The Trouble With Tony (7 page)

Trudy nodded. “Anything else?”

“Another possibility is that he’s asexual with a few bouts of normal libido surfacing here and there, perhaps due to a hormonal fluctuation. When that’s happened, he’s associated it with the person he’s been interested in at the time.”

“That doesn’t explain his regular masturbation,” Gerde said. “Could he be exaggerating the frequency?”

“No, I think he’s telling the truth about that.”

“There is another possible diagnosis,” Trudy said thoughtfully. She gave Jack some good suggestions on what to dig into during his next session with Tony. Jack jotted them down. “Do you think you’ll need Michael for this one?” Trudy said, looking over the clinic’s schedule for the following month.

Michael perked up. “Hey, if he’s that tall, dark, and dreamy guy I saw leaving the clinic on Tuesday, then who do I make the check out to?” He grinned.

“Michael,” Trudy said, in a mildly warning tone that no one took seriously.

“Um…,” Jack said.

He frowned. Even though Tony had already asked about surrogacy, Jack hadn’t put much thought into it. He’d been too distracted by the intellectual challenge of the diagnosis. Jack swallowed. “I’m, uh, not sure it will make sense to do surrogacy. I need a few more sessions with the patient to be sure.”

Trudy nodded. “Please let me know what you decide so I can get it on the schedule. Thank you, Jack. Who’s next? Andrea?”

As Andrea went over her cases, Jack found his attention wandering back to Michael.

Michael Lamont was an interesting-looking guy. He was small, shorter than Jack by an inch, and he had a very slender frame. He probably weighed something like one-hundred-thirty pounds. He had a waifish gracefulness about him, and he wore his straight, dark brown hair long and brushed forward. Bangs curved slightly on his brow to avoid blinding his eyes, and he wore sections of his hair combed forward onto his strong cheekbones. It was an urban look, one that suited his narrow Roman profile, discrete piercings, low-rider jeans, and studded belt. He was quite beautiful, really, if that was your type. It wasn’t Jack’s. Maybe it was his time in the Army, but he liked his men with some serious meat on their bones. Still, there was something in Michael’s big brown eyes that drew you in—gentleness, compassion.

Michael was a licensed R.N. He did in-home nursing care for an agency when he wasn’t doing sex surrogacy. Jack could never do what Michael did as a surrogate. He’d seen the young man take on cases that would have made Jack’s dick shrivel like he’d stuck it in lemon juice—burn victims, disabled, the elderly, and the extremely obese. Michael took on anyone who needed him and handled them with compassion and respect. Jack admired that greatly.

But he was suddenly aware of the fact that he didn’t like the idea of Michael touching Tony DeMarco—
at all
. He’d had a whiff of it when he’d shown Tony Michael’s profile; he’d almost hesitated to hand it over. At the time he’d chalked it up to being uncomfortable with Tony’s questions about surrogacy. It felt premature to Jack and a little… odd. But now, looking at Michael, he realized it was more than that. It was… personal. And that thought was both disturbing and perplexing.

Jack realized that he’d completely lost the thread of what Andrea was talking about and had been staring at Michael, really staring, with what he could feel was a stern look on his own face. Then again, Jack’s face was usually stern these days.

That didn’t explain the staring, though.

Jack looked around self-consciously to see if anyone had noticed. No one was looking at him. Trudy seemed raptly engaged in what Andrea was saying. But when Jack turned his eyes back to Michael, Michael was gazing right at him. The man winked and then smiled a slow, blindingly sweet and sassy smile.

Jack looked down at his notepad. Fuck.

After the meeting, Jack went directly to the staff room to get a cup of coffee. He’d prefer a drink, but this was as close as he was going to get during working hours. He was not entirely surprised when Michael strolled in after him. Damn.

“So… Dr. Halloran,” Michael said leadingly. He draped himself against the counter and watched as Jack very, very carefully, poured hot liquid from the coffee pot into his mug with his left hand. Jack’s right hand was in his pocket, trembling.

“No,” Jack said in a firm voice, without looking at Michael.

Michael moved closer, sliding his body down the countertop. He had on a thin, long-sleeved black sweater that hugged his narrow torso. Jack carefully poured in a spot of creamer with his left hand, then stirred. He could see Michael studying his face in his peripheral vision, studying it with far too much perspicacity.

