I felt awkward, speechless. I took my keys from my pocket tossed them from hand to hand. Anton didn't always have this effect on me but the look in his eyes and his question derailed me.
"What's that new key?" Anton snatched the keys and inspected them.
"That's what I'd like to know." I recounted how I'd come by the key.
"How romantically sad." Anton's voice was low. "You think this is where Brandt put the laptop?"
"Could be. Hollister said all their other important papers were in a bank vault. This may be where Brandt hid his work."
"From the looks of the key, he didn't hide it somewhere shabby like a train station locker," Anton commented. "Or any other kind of public access locker. None of them would spend money on keys like this."
"You're right, of course, but then, where? You don't recognize it at all?"
"I'd love to say I did and make you pay for the answer with another kiss." Anton laughed. I knew his laughter disguised his real feelings.
***
After Anton took off for his job at the gym, I realized I hadn't eaten a thing all day. The hollow feeling in my stomach wasn't entirely due to the fact I was hungry. Kissing Anton had made me wonder what I was doing with my life, at least as far as Anton was concerned. Eventually I wandered into an upscale hamburger joint, deciding that a late lunch would at least solve one problem. Then I returned to my place.
Since it was still too early to visit Clifford's boarder, Navarro, I called Hollister who asked me to meet him at his friend's apartment. The fact I always had more questions never bothered Hollister, he just wanted to know the Truth.
I freshened up and was on my way.
Hollister's friend lived on Spruce near twentieth. That neighborhood, I was told, was the center of gay life in the seventies. What was now the gayborhood wasn't then. Most of the gay bars were west of Broad Street and most of the residents of those neighborhoods were gay. It was before my time but I'd read about Philly's gay history enough to know. Not that there was a shortage of gay men and lesbians living in those neighborhoods now, it just wasn't the epicenter.
This friend of Hollister's must have lived there in the old days and stayed put as the gayborhood drifted east. Visiting his place would give me a peek into history.
The house was a large four story greystone that had been carved up into apartments at some point. Sad. Stately old homes reduced to being inhabited by apartment dwellers.
Bancrofft was the first name on the tenant list. I pressed the buzzer and was admitted. Inside was as posh as the exterior was elegant. New carpeting, fresh paint, walls hung with oil paintings, stylish mirrors, and Art Deco-style lighting fixtures.
Hollister obviously had wealthy friends. He himself was well-to-do, but never came off as being moneyed.
As I moved down the hall, the wood floors beneath the carpeting creaking and moaning, a door opened and a short, slender old man with super white hair and very pink skin, gazed at me. Clean shaven and dapper, he smiled broadly.
"Mr. Fontana?" He wore a short-sleeved, lime-green, linen shirt and pressed khaki pants. Ramrod stiff, there was an elegance in his movements. "I'm Lyman Bancrofft." He held out his hand.
"A pleasure, Mr. Bancrofft," I said as we shook.
"Timothy told me you were attractive, but he never said how attractive. I've always had a thing for Italians, but who doesn't?" Bancrofft was the definition of forward.
"Stop embarrassing my detective." Hollister had come up behind Bancrofft and opened the door wider. "Let the man in, Lyman."
I stepped into the apartment which occupied the first and second floors judging from the staircase off to the side. It was tasteful in a rococo way, the opposite of the restrained gracefulness of the hall. Paintings lined the walls. There was lots of gold and crystal. Marble statues and objets d'art were placed all around. It was dizzying. This was not my style. With Luke's help, I'd come to appreciate a more minimalist approach.
"I'll put the kettle on. You'll have some tea, won't you?" Lyman asked, punctuating his question with a suggestive wink.
"Of course." I turned to Hollister. "I need to talk a bit. Maybe if I jog your memory, we can identify this key." I held it out.
"That looks, awwwwwfully familiar," Bancrofft said drawing out his words. "I know I've seen something like that before."
