Picking up the phone, I tapped in the number of the first Matt. Next to his name, Anton had written “A real sweetheart. Wants to contribute money for flowers for Brad.” The Sweetheart’s phone rang several times before he answered. His voice had that scratchy vague kind of hoarseness that some people acquire with age.
I explained why I called, and he was eager to talk. The more we spoke, the more convinced I was this wasn’t the man who’d terrorized the spa. He was an old time client, enamored of Brad. It also didn’t sound like he had the strength to pound on anything or make much of a racket.
For the next Matt, Anton’s note said, “Odd but harmless.” I wondered how Anton could tell. He was great at reading people in person, but over the phone?
When Matt the Odd answered the phone, I realized immediately why Anton’s perception was correct. This Matt had a Marilyn Monroe voice that threw me for a minute. I asked if Matt was available, and the voice at the other end claimed to be Matt. Although he didn’t sound like the type to go battering down doors, you never knew.
The third Matt was equally harmless. Luke had left a note saying he was “A laugh riot.” When I got him on the phone, I saw Luke was right. The man didn’t let an opportunity for a joke pass him by. I didn’t have time for laughs, so I cut that call short. He wasn’t playing with a full deck, but I didn’t get the feeling he was dangerous.
I wouldn’t cross these guys off yet. I’d seen too many people who had vastly different personalities under varying circumstances. The three Matts would stay way at the bottom of my list, but they’d definitely stay.
Whoever had been pounding on the spa door wasn’t on Brad’s client list. Nothing close to Max or Mazz or Matz appeared. I pulled up the rest of Brad’s files and ran searches on variations of the name. Struck out every time.
There were a few possibilities. Considering it was a high stress situation and Fillmore was frightened, maybe he hadn’t heard correctly. Or, Fillmore missed some detail because Brad was “mumbling” as Fillmore had described it. A more disturbing possibility was that Brad didn’t want any record of the guy to be found and never placed his name in any file.
From Fillmore’s report, this couldn’t have been Brad’s first encounter with this guy Mazz or Max or whatever. So I considered the possibility that he’d told somebody about the man. The first person he’d tell should have been Emily. If he had, then why hadn’t she mentioned the name earlier?
I picked up the phone and keyed in her number.
“You found something?” Her voice was a mix of hope and fear.
“Not yet. Someone gave me a name but no one in Brad’s files matches.”
“What name? Who told you?”
“A client. Claimed there was someone who harassed Brad.”
“I told you that was going on. Someone bothered Brad. Was it Johnny? Did the client say it was him?”
“Are you aware of anyone with a name like Matt or Mazz in Brad’s life?”
“No… no. There was a boyfriend once a long time ago. Brad’s first boyfriend was named Marty. But he… well, he died.”
“You know how?”
“Drugs,” Emily sighed. “Years ago Brad and Marty were part of a fast crowd. Parties, bars, crazy stuff. They went to some circuit party and Marty tried crystal… something.”
“Crystal meth?”
“That sounds right. Seems like so long ago. After that, Marty was different. Drugs became his life. Eventually…” Emily was silent.
“And Brad?”
“Brad? No. He tried things, sure. But he never went overboard. He was destroyed by Marty’s death. Felt responsible. His whole world collapsed.
“So there was no one named…”
“Not by those names, not Matt or…
“The witness thought the name could also have been Max or something like that.”
“Max…? It can’t be. He’s gone… We thought… he was…”
“Who? Tell me what you’re thinking, Em.”
“Max. You’re sure it was… Max?”
“It could have been Max. Did Brad know someone named Max?”
“Y-yes.” Emily paused, took a breath. “Max. We tried forgetting him. We needed to move on. But… maybe…”
“Who is he? What did he have to do with Brad?”
“Max was an ugly man. I don’t mean his looks. Max had an ugly soul. Mean and small and vicious.”
“How did Brad know this creep?”
“They were involved for a while. Well before Brad started the spa.”
“How long were they together?”
“Long enough for Max to give Brad a black eye a couple of times. Long enough for Brad to get injured in what he claimed was a simple accident at home. I knew it was Max. It had to be.”
“Brad never went to the police?” I knew the answer as soon as the words left my lips.
“They don’t often take women seriously when it comes to domestic violence. You think the police would believe a gay man?”
“No. They wouldn’t.” I knew the statistics on domestic violence in the gay community were the same as for straight couples. Except gay men who get abused aren’t taken seriously. A cold chunk of ice settled in the pit of my stomach. I’d seen this kind of abuse before. “Having a complaint on record is something that can be used later on, even if they don’t believe you. It’s too bad.”
“Brad wasn’t thinking right at the time. How could he? He was too frightened.” She paused again. “Do you think Max did this?”
“I don’t know, Em.”
“We never knew what happened to Max.… We thought… hoped… he went away…” Her voice trailed away. It became a small sound and sad.
“How did things end with them? How long ago was it?” Funny that Brad never told me about Max. It was probably something he didn’t want to remember. Or, it could have been shame. So many men in that situation don’t want to admit they’ve been abused. At least Brad made it out alive. I wondered how he’d gotten Max off his back.
