“Sergeant White,” George pleaded, “let’s be reasonable. My client had nothing to do with this or any other murders.”
“Then how did his engraved bracelet and a handkerchief with his name stitched on it come to be at the scene? How did Lanny Summer’s engraved Zippo lighter end up in your client’s kitchen, Mr. Walker? These things perplex me.”
Philip said, “I am equally perplexed. The bracelet disappeared from my apartment last week. I’d assumed a friend picked it up by mistake, but haven’t seen him to ask about it. Because I lose a few and give more away to those who fail to carry one, my sister embroiders my name on handkerchiefs she gives to me a dozen at a time every few months. And as for that damn lighter—”
“Please,” George whispered. “Let me do the talking.” He turned back to Sergeant White. “Mr. Vincent worked for me and was investigating the series of unconnected murders you allege my client committed.”
Sergeant White leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms across her chest. “A roll of duct tape we found in the car links the cases together.” She raised a hand to her chin. “He worked for you? Maybe he got too close and Potter had to kill him.”
Philip bit his tongue to keep from reacting to her outrageous accusation. He focused on George, waiting for him to respond, to put an end to this nonsense once and for all.
George cleared his throat. “Yes, I agree about Tony getting too close. But my client isn’t the killer.” George opened his briefcase and removed a thick, well-worn manila folder. “Tony filed daily reports with me. He was a new employee—fresh out of prison—I thought the daily check-ins might keep him out of trouble.” He handed her the folder.
“He preferred to be called Anthony,” Philip said, watching as she scanned the contents of the file.
George kept talking. “As you can see, he took meticulous notes. Quite impressive, really. I’ve read the entire file. Tony’s—” He shot a glance at Philip. “—rather, Anthony’s focus turned to a yellow Continental he observed parked outside my client’s apartment in the middle of the night last Thursday.”
She flipped through the file, scanning each page quickly. Philip saw her eyebrows go up several times at what she read.
George gave Philip a quick, almost imperceptible nod and continued. “It appears, Sergeant, that the killer is trying to frame my client.”
The sound of the file slapping the top of her desk startled Philip. “But why? And why your client? What’s the connection? If your investigator is right, why would Clarkson single him out?” Sergeant White shook her head. “Your theory makes no sense.”
Philip’s head jerked up. “Did you say Clarkson?”
Sergeant White nodded.
George said, “Simon Peter Clarkson III. Goes by Tripp. He’s a Bible salesman and the owner of the yellow Continental Anthony had been tailing.”
Philip gasped as his role in the tragedy became clear. Telling Terrence about Clarkson had been a mistake. Philip was responsible for Anthony’s death, as though he’d pulled the trigger himself. “I heard Clarkson ranting from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial about homosexuals preying upon children. His words hit a nerve and I couldn’t keep quiet. I knew I’d made him angry, but I had no idea….”
Sergeant White stroked her chin and appeared to be deep in thought. Her hand dropped and she focused her attention on Philip. “Did you give him your name and address?”
Philip eyed George to see if he should answer and received a nod. “No, I did not. I have no idea how he found out. The only people there who knew me would never have told him, even if they knew my real name. They told me about him.”
“Your real name?”
“Yes. The work is… sensitive, so we use pseudonyms.”
“I see.” She leaned forward. “Who are they and what exactly do they do?”
After George nodded his assent, Philip continued. “They are the Mattachine Society of Washington, fighting to end the federal ban on hiring homosexuals and the kind of harassment by police that I’m experiencing at this very moment.”
“Mr. Potter.” She glared at him. “I’m not harassing you. I’m interrogating you as a murder suspect. There’s a differ—”
“If my client is indeed a suspect, then I must advise him to stop answering your questions. It’s obvious from Anthony’s file that my client is innocent and being framed for murder. Rule him out as a suspect so we can help you find the killer.”
She frowned, then scowled at Philip and picked up the file again. She browsed through Vincent’s notes for several minutes, studying the last few pages with special care before tossing the folder back onto the desk. She leaned her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. “I appreciate your situation.” She nodded and stood. “Now you need to understand mine. The chief wants us to wrap this up, pronto. There’s too much circumstantial evidence pointing to your client. Without a better suspect, I’m afraid I can’t rule him out.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“I’M FREE to go?” Philip asked, hoping the sordid ordeal was finally coming to an end.
“Not exactly,” George answered as he held the police station door open for Philip. “They didn’t arrest you, but they wanted to keep you in jail overnight. I vouched for your character. If you disappear, I’ll have to come after you to preserve my stellar reputation in this town.”
His teasing smile struck Philip as downright flirtatious. He had to admit, the idea of George chasing him down, for whatever reason, appealed to him. Yes, he was an attractive man. But his conscientious desire to do the right thing impressed Philip most. That’s why George had apologized for his brother’s behavior, came to James’s funeral, and, truth be told, accepted Philip as a client. He trusted George, knew he would always tell him the truth and do the right thing. Searching for a better attorney before contacting him would have been a waste of time. Everything about George Walker was top tier.
