Dead In Red (21 page)

Two newer envelopes had recently been
disturbed. I fished through them, all the same subject matter:
Walt, usually dressed in dark slacks and sports shirts, looking
shy, posing with a cadre of drag queens. Single shots, group shots,
and none of these pseudo-women were the same caliber as I’d seen at
Club Monticello the night before. From cheesy wigs and gaudy
blouses, to holes in their fishnet stockings, Walt’s “fancy women”
were losers, pathetic souls who hadn’t been able to cut it in the
straight world, and didn’t look like they were doing much better in
their chosen haven. The background décor was just as seedy. I’d
have to hit the less popular bars tonight to see if I recognized
any of them.

Shuffling through the pictures also gave me
a sense that Walt’s alliances with his so-called fancy women were
short lived. Tom had said that Walt wasn’t gay, but was that
something Walt was likely to reveal to his straight-laced cousin? I
pressed a photo of Walt and one of his fancy ladies against my
forehead and a stab of pain lanced through my skull, revulsion
flooding through me. Walt’s accident had left him impotent, but
that hadn’t been the end of his sex life.

Shoving the pictures back in the envelope, I
pushed it away from me, wishing I could get that image—and the
accompanying sensations—out of my thoughts.

Anxiety forced me to my feet to pace the
room, to walk off the tension and work up the courage to pick up
the last envelope. I hadn’t thought of myself as a homophobe before
this. Then again, accepting someone’s lifestyle on an intellectual
level and inadvertently experiencing it were two different things.
I thought of Maggie and the way our bodies had melded together a
couple of days before—how right it felt—and welcomed the returning
calm.

I felt okay by the time I’d shuffled through
the next set of photos. Same kind of stuff—the background
decorations changed from New Year’s to Valentine’s to St. Paddy’s
day. I turned the photos over. By the date imprinted on the back,
they must’ve been processed just days before Walt’s death. I hadn’t
seen a camera when poking around before and wondered if Walt had
used a disposable one. I counted the prints: twenty-four. Next I
withdrew the negatives. The strips were in four- or five-frame
segments. One of them had been lopped off, its slanted edge
different from the uniform cuts on the others.

So that was at least one thing Walt’s
visitor had come to retrieve.

Or did I have that wrong? First the cops had
gone through the apartment, then Tom. They had to have seen
whatever foot-fetish stuff he had on hand. Tom had later eradicated
it. But if the cops had seen these photos they would’ve done more
investigating into Walt’s background and wouldn’t have been so
eager to pin the murder on Buchanan.

So why would someone come in and plant the
photos? Being dead, Walt had no use for them. His family wouldn’t
want them. Why not just trash them?

The rest of the desk’s contents were of no
consequence and I eased the drawer shut. But I took the planted
envelope of photographs, along with Walt’s will, and locked up
behind me. I wouldn’t be returning.

* * *

At ten p.m.,
Lambrusco’s, a gay bar two blocks from Main Street, wasn’t
half as crowded or as flashy as Club Monticello. The cover charge
was half the price and even the smokers on the sidewalk had a
tired, used-up look to them.

Richard’s steak dinner had revived his
spirits and I was glad to have him along. We surveyed the poorly
lit barroom and the sparsely populated tables. The patrons were
also older than at their biggest competitor’s. The canned disco
music wasn’t cranked up as loud as at Club Monticello, so we didn’t
have to shout at one another either.

“Think they wash the glasses here?” Richard
muttered in my ear.

“Ask for a bottled beer.”

The bartender was not overworked and stood
watching an overweight couple jiggling out on the dance floor. I
ordered a couple of bottles of Canadian to placate Richard, and we
commandeered two stools at the bar.

“First time here?” the bartender asked. His
name tag read “Kevin.”

I nodded.

“Slumming?” he asked.

Richard eyed me, then tipped back his
beer.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked.

Kevin shrugged. “We don’t often get
newcomers. And tonight probably isn’t a good night to be here.”

I wrapped my right hand around my beer
bottle and soaked up feelings of unease the bartender had imparted.
My gaze went back to Kevin, but he wouldn’t look me in the eye. I
leaned closer to Richard. “Uh . . . I don’t want to alarm
you, but something’s going to go down. And pretty soon.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Drink up.”

