as I said, Alan and the truth weren’t exactly close friends. You don’t think it had anything to do with his death, then, do you, Dick?”

“With a story like that, it’s really hard to say,” I lied. “But the guy had an imagination.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, look, Gary, I’d better let you get back to packing. Be sure to give me a call when you get back, okay?”

“You can count on it.”

I held onto the receiver until I heard the dial tone, engaging in a little constructive fantasy, then hung up.

Okay, back to business. I didn’t know whether to put any stock in that story of Alan’s. From what I knew of the victims, none of them would have qualified for a “Mr. Wonderful” award, but I couldn’t imagine their being involved with one another on any but the most casual of levels.

And organized crime? Rholfing in a fedora and a pinstriped suit? That was stretching it beyond almost anyone’s belief.

Still, there was something in it that rang true; and added to Granger’s “traumatic experience,” there might be a skeleton of fact among all that fantasy.

But I still found it hard to imagine those seven men, from the very little I knew about them, even having enough in common to put them in a situation that would endanger—endanger, hell,
take
—all of their lives. Damn!

I waited until about four o’clock to call Mike Sibalitch, assuming he’d be up by then, but there was no answer. I decided to go home and call him from there. Which, being a man of my word, is exactly what I did.

*

When Sibalitch didn’t answer my five-o’clock call, I
felt a quick
stab of panic. Supposing this case was a lot broader than I’d imagined? Supposing our cyanide-carrying friend was moving outside the select circle of Rholfing and his somehow-cohorts? Or perhaps Sibalitch was part of it! Jesus! Anyone was game! Sibalitch, Bell, Gary Miller, Bill Elers…Tim…me!

Calm down, for crissake!

I went into the kitchen and poured myself a stiff drink. Then, on a whim that I knew was more than a whim, I dialed Ed Grayley, hoping he wouldn’t think I was coming on too strong. I’d talked to him every day since we’d met, and I’d just seen him the night before. Maybe I should cool it for a couple of days. Maybe.

Although I tried to ignore it, I was increasingly aware that my thoughts about Ed were beginning to involve more than just my head; my crotch was having some ideas of its own.

“Hello?”

Well, I couldn’t hang up now.

“Hi, Ed. This is Dick. I don’t mean to make a pest of myself, but…”

His laugh interrupted me.

“Hey, what pest? I was just sitting here wondering whether I should pester
you
.”

“No shit?” I asked, little-boy delighted.

“No shit. What’s up?”

I sighed then immediately hoped he hadn’t noticed.

“Nothing, really. It’s just been another one of those days. To paraphrase Alice, this whole thing’s just getting curiouser and curiouser—and I’m getting frustrateder and frustrateder.”