Clearly George wanted a drink. Making him drink alone would be rude, and a shot of brandy wouldn’t hamper Philip’s judgment. “Since you insist, I’d love one.”
George dashed around the office, collecting elegant snifters and an amber bottle with a black label. Philip watched as he cut the gold seal with a penknife, removed the cap, and waved the open bottle under his nose before pouring two fingers in the bottom of each snifter. “Ahhhh, heavenly,” he said, handing a snifter to Philip, hesitating for a fraction of a second as he opted to sit in the chair rather than beside Philip on the sofa.
Philip swirled his snifter and inhaled deeply before taking a small sip. A velvet heat spread from his lips, across his tongue, and down his throat. He savored the sensation and could almost feel the warmth flowing through his veins. “Delightful.”
“I’m glad you like it.” George grew serious. “I’ve checked around and don’t believe you have any cause for concern.” He palmed the crystal globe to warm the brandy, breathing in the aroma.
“They found the killer?” Philip asked. “That’s certainly good news.” He couldn’t help but notice how much easier George was to be around than Beau. Despite the purpose of his visit, he was enjoying himself.
“No. They’re not even trying.” George polished off the last of his brandy and set the snifter on the coffee table.
Philip couldn’t hide his shock. “Why not? How many more boys must die to get their attention?”
George retrieved the bottle from his desk and poured another two fingers into each snifter. “Honestly? As their only suspect, you should be grateful.”
“Grateful?” Philip wanted to shake him. How could such a well-educated man be so dense? “Because the police have no interest in finding out who killed those boys?” He took another sip of the brandy and tried to get control of his emotions. George wasn’t to blame for the police not doing their job. “They know I didn’t do it.”
George peered over his snifter at him and shrugged. “I agree. But that wouldn’t prevent them from charging you and putting you on trial.”
“But I’m innocent.” Philip was exasperated. The situation would be very different if the victims had been straight boys or little girls. Every law enforcement officer within fifty miles would be beating the bushes to find the person responsible. Because the victims were all homosexual, nobody cared. The unfairness baffled and frustrated him. “The killer is still out there, and judging by the number of bodies found in the last few months, will certainly kill again—if he hasn’t already.”
“As your attorney, I’m telling you their lack of interest is a good thing. Tony Vincent is still on the case. Be patient.”
“How can I be patient when lives are at stake?”
George met his gaze with unblinking gray eyes. “I understand your concern, Philip. But until we find something to take to the police, we have to let them do their job.”
Philip leaned back in his chair and kneaded the knot of tension that had formed in his neck. “What happens if I’m charged?”
“We have no reason to believe your arrest is imminent or that the police have any intention of charging you for these murders. But if it comes to that, I believe I can convince a jury of your innocence—or at least, create a reasonable doubt.”
Philip gawked at him. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.” He was, but Philip could see a twinkle in George’s eyes he’d noticed before. “It’s what we lawyers do. Perhaps I could explain it to you… over dinner?”
“But what about your wife?”
George hesitated. “She’s in New York for a dog show. Please join me. If you don’t, I’ll end up eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or worse, alone at home.”
Philip didn’t know what to think. It was only dinner. He had to eat too and faced an equally enticing dinner at home. Unless Beau came by.
And he would.
He smiled. “Dinner sounds wonderful.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“WOULD YOU mind if we walked?” George asked as he slid into his charcoal-gray cashmere coat. “I’ve hardly left my desk all day.”
“Same here,” Philip replied, recalling his hours with Minerva Tolliver’s thimble collection. “I don’t mind at all.” He did wish he’d worn a different coat. Next to George’s gorgeous cashmere, his wool benchwarmer was downright dowdy. “Along with the National Mall, Dupont Circle is my favorite part of DC for walking.”
“Mine too, for walking or anything, really,” George said. They stepped out of his office onto Twenty-Second Street and headed toward the busy traffic circle. “It’s a great area. I keep an eye on the real estate around here. My dream is to have an office on Dupont Circle and branches in several states. What about you?”
Philip was impressed by his passion. George struck him as the kind of man who accomplished whatever he set out to do. “My dream—really more of a fantasy since I’ll never be able to afford it—is to live in one of those gorgeous homes on P Street between Seventeenth and Twentieth Streets.”
“You surprise me,” George said, his hands in the pockets of his coat as he walked. “I expected you’d say running the Smithsonian.”
Philip shook his head. “No, that would be my worst nightmare. I like working with the artifacts, handling and examining items with historical significance. Don’t tell anyone, but I love the work so much, I’d happily do the job for free.” He smiled. “So tell me, what made you want to become a lawyer?”
“Roland,” George said, his voice free of expression.
Philip stopped, puzzled. “James’s father encouraged you to go to law school?” He resumed walking. “He doesn’t strike me as the nurturing type.”
George laughed. “You are absolutely correct. He cheated at every game we ever played, making up rules as he went along, always with a complicated reason for his improvised exceptions. Once I learned how to read, the game changed. Since then, I’ve made it my business to know the rules.”
