“Let’s go inside,” Jim said.
Once we were inside my house, he handed Andy a baggie with the note inside. I looked over his shoulder.
It had the same salutation as the last one, my byline clipped from the paper.
“Tell your boyfriend to sleep well tonight,” it read. “The stalking is almost over. Four is my lucky number. What is his?”
“Damn,” said Andy. “Let’s go check your phone.”
There were three messages. One, from a former boyfriend inviting me to lunch, was a bit embarrassing to listen to with Andy there. The second was from Sally, saying she would be late for dinner the next night, but that T.C. would be right on time. The third was from Dickie Greaves. God knows what he wanted. I’d see him at the office. Nothing else. No mysterious whispers or heavy breathing.
“Coffee?”
“Sure,” said Andy, moving Elwy out of his favourite spot on the couch and sitting down.
“Appreciate it,” Jim said. “Can I use your phone to call Carol and tell her I won’t be home?”
“Help yourself.” I said.
By the time I’d made the coffee and brought it into the living room, the partners were in deep gloom, talked out.
“Well, this is a cheery little group,” I said. “Did you tell Jim about our conversation with Christopher? The evening wasn’t a complete waste.”
Andy told him Christopher’s relationship with Montague Browning, the guru of serial death.
“I’m going to call him in the morning, see if he has anything new to tell us. It’s very like the Larchmont murders, and he evidently has some new angles on that one.”
“Why don’t you call him now? You’ve got his home number,” I said.
“It’s late.”
“Just past eleven. Maybe he stays up late. I’ll call Christopher and ask.”
“It would beat doing nothing,” Jim said.
I went to the kitchen phone.
Christopher said that he didn’t think it was too late, and offered to call him first to set it up. I consulted with Andy, then agreed.
We waited five minutes before making the call, Andy and Jim running down the questions they wanted to ask him. They made the call from my study, where they could take notes. They were back in ten minutes.
“He’s checking through his computer for us,” Andy said. “He’s going to see if he can find any similarities. He’s as well connected as the FBI, only more friendly.”
“Maybe another angle will help us out,” Jim said. “Sometimes the amateur has a different view on things.”
“Ahem,” I said.
“Right, Kate,” Andy said. “But you’re out of this one. I told him to call us back at the office. We’d better get going, Jim.”
“You’re leaving me here alone?”
“There’s still a stakeout across the street. We’ll add someone at the back.”
“This time, give the guys a bottle to pee in,” I said.
I’m fairly brave, but I’m not stupid. Chances are the killer wasn’t after me, a grown woman, but if he changed his habits, I didn’t want to be the one to start the new trend.
“Don’t worry, Kate,” Andy said. “They will be there.”
“Okay,” I said, and got up to see them to the door.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Jim said, before discreetly leaving us alone.
“And thanks for the evening, too,” Andy said. “It was good to relax. Christopher is a really interesting guy, and it may even turn out to be helpful.”
“You don’t mean I was right!”
“For once,” he said, kissing me on the forehead, a tender but condescending gesture that always pisses me off.
“I don’t know when I’ll be seeing you. If I can, I’ll be here for dinner tomorrow, but it doesn’t look good. I think this guy means what he says.”
“Be careful,” I said, hugging him.
“You too,” he said, hugging me back.
I bolted the outside door. There was a crack of light under Sally’s door. I tapped on it gently.
“Come on in,” she said. “I’m just watching a movie. Is something wrong?”
“No, not really.”
I told her about the letter that had just arrived. She shivered.
“I just thought you should know. You’d better put the chain on the door tonight. But don’t worry. There are cops all around. I didn’t want you to freak if you got up in the night and saw a strange man lurking in the back yard.”
“Come have a glass of wine,” she said.
“I shouldn’t,” I said, but followed her into the kitchen.
“I’m really sorry about the remark I made about David, earlier,” I said. “I didn’t really mean it.”
She shrugged.
“You’re probably right. It’s not working out anyway.”
She sat down at the kitchen table.
“I thought it would be good to have a nice, normal guy in my life. And in T.C.’s. But it’s not really happening for either of us. T.C. resents him, and he’s starting to give me the creeps.”
“How so?”
“Put it this way. Maybe he’s not a nice, normal guy.”
“Are we talking seriously kinky?” I asked.
“Kinky enough that he’s history.”
“Details, woman.”
“Some other time,” she said. “Right now, I’m trying to cheer myself up.”
She raised her glass towards the living room. She had paused a tape on the VCR. Ginger Rogers, wearing jodhpurs and a plaid jacket, was sitting in a gazebo while the rain poured down outside. Fred Astaire was frozen halfway up the steps in a hansom cabdriver’s greatcoat, a giant umbrella held rakishly.
“Care to join me?”
“Top Hat!” I said. “I can’t pass on Top Hat! If that won’t chase the bogeymen away, nothing will.”
