The Hired Man (21 page)

I shook my head and paused a second before saying, “Apparently not.”

Aaron took another swig of beer and looked away.

“Yeah,” he said.

I finished my Old Fashioned, and Aaron, noticing it, chug-a-lugged the rest of his beer.

“So,” he said, “you wanna come over and see my…” A significant pause while one hand dropped to his crotch. “…place?”

As Oscar Wilde said: “
I can resist anything but temptation.
”

*

I will admit, it was different. Not at all bad. True to his advertising, Aaron liked to play rough, but nothing I couldn't handle—and return in kind, which seemed to turn him on. I think he was pretty good at sensing my limits, and he never tried to push them. I even asked him for a sample of his “dirty talk” while I was…um…otherwise occupied, and I must say he did have a way with words.

As we were standing in the shower afterwards—we both sure needed it, and there's no point in wasting water—I forced myself to shift back into work gear for a moment. I asked Aaron if, since our talk after dinner Friday night, he'd thought of anything more about Billy or that might be helpful.

He turned me around so he could soap my back.

“Not really. Except, as I said earlier, I always got the feeling there was a lot more to Billy than he let on.”

I turned around to face him and let the water rinse my back, our chests touching.

“Such as?”

“Hard to say. Just a feeling. One thing was I think he really got a kick out of being a prick-teaser, and he was damned good at it. He was just playing, most of the time, but I could see where some guys might take it the wrong way and think he was more interested than he was.”

That did open up another avenue of possibilities. Maybe Billy had played his game with the wrong guy, and it cost him his life. If that were true, his date for the evening could be pretty much ruled out—you don't usually prick-tease a date. But somebody he saw on his way there, or on his way home…

Damn!

*

Sunday went by relatively fast, smoothly, and enjoyably, with only an occasional parking-brake slowdown whenever my mind decided to think about the case. Brunch was nice, as always, and Jared and I knew each other well enough by this time to have become good friends. Afterwards, we went by my place for a different but equally enjoyable form of communication.

He had to leave early to get home to work on his doctoral thesis. I didn't bother to get fully dressed—just threw on a pair of cutoffs and enjoyed the all-too-rare sensation of being sinfully decadent.

Phil called in the early evening after he got home from being with Billy's parents. It had been a pretty rough time, I gathered. Fortunately, Billy's folks had been totally supportive of his being gay, so Phil didn't have to do too much evading or outright lying about his and Billy's relationship. As far as his folks knew, Billy was a model and nothing more.

The body was to be cremated Monday, and a simple memorial service held the following Saturday at the little church Billy's family had belonged to since he was a kid. Phil asked if I'd like to go with him to the service, and I was touched that he'd ask me. I said of course.

Chapter 9

The minute I walked in the office on Monday, I went directly to the phone to call Lt. Richman, not even bothering to take the lid off the jumbo Styrofoam cup of coffee I'd picked up from the diner in the lobby. I knew he might very well not even be in yet, but I couldn't have just sat around waiting.

Luckily, when the receiver was picked up on the other end, I heard the familiar “Lieutenant Richman.”

“Lieutenant—Dick.”

I hoped he knew which Dick, since I was just a tad paranoid about having my full name become too well known around police headquarters. I had no reason to think anyone would be listening but, hey, it
was
police headquarters and I said I was paranoid.

“I saw the paper,” I said, again not being specific, “and noticed that development you were referring to Friday. Is there any chance of our getting together to talk?”

There was a pause, then: “We're really pretty busy around here.” Another pause. “Do you still go to Sandler's for lunch?”

Aha!
I thought.
Maybe I'm not the only one a little bit paranoid.

I'd never been to Sandler's for lunch, but since we'd met there a couple times for breakfast, I got the message.

“Yeah,” I said. “Regular as clockwork…noon every day.”

“Well, maybe I'll see you there one of these days. Sorry, but I've got a meeting in about two minutes, so have to run.”

“No problem,” I said. “Take care.”

*

Finding a place to park near Sandler's at 7:00 a.m. was one thing, finding a place to park at noon was something entirely different. Finally, I gave up in disgust and pulled into a public parking garage, one of those that charge so much the guy in the booth taking your money should be wearing a mask and carrying a gun.

By the time I found a parking place—I went up and down every aisle for three levels before I found one—I practically had to sprint to the restaurant in order to make it on time. Not to worry, though. Richman was nowhere in sight.

I found a booth within easy sight of the door and sat facing it. The waiter came, and I told him I was expecting someone momentarily but that I'd have some coffee while I waited. I was on the end of my second cup and debating whether I should order or just leave when Lt. Richman walked in the door. He was in civvies, like the day I'd met him in Warman Park, and once again, as I watched him approach, I speculated on the gay world's loss when Richman took out his Breeder's permit.

We shook hands as he sat down.

“Sorry,” he said, “the meeting ran a lot longer than I expected, and I'd planned to go to the gym at lunch today.”

“Well, I'm sorry if I screwed up your plans,” I said, “but I really do appreciate your seeing me.”

The waiter arrived with water for the lieutenant and a full coffee carafe.

“Do you have any idea what the hell is going on?” Richman asked as the waiter left and we studied our menus.

“Uh…no.” I was a little surprised by the question. “I was hoping maybe you did.” I resisted adding, “You
are
the police, you know.”

Richman shook his head.

