“You think they threw Brent away?”
“No. I think they drove him away, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Brent wants to leave SwordFight. He’s had enough of that life. He wants to be with me, and he knows I can’t stand having other men touch him. Not to mention the thousands who are watching. It’s . . . obscene.
“I love him. I can’t watch him throw himself away like that. He’s over it, too. Too many creepy ‘fans,’ too much exposure to drugs, disease, all kinds of weird shit. It’s not exactly the Disney channel over there.”
“So, what’s the problem?” I asked. “If Brent wants to leave, why doesn’t he just quit?”
“He’s tried. But they have contracts he’s signed and tons of lawyers ready to enforce them. They’ve spent tens of thousands of dollars creating and promoting the product that is ‘Brent Havens.’ They’re not about to let him just walk away.”
“You’re saying that Brent ran away because it was the only way he could get out of making more films.”
Charlie nodded into his coffee.
“But if Brent . . .”
Charlie’s hands tightened around the cup in his hand. I was afraid he’d crush it. “There is no ‘Brent.’ ‘Brent’ is the thing they made him into. My boyfriend’s name is . . .”
He stopped himself and looked at me again. Appraisingly. What did he know about me? Could he trust me? I knew that must be what he was thinking.
What had Brent told me his real name was again? Oh, shit, this trust-building exercise wasn’t going to go well if I couldn’t remember. Ralph. Robert.
“Richie,” I said. “Richie’s the man you love.”
Charlie’s grip relaxed. “I think you’re the only person other than me who’s called him that.” He was getting choked up again.
I didn’t want to be mean, but I couldn’t think of a gentler way to put it than this: “If Richie really did leave to be with you, then why isn’t he with you? Or, at least tell you where he is?”
This time, Charlie did squeeze the cup hard enough to cause an overflow. The steaming coffee ran hotter than blood over his fingers without his noticing.
“I don’t know,” he almost wailed. “That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about. Unless he’s afraid they’d send their lawyers after me. That makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, don’t they subpoena people in cases like this? I think Richie is protecting me. When their jackals come after me, I’ll be able to tell the truth—I really don’t know where he is. Then, when this all blows over, Richie can come back.”
He looked at me with such need that it was as if he were standing before me naked. “That’s it, don’t you think?”
Um, no. Nothing about that seemed very likely. For one thing, while it was true that Brent was conflicted about having to choose between Charlie and his job, at least as far as I’d last heard, it wasn’t the job he was planning to leave. No, it was big old Charlie who was going to get the heave-ho. Not that I had the heart to tell him that.
Even if Brent had reversed course on that decision, I still couldn’t see why he’d feel the need to disappear—especially from the man he loved. Assuming SwordFight did have enforceable contracts against Brent, what would they sue him for? It wasn’t like Brent was a millionaire. It would probably cost them more to take him to court than they’d recover. Not to mention all the bad press.
Lastly, there was the question of whatever dirt Brent had on SwordFight. I never got the details as to what it was, but Brent implied the information was so damning it could bring down the company. Which meant they had more to fear from him than he from them. If he really wanted his freedom from SwordFight, why wouldn’t he strike a deal? He seemed like a smart kid to me.
More likely, Brent got tired of everything. Charlie included. So, he ran away.
Only problem with that theory was that, sitting across from Charlie, it wasn’t that easy to believe Brent would do that to him. First, Charlie was terrifically attractive, seemed as sweet as the scone I’d just inhaled at an alarming rate, and was obviously head over heels for Brent. He’d be a hard guy to give up.
Second, even if that were Brent’s decision, just disappearing into the night would be an awfully cruel thing to do to a softie like Charlie. Brent had to know that. I did, and I’d only spent an hour with him. Did Brent have a mean streak like that in him?
I didn’t know Brent much better than I knew Charlie. But I didn’t think so.
Meanwhile, Charlie the gentle giant was looking at me for an answer.
“You could be right,” I said. “I mean, everything you say makes a kind of sense. It’s certainly . . . plausible.” For a moment, I flashed back to Andrew saying something similar to my mother this morning when she presented her nutso plan to investigate the adoption agency. Was this some sort of holiday when you had to humor demented ideas?
Charlie looked so happy to hear me agree with him, despite all my qualifiers, I thought he might cry again—this time from relief.
“Where would he be hiding, though?” I asked Charlie. “Did you know his folks? Have you tried calling them?”
Charlie shook his head. Calmer now, he noticed the cooling coffee on his fingers and absently wiped it away with a napkin while talking. “I wouldn’t have a way to contact them even if I thought it would help. But it wouldn’t.
“Brent was estranged from his family. He told me his father kicked him out of the house when he found out he was gay. He hadn’t had any contact with his parents in years.”
This was 2012. It was hard to believe that kind of thing still happened. What was wrong with people? I’d thought of Brent as a Lost Boy; now I realized he’d been driven away. From his family, at least.
“Brothers? Sisters?” I asked.
“He talked about an older sister. I think he had some contact with her, but he never went into details.”
“Maybe I should try them anyway.”
“Good luck. I don’t have their number, and Richie never told me his real last name. He said he wanted to leave all that behind him.”
