The Bar Watcher (28 page)

Say something, stupid!
my mind demanded.

Fortunately, at that moment, the waiter came with our drinks.

“Are you ready to order?” he asked.

“Give us a minute,” I said, and he left. Then I turned my full attention to Terry. “Jeez, Terry, that's incredible.” Although I knew it wasn't. “You probably should have gone over to be with your friend—I'd have understood.”

He smiled and shook his head.

“No, I wanted to come. Eric's okay. He's with his lover, anyway. Mark had stayed home Friday night with a cold, but at least he could give Eric an alibi—Eric had come home at eleven-thirty, and I guess the accident was at around midnight. But, my God, what incredible coincidences—his car getting stolen and then it's killing somebody he'd just been out with!”

“It's a pretty weird world,” I said. “But I'm glad you came.”

We looked at each other, and Terry blushed.

“Me, too,” he said, and we picked up our menus.

*

Everything considered, it was a great brunch. I managed to turn my mind off and concentrate on the here and now—I could worry about Bill Hinson later. I decided about ten minutes in that I really liked Terry. I really liked Jared and Toby, too, and that was something of a problem. Jared was a great guy, but the possibility of our ever being anything more to one another than what we already were had never crossed either of our minds. Toby was a different story altogether—he had everything that attracted me to a guy, and I'm not talking about just my crotch. He was a damned nice guy and great sex, and it doesn't get much better than that.

But, that said, I still somehow knew there was some kind of invisible wall there, one I'd probably built all by myself just because our lifestyles were so damned different. I was more than a little pissed at myself for being such a shallow bastard I'd let that stand in the way of even the remote possibility of something developing between us.

Okay, okay, I know. I said right at the start I wasn't looking for Mr. Right, but I'd be just plain stupid if the right opportunity came along and I blew it, as it were. I'd liked being in a relationship when I was with Chris. I wasn't unhappy not being in one, but if the chance came along again…

And then there was Terry. Terry was—well, “comfortable” kept popping into my mind, and I know that could easily be misconstrued as damning with faint praise. But I like comfortable, and if that made me a wimp in anyone's eyes, that was their problem.

We were finishing our coffee after the waiter had cleared the dishes away, and while I'd very much hoped I'd leave myself alone and just let me enjoy myself, I couldn't resist bringing up the hit-and-run again.

“Terry,” I said, “I apologize—I really hate mixing business with pleasure, but I may have told you I'm working on a case with about three hundred different components, and I think this thing involving your friend Eric is part of it.”

Terry took a sip of his coffee and put his cup carefully in the center of his saucer. He smiled.

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” he asked. “I'd like that.”

I returned his smile.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Did Eric tell you about the dead guy's having gotten in an altercation earlier that night?”

He looked at me as though I'd just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

“How did you know about that?” he asked.

“Long story. Did he say what happened afterwards?”

Terry thought a moment, gently biting his lower lip.

“He mentioned that he didn't really like the guy who got killed—Bill whatever. Eric said he was a real asshole to some poor guy in some bar they'd gone to, and that some huge guy had literally thrown Bill out the door. A really big scene, I guess. Eric and his other friend sort of snuck out, and Eric just wanted to go home.

“Since they were all riding in Eric's car, Eric said he had to get home to see about Mark. His other friend was as pissed with Bill as Eric was and ready to call it a night, but Bill wanted to go to another bar and had Eric drop him off at the Pit Stop. I guess that was close to where he lived—he said he'd walk home from there. So Eric left him off in front of the Pit Stop, took the other guy home, and then went home himself.”

We were both quiet for a minute, and then I said, “This is an odd question, but I don't suppose Eric said anything about them being followed, did he?”

Terry looked puzzled. “No, he didn't. Why might he think they were being followed?”

Because I'm pretty sure they were
, I thought.

“Just wondering,” I said.

*

After brunch, since Terry didn't express being in any particular hurry to be off somewhere else, I suggested we take a ride up to the Jessup Reservoir about twenty miles outside of town. Not many people even knew about it, and even fewer went there, but it was a great area, mostly forested, with a nice walking trail that went all around the reservoir. Terry thought it was a great idea—or was nice enough to say he did—so we left his car near Calypso and drove on out.

I went about halfway around the reservoir to a secluded area I'd found a couple years before. Luckily, there wasn't another car in the small parking area, and no one else in sight. It was a beautiful day—the kind where, if you stood perfectly still, you heard nothing but the soft murmur of the waves on the shore and the wind talking to itself through the trees.

“Nice day,” Terry said.

“Very.”

We came to a small trail that led to a rise overlooking the entire reservoir, and we followed it to the top. A couple large boulders provided a little semi-cave, and we sat at the entrance and looked out over the countryside. Not a single sign of civilization, or even a hint that we were not the only two people in the entire world.

“Did you ever have sex outdoors?” Terry asked, totally out of the blue.

I grinned at him.

“Uh-huh. You?”

He blushed and shook his head.

“Ya wanna?” I asked, unconsciously echoing Jared.

“Take a guess,” he said, lying back on the long grass.

*

On the way back into town, I asked Terry if he'd mind stopping off at Ramón's. While I really didn't want to get him involved in this whole tangled bar watcher mess, I also selfishly wanted to spend as much time with him as I could. He worked for an architectural consulting firm and had told me he had to leave town Tuesday for a weeklong trip to Seattle on a company project.