“We had a pretty good idea when it was just the two men,” he said, “but with the prostitute…”

“She was a prostitute, then?” I asked. “How can you be sure? I gather the M.O. was the same as with Billy, which would leave her without a head or hands.”

“Mmmm,” Richman replied, stirring about a quarter-cup of sugar into his coffee. “She was found in a Dumpster in an alley well known to be a place hookers take their johns, and like Steiner, she had a small tattoo—hers was on her ankle—some of the other girls were able to identify. So the positive ID will be a little easier than it was with Steiner.”

“Any evidence she'd had sex with her killer?”

“Pretty hard to say, but there was no evidence of semen, if that's what you mean. He could have worn a condom, of course, and she'd apparently had sex at some point during the evening, but whether with her killer or not, we can't say.”

I immediately thought of Tim's speculation about Billy and why the killer hadn't removed his tattoo. I did think I should at least mention it to Richman albeit in a roundabout way.

“I'm curious,” I said, “if there's any significance to the fact the killer goes to all the trouble of decapitating and taking the hands of his victims but leaves something so obviously identifying as a tattoo.”

The waiter brought our lunch, and we began to eat, although talk of decapitations always tends to make me less hungry than I might have been. It didn't seem to slow Richman down, though. He dug in with gusto.

“We wondered about that, too,” he said, scooping a forkful of meatloaf through the little lake of gravy sunk into the mound of mashed potatoes. “Still not sure with Steiner, but with the prostitute, Laurie Travers, the tattoo was on her ankle, and the killer may very well not have even known it was there.”

“And no leads?” I nudged.

“None that I can talk about,” he said, which, from his tone of voice, meant “None.”

We ate in silence—well, Richman ate, and I concentrated on getting three peas and a kernel of corn out of my mashed potatoes and moving them back to the corner of the plate where they belonged.

“So,” I asked, “what does this do to your gay homophobe theory?”

His head was bent down in anticipation of another forkful of meatloaf, but he paused the fork in midair and, without moving his head, glanced up at me through his eyelashes.

“As I recall, that was your theory, too,” he said.

Touché!

“So, where
are
the police on this, if I may ask.”

“We're really not sure,” Richman admitted. “I think we all recognized when Steiner was killed that we have an apprentice serial killer out there, and we were prepared for the idea that he wouldn't stop at two. But serial killers almost always stick to one gender. This is a new one for us.” He scooped up the last dab of mashed potatoes, laid his fork on the plate and pushed it to one side. “But tell me,” he said after wiping his mouth with his napkin and laying it beside the plate. “You're the man with the hunches and the gut feelings. What are they telling you?”

I realized they had, indeed, been whispering some things between themselves but not loudly enough so I could make it out yet. I shook my head.

“Sorry,” I said, “nothing's coming through at the moment. I was as thrown by this latest victim as I'm sure the police are.”

“Do you think there might be anything in the fact that one victim was bi, one gay, and one straight?” he asked, pouring another cup of coffee for both of us.

“I thought about that, yeah. But if he's doing a Whitman's Sampler of sexual orientation, he's running out of possibilities—unless a lesbian is the next victim, and I sure as hell hope not. Three is three too many.”

The waiter came by to pick up the dishes and leave the check, which I grabbed before Richman could.

“My turn,” I said. “I'll take it out of
my
informant's fund.”

He grinned. “Okay, but let me get the tip.” He reached into his wallet for some singles.

As we got up from the booth and headed for the register at the front, he said, “You'll let me know when your hunches kick in, won't you?”

“You got it.”

We went out into the street, shook hands, exchanged goodbyes, and went our separate ways. I realized about halfway to my car that I hadn't even mentioned ModelMen.

*

Richman's reference to my hunches had forced me to zero in on whatever it was I sensed was going on. Richman was right—from everything I'd read about serial killings, almost without exception where sex is an element, the killer, whatever his warped motives, concentrates exclusively on one gender.

Which lead me to another possibility. Could the latest victim's being a woman be a red herring? Maybe the murderer wasn't a bisexual with some serious identity issues but a gay who killed the woman to make it appear he was bi. What better way to throw the cops off-balance? A variation on the old “Oh, he's married…he can't be gay!” ploy. Richman had said there was no evidence of semen—not conclusive that sex hadn't been involved, of course, but…

Regardless, the one thing that kept rising to the top, no matter how hard or how often I stirred the pot, was the strong feeling there was somehow, somewhere, a definite link to ModelMen. So, the first obvious step was to check which, if any, of ModelMen's escorts might be bi.

Since Matt Rushmore was bi, and Aaron had been selected to replace him…

*

Rather than approach Aaron or any of the others directly, I thought it might be a good idea to check with Phil first, on the grounds that he would know. As soon as I got back to the office, I called him. The phone was answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Phil, hi. How are you doing?”

“Fine, Dick. But I'm just on my way out the door to meet a client.”

I was a little surprised.

“Back to work already?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I can't just sit around here for the rest of my life. The bills have to be paid. I told the Glicks yesterday I was ready to get back to work. They were a little hesitant, but this morning they called and said they'd gotten a request from one of my regulars for this afternoon, so I took it.”

“Any idea what time you might be done? There's something I want to talk to you about.”

There was a slight pause. “It's quarter to two now. I've got to meet him at the El Cordoba at two-thirty. I should be through around four. You want to meet me at Hughie's around then, or do you want me to come over to your office?”