I went to the door without another word.
He said, “Did you hear me?”
“I’m to wait until you buzz me, Officer.”
“You’re kind of a smartass, aren’t ya?”
“I am what I am.”
After a long moment, during which I could feel the cop staring at my backside, he buzzed the door, but only briefly, as though trying to make me jump for it. When I didn’t, he finally let me in. As I opened the door, I turned toward him and said breathily, “Thank you, ever so, Officer,” then kicked up the back hem of an imaginary skirt and stepped through the doorway.
The hallway was wainscoted with natural mahogany, all stripped and refinished with clear shellac. Above that, the new plaster was freshly painted a grim pale ocher. Even my usual quiet footsteps clacked against the marble floor and reverberated against the shiny walls and ceiling. I found Branco’s office and rapped my knuckles against the frosted glass panel set into the heavy oak door. From within I heard his strong voice order, “Come in!”
Branco’s office faced the street. He was standing in profile near the window, looking through the top drawer of a tall file cabinet. His pleated trousers were nipped in closely at the waist and fitted cleanly over his haunches. I could almost see the sculpted hollows in his flanks. He didn’t turn his head to acknowledge me but said brusquely, “Have a seat.” I did. Then he said, “You been keeping out of trouble?”
“Oh, sure, Lieutenant. I never meddle.”
Branco said, “I hope not.” His voice sounded gruff. He turned his head toward me, then came and perched himself on the edge of his desk. One leg dangled precariously close to me in my chair. If this had been heaven, I would have nibbled on his calf, but instead, in the mortal world, I wondered yet again how Branco managed to smell like clean laundry in a pine forest. In a strange way, it was beginning to annoy me.
He brusquely intruded on my thoughts. “Care to explain the visit you paid to Calvin Redding’s downstairs neighbor last night?”
“Are you tailing me?”
“Should we be?”
“It was just a social call.”
“We happen to know that you met Hal Steiner just shortly before we arrived last night.”
“So what? We were in the elevator together. Anything wrong with that?”
“Seems odd to pay a late-night visit to someone you just met.”
“Oh, hell, Lieutenant, I couldn’t help myself.” I felt the fake Southern drawl creeping into my voice again. “There ah was in that cozy l’il ol’ elevatah with a man all got up in leathah. What would you have done?”
Branco grimaced, shook his head, then continued. “Today we went to find Aaron Harvey for questioning, and the people at Neiman-Marcus told us that someone had already been there looking for him, someone whose description exactly fit your own.” Branco looked at me sternly. “Now, it doesn’t take advanced degrees in criminology to figure out what you’re up to, Kraychik, and I want you to stop. Is that understood?”
“Sure, Lieutenant. Someone else just told me the same thing not twenty minutes ago.”
“Who?”
“A charming disembodied voice on the telephone.”
“Where?”
“At the shop.”
“What exactly did he say?” His concern sounded almost genuine, or was he just using the crime side of his brain?
“I’m not sure it was a man,” I answered, “but he said if I didn’t keep my nose out of this, I’d end up like the ranger.”
Branco thought a moment. “We’ll get a trap on that line right away.”
“Lieutenant, it could have been anybody who saw the papers. It’s not that serious.”
Branco slammed his hand on the desktop. “You don’t know the kind of people you’re dealing with!” After a moment’s pause, he spoke more calmly. “We’d better get a trap on your home phone, too.”
“Great. Does that mean you get to hear all my calls?”
“Mr. Kraychik, you don’t seem to realize how serious this is. We’re dealing with a killer.”
“You have the killer in your hands. It’s Calvin.”
“Calvin Redding didn’t make any phone calls today.”
That shut me up.
“Now just keep out of this. And if you hear or see anything that might help us, you let me know immediately.”
“Yes, sir! Except how am I supposed to hear or see anything if I’m cloistered like a nun?”
Branco heaved a long, exasperated sigh. “Look, what I mean is, you knew about Aaron Harvey. You should have told us about him instead of going to the store yourself and scaring him off. Now we’ve lost a key person.”
“He’ll turn up again.”
“How do you know?”
“I know his type. He’s a drifter. He’ll go back to Calvin’s place eventually.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hal Steiner told me last night.”
Branco grunted, then said, “That’s all for now.” He stood up and went back to the file cabinet as if to dismiss me.
“That’s it? You just wanted me here to slap my hand?”
“I’ve got work to do.”
“Okay. I’ll go. Geez, your bedside manner is rough.”
Branco snapped, “Isn’t that the way your kind likes it?”
I answered quietly, “When you want to know about my personal life, ask me.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Then the phone on his desk beeped. Branco picked it up, muttered his name, two yesses and a no, then hung up. “I’ve got to see the captain. You can go now.” Branco’s eyes darted from me to a packet of folders on top of the file cabinet. I caught the minuscule gesture.
“Oh, Lieutenant. I just remembered something important I have to tell you. I’ll wait here for you.”
He faced me directly with a serious look and said, I’ll be right back.”
“No problem. I have time.”
