The Hired Man (27 page)

“That's all I can ask for,” I said. “And again, thank you.” There was another long silence. “Can I go now?”

Richman slowly nodded, and I got up and reached across his desk to shake hands. Neither of us said another word, and I turned and left.

*

From a corner phone booth, I called Glen O'Banyon's office. Donna said he was in court but was expected back within the hour. I asked her to please have him call me the minute he got in.

Back in the office, I made a couple quick calls, first to Phil (no answer; I couldn't imagine the police would still be questioning him, but…), then to the Glicks' home. Johnnie Mae said they were both at the office, where I managed to speak to Mr. Glick and fill him in briefly on my meeting with Richman and Offermann. I suggested they prepare the escorts.

Then I plopped down in my chair and waited for O'Banyon's call.

While I waited, I went mental fishing, trying to hook those elusive thoughts that kept darting back and forth beneath the surface of my consciousness. The police knew nothing, as far as I could tell, about Matt Rushmore, but there was only an outside chance it wouldn't come up at some point. I
had
to find out more about him and his relationship with Gary, and Gary's relationship with Iris. I'd gotten some very strange signals from Gary on that latter score and wondered whether the relationship was quite as rosy as it appeared. It struck me that someone whose mother had abandoned him as a child might well hold considerable resentment against her.

Sometimes thinking too much is self-defeating. There are just too many thoughts, too many questions…and too few answers. It boiled down to two extremely obvious—well, obvious to me, at any rate—conclusions. Either Anderson's and Billy's deaths were coincidental to their links to ModelMen, and the death of Laurie Travers meant the killer was a faceless, unknown and unknowable psycho, or Laurie Travers' death was somehow tied in to ModelMen. If that were the case, it was pretty obvious—maybe too obvious—that the killer was bisexual. And since Gary was openly bi, that pointed directly to him.

Once again, Thoreau was right, “Circumstantial evidence is finding a trout in the milk.”

That said, Gary didn't strike me as being particularly stupid. He could see the bisexual implications of the murders as clearly as anyone. So, why would he go out of his way to tell me that Matt, the other “obvious” bisexual and, therefore, the other obvious suspect,
wasn't
really bisexual? I mean, if I were Gary and I was the killer, I'd be pulling other bisexuals out of the woodwork to get the focus off myself. He
did
make that comment about “It's the ones you don't know you should worry about.”

Aaron? Just because he's butch? Does that mean somewhere in the back of my mind I equated being butch with being bisexual? Lavender isn't exactly
my
favorite color, either, but I know I'm sure as hell not bi. How about Steve? That thing about his wife not letting him screw around with other women was hardly enough to rule him out.

Give it a rest, Hardesty,
I thought.

Luckily for me, the phone rang before I decided I was definitely in the wrong profession.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Dick, it's Glen. Sorry I didn't call you the minute I got back to the office, but I had to give priority to a call from Captain Offermann.”

“Everything okay, then, with Phil?” I asked. “I tried calling him when I got back from a meeting with Richman and Offermann, but he wasn't home yet.”

“I know,” O'Banyon said. “Apparently, they were waiting for my verification of his alibi before they released him. He should be home now.”

I breathed a small sigh of relief.

“Good,” I said. I filled him in on my meeting with Offermann and then Richman, and told him I'd called the Glicks to prepare them.

“I appreciate that,” he said. “They're next on my call list. I told Captain Offermann I wanted to be present when the Glicks are questioned. I've been in trial all week, but fortunately, it wrapped up this morning.” There was a pause. “And have you found out anything more about these killings?”

It was my turn for a pause.

“Nothing at all solid, I'm afraid,” I said truthfully. “Lots and lots of ideas and hunches and loose ends that are driving me crazy, though. Par for the course.”

“Well, maybe we could get together for dinner some night, and you could bounce them off me.”

“Thanks, I'd appreciate that,” I said.

*

Eggshell walking is for the graceful, for the light of foot. I, alas, am neither. I had early in life given up any idea of seeking a career in the diplomatic corps, realizing I could probably quite easily manage to bring us into a war with Canada.

So, how to do what had to be done? How to ask Matt and Gary, “Hey, did either of you two guys happen to murder three people?” Or to ask Iris Glick, “So, after you dumped your kid and took off, how are you two getting along?”

Well, I'd tiptoed around the subject with both Gary and Matt at one time or another. I'd never really had the chance to talk with Mrs. Glick about her past and what, really, she knew about her little boy. I decided to start there.

I first called Phil to see how his interrogation had gone. Sure enough, the minute they found out Glen O'Banyon was his alibi for the night of Anderson's murder, they took on a different tone. When they asked, a little hesitantly, if O'Banyon had paid him for sex, Phil did a little tap dancing of his own; he told them no, which was technically true, since all financial transactions were handled through ModelMen. Glen O'Banyon's reputation as a top-flight lawyer overpowered even the fact of his being a fag.

And, of course, they made it clear that, even though Phil had an airtight alibi for the time of Anderson's murder, he still wasn't out of the running when it came to Billy's death or, for some totally inexplicable reason, Laurie Travers'.

With mild trepidation, I dialed the Glicks' and asked Johnnie Mae if Mrs. Glick was by chance home yet.

“Why, yes, she is, Mr. Hardesty. She just came in. Just one moment, and I'll get her for you.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Mrs. Glick's voice.

“Mr. Hardesty…what can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you'd been contacted by the police yet?” I asked, although that wasn't the real reason for the call, of course.

“My husband and I are meeting Mr. O'Banyon at police headquarters at nine-thirty tomorrow.”

