The Hired Man (26 page)

I could almost hear Tim's mind saying:
Oh, yeah!
but he said simply, “Sure. How about you, Dick?”

“Tim,” I said, “your ability to call out for Chinese food is legendary! How could I refuse?”

I dropped them off near their cars, waved “so long” to Phil, then waited while Tim pulled out of his parking space and followed him to his apartment.

“Phil's really a nice guy, isn't he?” Tim asked casually as we stood in front of his door while he rosaried his key chain looking for the right one.

“That he is,” I said. “It appeared he thinks the same thing about you.”

He shot me a quick look out of the corner of his eye as inserted the proper key into the lock, turned it, and opened the door.

“Think so?”

“Yep.”

We both grinned.

*

Dos Equis beer, sweet and sour shrimp, snow peas and water chestnuts, and mounds of white rice soaked in soy sauce—they don't make gourmet meals any better. Tim and I sat cross-legged on the floor at his coffee table, eating and talking and laughing. No ModelMen, no murders. All in all, a damned nice day.

And when Tim, ever the gentleman, invited me to a little impromptu overnight pajama party (sans pajamas), it was a damned nice night, too.

Chapter 11

I was a little late getting to the office Monday morning, having needed to run home from Tim's to change clothes. There was a message waiting for me from Lt. Richman. Short and simple: “Captain Offermann and I would like to see you as soon as you can get here.”

Not good.

I didn't even take the time to drink my coffee, just put the lid back on and carried it out the door.

I was about halfway to the City Building Annex when I realized I didn't know where Captain Offermann's office was and whether Lt. Richman would be there or in his own office. I really didn't want to just walk in on Captain Offermann by myself: I still didn't feel totally comfortable around him.

I checked on the office roster by the elevators to find Captain Offermann was on the 18th floor, so I punched the button for Lt. Richman's floor first, hoping he might be in his office. If he wasn't, I'd go on up to Offermann's and take my chances.

I knocked on Richman's door, and there was no response. Opening it, I looked in to find the office empty. Sighing, I closed it again and returned to the elevator.

I was impressed to find that Captain Offermann's office had a small anteroom, complete with a secretary—a lady of a certain age with hair so jet black it had to have been dyed, and flaming red lipstick. I announced myself and she picked up a phone to let Offermann know I'd arrived.

“You can go right in,” she said without a smile—apparently public servants are not required to smile if they don't feel like it—nodding to the only other door in the room. Taking a deep breath, I rapped once with my knuckle, then opened the door and entered.

Offermann, all Teutonic six-feet-something of him, got up from his desk and extended his hand, which I walked across the room to take. I don't know why, but every time I looked at that man I kept hearing “Deutschland Uber Alles” in the back of my head. No sign of Richman, I was sorry to notice.

Offermann gestured me to a seat and said, “Lieutenant Richman will be here shortly.”

To my relief, he'd no sooner said it and sat down when Richman rapped on the door and entered, carrying a large envelope he handed to Captain Offermann before taking the seat beside me. He hadn't even acknowledged my presence. Definitely not good.

Offermann opened the envelope, removed a photograph, looked at it a moment, then slid it across the desk toward me. I leaned forward to take it, although I already knew what it was—a ModelMen head shot of Phil.

“Would you care to explain?” Offermann asked.

“I'm sorry?” I said. “Explain what?”

“The man in the photo.”

“It's Phil Stark,” I said, hoping I looked puzzled.

“We showed this photo to several people at the Montero,” Richman said. “They identified Mr. Stark as the man seen frequently in the company of Stuart Anderson. Stuart Anderson was your client. Mr. Stark is your friend. Stuart Anderson is dead.”

“Have you talked with Mr. Stark about this?” I asked.

“We're interviewing him now,” Richman said. “I noticed that Mr. Stark is a pretty big guy, and I'd wager his feet are considerably larger than Anderson's.”

Shit! The guy seen leaving the garage!
I was the one who'd mentioned to Richman that the guy had been wearing regular shoes, and speculated it was because his feet were probably larger than Anderson's.

I didn't panic, because I knew Phil's alibi was ironclad. But I didn't want Richman and Offermann to know I knew it.

“I'm sorry, gentlemen,” I said, “but I really don't know where this is going.”

Offermann sat back in his chair, his elbows on the arms, his hands about six inches in front of his face, fingertips touching.

“Mr. Steiner and Mr. Stark were…roommates. You were an acquaintance, if not a friend, of Mr. Steiner. Mr. Steiner is dead. Mr. Anderson is dead.”

“Did you know Mr. Stark had been seeing Stuart Anderson?” Richman asked.

“Yes,” I admitted. “I told you Anderson had told me when he first came to my office that he'd been referred by a business acquaintance, but that he never said who it was. That's true. I only found out it was Phil…Mr. Stark…later.”

“And just what sort of business is Mr. Stark in?” Offermann demanded.

Walking-on-eggshells time!
I thought.

“As you already know, he's a professional model,” I said truthfully if evasively.

“And did you know he is also a male prostitute?”

Careful, Hardesty. Careful.

“I knew he had been a hustler, yes,” I said. “That's how we met, actually.”

“So, you frequent male prostitutes, do you, Mr. Hardesty?”

“No, I do not,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “I have never paid another man for sex. Phil and I met in a bar frequented by hustlers, near my office—”

“Hughie's,” Richman interjected, yet again impressing me with just how sharp he was.

