The Angel Singers (10 page)

Silly me, I thought. But all I said was, “My intention was not to insult you but to get at the facts. That’s what private investigators do and sometimes we have to step on a few toes.”

He said nothing, just dismissed my comments with a wave of his hand. “I know you’re doing what you see as your job,” he said, “but I can assure you, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

And where should I look? I wanted to ask, but didn’t.

“How long had Grant been with you?” I asked instead.

He looked at me, obviously displeased and obviously not quite sure how to respond. I’d already made it clear I didn’t buy into the “nephew” story, and I hoped he wasn’t stupid enough to try to give it to the police.

“Eight months.”

“May I ask how you met?”

“And may I ask how that is any of your business and what bearing it could possibly have on the matter of his death?”

I looked at him steadily and spoke calmly. “It is my business only because if I am to do my job, I have to know everything I can about the victim and everything surrounding his death. Grant was killed for a reason, and that reason has to lie somewhere in his past, recent or distant. So…as to how you met?”

He shook his head in obvious disgust, accompanying the motion with a deep sigh, in case I hadn’t gotten the message.

“We met while I was on a business trip to Atlanta this past year, through a business associate. Grant was staying with him after having escaped from an abusive relationship with a true psychopath. When I heard his story, I became concerned for his safety if he remained in Atlanta. So, I suggested that he could come here.”

In other words, Grant had left one rich guy for another.

“Could I trouble you for your business associate’s name?”

“Is that necessary?”

“Yes,” I said simply. “It is.” I was not about to play his little games.

“Bernie Niles.”

“And the ‘psychopath’s’ name?”

“Robert Smith.” His face reflected a look, as though a light bulb had switched on inside his head. “You don’t suppose…”

“I’m sorry?” I asked, my lack of patience showing. “Don’t suppose what?”

“That he might have followed Grant here?”

After eight months? Possible, yes. Likely, no. It was certainly an interesting story, though, and he’d set it up nicely. I had to agree with Rothenberger: Crandall Booth was certainly not stupid. Whether or not I could believe him was another matter entirely.

“And why do you suppose he might do that?” Physically attractive as Grant Jefferson may have been, handsome young men are like that old joke about buses—if you miss one, another will be along in a minute. However, if the guy really was, by chance, a psychopath…

“It’s rather complicated, but Grant was indirectly responsible for his being sent to jail.”

Well, that’d do it. “How did that happen?”

“As I say, it’s complicated. Though Grant said very little about it—it was obviously very traumatic for him. I gather they met in New York. Smith was supposedly an art dealer but was, in fact, a con artist. Somehow, he coerced Grant into working for him, luring potential victims.”

Coerced? Why did I find that a tad hard to believe? And could Booth possibly have bought that story himself?

“Bernie met them while on business in New York and was drawn into Smith’s web. Grant subsequently came down to Atlanta with Smith to clinch a deal for a couple of paintings supposedly being sold by an Italian count who needed money. It was then Grant decided to break away, and he confessed the whole story to Bernie, who gave him asylum and had Smith arrested.”

My, my! Truly the stuff of high drama. Whether it was also the stuff of truth remained to be seen.

I mentally did a rough estimate of how many Robert Smiths there might be in the Georgia prison system, let alone within a six-block radius of any point in the country.

“Have you spoken to your friend Niles lately?”

There was a slight pause. “As I said, Bernie’s more a business associate than a friend. And no, I’m afraid I haven’t talked to him since we came back from Atlanta.”

In other words, you stole his boyfriend and he’s pissed at you
, my mind-voice in charge of stating the obvious observed.

“So, he doesn’t know that Grant is dead?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’d really like to know if anyone has contacted him wanting to know Grant’s whereabouts.”

He squirmed in his seat. “Yes, I can see your point. However, you probably have some specific questions, so rather than me being a middleman, perhaps you should speak to him directly.”

“Do you have his phone number?”

He quickly opened a desk drawer, taking out a sheet of “Central Imports” letterhead and a pen. He wrote down Niles’ name and number and slid it across the desk.

“You mentioned this Robert Smith to the police?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. It honestly did not occur to me at the time. I was in something of a state of shock. But since you’re now working on the case, couldn’t you look into it without involving the police? Much better a private investigator than the police.”

Why did I have the distinct impression he had just thrown a stick into the bushes and yelled, “Fetch!”? If he had sufficient suspicion about Smith to send me chasing after him, why wouldn’t he want to tell the police himself?

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, following up on the thought, “I’m not sure why you’re so reluctant to mention it to the police.”

“It’s not a matter of reluctance. But I have my position to consider, and all these details could be taken in a rather negative light by law enforcement. I’d prefer they don’t know any more about my personal life than they have to.”

“You don’t think they know you’re gay?”

He gave me a small smile. “I’m sure they do, but that’s totally immaterial to the matter of Grant’s death, and there’s no need to go around waving dirty linen that is better left in the hamper. And with these problems at work…”

“Problems?” I asked, finding it mildly interesting that Booth could put work problems on the same level as finding who killed his…uh, I wasn’t exactly what to call him. Anyway, it struck me as more than a little peculiar.

“Yes,” he said with a sigh, “the head of my accounting department died of a heart attack three days before Grant’s…accident.”

Well, I’m happy to see you have your priorities straight, I thought.

“Interesting,” I said. “Did I understand someone’s having said Grant also worked in the accounting department?”

“Yes, and Grant would have made a brilliant accountant. Unfortunately, Irving—Irving Stapleton, head of the department—apparently wasn’t the man I thought he was. He’d been with me for fifteen years, but I was not aware of how badly he was running the department.”