“Ah.”
Ah? That's all you can say: Ah?
Get on with it, stupid!
“I was wondering if it would be possible for you to talk with me privately for a few minutes between now and then.”

“Privately?” Her voice reflected just the slightest note of suspicion. “I…I suppose so. Yes, of course. Mr. Glick has some business to attend to this afternoon, so if you'd like to come by now, we have time for a brief chat.”

“I'd really appreciate that, Mrs. Glick,” I said. “I'll come right over, if that's convenient.”

“Yes. Of course. I'll see you shortly, then.”

We exchanged goodbyes and hung up. The fact that she hadn't asked the purpose of the meeting made me think perhaps she already knew it.

*

Johnnie Mae greeted me at the door and showed me into the vast living room I had only briefly glimpsed in my previous visits. Mrs. Glick was standing with her back to me near one of the large French doors that opened onto a large terrace. Exactly what she was doing, other than to recreate a scene from dozens of Hollywood movies, I had no idea.

She turned as I entered the room and came over to greet me and usher me to one of two cream-colored settees flanking a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. The settees were so far apart each had its own matching coffee table, and I was concerned that if she were to sit opposite me, we'd have to use semaphore to communicate.

Instead, she joined me on the one facing the terrace doors. She turned slightly toward me and smiled. Did I detect just a touch of sadness in it?

“How can I help you, Mr. Hardesty?”

I took a mental deep breath and dove in.

“I hope you'll excuse me if what I'm about to say intrudes upon your privacy, but there is certain information I really need, and you are the only one who can supply it.”

She reached out and touched my hand, as if in sympathy.

“I understand.”

I suspected again she knew exactly where this conversation was going, but before I had a chance to continue, Johnnie Mae entered with a sterling silver tray upon which were a sterling silver coffee server, a matching creamer and sugar bowl, and two cups and saucers so fragile-looking they were almost transparent. She set the tray on the table in front of us, smiled, turned and left without a word.

“Please, continue,” Mrs. Glick said, leaning forward to pour our coffee.

I waited for a moment, watching her graceful pouring ritual, and gathering my thoughts, then said, “I need to know more about Gary—specifically about his relationship with Matt and his relationship with you.”

Without turning her head, she darted her eyes to mine then went back to the coffee server, which she carefully replaced on the tray.

“Gary's my son, you know,” she said, handing me a cup and saucer, her eyes on mine again.

Well,
that
certainly cut to the chase
, I thought.

“Yes, I know,” I said. I wondered how she knew I knew.

“I was sure you did,” she said, “and therefore thought I'd spare you the possible embarrassment of having to ask.” She took a sip of her coffee, set the cup carefully on the saucer, and moved back slightly on the settee. “I was thirteen.” She shook her head slightly, as if she couldn't quite believe it herself. “Thirteen. Gary's father was a roustabout in a carnival that played our local county fair. I never saw him again, of course, and never even knew his last name.

“There was never a question about abortion. What I'd done was scandalous enough; an abortion would have been unthinkable. And of course, everyone in town knew. I'm rather surprised now, looking back, that I wasn't required to wear a scarlet A on my clothes.

“To say that life was difficult for me is an understatement. A thirteen-year-old girl with a baby, in a small town in Nebraska, in those days! My parents never again looked me directly in the eye.

“I stood it as long as I could…until I was sixteen. I got a job as a waitress at a truck stop on the interstate about five miles south of town, and one day I just asked one of the truckers for a ride, and that was that. I couldn't take Gary. I knew my parents would look after him, and that he'd be much better off with them.”

We drank our coffee in silence for a moment. I sensed it wasn't necessary for me to say anything, and that she'd get on with her story in due time.

Finally, setting her cup and saucer on the tray, she again settled back on the settee and continued.

“I was sixteen, pretty, and though I'd never finished high school, I wasn't stupid. I ended up in Las Vegas, where I lied about my age and got a job in a casino. I worked hard, saved my money, took a correspondence course to get my high school diploma, then started taking courses at CCSN.” She gestured toward my still-half-full coffee cup. “More coffee?”

“No, thanks,” I said, not wanting to distract her.

She gave a fleeting little smile then continued her story.

“A little more than three years ago, there was a knock at my door.” She paused, and her voice quivered ever so slightly as she said, “and I opened it to see this absolutely beautiful young man standing there. I had no idea who he was, until he said, ‘I'm Gary.'” She looked away, then turned her head slightly and wiped at her eyes quickly with one hand.

“How had he found you?” I asked, not because I didn't think she was going to tell me but just to give her a moment to compose herself.

She took a long, slow inhale, squared her shoulders almost imperceptibly, and took up her story.

“One of the truckers I'd known when I worked at the truck stop had happened to see me in a show I was doing. By that time, I was pretty much out of the show scene but had been filling in as a last-minute replacement for one of the girls who'd gotten ill. Anyway, how he ever managed to recognize me out of those dozens of other girls onstage I have no idea, but when he passed through Nebraska, he told everyone at the truck stop, and somehow the word got to Gary, and he came looking for me.”

“You'd not been in contact in all those years?”

She shook her head. “No. Not once. There wasn't a day I didn't think about him, and wonder how he was and what he was doing, but I figured I had hurt him enough by leaving. I didn't want to remind him of it. And I'd managed to almost convince myself that maybe he didn't remember me, or didn't care.

“But here he was. He had no job, so I insisted he move in with me. I'd started an informal school for showgirls and others who wanted to improve themselves and their social skills. Gary began telling people we were brother and sister rather than try to explain our closeness in age. I got him a job selling insurance with a…friend…who was an executive at an insurance company. Gary had worked in insurance back home both before and after he got out of the service. He'd become one of their top salesmen.”