The Dream Ender (30 page)

Returning to the apartment, I went directly to the bathroom to wash my hands, being as quiet as possible so as not to wake Joshua or Jonathan. I needn’t have worried about Jonathan. I walked into the bedroom to find him naked as a jaybird on top of the bed. I also didn’t have to use Mae West’s old line, “Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me.”

Chapter 22

Tuesday morning, even before the coffeemaker at
work stopped hissing and burbling through its first pot of the day, I got out the fingerprint kit and opened the paper bag in which I’d put the beer cans and bottle of cranberry juice. I took prints from all of them, since I didn’t know whether he might have had company and some of the prints not be his. Even if they weren’t, chances were good the majority would be, especially on the cranberry juice bottle.

I then called the City Annex and left a message asking for “Detective Gresham”—I still got a kick out of calling him that, since he credits me for helping him make the rank—to call me. I finished typing up my detailed report for Glen, adding the information I’d gotten from Jake the night before. I planned to run it over to Glen’s office after I’d gotten the fingerprints to Marty.

Checking the obituary column, I was surprised to find a rather lengthy article on Manners’ death, though it was more focused on the fact he was the son of R. D. Manners of Tri-State Industries than on Art himself. The article, of course, skipped totally over any mention that in addition to being the son of a millionaire, Art was also a motorcycle-riding leather man.

As I sat drinking my coffee, my mind kept going back to what Jake had said about Manners perhaps backing Pete Reardon in his attempt to take over the Male Call. I’d wondered, ever since I first heard that Reardon wanted the bar, how Reardon could possibly swing it financially. I’d imagine he’d been all but wiped out following the firebombing of the Dog Collar and his two-year stint in jail, and the Spike never did nearly the business the Dog Collar had, or that the Male Call did before the AIDS rumors and Hysong’s death.

And other than as a form of revenge against Carl Brewer, whom Reardon still suspected of having something to do with the bombing, I couldn’t figure out why he would want to take on another failing bar. He’d bring with him the still-lingering albatross of the Dog Collar plus the Male Call’s double stigma of the AIDS rumors and Hysong’s murder.

While Manners could undoubtedly afford to back Reardon, why would he want to? It strongly suggested the two were far more involved than either let on. And if Reardon and Manners had been more than just friends, I felt another quick flush of sympathetic anguish over what it must have been like for Reardon to see Manners die in front of his eyes.

But I forced myself to realize that all this was pure speculation based on yet another rumor.

Further ruminations were cut off by the phone’s ringing.

“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, picking it up and using my quarter-octave-lower “business” voice.

“Yeah, Dick…Marty. What’s up?”

“I have those prints for you,” I said. “Can you run them for me? Jake’s trial is coming up a lot faster than I’m comfortable with.”

“Sure. I’m going to be tied up for a good part of the day, but can you put them in an envelope and drop them off for me? I’ll take them right up to processing as soon as I get back.”

“Thanks, Marty. I really appreciate it.”

“Hey, no problem,” he said. “If we can save the taxpayers the cost of trying the wrong person, it’s well worth it.”

*

After hanging up, I put the fingerprints in a large mailing envelope, sealed it and wrote “Detective Marty Gresham, Homicide Division” on it in large block letters, put my report for Glen in a slightly smaller envelope and left the office.

Having dropped off the prints, I was waiting for the elevator in Glen’s building when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find Glen himself, looking every inch the epitome of a rich and powerful lawyer.

I grinned, and we shook hands.

“Coming to see me, I presume?” he asked.

“Well, I didn’t think you’d be in, so I just wanted to drop my report off, but I guess you saved me an elevator ride.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I’ve got a few minutes. Let’s go up to my office and talk.”

At that point, the elevator door opened, and we got on.

I followed him as he swept through the large reception area and down a series of hallways, greeting everyone he encountered pleasantly and by name. Donna looked up as we entered the antechamber to his office. She smiled when she saw me.

“Hello, Mr. Hardesty,” she said warmly. I’d known her for a number of years now, but I was always “Mr. Hardesty.” As Glen was the consummate lawyer, Donna was the consummate executive secretary.

Glen looked at me as he reached for the knob on his office door.

“Coffee?” he asked.

I nodded. “If you’ve got the time.”

“I do,” he said, then turned to Donna. “Could you get it for us, Donna?”

She arose immediately, smiling.

“Of course,” she said as she moved off down the hall. I didn’t have to tell her I liked mine black. She never forgot.

As Glen moved around his desk to his seat, I took one of the comfortable leather chairs facing him.

“So,” he said, “let’s have a look.”

I leaned forward to slide the envelope across the desk.

“We went over most of it on the phone,” I said as he opened the envelope, took out the several sheets of paper and read through them quickly, nodding from time to time. When he’d finished he set them aside and was just about to say something when Donna rapped on the door and came in with our coffee, setting the cups on the desk in easy reach.

“Thank you, Donna,” Glen said, and I echoed.

She smiled and left the room.

“I hadn’t realized,” he began when the door closed behind her, “until I read today’s paper that Art Manners was R. D. Manners’ son. I’ve known the family for years, though I never got to know Art. He was always a rebel and a source of constant embarrassment to his family…particularly to his father, who was never hesitant to let his disappointment show. Finally, from what I understand, Art just totally divorced himself from the family. He didn’t have to worry about money, of course—he had a very large trust fund.

“So that he might have been considering backing Reardon in buying the city’s largest gay leather bar doesn’t surprise me in the least. It would be one more way for Art to take a swipe at his father. That he and Reardon might have had something more going for them does, too, sort of. I don’t know, maybe a psychiatrist would make some sort of father-son thing out of it.”

