Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) (12 page)

Kenneth Hitchcock was in Ward 6. The floor duty nurse told him where it was. Six beds, three on a side, each one outfitted with privacy curtains. The curtain was partially open at the one on the left, nearest the door; inside, Joshua sat in a chair drawn up close to the bed, holding the hand of the man who lay there. He clung to it even more tightly when he saw Runyon; his face shaped into one of his defiant looks. Runyon acknowledged him with a nod, shifted his gaze to Kenneth Hitchcock.

Well set up, dark, long hair, and a brushy mustache. Handsome, ordinarily, in an actorish way, but not now. Left arm in a sling, upper body swathed in bandages to hold his cracked ribs in place, right side of his face bandaged, the other side tallowish and raddled with lemon- and raspberry-hued bruises. He was awake, his eyes open and reflecting pain. Joshua had said on the phone that his condition had been upgraded to fair, that he’d be
all right barring infection or a resumption of internal bleeding.

“Kenny,” Joshua said, “this is Jake Runyon.” Not “my father,” just the name. As if he were introducing a stranger.

“Hello.” Weak voice, ghost of a smile. “Pardon me if I don’t shake hands.”

“My son tells me you’re feeling better.”

“Might live. Wasn’t so sure there for a while.”

“You’ll be fine,” Joshua said. Then again, as though trying to convince himself, “You’ll be fine.”

Runyon said to him, “I’d like to talk to Kenneth alone.”

“Alone? Why?”

“Indulge me. It won’t take long.”

“I don’t know . . . Kenny?”

“It’s okay. See if you can get me some bottled water, will you? I’m thirsty, and the tap water here tastes like piss.”

“All right, love.”

The term of endearment was for Runyon’s benefit—looking right at him as he said it. Another attempt at defiance. Runyon ignored it. How long before Joshua learned, if he ever learned, that his sexual orientation meant nothing to his father? Family mattered, blood mattered. Gay didn’t matter at all.

Joshua went away without looking at him. Runyon pulled the chair back a foot or so, sat down. Midnight-blue eyes, dull with pain, watched and measured him. What Kenneth thought of him, if anything, didn’t register on his battered face.

“I can’t tell you much,” he said. “Don’t remember much. Doctors say that’s typical in trauma cases.”

Runyon said, “Two men, young, in a pickup truck. One a chunky redhead with freckles, wearing some kind of cap, the other tall and slender wearing a jacket with a hood.”

“That’s more than I remember. Where did you—?”

“First two victims. Gene Zalesky, Larry Exeter.”

“They were luckier. Those bastards almost killed me.”

“You recognize either of them?”

“No. I told you, I don’t—”

“Never saw either of them before? Hanging around The Dark Spot?”

“That type of breeder? No way.”

“Zalesky saw one of them, the tall one, outside The Dark Spot one night. Talking to Troy.”

Kenneth blinked at the name. The tip of his tongue flicked over dry, cracked lips. Belatedly, “Who?”

“Troy. Young, blond kid with an angelic face. Hangs out at The Dark Spot.”

“Lots of guys hang out there. Busy every night.”

“He likes to sit at the bar. Likes company, likes to flirt.”

“That fits half our customers.”

“So you don’t know him?”

“No.”

“I think you’re lying, Kenneth.”

“Lying? Why would I lie to you?”

“Because I’m Joshua’s old man. Because you don’t want him to find out that you’re not as faithful as he thinks you are.”

Unwavering eye contact. “Bullshit.”

“What’s Troy’s last name? Where does he live?”

“How should I know?”

“Tell me the truth, I’ll keep it to myself. Joshua doesn’t have to find out.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Runyon said evenly, “Lots of people slip now and then, cheat on a spouse or a lover. I can understand that—it’s human
nature. Forgivable. One thing I can’t forgive is cover-your-ass lying. I don’t like liars, Kenneth.”