Branco picked up the folder from his desk—the one with my information in it—and left the office. Two seconds later I had the other packet down from the file cabinet and open on his desk. I pored over the police reports with laser speed, jamming the important points into my Slavic memory bank.
Found at scene of crime:
One bow tie in toilet drain. [I remembered seeing two on Roger’s body.]
One crumpled glassine envelope containing traces of pure cocaine, also in the toilet.
Leather luggage belonging to victim and containing miscellaneous clothing, toilet articles, and a rock climbers chock.
I wondered what a climbers chock was, then I went on.
Highlights of Calvin Redding’s statement:
Redding met Fayerbrock in a bar. They went to Fayerbrock’s hotel. Next day Redding gave him the keys to his condo. Kraychik a witness to that. Fayerbrock went to Redding’s place. Redding was back at work by 3 p.m. Left work at 7:30 p.m. Got home at 8 p.m. Kraychik was already in the apartment and Fayerbrock was dead on the bed.
Son of a bitch!” I hissed, and continued reading.
Highlights of Harold Steiner’s statement:
Aaron Harvey arrived at Redding’s building around 2 p.m. Sometime after 7 p.m. a red-haired stranger arrived to see Redding. [That was me.] Later, police removed victim’s covered body.
It was too bad Hal hadn’t remembered the exact time I met him in the lobby. He would have been able to disprove Calvin’s claim that I was already in his apartment at eight o’clock, which was actually the time I was leaving the shop.
Highlights of Jennifer Doughton’s statement:
Redding brought Fayerbrock to Choate Group offices around 10:30 a.m. At 11 a.m. they left for lunch, during which Redding got his hair dyed. [Frosted, Jen, not dyed.] He returned to the office alone around 3 p.m. and left again at five. Doughton and Redding are amicable colleagues.
Fortunately, the police had been to the Choate Group before I had, so my visit wasn’t in the reports, which is how I wanted to keep
it. I continued reading.
Highlights of Roy Brickley’s statement:
Redding is a major asset to the Choate Group. High-strung, but enormous talent. Future in the world of innovative architecture and design assured. Brickley was attending a convention of interior designers downtown between 2 and 4 p.m. Returned to Choate Group offices around 6 p.m.
The autopsy report:
Victim Fayerbrock is resident of Yosemite Village, California. Employed as a federal agent in the National Park Service. [The term federal agent had a cop-like sound about it, which surprised me.] Death caused by strangulation between 5 and 8 p.m. No drugs in bloodstream. Rectum contained sexual lubricant, no trace of semen. Victim had not achieved orgasm.
At least Calvin had played safe, I thought, but I wondered whether he’d penetrated Roger before or after he killed him. I found some other papers showing what else the police had found out about Calvin Redding, including his lawyers name: J. T. Wrorom. The name reminded me of the musician and writer Ned Rorem, a gay artist-hero. But what interested me was that four years ago Calvin had been charged and found guilty of battery of a young woman. He’d appealed the case, though, and was somehow acquitted. That must have been just before he went to Europe, according to the story Jennifer Doughton had told me. Shortly before that he’d been busted for dealing cocaine and heroin in Provincetown, but he pleaded incompetency from drug abuse and the charge was dropped. One thing was clear—Calvin’s past had enough active crime to convince me that killing Roger was the next logical step for him. I wondered how he was planning to slip out of this one, and I was hell-bent on preventing it from happening.
Suddenly I heard footsteps coming down the hallway. I quickly put the papers back in their folder and returned the packet to the top of the cabinet, just seconds before Branco barged into his office. He glared at me, then at the packet on top of the cabinet.
“Everything all right in here?”
I sat calmly in the creaky oak chair. “Sure.”
“The captain saw you come in and wanted to verify something he just heard about you.”
“Didn’t know I was so popular.”
“Seems you were in Cambridge earlier today at the place Calvin Redding works.”
“Who told him that?”
Branco didn’t answer me but went to the folder packet lying on the file cabinet. He studied it carefully and lifted the cover, as though looking for some clue of my mischief. “The captain believes you might be Redding’s accomplice, trying to cover his tracks.”
“So he reads the Herald, too. Well, he’s wrong. I’m trying to clear myself, and if that means convicting Calvin, so be it.”
“Maybe you’re just double-crossing Calvin Redding.”
“Is that your idea? Or the captain’s?”
Branco answered with a grunt. Then, for a few minutes, he stood silently at the file cabinet. I could tell something was bothering him. Something had happened after he’d left me to go talk with the captain. He sighed heavily, then spoke into the air, as though thinking aloud. “I’m not sure it’s the right time to bring this up.” He glanced again at the packet lying on top of the file cabinet before him.
“Spill your guts, Lieutenant.”
After many minutes, Branco returned to his desk and sat down to face me. “I probably shouldn’t even be discussing this, but there’s no time and little choice.”
“Throw caution to the wind, Lieutenant. I always do.”
Branco toyed quietly with a pencil for a minute, thinking. Then he spoke. “I have a feeling, strictly personal, that this case might fade away unsolved.”
“What!”
