Innuendo (14 page)

Looking up for a moment, Todd wondered about it all, how much of this was fact and how much was myth. Todd didn't doubt that Tim Chase's childhood was a mess, for that of course was the case with many, many actors, but Todd couldn't help but look at a number of the purported facts with an air of skepticism. Had his father really been speeding home to be with his boys for the Fourth, or had he simply been returning from an arduous week on the road? And what about the mother, was she a drinker before her husband's death and was that what kept him away? How long did she work in the shoe store, a week? A year? And Tim's grades, why were they so poor? Sure, he easily could have been exhausted from working so much, but he could also simply have been tormented by same-sex feelings. Perhaps he was sleeping around with every boy in the neighborhood.

Homosexuality. Who knew if you were born bent, if you were made, or if it was a cocktail of the two, but Todd could definitely see a queer thread running through even these light biographies. There was the struggle over his parents, one who failed him by dying, the other who overshadowed his life simply by abdicating her parental role. Then there was Tim's overwhelming sense of responsibility, if that was actually true, which Todd tended not to doubt. Yes, and several of the bios told of Tim's poor sense of self-worth, that it had been and always would be his Achilles’ heel. And what about that trip to Los Angeles? Who was that friend? A fuck buddy? Quite easily, Todd thought, Tim Chase could have thrown his cares to the wind for the first time in his life and followed the first big love of his life, some guy, to California.

Or was Todd wrong about that? He definitely saw something familiar there, something that Tim Chase and he both had in common, and realized it could just as easily be alcoholism in the family as well as homosexuality. Todd's own father, who'd emigrated from Poland just after World War II, had never found his place in America—except in vodka. For Todd it had meant that at a very early age he was more responsible than his father. He'd known, just by the glint of moisture in the corner of his father's eyes, when he'd had his first drink of the day. He'd known when not to argue, because, of course, it was futile as well as dangerous, for his father would whip him with his belt at the slightest of provocations. And he'd known when the old man had drunk too much and it wasn't safe to drive with him.

Todd had never known, however, how to earn his father's approval. No matter how hard Todd had tried, no matter how polite, nor how good his grades, he'd never won his father's praise. Todd assumed it was he, the son, who was doing something wrong, and that, naturally, that something was his sexuality. As long as his father was alive, Todd had lived in fear that his father would find out his boy was gay, and Todd had done everything and anything possible, including getting married, to prevent that from happening. In an odd but real way Todd came to believe that if he was good enough his father would stop drinking, but that never happened, of course, because Todd did the one thing good little boys never did, he had sex with other little boys.

Projecting his own needs and fears on Tim Chase, Todd was surprised to feel something he hadn't previously felt for the superstar— sympathy. Earlier, when Tim Chase was more abstract than simply tonight's date, Todd had been obsessed with the Marcia story. But, now, well… Shit, what was he going to say to Marcia when they next talked? Oh, say, Marcia, I almost forgot to tell you—I had a glass of wine with Tim Chase. Oh, he's cute. But, oops, sorry, I forgot to ask him who he slept with.

Reading on, there were several pieces about Tim's deep interest in horses, his recent purchase of a Montana ranch, and how he was often sighted at rodeos sporting cowboy boots and hat. Next came a slew of articles analyzing Chase's films, or more to the point, his acting ability. Many slammed him for his one-note acting, known more for its intensity than its finesse, the fury in his voice that brought attention rather than art onto the screen. Many others sighted his all-American good looks—that dazzling smile, the quick laugh, those charming eyes—as the overriding and perhaps singular reason for his success. That he was gorgeous no one denied. Nor did anyone deny that that was what had launched his career.

His films were many, particularly for someone so young, and they had earned fabulous sums of money, ranking as some of the largest-grossing movies in history. There was the hit he'd done about a hunk baseball player, another box office smash where he'd played opposite Robert Redford. Then he'd costarred with Tom Cruise in a Civil War epic. Next a popular comedy opposite Julia Roberts. That was followed by another sports flick, which had done only so-so. Todd read all the reviews, right up to the spy thriller that Chase had starred in with John Vox, the very guy who'd started Todd's snooping by blabbing to Marcia about the Tim Chase boyfriend.

