The Bar Watcher

by Dorien Grey

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll see you there.”

  Well, although he hadn’t come out and said it, it was fairly obvious I’d been right—the bullet that had blown the queens’ tire had come from the same gun that killed D’Allesandro. What I wasn’t at all sure of was what was going to happen next as far as the police department and my involvement in the case was concerned.

  I next called O’Banyon’s office and was put through to Donna. Mr. O’Banyon, she said, was in court but would be calling in shortly for some information she was getting for him relating to the case in trial. I asked her to see if we might possibly set up a very brief meeting at his earliest convenience, and she said she’d pass the word on and get back to me.

  Next, Kimmes Associates. I’d toyed with the idea of checking with O’Banyon first then decided I couldn’t run to him for everything, and I was sure he’d okay it anyway. I called the firm, identified myself as working with Mr. O’Banyon on the Rage matter, and asked if I might speak with Mr. Kimmes himself. A minute or two on hold was followed by a male voice saying. “Bob Kimmes here. How can I help you, Mr.…Hardesty?”

  “Mr. Kimmes,” I said, “I’m checking on a few facts relating to the irregularities in the Rage account, and wonder if you could give me a little information.”

  There was the muffled sound of throat-clearing on the other end then, “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you, Mr. Hardesty. We’re still going over everything in great detail.”

  “I’m sure you are,” I said, “but what I’d like to know has nothing to do with the figures involved. I was curious as to how often the individual partners in Rage may have been in contact with you…or with Mr. Sharp.”

  “In person, you mean?”

  “Yes, if you might know.”

  “Well, while we work closely with all our clients as a firm, we do not encourage person-to-person contacts with the CPA handling their accounts. We do have, as a matter of policy, a…well, a sort of introductory meeting when we first take on a new account, during which time we outline our services, agree upon the clients’ specific needs, go over any financial laws and regulations that may apply to their particular account—that sort of thing. I normally conduct such meetings, as I did with the partners in Rage. However, at that time Mr.—one of the partners—was out of the country.”

  “Mr. Giacomino,” I said, lest Kimmes think I might not be privy to all the partners’ names.

  “Yes, Mr. Giacomino. And so I never personally met with him. When he returned, I was vacationing in Jamaica, so Mr. Sharp met with him in my stead.”

  “Had Mr. Sharp been with you long?”

  “He had been with the firm eighteen years. His unfortunate death was a great loss. And for it to come just at this time…”

  “I understand,” I said. “Would you know if Mr. Sharp was in frequent phone contact with Mr. Giacomino?”

  There was another long pause, and then, with the slightest note of suspicion in his voice, “I can’t imagine he would have been. Rage was primarily Mr. Comstock’s concern.”

  “Would you happen to have telephone records?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course. Our accountants keep scrupulous records of their time.”

  “Would it be possible for me to get a log of the partners’ calls to or from Mr. Sharp?”

  His response was just what I expected it to be, of course.

  “We keep our dealings with our clients in strictest confidence, Mr. Hardesty, and, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, you are not our client at the present time.”

  Nor would I ever be unless the bank made a big error in my favor.

  “I can certainly appreciate your position,” I said. “Would it help if Mr. O’Banyon made the request? While he is, as you know, extremely busy, I’m sure I could ask him to contact you.”

  There was a significant pause. “You are working for both Mr. O’Banyon and Mr. Giacomino, is that correct?” he asked.

  Good question. Actually, it was O’Banyon who had hired me, but he had consulted with Giacomino first, so I felt technically justified in replying confidently.

  “I am representing Rage’s surviving partners, yes.” I didn’t go into such details as the fact that neither them knew I was even talking with Kimmes at this point.

  Yet another pause, and a barely distinguishable “Hmmm.” Then: “Very well. I can have the receptionist prepare a log of calls for you. Would tomorrow afternoon be soon enough?”

  “That will be fine, Mr. Kimmes,” I said. “And I very much appreciate your cooperation, as I’m sure do Mr. O’Banyon and Mr. Giacomino.”

  We exchanged goodbyes and hung up.

  I’d barely set the phone back in the cradle when it rang again—Donna, saying O’Banyon could meet me at Etheridge’s at noon.

  Busy day.

  *

  I spent what was left of the morning making out an itemized billing for my time on the case thus far and working on my next official report for O’Banyon. I realized the report was more than a little redundant, since I’d once again be telling him everything that was in it when we met. Still, I guess it was good to have some sort of written history. And it looked quite different there on paper—a lot neater somehow, not all cluttered up with hunches and suspicions and gut reactions.

  I wrapped it up around 11:15 and headed for Etheridge’s, knowing full well I was going to be early again. The clouds had rolled in, and it was starting to drizzle by the time I reached the restaurant, which precluded my taking a stroll up and down in front of the City Building to watch the passing talent. Instead, I went in to the bookstore next to Etheridge’s and browsed, rather hoping the cute sales clerk would come ask if there was something he could do to help me.

