Dead In Red

by L. L. Bartlett

  Dana’s grip on her pile of dough tightened. “I’ve got a line on a commercial kitchen. I just need to find the financing.” The words were fine, it was the quaver in her voice that belied her conviction.

  “That won’t help if you’re shut down,” Richard added.

  Dana bit her lip, turned back to the dough on the table. “I don’t know why Cyn closed the café. The two of us could’ve handled the business for a couple of days or weeks. She was in such a snit—”

  “Why’d she fire Gene?”

  Dana paused in her work, but didn’t look up. “I don’t know.”

  She was a terrible liar.

  “Cyn called me about seven o’clock last night, told me she was shutting down the business. By the time I got there, she’d already cleaned out most of her office. I asked her about the orders, but she said she didn’t care. She told me if I wanted to take them on, I could. She even gave me the supplies to do it, too.”

  “That seems overly generous of her.”

  Dana merely shrugged.

  “Cyn’s neighbor said she saw Cyn leave with suitcases last night. Did she tell you where she was going?”

  Dana shook her head. “Just away.”

  “You said she cleaned out her office. Does that mean her financial records?” I asked.

  “I guess.”

  “Could Gene have been embezzling from her?”

  “Gene and I weren’t really friends, but we did work well together. I won’t believe he could do that to Cyn.”

  “I don’t suppose you know where Gene lives?” Richard asked.

  She shook her head. “Just that he had an apartment on Hertel Avenue or just off it.”

  “That’s a lot of territory,” I said. “What’s he drive?”

  “A silver Alero.”

  “New York plates?”

  She nodded.

  I reached back and took out my wallet, withdrew one of my old calling cards with Richard’s phone number written on the back and handed it to her. “I don’t know where your loyalties lie, but I honestly want to help Cyn. If you hear from her, please consider calling me.”

  She scrutinized the card, said nothing.

  “I’d like to talk to Gene, too. If he’s threatening Cyn, she really should go to the police. This isn’t something she should try to handle on her own.”

  Dana stood in the doorway and watched us until we turned the corner for the front yard.

  “Well?” Richard asked.

  “That was a nice piece of blackmail you pulled back there.”

  “I like to feel useful. Did you believe anything she said?”

  “Most of it. She may or may not be there now, but Cyn’s been in that house. I can’t blame Dana for not saying more. She’s scared.”

  We got back in Richard’s car. “So what’s next? We pull stakeout duty here and wait for Cyn?”

  I shook my head. “Dana would only warn her away. Our best bet is to find Walt’s fancy lady, Veronica. She might know Gene, or might be able to point us in the right direction.”

  “And how do we find her? More gay bars?”

  “The bartender at Lambrusco’s said she’d moved up. We might have to try all of them.”

  “Didn’t you say most of the bars only have drag shows on weekends?”

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t flash her picture around.”

  The dashboard clock said 7:12 p.m. “Most bars don’t even start to fill up until at least ten,” Richard said.

  “Most popular bars,” I clarified. To my knowledge, The Whole Nine Yards had never filled up.

  “May as well go home to wait,” he said, and turned the key in the ignition.

  Three hours.

  “Some of those drag queens had their own Web sites. You think maybe this Veronica does?” Richard asked.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to do a search.”

  Three long hours.

  Bloodied hands. A rivulet of scarlet cascading down a wrist . . .

  Whose hands? Whose damn blood? And was it already too late to save him or her?

  * * *

  Thunderclouds threatened the sky to the west. Nightfall looked imminent instead of two hours away. Richard pulled his car up the driveway, parked the car in his garage. The humidity had almost doubled since we’d left Dana’s house some twenty minutes before. A storm hadn’t been predicted, but the weather along Lake Erie changes fast.

  Richard hit the button on the remote above the visor and the garage door obligingly closed. “We don’t have to take my car tonight, do we?”

  “No, it can rain on mine or Brenda’s.”