So did it all seem possible? Could Tim Chase really be gay? In a way, no, at least not the way his propaganda machine had construed his life. But in another way, absolutely so. Todd could see the hints, the subtle shading. And what reason, after all, would John Vox have to lie about his friend Tim Chase?

Coming to the supermarket tabloid story, Todd read it all over again. He'd gotten this copy from Lexis-Nexis, which was reproduced in simple text, so it didn't have all the flair of headlines and photos. It was all there, however, beginning with the ball-buster headline, “Mean Queen Chase Denies 7 Year Gay Romance & Buries Boyfriend in Poverty.” The story went on to tell about how Tim Chase met Rob Scott, a handsome blond, at a bar in L.A. The two had quickly become passionate lovers, the tabloid claimed, with Chase buying a condo and just about everything else for Scott. More important, they were the toast of parties all over Hollywood, wined and dined by the likes of David Geffen, who was gay, and Michael Eisner, who was straight. The affair continued even as Chase married the beautiful actress Gwen Owens, and the two had a child. But then there was a horrible spat, and Chase kicked Rob Scott out of his life, more specifically out of the condo and onto the street without so much as a dime. Furthermore, the writer claimed there was a vast conspiracy of silence, proven by the fact that no actors or Los Angeles journalists, who knew the truth of this story, would comment. Almost immediately Tim Chase, Inc., went on the offensive, claiming that
The National Times,
which had a huge national circulation, had paid Rob Scott, who was destitute, $100,000 for a story that was completely fictitious. A lawsuit against the tabloid soon followed, which Tim Chase eventually won to the tune of $8.5 million and which his extraordinarily powerful people claimed “clearly vindicated Chase's sexuality.”

His head spinning with innuendo and information, Todd flipped through the last of the articles in the file. Most recently Tim Chase had been on the cover of
Newsweek
complaining about the lack of privacy suffered by stars. More to the point, they each had harrowing tales of the paparazzi, those nasty little photographers who were hiding everywhere to snap the juiciest of pictures. Todd didn't doubt it in the least, but was Chase just irritated, finding the photographers a mettlesome intrusion, or was he living in terror that one day they'd catch him with a guy?

Todd gathered the articles, laid them back in the manila file, and sat there. Nine tonight, huh? Unable to imagine what it would be like, he was sure of only one thing: at least the wine would be good.

It was almost ten
by the time Rawlins was able to get away from his desk. He wasn't totally convinced, of course, that he needed to go, at least today, for more than likely the tip wouldn't pan out. That was what this job was all about, however, going down every little path and checking around every single corner. Ninety percent of his job was monotonous footwork, most of which proved to be worthless, but it was the small details that he discovered here and there that eventually added up. And that's how you built a case, piece by piece by piece. More than once he'd staked out a suspect's house and sat there for hour after hour, day after day, only to discover something of critical importance just as he was about to give up.

So exactly what had the anonymous caller seen last night down at Lake Harriet? A man perhaps discarding some token of love after a fight with his girlfriend? Or a killer hurling a murder weapon into the dark waters?

Heading south on the freeway from downtown, Rawlins took 46th Street over to the lake, then skirted the eastern shore of the round body of water. Passing the huge houses, each one larger than the last and perched on the ridge overlooking it all, he followed the parkway, which eventually led down to the water on his left and, of course, the Rose Gardens on his right. He glanced at the expansive gardens, a large, rectangular space with a broad path down the middle, and knew that all the fragile plants therein would soon be buried beneath a couple of feet of straw and leaves to protect them from the winter freeze that was destined to come this way. No, Minnesota was not kind to roses.

