Innuendo (29 page)

Watching his report from in front of the Domain of Queers, Todd realized that he was lax in following up on that. He needed to do a little digging around there. There might or might not be enough material to do a story on the DQ and Andrew Lyman, but in any case he needed to get his butt back over there and talk to some of the kids, most notably Jordy Weaver. Then again, even if he could track down Jordy, did Todd even want to hear what the young man had to say about Andrew and Rawlins? Could there possibly be anything left to say? And how relevant could that be to Andrew's murder, anyway? Hardly, thought Todd. Rawlins might have slept with him, which would have been stupid enough, but Rawlins was no murderer, of that Todd was positive. With all that in mind, however, how much did Rawlins really know about what happened to Andrew?

No wonder, thought Todd, ejecting that tape and moving on to the next, Todd was having trouble focusing on this. There was just too much crap to deal with, or to be more exact, too much crap he didn't want to deal with. Perhaps… perhaps the best thing at this point would be to really have it out with Rawlins, to level with him and tell him exactly what Jordy had said.

As the last of the footage came up, the monitor filled with the image of Lake Harriet and the divers and lone boat of the Hennepin County Sheriff. Todd and Bradley had arrived almost too late to get anything, but Bradley had managed to get some shots of the divers as they climbed back in the boat and then headed for the small pier by the band shell. Needing more for his report, Todd had asked the photographer to get as much other footage as possible, and Todd now watched this complete, unedited tape. Yes, there was the police and their cars, including that of the Hennepin County Sheriff. And, yes, there was Rawlins standing there on the beach and looking pensive. Quite so, actually

Hitting the pause button, Todd stared at the frozen image of Rawlins. What was going through his mind right then? Why did he look so very concerned, so very distraught? Todd knew Rawlins took his work with the utmost seriousness, but was he this involved in all his cases? Shaking his head, Todd felt himself wondering exactly what had happened between Andrew and Rawlins, and exactly how long it, whatever “it” was, had been going on. There couldn't have been any kind of emotional attachment, at least not a deep one, could there have been? What about all those times that Rawlins had told Todd those three—“I love you”—magical words? If there'd been any kind of silver lining to Rawlins's health crisis it had been both his and Todd's distinct appreciation not only for the meaning of life, but the meaning and appreciation of their relationship. Or so Todd had thought.

Knowing he had to move on and pull something together, Todd let the tape roll on and watched the remainder of Bradley's footage, which primarily consisted of gawkers. He watched as Bradley's camera focused on two young blond moms as they stopped with their strollers, shook their heads and rolled on. Next there was a bicyclist who paused and stared. And then Todd watched as two older women stood there pointing and gabbing, obviously trying to decide what was what and if the world had truly gone to hell in a handbasket. Standing next to them were two younger men, one with a German shepherd, who seemed to be listening to the women's conversation, and a youngish man in sunglasses and a jeans jacket who obviously realized he was being photographed and quickly turned away. The two women, true Minnesotans, just stood there, blabbing and speculating. If only Bradley had gotten the audio—now that would have been perfect. But this would do quite well.

Todd reversed the tape, then froze it. Yes, the guy standing there with his dog, the other turning away in perhaps disgust, and the two women standing in their fashionable jogging suits, hands raised, mouths open, exemplified it all, both the public's disgust and the public's fascination with the crimes eating at this world.

This, thought Todd, would be his opening image for his piece on tonight's news. He would begin here with the curiosity and then conclude with the facts at the serology lab on University Avenue in St. Paul.

Through the glass walls of the edit bay, he suddenly saw one of their interns, Scott, rushing down the dark, narrow hall. A handsome kid with brown hair and lots of energy, he waved to Todd and tapped once on the glass door.

“What's up?” asked Todd, cracking the door.

“You got a page from the front desk—they said it was a phone call. I knew you were down here, so…”

“Thanks.”

A page meant one of two things, either it was someone too important to be dumped into voice mail, or someone too insistent. Wondering just who it was—Rawlins?—Todd rolled his chair over to the phone and called the front desk.

“One moment, Mr. Mills,” said Renee, the receptionist, “and I'll connect you.”

There was a pause and a click, and a moment later Todd said, “Hello, this is Todd Mills.”

“Oh, hi,” said a deep, gruff voice. “I, ah…ah…I need to talk to you.”

Everybody had a story. And everybody wanted their story on TV. So while Todd assumed it was one of those—someone trying to get his fifteen minutes of fame—and was tempted to slough it off, he knew better.

“Who's calling, please?”

“Sure. It's me, John Lyman.”

Almost nothing could have changed things more, and in a snap the guy had Todd's full attention. Oh, shit, wondered Todd, was it really him?

“Andrew's father?”

There was a long pause and a deep sigh before the caller said, “Yeah.”

Todd ran his left hand through his hair and tried not to betray his surprise, at least not audibly. Either this guy, whom he'd never met, was calling with information regarding his son, or he was calling to yell at Todd, which, unfortunately, was the far more likely of the two. It flashed through Todd's mind: he's pissed as hell at what I've said on the air about Andrew's murder.

Bracing himself for the expected lashing, which, unfortunately, was all too common—if you got one detail wrong, people went ballistic—Todd said, “What can I do for you?”

“Listen, I need to talk with you. There's something… well, I guess, there's something I… I need to tell you, something I need to tell… tell someone.” He paused, then muttered simply, “Oh, Lord.”

Sensing something much different than anger—defeat?—Todd leaned forward and concentrated on his callers every word. “Go ahead, I'm listening.”

“Well, actually, it's not something I can talk about right now. Not on the phone, anyways.”

“Do you want to meet? I'd be happy to get together.”

“Yeah, that'd be okay.”