  We got out of the Lincoln, went out through the side door and headed for the house. Brenda was waiting for us in the kitchen. “Got a message for you.”

  “Me?” Richard asked.

  “No, Jeffy. Dana Watkins called.”

  “That was fast,” Richard muttered.

  “She said Gene Higgins lives on Norwalk Avenue, off Hertel. Here.” She handed me a slip of paper with the full address.

  “Why didn’t she just tell us when we were there?” Richard asked.

  “My guess is she had to wait until Cyn wasn’t listening.”

  “Cyn was there?”

  “I had a feeling she was close by. I’ll bet her car was in Dana’s garage. I should’ve looked.”

  “Why wouldn’t Dana want Cyn to know she gave us the address?”

  “The bigger question is why doesn’t Cyn want us talking to Gene? Especially if she’s so angry with him—angry enough to close her business?”

  Richard looked thoughtful.

  “I guess this means you’re going out again.” Brenda said.

  “I guess.”

  “What about looking up Veronica on the Internet?” Richard asked.

  “Yeah, let’s do that first.” So off we went to the study.

  Brenda accompanied us, plunking down on the leather couch and picking up her novel. We spent at least an hour jumping back and forth between the Buffalo gay bar Web sites looking for Veronica. If she had moved on to bigger and better things, she hadn’t shown up on anyone’s radar.

  The sky outside had darkened. Brenda got up to turn on another lamp. Thunder rumbled, and the phone rang. She picked up the extension. Richard clicked back to Google, typed in another keyword.

  “Who is this?” Brenda asked, annoyed.

  Richard and I looked up.

  Brenda held out the phone, covering the mouthpiece. “It’s for you, Jeffy. Sounds like a nutcase. Got one of those voice disguisers working.”

  I got up from my chair. More thunder reverberated overhead as I took the phone. “Jeff Resnick here.”

  “You will cease poking your nose into other people’s business,” said the slow, electronically altered voice.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I could’ve killed you in that ramp garage.”

  My spine stiffened, my hand growing tight around the receiver.

  “I won’t be so generous next time.”

  The connection broke.

  Lightning flashed out the window.

  I hit the phone’s rest buttons, then punched *69.

  “That number is out of range,” came the prerecorded voice. Whoever it was had probably called from a cell phone.

  Thunder boomed and I replaced the receiver.

  “What was that all about?” Richard asked.

  I exhaled through my nose. “A nutcase,” I said, echoing Brenda’s assessment.

  “Did that person threaten you?” she asked.

  “Sort of. Just that—” The image of Richard lying on the cold stone floor, shot, blood soaking his London Fog raincoat, came back to me. “That I’d be sorry if I didn’t mind my business.” Lightning flashed again. “You’d better log off before the storm fries your hard drive.” As though to reinforce my words, thunder crashed overhead.

  Richard turned back to his monitor, logged off and shut down the computer. “You worried?” he asked, swiveling his chair t
o face me.

  “I’d be a fool not to be concerned, all things considered. But worried?” You bet. “No.”

  “Where does someone get one of those voice-altering devices?” Brenda asked.

  “At the mall. Radio Shack sells them. Or the Internet. Anybody can buy one.”

  Neither of them looked too worried and I was glad I hadn’t mentioned the incident at the parking garage. “You about ready?” I asked Richard.

  “Yeah.” He got up, kissed Brenda good-bye, and we headed for the back door.

  We crossed the drive and made it to the garage just seconds before the rain hit, coming down in drenching sheets of liquid silver. For a long minute or two Richard and I stood under the eaves looking out at the house with the curtain of rain before us. I can’t read Richard at all, but a weird kind of electricity crackled between us. He kept looking out at the rain pouring down and his smile grew wider and wider.

  “What’s with you?” I asked. “You’re happy.”

  “It’s my last couple of days of freedom and I want to enjoy it.”

  “Freedom? For years you’ve nagged Brenda to marry you. You having second thoughts?”