“Do you still think you can get me off?” George’s amused expression made Philip realize he should have given more care to his choice of words. He blushed. “I mean, keep me from going to prison.”
“I knew what you meant.” They stopped beside a dark blue Thunderbird. “It’s a 1967 model. I got it last fall right after they came out. Can I give you a ride?”
Philip gave an admiring glance down the length of the car. “I’ve always liked Thunderbirds. It’s gorgeous.”
George opened the door. “You should see the inside. So they wouldn’t compete with the Mustang on price, Ford made Thunderbirds more luxurious. Come on, get in.” He left the door open and walked around to the driver’s side. “Are you hungry? It’s almost dinnertime, and I haven’t eaten since I left the house this morning.”
George beamed, and Philip didn’t know when he’d seen someone so excited about a car, even one as eye-catching as this. His stomach growled at the thought of food. It had been a very long day. The police had taken him into custody before he’d eaten anything. “I’m hungry too. But what about your wife?”
“She and her bitches are vacationing in San Diego.”
Philip gaped at George. “Bitches?”
“Another dog show. Maxine can’t abide male dogs—hates all that humping and leg-hiking. Do you like seafood? I’m craving some she-crab soup from the Market Inn.”
They had to eat, and now that George had mentioned Market Inn, Philip had a sudden hankering for lobster bisque. “Sounds lovely.” He settled into the comfortable bucket seat and closed the door behind him.
George put the keys in the ignition but didn’t start the car. “My marriage exists only on paper. Maxine goes about her business, and I go about mine. We have dinner together now and then, and keep each other informed about major activities. Beyond that, we move in different circles. You don’t need to worry I’m neglecting her to spend time with you.”
Philip didn’t know what to say. The idea of George living in his hellish marriage for nearly nine years saddened him. George wasn’t the kind of man to be unfait
hful. And yet, he wasn’t unhappy or bitter. Quite the opposite.
“I told her about you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You did?” Philip was surprised. “And what, pray tell, did you tell her?”
“That you are the kindest, most warm-hearted man I’ve ever known, and that being with you makes me feel more alive than I’ve felt in years.”
Philip’s mouth fell open. “What did she say?”
George cleared his throat and leveled his gaze at Philip. “She asked if I was in love with you.”
Philip stared at George, too stunned for words. After a moment, he managed to ask, “What did you say?”
George shrugged. “I told her I didn’t know. Then we had a most interesting discussion about our marriage. She thanked me for my discretion over the years and said it was more than she deserved. She even apologized for her lack of interest, saying it was a pity because I’d been a truly splendid husband.”
Philip’s mind was reeling. What was George trying to tell him? “Are you getting a divorce?”
“No.” George spun the wedding ring around his finger. “We talked about it, but agreed the scandal would ruin my career. She likes my income rather a lot.”
“So you’re still trapped in a loveless marriage.” Philip couldn’t understand why George was so happy.
“Not exactly.” George paused, and a sheepish grin crossed his face. “She told me to spend more time with you and to keep her posted on how things develop.”
Philip didn’t know what to think. George didn’t seem to be talking about friendship—the only kind of relationship he’d ever believed was possible for them. No. He was talking about the one kind of relationship that Philip had believed could never be.
“I’m sorry,” Philip said, searching for meaning in George’s steely gray eyes. “Are you saying she gave you permission to have an affair with me?”
George blanched. “No—not at all. Nothing like that, though I believe were I to present her with that scenario, her attitude would be far more favorable than I’d ever imagined was possible.”
“You mean you’ve actually thought… I mean, the two of us….” Philip was again at a loss for words.
“Oh, come on, Philip. You’ve never thought about us?”
Philip considered his next words. Did he play it cool? Or was now the time to lay it all on the line? The expectant look he saw on George’s face let him know exactly what to say. “Frankly, George… I can’t stop thinking about us… or you, anyway.”
Had they not been parked on a busy street in the middle of rush hour, they might have consummated their illicit affair on the spot. Philip had never wanted to kiss someone so much in his life—and a peck on the cheek wouldn’t do.
George appeared to be thinking the same thing.
After a long moment, Philip said, “What do we do now?”
George turned the key in the ignition. “I say we get something to eat.” He eased the Thunderbird into traffic. “Oh, I never answered your question about getting you off.”
Philip’s face grew hot. The twinkle in George’s eye telegraphed his awareness of the double entendre.
“They haven’t charged you with anything, and in my professional opinion, they won’t. I’d be willing to bet she’s already focusing her attention on Clarkson.”
“But what if it’s not him?”
“Not him?” George gaped at him. “What on earth are you talking about? They’ve got a better suspect than you. Let it go.”
Philip grimaced. “But if he’s the wrong man, more young men will die. Sergeant White had a point. If Clarkson killed Anthony, he had to find out my name and where I live to break into my apartment.” The hair on his neck prickled. “He had to do it when I was home too, or he wouldn’t have been able to get the bracelet. The rest of the time, I’m wearing it. Or was, before it landed in the evidence room.”
George moved a hand from the steering wheel, pinching his chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger. “Are you a sound sleeper?”