Having a reason to laugh again lifted his spirits. Philip enjoyed the conversation too much to pay any attention to where they were going, and he couldn’t believe it when they ended up at the luxurious Mayflower Hotel. He hesitated at the door, reaching for his wallet to see how much cash he had.
George touched Philip’s arm. “My treat, please.” The grasp, intended to keep Philip from pulling out his wallet, was somehow more intimate—almost electric. “I have an expense account.”
Philip breathed a sigh of relief. Using the expense account made it official. They weren’t on a date. Dinner at the ritziest hotel in DC was business. “Thank you,” Philip said. “I’ve been here for lunch a few times, but never for dinner.”
George held the door open for him. “Then you’re in for a treat.”
PHILIP COULDN’T remember when he’d last had such an enjoyable evening. From the escargot appetizer through a Caesar salad—prepared at the table—and onto a wonderful beef Wellington served with au gratin potatoes and asparagus, the food had surely been the best Philip had ever had the pleasure to eat. The bottle of Cabernet they shared over dinner had enhanced the flavor of the food and his mood.
Delighting in George’s company in no way influenced his assessment of the cuisine. It was business, and businessmen often enjoyed one another’s company over a candlelit dinner and a bottle of wine. Happened every day. He glanced around, seeing other tables with two or three men amidst the couples that dominated the dining room. There was nothing at all unusual about them laughing and having a good time together, though he did notice they were the only men in the restaurant who’d dressed alike.
“Were you and James happy together?”
The question caught Philip off guard. He placed a spoon of steaming chocolate soufflé into his mouth and thought about his answer. He closed his eyes for a time, savoring the warm chocolate before he spoke. “James and I tried to make a soufflé once. We measured all the ingredients out, followed the directions step by step.” He took another bi
te and nodded with satisfaction. “This is infinitely more delicious than ours turned out to be.” An image came to mind of James, lightly dusted with flour and a smudge of chocolate on his lip. They’d taken one sip of the soupy, steaming concoction and thrown the bitter-tasting mess into the trash.
“I don’t mean to intrude. If you don’t want to talk about it…,” George said, appearing disappointed but understanding at the same time.
“No,” Philip replied with a shake of his head. “I don’t mind. I’m thinking about how to answer.” He stirred cream into his coffee with the chocolate-covered spoon and, after a sip, returned his attention to George. “I loved your nephew with all my heart. We were good for each other. I saved him from a life on the streets, helped him to finish high school, and did what I could to support and encourage him in whatever he wanted to do.”
“You were good for him, no doubt about it.” George paused, savoring a heaping spoon of his soufflé. “But I wonder, and please take no offense, was he good for you?”
The words threw him. “What do you mean?”
“From all you’ve said—and I knew my nephew well enough to believe you—all the good seems to have flowed from you to him. Am I missing something?”
Philip didn’t know how to respond. George had hit the nail on the head just as Mary had. Aside from the companionship, he’d kept James in his life to satisfy his need to be needed. “My sister and I had this same conversation the day after he died. In truth, James was more the little brother I never had than an equal partner in our relationship.”
George nodded. “I can see how that would appeal to you.” He paused, wiping a dab of soufflé from his lower lip with a starched linen napkin. “Despite how it ended, you were good for James.”
Philip peered into steely gray eyes and tried not to think about how much he wanted to taste George’s lips, with or without a little dab of chocolate. “Thank you. Being good for him is all I ever wanted.”
“At first,” George said, “I saw James’s homosexuality as punishment for the way Roland treated people and for expecting so much from his son.”
“Punishment?”
“Yes,” George replied. “What better way to punish Roland than to give him a son who dreamed of dancing ballet?”
Philip was intrigued. “Punishment for what?”
“James’s mother was but another in a long line of people Roland has used and tossed aside. He took her to the drive-in movie when he was sixteen and got her pregnant.” He slid a bite of soufflé into his mouth and chased it with a sip of coffee. “I doubt she was his first victim, but she’s certainly not the last to pay a heavy price for getting involved with my brother.”
“I wonder how he sleeps at night,” Philip said. “I couldn’t live with myself.”
George shrugged. “Me either. The girl’s father showed up at the house. Roland tried but couldn’t wiggle his way out of the mess he’d made. James was born five months after the wedding, too big to pretend he was premature, and has been disappointing his father ever since.”
His sorrow touched Philip’s heart. He thought about Thad, and was glad he had a father like Alex—a good man with a kind soul—a man like George Walker seemed to be. Again, he wondered about George and Roland. Could two brothers be more different?
“From the moment he was born, nothing James did was good enough for my brother.” He paused, his gaze remote “Everything was a competition, and in the events Roland thought to be important, James lost every time.”
Philip frowned. “For the life of me, I really can’t understand how a father could treat his own flesh and blood so poorly. Why did he dislike James so much?”
