The Hired Man (34 page)

“Your place is fine. I can meet you there in half an hour.”

“Fine,” I said and heard him hang up before I could give him my address.

Like you think for one minute he doesn't know it?
my mind asked, and I realized that of course he did. Richman was no dummy. I wondered what else he knew about me I didn't know he knew.

*

Traffic was a bitch, and I'd barely gotten into my apartment when the buzzer rang—the good lieutenant, I guessed…rightly.

I'd been very curious ever since he'd called as to
why
he'd called. Obviously, he wanted something from me…but what? Whether he was here on his own or as some sort of envoy for Captain Offermann, I wasn't sure, although I had my suspicions.

Well, I'd soon find out.

A glance at the answering machine showed I had messages, but I didn't have a chance to check them before there was a knock on my door. Seeing Richman standing there in all his civvied glory set off a little flash-powder
poof!
of erotic fantasy, but even I knew this wasn't the time for it.

We did our customary handshake, and closing the door behind him, I gestured him to a seat.

“Are you officially on duty,” I asked, “or can I offer you a drink?”

He shook his head as he settled into my favorite chair. He sure looked like he belonged there, and I had to shut the door tight on the my-little-fantasies toy box.

“I'm just on my way home,” he said, “so while I'm not officially on duty, I'd better not. Maybe next time.”

Next time!
I could almost hear the fantasies beating on the lid of the box, wanting to get out.

I sat on the sofa facing him, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, my hands folded.

“So, what can I do for you?”

He was silent for a moment, staring at me as he always did. I assumed he probably did that with everyone.

“We did arrest Gary Bancroft,” he said, “but I'll wager we won't be able to hold him long with Glen O'Banyon on the case.”

“Then why did you arrest him?” I asked. “Obviously, you have more than…” I almost said “than the fact he drives a silver Porsche” but caught myself in time. I didn't want to remind Richman I'd never told him Gary drove a silver sports car. “…circumstantial evidence.”

He suppressed a very slight smile, and his eyes never left my face.

“Okay, Dick,” he said, “I'm not sure when we're going to stop playing these little games with one another. I know you knew about Bancroft's car, and I'm not particularly happy that you didn't tell me, but the fact is we need your input on this whole mess. You know Bancroft, you know O'Banyon, you're a friend of Stark's, you're working for the Glicks, and you knew Anderson and Steiner. You know just about everybody involved in this case, you know them a hell of a lot better than we do,
and
this whole thing is interwoven within the gay community—not to mention the bisexual community, if there is such a thing. We're like Alice at the tea party here, and you're the White Rabbit.”

“Nice analogy,” I said, and we exchanged a quick smile.

“Well, you know what I mean,” he said. “And our problem is what it has always been. The police department is simply not as qualified as it needs to be for dealing with the gay community. You aren't a member of the force, but you're our closest link with the community. So—and this goes no further than the two of us, understood?”

I nodded.

“I've been authorized to let you in on certain facts in exchange for your honest input.”

I sat back on the sofa and crossed my legs, my right ankle on my left knee.

“Go ahead.”

Richman took a deep breath.

“I suspect you already know a lot of this, but we'll go through it from the top so as not to miss anything.

“Gary Bancroft knew Stuart Anderson and had…spent time with him. A set of very expensive knives was given to Stuart Anderson by a supplier the night he died but was missing from his room when his body was found.

“Judging from his car and where he lives, Bancroft obviously has pretty expensive tastes. He was seen picking up Laurie Travers the night she was killed. One of the hookers who had seen Laurie get into the car thought she remembered two numbers from the license plate. Two random numbers out of seven didn't do us much good, but when we finally found out yesterday afternoon, no thanks to you, I might add, that Bancroft had a silver Porsche, those two numbers just happened to match two of the numbers on his plates.

“Travers was stabbed with a very expensive knife from the same manufacturer of the set taken from Anderson's room, which was conveniently left near her body. There were no prints on the knife, of course, which made us wonder why the killer would bother to wipe the murder weapon clean and then leave it where it could be found.” He paused. “Following me so far?”

“Every step of the way,” I said, uncrossing my legs.

“Good. Based on the identification of Bancroft's car, we got a search warrant for his apartment yesterday afternoon, as you undoubtedly know. However, what you probably don't know is that we were able to search the Dumpsters behind Bancroft's building. Thanks to the sanitation workers' strike, they hadn't been emptied since the morning after Laurie Travers was found.”

He looked at me with another slight smile. “Would you care to guess what we found in one of them?”

I hoped I looked appropriately puzzled, largely because I fairly well was.

“A red leather case designed for a set of six Antonio Vivace knives. There were only five knives in the case.”

I've got to hand it to you, Richman,
I thought.
You sure do know how to work a crowd.

“So, you arrested Gary.” I could hear the cell doors slamming shut behind him.

“It seemed like the logical thing to do,” he said dryly. “As I say, O'Banyon will probably have him out in a matter of hours. But if, as we suspect, his pillows turn out to be eiderdown…”

“What does eiderdown have to do with it?” I asked, thoroughly puzzled.

“A piece of eiderdown was found in Billy Steiner's mouth.”

He sighed again and shifted his position in the chair.

“However,” he continued, “the knife case had no fingerprints on it, which strikes me as more than just a little odd. We're doing further testing now, of course, but if, indeed, there are no prints, O'Banyon will be able to get Bancroft released just on that. Especially now with this new element.”

