The Hired Man (20 page)

“Jared?” I was momentarily flustered. “I'm sorry, I thought I dialed Tim's num—”
You're an idiot,
Hardesty,
my mental voice said as I realized that, yes, I
had
dialed Tim's number.

He laughed.

“Tim's in the shower. See what happens when you put business before pleasure? You missed out on a great night.” Then he hastened to add, “We sure missed you…but we managed.”

“Gee,” I said, “I'm glad to hear that.” My crotch was very unhappy to think about what it had undoubtedly missed. “Can you ask him to give me a call when he gets a chance?”

“Sure. I've got to be heading home pretty soon—got a ton of work to do, and there's still that damned thesis. I don't know why it can't just write itself.”

“You have my deepest sympathy,” I said.

“Thanks. Oh, you got any plans for tomorrow? Thought maybe we could go to brunch.”

“Sure,” I said. “And you can give me a blow-by-blow of last night.”

He laughed. “How about I just give you a blow?”

“You got it!” I said. “Give me a call in the morning, and we'll set up the brunch details.”

“Will do. Later.”

*

Just as Jared's thesis refused to write itself, my apartment wasn't self-cleaning, so I reluctantly went into Saturday-chores mode. Actually, it was probably just as well, since the sound of the vacuum and the clatter of dishes in the sink tended, however briefly, to drown out thoughts of the case and distract me from trying to figure out what my gut hinted it knew but wouldn't tell me.

I was piling up clothes to take to the laundry when Tim returned my call. He sounded tired but happy.

“Sorry you couldn't join us last night, Dick,” he said.

“Not nearly as sorry as I am. I had to work on this damned case, which is just about
all
I've done since I took it. And your little bombshell yesterday really threw me.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Imagine what it must have done for the cops.”

“No doubt it's the same guy responsible?”

“Well, the cause of death was different in each case: Anderson choked to death, Billy suffocated, and the woman was stabbed. But my gut tells me it was the same guy.”

“Anything similar to the wedding ring thing with Anderson?” Part of me was sitting back listening to the other part of me, amazed at how matter-of-factly I could talk about such incomprehensible things.

“No, thank God.”

“And nothing new on Billy?”

“Yeah!” Tim said. “I'm sorry—I've been so damned busy. The ME is releasing Billy's body to his folks. Comparing blowups of that photo the cops got of the tattoo with the body is about as positive identification as they're going to get until the head and hands are found.” He paused. “But I've been thinking of something in regards to that tattoo.”

“What's that?” I asked, although the part of me that was sitting back didn't really want to know.

“If the purpose of cutting off the head and hands was to prevent identification, why didn't the killer slice off the tattoo?”

“Oversight?”

Tim sighed. “No, I don't think so. I think it was games.”

“
Games?
” I asked, incredulous.

There was another momentary pause.

“Remember, we're not exactly dealing with a poster boy for mental health here. I have no idea how this guy's mind works, but serial killers often play little games. That Anderson had his wedding ring shoved up his ass might have been the killer's way of showing his disapproval of bisexuals. He may have left Billy's tattoo so we would eventually be able to identify the body and know that he was gay. With the latest—the woman—who knows? Maybe he's telling us he's omnisexual, or just that he doesn't discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation.”

“Jeezus!”

“Hey,” Tim said, “I'm no psychiatrist. Who knows what this guy is doing, or why?”

As usual, he was right.

“I really appreciate everything you've done, Tim,” I said. “Can I buy you dinner tonight, by way of appreciation?”

He laughed, and once again I was struck by how easily he could switch between his work life and his personal life. In a job like his, it would almost have to be a necessary survival skill.

“Oh, sure, Hardesty! I read you like a book. What you really want is to take me out, get me drunk then have your vile, masculine, lustful way with me time and time again. What kind of guy do you think I am?”

“Well, we've already pretty much established that,” I said. “And of course you're right about my intentions. But that would be
after
dinner.”

He laughed again. “Actually, I'd love to,” he said, “but I'm afraid last night pretty well did me in for a while. I'm still walking bowlegged. Can I take a rain check?”

“Sure,” I said. “Listen, Jared wants to go to brunch tomorrow. You think you'd be up to it?”

“Up to brunch, probably. Up to the two of you again so soon, I doubt it.”

“Hey,” I protested, “we don't
have
to have another three-way.”

“Oh, yes, we do!” Tim said emphatically. “And damned soon. But I really do have something else I've got to do tomorrow—a birthday party for one of my god-kids. I'm due out in the suburbs at around one o'clock. That wouldn't give us nearly enough time…for brunch.”

“Okay,” I said. “You get some rest today and have fun tomorrow, and we'll get together whenever you can. And thanks again. As I may have mentioned a couple dozen times, I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“It's always nice to be appreciated,” he said. “Later, then.”

*

Not seeing any practical way to put off the inevitable, I slung the laundry bag over my shoulder, immediately having a physical
déjà vu
of being back in the navy, toting my seabag up the gangplank onto the
Ticonderog
a for the first time. Although the coin laundry I went to wasn't the closest one, I liked the people who owned it, and they had a seventeen-year-old son, Jeff, who not only was hot as hell but always came on to me pretty damned strong. He was way too young for me to even consider following up on it, of course, but my ego sure liked the stroking.

Sure enough, Jeff was on duty, and there was only one other customer in the place, just taking a load of wet laundry out of a machine. She carted it over to a dryer, tossed it in, fumbled in her pocket for change; then, when she was convinced the dryer would do its job, she picked up her clothesbasket and left.