  “Not at all. But getting married means commitment and responsibilities, and—”

  “Being a real grown up?”

  His smile dimmed. “Yeah, but it’s also the first time in months that I’ve felt good.”

  I envied him that. I didn’t like to dwell on it, but the fact I might never fully recover from the mugging, might even develop new symptoms, like seizures, was a constant shadow hanging over me. And now the threat from that phone call loomed over me as well.

  “You’ve got to get over it, Jeff. What happened, happened. It’s over. Move on.”

  I stared at the rain dancing on the driveway. Was he talking about the shooting that nearly killed him, or me being mugged? It didn’t matter. And I didn’t want him to know how much that weird electronic voice had freaked me.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Good.” His smile returned. Then he hauled off and punched me, hard, on the arm.

  For a long second I stood there, stunned, then I punched him back with equal force.

  He rubbed his bicep, grinning. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go!”

  * * *

  A torrent of rain did nothing to improve the gray, peeling exterior of the house where Gene Higgins lived. As luck would have it, a parking space was open right out front—just like always on a TV drama. Richard did a superb job of parallel parking and we sat there gazing at the drab building.

  “Ugly, isn’t it?” Richard said.

  “Butt ugly.” Most of the houses were either duplexes or had been divided into apartments, which meant off-street parking was at a premium. I scanned the road for a silver Alero, but didn’t see one.

  “Think it’s worth knocking on the door?” Richard asked.

  “Nah. But as long as we’re here.”

  Richard glanced over his shoulder to the back seat. “I think Brenda’s got an umbrella back there.”

  “You won’t melt.”

  “I’ve already got a black eye. Do I need to catch cold four days before I leave on my honeymoon?”

  “Wuss.”

  “Idiot.”

  He might be right. “Come on.”

  Leafy maple trees sheltered the car and sidewalk, so we weren’t actually soaked as we made a run for the cover of the duplex’s porch. At the sound of our footsteps, the muffled sound of a dog barking came from within the house. A plastic strip labeled “Higgins” was attached to the second-floor apartment’s mailbox. I pressed the doorbell. Some part of me was hoping to tap into the vision I’d seen with the red sparkling shoe, the polished nails, and the stiletto. I didn’t. Then again, how many people actually push their own doorbell?

  The dog continued to bark.

  “He here?” Richard asked.

  I clasped the door handle, closed my eyes and concentrated. I expected the vision of the red shoe to burst upon my mind, but nothing happened. I opened my eyes, stared at the door’s chipped white paint.

  I jiggled the handle; locked. “I figured I’d get something, feel something familiar, and I’m not getting anything.”

  Richard shifted from foot to foot.

  The door to the other apartment opened, and the wild yapping got louder. A short, white-haired woman in dark slacks and pink polyester tunic stood behind the screen door. “What do you want?” she snapped.

  Richard faced her, had to shout to be heard. “We’re looking for Gene Higgins.”

  The old lady homed in on his black eye, scowled. “He’s not home.”

  “He’s usually here weeknights, though, isn’t he?” I asked.

  “That any of your business?”

  We’d get nowhere with her. I took out my wallet, another calling card, and my pen. I jotted a note on the back and wedged it between the doorframe and screen. Gene might miss it if I just shoved it under the door.

  “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t remove the card. Mr. Higgins needs to talk to me.”

  A brown-and-white terrier mix jumped up and down at her side. “You some kind of repo guy?”

  “I’m a friend of his aunt’s. She’s gone missing. He’ll want to talk to me about it.”

  She looked skeptical, but my mostly true explanation would probably keep her from ripping the card to shreds the minute we took off.

  I took the steps two at a time. Richard murmured a “good evening” and was right on my heels.

  Once back inside the car, Richard grasped the steering wheel and looked out through the foggy windshield. “We forgot the bag with the food in it.”

  “Damn. It’s still in your car.”

  “Where to now?”

