Innuendo (26 page)

So where had he gone, and where was he now?

It was not a question of dark jealousy, not even one of bitter curiosity, but merely a point in need of simple clarification. That was the lie. His lie. And she'd chosen to ignore it, turned away, pretending not to see something that was lying right before her. Why had she thought to never question him? Because she was afraid of the answer? John, her husband of almost twenty years, hadn't gone with her today to identify the body of their murdered son, and he wasn't home tonight when she was drowning and needed him more than ever. And suddenly it all made sense. All those stupid stories. Martha, I'm going to go look at a small feedlot this morning, I think it might be a great investment, but, don't worry, I should be back by dinner. Sweetheart, there's a tractor I'm thinking about buying, don't hold lunch. Honey, I'm going to play some poker with the guys, don't you wait up on me, okay? At least once or twice a month something like that came up, and not once had she ever doubted him. You fool, she told herself. You absolute fool.

So who was she?

The following morning Todd
still wasn't sure who he should be more flipped out about, his lover, Steve Rawlins, or film sensation Tim Chase. Sitting at his desk in his small office at WLAK, he sipped a cup of coffee and stared at the list of e-mail on his computer screen. Presuming that he'd be assigned a follow-up piece on the Lyman murder for tonight's six o'clock, he had a pile of work. All of that, however, seemed oddly remote and definitely not of interest.

Todd hadn't been simply glad that Rawlins had chosen not to stay at the condo last night, he'd been relieved. Coming home, Todd had checked his answering machine, finding just a single message from Rawlins saying not to expect him tonight. While that could have meant that he'd be working late on the Lyman murder, Todd didn't take it as such. Yes, for more than one reason they needed a breather, and apparently both of them knew that.

So was Tim Chase gay or wasn't he? And had he or hadn't he been hitting on Todd?

The way straight men reacted around gay men varied in a most predictable way. Though by no means a majority, there were straights who were entirely comfortable and cool with it, guys who weren't the least bit threatened by the presence of homosexuals. Not only were they the most secure in their sexuality, they were also the straightest. Simply, it was a non-issue, primarily because they instinctively knew that territory was one where they'd never travel. On the other hand, there were men, a great many actually, who just couldn't handle it, who felt deeply threatened. At a mixed party, they tended to steer clear of gays, cling to their wives, or just get obnoxiously fidgety, as if they might be attacked and raped by a queer at any moment. This second group, Todd believed, tended to be composed of guys who'd done it once with another guy, usually as kids, and they were still deeply ashamed and terrified about what it meant, when all it really did mean was that they'd been trying to understand how their bodies worked. There was, after all, nothing much weirder than a penis, this thing that grew into a hunk of rock-hard salami in the heat of the moment, then shrank into a piece of limp macaroni when, say, swimming in Lake Superior. It was this second bunch, those who were the most threatened, that Todd had always found the most obnoxious, guys that used homophobia as a means of defending their heterosexuality Didn't they realize that there was nothing less appealing to a gay man than another who sported his sexuality as comfortably as a nerd wearing Jockeys that were four sizes too small?

And then… then there were straight men who enjoyed the company of gay men. Perhaps they were among the lucky few who saw sexuality as not a binary thing, not an either/or, straight or gay kind of fixed deal, but something much more fluid. Maybe they enjoyed the broader interests of gays, interests that ran the gamut from the traditional male territories of baseball, football, and grilling all the way to cooking, gardening, and opera. Or maybe they just enjoyed the flirt, being admired, even sought after.

So in which group did Tim Chase belong? Any of the above? Or none?

No, thought Todd, if Chase was straight, he definitely belonged to the latter group. That guy was a flirt, a tease. Or was that not it at all? Perhaps he was merely a master at making not simply everyone and anyone like him, but love and desire him. Perhaps the sexual chemistry he put out was the true secret of his charm and broad appeal.

