The Ninth Man (8 page)

“Did you ever consider becoming a detective?” I asked, only half joking. I was genuinely, if grudgingly, impressed that somebody apparently lived under all those muscles and tattoos.

He grinned and blushed again but said nothing.

“I really appreciate your talking with me, uh…” I began before remembering I didn’t know his name.

“Brad,” he said, still grinning.

“Brad,” I repeated.

“Sure thing,” he said, giving me a half-wave, half-salute.

I returned the gesture and turned to leave.

“Hey!” Brad called out, and I turned back to the window. “You ever need a room sometime, maybe you an’ me could work somethin’ out.”

“You got it,” I said, allowing myself a brief flash of erotic fantasy. I gave him another smile and a wave and left.

*

At exactly five o’clock, I called Mike Sibalitch. The
phone
rang eight times before it was answered with a rather breathless “Hello?”

“Mr. Sibalitch. This is Dick Hardesty; we spoke this morning and you asked me to call at five.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry if I sound a little out of breath,” he said, sounding a little out of breath. “I was out working in the yard, and I was halfway up the hill.”

“That’s okay. I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk to me about Gene Harriman. I have to be out that way later this evening, and if you’re going to be home, maybe I could stop by and talk to you first.”

“Sure. I work eleven to seven, and I leave here about ten. What time did you have in mind?”

“Well,” I said, doing some quick mental calculations of distance and travel times between Bellwether and Partridge Place, “is seven o’clock okay?”

“That’ll be fine. You know how to get here?”

“I’ve got a city map—it shouldn’t be any problem.”

“Fine,” he acknowledged. “See you then.”

I had just enough time to stop at the apartment to clean up a little, change my shirt (it was still in the upper 90s, and I’ve never found an antiperspirant that works), and grab a quick bite to eat before heading out again.

*

Sibalitch’s house was a comfortable two-story colonial in
an area of homes whose resemblance to a Hollywood studio’s back lot was heightened when a kid the spitting image of Beaver Cleaver peddled past me on his bike. Built on a hillside lot, the house sat quite a distance back from the street and slightly above it. A brick sidewalk and stoop led to the paneled front door, which was adorned by a brass lion’s-head knocker.

Ignoring the bell, I rapped the knocker three times, pleased by the solid, no-nonsense sound.

The door opened almost immediately, and I got my first look at Mike Sibalitch—tall, slim, with short black hair. His dark-blue short-sleeved sport shirt and white pants accented his Slavic good looks.

“Mr. Hardesty,” he said, opening the door wide, rather like a soldier shouldering arms. “Come in.”

I entered the tiled foyer, and he closed the door before extending his hand. His handshake was firm and dry, and even before we stopped shaking, he was guiding me into the living room. We sat in a pair of wing-back chairs flanking the fireplace and facing one another over a glass-topped coffee table.

“Things have been a madhouse around here since Gene’s death,” he said, taking a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offering me one, which I refused with a no-thanks head shake. “Insurance men, forms, papers; Gene’s brother in for a week from Miami. A real mess.”

“You seem to be taking it all very well,” I observed.

Sibalitch shrugged and picked up a lead-crystal lighter from beside a matching ashtray on the coffee table.

“I don’t have much in the line of choices, do I?”

“You and Mr. Harriman…Gene…were lovers, I gather?”

He lit his cigarette, took a long drag, then held it away from him and stared at the glowing end for a moment before releasing the smoke in a slow, deliberate stream.

“For two years, seven months, and twelve days,” he said. He looked up suddenly and met my eyes. “If that sounds saccharinely romantic, I can assure you it wasn’t meant to be. Ours wasn’t exactly a fairy-tale relationship, but it worked for us.”

I nodded. “You were the one who found his body?”

“Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “I came home and found him dead in bed. I thought he was sleeping, at first, but there’s something about being dead that doesn’t allow that illusion to last for long.”

“Did the police tell you the cause of death?”

“No,” he said, “I told them.”

Surprised, I asked, “And that was…?”

Neither his face nor his voice betrayed the slightest emotion.

