Third You Die (kevin connor mysteries)

by Scott Sherman

  Tony said that at the moment Brent’s body went limp in his arms, Kristen’s violent shudder and the ensuing stain in his pants indicated he’d spontaneously ejaculated.

  He came when Brent left.

  I kind of wish I’d slit his throat when I had the chance.

  As it turned out, Kristen had achieved the perfect trifecta.

  He’d killed for money, sexual jealousy, and thrills.

  Every bad motive rolled into one deadly package.

  No matter how I protested, Tony wouldn’t hear it. After he helped me the night of Kristen’s assault, when his fellow officers were done taking our statements and I was safely returned home, he came at me.

  “You did it again,” he accused. “You almost got yourself killed.”

  “I didn’t, ” I insisted. “Okay, maybe in the past I kind of ignored your advice, but not this time. I swear. I was going to tell you everything I found out and let you handle it. I just went by Lucas’s to give him a heads-up first. I didn’t even know Kristen would be there, let alone that he was-”

  “Enough!” Tony shouted. “This can’t be a coincidence, Kevin. You keep doing this. Putting yourself in harm’s way. Lying to me about it. I can’t take it.”

  “I didn’t.” I tried to explain myself. “I’m not-”

  “You say you want to be with me, but you make it impossible. You’re always pressuring me to do more than I can. To make you promises I can’t. Because, unlike you, Kevin, if I give my word, I keep it.”

  That hurt.

  “Tony…”

  “I have a son, Kevin. He needs me. Obviously, you don’t. You think you can do it all on your own. Well, I’m not sticking around while you get yourself killed. Rafi doesn’t need to lose another adult in his life, either. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m no good for you. Why else are you so… self-destructive? I think we need a break.”

  That’s what Brent said to Lucas before he disappeared. Famous last words.

  I didn’t try and talk him into staying. I didn’t even ask where he was going. Maybe he was returning to his ex-wife.

  Tony was right. I had been pressuring him to make a decision. Now, he had.

  It just wasn’t the one I was hoping for.

  I went to work.

  I did my job.

  Some evenings Freddy came over, more often than not with Cody. We ate takeout and watched movies on my flat screen.

  They tried to get me to talk about how I felt about Tony’s leaving. I deflected every attempt.

  The other evenings, I watched movies alone. Whatever was on, as long as it wasn’t a love story. If there wasn’t a movie devoid of any possible romantic plot points, I tuned into “reality” shows about people less relatable than Martians, or people screaming at each other on MSNBC’s political coverage or, best of all and with alarming frequency, the Home Shopping Network, where the host’s enthusiasm for a steam cleaner or plastic jewelry hocked by a C-list celebrity never known for her taste to begin with, blotted out my own emotions, taking my mind almost completely off the Tony-sized hole in my life.

  I also spent a lot of time on the phone with Lucas. Almost every other day, for hours at a time. We had the easy intimacy of two people who’d survived a disaster. Since he’d never met or heard about Tony, it was always a safe conversation. Discussing our near-death experience and torture porn was a lot less upsetting than having people ask how I “felt” about the dissolution of my relationship.

  Lucas seemed to be getting better. He was still living in Kristen’s place, where he’d found tens of thousands of dollars in cash hidden throughout the apartment. The maintenance fees on the co-op were paid a year in advance, and I agreed with him that until-or if-Kristen’s lawyers tried to force him out, he’d be a fool to leave. I also advised him what to do with all that money. Ill-gotten though it might be, Lucas could live off that cash for a long time while he made up his mind what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

  However, as a favor to him and because I really was rooting for the guy, we agreed that, for the short run, the money would go into a safe deposit box for which only I had the key. Lucas knew he was too volatile and immature to be trusted with that much cash. As a recovering addict, he was also too prone to temptation. Part of the deal, though, was that I’d only hold the money for him if he got into therapy. He agreed and I hooked him up with my former psychologist.

  In the meantime, he volunteered half-time at Stuff of Life, a nonprofit that made and delivered meals to people living with HIV and AIDS. I used to help there when I was an escort and only had to work ten or fifteen hours a week.

  My full-time job on my mom’s show made finding time for that a lot harder. I hoped that Lucas filled whatever void I’d left. I know my old friend Vicki, who was the volunteer coordinator there, called to thank me profusely after Lucas’s first day.

  “Baby,” she said, and her deep, throaty voice on the phone made me miss her even more, “he is a find. Not only is he enthusiastic and hardworking, but he’s so hottified I expect we’ll be having men by the hundreds discovering a previously unknown interest in bagging sandwiches signing up. I get a hard-on looking at him, and I don’t even have a dick.”

  “Unless you count the one in the drawer of your nightstand,” I joked.

  “That’s a strap-on,” she answered, not joking. “It’s more for my girlfriend’s pleasure than mine. Not to mention the occasional straight boy I get to deflower. Now, that’s fun.”

  Mostly lesbian Vicki had told me before about her love for cherry picking. “You,” I said, “are a truly a giver. In every way.”

  “I try,” she answered. I could hear the cocky Elvis-like grin that went with her ebony slicked-back hair and sensual features. “What’s going on with you?” she asked. “How’s Tony?”