  Just as he started to walk my way, a blue-haired matron lassoed him for help in finding the latest best seller on the care and feeding of geraniums. He gave me a quick, raised-eyebrow “Sorry” look and led the lady to the gardening section. Ah, well…

  When I walked into Etheridge’s at exactly noon and asked for Mr. O’Banyon’s table, I was again led directly to it without question. I wondered vaguely if they ever let anyone else sit there. I sat at the bench facing forward and ordered coffee.

  At ten after, O’Banyon appeared, all business-crisp and in-control efficiency. After he’d leaned to set his briefcase at the far end of the bench next to the wall, we shook hands, and he slid into the bench.

  “What’s up, Dick?” he asked, then added, “And what makes me think I don’t want to hear it?”

  “It’s a little too early to tell,” I said, “but I do have a suspicion you’re not going to like it.”

  After the waiter had taken our order, I told him of my Friday afternoon meeting with Giacomino and my subsequent call to Kimmes.

  “I’ll have a little better idea after I look at the phone logs,” I said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if something shady was going on between either Barry or Bart and Sharp, the dead accountant.”

  I then told him of Lt. Richman’s call, and my scheduled meeting with him the next day, and much of everything else in the weekly report I’d just been preparing.

  After I finished, I sighed. “All of which adds up to more and more roads going off in more and more directions. But I did want to alert you that some of these roads may lead uncomfortably close to home.”

  O’Banyon held off replying until the waiter, who had arrived with our food, had headed off to attend to another table.

  “We’re both right,” he said, reaching for the salt. “I’m not at all happy about this. But that’s precisely why you were hired, and I’ll do my best to see that nothing stands in your way in getting to the bottom of this mess—no matter how ‘close to home,’ as you put it, it may lead.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said, and I meant it.

  *

  I’m not quite sure where the rest of the day went but, like most days, it went, and on my way home I passed by Barnes Park, a rather notorious cruising area on the edge
of the Central. I noticed a number of police cars and a lot of activity around the public restroom, and assumed there was another raid going on. Although there had been some noticeable relaxing in official harassment of gays since former Chief Rourke’s glory days, old habits die hard, and periodic tearoom and park busts were still routine.

  After stopping at the store for some groceries, I made it home just in time for the local news. I didn’t expect there’d be any mention of the raid, since they were still far too common to rate any attention by the media. I was a little surprised, though, when, following a fascinating in-depth report on the pros and cons of a new school referendum, the ever-chipper anchorman announced that a man had been found beaten to death in Barnes Park, and that the police were investigating. Name of the victim was being withheld pending the notification of relatives. End of story.

  Well, if it was Barnes Park, that pretty much meant the poor guy was gay, and gay bashing was a not-uncommon pastime among the lunatic fringe. And since too many members of the police department still considered gay bashing a public service, the chances of an arrest being made any time soon were somewhat less then remote.

  Since I had to be up very early to meet with Lt. Richman, I determined to try to get to bed relatively early. Fortunately, there was nothing much of interest on TV, so I started to get ready for bed around ten. Then, on a whim, I rummaged through my porn videos, found my copy of Comstock’s Load and popped it into the VCR. There was a much younger Barry Comstock, long pre-Rage, alive and hot as all hell, doing what he did best. I decided yet again that the one thing I dislike most about time is that it passes, and that what was doesn’t last forever.

  *

  Morning came much too soon, as mornings have a tendency to do, and I forced myself out of bed and into the shower. Nicked myself about a dozen times while shaving and cursed myself for having forgotten, yet again, to buy new razor blades. I’d optimistically made a whole pot of coffee but only had time to drink one full cup and a couple swigs from a second before it was time to head out the door. Once again, Lt. Richman was already there when I arrived at Sandler’s. We shook hands, exchanged greetings, and I sat down opposite him. This time when the waiter came, I ordered a ham and cheese omelet along with my coffee.

  Richman waited until I’d had a few swallows of coffee before saying: “We have a problem…and you’re part of it.”

  I’d expected that first part, but the second came as something of a surprise.

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  He sighed and added more sugar to his coffee before answering.

  “The police department,” he began, “prides itself on doing its job, and doing it well. However, when it comes to dealing with the problems of the city’s minorities, we’re too often hampered by long-established, conservative, white-heterosexual-males-only tradition. Things are starting to change, but we still have a very long way to go, as you are very well aware.” He sat back while the waiter brought our food, then motioned me to start eating while the waiter went back for the side of pancakes he’d forgotten. “When we started recruiting black officers,” he said, “which was a lot longer in coming than it should have been, due in large part to Chief Rourke’s dragging his feet every inch of the way, we were finally able to become far more effective in dealing with the specific problems of the black community. White officers going into black neighborhoods could never achieve the same results or obtain the same information as black officers can.”

  I didn’t need a road map to see where he was going with this. The waiter brought the pancakes and a large pitcher of syrup, and Richman proceeded to pour a river of maple syrup over the hubcap-sized pancakes before continuing.

  “We don’t have any gay officers,” he said, then anticipated my reaction by giving me a quick smile before adding “Openly gay officers, that is. It’s one of the sad facts of life that, in this city, at this time, you can be openly gay or you can be a police officer—you cannot be both. I wouldn’t even hazard a guess as to how long it will be until that will be possible.”