"If you could remember, I'd really appreciate it," I said and Bancrofft smiled with calculated coyness.
"I'll think on it while I make the tea." He bustled out of the room.
"We can talk in here." Hollister indicated I should enter a room at the front of the apartment, where the bay window overlooked the street. "Don't worry about Lyman. He's my closest friend and had a lot to do with me and Helmut being together. He's just as intent on getting this resolved."
The room was an eighteenth century antiques fair. I couldn't tell if any of it was real but it certainly looked good. Hollister sat in an overstuffed wing chair and offered me the bergère chair across from him. It more or less swallowed me up when I sat down.
"Have you remembered anything about the key?"
"I've thought and thought about it but I've never seen it." Hollister hung his head as if in defeat. "It's obviously significant. Helmut must've thought I'd know what it was or that I'd easily figure it out. He was wrong."
"What about his habits, places he frequented, people he knew, travel destinations?"
"He traveled a lot doing research. Italy mostly for this current work. When he was in Philadelphia, he was in his office. Ask me what he was doing in there besides his work and I couldn't tell you. Diddling on the Internet. Doing research, he'd call it. I suspected he was trying to meet other men. And..." Hollister held up a hand. "Before you say anything, I knew and it was all right with me. Whatever he did, he always came back to me at the end of the day."
"All right, what about when he wasn't in his office? Did he go to the gym? Did he have a favorite bar or cafe? Where did he hang out?"
"I didn't keep him under surveillance, Marco. He was an adult, a free agent."
"You must have known his habits."
"He did go to a gym. But which gym I couldn't tell you. As for his hangouts, I know he enjoyed sitting at different cafes in the neighborhood. He'd write and read in cafes. He'd also meet with friends and acquaintances. But he didn't like bars."
"Friends like who? Gimme a break here, Tim."
"Friends we had in common. Lyman, Harry who works at the Gallery down the street, any number of acquaintances. But no one who was that close, no one who knew or really cared about his work."
"How can you be certain of that? How would you know whether or not these people really cared?"
Hollister paused, he gazed at the wall over my shoulder as if he were searching his soul. The silence was broken only by the faint sounds of Bancrofft puttering in the kitchen. Crockery clinking, tea kettle whistling. The juxtaposition of the sounds of ordinary, everyday life and the silence of Hollister's sorrow was eerie.
"I... I suppose I don't really know. Any of them could have their own reasons."
"Or connections," I added. "What do you know about a guy named Jared?"
"Jared?" Hollister hesitated. "Jared. Yes, I remember the boy. He was young. Younger than Helmut's usual." There was bitterness in his voice. Whatever existed between Brandt and Jared Beeton wasn't something Hollister enjoyed remembering.
"His usual?"
"Helmut found mature men attractive. Men with a bit of mileage. Over forty at least. When he started up with Jared, I was taken aback."
"Did the two of you argue over Jared?" Because that's certainly what it was beginning to sound like.
Hollister was silent.
"If you argued, I'm sure you feel terrible about it now. But whatever you remember, no matter how painful, could help."
He remained silent, staring down at the darkly intricate Persian rug beneath our feet.
"Tim? Talking about it might help. You can let it go then. Put it away."
"We argued," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "A lot."
"How long did the affair go on?"
"Longer than Helmut pretended. He thought I didn't know or couldn't tell."
"Why did he have to hide it? You two had an agreement, right?"
"Because with Jared, he went too far. Our agreement didn't include falling in love, threatening to leave me, wanting to divide the household. Our agreement didn't cover that. I told him he would have to choose. Jared or the life we had together."
"He chose both? And covered it over with lies?"
"An accurate assessment. If a little blunt."
"We don't have time for niceties. Not if we want to get to the truth."
"Personally I don't think his affair had anything to do with his murder. I still think it was his work, Marco. I'm trying to keep an open mind but I don't think an affair with a young sl... man is what got him killed."
"What if Helmut's work and his affair were somehow connected?"