He nodded. “It’s a feeling, but it’s strong.”
“Why?” I asked.
Branco paused, as though he’d already said too much but now realized he couldn’t go back. “Let’s just say that sometimes a case isn’t given full attention because of the people involved.”
“You talking protective immunity for someone?”
“I’m talking the captain doesn’t feel too warmly toward the way some men choose to live.”
“Meaning?”
The words came out of Branco’s mouth haltingly. “You … Redding … the victim, Fayerbrock … all have a certain, er, common denominator, personality-wise, I mean.” His eyes avoided mine. “You understand?”
“I’m not sure. You mean we’re all success-oriented young men in the prime of our life?”
Branco grimaced. “It’s beyond that.”
“Make the leap, Lieutenant.”
“You all three have a … You all like …”
“Flowers?” I said in my Helen Morgan voice.
Branco ran his hand through the dark springy curls on his head. “Jesus! You sure know how to get my blood boiling.”
“Just say it!”
“He was gay! Fayerbrock was an officer of the law, but he was gay!”
“Lieutenant, job titles have no effect on the tendency. But I thought Roger was a park ranger, not a cop.”
“National Park rangers are federal agents. And the death of another officer always involves everyone on the entire force to find the killer.”
“Like a big family.”
“Right. But somehow, in this case, that’s not happening. Maybe it’s because the guy was gay, maybe for some other reason. That’s not clear. But from what I can see so far, this whole case is likely to vanish without an answer.”
“But you don’t want that?”
“I want to find the killer.”
“You’ve got him already.”
Branco shook his head. “No. We’re holding Redding on a drug charge.”
“But he should be charged with murder.”
“We can’t. His lawyer is ready to scream circumstantial evidence, so we can’t hold him much longer without a proper charge. But what bothers me is that the captain isn’t all fired up about it. He seems to be looking the other way.”
“All because the victim was gay?”
“That’s what it seems like.”
“What happens when the case goes to trial?”
“It’ll never get to trial without a suspect.”
“So the justice system takes a major detour just because a murder victim was gay?”
Branco nodded solemnly. “It looks that way.”
“But you want to pursue the case because it was another cop who was killed?”
Branco nodded again. “Except I don’t like that word.”
“Sorry,” I said, knowing I’d have felt the same way if he’d used the word fairy.
Quiet seconds passed. Our eyes met.
“Lieutenant, why did you tell me this?”
“I had to tell somebody.”
“So you trust me?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“So now what?”
“I want to continue the investigation on my own, but that means doing it without the captain’s support, and I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
“Aha! So you’re wondering about asking a plebian from Boston’s gay world—say me—for help. Am I right?”
“Yes,” he said, sounding almost sorry.
“Then just say the words, Lieutenant. Some of us even understand English.”
Branco sighed heavily, as though a tremendous task had been accomplished. “Your recent behavior, I mean the way you’ve been running around talking to people, could possibly bring information from your own community … information that someone like myself might not be able to obtain so easily.”
“Have you ever wondered why that might be?”
“Look, this is hard enough to discuss without your constant wisecracks.”
“Lieutenant, gay folks don’t get exactly the same kind of police protection the so-called normal citizens do here. I mean, a few hours ago, I was a suspect in this case.”
“You still are, technically.”
“Damn it! Then how can you expect me to help you—do a favor for you—when you won’t
budge a micrometer in my direction? Why should I, Lieutenant? What’s in it for me?”
Branco looked directly into my eyes. He’d learned somewhere early in his life that he could get what he wanted if he used his eyes the way he was doing with me at that moment. Then he said in a soothing, almost pleading voice, “Maybe between us, we can help change the way gay people are treated by the police in this city.”
Cripes! A handsome Italian cop was resorting to common-vision persuasive tactics to get me to be his spy. What was I supposed to do? I averted my gaze, but it still didn’t take very long to decide. With the willpower of a dandelion puff in the breeze, I figured, If I’m ever going to collaborate with the police, I might as well do it now, with Mr. Mediterranean here.
“Okay, Lieutenant. Say I’m interested. What’s the deal?”
“It’s simple. You just keep your eyes and ears open. Ask all the questions you want of anyone you want. When you find out something, call me immediately. But do not act on anything yourself!”
“So contrary to your previous admonitions, I can now meddle to my heart’s content. Is that right?”
“No. Not meddle. Ask questions. Look around.”
“But you won’t try to stop me?”
“That depends.”
“But I’m not a suspect anymore, right?”
“I won’t look for reasons to book you, but I can’t grant you immunity if sufficient evidence arises.”
“It sure is a lopsided arrangement, Lieutenant, but if it means the pressure is off me, I’ll do it.”
“I’m only asking for your help. It’s no more than that. You can call me whenever you have information, anytime, twenty-four hours. Here’s the number for my private line.” He handed me a card that read:
LIEUTENANT VITO BRANCO
HOMICIDE DIVISION
BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT
and showed his private telephone number. I took the card and remarked, “I suppose this seals the pact, eh?”
A Body To Dye For (Stan Kraychik Book 1) Page 9