  “You want to get something to eat, right?”

  “It’ll help kill time until we can hit the gay bars.”

  “You say that with such enthusiasm.”

  He ignored the comment. “If you didn’t get anything on Gene just now, whose vibes have you been tuning into? Veronica’s?”

  “It’s a possibility. But Gene is definitely involved. What if Veronica killed Walt? Dumping his body by the mill could have been done to implicate Gene.”

  “Only the cops didn’t bite?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What if Veronica has skipped town?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Gut instinct?”

  “I trust it.”

  Richard started the car, switched on the front and rear defrosters to take care of the windshields. “You got a motive?”

  “Not yet.” The old lady continued to watch us from her door, her yappy dog still bobbing up and down like a yo-yo. She’d probably wait up for Gene just to tell him about us, which was okay with me—if it made him call. I had a feeling that right now he was sweating. Cyn must’ve pieced things together and wanted to distance herself from her nephew—even if it meant closing her café. But what was it that Gene feared if Veronica was Walt’s killer?

  And what if we found Veronica? I wasn’t sure what I’d do.

  Richard pulled away from the curb and headed for Hertel Avenue. He was enjoying the chase. I wish I could say the same. The closer we got to resolution, the more my insides squirmed. It wasn’t going to be a happy conclusion—of that I was sure. Something inside me—and the damned vision of the bloody hands—told me it would be awful and messy and … somebody was going to die.

  I just hoped to God it wasn’t going to be Richard.

  # # #

  CHAPTER 20

  BoysTown was probably the next-to-best gay hotspot in Buffalo after Club Monticello. Loud disco music boiled from within and gyrating, shirtless men in tight jeans hopped around the dance floor in—what else—gay abandon.

  “God, they look happy,” Richard shouted in my ear.

  “Of course they’re happy. They’re—”

  “Gay!” he finished. “I need a beer.” He headed straight for the bar and ordered f
or us. I fished out Walt’s and Veronica’s, as well as Cyn’s, pictures. We sucked back our brewskies and I asked everyone within listening distance if they’d ever seen any of the people in the pictures.

  No. No. And—no!

  I asked the bartender which was the next club below them.

  Fifteen minutes later, Richard and I had moved the car two blocks and headed for Club QBN—Queer Boys Network—and had ordered another round of beers. More disco music, more sweating, shirtless guys boogying down.

  I shoved the pictures under every available nose. No, no one had ever seen Walt. Veronica looked familiar, but nobody would stake his or her life on it. Sparkly red stiletto heels? Why darling, every girl in here has at least one pair!

  Next down the line was Daddy’s Place. A little less noisy, a little less boisterous, and still no one knew Walt. Veronica, however, was a known entity, although no one had seen her in at least a week—maybe two.

  Closer, but no cigar.

  Richard wasn’t looking quite so cocky. “What the hell do we do if we find her?”

  Good question. Confrontation was out—especially in such a crowded venue. She could deny she even knew Walt—except for all the picture evidence, and even then she could say Walt had been a patron and it was just good PR to pose with the clients. Then again, the bartender at Lambrusco’s could verify she and Walt had at least been acquainted. That is, if he could be trusted to swear by it.

  That Veronica was familiar was one thing. Where she lived, no one knew. No one knew the name on her/his driver’s license. Wigs and makeup and fancy dress were great concealers of the truth. In a feel-good place like a bar, who knew or who cared what people did in their regular lives—what their day jobs entailed and/or how they made their daily bread?

  I hefted my third bottle of beer and found I couldn’t take another sip, setting it back down. Richard, however, sat facing the dance floor, elbows on the bar, enjoying the spectacle. “I haven’t been bar hopping since my college days,” he said, his head nodding in time with yet another Bee Gees favorite.

  “Why don’t you get out there and dance?” I suggested.

  “If Brenda was here, I might. Then again, this isn’t my kind of dancing. I’m better cheek-to-cheek.”