He raised his bottle and took a swallow.

I turned my attention back to Kevin. “You
pretty familiar with the regulars?”

He nodded. “Know most of them on a
first-name basis. At least, the names they give me.”

I took out Cyn’s picture and one of Walt
with one of his fancy women, placed them on the bar. “Ever see any
of these people?”

Kevin squinted at the photos in the bad
light. He tapped one. “That’s Walt and Veronica. She was one of our
featured acts back in the winter. ’Fraid she’s moved on to bigger
and better venues.” He tapped Cyn’s picture. “This one came in a
few times with some queen I don’t know. Drinks Cosmopolitans.”

“Do you usually get straight women her age
come in here looking for a place to hang and not have to worry
about assholes trying to jump their bones?”

He shook his head. “This ain’t Club
Monticello where they encourage that kind of thing. She didn’t fit
in and—” he paused, sizing up Richard and me. “You don’t,
either.”

I swallowed some more beer. “What do you
know about Walt?”

“Nice guy. Shy. Made friends with lots of
the girls.”

“By girls you mean drag queens?”

Kevin shrugged, glanced at his watch.

“You see Walt lately?”

He shook his head. “Not for a couple of
weeks.”

“He leave with anyone special the last time
you saw him?”

“I wasn’t his babysitter.” Kevin looked at
his watch again. “You ought to drink up.”

Richard, who had only been half-listening,
tipped back his beer.

The uneasiness in my gut intensified. “We
gotta get outta here,” I said, pushing off my stool.

“What’s the hurry?” Richard asked,
proffering his half-drunk beer.

A commotion at the entrance made us look up.
Kevin ducked behind the bar. I grabbed Richard’s elbow, hauling him
off his stool. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

Six or seven menacing biker-wannabes blocked
the main entrance, pounding their studded, leather-gloved fists.
Bikers—like the one who’d tried to run me down in the ramp garage.
As one they charged forward, overturning tables, sending pitchers
and glasses flying, and delivering what sounded like Indian war
cries.

For a moment, the shocked patrons stood
stock still, unbelieving as the Bee Gees wailed “Stayin’ Alive.”
Then, like frightened birds, they scattered, heading for the sides
of the room and the emergency exits. I tried to hustle Richard out,
but his feet seemed glued to the floor.

One of the customers tripped and the
bullyboys converged, their booted feet finding a target.

“Hey!” Richard was off.

I stumbled after him. “Rich, no!”

Richard charged into the melee. He was at
least as tall if not taller than the bullies, but didn’t have their
bulk.

Fists flew, catching Richard off guard as he
stooped to help the guy on the floor.

Someone grabbed the back of my shirt, hauled
me off balance, tossed me against the bar. The ribs that had barely
stopped hurting screamed in protest and I sank to the floor,
winded.

Richard was in the middle of the fight now,
arms pumping as he took out one, then another of the bullies,
looking like something out of a cartoon.

Long seconds passed and still I couldn’t
breathe—couldn’t join in the fray.

Richard ducked one punch, but caught another
that sent him reeling.

The main lights flashed on and suddenly the
place was swarming with cops.

The bikers evaporated in the chaos.

My diaphragm finally relaxed enough for me
to take in short, painful breaths.

One of the cops grabbed Richard, hauling him
to his feet. “Hey!”

The cop shoved him against the bar and
handcuffed him.

Using a barstool, I hauled myself up,
realized none of the bikers had singled me out.

“You in on this?” The cop snarled at me.

Kevin was back. “No, he and this guy,” he
pointed at Richard, “tried to help out.”

The cop glowered at Richard. “What were you
doing fighting?”

“I was trying to save some guy from being
kicked. Then they went after me.”

“Oh.” Still, the cop didn’t hurry to release
Richard’s bracelets.

“It’s a hate crime,” Kevin said. “Bikers
picking on innocent gay people.”

My insides seethed. “Bullshit. Officer, this
guy,” I jerked a thumb at Kevin, “warned us we’d better leave. He
kept looking at his watch. He knew these bikers were coming to
disrupt the bar.”