But those hands—so strong. Those hips—so lean. And the face— so gorgeous. His heart even now charging with lusty excitement, Todd recalled looking into Tim Chase's eyes and how the gaze had stayed steady and deep for that all-telling split second too long. Todd s gaydar warning had gone off major league, wailing as loud as a Berlin air raid siren. Oh, brother, if that guy wasn't gay then… then…

But what about Gwen Owens? Did she know? Was it just something she tolerated, a dally she put up with as dutifully as a president's first lady? If her husband was indeed gay, though, Gwen had to know. It could be no other way. She certainly wasn't that dumb, nor were her own handlers, who were certainly crafting her career every bit as carefully and masterfully as her husband's. But why would one of the most beautiful, most successful actresses in the world put up with it? Why would she play his beard, unless of course he was playing hers as well? Could theirs be a match made only in Hollywood?

Like an obsessed courtier—had Chase really been rehearsing or had he been in the early steps of seducing Todd?—Todd had to know everything. Not just the box office deals, the star parties, and the lavish banquets and homes and cars and yachts and horses. No, Todd had to know all the dirt, which pretty much boiled it down to one thing, the only scandal to publicly break through the perfect veneer of Tim Chase, Inc.

Forgetting all about Rawlins and the murder of the young man, Todd turned to his briefcase and pulled out the thick manila folder containing the stack of articles he'd collected on Tim Chase. Flipping through them, he paused at one of the bios which not only made extensive mention of his mother, but used her full name. God, thought Todd, wouldn't he love to talk to her? Wouldn't he love to hear what she had to say about her son, Mr. Wonderful? But how in the world would he get her phone number? It just might be buried somewhere in the layers of information of Lexis-Nexis, but that was doubtful. He could try one of the other search engines. Or he might ask Rawlins if he'd check the National Crime Information Computer, though Rawlins, Mr. Ethical, sure as hell wouldn't do anything like use the NCIC to dig up any dirt for someone in the media.

Skipping the mother as a bad idea, Todd continued through the stack. There were a few articles from the
Los Angeles Times,
an interesting profile of the moneyed star in
The Wall Street Journal,
a couple of more articles from some smaller regional papers. And then the bombshell article from the supermarket tabloid
The National Times,
with the searing headline, “Mean Queen Chase Denies 7 Year Gay Romance & Buries Boyfriend in Poverty.” Not even trying to stop himself, Todd tore through the piece, reading all over again about the supposed romance between Tim Chase and the handsome blond Rob Scott. In searing judgmental prose, the journalist described their great love, which had begun before his marriage to actress Gwen Owens and then continued right on until, for some unknown reason, everything exploded in a ball of fury. Apparently Chase, otherwise known for his even temper and kind disposition, totally lost it. One neighbor claimed he heard Chase screaming at Scott, another claimed the police were called, and a nurse from a nearby hospital said she treated Rob Scott for bruises to his mouth and left eye on that very day. The writer went on to detail how the following day Chase's bodyguards, under the direct instructions of Tim Chase himself, had then kicked Rob Scott out of the condo the star had bought as their little love nest, allowing Scott to take no more than a single suitcase of clothing.

What a bitch, thought Todd. If this was really true, then the tabloid was certainly right, Tim Chase was in fact a mean fucking queen. But what had happened? If this was all true, what had ignited the situation, what had caused the alleged love affair to blow up? And if Rob Scott had really been Tim Chase's lover, what had Scott been trying to do by selling the story to
The National Times
for one hundred grand—simply make a pile of money or get revenge? Or both?

Todd wanted to see pictures, none of which was here of course because he'd pulled virtually all of these articles in this folder from Lexis-Nexis, which reprinted articles only in simple text. There were no telltale graphics, no sizzling snapshots, yet Todd wanted to see visual proof. Famous for its paparazzi-style photographs,
The National Times
—or
The National Dirt,
as it was so often called—was sure to have printed some doozies. And flipping to one of the last articles, which another paper had done as a follow-up to the lawsuit Chase had brought against
The National Times,
Todd saw that mention was even made of scandalous photos of the actor in the arms of another man. Chase's lawyers had been furious over this, claiming that the pictures were nothing but fakes, images that had been doctored on a computer.