"Connected? How is that possible?" Hollister looked puzzled.
"I've found some odd connections and I don't believe in coincidence."
"What? How?"
"Seems Jared was the boyfriend of one Seamus Scanlan who works at the Archdiocese. Works for Wren, in fact."
"And you think...?"
"I think it's possible Scanlan had two reasons to hate Helmut. Jared and Helmut's work. Twice the motivation to want Helmut dead. Or, Scanlan might even have been doing someone's bidding."
"Like Wren?"
"Wren had nothing good to say about Helmut. But I don't figure him as the type who would dirty his hands on something like this."
"I can't believe... but it... it could be."
"Scanlan was about to take legal action against Helmut. That letter from Dreier on behalf of a client. Could have been Scanlan. I saw him at Dreier's office last week. By that time Helmut was already dead, so it might have been something else."
"Maybe he was making sure that whatever legal action he was planning was erased. And that lawyer-client privilege would protect him," Hollister said.
"It's all speculation right now. But you see what I mean about connections."
"I'll keep thinking. Jared was Helmut's latest and longest affair. There were others over the years."
"Whatever you can remember. I'm not looking to destroy his reputation, you understand that, right?"
"Whatever he did doesn't matter. What he represented and what he meant to me, that's what matters. The sooner you find out who killed him and why, the sooner I can mourn him properly."
Just then Bancrofft entered with a tea tray. The poor guy looked as if he'd fall over if a slight breeze blew through the room so I got up and took the tray from him.
"Good-looking, strong, and mannerly. Where were you when I was thirty-five?"
***
Tea with the guys was like something out of a nineteenth century novel. Bancrofft regaled us with tales from his wanton youth, as he called it. The man had a blast and still had lots of energy. Not to mention that he remained a force to be reckoned with when it came to flirting.
Unfortunately he couldn't recall anything about the key, though he said he'd pass the word around.
The walk home was like a walk through time. Bancrofft's place represented another era and not just in decor. The attitudes of those guys and their way of life was something out of the past. I'm sure it still existed in some subset of modern gay men, but whatever there was today would be a faded copy of what had been. Probably what existed in the sixties and seventies was a diminished version of what had gone on thirty years before that.
I strolled through town into the gayborhood where a whole new set of styles was coming into being. The wonder of it was that all these eras existed side by side at the same time and no one knew it. Worse yet, maybe no one cared.
Navarro was next on my list and that meant heading into a time warp of another sort altogether. South Philly.
My parking garage, where what they charge to park your car is more than some people pay to rent an apartment, wasn't far. The usual nameless crew on duty saw me coming and their dour expressions turned to smiles. One raced to get my car. I winced at the thought of them zooming down the ramps in my BMW. Even if it was old, used, and not the most distinctive car on the road, it was all mine. Midnight blue and in perfect condition, it served me well. A former client had offered it to me, for a lot less than market value, when she bought a newer model. So, I'd retired my old Taurus and bought it. The BMW was old and nondescript. When I tailed someone or parked in strange places, the car was hardly noticed.
I took my car from the smiling attendant and was on Broad Street headed south in no time. Clifford's house, where Navarro boarded, was way down on south Broad. That was dangerously close to family territory and guilt usually did its dirty magic whenever I entered the area with no intention of visiting my parents. But I was working, this was business, it allowed me to avoid getting tangled up with feeling guilty. Sure.
South Philly represented a lot of things for me but mostly a past I was reluctant to relive. Not that I had a bad childhood, I just needed to move on. Sometimes I felt like Al Pacino playing Michael Corleone when he said, "Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in." For him it was the Mafia. For me, it was old memories. It was that feeling of suffocation I experienced whenever I traveled to my boyhood stomping grounds. As I drove down Broad Street, I struggled with the mishmash of emotions I'd resolved to coexist with forever.
