His voice seemed a little friendlier, but I didn’t dare trust him.
“I’m finished,” I said. “When can I go?”
“What’s your hurry?”
“My cat—”
“Oh, right. Your cat. I thought you might have a big date.” Was he curious? Did he care? Was he laughing at me?
“Its more practical, Lieutenant. I’d like my apartment to be intact when I get home.”
“Why don’t you get the cat declawed?”
“Same reason you don’t amputate your fingertips.”
Branco frowned and pulled my written statement toward him. He leaned his chair backward and balanced it on two legs. He seemed to be taunting me. Was he doing it purposely? Was he enjoying it? I watched him read my statement while I sat mute and sullen. Even in that dim little closet of a room, Branco’s face had a healthy glow. The curly dark hair showed no sign of gray, and his blue-gray eyes shone with a light of their own. I gazed at him and felt a warm tingle dissipate the tension in my chest. I resumed my silent mantra, but I couldn’t blot out the effect of Branco’s body in that small room.
When he finished, he straightened up in the chair and put the report back on the table. He spoke with his purrbox on extra soft. “This is written really well.”
“They learned me English good at school.”
“It almost sounds prepared.”
“I had a goddamn half hour to write it!”
“You sound upset.”
“Of course I’m upset! First some jerk kills a man, then you guys try to blame the murder on me.”
Branco scribbled something on his note pad before he said, “Maybe you had a reason for killing Fayerbrock.”
The words stunned me. It sounded-like an accusation. I spoke with a slow, measured rhythm. “Lieutenant, I’ll tell you one thing. If I were going to kill anybody, it wouldn’t be Roger Fayerbrock. It would be Calvin Redding.”
Scribble, scribble went Branco.
I continued, “That bastard’s into weird sex. They were doing drugs and the scene got out of control.”
“Mr. Kraychik, that’s a very neat explanation, and I’d like to believe you, but I can’t.”
I felt a heavy pressure on my chest. “Why not?”
Branco just stared at me.
“Tell me!” I shouted.
Branco nodded calmly. “You prefer the bitter truth, eh?”
“More than sweet-sounding lies that dance around and tease you. What is it?”
Branco stood up and walked around behind me. He was so close I swear I could feel his own pulse on my neck and shoulders. I think the SOB was using his body to unnerve me, and damn it, it was working.
His voice was low when he asked, “What exactly did you say to Roger Fayerbrock when you were alone with him?”
“What!” I turned my head to face him, but he pushed me back around.
“Did you say I’m sorry for doing this?”
“What the hell are you talking about!”
“What did you say? Huh?” Branco shoved me, but not hard enough to hurt me.
I was speechless, but he kept on.
“When did you take off the ties? Before you held his hands? Or after?”
It took me but a second to realize that Calvin had told Branco about me being alone with Roger, and he’d embellished it all to incriminate me.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
Those had been my words to Calvin! Could I have sounded that harsh? But I was angry and jealous when I said that to Calvin. My words were driven by emotion. What would drive Branco to say that to me?
I realized I’d stopped breathing. I tried to hear my breath, but there was just blood pounding against my eardrums. I concentrated for a few minutes and got the air moving in and out of my lungs again and the blood pressure lowered. Then in as calm a voice as I could produce, I said, “I didn’t do anything wrong. I just held his hands to say good-bye. That’s all I said, and that’s all I did. If you want to arrest and book me for that, go ahead. I’ll make one phone call, and you’ll have a civil-liberties case on your head that’ll make you sorry you ever bullied a gay person in your life.”
Branco stood quietly behind me for a long time, and I felt his eyes on my back. Then he came around to face me again. “Redding’s and your stories disagree widely.”
I looked directly into his eyes. “Mine is true.”
Branco gave a slight nod, as though agreeing with me. Then, almost apologetically, he said, “We’ve booked Redding.”
Whew! I thought. I was off the hook!
“But not for murder,” continued Branco.
“For what, then?”
“Possession of drugs. He’d taken cocaine just before we arrived.”
Stupid Calvin, worried about wasting drugs. “How long will that hold him?” I asked.
“Until someone comes up with bail. Meanwhile I’ll keep shaking both your stories until the loose pieces fall out.”
“All that’s going to fall out of Calvin are nickels and dimes.”
“Then that leaves you, doesn’t it?”
“What?”
“Your story will have to be the one we follow then.”
“Lieutenant, that is the first hopeful thing you’ve said all night.”
“Don’t be so cocky.”
“What should I be?” I wanted to ask him, How do you want me to be? Then he could tell me, and I could do it, and we could get along. But I knew it wasn’t going to be that way with Lieutenant Branco.
He said, “I know you’re involved in this somehow, but I don’t have enough on you to make a charge.”
“That’s a big comfort, Lieutenant. You know, sometimes you guys are so nervous around people like me, it’s almost unnatural.”
He ignored my remark. “You can go home. Get back to your cat. Unwind. Have a drink.”
“Only one?”
Branco almost smiled. “Just don’t leave town.” With those words he sent me out of the room.