“Go on the Net,” the star's lawyer had fumed. “See what's out there. Look at some of that porn and you'll see what they can do, moving body parts this way and that. This is no different. This is just some sicko's wishful thinking. We're going to win this case, and we're going to win big. You'll see, my client will be vindicated.”

However, the journalist who had written the original story, Maria Glore, stuck by it all, ranting at one point about the vast conspiracy of silence from, in particular, the Los Angeles media.

“They won't comment even though what I've written is the truth—and they know it too,” Glore had heatedly said. “What it boils down to is that they're not only afraid of the major studios, they're also terrified of being blacklisted by the Hollywood public relations firms.”

But in the end, after a short trial, Chase was, in fact, “vindicated” to the tune of over eight million dollars, which of course the star needed about as much as a hole in the head.

Todd turned to the last article, again a follow-up to the lawsuit, that
People
magazine ran as their cover story. The gist was that, yes, it's been proven now. Tim's our guy, he's straight and in love, a wonderful actor, a smashing husband, an adoring father. America is safe. He's vanquished over evil. He's our prince.

It kind of made Todd's stomach turn. It just felt too forced, too contrived, like the Christmas all of us dreamed of but never had. Yes, as a culture we wanted and needed someone like Tim Chase, whose image, albeit secretly manufactured, embodied so much of what we wanted for ourselves as well as for our country.

Knowing his next step, Todd picked up the phone and dialed information for New York City. He didn't know why, but he assumed, and correctly so, that
The National Times
was located right in the heart of it all, Manhattan. Moments later he had their number, which he dialed.

“Good morning,
The National Times,
” said a hurried operator who sounded as if she'd drunk a few too many pots of coffee.

“Maria Glore, please,” requested Todd.

“Maria Glore… Maria Glore… hmmm,” she said as she obviously typed the name into a computer. “Listen, I'm sorry, I'm checking but there's no one here by that name. Nope, sorry, no one.”

“She's one of your journalists.”

“Well, I'm sorry, doll, but I'm checking and I don't show anyone listed by the name of G-L-O-R-E.”

So obviously she was long gone or was a freelancer. Either was a distinct possibility.

“Then could I speak to someone in your editorial department?”

“Like who? We got lots of people in editorial.”

At first he drew a blank, and then Todd blurted, “How about the senior editor?”

“That'll be your Suzanne Levine. One moment and I'll—”

She spoke and worked so quickly that she unknowingly cut herself off. Nevertheless, seconds later there was a long ring, followed by a second, which made Todd think that he'd fallen into the netherworld of voice mail. Much to his relief, someone picked up after the third ring.

“Suzanne Levine.”

“Hi,” began Todd, realizing he didn't have any kind of ruse prepared, as was so often needed when trying to hunt someone down. “I'm looking for one of your journalists, a writer by the name of Maria Glore.”

“Oh, Maria,” she said, more than a trace of sadness creeping into her voice. “I'm sorry, she doesn't work here anymore.”

So had she burned out on tabloid reporting and quit or had she been fired? Todd was willing to bet on the second, that management had been willing to stand behind one of their writers only to a certain point, which definitely hadn't been up to $8.5 million.

“Do you have any idea how I could find her?” asked Todd.

“No, I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to give out any information.”

“I see…” All the different stories he could say whizzed through his mind, such as telling her he wanted her to do a story for his magazine to claiming he was an old college pal, but he opted for the simple truth. “I just want to ask her a couple of questions. I work for WLAK-TV in Minneapolis, and—”

“Minneapolis? Are you calling from out there? Wow, I'm from St. Paul, from Highland Park, actually.”

Bingo, thought Todd with a confident grin. The Minnesota Mafia. There was hardly anything or anyone more reliable. Maybe it was the cold, perhaps it was the common experience of the extreme winter that was the great equalizer.