The Angel Singers (30 page)

*

It was a little after ten that night when Jonathan walked in the door.

“How did it go?” I asked as he came over to sit beside me on the couch.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know if he’s mad at me, or if I hurt his feelings, or what.

“I told him that maybe it might be a good idea if he called before he dropped in at your office, and he said, ‘What’s the matter? Are you jealous?’ and I don’t know if he was joking or not. I told him I wasn’t jealous, and that it’s just that you get pretty busy at times, or aren’t always in your office, so he might be able to save himself a trip if he called first. He said he would, and when I apologized for bringing it up, he said that was okay. But afterwards he seemed…different. I really hope I didn’t make him feel bad.”

“I’m sure he’ll be okay,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

*

I won’t bore you with the details of the meeting with Mel Clark, my prospective client, a nice-enough late-forties type who’d recently inherited a sizable sum of money and shortly thereafter found a lover, Doug. Let it suffice to say Mel was concerned that Doug, a bartender who worked nights, was cheating on him during the day while Mel was at work. When asked if he had any solid basis for his concern, he admitted that he hadn’t, but that Doug was extremely “hot”—he produced a photo that amply verified that fact—and therefore could not possibly be interested in Mel for anything other than his money.

I really feel bad for people who think like that, but there are an awful lot of them; and sadly, they are too frequently right.

I agreed to do basic surveillance for five workdays, figuring that would be more than ample time to find something if Doug
were
cheating. I drew up the contract while he was there, got all the basic information—Doug’s car, his work hours, routines, habits, known friends, etc.—and promised I would start the next day.

*

Surveillance work is, for the most part, on a par with watching grass grow. A lot of sitting and standing and coffee drinking. I made sure my camera had film and was always right where I could grab it if needed.

It wasn’t needed. Clark’s house was in a nice residential area, with apartment buildings on one side of the street and neat single-family homes, of which Clark’s was one, on the other. Mel left for work every morning at eight, walking toward the bus stop, and I was there to watch him leave. From that point on, a lot of nothing. No visitors. The same routine every day with no exceptions.

At ten forty-five every morning, Doug, who was every bit as hot in person as he was in his photo, came out of the house, went to his car parked in the driveway and drove to Gillie’s Gym, where he worked out for an hour. Luckily, Gillie’s was one of those new-style gyms with huge windows facing the street, so I was able to keep a fairly close eye on him without having to actually go inside. I probably should have—Jonathan had been ribbing me about my putting on weight.

When Doug left the gym, he went right home, maybe stopping to do a few errands.

I’d stay on stake-out until four. Mel had told me Doug got home at four thirty, and I didn’t think he would have the opportunity to get into much mischief in thirty minutes. Leaving at four gave me time to make a quick run to my office to check for mail and messages.

At the end of the five working days, I called Mel at his office to assure him it appeared his fears were groundless, and that he should consider the possibility that Doug was staying with him simply because he really wanted to.

I like happy endings.

*

Of course, other things went on during the week. Marty called on Thursday, the first day of surveillance, to report there was basically nothing to report—the information that the components of the bomb that killed Grant Jefferson had all come from Home ‘n’ Yard outlets led nowhere. The sheer number of outlets and volume of sales almost guaranteed the components’ purchaser anonymity.

He and Dan were, however, increasingly convinced that Grant’s death was related to Booth’s and therefore were tacitly ceding the primacy of the investigation to Earl and Ben, who were still following leads to Booth’s gambling connections.

His call sparked a twinge of guilt that I hadn’t mentioned that Eric worked at Home ‘n’ Yard’s warehouse. I couldn’t see any point in muddying the waters by dragging him into it. Home ‘n’ Yard had hundreds of employees in the city; Eric was only one of them. Besides, I told myself, the police had questioned him along with everyone else in the chorus right after Grant was killed.

Yes
, a mind-voice said,
but that was before they knew probably all the components had come from Home ‘n’ Yard.

Well
, another countered,
they aren’t stupid. They surely have it in their notes where Eric works. If they want to make something more of it, they will. Don’t go trying to do their jobs for them.

And speaking of Eric, Jonathan had not talked to him since after rehearsal the preceding Tuesday. Nor had I. Jonathan tried to call him several times during the week and over the weekend but always got a busy signal.

Finally, on Saturday evening, after he returned from his final day at the Conrads’, he called the operator to see if there was a problem with Eric’s phone line. She checked and told him the phone was probably off the hook.

“For four days?” Jonathan asked me after he hung up. “Maybe I should go over there and see if he’s all right.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. But you might call Roger Rothenberger to see if he’s heard from him.”

“I hate to bother Mr. Rothenberger,” he said, still standing by the phone. There was a long pause, then, “But maybe I should, just in case.”

He pulled out his billfold and rummaged through it as Joshua called to me from his bedroom to come retrieve a book that had dropped behind his dresser.

As I returned to the living room, I heard Jonathan saying, “No, that was it. I wanted to make sure he was all right. Thanks. See you Tuesday.

“I should never have said anything to Eric!” he said as he returned to the couch and sat down. “Mr. Rothenberger said Eric had called just a while ago. That means he’s mad at me and maybe he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore.”

The way he said it reminded me of how much of the little boy was still inside him.

I sat down beside him and put one arm around his shoulders, pulling him to me. “It doesn’t mean anything of the sort. I’m sure he’s got a good reason, and I wouldn’t worry about it. Maybe he’s been busy.”

He pursed his lips, then said, “Mr. Rothenberger did say Eric said he’d been putting in a lot of overtime.”

