Dead In Red (15 page)

“Yeah,” I agreed lamely, and thought of the
mugging that had forever changed me.

“Walt didn’t have a lotta friends, ya know.
Not real ones. Maybe just me.” Then he laughed. “And a course his
fancy women.” He laughed again, a greasy, smarmy kind of
giggle.

“Sorry?”

The old guy leaned closer, lowered his
voice. “He liked to buy ’em pretty things. God knows why. They
didn’t do anything for him, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I—”

“Can I get some service?” came a voice from
the other end of the bar. I looked away from the old geezer. An
overweight man whose sour expression conveyed his outlook on life
sat at the far barstool. He punched the bar with a clenched fist.
“Gimme a Bud light.”

“Excuse me,” I told the geezer and poured
sourpuss his beer. He gave me a five and I rang up the sale,
handing him the change, which he promptly pocketed. By the time I
turned back, the old geezer had gone. A five and two ones sat under
his glass.

Damn. I hadn’t even had a chance to show him
Cyn’s picture, let alone ask him about Veronica.

Fancy women. That accounted for the sequined
shoe. And that Walt got nothing in return from these women bore out
my theory that he might’ve visited strip clubs. Still, it didn’t
feel right.

I picked up the geezer’s glass, hoping he’d
left behind some of his aura. No such luck. Like Richard, he didn’t
leave a trace I could tap into, and I had a feeling he wouldn’t
return to the bar now that his friend was gone.

But where the hell would I find Walt’s fancy
women? There was only one person I could ask.

Sourpuss was on his second beer and a couple
of the regulars had arrived by the time Tom emerged from his
office. Neither of us had done the fruit garnishes and he took a
lemon and a lime from the little fridge under the bar and started
cutting.

Time to risk it all. I sidled closer. “Tom,
what do you know about Walt’s fancy women?”

Tom’s head snapped up, his mouth dropped
open, his eyes wide. He grabbed me by the arm, dragged me out of
sourpuss’s earshot. “Who the hell told you about that?” He licked
his lips nervously and glanced over my shoulder, giving the
regulars a once-over.

“Tom, you had to know once you asked me to
look into Walt’s death that I’d discover his secrets.”

“Nobody knew about that stuff.
Nobody
.”

“An old work buddy of his did—he was in a
little while ago and mentioned it. So who were these women?
Strippers?”

“Not exactly. He only told me about it once.
I didn’t want to hear, so he never mentioned it again.”

“Hear what?”

Tom ducked his head, whispered: “Drag
queens.”

This time it was my mouth that dropped open.
How had my insight missed that little nugget?

“After his accident, Walt couldn’t— he
wasn’t able to . . .” Tom sighed, groping for an
explanation. “He couldn’t do ‘it’ anymore. And I’m not sure he
really missed it. He was never what you’d call a ladies’ man. I
think he was afraid of them. But he liked sexy stuff. And he told
me he thought the drag queens were more . . . I dunno,
more feminine than the kinds of women he was used to meeting. On
the weekends he’d go to some place downtown—around Pearl Street.
Just to watch, he said. But that can’t have anything to do with his
death.”

“Tom, it could have
everything
to do with his death,” I
said, thinking about the damned red-sequined high heel and the evil
little pillow emblazoned “Veronica.”

Tom shook his head, definitely in
denial.

“There’s more,” I said. “Walt rented a
storage unit on Transit Road. I checked it out the other night and
it’s full of porn—specifically, foot-fetish stuff.”

Tom’s head sagged. He looked like he wanted
to puke. “I don’t want you digging into this anymore, Jeff. Please,
just drop it.”

“I can’t. The cops arrested the wrong person
for his murder.”

“So? What’s that to you?”

“It means an innocent man will probably go
to jail for the rest of his life.”

“The guy’s crazy. He’s a career criminal.
He’s—”

“That still leaves the person who killed
Walt running around loose, and free to kill again. Do you want that
on your conscience? Because I sure don’t.”

Tom sighed, guilt and despair twisting his
features. “No, I guess I don’t either. But if this stuff about Walt
becomes public, it’ll kill my aunt. Damn it, Jeff, she’s
eighty-seven. I don’t want her to know how low her son sank.”

