"There's been a shooting. On Camac. Some guy was killed..." Ty was breathing hard and sat down on the top step. "This is crazy. That's the way I go home every night. It coulda been me. Shot dead on the street."
Chapter 2
Taking a left turn out of Bubbles, I headed for Camac. Twilight had darkened the sky and a sad, cold breeze blew papers down the street. October ushers in the dark months and melancholy. Too many memories associated with that month for me. Not all of them good.
The shooting focused my mind. Shootings aren't common in the gayborhood so I had more than a professional interest in seeing what had occurred. I hoped it wasn't someone I knew.
The streets were calm. The nippy air had people wearing jackets but there are always those few guys who insist on wearing shorts until their legs turn blue. No one seemed in a hurry, no one seemed disturbed at all. I don't know what I expected, people running around screaming? Probably most of them didn't even know anything had happened, let alone a murder. There were guys strolling while holding hands as if the world would never end. Singles on the prowl. Ragged, drug-ravaged hustlers trolling for hungry men. A typical night.
Jane and Dierdre, a couple who lived in my condo building, were sitting at a crowded outdoor cafe and waved as I rushed by. I smiled without stopping. They know me well and probably figured I was on a case.
There was such an air of calm and order that I wondered if Ty had been mistaken. Nothing seemed unusual. Until I reached Camac Street south of Cypress.
The red, blue, and white flashing lights of a police car blocking the other end of the street signaled trouble. Police officers and a small knot of people gathered where I stood. Camac is a small street -- in Philadelphia we call it a street, in some places it might be called a back alley. It was never well traveled.
Except for tonight. It teemed with people. CSIs literally crawled around searching for evidence. Cops, detectives, people I assumed were witnesses, and onlookers made the normally quiet street a mini Times Square.
Ronnie Larkin, a familiar face, stood guard near the yellow tape roping off the crime scene. She and I went back a long time, since before my abortive attempt to join the force. She'd become a cop and had encouraged me to join. Things didn't work out but we'd remained friends and drinking buddies. I could always count on her when I needed information not easily squeezed out of other "friends" in the ranks.
"Hey, Ronnie." I kept my voice appropriately low.
"Fontana." She ducked her head in salute.
Behind her, by the light of street lamps, I saw a man, sprawled on the cobblestones. Dark blood pooled around the corpse and had filled the gaps between the paving stones. The guy was face down and a CSI probed around, picking up trace evidence, taking photos, before turning the body over.
"What happened, Ronnie? Any witnesses?"
"Mugging. Overheard a witness say a guy with a gun runs up to the victim, shouts something, takes the vic's bag. Then he opens up, puts three rounds into him, and runs away."
"Just like that?"
"Flash of an eye. The vic was walking with a friend. Friend says they were going to dinner at the Venture. Then this guy runs up and pops the man. Are you, like, an ambulance chaser now, Fontana? Need cases that bad?"
"I'll ignore that, Ronnie." I smiled. "He shot without the other guy struggling? He took the guy's bag? That was it? Didn't even try to shoot the friend?"
"I'm just on crowd control. They tell me nothing. For all I know, he coulda tried to shoot them both. Maybe somethin' scared him off before he could. I didn't hear everything. I don't even know who the vic is... was." She winced. She was still the Ronnie I knew from way back, tough but compassionate.
"If you hear anything, let me know, will you Ronnie?"
"Sure thing, Marco. You got a personal stake in this?"
"When it happens on your doorstep, it's kinda personal." I gave her a nod, looked over the scene once more, and left.
I wouldn't get more information right then and it wasn't my case in any event, but I liked to know things. Force of habit with me. Can't help asking questions, poking into everybody's business, picking up odd facts. You never know when some detail will come in handy. That's why so many men I've dated tell me they feel like they're being interviewed, or, grilled is more like the word they use.
My stomach grumbled reminding me I'd only eaten half a turkey sandwich for lunch. I pulled out my cell phone, forwarded office calls to the cell, and walked home.