We took the bottle and glasses and settled in on opposite ends of the couch. Within moments, we were singing along with “Isn’t this a lovely day to be caught in the rain?” By the time they were dancing cheek to cheek, Ginger’s feathers flying, we had finished the wine and were dancing along, all over the tiny living room.
When I stumbled up the stairs at 1:30, I knew I would have a good night’s sleep. Or coma. Whatever, I wasn’t going to be tossing and turning.
I put the chain lock on my door and checked to see that my shadow was in place in his car across the street, then went directly to bed.
I was almost asleep when the phone rang.
“Screw you,” I said. “I’m not going to let you scare me anymore tonight.”
The machine picked up after four rings.
Chapter 27
Morning came earlier than I wanted, but not as early as it was supposed to. With my mind elsewhere by the time I got to bed, I had forgotten to set the alarm. By the time I came to, it was 9:30. Joe’s press conference was called for 11:00. I showered quickly, downed a couple of Tylenols with codeine, and was on my way in twenty minutes, a record of some sort.
There was a scrawled note from Sally tacked to the front door: “See you tonight. Look in on the kid when you get home. He has to do his homework before supper. Thanks, Sal. P.S. I don’t feel so much like dancing this a.m.”
I was feeling a bit frail myself. I banged myself on the shin opening the garage door and tripped over a rake.
But it was a beautiful day. My barbecue idea was a go. I rolled back the top on the Citroën to catch some early rays and clear my head. I wanted to stop in at the office on the way. If I picked up my mail and checked my messages, maybe I could avoid going in later. Besides, the cafeteria made a decent cup of coffee, which I could use.
I grabbed one on the way up, then spilled some on my skirt. This wasn’t my day, obviously.
The sports department was
all but deserted. I dumped my stuff and went to the ladies’ room to wet a towel and rub out the stain. I stood at my desk so my skirt would dry without wrinkling. There was an inch-high stack of pink message slips, mostly from baseball reporters around the league wanting the dirt on Joe. Nothing urgent. I stuck them in my briefcase and went through the mail. Press releases and other crap. Right at the bottom of the pile, though, was a strange one. Strange, but familiar.
I picked up the phone and dialled Andy’s number.
“I got another one at the office, Andy. Do you want me to open it?”
“When did it come in?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t cleaned out my mailbox since at least Thursday. Maybe even before that.”
“Is there a stamp? Did it go through the mail?”
“I don’t know. There’s a stamp, but no postmark. Either it was delivered by hand or they screwed up at the post office for a really big change.”
“Open it, but carefully.”
Inside was a two-word message, in banner headline type: “STOP ME.”
“I’ll send someone right over.”
“I won’t be here. I have to go to the press conference. I’ll leave it with Jake Watson.”
“The editor? Okay.”
“How are you? Have you had any sleep since you left my place?”
“A couple of hours on a couch here. I feel like shit.”
“Poor baby. Why don’t you go home and have a shower and change your clothes?”
“Too much to do.”
“Is there anything new?”
“Well, Browning found four similar-pattern series of murders. One of them is Canadian.”
“Really? Where?”
“It happened in Timmins about three years ago. There were just two kids killed, six months apart. The police there weren’t positive they were connected. But Browning had them in his files as a possible. I have a call in to the police chief up there.”
“What were the other cases?”
“There were three kids murdered in upstate New York a few years ago, and others in Colorado and suburban Chicago. I’ve got the FBI guys on those.”
“Do you think there might be some connection?”
“I don’t know. But we have to chase any possibility, no matter how slim.”
“Maybe something will come out of it,” I said. “Any chance you’ll be by tonight?”
“Depends on how it goes, but I doubt it.”
“Okay. I’ll see you when I see you.”
“Bye.”
Poor guy. I checked my watch and grabbed my notebook, computer, and briefcase. I put the letter from the creep in an envelope with Andy’s name on it and stuck it on Jake’s desk with an explanatory note. Then I ran into him as he was getting off the elevator.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at a press conference?”
“I’m on my way. I’ve left something on your desk. The cops will be by to pick it up. If you’re not here, make sure someone knows about it.”
“Is it a mash note or are you playing Nancy Drew again?”
“Not of my free will,” I said, then hit the button for the lobby.
“What will you have for me today?”
The door started to close. I stopped it with my arm.
“It depends on what happens at the press conference. Probably not much. Have you got anyone else on it?”
The elevator began to buzz at me.
“Jeff wants to write a column on him,” Jake said. “And the folks upstairs want a takeout on homos in sport. Interested?”
“Not particularly, but I’ll do it if you want me to.”
“I’ll try to get someone else on it. It just needs a bunch of phone calls. I’d rather you stuck with Kelsey.”
“I’ll call in after the conference. I’ll probably be writing from home.”
“Fine.”
The door slid shut. When it opened on the next floor down, six people glared at me and crowded on.
“Lovely day,” I said.