“It was years ago. Brad was just out of college.”
“Was this before or after Marty?”
“Max came along right after Marty died. Brad was vulnerable and wasn’t being careful. He could never see what people were actually like anyway. Max was strong on the surface and offered Brad stability. I never trusted him, and I told Brad.”
Strong on the surface. That’s what bullies are like. They take advantage of anyone who can’t see beneath the tough surface to the soft, pathetic creep inside. I knew the type.
“How long before Max began hurting Brad?”
“He didn’t start out hurting him. Not physically. Things happened a little at a time. First he kept Brad away from his friends. They’d been his only support other than me. Max prevented Brad from going out or meeting anyone new. Eventually Brad was never allowed out unless it was with Max.”
“Brad just let it happen?”
“He didn’t see what was going on. Not at first. He so wanted to forget what had happened to Marty that he accepted anything Max demanded. He went along with anything Max said.” She paused. I heard her struggling to speak.
“And then…” I coaxed.
“Max got physical. When they argued, he’d hit Brad. Of course, Brad made excuses for him. Don’t they always?”
“That’s the pattern.” I’d seen it happen in gay and lesbian relationships more often than people imagined.
“I saw Brad with black eyes, bruises, cut lips… I told him he had to do something.” Emily’s voice was stronger now.
“He was too afraid, right?”
“Max told Brad he’d regret it if he tried to leave. Max could be very intimidating.”
“Bastard.”
“I couldn’t convince Brad he had to leave. Until…” Her voice softened.
“Until what?”
“Brad fell down the stairs. A whole flight of steps in their home. It was bad.”
“Mygod,” I said. “I never knew.”
&
nbsp; “Brad never wanted anyone to know.”
“How badly was he hurt?”
“A broken arm. A broken leg. Broken ribs. Cuts and bruises. Sprains. Stress fractures….” She was silent so long, I thought she’d hung up.
“Em? You okay?”
“He was unconscious when they brought him to the hospital.”
“How did they know to call you? I mean, how’d Max allow that?”
“Brad has… had… me as his emergency contact of record with his doctor. The hospital must’ve had access to those records. Anyway, I thank God that they called me.”
“That’s when Brad decided to leave?”
“Yes, but he never admitted Max pushed him down those stairs. He said Max had had a rough life and couldn’t help himself. Brad didn’t want to make things worse.”
“That was the end of it?”
“Not exactly. Max tried to get back together. Brad finally got a restraining order against Max.”
“Did it help?”
“Max made a few more attempts. Then all of a sudden he disappeared.”
“Like out of town disappeared? Or…”
“We never knew. At the time I thought he was out of sight because he was doing the same thing to some other poor guy. I still think so.”
“He came back recently?”
“Brad never said that exactly. I suppose he didn’t want me to worry. I overheard him talking on the phone one night. Sounded like Brad was trying to get someone to stop calling. He brushed it off when I asked and said that someone was being a nuisance. I tried getting him to talk about it but he said he could take care of it. That it was nothing…” Before ending the call, she said, “If your witness heard his name, then it has to be Max.”
Chapter 8
Max, Brad’s abusive boyfriend, and the mysterious Johnny, were two of the better leads I had. Actually, they were my only leads.
Knowing Brad as I did, I couldn’t believe he’d been involved with a creep like Max. It was a long time ago and he’d obviously changed. The Brad I knew would never allow that to happen again.
Now Max was at the top of my list. I wanted to see him up close, not just because he was a suspect, but I wanted to look the scumbag in the eye and tell him what a loser he was. All I had to do was find him.
Emily told me his name was Gibson which gave me a place to start. I pulled up a browser and after a bit of searching came up with a list of Max Gibsons. Some sites give you a person’s gender, an approximate age, and other useful tidbits. That information helped narrow my list to a few who lived in Philly. There was no guarantee Gibson had stayed in the city but I had to start somewhere.
I made some calls. The first two Gibsons weren’t home. None of the others owned up to being the Max Gibson I was searching for. Not that I entirely believed them. I’d get Olga to do a deeper search in better databases.
One of the Max Gibsons was evasive, couldn’t answer a question head on, which raised red flags all over the place. As I peppered him with more questions, I heard a woman’s voice in the background. “Honey, what’re you doin’ on the phone so long?” He moaned, telling me to get the hell off his back and that one nag was enough for any man. I took him off the list. A jerk, maybe, but not the jerk I was looking for.
The Max Gibson I needed didn’t seem to be among the names the Internet had spit out. Meaning, the guy was a dead end until I could dig up more information. I silently wished Emily had known more about him.
I was about to call some of Brad’s clients that I’d missed on the first go round, when I remembered the crime scene pictures I’d taken with my cell phone. In all the rush and after dealing with Emily, I’d almost forgotten the photos.
Not often cooperative about giving up its contents, my way-too-clever smart phone decided not to give me a problem and immediately coughed up the pictures. Two photos interested me more than the others: the appointment book and the dead client.
I scrutinized the picture of the appointment book on the reception counter and jotted down sets of initials Brad had penciled in on the day he’d been killed. “SW” and “PV” were listed without notes indicating who they were.
