The Paper Mirror
Also by Dorien Grey and Untreed Reads Publishing
To those for whom words are the mirrors of life
Words are humanity’s most versatile tool...
The Paper Mirror: A Dick Hardesty Mystery
By Dorien Grey
Copyright 2016 by Gary Brown, Executor of Roger Margason/Dorien Grey Estate
Cover Copyright 2016 by Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Design by Ginny Glass
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Previously published in print, 2005.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Also by Dorien Grey and Untreed Reads Publishing
A World Ago: A Navy Man’s Letters Home (1954–1956)
Short Circuits: A Life in Blogs (Volume 1)
The Butcher’s Son
The Ninth Man
The Bar Watcher
The Hired Man
The Good Cop
The Bottle Ghosts
The Dirt Peddlers
The Role Players
The Popsicle Tree
To those for whom words are the mirrors of life
The Paper Mirror
A Dick Hardesty Mystery
Dorien Grey
Words are humanity’s most versatile tool, and our civilization could not exist without them. Strung together, they can be stronger than steel or as light as dreams. We use them to teach, and to learn, and to record our past.
Libraries are the repositories of words
,
and I think it’s because I’ve always been aware of the power of words that I find libraries so fascinating.
But just like the books they house, libraries sometimes have secrets within, and secrets are not always good things. While we use words to record facts, we also use them, consciously or unconsciously, to record ourselves
.
Writers of fiction, particularly, reflect their innermost selves and their innermost secrets through their words. Perhaps that’s why they polish them so. For them, words are paper mirrors.
—Dick Hardesty
CHAPTER 1
The phone rang just as I was finishing the crossword puzzle and thinking about having another cup of coffee.
“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, picking up the phone, as always, on the second ring.
The voice on the other end was flat and emotionless: “We have another one.”
Shit!
Well, before I get into details, a little background might be in order. It had started about two months earlier….
*
“We’re no fun anymore,” Jonathan said one evening as we lay in bed.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “I think we’re a barrel of laughs. You had Joshua in hysterics with your impression of Cookie Monster.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, unconvinced. “He’s four years old. He thinks everything is funny.” He rolled over in bed, toward me. “You know what I mean…ever since Joshua arrived, we’ve turned straight.”
I rolled over and faced him. “What the
hell
are you talking about?”
He sighed. “Well, we’ve got a kid now—and I wouldn’t change that for the world—but we’re turning into the Cleavers. We hardly ever see our friends anymore. We don’t go out to gay places hardly at all. I miss it…don’t you?”
As a matter of fact, I did. And ever since Joshua, Jonathan’s four-year-old nephew, had become a permanent fixture in our lives, we really hadn’t had much time for a “just us grown-ups” social life. We were able to get together with our old gang from time to time, but usually just for dinner and a drink after. My own party days of endless cruising, tricking, bar-hopping, and out-all-nights had ended when I met Jonathan, but at least we’d still had a lot more freedom than we’d had lately. Not that we minded, really (I kept telling myself), we just lived in a different world now. There are tradeoffs, but maybe we had traded a little bit too much.
That’s one reason we were happy to accept when Glen O’Banyon, the city’s top gay attorney with whom I’d worked frequently, invited us to a party for the opening of the new Burrows Library—by far the biggest predominantly gay social event of the year.
Chester Burrows was a local eccentric, very rich (which is society’s dividing line between “eccentric” and “crazy”), and a world-class collector of books and manuscripts, many of them very rare and worth a fortune. Though no particular fuss was made about it, the collection included what was thought to be the largest private hoard in existence of books on the subject of homosexuality. If a book, from Gutenberg on down, even mentioned the subject, it was said to be in Burrows’ collection. He guarded his collection with tenacity well beyond the border of paranoia, and while everyone knew it existed, he allowed very few people access to it, even for purposes of research.
As a result, when upon his death at the age of 89 his will set up The Burrows Foundation and donated the gay portion of the collection to the very small local Gay Archives, scholars and researchers were champing at the bit to get at it. In addition to the collection, the will bequeathed the Foundation $1,000,000 for a new facility to house both the current archives, which were at the time crammed into a small storefront building on a side street in The Central—our major gay business district—and the Burrows Collection.
By extreme good fortune, the Foundation was able to obtain the elegant old T. R. Roosevelt Elementary School building on Ash St. just two blocks south of Beech, the heart of The Central. The building had been vacant for years and only a constant series of legal battles by historical preservationist groups had prevented it from being demolished some time ago. Its purchase as home for the Burrows Library was welcomed by everyone. The only stipulation imposed by the preservationists was that the exterior of the building—a Victorian gem—be unchanged.