The gayborhood gets larger every day, adding more businesses, condos, and people. A new cafe, HavaCup, with the cutest staff and the best muffins, was quickly becoming my place of choice for out of office experiences. Maybe their muffins only tasted good because the staff was so hot. All I knew was that I found myself there almost every day. Just across the street, a small and very chic bar, named Secrets, had taken the place of an old music store. The walls were enclosed sheet fountains which created the illusion of privacy. Secrets had dozens of spaces made for that private tête á tête with a special guy. Observers could see only shadows and outlines. Very sexy.
You never knew who or what you'd find in the gayborhood.
I'd managed to get a condo close to it all, in Lyric House which made living in the city very easy. The building was like a small town with about eight hundred condos and who knows how many people? The residents were amazingly varied, from the outgoing and pushy to the solitary and rude. I guess I fell somewhere in between. Except for the rude part.
The automatic doors whisked me in and I saw people chatting in the marble-clad lobby, Nosy Rosie at the center of the group as usual. She was a gossip magnet and I'd even thought about hiring her to ferret out information, except she couldn't keep anything to herself. I passed her without being seen. Rosie was too busy finding out details of Mrs. Cooperman's surgery to notice me.
Carlos was on the desk. Dark and sultry, Carlos loved kidding the denizens of Lyric House. Teasing with his natural good looks, his intense eyes, and his broad smile. Even on my glummest days, he lifted my spirits. Of course, he could lift my spirits in more ways than one if he wanted to.
"Marco! You on a case, man?"
"Always on a case, Carlos." I laughed wondering if he knew I'd love to be on his case. Even though he was a flirt, he gave all the signs of being straight. Oh well, someone had to do it.
The elevator zipped me to the forty-first floor. It wasn't the highest floor but damned near and the view from my balcony took my breath away every time. I turned on a few lights, put a Lean Starts dinner into the microwave, and flipped on the radio. All news, all the time. Not a bad thing while nuking food. I'd gotten a lot of leads over the years, listening to them drone on.
"At the top of the hour, we have word the hostage situation at Hopewell Mall in New Jersey has been resolved peacefully. KYW will bring you the police briefing live. Philadelphia returns to normal after the fifteen day transit strike and Andrea Fitchell will have that story. Talks to discuss parochial school closings are set between Mayor Stroupe and Cardinal Galante. After months of speculation, a list of inner city Catholic school closings has been announced. The Mayor hopes to reduce that list. Cardinal Galante, a leading voice in the Roman Catholic Church, still recovering from double knee replacement surgery, offered no comment on Archdiocesan plans. In other news, authorities have uncovered an identity theft ring on Rittenhouse Square. Arrests have been made. But the hour's top story is the murder of local author Helmut Brandt. Witnesses say an armed man confronted Brandt as he and a companion strolled down a quiet center city street. The assailant then fled on foot. Brandt, author of Vatican Betrayal: The Death of John Paul the First, was returning from a book signing at Giovanni's Room, a gay and lesbian bookstore. The author, a noted gay pundit and activist, revealed plans for a new book in which he claimed there would be further information on the death of the one they call the Thirty Day Pope. Police released no further information on Brandt or the assailant who is still at large."
I co
uld hardly believe what I'd heard. The microwave bell dinged but I didn't move. This had to be some kind of mistake. I'd just talked to Brandt and pegged him as a paranoid nut. This had to be a coincidence. And maybe I was going to be elected the next pope. How many times does a guy tell you he's going to be murdered and then actually turns up dead and it's a coincidence? The answer is none. I'd have to look into this case, if only for my own satisfaction.