Jeff, who'd given me a big grin when I walked in (which I, of course, returned strictly as a matter of common courtesy), watched carefully as I filled up two machines. Reaching into my pocket, I realized I'd forgotten to bring change.

Yeah, you “forgot,”
my mind said sarcastically.
Who do you think you're kidding?

I walked over to Jeff, whose eyes had never left me.

“Can I get some change, Jeff?” I asked, giving him a big smile.

His eyes dropped deliberately and obviously to my crotch.

“You can get anything you want,” he said, moving his eyes back up to mine.

Was I that subtle at that age?
I wondered.

“Thanks,” I said noncommittally. “The change'll do for now.”

I handed him a bill, and he opened the register, scooping up quarters with two fingers from one of the trays.

“My folks are gone for about an hour,” he said, carefully and slowly placing each coin into my outstretched hand, making sure his fingers touched my palm. “You want to come into the back room with me for a while?”

Yes! Yes! Yes!
yelled my crotch.

No! No! No!
countered my conscience.

“How old are you now, Jeff?”

“Nearly eighteen,” he said.

“Well, if you're still interested in three years, I'll be glad to take you up on that offer.”

As I returned to put the money in the machine, leaving Jeff looking disappointed at the counter, my little voice said,
Prick-teaser!

Hey,
I told it,
he's just a kid. He doesn't know he's prick-teasing.

Not him, stupid,
my mind said contemptuously.
You!

*

It being Saturday, and me being me, I knew I couldn't just sit home contemplating my navel—not when there was the possibility of contemplating someone else's. As so often was the case, I knew I didn't
have
to go out, but going out was more than just a perhaps too deeply-entrenched habit. It was my way of taking a much-needed break from thinking continuously about the case.

I gave Phil a call to see how he was doing and whether he knew when Billy's body was being released. He said he had talked with Billy's folks, that he was driving out to see them and take them some of Billy's things, and that he'd call me when he got back

That pretty much put a damper on my urge to go out, but I decided I really had to have some time away from the case. After debating the pros and cons, I thought I might just swing by Ramón's for the start of their happy hour then go to the store for the week's groceries. Maybe a quick one at happy hour would satisfy my need for a Saturday bar fix, and I then could just go home and relax for a change. Fat chance, but…

I got to Ramón's at around 5:30 and was rather surprised to see so many people already there. I took a stool fairly close to the front door, just at the end of the bar, which provided me a good vantage point to play my little observation game.

I like to pick out someone I don't know, at random, and see what I can figure out about them just by watching. Their body language, the way they laugh, whether they smoke or not, whether they're right or left handed—stuff like that. Like I said, I get a kick out of the little things in life.

I ordered my usual Old Fashioned, and Bob, who was doubling as bartender, and I had a chance to exchange little snatches of conversation whenever he had a spare minute. Bob told me he had asked Mario to move in with him, which delighted me—I really liked Mario and knew he was good for Bob. It was a major step in Bob's healing process after the death in a fire of his lover Ramón and a sign that, while Ramón would always be part of him, he could at last let him go and move on with his life.

I took my time nursing my drink, relieved to find that my mind had shifted into neutral and I had actually gone more than ten minutes without once thinking about Billy or Stuart Anderson or the Glicks, or—

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find Aaron, all in black and looking sexy as hell, smiling at me.

“Hi, Aaron!”

On the one hand, I was unhappy to be plunged right back into the pool I'd been trying so hard to climb out of. On the other hand, he
was
looking sexy as all hell.
Crotch: 1, Mind: 0.

He sat on the empty stool beside me and waved at Bob, who came right over.

“What'll it be, Aaron?” he asked. That Bob knew his name implied Aaron was becoming something of a regular.

“Pabst…no glass.”

Bob nodded and went to the beer cooler just down the bar.

When Aaron had been served and given Bob his money, I asked, “Not working tonight?”

“Yeah,” he said, taking a long drink of his beer. “I've got a client later on tonight, around eight-thirty. Still plenty of time for you and me to get it on,” he added with a grin.

So much for foreplay.

“Aren't you afraid I'd tucker you out? You wouldn't want to shortchange the paying customers,” I said.

He grinned. “Takes a hell of a lot to tucker
me
out,” he said. “And besides, no problem, in this case. The guy's a regular, and all he wants is for me to tie him to the bed, slap him around a little bit, and tell him what I'm going to do to him—I'm king of the dirty-talkers, by the way. I never have to actually
do
anything—just thinking about it gets him so worked up he goes off like a rocket. I don't touch him, he doesn't touch me. I untie him, he gets dressed, pays me, and I go home.”

“Interesting job,” I observed.

“You have no idea,” he said, smiling. “Anything happening with Billy?” he asked, after taking another long swallow from his beer.

I told him about Billy's body being released. I didn't know if he was aware of the latest murder and didn't want to muddy the waters by asking him.

He shrugged. “Really tough for his folks. And Phil, I know.”

“What did you think of their relationship—Billy's and Phil's, I mean.”

He shrugged again. “I dunno, really. Phil seemed to be pretty protective of Billy—not jealous but like he thought he was Billy's big brother. Billy went along with it, and in his own way, he tried to look out for Phil, too. I think Billy was a lot more street-smart than Phil or any of the rest of us gave him credit for. He could take care of himself.”