Dead In Red

by L. L. Bartlett

  “Meanwhile,” Sam continued. “I’m working on getting Kaplan’s autopsy photos. You want a look?”

  I shook my head. “I saw him dead, and I’ll probably see him dead again—in a lot more detail than I’ll want. That’s enough for me.”

  Sam looked intrigued, but luckily didn’t push it. He grabbed our empty cups. “Let’s get outta here. I’ve got other things to do today that have nothing to do with murder.”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, Sam dropped me off at the base of Richard’s driveway. I gave him a quick wave before I turned to head up the drive. I didn’t see any cars except my own, but then Richard and Brenda usually parked in the garage. I hoped they were off playing golf, as I didn’t want to run into them. Okay, I didn’t want to run into Richard.

  I headed straight for my car, had the keys in my hand when I heard my name called: Richard, coming at me from the backyard.

  Slowly I turned, tried not to look annoyed. I couldn’t say the same for him.

  “Where are you off to now?” he demanded.

  I couldn’t tell him the mill, he’d already warned me not to go near the place. “Out.”

  “You just came back.”

  “And now I’m going out again.”

  “Where?”

  “To the drugstore,” I lied. “I’m running out of shaving cream. You need anything?”

  “You didn’t call last night. We were worried.”

  “You knew where I was. Otherwise you wouldn’t have told Sam where to find me.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Rich, you didn’t keep tabs on me this close when I was a teenager. Why the sudden interest?”

  “It’s not me,” he lied. “It’s Brenda. You know how she is—how she worries.”

  “Uh-huh.” I opened the driver’s door, a burst of hot air assaulting me. “You didn’t answer my question. You want anything from the drugstore?”

  He shook his head. “You gonna be home for supper?

  “Probably. If not, I’ll let you know.”

  “Good.”

  I got in my car, unrolled the window and buckled up before starting the engine. “See ya.”

  Richard moved aside as I backed down the driveway. He walked to the center of the drive and watched me take off down the road.

  I hated this crap. I hated the tension between us. Maybe moving into the apartment over the garage was a big mistake. Maybe I needed to cut ties. But I couldn’t. My job paid shit and in less than a week Richard had had to bail my ass out of trouble—twice, as he had already pointed out.

  Sophie was right. I needed him. And not just for what he did for me monetarily. He’d helped me solve the banker’s murder. Without him, I couldn’t have done it. And, if I was honest with myself, I needed him because he was my brother and we’d wasted a lot of years—years we’d never get back.

  I’d been so lost in thought I didn’t realize I’d driven to the mill on autopilot. The lunchtime crowd hadn’t yet piqued, but there were enough cars parked outside to hide mine further up the street. I grabbed a baseball cap from the back seat of my car and found my sunglasses in the glove box. Not much of a disguise, but all I had.

  I felt conspicuous as I walked along the sidewalk and over to Cyn’s car. As expected, it was locked with all the windows rolled up. I clasped the driver’s door handle and closed my eyes. The sensations that traveled through me were vague, meaningless shadows of emotions I couldn’t quite grasp. Was Cyn the same person who’d worn the sparkling silver high heels, played with the silver-sparkled knife that had taken Walt Kaplan’s life? Dammit, I just wasn’t sure.

  The mill’s door opened and a young couple stepped out onto the small front porch. I did an about-face and started back for my car. It would take a baseball bat to smash Cyn’s driver’s side window. My skull had been fractured by a baseball bat. I didn’t want to sink to wielding one to get what I wanted. But I needed to get into that car, and if the lock opener wouldn’t work, I’d have to seriously consider visiting the closest sporting goods store and buying a bat.

  Unless . . .

  Richard and Cyn had been friends. What kind of influence could he still have over her?

  No, that wasn’t an option. And convincing him Cyn might be capable of murder would probably be impossible. I’d have to continue on my own and hope that later I could make it up to Richard.

  And what about the next time I got insight on a murder, because I had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time it would happen.

  I got in my car, slammed the door and clasped the steering wheel until my knuckles went white. Giving in to this psychic shit felt like embracing the dark side, and I sometimes wondered if surrendering to it would condemn my soul to eternal damnation. I wasn’t a churchgoer, wasn’t even sure I believed in a higher power, but going after the scum of the Earth that committed murder had to be a one-way ticket to salvation. Didn’t it?

  The more experienced I became at it, the less sure I was.

  # # #

  CHAPTER 15

  Dinner that night proved awkward. Richard spoke in clipped sentences and seemed to have a stick up his ass. Brenda made innocuous small talk while I pushed peas around my plate until I felt I could gracefully escape their company. That still gave me way too long to wait until the midnight hour. I took a nap, first setting my alarm for ten fifty-nine p.m.

  I wasn’t used to staying up ’til all hours of the night anymore. Richard and Brenda weren’t early-to-bedders, but they rarely stayed up past the eleven o’clock news, either. As a temporary member of their household, I’d adopted the same routine—in fact, often pooping out long before they did. So just the thought of waiting until after 11 p.m. to head out for an evening had me yawning.