“…but I have never given him money,” I continued honestly, “nor has he ever asked me for any. We became friends, although we hadn't seen one another for some time before Anderson showed up. In that time, Phil had managed to find a very legitimate and, I imagine, good-paying job as a model. He's gone far beyond the stage of having to hustle tricks in order to pay his rent.

“I don't think it inconceivable that his relationship with Mr. Anderson was based on friendship, and I can't imagine that either of you gentlemen would hold his past against him. I know that when I had dinner with the two of them, they seemed genuinely comfortable and friendly with one another. If their relationship went beyond that, I would consider that was their business.”

Oops!
I thought.
Crossed the line a little bit on that one. Hope they don't catch it!

As always when we were together, Richman never took his eyes off me.

Offermann's smile was not exactly what I would consider warm.

“An interesting story,” he said. “But I fear the line of coincidence can only be stretched so far. What of Mr. Steiner's murder, and the fact that he and Mr. Stark were…roommates?”

He did it again—that damned pause before “roommates,” as though he didn't believe it for a minute.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “I would be willing to stake my life on the fact that Phil's having known Stuart Anderson has absolutely no relationship whatsoever to his being roommates with and best friend to Billy Steiner, or with Billy's death. And while I agree that coincidences do make weak alibis, let me ask
you
how you can possibly relate the most recent death of the woman to the first two deaths? I certainly can't.”

Richman had never officially told me about the knife, after all.

Neither man said anything for a full minute. Then, Offermann said, “Very well, you can go…for now. But be aware we will be keeping a very close eye on you for your own protection. You do seem to have a penchant for becoming very directly involved with murderers.”

Whatever in hell
that
meant.

I got up from my chair, followed by Offermann and Richman, and shook hands with them both. I'd just about made it to the door when Richman said, “Just a minute, Dick. I'll ride down with you on the elevator.”

I stepped into the hall, leaving the door open, and heard a muffled exchange between the two officers. Then, Richman emerged and closed the door. We walked in silence to the elevators, and as the door opened, he said, “Let's stop by my office for a minute, okay?”

“Sure,” I said.
Part one of interrogation completed; part two beginning
.

Again silence until we entered his office and he closed the door, motioning me to a chair. He walked around behind his desk and sat down.

“Okay,” he said. “You want to tell me what's going on?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off.

“I've gone way out on a limb for you more than once,” he said, “but I've played a few games of dodgeball in my day, and I know it when I see it. Do you think I don't know about your contact in the coroner's office? You know damned well the knife stolen from Anderson's room was used to kill Laurie Travers.”

“No, as a matter of fact I hadn't known that!”

“That was either one of the stupidest moves ever made or the killer damned well wanted us to know the killings are linked.”

“Captain Offermann is no dummy, either, and you can be damned sure that if we'd caught you in one outright lie up there, your ass would be in a cell right now. Now we can either talk, or you can get the hell out of my office.”

Hey, he had a right to be pissed.

“You're right, Lieutenant,” I started. “I know you've been a lot more supportive than just about anybody else in the department would have been, and maybe that's part of it. I trust you, but I'm not too sure where Captain Offermann stands. I know you've got a job to do, and a damned important one. But I've got a job to do, too. Now
I'm
going to go out on a limb with
you
and hope to God I'm doing the right thing.”

I told him about ModelMen's escort branch, and the Glicks' having hired me to protect ModelMen's interests, and their sincere concern for what was happening, and that they weren't a couple of sleezebag pimps taking advantage of either their clients or their escorts. I admitted to playing the semantics game occasionally, but that, as an employee of ModelMen, Phil was not technically a hustler. And I told him again, and truthfully, that I wasn't sure yet what the murder of the prostitute meant in the overall scheme of the case, but that I sincerely hoped to find out.

“Now, again,” I pointed out, “no one can stop you from having the department step right in and take over the whole case, starting from scratch, or we can continue to work parallel. You know as well as I that if I'd mentioned ModelMen and its escort branch immediately, some of your colleagues would have turned it into a circus. Finding the murderer would take poor second to rooting out which rich married men are paying other men for sex.

“The Glicks have promised me they and the escorts will cooperate fully in exchange for not having to reveal the names of their clients. What possible good could come from ruining the reputations of a lot of decent men whose only crime is in perhaps not being one-hundred percent heterosexual?”

Richman sat staring at me as though he were carved in stone. After a good sixty seconds of silence, he said, “I don't know if I can do that. I'm not in the homicide division, as you know.”

“Yes, but Captain Offermann obviously listens to you and trusts your judgment. So, can you try?” I asked. “All my clients and I want is for the police to not go charging into matters that do not directly relate to the case. By all means, interview the Glicks and the escorts. If your investigation of the prost…of Laurie Travers'…death leads you back to ModelMen, so be it. And if anything I find out from anyone associated with ModelMen should lead to her, I give you my word I'll tell you immediately. What do you have to lose?”

I stopped talking, and I swear it seemed so quiet I could have heard a mouse sneeze. The silence was finally broken by the ringing of the phone on Richman's desk.

He picked it up, still staring at me, and said, “Lieutenant Richman.” Silence, still staring, then: “Thank you,” and he replaced the receiver into its cradle. He sat back in his chair. “Glen O'Banyon, huh?”

I wasn't exactly sure whether he was referring to Phil's alibi or the sudden linkage of the case to one of the most powerful lawyers in the city, but I nodded.

“I'll talk to the captain,” he said, “but no guarantees.”