“You’re cute. And you’re sad. I could make you feel good,” Michael said softly.

Jack glanced at the young man’s face. How old was Michael, anyway? He looked young, God, so fucking young. Jack supposed he should feel flattered, except he had a feeling Michael was more drawn to the brokenness in him than the man. “No,” Jack said pointedly.

Michael studied Jack’s eyes as if trying to see if he should believe him or not. Jack gave him his best frigid stare. Michael shrugged. “Okay, Dr. Halloran. You know where to find me.” Michael strolled out, lightly brushing Jack’s arm as he went.

Jack turned to see Loretta in the doorway. Her face was pursed in a hurt glare and her amble bosom quivered. “You really don’t have to put on these elaborate charades,” she accused. “I get it. You’re not interested in me.”

Jack groaned at the ceiling and took his cup into his office where he could bang his head on his desk in private.

~10~

I
T
WAS
a beautiful summer day on Saturday, the kind of blue-sky day that made Seattle seem like the best place on the planet to be. It was particularly beautiful at Discovery Park, where the dirt trails overlooked the sound and views of white-capped mountains—Mt. Rainier to the south, and Mt. Baker to the north—peeked through the fern-laden forest.

Tony had talked Detective Mark Woodson into meeting there instead of at a restaurant, and they’d already run down to the lighthouse and back up. They reached the top of the cliffs and Mark stopped. He was panting, his sweatshirt damp with sweat, hands on his knees.

“God, I’m dyin’. Why’d I let you talk me into this again?”

“Because it’s a beautiful day, and because you covet my athletic physique?” Tony suggested. He shook out his legs and moved in place, not wanting to cool off so abruptly.

“Fuck, at the moment I covet the life of my couch cushions. The plaid ones. Damn, that was a steep climb.”

Tony nodded, his breathing already returning to normal. “Short though.”

“Fuck you, Jimmy Jock.”

Tony chuckled, but it didn’t last long. His mind was a one-way street these days, and it wasn’t in the funny part of town. “If you’ve got your breath back, I need to talk about Marilyn White.”

“I figured.”

They began walking on the path along the top of the cliff. Tony would have liked to have run a couple more miles, but it didn’t look like Mark was up for it. The police detective was only forty, yet long hours, paperwork, and stakeouts inevitably took their toll. Tony was not sorry to have jumped off that track. At least, as his own boss, he called the shots and could make time for a run or a hike whenever he wanted one.

“Brent White,” Tony said as they walked. “You said he had an alibi. Did you try to shake it?”

Mark eyed him critically. “Look, I know where you’re coming from. I had a bad feeling about the husband, too, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. Brent White was in Portland at a conference,” Mark said. “Sat in the bar all night while she was dying at home.”

Tony shook his head. That couldn’t be right. “Maybe he ditched out and drove home just long enough to do it.”

“Nah. It’s a minimum of two-and-a-half hours one way. It
didn’t happen
, DeMarco. We have three solid eyewitnesses that say he was there.”

Tony stopped and watched a ferry coming in from the islands. He was upset by the news. He legitimately didn’t like Brent White, and he’d been hoping to turn the case away from the clinic. There had to be something.

“What’s got your panties in a bunch about Brent White?” Mark asked. “Did you ever interview that doctor? Halloran?”

“I talked to the bartender at a place where Brent hangs out—Stanley’s in Union City.”

“I know it.”

Tony told Mark about the lamb-to-lion conversation and about what the bartender had said.

“There you go,” Mark said, as if that just confirmed his opinion. “She was doing someone at that sex clinic.”

Tony felt a wave of frustration. “Maybe. But it wasn’t Halloran. The point is, Brent White had his nose out of joint about it. The guy has an ego like Seattle has rain.”

“So you figure he killed her out of jealousy?”

Tony nodded sagely. “That’s exactly what I fucking figure.”

“One problem with that.
He wasn’t there
. Find out who else she was playing hide the salami with. Why do you say it wasn’t Halloran?”

Tony’s dick perked up at the name like a dog responding to the voice of its owner. Tony scowled. “I’ve met with him. He’s gay. He doesn’t do surrogacy work with female patients.”

Mark looked doubtful. “You sure about that? He didn’t seem gay to me.”

Tony gave him a look. “Yes, Mark, I’m real sure. What are you, Mr. Gaydar all of a sudden? Straight eye for the queer guy? Besides, the therapists usually aren’t the hands-on surrogates. They have people for that. Kind of like your regular doctor refers you to a physical therapist.”