“Natural causes,” he said, as casually and noncommittally as though he were talking about computer circuits. “Gene had a serious case of rheumatic fever as a kid; it did a real number on his heart. He always said he wouldn’t live to see forty.”

“And what did the cops say?”

“Nothing. They must have believed me; they got into a huddle and talked among themselves for a few minutes, then they just looked around—to see if anything looked suspicious, I guess. They asked me if he ever used drugs, or if he’d been depressed, stuff like that. I told them no. Then the coroner came to take Gene away, and the cops left. I told them to check with Gene’s doctor.”

“Did you happen to see the death certificate?”

“Yeah, Gene’s brother showed it to me. It gave the cause of death as ‘respiratory arrest,’ which is pretty generic. I suppose it’s safe to say that if you stop breathing, you’re dead.” He tamped out the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray and lit up another then sighed. “I guess I was lucky to have Gene as long as I did. Just wish it had been longer, but this sort of thing happens, I guess.”

I got the impression that he, like Martin Bell, believed what he wanted to believe.

“Did the police ask you any questions you thought were a little out of the ordinary?”

He thought for a moment.

“Not really. Other than asking if Gene or I had any access to any kind of poison. That was when I told them about Gene’s heart condition. When they were talking among themselves, I heard one say something about dusting for fingerprints—why in hell they’d have to do that I have no idea—but then another one said something I couldn’t hear and that was the end of it.

“The rest of the time was mostly small talk while we waited for the coroner.”

“Do you remember any of that?”

“Well, you have to realize I was really struggling not to fall apart in front of a bunch of cops. I wouldn’t be surprised if they knew we were gay, but they didn’t ask, and I wasn’t about to tell them that was my lover lying there. They just asked some general stuff—whether Gene or I knew some guy named Roger, stuff like that.”

“Do you mean Rogers? Alan Rogers?”

He looked at me even more strangely, and his eyes narrowed.

“How did you know his first name? Is something going on that I should know about?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” I assured him, lying through my teeth. “It’s just that there have been several…ah…unusual deaths recently. Alan Rogers was one of them. I suppose they thought Gene might be another one.”

Sibalitch pursed his lips for a minute then said, “Yeah, that’s probably it. But he wasn’t, of course.”

Before he could pursue that line of thought any further, I jumped in with a question.

“Did you by any chance
know
Alan Rogers?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t. It’s possible Gene might have, but I have no way of knowing.”

Gene Harriman had been Victim #2. When they couldn’t develop a positive link between Harriman and Alan Rogers, the first victim, the police apparently evolved their random-death theory. Given their lack of any real interest in a bunch of dead “pre-verts,” it would have held up quite well in regard to the subsequent deaths.

Sibalitch ground his second cigarette out in the ashtray.

“Exactly what is it you’re investigating, Mr. Hardesty?”

Since he obviously wanted to believe his lover had died of natural causes, I had no desire to destroy the illusion.

“I have a client who is trying to locate certain people for reasons a little too complicated and boring to go into,” I lied. “I had reason to believe Gene might have known some of them.”

“I know most of Gene’s friends,” Sibalitch said. “Maybe I can help you.”

“I was hoping you might,” I said, truthfully this time. “Do any of these names mean anything to you: Arthur Granger…Clete Barker…Arnold Klein…Bobby McDermott?”

Sibalitch pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow in thought, reminding me briefly of Phil.

“Arnold Klein. Short guy, balding, glasses?”

“I couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid,” I said, feeling a familiar wave of frustration. “I’ve never seen him.”

“Gene did know a guy named Arnold Klein. He came to a party we gave right after we bought the house. I only met him that one time, and that’s been over two years now.”

“Could you tell me anything about him?” I asked. “How well did he and Gene know one another?”

Sibalitch thought for another moment or two then shook his head.

“Sorry, I couldn’t tell you. I think they were more acquaintances than real friends—if they’d been friends, I’m sure I’d have seen him more than that once, or heard more about him from Gene.”

That made sense.

“Do you happen to know how or where they knew each other from?”

Again the head shake.