Chapter 28
The Titans had set up an interview room in the visiting clubhouse for Joe’s press conference. There were cameras from the two Canadian networks, the cable sports channel, and several local stations. The American nets were there, too. In front of the camera stand were a dozen rows of chairs, mostly full. Some reporters were sitting on the players’ stools in front of the lockers. There were a dozen microphones taped to a stand at the front of the room.
I found a seat next to Christopher Morris.
“Thanks for calling your brother-in-law,” I said.
“He was glad to help,” he said. “Did he?”
“Did he what?”
“Help?”
“I think so. But, as you saw last night, I’m not supposed to talk about anything.”
“Right,” he said, smiling. “I liked your Andy, by the way. Unusual for a cop.”
“He liked you, too.”
The door opened, and Joe Kelsey walked in, accompanied by an uncomfortable-looking Hugh Marsh and a third man I recognized as his agent, Peter Moir.
“Can I have your attention please, gentlemen, and Kate,” Marsh said, looking around the room. “Joe Kelsey is here to answer any questions you might have, but first he has a brief statement. Joe.”
Nothing Joe was saying was new to me. I watched the room for reaction. The reporters looked uncomfortable. Most of them have so completely bought into jock myths that they are as conservative as the fellows they cover. There was hostility in the room, both because of Joe’s homosexuality and because of the way they were being forced to cover it. Sportswriters, especially heavy hitters like some of the ones in the room, don’t like sharing their interviews with others. The columnist from the New York Times led off.
“Why did you come out? Couldn’t you just go on the way you’ve been and save everybody a lot of pain?”
“I have to think about my own pain,” Joe said. “If I am no longer ashamed of being gay, why should I hide it? With all respect, it’s not my problem anymore.”
“But surely you knew what this would do to baseball?”
“Last time I checked, baseball was the same game it’s been for one hundred years. It takes more than something like this to change that.”
“Do you know of any other gay ballplayers?” asked a guy from the New York Post.
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you think you’re the only one?”
“I doubt it.”
“Would you urge them to follow your example?”
“That’s not for me to do. I imagine there might be some people right now waiting to see what happens to me.”
The man from Sports Illustrated interrupted the line of questioning impatiently.
“You’ve put your teammates in a difficult position by asking them to accept you. Baseball is based on team play, on the chemistry among the players. How is this going to affect the Titans?”
“If we can have Dominican players and black players and redneck players and even a Japanese player on the same team and keep on winning, I don’t see what difference I’m going to make. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m having the best start of my career. I don’t see how that is going to hurt the team.”
“That fight in the locker room yesterday after the game wasn’t exactly team spirit at its best, Joe,” said one of the writers from Detroit.
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Joe smiled. “Stinger and me didn’t exactly get along before last week, either. So our relationship hasn’t changed because I’m gay.”
He was magnificent. He never lost his temper and never let them make him feel like a freak. Every challenge the reporters threw at him, he threw right back. The overall message implicit, though never stated, was that any problem his homosexuality was causing was the
bigots’ fault, not Joe’s.
The press conference lasted for an hour. Afterwards, Joe was mobbed by reporters looking for their own angles and cameras trying to get an exclusive shot. He patiently answered questions for another half hour.
There wasn’t much of a story for me. A mood piece. I hit up a couple of the high-profile American reporters for their thoughts, and grabbed Joe on the way out the door for a few quotes on the reaction so far.
“It hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would be,” he said. “The fans have been very accepting, and most of my teammates have been all right.”
“Except for Stinger.”
“You know that’s not the first time we’ve mixed it up. And it won’t be the last time, but not getting along hasn’t stopped us from playing winning baseball together.”
“Thanks, Joe, I’ll see you later. I should be finished early. Why don’t you guys come by at about four? We can sit in the garden. And besides, that means T.C. won’t be bugging me every five minutes about when you’re going to get there.”
“Sure. It will be nice to be somewhere quiet. These guys are still outside my place all the time.”
“Just don’t let them follow you to my place.”
“No worry. I watch Magnum P.I. every afternoon. I can shake a tail.”
“As the actress said to the bishop.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind, Joe. The joke is older than you are. I’ll see you at four.”
Chapter 29
I stopped at the supermarket on the Danforth on the way home and picked up a couple of dozen shish kebabs, already assembled and marinated, for dinner. I didn’t know how many I would be feeding or how big their appetites might be. I could always freeze the leftovers. I got garlic tzatziki at Alex Farms, salad stuff at Sunland, and buns at the corner store. It was just a typical lazy person’s Danforth meal, but I hoped it might seem more exotic to Joe and Sandy. Then I hit the liquor store for red wine and the beer store for a dozen.
I was home just before 2:00. I unpacked the groceries, mixed some red wine, garlic, hot sauce, and olive oil and set the kebabs in to soak. I changed into jeans, then made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and ate it in front of my computer in the study, going through my notes and figuring out what to say about the morning’s session.
Safe at Home Page 15