I pulled my dinner from the microwave and set it on the table. Closing my eyes for a moment, I took a deep breath. I had the rest of the night to get through and the day already seemed a week long. Staring at the meager portion of what Lean Starts laughingly calls roast pork, I lost my appetite. It looked like cardboard cut to simulate meat and the tiny serving of vegetables resembled bits of brightly colored rubber. I looked out the sliding glass doors dominating one wall of my apartment. The eastern quarter of the city was splayed before me, thousands of lights glimmered in the October darkness. The air was clear, bringing things into sharper focus. Lights twinkled and shone making it seem nothing could be wrong in the world. I knew different. Beneath the glistening surface, cruel things happened. Was it human nature to want things so much you'd kill to have them, to hate others so deeply you'd trample on anyone to insure your superiority? In my investigative work, I dealt with the consequences of that behavior and it was never pretty. Still, what I've seen and the people I've worked with never spoiled the view from my lofty floor. That's just the way the world is, lots of glitter and tinsel hiding slimy imperfections. It's one reason I do what I do.
As I contemplated a forkful of pork, my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number and almost didn't answer. Then I remembered the new LCD television I wanted and snapped open the phone.
"Fontana."
"Mr. Fontana? The detective?" The unfamiliar voice sounded tired, beaten down.
"Yes."
"I... I need your help. My partner... he...." His voice caught in his throat and he struggled to keep from crying.
"It'll be all right, whatever you have to tell me, go ahead, Mr....?"
He fought to regain control. Probably another wayward lover. Like I needed one more of those cases. Why did people do these things to one another? Why did people bother to make a commitment if they didn't feel deep down they could keep their end of the bargain? And Anton wondered why I avoided committing to him.
"You OK?" I asked when I heard him clear his throat.
"I'm... I'll be all right. Please pardon me, Mr. Fontana. It's all so terrible and ...," he struggled again but took control quickly this time. "I always feared something like this would happen. And now it has."
"Relationships can be difficult even at the best of times. What's your partner done? How can I help?"
"No, Mr. Fontana, you misunderstand. My partner is dead. He was murdered."
"Murdered?"
"I'm certain of it."
"First you've got to call the police. There's no question. I can't do anything for you until... Let's start with your name."
"The police know all about it. They say they're working on the case. But I know that isn't true. There are so many murders in the city, what's one more mugging? No, I don't think they're working on it. Nor do they intend to."
"But, they consider the case open?"
"I suppose. But for how long? I need someone like you to look into this for me. I can pay, if that's what concerns you."
"Not exactly. Give me some time to check with the police. I'll need some information from you. Then I'll see what they have."
"When?"
"As soon as I can. Probably tomorrow," I said. I'd check with Ronnie and others who could get me up to speed. But they wouldn't be happy about a shadow investigation if they thought they had a chance to make the collar.
"Time is of the essence in these cases. Isn't that what they always say?"
"That's true. I'll do what I can." I promised. The poor guy sounded unhinged. I sympathized with him. I've lost people in my life and loss can do dirty things to your mind. It's never fair. Never.
"There are things you should know, Mr. Fontana. You should know them now. Before you contact the police. It's more urgent than you think." He sounded stronger, more serious, less off balance.
"Why so urgent, Mr.... um?" I realized he still hadn't told me his name.
"Hollister. My name is Timothy Hollister," he said. The name rang a very tiny bell way at the back of my consciousness. But I couldn't pull up the details. "My partner is... was Helmut Brandt. We must meet tonight, Mr. Fontana. "
When I could pick my jaw up off the ground I agreed to meet with him in an hour.
Chapter 3
Finishing dinner was next to impossible. Not just because it tasted like soggy cardboard. Hunger was displaced by curiosity about Hollister and the call I'd received earlier in the day from Brandt.
I poked at the faux meal. It was bad enough forcing myself to eat nuked food "fresh" from the microwave. Having to do it after it'd gotten cold was downright masochistic. Counting calories was crucial, though. Managing a troupe of strippers gave me the incentive to keep my thirty-two year-old body looking good. The boss can't look worse than his guys. If I do say so myself, my body keeps up just fine.
After tossing out the plastic tray, I dashed out the door. I needed to get to my office before Hollister. I intended to look authoritative and in charge.
