Random Road

by Thomas Kies

  The phone rang.

  “Geneva Chase,” I snapped.

  I was greeted with silence, as if the individual on the other end of the line was shocked that he’d gotten a real person instead of an answering machine. “Um…” said the voice, “I called earlier. I have information about the Connor’s Landing murders?”

  It was my turn to be quiet. Finally, I answered, “Can you tell me your name?”

  “You’re not recording this are you?”

  “No.”

  There was another awkward silence while I waited for him to say something.

  “Shouldn’t you be asking me questions or something?”

  “What’s your name?” I asked again.

  “I’m not telling you that.”

  “Then we’re off to a bad start. What can you tell me?”

  “I know why those people were killed.”

  “How do you know that?”

  There was yet another moment of silence and then he spoke. “Because my wife and I were supposed to be there that night, out at George and Lynette’s house.”

  My mind was working furiously. “Um, look. I think it would be better if we met.”

  “Oh God, no!”

  “I don’t need to know your name.”

  “I can’t let anyone know who I am.”

  “Yeah, I get that.” I cradled the phone to my ear. “Look, you have to believe that I protect my sources, but I really need to actually see you.”

  “Why?”

  “To make certain you’re telling the truth. To make sure you’re not some kind of nut.”

  The caller was quiet again, thinking. Finally he said, “Can’t I just tell you what I know over the phone?”

  “No, but you can name the place where we meet, someplace where you feel safe.”

  I heard him sigh. “Fine, do you know where Bricks is?”

  Yeah, it’s right around the corner from where I live. “Yup.”

  “Meet you there in twenty minutes.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “You won’t. I’ll find you. Carry a copy of your newspaper tucked under your arm so I can see it.”

  ***

  There are plenty of fancy restaurants and trendy dance clubs in South Sheffield, but Bricks isn’t one of them. It’s your basic, neighborhood pizza joint with a tiny bar tucked away along the back wall. It’s dark, it’s quiet, and it’s a good place to talk.

  Walking from my place, I wore flats, black slacks, and an off-white blouse under a windbreaker that did little to keep out the rain. Holding a copy of the paper over my head hadn’t done much either.

  When I came in out of the weather, I brushed wet hair away from my eyes and looked around. At nine-thirty on a Saturday night, the place was pretty deserted, except for a few tables occupied by young couples out on a cheap date.

  One lonely guy sitting at the bar, who, hunched protectively over his cocktail, was furtively stealing glances at me.

  Either he was entranced with my soggy appearance or he was my source.

  As I got up close, he spotted the rolled up newspaper I had in my grip. It was pretty wet, having served as a makeshift umbrella. The man stood up, briefly eyed the bandage on my forehead, and reached out his hand, “Geneva Chase?”

  He was about six feet tall, balding, with a graying mustache, weighed about two-hundred-thirty pounds, and was somewhere in his early fifties. He wore a cheap watch, a simple gold wedding ring, dark green golf shirt, and a pair of black jeans. He hadn’t been there long; the jacket on the back of his bar stool was still wet. If I had to guess, I’d place him as a middle manager in an insurance company or something equally nondescript.

  I shook his hand. “And you are?”

  He smiled, bit his lip, and shook his head.

  “I have to call you something. How about you just tell me your first name?”

  He blinked as he thought. Then he said, “Ted.”

  I sat down at the bar. “Good start. How ya’ doin’, Ted?”

  He sat down as well and took a deep swallow of his drink, which smelled like bourbon.

  The bartender came by and I ordered an Absolut and tonic.

  Ted leaned over, his lips close to my ear, and said in a low voice, “Nobody can know who I am.”

  “So you’ve said.” I started to take out my recorder.

  He put his hand on mine. “You can’t tape this.”

  I shook my head and put the recorder back in my bag. “Jesus Christ, Ted. You want to tell me what you know?”

  “I know why those people were killed.”

  I looked him in the eye. “Why?”

  “They were in an alternative lifestyle.”

  “Alternative lifestyle?”

  The bartender slid by and dropped off my drink. I took a fast gulp. Then I took out my notebook and pen.

  “You’re writing this down?”

  “I’m a writer.” I raised my eyebrows and tried to appear genuine. “It’s what I do. What kind of lifestyle?”

  I was envisioning S&M maybe, BDSM, pagan rituals, witchcraft, devil worship.

  He took another drink for courage. “Open marriage.”

  “What?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Swinging.”

  “You mean like exchanging sexual partners?”

  He nodded.

  “How do you know?”

  Ted didn’t say anything.

  “Ted, are you and your wife part of this lifestyle? Is that how you know?

  He slowly nodded again.

  “Is that what those three couples were doing out on Connor’s Landing?”

  He nodded a third time.

  “You and your wife were supposed to be out there that night?”

  He sighed. “There’s a club here in Sheffield. It’s open on Wednesday and Saturday nights.”

  “A club.”

  “Yeah, it looks like a regular, big old house from the outside. The inside has been completely retrofitted. It has a dance floor, a sound system for a DJ, a bar area, private rooms, hot tubs, Jacuzzi’s. It has an orgy room.”