Philip didn’t answer right away. The question reminded him of James. They slept in the same bed, their heads inches apart—close enough they both would have been able to hear the same thing. James had often asked about thunderstorms or loud noises that had woken him in the night that Philip almost never heard. “Yes, I am.”
“Well, then, there you have it. Clarkson broke in during the night when you were asleep, dropped the lighter in a kitchen drawer, and then stole your bracelet and a handkerchief.”
“Impossible.” Philip was certain. “I keep my handkerchiefs in the drawer on my bedside table.”
“Impossible? You said you’re a sound sleeper.”
“How would he have known where they were? Going through my dresser drawers would have been difficult in the dark and would have taken a lot of time. Clarkson couldn’t have known that I’d have slept through any noise he made. Would he have taken that chance? I don’t think so.”
George shrugged. “But he might have, and if he did, you’d have slept through it.”
“Perhaps, but the drawer on my bedside table sticks and won’t open unless you lift the knob, shift the drawer a bit to the left, shove it in hard, and then quickly pull it open. James never could do it right.” He remembered how James complained he’d have an easier time stealing the Hope Diamond than retrieving anything he needed from that drawer.
But Beau could. Philip hadn’t even had to show him. He’d figured it out when they were painting. Philip flashed back to Christmas Eve when he’d met Beau, his unexpected appearance inside the apartment the next day, and the way he’d rushed out when he’d seen Daniel’s picture in the newspaper.
By the time they reached the restaurant, Philip had lost his appetite. He stirred the bisque as he talked. “I don’t think Clarkson has anything to do with these murders. He’s a family man, with a beautiful wife and two fine sons. Sure, he’s obsessed, but that doesn’t make him a killer.”
George pushed his empty soup bowl aside and a waiter whisked it from the table, replacing it with the shrimp cocktail he’d ordered. “If not Clarkson, then who?” All but the tail of the sauce-covered shrimp disappeared into his mouth. With a sharp tug, he removed the shell and set it on his butter plate.
“Beau Carter,” Philip said. “He drives a yellow Continental and could easily have taken one of my handkerchiefs and the bracelet and planted the poor boy’s lighter in my kitchen drawer.” The more he thought about it, the more certain he was.
While George polished off his shrimp cocktail and a broiled seafood platter, Philip poked at his stuffed flounder and told George everything he knew about Beau. In his mind, Beau was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.
Terrence’s revelation about Rudy popped into his head. Philip drew in a sharp breath.
“What is it?” George asked, concerned.
He couldn’t talk. Of course. It made perfect sense. James had talked about killing himself for as long as Philip had known him. But he’d never, not even once, actually attempted suicide. “What if James didn’t kill himself?”
“What?” His expression made it clear that George thought Philip had gone off the deep end. “Why would our guy kill James? Except for Anthony, his victims were male prostitutes.”
Philip forced himself to take another bite of his flounder. As he chewed, he thought about whether he should tell George about his nephew’s part-time day job. What’s worse—believing his nephew killed himself or finding out he was murdered for being a prostitute?
George peered at him from across the table.
His mind made up, Philip decided there was no graceful way to tell him. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I learned recently that James was turning tricks during the day.”
The waiter materialized to clear the table of empty dishes and Philip’s half-eaten fish. “Care for dessert, gentleman?”
George’s stunned expression told Philip he hadn’t heard the question. He smiled at t
he waiter. “No, thank you. Just the check, please.”
George stared across the table at him, his face reflecting his pain. “Are you sure?”
Philip told him about Terrence seeing a picture of James and asking how he knew Rudy. “Beau said James resembled someone he knew named Rudy and almost always refers to him as Rudy in conversations.” He recalled another conversation. “Terrence said all the guys know Mr. Carter.” At the time, he’d accepted Terrence’s explanation. But now that he thought about it, the fact that Terrence and Daniel were in the man’s class at school in no way explained how the other hustlers would know him. “Sergeant White is wasting her time going after Clarkson.”
George nodded. “I think you’re right. I’ll call her as soon as I get home.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
SHIRLEY WHITE sank into soap bubbles up to her neck, a glass of pink Chablis in her hand, and closed her eyes. The hot water relaxed her. She inhaled the steamy air and focused on enjoying the heat and the magic it worked on her muscles, loosening them up little by little.
She allowed her mind to wander, and for perhaps a minute or two, may have fallen asleep. That would explain the wine glass in the water between her feet. Judging from how much tepid water she had to drain to make room for enough hot water to bring the bath back up to the steamy level she preferred, she might have slept for more than a minute or two. So what? She wasn’t on the clock.
The bottle of wine beside the tub was still cold. She picked it up to fill the glass, but instead put the bottle to her lips and chugged a few gulps before settling back into the water, a firm grip on the bottle in her right hand.
Relaxed, somewhat refreshed, and with just enough of a buzz from the wine to boost her creativity, she was ready to think about her case. Ready, even if she didn’t quite know what to think. Potter wasn’t a murderer. She’d had her share of run-ins with men who were killers, and even when Potter had been angry with her for suggesting he’d paid for sex, she didn’t see it in him. He struck her as the kind of guy who’d capture and remove a spider from his home.
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