This was going nowhere. Time to face the uglier possibilities.
“I totally see your point about Brent lying low to avoid legal problems,” I began. Charlie’s lips curled up. I knew how reassured he was that someone else believed that not only was Brent safe, but that he’d gotten out of the porn industry and was willing to go to so much trouble for him. “But we have to consider other scenarios. The . . . less pleasant ones.”
Once again, I’d managed to slap the happy right off Charlie’s face.
“What do you mean?” he asked, scowling.
“Well, what if something happened to Br . . . Richie? Was there anyone who wanted to hurt him?”
“Physically?”
“Maybe.”
Charlie’s jaw worked back and forth. “No. Well, I don’t know. The guys from SwordFight? I mean, I assume Richie was afraid of them going after him legally, but what if they beat him up or something? On TV, those kinds of businesses are always associated with the mob, right?”
“I don’t know much about it. Maybe. What about a fan? Was there someone who showed too much interest? Or made Richie uncomfortable?” I realized I was also describing what sounded like an episode of CSI.
“Well, yeah. There were always lots of guys approaching him. A few were creepy, but just in that way like they knew something about him that they didn’t, you know? Like, because in a movie he played a kid who liked sex with older men, he must be interested in their ancient ass, right?”
I nodded.
“I mean, just the way they’d look at him was weird. Invasive. It was hard just walking down the street with him sometimes because I’d find myself wondering, Is that man looking at us because we’re two guys holding hands? or, Is he cruising Richie? or, Is he cruising me? or, Does he recognize Richie from his movies? It made me kind of paranoid. It must have been one hundred times worse for Richie.”
Maybe. Or maybe B
rent enjoyed the attention. Wanted people to watch. Some guys like to be looked at.
“The only ‘fan’ I can think of who seemed a little . . . obsessed. . . wasn’t really a fan at all. At least, he wasn’t just a fan.”
I was confused. It had been a long day.
“Come again?”
“Well, when you think of a fan who’s a little too into someone, you think of all the clichés, right? The guy who shows up at your house with flowers, unexpected. Who sends you gifts you don’t want. Who calls twenty times a day. Who sometimes hangs up, but sometimes leaves long, rambling messages about how you’re meant to be together?
“Richie had a guy like that in his life. I guess you could say he was a fan, but he wasn’t a stranger. Richie knew him.”
Charlie’s lips did that thing where they narrowed and drew together. He ground his teeth for a moment, his expression darkening before he said, “When I say ‘knew’ him, I mean he had sex with him. Not with Richie, mind you. With Brent.”
I thought it was interesting how Charlie could make that distinction. I wasn’t sure if it was healthy or not, but it was interesting.
“They . . . did it together on screen, and I think the dude kind of fell in love with Richie. Or something. It was definitely stalkerish.
“And he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Because Richie wasn’t interested in him. Richie loved me.”
I thought I already knew the answer, but I asked anyway. “What’s his name?”
“Lucas Fisher,” he said. “At least, that’s his stage name. I don’t know his real one.”
Again, Charlie was making a distinction I wasn’t sure mattered much to the people he was describing.
“What about drugs? Did Richie get high?” Crystal meth and other recreational drugs weren’t unknown on porn sets. Brent could be on a binge.
“Not even a little,” Charlie asserted. I guess I looked skeptical. “Seriously. Have you seen him? He’s very serious about his body and staying in shape. He told me he smoked weed once, got the munchies, ate a gallon of ice cream, and decided then and there never to screw with his body’s chemistry.”
We talked a little more, and then I reminded Charlie he needed to get back to work.
“Thanks,” Charlie said. “When you first showed up, I thought you were Richie, and I was so happy. Then, you made me nervous. Now? I’m glad you’re looking out for him. For us. Will you let me know what you find out?”
I told him yes and we exchanged numbers.
As he stood to leave, Charlie seemed even taller than he did when we arrived. Not as gentle, either. He clenched his fist and the tendons in his thick neck stood out sharply. “Do you think that maybe Lucas did hurt him? Maybe he made a move on Richie and when Richie rejected him, he just . . . lost it. It could happen, right?”
“I suppose. It’s a little far-fetched.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Love and hate. Two sides of the same coin. Maybe Lucas didn’t like how the toss landed.”
We said good-bye.
I sat at the table a few more minutes, thinking. Charlie was an interesting case. I wasn’t sure what to make of him. Every time I thought him harmless, he’d surprise me with a darker aspect.
He thought in dualities. “Real” people versus “thing” people. Richie versus Brent. Love versus hate. Everything was a coin with two sides.
I was pretty sure that Charlie would never hurt Richie.
But he’d kill Brent in a heartbeat.
17
Getting It
When I got home, Tony was sitting at the kitchen table. He’d done takeout for dinner again. This time, pizza.
I was really going to have to be a better wife.
He had papers spread across the table. When he heard the door open, he flipped over two of the pages. As I got nearer, I saw the ones that remained right side up pertained to a case he was working on. A woman who had been found murdered in Central Park. There were witness statements, evidence lists, and some photos of the crime scene. “Hey, babe,” he said, standing up to kiss me. “Did you get stuck at the office?”