“It’s bound to come out. But she doesn’t
have to know you were ever involved.”

He held out his hands. “I’m not. I’m out of
this as of right now.”

Exactly what I’d expected. Now to voice my
bigger fear. “You want me out of here, too?”

Tom let out a shuddering breath. “If I
thought it would keep you from poking around in this whole mess,
I’d shitcan you right now.” He wiped a trembling hand over his
mouth. “You’re a damn good bartender, much better than Walt was,
and the guys seem to like you. But don’t talk about Walt to the
customers. Not now—not ever. In this bar, Walt’s memory is
respected. You got that?”

“Got it.”

Tom nailed me with a glare. “Okay. But let’s
not talk about this anymore. No matter what you find out.”

I didn’t answer because I couldn’t promise I
wouldn’t need more information from him later.

“You girls about done with your chitchat?” I
looked over my shoulder at sourpuss who held up his almost-empty
glass.

Tom turned away. I straightened, hardened my
features, and faced the jerk. “That was a Bud light, right?”

“Damn straight.”

Sourpuss picked up the glass, raised it in
salute, tipped it back and took a big gulp.

And may you never lose someone you care
about to murder, I wished him. Because whatever else I’d find out
about Walt Kaplan, I had a feeling the worst was yet to come. Tom
didn’t hate me now; how would he feel when whatever else there was
to discover came to light?

# # #

CHAPTER 12

Upon my return to Buffalo, I hadn’t been in
any shape to investigate the local nightlife, so I knew nothing
about it and even less about its drag clubs. The phone book was the
first stop in my quest for knowledge. Nothing under bars. Taverns
took up an entire page, and nightclubs a mere five inches of type.
None of them had display ads. So much for the phone book. Next
stop, the Internet.

Since arriving home, I’d successfully
avoided Richard, and even found his computer unoccupied. I slipped
into the big leather chair in his study and powered up the machine.
I needed my own PC, but that wouldn’t happen until I got my
finances back under control. My palms were damp as I logged onto
the Internet, fighting the urge to keep looking over my shoulder
for Big Brother.

A Google search later, I had a list of URLs
for Buffalo gay bars and drag shows. I clicked on the first one:
Club Monticello. White type on a black background gave way to color
pictures of the featured acts. Queen Camilla, Libby Lips, Tammy Ten
Toes—that sounded like a possibility for Walt—and a trio billed as
the Divine Divas. No Veronica.

I clicked on one of the pictures and a bio
and several other professional photographs appeared. Tammy Ten
Toes, a buxom pseudo-wench, wore a silver lamé cat suit, one hip
thrust forward toward the camera, with her best foot
forward—encased in a glittering silver platform heel, her
silver-painted toenails sparkling.

Walt had been titillated by this kind of
stuff; I wasn’t. Instead, my thoughts wandered back to Maggie, and
the fact that it had been a long time since I got laid.

“Now what are you up to?”

I jerked in the chair—my heart racing.
Richard appeared behind me, looking surly.

“Do I have to ask your permission every time
I want to look something up online?”

“No,” he said, but his expression said
otherwise.

It was taking all my self-control to hold
onto my temper. “Thank you.” I turned back to the monitor and
clicked on the “Home” button, then on “Show Times.” The image
changed, the club’s schedule filling the screen. Club Monticello
was billed as the “Biggest, Best Gay Bar in Buffalo,” but the drag
shows were listed only for Friday, Saturday and Sunday
evenings.

Richard leaned in close enough that I could
feel his breath on the back of my neck. “First foot fetishes, now
drag shows? What’s next, kiddy porn?”

Slowly, I swiveled the chair around to face
him. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

He backed off a step. “You know what I
mean.”

I kept my mouth shut, afraid of saying
something I might always regret. I turned back to the monitor, shut
down the connection and turned off the computer. Pushing back the
chair, I got up and headed for the door. Richard moved to block
me.

“I got a call from Cyn Lennox this
afternoon. A worker at the Hawk’s Nest saw you taking photos of
her. What the hell is going on? Don’t tell me
she’s
your suspect.”

“Fine. I won’t.” I moved to push past him
but he blocked me again.