We got to Ramón's around six. The place was relatively quiet, compared to what it had been Saturday night. Jimmy was on duty, somewhat to my surprise, and both Bob and Mario were sitting at the far end of the bar.

“Dick,” Bob called when he saw us come in, waving us to him. Jimmy finished serving a customer and came down the bar to join us. I introduced Terry, who got an appreciative once-over from Jimmy and a raised-eyebrow nod of approval from Bob. Mario just grinned at me. Bob asked us what we'd like to drink, and Jimmy moved off to make them.

“I've been trying to get you on the phone all afternoon,” Bob said, “but I see you've been busy.” He grinned at Terry, who blushed and grinned back. I suddenly felt very guilty.

“About Friday?” I said, and Bob nodded.

“They arrested Jared,” he said, and I felt my heart fall through my stomach.

“Shit!” I said. “How the hell could they do that? They don't have a shred of evidence, other than his involvement in the tussle with that Hinson character.”

“As you probably have noticed,” Mario said, “the police don't always have to have a lot of evidence.”

Jimmy returned with our drinks. Poor Terry wasn't saying anything. What could he say? He didn't know anything about what was going on. I put my arm on his shoulder so he wouldn't feel totally left out.

“It's okay, though,” Jimmy, who had somehow apparently been able to keep track of the conversation even when he was halfway down the bar, said. “They let him go. He came by here about an hour ago, looking for you. They just held him at the station and gave him the third degree while they got a search warrant and went through his apartment. I don't think they found anything, but he says they made a mess of the place.”

“The police called me at home around noon,” Bob said, “wanting to know exactly what had happened Friday night. I wasn't here, so I didn't know anything except what Jimmy and some of the regulars told me. They wanted to talk to Jimmy, so I gave them his phone number.”

“God, poor Jared,” I said.

“
Poor
and
Jared
are two words I'd never think of using in the same sentence,” Jimmy said with a smile.

“Muscles are great to look at, but not always good to use,” Mario observed, motioning to Jimmy for a refill for himself and Bob.

“You think Jared's home now?” I asked. “I should give him a call.” Then, suddenly once again very conscious of my arm still around Terry, I said, “I'm sorry, Terry, I…”

He just smiled and slipped his hand down to my butt, which he gave a spread-fingered squeeze.

“Go call,” he said, taking the drink out of my hand and putting it on the bar.

“You can use the phone in the office,” Bob said, getting up to walk me to the door, which he unlocked with a key on the chain dangling from his right belt loop. Having let me in, he closed the door behind me and went back to the bar.

I dialed Jared's number and let it ring four times. I was about ready to hang up when he answered.

“Jared!” I said. “Dick. Are you okay?”

“Peachy,” he said in a voice that left little doubt “peachy” didn't quite do it. “You should see this place, Dick!” he said, sounding more sad than anything else. “My thesis is scattered all over the fucking living room, my dresser drawers look like a family of raccoons have been in them, the closet's a total disaster… They even took the lid off the toilet tank and didn't bother to put it back. What a fucking bunch of idiots!”

“You want me to come over and help you clean up?”

“Nah, but thanks,” he said. “I guess it could have been a lot worse—they didn't actually break anything.”

I resisted sitting down at Bob's desk, since I didn't want to be gone from Terry and the others—okay, mostly Terry—too long. “So, how does it stand with the police?”

“No idea,” he said. “They let me go, and if they thought they had even a shred of something to really hang me on, they'd have done it. But they let me know in no uncertain terms I'm still their odds-on favorite.”

“Well,” I said, “I'm just glad they let you go. And I suspect I'll be getting a call from Lieutenant Richman tomorrow, if there's not already one waiting for me when I get home. I'm down at Ramón's. But if I do hear from Richman, I'll let you know.”

“Okay. I'd appreciate that. Now I'd better get back to this mess. Talk with you later.”

I returned to the others. Terry didn't say a word, just smiled and handed me my drink.

*

When we left Ramón's, I had the distinct feeling neither Terry nor I wanted the day to end. I suggested we stop somewhere for dinner, but he shook his head.

“How about your place?” he suggested. “I'm a pretty good cook.”

“Great!” I said. “Shall we just leave your car at Calypso's and pick it up later?”

He grinned.

“No, I think I'd better pick it up now. We might not want to go out again later.”

We stopped at a supermarket about two blocks from Calypso's for some steaks, salad fixings and an assortment of exotic and mysterious—to me, at any rate—things he very efficiently gathered together and for which he insisted on paying.

Comfortable. Why did that word always keep cropping up when I thought of Terry or tried to describe our time together?

Anyway, it was a “comfortable” evening in the very best sense of the word, and it reminded me of the best days of my relationship with Chris. Though he didn't talk much about it, Terry had mentioned he'd been in a long-term relationship with a guy he adored, who had come home one night after four years to tell Terry he'd found another lover. That had been two or three years before, but I sensed he still hadn't gotten over it, and sometimes in the dark, I thought I could see the flicker of flame from a torch Terry still carried for the guy reflected in his eyes.

I talked him into spending the night, and we even slept, when we finally got to sleep, in my favorite together-position that Chris liked to call “spoons.”

Comfortable. And very, very nice.

*

Sure enough, when I checked with my answering service upon arriving at the office Monday morning there was a call from Lieutenant Richman, which I returned immediately. This time it wasn't a request to meet him privately at Sandler's for breakfast. This was a summons to his office—politely phrased, but unmistakably a summons. I told him I would come right down.