  Sneaking out without them seeing me was another matter. Then again, in the evenings the two of them tended to live in Richard’s study before heading up to bed. The driveway was on the other side of the house. I just had to hope they didn’t look out the window when I took off. To make sure, I didn’t turn on my headlights until I was at least three houses down the well-lit block.

  I had to wait eons for the light at Main Street to go green. The heat had backed off and I rolled down my window, hoping for a cool breeze. The light changed and I turned left, heading for the city.

  Buffalo may be the second-largest city in the state, but the travel time was far shorter than traversing the same territory in Manhattan. Yet like the Big Apple, you could also count on every damn traffic light going red as you approached.

  An old Stones tune came on and I cranked up the radio, glancing in my rearview mirror. Some damn fool behind me had his lights off.

  Maybe I should’ve asked Maggie to come with me, then perhaps afterward she might’ve invited me back to her place for another night of pleasure. But then I really didn’t want to involve her in any of this for the same reason I hadn’t shared any of what I knew about Walt’s death with Richard.

  You need him.

  The idiot without headlights was still behind me. The main drag from Amherst to downtown was nearly ten miles long, and it wasn’t unusual for cars to travel in a pack.

  The Stones gave way to Stevie Nicks and I felt like I was listening to the radio of my youth. Sometimes music had been the only high point of those shitty days. I pushed the thought away and noticed the jerk was still behind me. He or she was probably the same kind of driver who left their turn signal on for endless miles on a straightaway.

  I paused for a red light and took note of the business addresses. Club Monticello couldn’t be too much farther ahead and I wondered how far afield I’d have to go to find a parking space. Too far, it turned out. I had to walk two blocks before I stood in front of the nightclub.

  Club Monticello looked to be the hottest spot in the neighborhood, with ribbons of DayGlo neon and colorful posters of the featured acts decorating the front facade. Smokers of both genders—and those in between—loitered the sidewalk out front, polluting the air while the t
humping bass of canned music vibrated through us all. My internal batteries seemed to be recharging as I read the Coming Attractions poster. Then suddenly Richard strode up and was at my side.

  My temper flared as I turned on him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  His eyes were blazing. “What do you think?”

  “You followed me?”

  “Of course. And I almost lost you at least a dozen times.”

  Understanding dawned. “You were the jerk on Main Street without headlights.”

  “I didn’t want you to recognize my car.”

  “Brenda’s car.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. He wasn’t about to drive the Lincoln into unknown territory on a whim. “Now what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Trying to find a lead in Walt Kaplan’s death.”

  Richard glanced at the flashing neon sign. “At a drag show?”

  “Hey, it was his preference—not mine.” Sophie’s words came back to me. You won’t solve this without him. My apprehension soared even as my anger at seeing him dissolved.

  I cleared my throat. “Now that you’re here, you may as well come in with me.”

  “You just want people to think I’m your date so they won’t hit on you.”

  I hadn’t thought of that, but now that he mentioned it, it sounded like a good idea. “Come on.”

  We paid the cover and entered the dark nightclub which, as expected, was crowded and hopping. A part of me had been reluctant to dive into a place with so many people—fearful the mix of emotional pandemonium might overload my circuits—but instead of chaos, the overlapping emotions seemed to cancel themselves out. I felt like I was protected in a bubble of nothingness, and was determined to revel in it. We’d just missed the first show, and it would be another twenty minutes before the second.

  “Let’s get a drink,” I told Richard. We threaded our way away from the theater and to the bar through the crowd of dancers. Club Monticello was not only a gay bar, but billed as the best dance club in Buffalo, welcoming gays, lesbians, and straights. We saw men with men, women with women and, true to their advertisement, a smattering of hetero couples. We also got bumped and jostled more than either of us would’ve liked. I ordered a couple of beers and Richard paid, receiving a wink from the heavily mascaraed male bartender. I had to laugh as he left a tip on the bar and quickly turned away.

  I let myself move with the rhythm of the music and happily soaked in everything that was happening around me, eavesdropping on conversations. The drag queens—the amateurs and pros—seemed to be referred to as “girls,” no matter what their chromosome structure. And damned if the happy gyrating people around me didn’t all look just fine.

  Meanwhile, Richard looked like he’d be more comfortable in a straitjacket. “Now what?” he yelled over the din of music and other people shouting to be heard.

  “Don’t get pissed, but I’m here to show Cyn’s picture around. Ask the club personnel if they’ve seen her before.”

  “What makes you think she’d come to a place like this?”

  “She had the same pair of shoes Walt had made.”

  “What shoes?”

  I realized he was in the dark about everything I’d been investigating. “I’ll fill you in later.”

  I turned back to the bar, and elbowed my way in, waiting until the bartender took a breather between customers. I pulled out Cyn’s picture, shoving it under his nose. “You ever see this woman?”

  He took the photo, squinting at it between the flashing lights overhead. “Yow—that’s one ugly bitch. Never seen her here. But then she’s kind of on the old side.”

  “You’re positive? She wears sparkly red stiletto heels. Maybe a red dress and boa?”

  “Come on, man, you’re describing half the queens in here—not to mention the straights playing dress-up.”

  I thanked him and sucked on my beer until it was gone. Then I went into automaton mode, flashing Cyn’s picture at anyone who had two seconds to focus on it.