Looking farther ahead he saw the large stand of woods that bled into the trees of the bird sanctuary. Of course that was the place. And of course he knew what went on there. Hidden by the depth of the night and the density of the trees and bushes, men met with men to get what they could get no other place, a touch, a kiss, a blow job, a hand job. And sometimes more, all with no strings attached. Rawlins had always believed that an inordinate share of men who frequented places like these—the banks of the Mississippi, the second floor men's room in the department store downtown, the basement men's room out at one of the malls—were simply closet cases. While a great many of these men were openly gay guys who liked sex—and a lot of it—an equal amount were either married men or others who masqueraded as straight.

Rawlins drove just past the Rose Gardens, parked, and got out, thinking how odd straight people were, or more specifically how odd it was that they confided so much of their sex lives to their gay friends. Did straights assume that gays thought about nothing but sex and would therefore be only too glad to hear of their endless sexploits? Or were straight people that uptight, that repressed, that they couldn't talk about sex among themselves? For whatever reason, more straight people than he could ever have imagined, men as well as women, had told Rawlins how often they had sex, if they'd ever had a homosexual experience, what position they liked best, with whom they'd had an affair, their penis size, what made them come, and so on. Usually once straight people got going, it just came flowing out of them, frequently punctuated by comments like “God, I've never told anyone this before” or “I can't believe I'm blurting all this out” and always “Please, don't you dare tell anyone, but…”

All this came rushing to Rawlins's mind, of course, because of Joe Younger, an old high school pal who had three kids, one boy and two identical girls. And these woods across from the Rose Gardens were Joe's. Once a month, perhaps more, he came down here to cruise. Joe had spilled the beans a couple of years ago, calling Rawlins out of the blue and inviting him out for a beer. And what Rawlins had expected to be an evening of awkward conversation—they really didn't have much in common—somehow turned out to be a night of Joe's confession. He loved his wife. He loved sex with her. But they only had sex once every month or two. He couldn't take it, needed it more. And here in these woods he had found it aplenty. Rawlins listened to it all, how Joe said he wasn't attracted to any women besides his wife, how he thought he had too much testosterone coursing through his veins, and wondered with a laugh if he shouldn't just get his nuts chopped off.

“I mean, I've tried, but I just can't stop coming down here,” Joe had blurted over his beer.

None of this, of course, Joe had even hinted to his devoted wife, who, by the by, happened to be a workaholic. Hearing that, Rawlins surmised that Joe's purposely busy wife not only sensed her husband was a closet queen, but was in as much denial as he. And Rawlins felt nothing but an overwhelming sense of pity for this family, a wife who was being used for the socially accepted facade she provided and maintained, and a man whose integrity was as abject as it was bankrupt.

So, Joe, were you down here last night as well?

Rawlins looked in the woods, saw a few paths beaten down, and supposed that if worse came to worst he could try giving Joe a call. Maybe, if by chance he'd been down here just last night, he'd seen something as well. If he hadn't then perhaps he knew someone who had, although whether or not he knew anyone by name was one question, and whether he'd release such guarded information was altogether another. Getting someone to talk would be even still more complicated.

Studying the large trees at the edge of the woods, Rawlins guessed that the tip caller had been standing right in that area. And actually, Rawlins thought, as he rotated slightly, the bald man the tipster had spied had probably parked his Saab, the white one with the black convertible top, over there, just about in the same place where Rawlins's silver Taurus was now parked. Perhaps the tipster had seen the other man pull over, then watched him get out, hoping he was headed for these illicit woods. And then the tipster, hidden by a tree, had watched the bald one cross to the lake, stand there, and heave something shiny far out into the waters. Yes, and right there by the pedestrian path was the garbage can the caller had referred to as well.

Surely, thought Rawlins, now crossing the street, it must have gone something like that. That is, unless, of course, the tip caller was not calling to report something he'd actually seen, but done himself. And that was a very real possibility It was not uncommon for the killers themselves to call in with the best tips of where to find the bodies, just as it was not uncommon for a killer to get the game afoot: Go on, you idiots, catch me if you can.