A mysterious fire at Burrows’ estate shortly before the collection was moved to the new facility had threatened the collection, but was discovered and extinguished in time; none of the original manuscripts were lost, and only a few of the more modern works were damaged, most of them replaceable from other sources. Still, it gave impetus to getting the collection to the new facility, which would be equipped with an elaborate fire protection system.
*
I’m really not all that big on fancy social occasions, but it was a nice opportunity to get out, and Jonathan, of course, was excited at the prospect of mingling with the rich and famous of the gay community. He was particularly looking forward to the opportunity of possibly meeting one of his favorite authors, Evan Knight, whose gay novels, set in the 1930s and 1940s, were extremely popular—he even had a large following among open-minded heterosexuals. Knight had been something of a protégé of Burrows—rumor of course had it that he was something more than that—and would, with Burrows’ two nephews, officiate at the Library’s opening.
As soon as we received the invitation, Jonathan called Craig Richman, the 16-year-old son of Police Lieutenant Mark Richman with whom I’d worked frequently, to book his babysitting services for the night of the opening. Craig was a really nice kid who’d recently come out to his folks, and his dad was all in favor of him having some adult gay role models. Mark Richman was definitely a man ahead of his time—especially for a high-ranking member of the police department. Relations between the police and the gay community had improved tremendously in the past few years, and the waters between the department and the community were for the most part calm. But while there was increasing tolerance among the department’s hierarchy, there is a considerable difference between tolerance and acceptance. We’d not yet reached the point of all standing around in a big circle holding hands and singing “Kumbaya.”
Anyway, Craig was a great kid who also had a tremendous crush on Jonathan. It was really fun to watch because he tried so hard not to let it show. And Jonathan, of course, pretended not to notice. Best of all, Craig and Joshua had become fast friends since the first time Craig had babysat for us, so Joshua put up relatively little fuss whenever Jonathan and I did make the time to get out by ourselves. Because the Burrows opening was a very special event and we’d probably be out later than usual, Jonathan arranged with Craig’s mom to have him spend the night. Our couch was pretty comfortable for sleeping, and while I’m sure Craig would have preferred it if
I
slept on the couch, he was all for staying over, and his folks okayed it.
By luck, all our core group of friends would be at the by-invitation-only opening, too: Bob Allen and his partner Mario, as part of the contingent of bar owners and managers; Tim and Phil—Tim as an assistant medical examiner in the coroner’s office and Phil as a well-known model for Spartan Briefs—and Jared and Jake: Jared (a former beer truck driver) as a professor of Russian literature at nearby Mountjoy College, and Jake as owner of a large construction firm. I think Jonathan and I got invited just because Glen O’Banyon was a nice guy and had the clout to do it.
Jonathan suggested we run out and rent tuxedos for the event, but I assured him that while it would indeed be a fancy affair, I was sure it wouldn’t be quite
that
fancy, and that I doubted that any of our friends had even considered it.
“Well, maybe you should call Mr. O’Banyon just to be sure. I wouldn’t want our group to be the only ones there not wearing tuxedos.”
“I’m sure there will be a lot of women there, and I can almost guarantee you they won’t be wearing tuxedos.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” he said in exasperation. “And you keep being a wise guy and we’ll be playing a little game of ‘The Put-Upon Lover and the Guy Who Ain’t Gettin’ Any’.”
I threw my hands in the air in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll call.”
*
The above took place on a Thursday, with the opening set for a week from the coming Saturday, so on Friday morning I called Glen O’Banyon’s office and, assuming correctly that he might not be there, asked to speak to Donna, his secretary.
Donna was the quintessential executive secretary, and well worth every penny O’Banyon paid her. She was the perfect combination of professionalism and personality, and always made everyone with whom she talked feel like his or her business was at the head of O’Banyon’s list of importance.
She told me that O’Banyon was at home working on an upcoming trial, but that he’d be calling in and she would have him call me as soon as he could.
*
I’d been lucky enough to have been keeping fairly busy the last several weeks, which helped refill the coffers after yet another lengthy involvement in a case for which I wasn’t being paid, and was devoting the day to preparing my final reports…and billings…on two of them. As usual, I got so wrapped up in what I was doing that I wasn’t really aware of the passage of time, until the growling of my stomach told me it needed attention.
I was just about to pick up the phone to call the diner downstairs and order something to bring back to the office when it rang, startling me.