“You can’t be serious. She didn’t even know
Walt Kaplan.”

“She tell you that?”

He had no answer.

“Walt was in her office just days before he
died.”

“How do you know?”

“How do you think?”

Richard gritted his teeth in annoyance. “You
got that the day we visited her?”

I nodded.

“Why didn’t you say something then?”

“What for, and get you angry—like you are
now? No one wants to hear an old friend might be a murderer.”

“‘
Might be,’” he repeated. “Does that
mean you’re not sure?”

“You’re damn right I’m not sure. And I don’t
like going around telling my suspicions to people when I don’t have
the facts to back them up.”

That mollified him, but only for a moment.
“She said she’d file charges if you show up again.”

“I don’t need to go back there anymore. I
have what I need to keep going.”

“Her picture?”

I nodded.

He shook his head. “I’m asking you, Jeff,
please drop this.”

“Why, because your friend’s got something to
hide and doesn’t want the truth to come out? Even if she didn’t do
it, she knows something about Walt’s death and isn’t telling.”

“Then what is it you think you know besides
Kaplan was in her office?”

I clamped my lips together and looked
away.

“Could it be you haven’t got
anything
but
a
hunch?”

“I’ve got more. Lots more.”

“Then why don’t you share it with the
cops?”

“I told you, I’m not ready yet.”

“Then why don’t you tell me?” He waited for
an answer. “No, you don’t want to talk to me, either. You’ve hardly
said a word to me in days. What’s going on?”

The frustration in his voice only cranked up
my feelings of guilt. Yet I refused to meet his gaze.

“I thought you counted me as not only your
brother, but your friend. Lately you’re cutting me out. Why? It
can’t be just because of Cyn.”

The fatigue I’d been denying for days
finally caught up with me, and I knew I wasn’t in any shape for a
battle. “I don’t mean to, it’s just that—” I shut my eyes and
exhaled, wishing I could be somewhere—anywhere—else. When I opened
them again, Richard was still staring at me, disappointment
shadowing his eyes.

“Look, Rich, you don’t approve of what I do,
be it getting a job or looking into Walt Kaplan’s death, or even
how I’m handling this situation with Maggie Brennan. I can’t do a
damn thing right in your eyes.”

“Don’t give me that shit. If you can’t be
honest with me, at least be honest with yourself.”

His words stung, but he was right. I wasn’t
telling the truth. I wasn’t capable of telling him what I really
felt. I trusted Richard more than anyone else on this Earth and
still I couldn’t level with him.

Richard was the first to look away. He
crossed the room to the dry bar across the way and poured himself a
neat scotch. I stood in the doorway, unable to move.

He took a sip and didn’t look back. “Go on,
take off. It’s what you do best.”

My memory flashed back to the day, eighteen
years before, when he’d driven me to the airport. Without his
knowledge, I’d enlisted in the Army. When, bags packed and needing
a ride, I finally told him, two hours before my flight, he’d been
hurt and angry. Really, really angry. By the time we stood together
in the airport’s departure lounge, he’d come to reluctant
acceptance.

“Thanks for . . .” After nearly
four unhappy years in the Alpert residence, I wasn’t sure what.
“Everything,” I’d mumbled.

I’d been shocked when he’d grabbed me in a
fierce hug. “I love you, kid,” he’d managed to croak in my ear.

I didn’t hug him back. I’d been embarrassed
beyond words.

When he let go, I’d clutched my carry-on and
bolted for the Jetway. Yet at the last second, I’d turned back to
see tears in his eyes. Guilt made me give him a perfunctory wave
before I charged ahead to escape what had become for me a very
painful exit.

I didn’t see Richard again for six years,
and even then hadn’t been able to let go of the bitterness.

Richard’s back was still to me. He raised
his glass to drink again and, true to form, I fled for the safety
of my room, feeling just as stupid and unworthy as I had all those
years ago.

* * *

I rang
the
buzzer and waited. Except for the dim light within, the bakery was
dark . . . as usual. Then, a bulky silhouette blotted out
a portion of light.

Sophie ambled forward and unlocked the heavy
plate glass door, her face creased with worry. “You don’t look
happy.”