  “Oops,” I lied. “That’s the other line. I gotta go. Good luck with Lucas. And leave his ass alone, okay? He’s confused enough as it is.”

  I disconnected. I was glad to hear Lucas looked like a good fit for Stuff of Life. He needed structure. And some friends, too. I seriously considered giving Charlie his number. They both had some grieving to do. Maybe it would be easier if they did it together. Maybe not. I’d leave it be for now.

  Brent’s murder haunted us all.

  Three times Tony called me with updates about the case. We kept the conversations short and to the point.

  Just the facts, man.

  I tried to get on with my life.

  I tried not to miss Tony.

  I tried not to miss Rafi.

  Every night, I cried myself to sleep.

  Every morning, I woke to a pillow wet with tears. I didn’t remember my dreams, only the sadness they inspired.

  The days passed.

  Once again, I’d come a lot closer to death than I’d planned to.

  I was happy to be alive.

  But I wasn’t happy.

  One Friday night, three weeks after Tony’s departure, two uniformed officers showed up at my door. I hadn’t yet changed out of my work clothes. We’d had a meeting with network executives, and I had to dress like a real professional that day-a tie and everything. For some stupid reason, I was glad the cops hadn’t found me in my usual household ensemble of Joe Snyder boxer-briefs and a Hello Kitty T-shirt. It made me feel more grown-up.

  “Mr. Connor,” they greeted me. They introduced themselves. Officer Payne was an African-American man in his fifties with a graying moustache and a warm, lazy smile that probably was deceptive in its ability to put a suspect at ease. His partner, O’Brien, was maybe in his mid-twenties, a red-haired Irish boy with wide green eyes and a smattering of freckles. His handsome features seemed wasted on him-I had the distinct feeling he had no idea what to do with them. He radiated a sincerity and earnestness that would do him no good either as a player or as a New York City police officer.

  He looked like he had a lot to learn, and his partner seemed like the kind of veteran who could teach him.

  O’Brien�
�s eyes scanned my apartment. His eyes landed on a copy of the British gay magazine Attitude that I’d left open to a particularly provocative underwear ad. He blushed furiously, as if scandalized by the display of rippling abs and padded crotch.

  Yeah, he’d have to toughen up if he was going to make it in this city.

  It was intimidating to have the law at my door like that, but the armor of my business suit and my immediate ability to imagine these two in the buddy-cop movie version of themselves helped me stay relatively relaxed. I invited them in and they accepted.

  It didn’t take long before they told me why they were there: Was I available to ride over to the station with them to review some matters related to Brent’s case?

  “Can’t we do it here?” I asked.

  With convincing contriteness, they explained there was physical evidence they needed me to review. They made it hard to say no, answering my questions before I had a chance to ask them.

  It wouldn’t take more than an hour or two of my time. They were sorry to have barged in on me like this, but they didn’t want to bother me at work. We could reschedule for a more convenient time, but they were trying to move the investigation along before people started fleeing town or covering their tracks. The sooner I could help them, the better chance there was for convictions.

  I was torn. Was something fishy going on? Did I need a lawyer? On the other hand, if this small inconvenience meant I could do more to help bring Brent’s killers to justice, I didn’t want to delay.

  As he had for the past ten minutes, O’Brien glanced at me surreptitiously, making me feel guilty of something, although I didn’t know what.

  Good cop that he was, though, Officer Payne met my eyes steadily and understood my interior struggle.

  “We promise,” he said, “no hidden agenda. Detective Rinaldi wanted us to give you his personal assurance this is on the up-and-up. He’d have come himself, but he couldn’t work tonight. Family thing. But he wanted us to let you know you have nothing to worry about, and he really could use your help.”

  This unexpected request suddenly made sense. Tony had probably needed some information from me but couldn’t figure out a way to get it without our having to see each other. Whatever took him away tonight was the perfect opportunity to get my help without a chance of us crossing paths.

  “This ‘family thing,’ ” I couldn’t help asking, “is everything okay? His son didn’t get hurt or anything, did he?”

  Payne’s reassuring smile appeared genuine. “No, no, nothing like that. It was more of a family get-together he’d almost forgotten about. Nothing bad.”

  A “family get-together.” For some reason, the first and only possibility that occurred to me was his wedding anniversary. Although he might have been divorced, I couldn’t shake my suspicion that after leaving me he would reunite with his ex. He was that desperate to have a “normal” life.

  The more generous part of me allowed that some of his motivation might have been to spare Rafi the pain of divorced parents and, possibly, a dad who was in love with another guy.

  I thought he was making a mistake. I didn’t believe that being raised in a tense home with parents who despised each other and a father who denied himself happiness was a recipe for a healthy childhood, either.

  Plus, I’d have made a fabulous second dad.

  But, as Tony had made clear, my opinions didn’t matter.

  Funny. Until he left, I really thought they did. I thought Tony was on the same trip I was. Aware of the potholes on the road to our being together, but committed to reaching the same destination.

  I was wrong. I thought we were heading for a happily ever after.

  Who knew he’d been looking for the exit ramp?