He took a long sip of his coffee before saying, “All of which is very interesting but not necessarily relevant to the case against Jake. Finding a match for the prints is. People don’t steal high-powered hunting rifles unless they plan to use them, so whoever stole Jake’s gun most likely is Hysong’s killer. If nothing else, identifying the prints creates a very strong case for reasonable doubt. St. John is so desperate for publicity he’s letting his common sense get away from him. He has the typical homophobic mindset in thinking that because both Jake and Hysong are—were, in Hysong’s case—gay, a jury won’t be overly concerned with the facts.

“I know the jury selection process is going to be fun. St. John will want to stack the panel with people he senses share his own views. He’s putting more emphasis on the ‘sin of homosexuality’ than on the fact this is first and foremost a murder case. That’s a big mistake, and he’ll pay for it. But I’m still hoping we won’t have to go to trial at all.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m pretty sure that if they get a match on the prints, the police will be willing to step in and pursue it and that will hopefully take the pressure off Jake and lead to the real killer.”

There was a soft rap at the door and Donna came in.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but Mr. McPhearson is on the phone and insists he has to talk to you.”

Glen sighed, set his coffee down and said, “Okay. Tell him I’ll be right with him.”

I took that as my cue to gulp down the last of my coffee and set the cup and saucer on the desk. I got up, saying, “I’ll let you get back to work, and I’ll call you the minute I hear from Marty Gresham.”

I reached across the desk to shake hands, turned and left as Glen picked up his phone.

*

Marty called first thing Wednesday morning, catching me in the middle of a crossword puzzle: “Beginning of quote…”

I hate those things.

“We have a match on your prints,” he said.

“Great!” I replied. “Whose are they?”

“Art Manning. Isn’t he the guy run over by the truck during the AIDS ride? If so, questioning him is sort of moot.”

“Shit!” He was right, of course, and though chances were ninety-nine-to-one that since Manning had stolen the gun he’d used it, now we’d never know for sure. He had more than ample motive in the death of his apparently only real friend and in the humiliation of having Hysong mop the floor with him in a fight.

I didn’t really know how much stock to put in the domino-effect idea that Hysong’s death would somehow help Reardon ruin the Male Call’s business, which would lead to Brewer selling it to Reardon, who then would make Art manager. Hell, if he wanted to go to all that trouble to manage the place, why wouldn’t he have just bought it himself? His willingness to finance Reardon indicated a lot more than Art’s wanting to manage a bar.

I pulled myself back to the moment.

“Well, thanks for everything, Marty. What’s the next step from your point? There’s really not too much the police can do now that Manners is dead.

“We can and will provide the information to the D.A.’s office. I hope that might help your friend. And while I can’t call Jake’s lawyer and volunteer the information, if he were to contact the department and ask for the results of any fingerprint testing…”

“Gotcha,” I said, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if he just might do that. Frankly, I don’t think St. John will pay much attention to it—he’s got his sights set on convicting Jake.”

“Well, good luck,” he said.

“And thanks again, Marty,” I said. “You’re going to make captain before you reach thirty-five!”

He laughed. “From your mouth to God’s ear,” he said.

*

I called Glen’s office, asking Donna to have him call me as soon as he could. When I hung up, I debated on finishing off the coffee left in the pot, which had the color and consistency of crankcase oil, or making a new pot, or going downstairs for a cup from the diner in the lobby, or…

Get with it, Hardesty
, a mind-voice scolded, and I realized I was experiencing one of my “slamming door” moments when something ends far more abruptly than I’d anticipated. Another anticlimactic moment. I hate anticlimaxes.

The case was over—or at least out of my hands—now, and Jake’s fate was totally up to Glen O’Banyon. Art Manners had stolen Jake’s rifle and used it to kill Cal Hysong, and now Manners was dead himself and that was it. You can’t try a dead man for murder, or have whatever closure or wrap-up value a court trial may have produced. Anticlimactic. Have I mentioned I hate anticlimaxes?

Usually, when I sense that a case is coming to a logical conclusion in a reasonable period of time, my mind is able to shift gears at its own pace. This was sort of like slamming on the brakes of a stick-shift car without first engaging the clutch.

Glen called just as I was chewing on the last bit of coffee in the cup—I’d gone with the what-was-left-in-the-pot option and resented it, though it didn’t stop me.

I quickly gave him the information, for which he thanked me, and when I asked if there was anything else I could do, he said, “Well, this puts a lot of new spin into the case, and I’m not exactly sure what tack I’ll take with it, so consider yourself still employed until I let you know otherwise, okay?”

“Fine with me,” I said.

And so we left it.

*

The next week was pretty quiet, and I was able to do a few quick research jobs for another of my lawyer clients, involving trips to the Hall of Records and the library—nothing he couldn’t have hired someone from a temp agency to do, but I was glad he didn’t. On Wednesday of the next week, Glen called.

“I think you should have a talk with Pete Reardon,” he said. “I’d like to know a little more about his relationship with Art and if he had any idea that Art had been seriously planning to kill Hysong. Whether he mentioned Jake’s guns, for example. You might also ask him about their financial arrangement and what Art wanted in exchange for the loan. He may tell you to go take a flying you-know, but it’s worth a try. I might decide to put him on the stand if it comes to trial, and it looks like that’s where it’s headed.”

“St. John was unimpressed by the fingerprint evidence, I take it?”

“You take it right. He’s apparently going to claim the prints on the window indicate Art opened the window, but not when he did it or that he actually took anything. To him, the only prints that matter are Jake’s on the gun.”

“But it’s Jake’s gun, fer chrissake!” I said. “What does he expect?”

“For him, it’s not the fact that Jake’s prints are on it so much as that nobody else’s are.”

“Good Lord! The man’s never heard of gloves or picking something up with a cloth?”

“Apparently not. But don’t underestimate St. John. As I told you, he’s got an uncanny talent for skewing facts to his advantage.”