  I felt myself blushing. “Orgy room?”

  He sipped his bourbon. “Yeah, it’s a large room with wall-to-wall mattresses where a couple dozen couples can all play at the same time.”

  “Where’s this club?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t tell you that, but it doesn’t take a genius to find it. Google ‘swingers’ and ‘Sheffield’. They have a website. It’s a nice place. Hell, they get couples who come in from Hartford and Manhattan.”

  “How many couples belong to this club?”

  “No idea, but they always have a crowd, especially on Saturday nights. Fifty or sixty people isn’t unusual.”

  “Really? I kind of thought this went out with disco in the Seventies.”

  Ted eyed me, and smiled. “Everyone needs a little ‘naughty’ in their lives.”

  “So what typically happens?”

  “It all starts around nine, we eat a little, we talk a little, we drink a little, we flirt, and we dance.”

  “And then?”

  “And then around eleven, we go off and do our thing,” He stared into his bourbon. “We might join another couple or two and hop in a hot tub or go up to a room. Or head off to somebody’s home for a private party.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Another couple or two?

  Ted was boring, the kind of guy who does your taxes. But every now and then, he and his wife, who was probably equally as dull, could pretend to be sexy and party like there was no tomorrow, doing things that are usually only sweaty late-night fantasies, things that you only see in porn movies.

  And then they weren’t so boring.

  I didn’t quite know how to feel about the whole thing.r />
  Was it any worse than what I was doing with Frank Mancini? He was having a sexual relationship with someone other than his wife. He was having sex with me.

  “So is that what happened this past Wednesday night?” I looked down at my notebook. “You were at this club with George and Lynette Chadwick, Kit and Kathy Webster, and John and Martha Singewald?”

  He shook his head sadly. “You know, until I read the story in your paper, I never knew their last names. We’re not big on talking about who we are in the real world.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “We rarely know what someone else’s job is or how much money they make. You go to these things and it’s a party, people gravitate to each other for whatever reason. Could be looks, personality, maybe they’re just acting really hot. But after you’ve been there a few times, there are certain couples who are comfortable being with each other, you know what I mean?”

  In the way he was talking about, no. But I didn’t tell him that.

  I nodded in agreement.

  “But those folks and my wife and I, we’d all spent time together over the last few months, you know, partying. Sometimes in a private room at the club, sometimes we’d go to somebody’s house.”

  “Is that what happened last Wednesday night?”

  “George and Lynette were inviting everyone over to their place out on Connor’s Landing.”

  “Had you been there before?”

  He picked up a couple of peanuts out of a snack basket on the bar and popped them into his mouth, chewing. “It’s a beautiful house.”

  “I’ve seen it from the outside.”

  “They’ve got a sunken living room with lots of these big couches and plush rugs and pillows and a fireplace. Know what I’m talking about?”

  I could only imagine. “Sure.”

  “My wife and I have been there a couple of times. George and Lynette are terrific hosts. Good food, expensive booze, soft lighting, they have a huge collection of porn and a big screen TV with surround sound. We always had a good time there.”

  “So, just to be clear, you and your wife have had sex with other couples there, at George and Lynette Chadwick’s house?”

  Frowning, he slowly turned to face me. “Yes, we had sex with other couples there. See why I can’t give you my name?”

  “Sure.”

  “My wife and I can’t have that all over the news.”

  “I understand.”

  “And you see why I don’t want the cops to know who I am?”

  “What you do isn’t against the law.” At least I didn’t think it was.

  He took a drink. “Then maybe I should have gone to the police.” He had an edge to his voice.

  “George and Lynette invited you back to their place out on Connor’s Landing but you didn’t go. Why not?”

  He drained the last of the bourbon from his drink. Holding up his glass, he pointed to it and the young man behind the bar immediately went to get him a refill. “There was bad mojo that night. Lynette’s ex-husband showed up at the club.”

  We’d printed the names of the victims along with their photos in that day’s newspaper. I recalled Lynette Chadwick. She was in her mid-thirties, high cheekbones, brunette with an expensive cut, pretty smile, and brown eyes that were looking at something other than the camera lens. She was pretty but a little vulnerable.

  “Lynette’s ex-husband?”

  The bartender carefully placed another glass of Jack Daniels in front of Ted. “Lynette had told us about this guy. They’d been married about nine years.”

  “You know why she got divorced? Were they swingers?”

  Ted shook his head. “Ex-husband’s an abusive alcoholic. She said that he used to beat the hell out of her.”

  “Good reason to leave him,” I muttered.

  He held his glass up to the light and studied the amber liquid. “In the end, Lynette made out okay, though. You said you saw George and Lynette’s place out on the Landing?”

  It was my turn to nod.

  “George was some kind of millionaire. He mentioned that he worked for a bank or something. Lynette’s first husband, Jim, owns an auto body shop. He does okay but he’s no freakin’ millionaire. You know what I mean?”

  “I know you told me that you never talked much about last names,” I probed, “but, by any chance, would you know Lynette’s ex-husband’s name?”