It was ten-thirty when I left the station, but I had no intention of having a drink—not until after I paid a visit to Calvin Redding’s downstairs neighbor. A purely social call, I assured myself. I thought about going home to feed Sugar Baby first, but at this point she’d probably exhausted herself in a destructive frenzy, so I figured it wouldn’t make much difference. So much for the rose-colored grille cloth on my new stereo speakers.
I walked back to Calvin’s place. The rain had slowed to a pleasant mist. The walk took about twenty minutes and gave me time to think. I wondered exactly how Calvin had tried to incriminate me. What had he said in his report? Then I wondered how he’d actually killed Roger, and why. I had to find out, not only to prove his guilt but, with the police suspecting me, to clear myself real fast. Perhaps I also wanted to establish a good scout image in Branco’s eyes. But why should I have cared about that?
Calvin’s building looked gloomy and uninviting now, and my envy at how well he lived had vanished. Two police vans with flashers going were still double-parked in front. I went inside and rang the buzzer for the suite just under Calvin’s place. A controlled low voice projected from the intercom. “Who’s calling?”
I marveled at how clearly the intercom transmitted his voice. I answered, “The guy you met in the elevator.”
He buzzed me in. That was the easy part. Digging up the dirt in Calvin’s life was going to be a bit trickier. That, and keeping the guy off my back, literally. I’ll never understand why the serious leather types are attracted to me. I’m not exactly a model of machismo. Maybe my pheromones are out of kilter.
When I got out of the elevator on his floor, I found him standing halfway out the open doorway to his suite. A white T-shirt and white socks now complemented his black leather pants. His wiry body was well proportioned and attractive, without the standard health-club physique. His beard and mustache were trimmed to a uniform one-quarter-inch length. His brown eyes seemed opaque and impenetrable, yet showed a vestige of warmth deep
within.
“I was kind of hoping you’d come back,” he said with a voice that sounded easy to get friendly with.
I flirted. “I thought you might be able to help me out.”
“I hope I can,” he said. He still smelled like leather heaven, as he had earlier that evening in the elevator.
“The cops just left my place. Maybe we can relax together.”
I didn’t answer him, but I put out my hand. “I’m Stan. Stan Kraychik.” I pronounced my name clearly and simply. People often have a hard time with it.
“I’m Hal Steiner.” His basso voice insinuated itself beyond the words he spoke, as though it had its own personality. We shook hands. His grip was warm and surprisingly strong for his trim build. He invited me in.
The living room was illuminated with soft light from numerous sources: candles mounted in wall sconces, oil lamps with stained-glass shades on the tables, and all the reflected white and rainbow-colored flames in the mirrors on the walls about the room. The gentle recorded music of a harpsichord and a wood flute filled the rooms dark places where the light didn’t penetrate.
The floor plan was exactly like Calvin’s on the next floor up, and the similarity ended there. I’d expected the decor to include racks and slings and harnesses everywhere. But instead, this leather-oriented man had surrounded himself with old dark furniture and carpets, footstools, antimacassars, and gilt-framed pictures. Everything had a long past.
He murmured, “You like it?”
“I do, but I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
“I expected something harder, given your wardrobe.”
He drew his full lips back as though he would smile, but he didn’t. “I’ve reserved one room for that side of my life. Would you like to see it?”
My pulse quickened. “Maybe later. I’d like to talk.”
“Nothing wrong with getting to know each other first. You want something to drink?”
“Sure. Something light, like a tumbler of gin.”
He tried to smile again. “Is that what you want?”
“Juice or water is fine.” I wanted to keep my wits about me. He went to get it. I watched the sheen of black leather caress the cheeks of his firm butt and recede into the dimness. I sat down in a dark velvet chair and let it envelop me. It was the first moment of peace I’d had all night. I rested my feet on an ottoman upholstered with bargello needlepoint. A jacquard tablecloth with a four-inch fringe covered a round table nearby, with a Tiffany lamp resting atop it all. The stained glass spattered gem-like colors on a tarnished silver frame containing an old sepia-tone photograph of a handsome military officer. I stared quietly into the soft glow of the lamps. When my host returned, it was his fully packed, leather-clad crotch that greeted me at eye level.
He placed a goblet of bubbly water on the table near me. Then he placed what looked like two plump and expertly rolled joints in the center of the table. “Help yourself,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. “Maybe later.” Later, later—that’s all my life seemed to be about.
He sat in the other chair near the table and faced me. He held a delicate porcelain cup and saucer with gold filigree. The cup contained something hot. He took a sip and said, “You’re here because of what happened upstairs, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
After a quiet moment he said, “I was hoping you’d come for something else.” He sighed, and when he spoke again, his voice was lighter. “All right, then, how can I help?”
Relieved that the sexual pressure was off, at least for the moment, I asked him, “Do you know what happened?”
“I assume, from seeing the covered gurney going down the stairs, that someone died.”
I tasted my water. There was a fragrance of roses. “You’re almost right,” I said. “Someone was killed—a real fine man—and I want to find out who did it.”
“Why?”
“Because he was here this afternoon, and now he’s not. And because the police think I’m involved, which I am not. And because I think Calvin probably did it, and I need evidence against him to prove it.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it in for him.”