“No, I’m sorry. It was a big party, and I really didn’t have much time to spend with any of the guests individually. I only remember him at all because Gene commented after the party that he and Arnold had been through a lot together. I asked him what he meant, and he said, ‘Believe me, you don’t want to know.’ I didn’t press him on it. Gene and he spoke for quite some time, though, as I recall.”

“Umm,” I said, taking mental notes. “And none of the other names—Granger, Barker, McDermott—strikes any kind of chord?”

A long pause then, finally: “No. I’m afraid not.”

“How long did you and Gene know each other before you became lovers?” I asked, following the ghost of a hunch.

“A little less than three months. Not a long time, but long enough.”

Something was going on in the back of my mind again, but I’d be damned if I knew what it was, or what it meant. I had the feeling Sibalitch had told me something, just as with Martin Bell—but what?

There were just too many pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle without the photo on the box to go by. I also had the strong feeling Sibalitch could tell me a lot more if only I knew the right questions to ask.

But I didn’t, and the whole thing was getting me more frustrated by the minute. Maybe, when I knew some of the questions, I could come back and talk to Sibalitch again.

I glanced at my watch.

“I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Sibalitch,” I said, getting up from my chair, my motion reflected by his own. “I really appreciate your cooperation, and I hope you won’t mind if I call on you again if I have more specific questions.”

“Not at all. I’m just sorry Gene isn’t here to help you. He probably could have done a much better job than I.”

We’d reached the front door and shook hands again.

“I’m really very sorry about Gene’s death,” I said, and meant it. “I hope you’ll accept my condolences, belated as they are.”

Sibalitch opened the door on the still-hot twilight.

“Thanks,” he said. “Feel free to call if there’s anything more I can tell you. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” I said as he closed the door.

It was only a little after seven-thirty, so I stopped at a hotdog stand for a chili cheese dog with sauerkraut (light on the onions—you never know) and a chocolate shake.

*

Nothing is harder to kill than time, and it was only
eight-
forty-five when I arrived at 27 Partridge Place, a two-story stucco faux-American Indian Pueblo affair complete with roughhewn beams protruding at regular intervals from just below the flat roof. Lots of arches, indirect lighting, and a courtyard that went on forever—a fact the builders tried to hide with lots of plants and splashing fountains.

I viewed all this though the wrought-iron security gate but hesitated to ring the buzzer to Apartment D just yet. Instead, I took a walk around the block, mentally smoking a cigarette, and tried to sort out a few of the more promising-looking pieces of this increasingly frustrating case.

It was still only five-to-nine when I got back to Tucson Manor, or whatever it was called; but I was tired of waiting, so I pressed the buzzer and waited. And waited. Three more leanings on the buzzer produced no results. Maybe it was broken.

I decided to go to a drugstore I’d seen about three blocks away to call and was just walking toward the sidewalk when a yellow Porsche purred up next to a fireplug directly in front of the building. The driver leaned over toward the open passenger’s side window and called out, “Dick Hardesty?”

I’d only heard that voice once, on the phone, but Tim’s taste in men, as usual, turned out to be excellent.

“Mr. Miller?” I asked, moving toward the car and the full impact of one of the most beautiful faces I’d ever seen on a man.

The passenger door opened, and Miller said, “Get in, we’ll drive to the garage.”

I fleetingly hoped the garage was somewhere in Yucatan.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, flashing me a smile that could have melted chocolate, “but the shoot ran later than I expected, and I had to stop at the store for a few things.”

We shook hands as I climbed in. He shifted into gear; the Porsche glided smoothly away from the curb and almost immediately made a sharp right onto a down-ramp. A wrought-iron gate whooshed noiselessly open as the car purred through then closed with equal silence behind us. Miller whipped expertly into a narrow stall between two concrete pillars and turned off the engine.

“Need help with the groceries?” I asked, indicating the four full bags on the narrow ledge behind us.

“That’d be great,” he said as we got out of the car.

In the cleaner light of the garage, Gary Miller was even more spectacular than I’d thought. His hair was either blond or prematurely gray—whichever, it was perfect for him—his eyes Mediterranean blue. About six-two, he looked like something Michelangelo might have sculpted on one of his better days. His tan made him appear to have been spray-painted café-au-lait; the fine gold hairs on his arms did everything but sparkle.