I passed several landmarks of my youth. Uncle Savio's house, an old flame's apartment, the home of a boyhood friend. If Clifford lived any farther down, I'd pass even more things I didn't want to remember.
We all have baggage and sometimes it's best if it gets lost in transit.
South Philly was Halloween crazy. Reminders were everywhere. Orange lights flickered in the dim dusk, decorations festooned houses. Huge carved pumpkins, skeletons, vampires, you name it. If it said Halloween, somebody had put it in their window.
Clifford's home was bare of decorations, though his next door neighbor sported flickering orange lights and a grotesquely carved pumpkin more than two feet in diameter on his top step. Of course, there was no curb parking in front of Clifford's house and the middle of Broad Street was already taken up by any number of cars. Against the law, sure. But the law was not meant for South Philly. So I drove around the block and turned down one of the small East-West streets. I managed to squeeze my BMW between two mean-looking pick-ups. Every house on this block was covered with Halloween decorations. Orange and black streamers, goblins in trees, and more orange lights than anyone could ever hope to see. Ghosts, skeletons, vampires, and witches hung in every window. I got out of the car and looked at the particularly ornate window where I'd parked. Two vampires with gleaming fangs leered at me. Between them were three witches with glowing red eyes. The figures also had movement and, as I watched, I was amazed to see one of the witches break off from the rest and peer at me from a side window. I quickly realized it was the owner of the house. Frightening how much she looked like her decorations. She stared until I turned, locked my car, and walked away. It wasn't an unusual occurrence for people to stare down outsiders. South Philly residents generally felt they owned parking spots in front of their homes. They didn't, but that never stopped them trying to intimidate interlopers. Luckily I looked like I belonged, so she didn't run out screaming that the parking spot was reserved.
Clifford's place was one of the four-story brownstone buildings that lined a lot of south Broad. It was near Dickinson and close to the home of one of my brothers.
There was only one doorbell. Navarro was a boarder and not in a separate apartment. Most smart people divided these old homes into multiple units and made money. Clifford was either not smart or didn't need money.
I rang the bell. When Clifford answered, he looked as if he'd seen a ghost.
"What're you doing here?" he said. Same old hard ass attitude.
/> "Hey, Francis. I'm looking for Navarro. He around?"
"I didn't think I'd see your face after we spoke. Didn't I tell you..."
"I'm not here to see you, pal. I wanna talk to Navarro. He around or not?"
"I don't understand why you need to see him."
"Listen up. This is none of your business. Or, do you own your boarders?"
"Navarro's in his room. He doesn't get many visitors. It's part of the way he lives. You know, the Opus Dei way. You didn't call ahead. That's the polite thing to do."
"Do I look polite? Wanna let him know I'm here?"
Clifford reluctantly opened the door wider.
"I'll tell him. Don't get your hopes up. Wait in the living room and don't touch anything."
What a fusspot. I moved from the narrow vestibule into the living room. The smell of cabbage hung in the air. Sunday dinner. The living room was big. The decor was nothing special, neither lavish, nor threadbare. Just plain, tasteless furniture: a deep-red upholstered sofa, a couple of side chairs of indeterminate color, and a faux-leather recliner. A large flat-screen TV dominated one wall. Pictures, mostly photographs, covered other walls.
I like a wall full of photos. You learn a lot about people that way. They can't help but reveal something about themselves in photographs. Clifford was in a lot of them. There were some old, sepia-toned photos which I guessed were his family. There were a number of pictures of a much younger Clifford with some pretty hot guys. On a beach, in front of museums, standing in public plazas, or near monuments like Mt. Rushmore or Independence Hall. One other guy, a shorter blond kid, was in almost all the photos. He and Clifford invariably stood next to one another. Then, suddenly the blond was gone. He wasn't in any other photos. Clifford, growing older in each shot, posed with his buddies, but the blond was nowhere to be seen. A few more pictures down the line and Clifford appeared with a newer red-headed model. All very interesting.
Murder on Camac Page 15