by Dorien Grey
So, that was it. I was done. Turn in my report, get my check—not without more than a little sense of guilt—and go home. It reminded me for the several-hundredth time that being a private investigator isn’t as glamorous as it’s cracked up to be. We all like to take pride in our work and to end each day with the knowledge that we’ve accomplished something. Usually I can do that. Not this time.
Grant and Booth’s murderer—and I really had little doubt they were the same person—would, with luck, still be caught eventually. Just not by me.
I was typing the final draft of my report when the phone rang.
“Dick, Marty. We finally may have a lead on the Jefferson bomb. Not sure what good it will do us, but our labs found that three of the components were sufficiently different from the generic that we were able to trace them to one manufacturer who, we learned, makes them specifically for Home ‘n’ Yard stores. That narrows it down from over a hundred hardware stores in the area to the seven Home ‘n’ Yards. Still a real outside chance, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Well, I wish you luck,” I said. I didn’t mention that I was closing up shop on my end of the case.
We talked for a few more minutes then hung up.
I wondered why Home ‘n’ Yard rung a bell until I remembered that was where Eric worked. Small world.
Do you suppose…? a mind-voice asked.
No, I do not, I mentally replied. I’m not about to pin a murder rap on someone just because he’s hitting on me.
*
I was on my way home, thinking about nothing in particular. I was stopped at a red light when a mind-voice repeated a question that kept coming up, unbidden. Come on, admit it, Eric could have done it.
Eric again! What in the hell was wrong with me? Enough about Eric! Drop it!
He could have done it, the voice persisted.
A horn blast from the car behind me alerted me that the light was green, and I drove on.
Could Eric have done it—killed both Grant and Booth? Of course he could! So could just about everybody else I’d even remotely considered and anybody who shopped at Home ‘n’ Yard. I’m supposed to be a detective, fer chrissakes! But I simply couldn’t see him as a killer. It was almost like considering Jonathan as a suspect. Eric was Jonathan’s friend. Ergo…
Great logic, Sherlock!
I was more than a little irritated with myself over this whole Eric thing. Was this considering him as a suspect merely a way to divert myself from the possibility that I might be interested in him sexually? I’d already admitted I could have been under different circumstances or in a different, no-Jonathan time. But now? It was totally out of the question. And even if I might be attracted to Eric, in some remote corner of my mind, I sure as hell wasn’t about to do anything about it. No, I was just having a typical case of “what if?” fantasy.
*
Since typically the early part of every evening revolved around Joshua, Jonathan and I seldom talked about our day until after he was safely tucked away for the night.
“Eric stopped by for lunch today,” I said during a commercial break on one of our favorite shows.
Jonathan gave me a rather strange look. “Really? You seem to be seeing him more often than I do. I hope he didn’t interrupt anything.”
“I was doing a report for Glen and the chorus board. I wasn’t expecting him, but when he came in with lunch he’d picked up at the diner downstairs, I could hardly say no.”
Jonathan pursed his lips but said nothing. The program resumed, and it wasn’t until the next commercial break that he said, “Do you still want me to talk to Eric?”
“About what? Stopping by, you mean? Apparently, he makes a lot of trips to the Home ‘n’ Yard down the street for his work. It would be nice if he could let me know he’s coming, though.” I caught the look on his face. “What? You look pensive.”
He sighed. “I don’t know, it’s just that…” There was a long pause.
“What?” I encouraged.
He gave a small sigh. “Just that he’s always mentioning you and asking me stuff about you. I’m sure he’s only teasing, but…”
“Stuff like what?” The program had resumed, but I didn’t want to wait until the next commercial.
“I don’t know. A lot of sex stuff. You know.”
I didn’t know, but I could guess. “And you tell him?” I asked.
He blushed. “Some of it,” he said. “Not all.” Another pause before, “It’s kind of embarrassing. Maybe I should talk to him. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but now that I think it over, I do think maybe he’s pushing it a little. I’m sure he doesn’t mean anything by it, but…”
Ah, dear Jonathan!
I let it drop, and we went back to our program,
*
My Tuesday morning crossword puzzle would have to include a six-letter word for “unlawful killing” and my mind immediately came up with two words: murder and Eric.
Damn it!
I realized that, somewhere deep in the corners of my mind, I’d been niggling with the possibility of Eric’s being a suspect long before my drive home the night before. I owed it to myself to at least consider it openly.
Why had I refused to seriously consider him until now? Lord knows he had as much or more motive than anyone else in the chorus. He blamed both Grant and Booth for trying to destroy something that was a very big part of his life. Why hadn’t I followed up on that? A private investigator can’t pick and choose who he wants to consider a suspect. All true. But Eric? Murder? I couldn’t buy it.
Then, before I could start down the path leading to Eric’s being the killer, I remembered that he had a perfect alibi for the time of Grant’s death—Jonathan. Eric’s car had broken down, and Jonathan had picked him up to take him to chorus practice. And if he couldn’t have killed Grant, chances were infinitesimal that he’d killed Booth.