“See?” I said. “Nothing to worry about.”

He did not look convinced.

*

On Monday, when I returned to the office in the afternoon after my day’s stake-out for Mel Clark, I found a rather strange message from Eric on my answering machine.

“Dick, I’ve been calling you all week and all I get is your machine. I didn’t want to bother you by leaving a message, before, but I do want to talk to you.”

I tried returning the call immediately, though I suspected he might still be at work. I got a busy signal. I tried once more before leaving the office for home. Still busy.

*

When Jonathan returned from chorus practice Tuesday night, I could tell immediately that something was not right, and assumed things had not gone well with Eric. He got home right at Story Time, so we held off any conversation until after Joshua was all tucked in for the night.

“Did you talk with Eric?” I asked when we returned to the living room.

“Sort of.”

“Sort of? What do you mean?”

“I mean we spoke to each other, and he tried to pretend nothing was wrong, but he was definitely keeping his distance. I told him I’d been trying to call him, and he said he’d been keeping his phone off the hook because he was getting crank calls. And afterwards I asked him if he wanted to go for coffee, and he said he couldn’t.”

Oh, Lord! Here I was, trying to shed the frustrations of a fallen-flat murder investigation, and in the middle of the added frustration over Eric’s apparent whatever-it-was with me and how it was affecting his friendship with Jonathan. I knew I didn’t have any reason to, but I felt guilty.

“I asked if he was mad at me,” Jonathan added, “and he said he wasn’t, but…”

Damn it! When he said that, it not only amped up the guilt but made me feel really bad for Jonathan…and a little pissed at Eric for putting us all in this awkward position and behaving like a thirteen-year-old.

*

By the end of my stake-out on Wednesday, I was thrilled I’d reached the end of this particular—and excruciatingly dull—assignment. Returning to the office Wednesday afternoon, I hoped to find something on my machine from Eric. With all the time on my hands watching nothing happen with Doug or at the Clark house, I’d spent a lot more time than I wanted to rehashing the Grant/Booth case, which increasingly got blended in and muddled up with the current situation with Eric. And the more I thought of that particular aspect, the more irritated I became with Eric.

I wasn’t sure whether it was a result of my umpteenth mulling over every aspect of the case, or as a way to vent my frustration with the current situation, but I found myself wondering if I’d been realistic in not seriously considering Eric as a suspect.

Yeah
, a mind-voice said,
let it be Eric and then they can send him off to jail and get you out of having to find a rational way out of an awkward situation.

The instant I thought it, I was ashamed of myself. I tried to step back and look at things logically. Eric had a lot of reason to hate Grant, who he thought was a real threat to the chorus.
He was hardly the only one
, my mind-voice in charge of logic pointed out.
Grant had a knack for pissing people off.

Grant had been killed by a car bomb. Eric didn’t get along with his parents and resented his brother, and they had died in an explosion.
What teenager doesn’t hate his family at one time or another?
the voice asked.
And it was a natural gas explosion, not a bomb. How many teenagers would be able to rig a natural gas explosion even if they wanted to?

The bomb’s components had been traced to the company Eric worked for.

Home ‘n’ Yard is the biggest hardware retailer in the area
, the voice countered.
Plus, the bomber undoubtedly knew that buying traceable components from a small mom-and-pop store would increase the chance that somebody might remember who bought them.

Mind-voice 3, Hardesty 0.

*

Okay, so Wednesday afternoon finally came, I went back to the office, called Mel Clark, and that was that! Thursday morning, I typed up my bill for Clark, put in a curiosity call to Marty, who wasn’t in, and was once more contemplating my unemployment and the fact that, since I was self-employed, I couldn’t file for unemployment compensation.

At quarter to eleven, the phone rang. Guess who?

“Hey, you’re in!” the familiar voice said.

“Hi, Eric,” I said. “I just got off a case. This is my first day in the office. I got your message and tried to call but your line was busy.”

“Yeah, like I told Jonathan I’ve been getting some crank calls—I think it’s a teenager from the neighborhood—so I’ve been leaving it off the hook.”

“Jonathan was worried,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s what he said. Look, I know I’ve been making a pest of myself, but I really think we should have a talk to sort of get some things cleared up.”

Part of me was relieved to hear him say that. Another part worried about exactly where he was going with this.

“Sure,” I said. “When and where?”

“Lunch at your diner? Around one, if that’s not too late.”

“One’s fine,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.”

In a way, I was glad we’d be meeting on neutral territory. It was a rule I’d had since my dating days—never agree to meet a blind date at either his place or yours. A neutral place gives each of you wiggle room if you see things aren’t going the way you’d hoped. Though the situation was totally different here, the principle applied—it’s easier to be objective when other people are in the vicinity.

*

I got to the diner at about ten till one and was lucky to grab the only booth available. It still had the dishes on it from the couple who’d gotten up as I walked in, but I took it anyway.

The waitress came over to clear off the table and hand me a menu. I told her there’d be two of us and ordered coffee.

Eric didn’t arrive until about ten after, full of apologies. “I’m really sorry, Dick,” he said, “but I had to get a signature from one of the managers and he was on the phone forever.”

“No problem,” I said.

There was the usual pause for coffee and another menu and place service set-up and “I’ll give you a minute to decide.” When that was over, I couldn’t resist saying, “So…”

He looked at me and sighed.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he began, “and I figure the only thing to do is to be totally honest with you.”

Uh-oh!

“Look,” he continued, “I like Jonathan. I really do. He’s a great guy. But I…like you, too, in a different way. I haven’t been very good at hiding it, I’m afraid.”