  “Oy, God, he oughta get a closer shave,” said what I guessed to be a woman at the bar.

  “Not my type,” said a guy in a red velvet Bolero vest, his hairy chest heaving from exuberant dancing.

  “Just another wannabe,” said a guy in a bad blonde wig and a baggy blue dress.

  “Wanna dance?” a voice beside me asked.

  I turned to find next to me a sweating, shirtless male of indeterminate age bouncing to the music. Linking arms with Richard, I answered, “Sorry, I’m already spoken for.”

  Richard yanked his arm away and looked ready to commit murder.

  I spent another twenty minutes flashing Cyn’s picture to the patrons, but no one claimed to know her. Richard followed me to the closest exit. “That was a complete waste of time,” he said.

  “I’m not ready to give up yet. There’re other, smaller clubs. And come to think of it, I probably should’ve started at one of those. Walt was a loner. He’d probably go for less flash and less notoriety.”

  Richard glanced at his watch, his mouth drooping. “The clubs are open until four. You intend to hang around until then?”

  I didn’t think I could. “Most of them have Sunday shows. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow.” I met his gaze. “You game?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Liar. I had a feeling if I let him, Richard would have himself surgically attached to me, at least until Walt’s murder was solved—and/or his vacation plane took off.

  We walked out of the club into the clear, dark night. The thumping music faded as we walked farther away. Six motorcycles were parked on the street near the club, none of them looking flashy, hard to make out any distinguishing characteristics in the dim light.

  You’re being paranoid, something in me taunted. And no doubt would be every time I saw a motorcycle until Walt Kaplan’s killer was found.

  I put it out of my head. The evening hadn’t been a total loss. Richard and I were back on an even keel. It felt good. It felt right.

  Until something bad happened. But I wasn’t prepared to think about it just then.

  * * *

  I got up early the next morning, went out for bagels and Danish, then made an extra big pot of coffee. If we were going to have a serious talk, caffeine would be a necessity.

  When they finally showed up, I dragged Richard and Brenda out to the deck for breakfast alfresco. The cool morning air and bright sunshine were such a contrast to Club Monticello’s gaudy interior that our adventure the night before almost seemed like a surreal dream.

  Richard plastered his bagel with cream cheese as I told him about the visions of the sparkling shoes—both red and silver—the knife, and Walt. He didn’t react when I told him my suspicions about Cyn, either. I’d already decided not to mention what happened at the ramp garage. It had no bearing on anything I was investigating. At least I wanted to believe that.

  “There is something else.” It must’ve been the tone of my voice that caused both Richard and Brenda to look up from their plates.

  “This is the bad part,” Brenda muttered.

  “It could be. I see these . . . hands. They’re covered in blood.”

  Richard leaned forward. “Whose blood?”

  “That’s what I don’t know. And as far as I know, that blood is still circulating inside somebody. Only I don’t know for how much longer. I got the vision the day we went to the mill and met Cyn, then again later when I touched something I found in Walt’s closet: a little pillow that says ‘Veronica.’”

  “So find Veronica.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “How much detail do you see with these hands?” Richard asked.

  “Not much.”

  He nodded, leaned back in his chair. “So right now it’s a dead end.”

  “Yeah, but it won’t be for long.” I poured a coffee warm-up from the insulated carafe.

  “Let’s get back to Buchanan,” Richard said. “I can see why you don’t think he makes
a viable suspect. But your evidence against Cyn is pretty damned flimsy.”

  “That’s why I need to keep showing her photo around. I know she’s got something to do with this whole mess, I just don’t know what. That’s where you can help.”

  That stirred a response. “You can’t ask me to implicate an old friend.”

  “I’m not. I’m asking you to distract her while I touch something that belongs to her. I was thinking her car’s steering wheel. If I don’t get anything from it, I’ll know she’s not the source of these visions. It would clear her.”

  “In your mind, at least.”

  “Yeah.”

  Brenda had been silent during all this. “What do you think?” I asked her.

  She sighed. “Except when it comes to your own health, I trust your judgment.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  She pushed back her chair, picked up her dish and silverware and put them back on the serving tray. “But how do you expect Richard to get her away from her car, and then to leave it unlocked?”

  “Well, he could invite her here.”

  Brenda flopped back into her chair and for a second I thought she might lose her balance and fall off. “What makes you think I want to meet one of his old girlfriends?”

  “Basic curiosity. Besides, she’s at least thirteen years older than you—and she looks it.”

  That appeased her—a bit. “Be that as it may, what’s his excuse for inviting her?”

  “I don’t know. Drinks. Show her your old yearbooks. Bore her with a talk on skin diseases of the Ecuadorian rain forest.”

  “Ecuador has no rain forest,” Richard piped up.

  “Then choose another country. Or you can use me as an excuse. You want to apologize for my oafish behavior—”

  “Yeah, while you jump in her car and soak up her residual aura. Then I’m no better than you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know what I mean.” Richard shook his head. “I don’t know. I still don’t like the idea. It’s like entrapment.”

  “How? I can’t prove anything without solid evidence, but at least I’ll know for sure if I should continue to annoy her.”