The fact that they were missing any notation was a bit strange considering Brad’s usual practice. On past visits to his spa, I always glanced at his appointment book. It’s what I do, you never know what information might come in handy. He usually had full names listed. Sometimes last name and first initial but never just initials. To make sure that was what he always did, I checked the computerized version of his appointments. No plain sets of initials there. That confirmed it was not something he ever did.
Listing only initials was a departure from the norm and could either be an innocent lapse or something more meaningful, even sinister. I’d have to puzzle it out. As I tried squeezing more juice out of that orange, the phone rang.
“Fontana.”
“How you holding up?” Anton’s voice was throaty and wrapped me like a warm blanket.
“I could use some company.”
“Meet me at The Village Brew in five. I’m leaving the gym.”
I pictured Anton, undoubtedly standing in the gym’s lobby, clad in sweats and an old Rehoboth tee-shirt from a trip we’d taken a while back. He was probably attracting all sorts of attention. As a part-time trainer, his body was his best advertising tool. But though Anton was fully aware of the effect his looks had on men, he never exploited that power, never took advantage of others because of it. That was one of the things I liked most about him.
“I’ll be there. One more thing to do.” I was right around the corner from the café so I could finish up and be there with time to spare.
I synched my phone to the computer and transferred the pictures I’d taken at the spa. I didn’t want to chance losing them. When the dead client’s picture hit the screen, I stared at his face a moment. He was a handsome, distinguished-looking, older man. I wondered again who he was and if Giuliani or Shim would tell me when they knew.
Closing the files, I stared at the monitor and winced when the muscle cramp in my left leg returned, reminding me that Brad wouldn’t be working his magic on it ever again. I ignored the pain, I’d deal with it when this was over and Brad’s killer was caught.
The chair squeaked when I stood. The tiny sound brought the larger silence into focus. Weekends in this office provided noiseless distance from the world outside. Only rarely did small sounds crack the hush. The lack of distractions should have made it easier to think, but the lack of noise was itself a distraction. Real silence was pocked with random sounds. The creaking of stairs, wind rattling windows, a stray voiced word. Things that reminded you of the deeper silence all around.
My thoughts were tense, unfocused. I needed to get out to think clearly.
People laughing and talking, strolled the crowded sidewalks. The perfect Spring weather made people feel alive. But I felt numb, something I couldn’t afford. Emily was counting on me and I couldn’t let my feelings throw me. There’d be time to reflect later. Once before I allowed something like this to get to me. The results had been disastrous.
“Hey handsome.” Sean, the barista at The Village Brew, stood against the wall just outside the café, taking a last puff on his cigarette before tossing it away. His “Caffeine Works for Me” tee-shirt revealed everything about his gym-sculpted chest.
“Shouldn’t you be putting cream in somebody’s coffee?”
“You have a dirty mind, Fontana.” Sean winked. “I like that.”
“Right now I need caffeine. Plenty of it,” I said as I neared the entrance.
“I know just what you need and it isn’t caffeine.” Sean held the door open for me but didn’t move. My arm slid up against his perfect pecs as I entered the café. He leaned in to kiss me on the cheek and whispered, “I’d like another round with you. How about it, my own private eye?”
“You know where I live.”
“Couldn’t forget if I tried.” Sean winked and strolled through th
e café to the counter, lightly touching patrons he knew as he moved.
I took a table near the wide front window and watched the neighborhood boys walk past the café until everything blurred into a muzzy Spring haze. Next thing I knew Anton was sitting across from me and Sean approached with a cup of coffee.
“Back from your trip?” Anton asked. He looked concerned and stretched out a hand to touch my face. “I’ve been sitting here a few minutes and so was your body. But…”
“My mind’s a thousand miles away. Rough day. Still trying to figure it all out.”
“I knew Brad a long time. This all seems impossible.” Anton placed his hand over mine, the warmth of his touch pleasant and comforting. “A lot of people are going to miss him.”
“All the more reason I need to get the bastard who did this.”
“With you and the police working, you’ll find him,” Anton stared into my eyes. “You seem… I mean, this seems more personal with you somehow.”
“Damned right,” I snapped. More harsh than I’d intended. “I’m sorry, Anton.”
“Forget it. I understand.”
“No, you’re right. This is more personal. Brad was a friend. You go out of your way for friends, right?”
“Yes… but…”
“I know, I know. Letting personal feelings overwhelm me will screw things up”
“It’s understandable. It’s all still fresh. It was only this morning. You haven’t had a chance to let it settle.”
“I’ve got to get some distance.”
“It’s your hot Italian temper. Which sometimes I like. Give it time. You’ll find whoever did this. The bastard is as good as caught.”
I took Anton’s hand in mine and squeezed. “Thanks.”
“What about the other man… the one you…?”
“The other…? Oh, the other victim.” I pulled up the man’s picture on my phone and turned it toward Anton. “Recognize him?”
“No.” Anton stared at the picture with an expression something between fear and pity. “Poor man. Has… had a nice face even if this picture is kind of grizzly.”
Body on Pine Page 8