  He winked. “Jim Brenner. I know because I recognized him when he showed up Wednesday night. Jim replaced a door panel on my Explorer last year. I knew him, but he didn’t recognize me,” Ted explained, then added, “I hope.”

  I took a hit of my vodka. Then I glanced at my notebook. “So this Jim Brenner showed up at the club last Wednesday night? Why, is he a swinger?”

  “Oh, hell no. Lynette’s ex is a jealous jerk. Lynette told us that when she was married to him, if she even looked at another guy, he’d beat the crap out of her. But after the divorce I guess he got religion. Swinging is all about recreational sex, no strings or commitments except to your own partner. Jim’s not the kind of guy who could watch his wife, or ex-wife, have sex with another man or woman. Not without wanting to kick the bejeezus out of whoever was touching her.”

  “Is it widely known that there’s a swingers’ club in Sheffield?”

  Ted shook his head. “You didn’t know and you work for a newspaper.”

  “Then how did Lynette’s ex-husband know where to find her?”

  “I’m not sure, but let me tell you what happened and then I’ll tell you how I think he got there.”

  “Okay.”

  “It was about eleven that night and that’s when everyone starts to pair up. George and Lynette were quietly inviting people, including Sylvia and me, to come over to their place.”

  I didn’t write down the name of Ted’s wife because I was afraid I’d spook him. But I made a mental note…Sylvia.

  “At that point, we’d been drinking and dancing and everyone was feeling pretty good. I don’t know how Jim Brenner got in because there’s someone at the door who checks in members and if you’re a guy, you have to be paired up with a lady to get in. No single men allowed.”

  “But unescorted ladies can come in?”

  “You can never have too many ladies in a swingers’ club. Anyway, somehow this guy got in and was sitting off to one side of the bar by himself.

  “I was leaning against the bar with one arm around Sylvia and the other arm around Lynette. The bunch of us, George, Kit and Kathy, Johnny and Martha, we were just finishing up our drinks, laughing and kidding around about driving over to Connor’s Landing. That’s when this guy walks up to us. It took me a minute because he was out of context, but I recognized him as the guy who’d fixed my SUV.”

  “What does he look like?”

  Before he answered, he turned his head and scanned the interior of the restaurant.

  I followed his line of sight but all I saw were about a dozen customers eating pizza and drinking beer. Beyond that, I saw traffic moving, taillights reflecting off the wet street. “What are you looking for?”

  He shrugged and turned his attention back to me. “Brenner’s in his mid-thirties, maybe, brownish hair, clean shaven, taller than me but built like a linebacker. When he came up to us, you could tell that he’s pissed off about something.”

  “How?”

  “He’s scary lookin’. He’s by himself so he shouldn’t even be there. His eyes are wide and his face is red, but he’s not saying anything. He comes up close and stands right in front of us.”

  Ted took another sip of his bourbon. “I felt Lynette tense up. She looks at this guy, takes my arm from around her waist and says, ‘Jim, what are you doing here?’ Then before he answers, she says, ’Everyone, this is my ex-husband, Jim.’ None of us knew what to say. We all waited and held our breath to see what
was gonna happen.”

  “What happened?”

  “He starts shouting that Lynette’s a filthy whore. He was slurring his words, like he’s been drinking. Then he calls her a slut and points at me and says I’m an adulterer, a fornicator. Then he looks at George and calls him a pimp. That’s when George steps in between Lynette and her ex-husband. And then Jim gets right in George’s face and shouts, ‘You let these other men lay down with Lynette? You let them touch her like she’s a whore?’

  “Lynette’s ex-husband shoves George real hard so he falls back into where Lynette, Sylvia, and I are all standing. Thank God, the guy who runs the club shows up with two other big guys and the three of them tell Jim that he’s got to leave. Jim stares at George and Lynette and he says, ‘You’re going straight to hell—straight to hell, and when you do I’ll be laughing at you while the multitudes of demons peel the burning flesh from your bones.’ That’s when the three guys grab Brenner’s arms and escort him out the door. Thank God, he leaves without a fight.

  “After he was gone, George hugged Lynette and we all wondered how Jim had found the club. Lynette told us that she thought he might have been following her. She’d thought she’d seen him in his Mustang that afternoon while she was at the hairstylist and then again when she was at the grocery store.”

  I tapped my pen against the top of the bar. “That must have been a buzz kill.”

  “Yeah, we all had another couple of drinks, talked about what had happened and tried to calm down, you know, get back into the mood. It’s funny how much a couple of good, stiff drinks can mellow you out. Make things seem normal even when they’re not.”

  Boy, if anyone knows that, it’s me.

  “It was pretty close to midnight and George and Lynette were working hard to convince the group to follow them out to Connor’s Landing. There’s a security guard at the bridge and that’s the only one way on or off the island. They had a brand new porno they wanted everyone to see.”

  “But you and your wife didn’t go.”

  Ted took a deep swallow of his drink and closed his eyes. “No, the mood was gone. It all felt wrong.”

  I was close to finishing my vodka. “So, are you telling me that you think Lynette’s ex-husband, Jim Brenner, might have killed everyone that night?”