George met Philip’s gaze, a pained expression on his face. He drew a deep breath, and the flame flickered on the candle as he exhaled. “James was the reason my brother had to marry a sad little girl he didn’t love, and Roland hated him for it.” He gave the gold band on his left hand a few turns. “He hated her too and figured out quick enough that brutalizing their son hurt her more than anything he could ever do to her. I tried to make a difference, but as his uncle, there was only so much I could do.”
Philip nodded. It would take more than a kindly uncle to compensate for the way Roland had treated James at home. “When did you see him last?”
“Three weeks before his death, he came to see me. He needed money. Said it was to get something he’d bought for you out of layaway.” Philip’s surprise must have shown, because George reached across the table and gave his wrist a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sorry. He came by the office to see me every few months and would talk about how poor the two of you were. I’d give him fifty bucks and wouldn’t see him until he needed money again.” George laughed. “Make sure your nephew sees you as something more than the source of cash and gifts.”
Though his face was hot with embarrassment, George’s laugh put Philip at ease. “I had no idea.” So that’s where James got money for jewelry and expensive clothes. “Until he told me he wanted to ask Roland for money, James hadn’t talked about his family since shortly after we met.” George cringed, causing Philip to regret his words. “Enough about me, I want to know more about you. Tell me about your wife.”
George’s crestfallen face told Philip he’d asked the wrong question. George gave his spoon an absentminded swirl through his coffee. “After watching Roland stumble into matrimony and fatherhood, my parents decided to take a more active role in finding a wife for me.”
Philip hadn’t thought about losing his parents early having an upside. He didn’t need to worry about meeting their expectations or interference from them in his life. In fact, he had no idea what either of his parents might have wanted for him, which freed him to pursue his own interests free of the weight of their dreams.
“Maxine and I sleep in separate rooms. The last time I went into her bedroom, her damn dogs attacked me. Since then, I haven’t been back.”
Philip suppressed a laugh. “When was that?”
George leaned back in his chair, eyed the ceiling for a moment, and stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Let me think. We married in 1958 after I finished law school—I was twenty-four. The dogs were a wedding present from her mother, who thought she needed something to keep her busy while I worked. I guess the canine assault occurred a few months into 1959.”
“You poor man.” The words came out without thought. Philip wanted to put his arms around George and hold him.
“It’s not so bad.” George shrugged. “Her lack of interest in the marriage has enabled me to focus on my career. It’s certainly not conventional, by any means, but the arrangement works for us. She has her life, I have mine, and we’re spared the humiliation and consequences of divorce.”
“Forgive me for asking, but seven years is a long time. Do you have a mistress? That lovely Miss Harris, perhaps?”
“No.” George nodded at the door and lowered his voice. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?” He smiled. “Roland tries to fix me up with his castoffs every now and then, but that’s more about him breaking loose than anything else.” He glanced at his watch. “Almost nine o’clock, can you believe it?”
Philip didn’t want the evening to end. “No, it doesn’t seem like we’ve been here for more than two hours.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” George said, signaling the waiter for the check.
“Yes,” Philip replied. “It certainly does.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
PHILIP STOOD in the shower, scrubbing his cuticles with a nailbrush, thinking about George Walker. He couldn’t get him out of his mind. The handsome face appeared unbidden, whether Philip’s eyes were open or closed, asleep or awake. He was an enigma, a paradox, and though not as handsome as Beau Carter, infinitely more attractive. Too bad he’s married—even if it was a sham marriage. George had made it clear divorce wasn’t an option.
The revelation about James hitting George up for money for years upset him even more than finding out about t
he tennis bracelet. For James to have kept the visits to his uncle to himself was a kick in the gut. Philip was mortified that James had led George to believe they were poverty-stricken. Yes, making ends meet had been challenging, especially early on, but they’d always managed.
He heard a noise and turned off the water, sliding the frosted glass door open enough to poke his head out to listen. He heard it again. Someone was pounding on his door.
The battering continued as he stepped onto the bathmat and wiped himself a few times with a towel. He grabbed his robe off the hook and slid into it as he dripped down the hall to the door.
“Geez, it’s about time.” A young man with lustrous blond curls pushed past him into the living room like he owned the place. “I thought maybe you weren’t home and was about to give up.” He stopped in the center of the room and grimaced. “Who’s your decorator?”
Philip closed the door, more curious than alarmed, watching as the young man sat on the sofa and crossed his legs. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m—”
“I know who you are. Philip Potter. I’ve been wanting to meet you. Anthony told me about you, but he didn’t mention your nice legs and how sexy you are.” He surveyed Philip down and back up, smiling. “But then, Anthony probably never saw you fresh out of the shower in that little bathrobe.”
Philip almost laughed but decided that would only encourage him. “Anthony? I don’t believe I know anyone by that name.”
“Anthony Vincent. He’s a private investigator for Walker and Cochran, a DC law firm that I believe you know a little something about.”
Angelic, Philip thought, and more than a little devilish. “Oh, you mean Tony.”
“Don’t call him Tony,” he snapped. “His name is Anthony.” The boy sounded almost angry.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. He was introduced to me as Tony. And what’s your name?”
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