Let me guess how he found out. “I assume Grant was the one who alerted you to Mr. Stapleton’s inadequacies?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I could tell Stapleton was increasingly ill-at-ease ever since Grant was hired, and I couldn’t understand it. I suspect he knew Grant was on to him.”

Or he recognized a shark in the goldfish bowl when he saw one.

From what I knew of Grant Jefferson, I sure as hell could understand Stapleton’s being “ill-at-ease.” Booth couldn’t possibly be so naive as to not realize what Grant was up to by, as Eric had described it, running to Booth with tales about his supervisor. Booth certainly could never have gotten where he was without knowing everything about his business, and most particularly the accounting department! So, why was he pulling this “I was not aware” routine?

Booth had been watching me steadily all during our conversation. As a businessman, I’m sure he was pretty good at reading people, but that he apparently read me as being an idiot wasn’t particularly flattering.

“The evening Irving died,” he continued, “his son, Charles, showed up at my home, totally distraught, blaming Grant for having caused Irving’s heart attack. A totally ridiculous accusation! Irving had had a heart condition for years.”

Which, I was sure, had not been materially alleviated by the stress of having the boss’ insufferable boyfriend underfoot and undoubtedly reporting his every move back to Booth.

“Did you mention the visit to the police?”

He shook his head. “No. As I said, Charles was understandably upset. He’d just lost his father; I couldn’t see causing him any more pain than he was already enduring by reporting the incident to the police.” He paused then, dropping his voice slightly to convey sincerity, added, “Most people see me as more of a hard-nosed businessman than a human being. You don’t get ahead in the business world wearing your heart on your sleeve. But you must believe me when I say that I sincerely and deeply cared for Grant.”

“I’m sure you did,” I said, though I was not really sure at all. “But I do feel you should mention Smith—and the incident with Charles Stapleton—to the police. In the meantime, I’ll give Bernie Niles a call and see what more I can find out about Smith.”

I paused only briefly before saying, “So, other than Smith and Stapleton, do you know of anyone else outside of the chorus who might want to harm Grant?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. And I’m quite sure even Roger Rothenberger, duplicitous and power-hungry as he is, wouldn’t stoop to murder.”

A smooth bit of damning with faint praise, there, Boothy,
I thought. I especially found modifying
sure
with
quite
a nice touch.

I knew my next question would go over like a concrete dirigible, but I had to ask it. “And was everything going okay between you and Grant?”

“Of course!” he said, scowling.

“Grant wasn’t getting wanderlust?”

“I’m not sure that I understand—or appreciate—the implication of your questions. My relationship with Grant was strictly that of a caring mentor. I am not some sort of sexual predator lusting after young men.”

Of course you aren’t
, I thought.
And I am the King of Romania.

“Sorry,” I said, even though I wasn’t, “but I’d heard Grant had set his eye on Broadway.”

“That’s true,” Booth admitted. “Grant was incredibly talented, and he had my full support in everything he wanted to do. But we realized it would be some time before he was truly ready. And when he was, well, I would send him off with my blessing.”

I wondered who was going to make the determination as to when he was ready. I suspected Grant had a somewhat shorter timetable than Booth.

He looked at his watch in a way that would have conveyed his meaning to the top row of the balcony.

“I have a staff meeting in ten minutes,” he said, “so if we’re through here…”

I got up from my chair. “Yes, I think so. I may well have some other questions later. Thank you for your time.”

He did not get up, just gave me a lips-only smile. “You’re quite welcome,” he said, and I deliberately stepped up to the desk to extend my hand so he had to partially rise to reach across to take it.

He sat back down as I turned and walked from his office, not looking back.

*

Well, that had been an interesting if water-muddying visit. I didn’t buy the “caring mentor” line for a nanosecond, and I doubted that Booth was as unaware of Grant’s activities as he let on. So Grant had “never missed a weekday sectional,” eh? And this whole Robert Smith story still struck me as a patent attempt at putting up a smokescreen—to hide what, I had no idea.

But that he wanted me to go off looking for a convicted felon named Smith in the Georgia or New York—it occurred to me that he might have been extradited from Georgia—prison system? That would keep me distracted until Joshua’s Social Security benefits kicked in.

I also wanted to know more of the story behind the death of Irving Stapleton. I had little doubt that Charles Stapleton’s accusations about Grant’s contributing to the heart attack had merit, but whether his justifiable anger might have motivated him to murder was yet to be determined.

And I needed to get in touch with Bernie Niles in Atlanta.

But first I wanted to have a talk with Marty Gresham and/or Lieutenant Mark Richman at police headquarters to see what they’d be willing to tell me about their investigation into Grant’s death.

*

Rather than return to the office, I headed on home, stopping at the store to pick up a few things from a list Jonathan had given me that morning.

After dinner and dishes, while Joshua played in his room, I decided to call Tony Breen to see if I could get Jerry Granville’s number. Jonathan volunteered to talk to Tony for me, on the logical grounds that Tony might be a bit more comfortable talking with someone he knew from the chorus, but I thought it might be easier if I did it myself rather than Jonathan’s having to go into details as to why he wanted Jerry’s number. I think Jonathan had probably told nearly everyone in the chorus what I did for a living, so if Tony wanted to know why I wanted the number, I could tell him I was looking into Grant’s death.

So, we compromised. Jonathan called Tony to talk about a few chorus-related things, then said I had a question for him and transferred him over to me.

I could tell from the way the tone of his voice changed the minute I mentioned Jerry’s name that I was treading on sensitive ground; and when I asked for a phone number, he said Jerry was staying with a mutual friend, whose name and number I wrote down. As long as I had him on the phone and had already reopened the wound, I thought I might as well take it a step farther.