The tongue flicked again, but the blue eyes remained fixed on Runyon’s. “Why all these questions? What does this Troy have to do with me getting bashed?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Troy hangs out at The Dark Spot, you work at The Dark Spot, Zalesky and Exeter are regulars at The Dark Spot. All three of you had sex with Troy—”

“Not me. How many times do I have to tell you I don’t know anybody named Troy.”

“—and then all three of you got beat up. That’s more coincidence than I can believe.”

“I don’t care what you believe. It was random . . . random bashing of random victims.”

“Because you want it to be?”

“And you want it to be something else—payback for imagined sins, queers getting their just desserts. Right? Homophobic bullshit. Joshua was right about you from the beginning.
You’re
a homophobe. Why don’t you admit it?”

All that in the same weak, calm voice as before. Maintaining eye contact. Stonewalling. Kenneth Hitchcock was the kind of man who refused to admit fault or accept responsibility for his own actions, would go to any lengths—lie his soul straight to hell—to keep his structured life and his image intact. Self-centered, shallow, small-minded.

“One more chance to be straight with me, Kenneth. Where can I find Troy?”

Faint, weary smile. “How can I be straight when I’m gay?”

Runyon stood up, turned away—

“Mr. Runyon.”

—and turned back to look at the man in the bed.

“If you say anything to Joshua about this theory of yours, he won’t believe you. It’ll just make him hate you all the more. You don’t want that and neither do I.”

“What I want is the truth.”

“The truth is, I care about your son and he cares about me. We’re not casual lovers. I mean it, our relationship is a lot stronger than that.”

Runyon said nothing.

“And I want you to know—I won’t hurt him.”

“No? Buddy, I think maybe you already have.”

J
oshua was sitting on one of the chairs in a waiting area near the elevators, elbows propped on his knees, a bottle of mineral water on the floor beside him. He’d rallied some, now that Kenneth was out of danger, but he still looked exhausted. His head came up when he heard Runyon approaching. All in one motion, then, he was on his feet with the bottle in his hand.

“You shouldn’t have stayed so long. He’s still weak.”

“Yes he is,” Runyon said. “Very weak.”

“He needs his rest. What were you asking him?”

“Questions about what happened.”

“Then why didn’t you want me there?”

“It’s easier to talk one on one.”

“You didn’t pry about anything personal, did you? Our relationship? My private life is none of your business.”

Runyon had no intention of passing on his suspicions or his opinion of Kenneth Hitchcock. Joshua wouldn’t believe it, Kenneth had been right about that, and it would add fuel to the bad feelings between them, but that wasn’t the reason.
Even if he hadn’t been forced out of the first twenty years of his son’s life, he’d still keep this kind of thing to himself. Joshua was an adult; adults made their own decisions and their own mistakes. He’d find out what Kenneth was when this gay-bashing business was over, or eventually in some other way. Live and learn the hard way.

He said, “None of my business, that’s right. You asked me to do a job, I’m trying to do it. That’s all.”

“All right. Did he remember anything helpful?”

“Not much.”

“Well . . . I’d better take him this water, make sure he’s okay.”

“Be a good idea to get some rest yourself. How’d you get here? Bus?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll wait for you, give you a ride home.”

“No, thanks. I’ll stay until visiting hours are over.”

“I don’t mind waiting.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Suit yourself,” Runyon said. “Couple of quick questions before you go. You spend much time at The Dark Spot?”

“What does that . . . No, not a lot of time. Now and then, but Kenneth isn’t comfortable with me around while he’s working. It makes him nervous.”

“You know a guy named Troy? Early twenties, blond, angelic face?”

“Troy? I don’t think so. Why?”

“Roundabout lead I’m pursuing.”

“Did you ask Kenneth? He knows all the Dark Spot regulars.”

“I asked him,” Runyon said. “He doesn’t know Troy.”

G
ene Zalesky was home tonight, but not as friendly as he’d been on Monday. He left the chain on when he answered the door, said through the opening, “I have company. Can’t you come back tomorrow?”