My office building, if you could call it that, had been someone's elegant home more than a century before. Now, it was a sad-looking pile of brick, housing offices and apartments on four floors. Late Nite Videos occupied the ground floor and contained the world's largest collection of gay films. Drew, the twenty-eight year old owner, was a geek but I liked the intelligent look. His shy, self-effacing manner was engaging. Drew also kept an eye out for whatever seemed unusual in the neighborhood. I'd gotten a few leads from him.
As I went by I noticed him rearranging shelves, arms filled with DVD cases.
I took the stairs two at a time. The wooden stairs creaked and sighed as I bounced from one step to another. I heard a TV blaring news as I passed the floor with two of the apartments. The fragrance of cabbage and curry and something I couldn't name wafted up the stairs as I reached the top. Fontana Investigations took up the small fourth floor. The reception area, my office, and my private quarters which held file cabinets, a cot, and whatever I'd need if I had to stay in the office for a while.
Outside a siren blared as an emergency vehicle tore down the street. The sound grew smaller allowing an eerie silence to settled in around me. I unlocked the office door, flicked on the lights, and walked through the reception area. Without Olga, a spark was missing. She brought the place to life. Unlocking the door to my office, I headed for my desk, sat down, and waited. Olga had left a pile of messages for me but I pushed them aside. I needed to do some background research online before Hollister arrived. I wanted whatever I could find on Brandt and his work.
I could only imagine what Hollister was going through. Seeing someone you love gunned down in front of you had to be crushing. That's one reason I wanted to meet the guy and let him get things off his chest. Probably no one else wanted to listen.
It was that way for me when Galen disappeared. After a while, people didn't want to hear how I felt. They just wanted to forget and they wanted me to put it behind me so that they could forget. People aren't good at dealing with emotional pain, especially if it isn't their pain. I was only twenty-seven and didn't realize just how uneasy people are when it comes to dealing with other people's suffering.
Maybe my friends didn't get it about me and Galen. We weren't lovers but we were closer than lovers ever could be. Galen was more than family to me and when he disappeared, I was lost. No one understood. They certainly couldn't fathom that I still needed to find out what happened to him.
I glanced at my digital clock, the one with numbers the size of a Times Square marquee, one of Olga's touches, and realized Hollister was overdue. I considered how l
ong I should wait.
Just as I'd decided he wasn't coming, I heard the elevator creaking its way to the fourth floor. That elevator was the only modern thing about the building, other than heat and electricity. And it was none too modern, which is why I usually opted for the stairs. The creaking stopped and the door rumbled open. Then the soft padding of feet. I saw a man standing at the outer door.
"Mr. Hollister? C'mon in." I called to him.
The man strode into the room with the casual air of someone who had money and no worries. Tall and aristocratic, his age, evident in white hair and wrinkles, did not affect his ramrod posture. And that face -- at once tainted with arrogance and pain.
"Mr. Fontana? I'm Timothy Hollister." He extended a pale white hand which, when I shook it, was dry as dust and nearly translucent.
All of a sudden it came to me. I knew who he was. Long ago, when the gay movement was still in the streets and I wasn't born yet, this guy had been a priest fighting for the rights of gays and lesbians in the Church. But the Catholic pooh-bahs were having none of it. They tried silencing him but he became more militant. Eventually Hollister came out, was kicked out of the priesthood, and became instrumental in Dignity, the organization for gay Catholics.
Mine was a different view of the Catholic Church. Italians are more practical when it comes to religion. They follow to a point. When religion gets in the way, oops! Time for confession. And I do think there's something to the old proverb, "Familiarity breeds contempt." The Pope lives smack in the middle of Rome. Being that up close to the man, Italians have a more nonchalant approach toward him and his organization. Sure there are plenty of old ladies dressed in black, shedding tears when a pope dies, but Italy is loaded with actresses who never made it to the right stage. The world is their theater.
That Italian attitude was part of me. I could never take their rules and regs seriously. Though I parted company with the institutional Church, I retained an inner spirituality. I still had a fondness for all the incense, chant, and Vatican intrigue. And I knew how much it all meant to my older relatives.
Murder on Camac Page 2