  Still, I trusted Tony wouldn’t want to see me hurt. Well, more hurt than I already was. If he gave his word through his officers, I believed him.

  Even by proxy, I didn’t think he’d lie to me.

  Turns out, I was wrong about that, too.

  45

  The Road Home

  It was eight-thirty by the time the officers and I headed out to their unmarked car. On the way to the station, I asked what they needed to show me.

  “It’s better we don’t say,” Payne responded. He took his eyes off the road for a second to give me another let-me-put-your-mind-at-ease smile. “We’re not trying to be mysterious. It’s just that anything we tell you may be prejudicial. If we ever have to put you on the stand-and I’m not saying we would-I wouldn’t want some smart-ass defense attorney claiming we’d influenced you before you saw the evidence.”

  It made sense, but didn’t make me as comfortable as a more straightforward answer would have. I considered coming at it from a different angle, but Payne distracted me.

  “Tell us about you,” he encouraged. “What’s your day gig?”

  “No kidding,” O’Brien, the redheaded rookie, said when I’d finished. “ Sophie’s Voice? I love that show.”

  I thought he was just being polite until he started recapping particular episodes and quoting some of my mother’s more outrageous remarks.

  I can honestly say that the only thing flaming about O’Brien was his hair. He was as butch as they come, an obviously new but typically tough NYC police officer, displaying nothing that triggered the slightest flicker of my gaydar.

  Still, once he’d confessed his fanboy enthusiasm for my mother’s program, I considered it a declaration of homosexuality second only to leading the New York City’s Gay Pride Parade.

  I suppose there are straight men in the world who genuinely love Oprah. Who subscribe to Martha Stewart’s Living, and whose preference for watching Rachael Ray over a baseball game is simply an indicator of their varied and enlightened range of interests.

  Yeah, right.

  I remembered now how red O’Brien turned when he saw the provocative picture in my living room. I’d mistaken arousal for shock. Then, there was the way he kept sneaking sidelong glances at me. He was sizing me up, just not in the manner I’d thought.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Here was Tony dumping me because of what he thought his peers would think, while at least one would not only have approved but might have been interested in joining us for a three-way.

  Maybe I’d have to get O’Brien’s number. Sleeping with one of Tony’s subordinates-insert evil cackle here. Not that I was spiteful or anything.

  I was distracted enough that when Payne announced, “Here we are,” I got out of the car before I even realized we weren’t anywhere near the station.

  In fact, we were parked in the “No Parking” space in front of the Park Grand, one of New York’s ritzier hotels. Payne took my arm while O’Brien flashed his badge and talked with one of the parking attendants.

  “This isn’t the police sta-” I began.

  “Not unless we’ve moved way up in class,” Payne interrupted, leading me forward. “No,” he continued, “the evidence you need to see is here.

  “I just hope you’ll be able to see it for what it is.”

  As a high-priced call boy, I’d visited clients in a lot of high-end hotels. The Park Grand was one of them.

  But in my profession, the goal was to pass through the common areas as unobtrusively as possible. Don’t attract attention from hotel security, press, or an unsuspecting spouse. Head straight for the elevators and casually make your way to your client’s room.

  So, although I’d passed through the Park Grand dozens of times, I never took notice of the lobby, the meeting rooms, or the restaurants. I kept my head down as if deep in thought and made a beeline for the residential floors.

  Therefore, I had no idea of the hotel’s geography and where Payne was hustling me with the cool efficiency of a skilled bodyguard. Or a hitman. His paternal authority invited no questions, either. It was all “Come-with-me-if-you-want-to-live.”

  On my other side, O’Brien walked in lockstep. He didn’t have Payne’s natural aura of control, but he kept me between them,
reinforcing the sense that I was better off going along quietly.

  We arrived at what appeared to be a meeting room, its twin doors closed. From inside, I heard murmurs over an amplified voice that I couldn’t quite make out. As my ears adjusted, I understood the last words of what sounded like an introduction.

  The speaker’s voice was loud but slightly distorted through the sound system. It was recognizable, but I couldn’t quite place it. He had a strong New York accent. An older man, somewhere in his sixties or seventies, I’d guess. “… the man of the hour himself. Congratulations on this highest of tributes.”

  Was I here for some kind of show?

  Apparently so.

  Payne opened one of the doors and pushed me inside.

  “Just stand with me in the back,” he whispered. “Looks like we got here just in time.”

  The man on the stage stood in the center of a bright spotlight. The room had been set up for a dinner. I’d guess about a hundred tables, each of which sat ten, faced the front of the room. A huge panel of LCD monitors, which combined to form a single image, dominated the back wall.

  The room was so darkened that it was impossible to make out the audience.

  The monitors showed the face of the man who’d just finished speaking. Now I knew who it was. The city’s current mayor, a pretty popular Independent who’d risen to prominence in the business world before entering politics, waited for the next speaker to come to the stage.

  The image behind the mayor flickered and was replaced by a blue-and-white logo for the New York City Police Department. A string of letters ran across the bottom of the screen: The Police Officer’s Public Service Division’s Detective of the Year: Tony Rinaldi.

  The words were greeted with riotous applause, as was the man who made his way to the stage.