I heaved a mental sigh of relief and got back to my crossword.
*
Having finished my report, I made a copy for each board member, attached my bill to the original and put everything in a large mailing envelope addressed generically to the Board of Directors, Gay Men’s Chorus. I then called Evergreen to see if Jonathan might be free for lunch—he was—and left the office.
That free-fall period between the end of one case and the start of the next is always strange. On the one hand, there’s the feeling of liberation, and on the other there’s the mild panic of wondering how long it will be before the next case comes along.
It was Bob Allen who had suggested I become a private investigator, and at one of our recent get-togethers at his and Mario’s place he had suggested that when I got tired of being a P.I., I should consider becoming a mystery writer, using some of my cases as the foundation. I’d never thought of it, but I was pretty sure it was a lot easier to say, “Hey, I think I’ll write a book,” than to actually sit down and write one.
Still, it was a thought, and one that briefly flashed through my mind as I faced the uncertainty of unemployment once again.
I picked Jonathan up at noon, intending to drop my report off at Glen’s office on the way back to my own. We went to a little place not far from Evergreen that served a great olive burger. They layered a hamburger patty with a mound of chopped green olives, then put a large slice of cheese over the olives and popped it under the broiler to melt enough to keep the olives from falling off. Downright brilliant, I thought.
“I think maybe I’ll have a talk with Eric tonight,” Jonathan said, sipping his chocolate malt.
I was a little surprised to think he was still thinking about our conversation of the night before.
“And what are you going to tell him?”
“I don’t know—that I know he likes to tease you, but that you might think he’s serious and try to put the make on him.”
I stared at him. “Oh, now there’s a plan!”
He grinned. “I thought so,” he said. “But seriously, I’ll just tell him that
you take things too literally sometimes, and that you might get worried for no reason and might think you’re causing a problem with our friendship—mine and Eric’s, not yours and mine.”
“Well…”
“So, I’ll ask him out for coffee after the rehearsal and get it out of the way. I’m sure it never occurred to him that you might take him seriously.”
“You really don’t have to do all this,” I said. “It’s not that big a deal. I can handle it.”
“I know, but you’re busy and can’t have people dropping in without calling first. I know I’d appreciate someone telling me if I was getting a little out of line on something. So, I might be a little late getting home.”
I nodded, and we finished our lunch.
After taking him back to work, I delivered my report to Glen’s office and left it with the receptionist, then puttered around a bit before going back to the office, trying to put off the inevitable realization that I was without a case to work on. Not a good feeling.
Luckily, there was a call waiting from a prospective client who identified himself only as Mel, which I answered immediately. If I’d hoped for something exciting, this definitely wasn’t it. The guy wanted me to find out if his lover was cheating on him. I normally considered taking cheating-lovers cases pretty close to the bottom of the barrel, but they normally could be resolved relatively quickly, so I agreed to meet with the guy to discuss it, setting up an appointment for the next day.
*
It was a little after ten that night when Jonathan walked in the door.
“How did it go?” I asked as he came over to sit beside me on the couch.
“I’m not sure. I don’t know if he’s mad at me, or if I hurt his feelings, or what.
“I told him that maybe it might be a good idea if he called before he dropped in at your office, and he said, ‘What’s the matter? Are you jealous?’ and I don’t know if he was joking or not. I told him I wasn’t jealous, and that it’s just that you get pretty busy at times, or aren’t always in your office, so he might be able to save himself a trip if he called first. He said he would, and when I apologized for bringing it up, he said that was okay. But afterwards he seemed…different. I really hope I didn’t make him feel bad.”
“I’m sure he’ll be okay,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
*
I won’t bore you with the details of the meeting with Mel Clark, my prospective client, a nice-enough late-forties type who’d recently inherited a sizable sum of money and shortly thereafter found a lover, Doug. Let it suffice to say Mel was concerned that Doug, a bartender who worked nights, was cheating on him during the day while Mel was at work. When asked if he had any solid basis for his concern, he admitted that he hadn’t, but that Doug was extremely “hot”—he produced a photo that amply verified that fact—and therefore could not possibly be interested in Mel for anything other than his money.
I really feel bad for people who think like that, but there are an awful lot of them; and sadly, they are too frequently right.
I agreed to do basic surveillance for five workdays, figuring that would be more than ample time to find something if Doug were cheating. I drew up the contract while he was there, got all the basic information—Doug’s car, his work hours, routines, habits, known friends, etc.—and promised I would start the next day.
*
Surveillance work is, for the most part, on a par with watching grass grow. A lot of sitting and standing and coffee drinking. I made sure my camera had film and was always right where I could grab it if needed.
It wasn’t needed. Clark’s house was in a nice residential area, with apartment buildings on one side of the street and neat single-family homes, of which Clark’s was one, on the other. Mel left for work every morning at eight, walking toward the bus stop, and I was there to watch him leave. From that point on, a lot of nothing. No visitors. The same routine every day with no exceptions.