“Just tell me when and where.”

“Okay ah… well, I'm coming to The Cities this afternoon. I have to go to the fairgrounds over in Saint Paul. I left a saddle up there during the fair. Can you meet me in the horse barn, say around five?”

“Sure, five in the horse barn,” replied Todd, wondering what in the hell he was getting himself into.

“Go in the door right across from the cattle barn, it'll be open.”

“I'll be there.”

Tim Chase sat at
the dinette table in his trailer, his elbows on the table, his head bowed against his hands, which were clenched in tight fists. Was this the disaster that he had been fearing all these years? Was his world, which had been so carefully crafted, about to collapse in a heap of rubbish?

There was a light knock on the aluminum door, and a small voice said, “Five minutes.”

Chase half turned, and shouted, “Fuck off!”

The minion, one of the many that lurked in the coattails of his fame, scurried away.

He didn't care what the director insisted on. He didn't care what scene it was or how much he was needed. He didn't give a shit how much each minute of shooting was costing, he couldn't do it. They could just fucking well wait. Oh, shit. He just couldn't go out there and pretend everything was fine when actually everything was completely screwed up. There was no way in hell he was in the mood to act, no way in hell he could get into the mind of another.

There was another knock, this one heavier, and a deep voice that said, “It's me, Vic.”

“Yeah.”

Not moving, not lifting his head in the least, Chase listened as his bodyguard opened the door and stepped into the trailer, which moved slightly under his weight. Chase wanted to kill this guy, he wanted to chop off his head right here and now. And he probably should.

Chase waited a long moment before, in a low, even voice, saying, “I didn't see the local news last night, Vic. I mean, I really didn't have much reason to watch it. How about you? Did you catch it?”

“No, sir.”

“And I really didn't have much reason to read the local newspaper this morning. Even though I was up awfully early I did read the first section of
The New York Times.
Oh, and during makeup I glanced at
Variety,
just sort of skimmed through it. But you know, I'm only here for a little while and I'm kind of busy, so why would I read the local paper, right? Am I right?”

“Correct, but—”

“Shut the fuck up, you moron!” said Chase, slamming his right fist on the dinette table, which sent a powerful rattle rippling through the entire trailer. “Can you imagine my surprise when just a half hour ago I'm eating my turkey sandwich in the canteen and I glance over at the local paper and there's a big article about a knife found in some fucking lake? There's even a picture of the sheriff's divers fishing it out. Someone called it in, apparently. A tip. And now they're looking at it as a potential murder weapon for that kid. Shocking, wouldn't you say?”

“I read the piece.”

“Oh, you did, did you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And let me guess, that was the knife, right? I mean, as soon as I read about it I just had this hunch. That was it, wasn't it?”

“Yes, sir.”

With fey curiosity, Tim looked at him with a shrug. “So what'd you think, Vic? No prob? No big deal?”

“I can explain.”

“Bullshit you can explain! There's nothing to explain—you fucked up everything!” He jumped to his feet, looked at the stupid oaf, then turned and leaned against the cheap kitchen counter. “God, you're a moron! A big, fucking dumb moron! I told you to take it out of my car and get rid of it. I told—”

“I went down there and—”

“Shut up before I fire you! And don't you dare interrupt me again!”

Trying not to panic, Chase told himself to just calm down, to keep a grip on things. But how could he when his arch-nemesis, the media, was dancing at the gates? God, all they had to do was get a hold of this one and the world would be screaming for his head. He'd spent so much time worrying, fearing the day when the truth got out. He was the prince of sex and money and power, and any and every Joe Schmoe reporter in the world would love to crucify him on this one.

“I told you to throw it away where no one would ever find it, and the next thing I know it's on the front page of the Minneapolis paper. What are you trying to do, ruin me completely? What the fuck did you do, just go down to that lake, park your car, and throw it in the water?”

Vic jammed his hands into his pockets and turned away. “I took every precaution.”

“Precaution?
Precaution?
Jesus Christ, why didn't you just point the cops in my direction? Do you know what this means? Do you have any idea what kind of trouble this could be?”

“I was sure no one saw me.”

“But someone did, right? Someone saw you throw that knife into the lake—which means they can probably identify you too.” Chase leaned back and pulled at his hair, and as calmly as a madman, said, “What about my Land Rover? Did you get it cleaned like I asked?”

“Yes, I did that yesterday while you were here on the set.”

“And tell me what they said down at the car wash. Any of the guys say anything about that little red puddle in the back? Anyone say, Gee, Mr. Vic, is this blood back here? Anyone say that, did they, huh?”

“No, sir. I washed it before I went down there.”

“Oh, did you?”

“I can assure you that no one's going to find out, that no one's going to be able to trace it back to you.”

“Right.”

But if they do, thought Tim, glaring at this idiot, I'm going to deny everything. I'm going to say I never met that kid and that I know nothing about the knife. After all, who would they believe, Tim Chase or some glorified bouncer with a criminal record? Exactly. All they had to do was learn about Vic's past and all suspicion would get dumped upon him.

“You know, I should just fire you now. For starters, I'm not going to take the fall for this, I'm just not. Second of all, the guys back in Hollywood won't let me go down—I'm just worth too much to them.”

“As I said, I'm sorry”

“A heartfelt apology—isn't that sweet? I am so, like, touched, ya know?” Chase shook his head in disgust. “Why are there so many morons in the world? And why do they all work for me?”

“I'm sure I don't know.”

“Well, you pull one more stunt like this and you'll be working as a bouncer at the scuzziest gay bar in the world, I guarantee you that. I'm paying you a fucking fortune to get me exactly what I like and what I want and to make sure there's no way in hell anyone finds out. One more screwup and you're out. Clear?”