“So she was getting sex lessons from someone else at the clinic, some other guy?”

“Maybe. But I haven’t talked to him yet. Hey, can you get me a copy of the autopsy report?”

Mark thought about it with a rather grumpy expression. “Not a copy. But come by the station on Monday, and I can accidently-on-purpose leave it sitting on my desk if you want a peek.”

Tony didn’t want to wait that long. “Did you bring your cell phone?’

Mark patted a pocket. “Yeah. Why?”

“Got e-mail on there? If I know you, you never deleted the e-mail from back in June with the autopsy report attached.”

Mark grumbled, but he pulled out his phone. “Don’t you think this shit is scary? I mean, it is, right? Here we are on a fucking cliff and I’m pulling up an autopsy report for a dead case that I didn’t even realize I had. Makes me feel old.”

“You are old.”

He dinked with the phone. “Shut up. Geez, I’ve got like three billion e-mails. I’ll never—”

Tony grabbed the phone.

“Hey!”

“I’m just doing a search for that one e-mail. I won’t read anything else.” Tony found it. He showed the e-mail to Mark. “Here, see? Okay if I read the attachment?”

Mark nodded in disgust. “The things I do for you. Why? I ask myself.”

Tony ignored Mark and opened it. He looked at the time of death first—midnight, give or take twenty minutes. That sounded pretty firm, and a likely time for Brent to be in a bar in Portland, if he really was there. Tony scrolled down. Contents of the stomach—twelve ounces of red wine and a lethal dose of Amoxapine, an antidepressant. “She chased the pills with red wine,” Tony said thoughtfully.

“Yeah. So? Both her husband and her mother said she liked a little red wine in the evenings. Nothing usual about that. Except for, you know, the bottle of pills and the dying part.”

There was something there. Tony growled thoughtfully. “I need to see the case file, the entire thing.”

Mark sighed and scratched his balls. “You know I could get in trouble for that. Tell me why I should go out on a limb? I mean, I know her parents are paying you, but why do you care so much?”

Tony stared into Mark’s eyes, letting him see that he
did
care, that it mattered. “I need to prove that Halloran had nothing to do with it.”

Mark barked a laugh. “Tony, no one’s after Halloran. He’s not sitting on death row and you’re not Susan Sarandon. You don’t have to prove squat. No one cares.”

“
I
care,” Tony said, looking away.

He heard a sigh from Mark that told him the detective got it. “Ah, shit,” Mark breathed. “Tell me you’re not hot for Halloran.”

“I’m not hot for Halloran,” Tony said, flatly.
My dick is.

~11~

T
HE
following Friday night, Tony sat parked outside the Expanded Horizons clinic and watched the door. He’d cancelled his Tuesday meeting with Halloran this week. He wasn’t going to get anything more out of the guy regarding Marilyn—that dog had refused to hunt. And he didn’t know how much more time he could spend with the doctor without giving up the game on his lustful affliction. Instead, he’d driven down to Portland and interviewed the bartender at Max Flax, where Brent White had supposedly been having a gay old time the night Marilyn died. The bartender had confirmed Brent’s story and, as far as Tony could see, had no reason whatsoever to lie.

Tony had really fucking hoped for a different outcome. He’d been depressed driving back up to Seattle from that interview, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. At this point, he was road blocked on every single lead he had. The only thing he could figure was that he had to get his hands on Marilyn’s clinic records, by hook or by crook. The crook in this case would be Tony. One advantage to being a private eye was that he didn’t always have to follow the rules. Breaking the law was another matter, but Tony was desperate. He needed that information.

He’d cased the clinic for the past few nights. They closed at six. There were five people who worked there all day—Halloran, two female doctors, a nurse, and the redheaded receptionist. Others came and went, including a few he figured might be the surrogates, but they weren’t around at closing time. The receptionist, Loretta, was usually the last to leave at night.

Loretta was wide-hipped and wide-eyed, an overly trusting sort. When Tony saw Halloran and the others leave at five thirty, and he knew Loretta was the last man standing, he took his shot. He slipped in through the front door and peeked around the edge of the entry. Loretta had her back turned, filing. Tony walked silently past her and went into the patient bathroom in the hall. He stood behind the door in the dark.