At ten forty-five every morning, Doug, who was every bit as hot in person as he was in his photo, came out of the house, went to his car parked in the driveway and drove to Gillie’s Gym, where he worked out for an hour. Luckily, Gillie’s was one of those new-style gyms with huge windows facing the street, so I was able to keep a fairly close eye on him without having to actually go inside. I probably should have—Jonathan had been ribbing me about my putting on weight.
When Doug left the gym, he went right home, maybe stopping to do a few errands.
I’d stay on stake-out until four. Mel had told me Doug got home at four thirty, and I didn’t think he would have the opportunity to get into much mischief in thirty minutes. Leaving at four gave me time to make a quick run to my office to check for mail and messages.
At the end of the five working days, I called Mel at his office to assure him it appeared his fears were groundless, and that he should consider the possibility that Doug was staying with him simply because he really wanted to.
I like happy endings.
*
Of course, other things went on during the week. Marty called on Thursday, the first day of surveillance, to report there was basically nothing to report—the information that the components of the bomb that killed Grant Jefferson had all come from Home ‘n’ Yard outlets led nowhere. The sheer number of outlets and volume of sales almost guaranteed the components’ purchaser anonymity.
He and Dan were, however, increasingly convinced that Grant’s death was related to Booth’s and therefore were tacitly ceding the primacy of the investigation to Earl and Ben, who were still following leads to Booth’s gambling connections.
His call sparked a twinge of guilt that I hadn’t mentioned that Eric worked at Home ‘n’ Yard’s warehouse. I couldn’t see any point in muddying the waters by dragging him into it. Home ‘n’ Yard had hundreds of employees in the city; Eric was only one of them. Besides, I told myself, the police had questioned him along with everyone else in the chorus right after Grant was killed.
Yes, a mind-voice said, but that was before they knew probably all the components had come from Home ‘n’ Yard.
Well, another countered, they aren’t stupid. They surely have it in their notes where Eric works. If they want to make something more of it, they will. Don’t go trying to do their jobs for them.
And speaking of Eric, Jonathan had not talked to him since after rehearsal the preceding Tuesday. Nor had I. Jonathan tried to call him several times during the week and over the weekend but always got a busy signal.
Finally, on Saturday evening, after he returned from his final day at the Conrads’, he called the operator to see if there was a problem with Eric’s phone line. She checked and told him the phone was probably off the hook.
“For four days?” Jonathan asked me after he hung up. “Maybe I should go over there and see if he’s all right.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. But you might call Roger Rothenberger to see if he’s heard from him.”
“I hate to bother Mr. Rothenberger,” he said, still standing by the phone. There was a long pause, then, “But maybe I should, just in case.”
He pulled out his billfold and rummaged through it as Joshua called to me from his bedroom to come retrieve a book that had dropped behind his dresser.
As I returned to the living room, I heard Jonathan saying, “No, that was it. I wanted to make sure he was all right. Thanks. See you Tuesday.
“I should never have said anything to Eric!” he said as he returned to the couch and sat down. “Mr. Rothenberger said Eric had called just a while ago. That means he’s mad at me and maybe he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore.”
The way he said it reminded me of how much of the little boy was still inside him.
I sat down beside him and put one arm around his shoulders, pulling him to me. “It doesn’t mean anything of the sort. I’m sure he’s got a good reason, and I wouldn’t worry about it. Maybe he’s been busy.”
He pursed his lips, then said, “Mr. Rothenberger did say E
ric said he’d been putting in a lot of overtime.”
“See?” I said. “Nothing to worry about.”
He did not look convinced.
*
On Monday, when I returned to the office in the afternoon after my day’s stake-out for Mel Clark, I found a rather strange message from Eric on my answering machine.
“Dick, I’ve been calling you all week and all I get is your machine. I didn’t want to bother you by leaving a message, before, but I do want to talk to you.”
I tried returning the call immediately, though I suspected he might still be at work. I got a busy signal. I tried once more before leaving the office for home. Still busy.
*
When Jonathan returned from chorus practice Tuesday night, I could tell immediately that something was not right, and assumed things had not gone well with Eric. He got home right at Story Time, so we held off any conversation until after Joshua was all tucked in for the night.
“Did you talk with Eric?” I asked when we returned to the living room.
“Sort of.”
“Sort of? What do you mean?”
“I mean we spoke to each other, and he tried to pretend nothing was wrong, but he was definitely keeping his distance. I told him I’d been trying to call him, and he said he’d been keeping his phone off the hook because he was getting crank calls. And afterwards I asked him if he wanted to go for coffee, and he said he couldn’t.”
Oh, Lord! Here I was, trying to shed the frustrations of a fallen-flat murder investigation, and in the middle of the added frustration over Eric’s apparent whatever-it-was with me and how it was affecting his friendship with Jonathan. I knew I didn’t have any reason to, but I felt guilty.