“I won’t take up too much of your time.”

“What is it? I told you everything I know Monday night.”

“Not everything. Not about you and Troy.”

Thick silence this time.

“Better let me in,” Runyon said.

Reluctantly Zalesky complied. Nervous concern showed on his bruised and bandaged face, and his cynicism seemed tempered with resignation. No bluster or defiance, though, which meant he was going to be cooperative. The Gene Zaleskys of the world were usually cooperative when push came to shove: survival mechanism of the intelligent and downtrodden misfit.

They went into the antiques-strewn living room. It was empty; not even the Angora cat was in evidence. If Zalesky really did have company, the guest had been installed in another room. Zalesky preferred not to stand tonight; Runyon watched him lower his battered body onto a Victorian love seat, half turned to his left so that his weight rested on his nonbruised buttock, one leg splayed out in front of him. An awkward position that gave him a vulnerable aspect. Calculated, maybe, so Runyon wouldn’t be too hard on him.

He sighed before he said, “I guess I should have expected this.”

“Chickens and lies, Mr. Zalesky.” Runyon sat on another piece of Victoriana facing him. “They both come home to roost.”

“Homilies from a detective. I’m impressed.” The sarcasm
was thin and bleak. “But I don’t see what difference it makes in your investigation, my relationship with Troy.”

“You lied about it.”

“For personal reasons that have nothing to do with the beatings.”

“I don’t know that. Neither do you.”

Zalesky gave him an analytical look. “You’re good at your job, aren’t you. The manhunter type. I don’t think I’d want you coming after me.”

“Then tell me why you lied about Troy.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“You know about him, about us . . .”

“Not as much as I need to know.”

“I was trying to protect myself, that’s all. You can understand that.”

“Protect yourself from what?”

“Well, my God, possible criminal charges, of course. My company is fairly conservative—they tolerate gay employees, but they take a dim view of negative publicity involving one of us. This beating I suffered is bad enough, but the other . . . if that came out and charges were filed, I’d be fired in a New York minute.”

“What kind of criminal charges?”

“Troy is underage,” Zalesky said. “You didn’t know that?”

“No, I didn’t. If The Dark Spot serves minors, that’s their problem—”

“I don’t mean drinking age, I mean the legal age of consent. He’s seventeen.”

“So that’s it. A molestation charge, that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I don’t mess around with underage kids.”

“Neither do I,” Zalesky said miserably. “If I’d known his real age, I wouldn’t have had anything to do with him. I swear it, I wouldn’t have. But he doesn’t look that young, even with that sweet face he looks twenty-one and he claimed to be twenty-one.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “You don’t ask to see someone’s driver’s license in a crowded bar.”

“Bartenders are supposed to. Didn’t Kenneth Hitchcock or one of the others card him?”

“Evidently not. I told you, Troy looks twenty-one, acts twenty-one . . . I’ve never seen any seventeen-year-old as outwardly mature as he is.”

“How’d you find out his real age?”

“He told me. One night after we . . . he let it slip while we were talking. My God, I’ve never gotten out of a bed faster in my life.”

“His bed or yours?”

“Mine. Of course I threw him out immediately. I may be a fool, but I’m not stupid.”

“When was this?”

“Three weeks ago. A Friday night.”

“Seen him since?”

“Once, at The Dark Spot. A few days later. We didn’t speak.”

Runyon asked, “What’s his last name?”

“He said it was Scott, Troy Scott.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“No, I don’t. I can’t say why . . . I just had the impression he was lying.”

“And you didn’t ask.”

“Why should I? Not everyone in my world uses his right
name.” Wry quirk of his mouth. “It’s the nature of the beast.”

“You know where he lives?”

“He has . . . had . . . a room in a house on Hattie Street.”

“Had?”

“I heard he’d moved out. Somebody mentioned that . . . I don’t remember who. And I don’t know where he went.”

“Where’s Hattie Street?”

“Off Upper Market. A few blocks from here.”

“Number of the house?”