  He paused long enough to take a couple forkfuls of pancake, and I knew I should say something to at least give the poor guy a chance to eat, but he was on a roll and obviously going somewhere with his part of the conversation. I didn’t want to sidetrack him in any way.

  He cut a sausage in two with his fork, speared it, tapped it lightly in the syrup, and conveyed it to his mouth. After chewing and swallowing, he made a very slight gesture toward me with his fork.

  “The problem is,” he said, “that the department is also extremely protective of its own interests, and it won’t tolerate anyone trying to do what it considers its business. That’s where you come in, unfortunately.”

  I shrugged and nodded, waiting for the other shoe to drop. We both concentrated on our breakfasts for a moment, although I suddenly wasn’t as hungry as I’d thought. I noticed as we ate, though, that Richman kept glancing at me.

  At last he said, “You were right about the bullet, and the tire. We missed it completely, which was obviously our own fault. I looked at the report on the ‘accident’ again, and that’s all it apparently was—two drunks going over the bluff. But from what you’ve said, I gather there’s a whole lot more going on here.”

  I nodded again. I could have played coy but decided to trust him and be honest.

  “There is,” I said.

  Richman sighed. “So now comes the dilemma. Now that we know there is some link between D’Allesandro’s murder and the death of the two men in the car, we’ll be doing our own investigation, and it’s pretty likely that your involvement in all this will come out at some point. Some of the hotter heads in the department are not going to be too happy about what they will perceive as your interference in their business. I’ll do my best to protect you from harassment if it comes to that—I’ll say you are my informant…” He looked at me and gave me another small smile. “Sorry about that—it sounds a little disreputable, I know, but…”

  I had a quick mental picture of myself, a two-week beard, dirty clothes, rummaging through a dumpster with one hand while the other clutched a bottle of Ripple in a brown paper bag.

  “Well,” I said, “I hope it doesn’t come to that, either. A private investigator with a reputation as a police informant wouldn’t exactly be a magnet for new clients.”

  He nodded, finished the last of his eggs and pushed his plate off to one side.

  “The other alternative, of course, is for you to just back down, now. Drop the whole thing and let the department handle it from here.”

  It was my turn to sigh. I shook my head.

  “All well and good if it were just a cut-and-dried case of three murders. But I’m firmly convinced there’s a lot more going on here—too many pieces and too many links between them, and all of them rooted in a community the police have little knowledge of or, let’s face it, interest in.

  “And even if the department did have openly gay officers who knew their way around the community and what to look for and what questions to ask and who to ask, there are so many different directions this case is leading I don’t know how they could follow up on them all. Hell, I don’t know how I’m going to be able to do it.”

  I drained the last drop of coffee from my cup and put it back on the saucer.

  “The other hand of it for me,” I said, “is that the police have a lot easier access to certain information than I might have.” I was thinking primarily of Giacomino’s past history and business dealings. “So, is there any area of compromise here?”

  Richman sat back and just looked at me for a moment.

  “I’m putting my neck out here,” he said, “but I think we can probably find some way to work parallel, if not together. I’ll have to insist that you keep me informed on anything concrete you come up with, and in exchange, I’ll, as I said, do my best to protect your identity and what you’re doing. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” I said, just as the waiter arrived with the check. I reache
d for it, but Richman got it before I could.

  “I’ll get it,” he said. “I’ll take it out of our ‘informant’s fund,’” and he grinned.

  “Oh, by the way,” I said, “I understand there was another murder in Barnes Park yesterday. A gay bashing, I assume.”

  “So it appears, unfortunately. Luckily, it’s unrelated to these other cases—if he’d been shot, they’d have checked the bullet for a match with the other three deaths. This one died from a single blow to the back of the head. He was found in some bushes right behind the public restroom—apparently he’d been killed the night before.”

  “Have they released his identity yet?” I asked.

  Richman nodded as he hoisted his rear off the chair to reach his wallet in his back pocket.

  “Barnseth, I think it is. Lynn Barnseth.”

  I felt the coffee rising up in my stomach. Barnseth! That’s it! Lynn Barnseth—George Atkins’s lover!

  Chapter 10

  I didn’t say a word to Richman—I didn’t want to make a complicated situation any more complicated at the moment—and we said our goodbyes outside Sandler’s and went our separate ways. But my mind was working overtime. I was thinking of the scene Lynn Barnseth had caused at Venture, and the fact he’d always been an incredibly nasty piece of work.

  And with that thought, yet another piece of the puzzle fell firmly into place. I’d allowed myself to be sidetracked by the pieces that had seemed to connect everything to Comstock and Rage. I now was positive that Comstock, Giacomino, and Sharp the accountant’s being linked in the embezzlement scheme were just three coincidentally connected pieces, not the picture. I felt without a doubt that, illogical as it may have been, their each being a thoroughly rotten son of a bitch was the link between all these deaths. My original theory of a gay vigilante determined to take out the human trash was right.

  I suddenly realized I was just standing on the sidewalk staring off into space, and I’m sure some of the people walking by wondered what the hell this guy was doing—but if they did, I wasn’t aware of it—or them. But I did finally force myself to let my motor functions resume walking me toward my car.