“Calvin’s the kind of person who causes trouble and blames others. He gets away with too much. This time he went too far, and I want to see him pay.”
“Maybe he had cause for what he did.”
“There is no cause for murder.”
The leather man sipped again from his fragile cup. “Could’ve been passion.”
“Passion! They tricked. They just met last night.”
“Passion doesn’t work on a timetable.”
“And passion doesn’t excuse murder.”
“People live, sometimes they feel passion, then they die. Everything else is nonessential.”
His words sounded like the kind of reasoning some people use to allay a guilty conscience.
“Do you feel passion?” I asked.
“I did, a few times. Hope to again.”
I sipped some more rosewater. “That’s a lovely philosophy,” I said, “but I’m concerned with a killing.”
“Sometimes people kill each other.”
“How can you be so blasé about it?”
Hal shrugged. “I’m not blasé. I accept things as they are and try to fit in with them. Like, for example, my seeing you as a potential sex partner and then finding out that you’re really here for information about Calvin. If that’s why you’re here, then that’s what I’ll deal with.”
The guy was an enigma, a leather man who lived in the past yet had a handle on cosmic consciousness. I asked him, “How chummy are you and Calvin?”
He smiled like a sphinx, without parting his lips. “The only thing I know about Calvin is that he entertains a lot of good-looking men up there.”
“Did you guys ever make it?”
He hesitated before saying, “Who?”
“You and Calvin.”
Hal shook his head no.
I said, “Were you home this afternoon?”
“Suppose I was?”
“Did you see anyone coming into the building around three o’clock?”
“The only person I saw today was Aaron Harvey.”
“Who’s that?”
“Calvin’s lover. He doesn’t live here, but he’s around a lot, usually stays a few days at a time.”
“What time was it?”
He thought a moment, then said, “Around two o’clock.”
“You saw him come in?”
He nodded. “I was in the lobby downstairs. Hey, are you a lawyer or something?”
“No. Why?”
“This is like a cross-examination.”
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s my passion for facts. Sometimes it’s rude.”
“If you’re not a lawyer, it’s okay. You’re certainly more interesting than the police who were just here.” His eyes glanced below my belt.
If he thought the police weren’t interesting, he’d obviously not met Branco yet. I was tempted to tell him about the lieutenant, to jabber like a cheerleader over a varsity dreamboat, but I decided to continue with the questions. “When did Aaron leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t see him go out?”
Hal scowled. “I’m not a concierge!”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to press you. Was there anything unusual about him this time?”
“He arrived as he always does, carrying one of those leather bags embossed with gold initials and fleurs-de-lis.”
“Louis Vuitton.” I nodded. “But they’re not leather.” I spoke as though divulging one of life’s great secrets. “They’re made of vinyl-impregnated canvas. Only the trim is leather.”
Hal shrugged. “They’re not the kind of skins I’d own anyway.”
“I wouldn’t think so, but I hear they’re good for gym bags.” I sipped some rosewater. Lovely. “Hal,” I continued, “what does Aaron look like?”
“Medium height. Slend
er. Light brown skin. Gorgeous pale blue eyes. Dresses flashy.”
“Have you ever talked with him?”
“Just small talk, like with you earlier today.”
“You ever have him up here?”
Hals eyes narrowed. “Do you care?”
I smirked. “Just trying to get a sense of how well you know him. Do you know where he works?”
“Last I knew, he was at Neiman’s.”
“And you saw no one else? No tall, rugged cowboy type with sandy hair and blue eyes?” How could I talk so easily about Roger, now dead? Stanley the Heartless Inquisitor.
“I’d remember someone like that,” Hal answered.
“Yeah, you would. Except he’s dead now.”
Hal sat back and closed his eyes. I sipped my rosewater; he sipped his tea; the soft lights and peaceful music sustained an intimate mood. I was tired and lonely. I found myself wondering about Hals other room, the one reserved for pleasure, then quickly brought myself back to the business at hand. “From what you know, do you think Calvin could kill a man?”
“I think we’re all capable of it, given the proper circumstances.”
“What do you think those would be for someone like Calvin?” Silent moments passed as Hal studied the gold filigree on the delicate teacup he held. “Well, the only thing I could say about Calvin is that he’s completely self-absorbed. I’d guess anyone who could prevent him from getting something he really wanted might see his murderous energy, though I’m not sure he’d kill them.”
“Could that include sex?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Say he was expecting a certain performance level from a partner and he wasn’t getting it …”
“You mean, would he kill for that?”
I nodded.
“I doubt it. Maybe as some accidental consequence of his own selfish behavior. He does a lot of drugs. Sometimes that obscures your perceptions. As I said, adequately provoked, I think every person is capable of murder.”
“Including you?”
He carefully placed his cup on the table. “Every person.”
I put my goblet down heavily and said, “I want to see Calvin burn for what he did.”
“You really believe he killed that guy, don’t you?”
I nodded, realizing that I wanted it to be Calvin.
A Body To Dye For (Stan Kraychik Book 1) Page 5