I didn’t necessarily mean not to tell Tony about how I was looking into Brent’s disappearance. It’s just that it was a long story, and I didn’t have the energy to get into it right then. Especially since I suspected Tony would tell me to stay out of it. Which would lead to a fight.
Besides, since the reason I was trying to find Brent was to see if he had a story we could use on Sophie’s Voice, it wasn’t like I was lying or anything when I answered, “Yeah, it was work. Sorry I’m home so late.”
“No problem.” Tony nibbled my neck. He gestured toward the table. “I brought my work home. It’s good you weren’t here. Some of this stuff”—he gestured toward the pictures he’d turned over—“you don’t need to see.” He put the photos in a manila envelope.
“Gruesome?” I asked.
“Not pretty,” he answered.
“How do you do it?” I sat at the table and opened the cardboard pizza box. Bacon and pineapple. My favorite. The scone hadn’t ruined my appetite so I grabbed a slice.
“What?”
“Work around so much . . . ugliness every day?” Between hearing about that poor kid Adam this morning and then considering all the bad fates that might have befallen Brent, I’d found my day pretty depressing. “Doesn’t it get to you? All the garbage, the slime you deal with—after a while, does it ever feel like it’s starting to stick?”
“Naw,” Tony said. “I may be surrounded by dirt, but I’m the detergent, babe. I get to clean it up.”
He tapped on the folder in which he’d placed the photos out of my view. “I’m gonna find the scumbag who did this to her, and I’m gonna make sure he never hurts another girl again.”
That’s my Tony. Always protecting people. It made me proud. It made me admire him.
It also made me, for some reason, horny.
I decided to skip another slice. Of pizza that is.
“Best dessert ever,” Tony said, twenty minutes later when I stood up from between his legs.
“I don’t,” I said, licking my lips, “remember you eating anything.”
“I had a cannoli while you were down there.” He grinned. “It was so good I almost didn’t even notice what you were doing.”
“What?” I heard the whine in my voice and regretted it. “That is just rude. I can’t believe—”
“Kidding, babe, kidding.” Tony pulled me into his lap for a kiss. “Believe me, not all the baked goods in the world could distract me from those sweet lips of yours.” He licked them to reinforce his words.
“You better be telling me the truth, Rinaldi,” I said.
“Trust me, the way you get me going? I’d be afraid to try and eat something when you pleasure me. I’d probably choke to death.” He ran his hand over my chest. “Speaking of which, do you need me to return the favor? That was a nice surprise, but I don’t want to be selfish.”
“I, uh, kind of finished already. When I was . . . down there.” I blushed a little. “Couldn’t help it.”
Tony’s eyes widened, and he looked down at my crotch. Always the investigator, he wasn’t going to let me get away with that claim without checking it out himself. The big wet spot in my pants confirmed my confession.
He grinned wolfishly. He’d never admit it, but the thought that I got off just from getting him off made him feel like quite the stud. Which he was.
I grinned back. Nothing made me happier than making him happy. Maybe that made me codependent or too needy, or maybe that was what love was supposed to be about. I didn’t care.
“So,” he said, “since we can’t talk about my case, tell me what you were working on today.”
Another opportunity to fill him in on what was happening with Brent. Maybe I’d take it. But first, the more entertaining story.
“You’re not doing this,” Tony said, stone-faced. We’d moved over to the couch where we cuddled while I told him about the harrowing events of my
day. “It’s too dangerous.”
“It’s hardly bungee jumping,” I assured him. “I’m just going to ask a few questions.”
Tony released me from his embrace and pushed me forward, forcing me to look in his eyes. “Listen, Kevvy. You may have noticed you have a habit of putting yourself into the line of fire. This is the kind of thing that needs to be investigated by professionals. Not you and your loony mother.”
This was what I was afraid of. The ironic thing was, I hadn’t even mentioned Brent Havens yet. Tony was objecting to my mom’s plan to visit Families by Design, the adoption agency used by the Merrs.
“Tony, we’re just going to see if they cut corners or suggest anything illegal in their admissions process. At worst, they’re an unethical business. It wouldn’t make them Murder Incorporated.”
“You think they might be implicated in child abuse, Kevvy. That’s a crime. You need to report it and let the police do our job.”
“There’s nothing to report, Tony. That’s why we’re going.”
Tony’s sigh was heavy enough to rustle the drapes. “Is it ever possible to talk you out of anything?”
“It’s not me you’d have to convince,” I said. “It’s my mother. In which case, no.”
“You know what your problem is?” he asked me.
Why is it that the very protectiveness I love about Tony when he applies it to others pisses me off when he pulls it on me?
“No,” I said. “Enlighten me.”
“That you’re a grown man who’s still caught up worrying about what mommy will think. Do you see me crying because my mom’s PO’ed at me? If she can’t accept my divorce, that’s on her, not me.
“Trust me: You need to cut the umbilical cord, babe.”
“She’s not just my ‘mommy.’ She’s also my boss. I kind of have to care what she thinks, Tone. It’s not the umbilical cord pulling me into this, it’s the paycheck.”
Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) Page 13