“And that element is?” I felt rather like one of Socrates' students, prompting the master along. (
“Tell us, Socrates…”
)

“Matt Rushmore,” he said. “There's an outside chance arresting Bancroft might have been a little premature. I've got a very strong feeling about this Rushmore guy, and from what Bancroft said and what little we picked up from the Glicks and the others we've interviewed…” He paused and looked at me.

“You know him, too, and I was curious why you've never mentioned him?”

I felt a mixture of embarrassment and defensiveness, but we were doing one of our eye locks, and I didn't want to be the one to break it.

“Mainly because…” I hesitated, looking for a diplomatic way to put it. “…I am not, as you've pointed out, a member of the police force, and I don't feel it's my place to go around pointing fingers at anyone until I'm pretty damned sure I'm right. My main concern was and is my clients—the Glicks, ModelMen, and their current escorts. But believe me, Lieutenant, if I'd had solid evidence against Matt—or Gary, for that matter—I'd have come to you.”

I had no idea whether or not he was convinced; his expression never changed, but he did break off the stare as his eyes moved to the flashing red light on the answering machine. He looked at it just long enough for me to know he was looking at it then brought his eyes back to mine.

“So, now that we're aware of Rushmore,” he continued, “I suspect we've…I'm talking about the police here…run head-on into that damned gay/straight brick wall. As far as the old school in the department is concerned, you're gay or you're straight. Guys who go both ways throw them for a loop.

“Bancroft was hard enough for them to figure out, but as far as they're concerned, I think, he's straight. He looks straight, he acts straight, he has sex with women, therefore, he
is
straight.” He heaved a quick sigh. “But when Rushmore, who looks and acts like a football player and has two kids, says he's strictly gay, that's pretty much beyond their comprehension, and they wonder what he's trying to pull.”

We were both quiet a moment, and Richman's expression reflected his concern.

“So, I need your help,” he said finally. “I don't have a problem grasping the concept of being bi…”
Fantasy time!
“…but there's a hell of a lot I don't understand. Bancroft is doing his level best to pin the murders on Rushmore; Rushmore's claiming Bancroft is setting him up. And it's pretty obvious, to me at least, that something's going on between the two of them neither one will talk about.

“Bancroft claims he was having dinner with Mrs. Glick on the night Anderson was killed, and she verifies that he didn't leave until nearly midnight. Anderson and his killer entered the Montero's garage at eleven-fifteen. Rushmore says he picked up a trick that night outside the Male Call, but he can't prove it, which puts the ball in his court. Neither one can come up with a solid alibi for Steiner, but we have plenty of evidence to nail Bancroft to Laurie Travers.”

He shook his head slowly.

“There are too many holes,” he said. “Too many little things we can't even guess at. I really need your help here.”

The case had reached the stage where I didn't have much to lose by telling him everything I knew. I could readily see that so much of what was going on was, in truth, a “gay thing” the police had no idea how to deal with, let alone understand. And I felt I could trust him not to take unfair advantage of anything I said.

“Everything off the record?” I asked. “Strictly between you and me?”

He nodded. “Agreed.”

I settled back on the couch.

“Okay, Lieutenant, here's what I know…”

*

I don't wear a suit of shining armor, I don't ride a white horse, and I'm sure as hell not one of those detective novel PIs who can look at a cigarette butt and tell you what size shirt the smoker wore and what college he'd gone to. I may be short on brilliant deductive reasoning, but I've been pretty lucky at following my hunches and gut reactions.

Finding killers, I can handle. Apprehending them is a job for the police, but if I was in a position to provide information to enable them to do so, I was obligated to provide it.

Whether or not Richman followed everything I told him, or understood it, or agreed with it, I couldn't say, but he did listen to every word without comment or objection.

“…which brings us to right here, right now,” I said. “There are still a few things I want to find out, and I hope you might be able to give me a little time to do it.”

I knew by now that, much as I might want to think Richman was sitting there because of my irresistible charm and sexual appeal, he was Captain Offermann's
de facto
legman, and was there with Offermann's full knowledge and approval.

“I can't promise anything,” he said, “but I'll see what I can do.”

“That's all I can ask.”

He glanced at his watch.

“Uh-oh,” he said, slapping his palms on his knees and leaning forward to get up, “I'm late for dinner. My wife's going to be really pissed, not that she's not used to it by now.”

As I was getting up from the couch, the phone rang.

“Go ahead and get it,” he said, offering me his hand for our parting handshake. “I can let myself out. But keep me posted.”

“I will. For sure” I said, picking up the receiver as he closed the door behind him. “Dick Hardesty.”

“Did you get my message?”

I recognized the voice immediately.

“Sorry, Matt, I had a visitor the minute I walked in the door, and I haven't had a chance to check the machine. How did it go with the interview?”

“I fucking knew it!”

“Knew what?” I asked, although I didn't have to.

“He's setting me up! I told you that's what he was doing, and I was right. That fucking bastard!”

“Hold on a second,” I said. “Tell me everything that went on. Who interviewed you? What did they want to know?”

“Know?” His bitterness was clearly evident. “They seem to
know
everything; they mostly
told
. Two detectives—Carpenter and Couch, I think their names were—took me into one of those interrogation rooms with that fucking one-way window. I don't know who the hell all was outside there watching me.