The cop’s sharp gaze was riveted on the
bartender. “Go on,” he told me.

“Could be a scam—break up the place and
insurance pays for a quick facelift. Or maybe it’s been just a
little too quiet lately. A little notoriety might bring in
curiosity seekers who’d spend money. And by the way, are there any
motorcycles outside?” The cop didn’t answer, but I’d bet a week’s
tips there weren’t.

Still wrapped over the bar, Richard craned
his neck to speak to the officer. “You guys got here awful fast.
When did the call come through?”

Kevin kept quiet, his expression
defiant.

The officer’s glower could’ve blistered
paint. He stormed off to confer with the other cops. Kevin glared
daggers at me and slunk down the bar.

“You okay?” Richard asked.

I hitched in a breath and pressed a hand to
my side. “I’m back to square one with the ribs. How ’bout you?”

“I’m fine.” He struggled to straighten and I
gave him a hand. There was something different about him. Something
that had been missing from his eyes since the shooting three months
before.

“My God, you enjoyed it.”

Richard didn’t bother to try and hide his
delight. “Great, wasn’t it?”

I noted the growing red puffiness under his
left eye. “Brenda’s gonna kill us.”

# # #

CHAPTER 18

The phone rang way too early. I blinked
awake, grabbed it, hoping it hadn’t already awakened Richard and
Brenda. “What?”

“Jeff?

Long, aching seconds passed before the voice
registered. “Sam?”

“What’s this about you and your brother
being involved in a brawl at a gay bar last night?”

I closed my eyes and cringed.

“Hello?” Sam tried.

Squinting at my clock made me wince: 6:59
a.m. “How the hell did you hear about that?”

“Hey, I’m on top of everything that happens
in this city.”

“It was a setup, and don’t you goddamn quote
me. In fact, bury our names, willya?”

“My, we’re a bit testy this morning. You get
that setup angle from one of your . . . uh, pieces of
insight?”

“It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.”
I gave him the Cliff Notes version of our adventures the night
before.

“I got Kaplan’s autopsy report, as well as
photos. Pretty gruesome.”

“What about those electrical burns?”

“Poor guy was tortured before he was
stabbed. Had a couple of fingernails ripped off, as well.”

“Nasty.”

“Looks like he was sodomized, but there was
also scarring, so it wasn’t like this was the first time. You did
know that, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Okay, I hadn’t until the night
before, but he didn’t have to know that. “And the cops still think
it was Buchanan?”

“Not necessarily. The detective in charge
wants to make further inquiries, but his superiors figure they’ve
got an arrest and aren’t pushing. It’ll depend on what the DA says.
They’ve scheduled a meeting for next week.”

“Next week?” This whole situation would come
to a head well before that.

“Where you going next with this?” Sam
asked.

“My original suspect fizzled. But I might
have a line on someone else. I’ll keep you posted.”

“You do that.”

* * *

The mouse
under Richard’s eye was puffy and purple. Add a beard to his
mustache, give him a bandana and a gold earring, and he would’ve
looked like a pirate. Brenda hadn’t exactly forgiven me for
Richard’s new look—muttering something about ruined wedding
pictures—but she made me a hard-boiled egg and toast for breakfast
and served it without dumping it in my lap.

“So what’re we doing today?” Richard asked,
setting aside the sports section.

I swallowed a mouthful of toast. “I’m
working. Then later . . . I don’t know. All I’ve got is a
flash of insight from Cyn’s office. I know she didn’t kill Walt,
and it wasn’t Dana Watkins, the baker, or Ted Hanson, the miller,
either. That only leaves Gene Higgins. I don’t have a starting
place for him. He comes up clean on a Google search. No address.
He’s not in the phone book—probably only has a cell. I was thinking
of tailing him for a couple of days.”

“That’s
all
you have,” Brenda interrupted, shoving her
engagement-ringed finger under Richard’s nose. “A couple of days.
We’re getting married on Friday. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

Richard saluted her. “Yes, ma’am, but we’ll
have a much better time in Paris if we aren’t worrying about Jeff.”
He turned back to me, sounding like an excited kid. “We can use
Brenda’s car. They already know yours.”