The Hired Man

by Dorien Grey

  “Mr. Steiner and Mr. Stark were…roommates. You were an acquaintance, if not a friend, of Mr. Steiner. Mr. Steiner is dead. Mr. Anderson is dead.”

  “Did you know Mr. Stark had been seeing Stuart Anderson?” Richman asked.

  “Yes,” I admitted. “I told you Anderson had told me when he first came to my office that he’d been referred by a business acquaintance, but that he never said who it was. That’s true. I only found out it was Phil…Mr. Stark…later.”

  “And just what sort of business is Mr. Stark in?” Offermann demanded.

  Walking-on-eggshells time! I thought.

  “As you already know, he’s a professional model,” I said truthfully if evasively.

  “And did you know he is also a male prostitute?”

  Careful, Hardesty. Careful.

  “I knew he had been a hustler, yes,” I said. “That’s how we met, actually.”

  “So, you frequent male prostitutes, do you, Mr. Hardesty?”

  “No, I do not,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “I have never paid another man for sex. Phil and I met in a bar frequented by hustlers, near my office—”

  “Hughie’s,” Richman interjected, yet again impressing me with just how sharp he was.

  “…but I have never given him money,” I continued honestly, “nor has he ever asked me for any. We became friends, although we hadn’t seen one another for some time before Anderson showed up. In that time, Phil had managed to find a very legitimate and, I imagine, good-paying job as a model. He’s gone far beyond the stage of having to hustle tricks in order to pay his rent.

  “I don’t think it inconceivable that his relationship with Mr. Anderson was based on friendship, and I can’t imagine that either of you gentlemen would hold his past against him. I know that when I had dinner with the two of them, they seemed genuinely comfortable and friendly with one another. If their relationship went beyond that, I would consider that was their business.”

  Oops! I thought. Crossed the line a little bit on that one. Hope they don’t catch it!

  As always when we were together, Richman never took his eyes off me.

  Offermann’s smile was not exactly what I would consider warm.

  “An interesting story,” he said. “But I fear the line of coincidence can only be stretched so far. What of Mr. Steiner’s murder, and the fact that he and Mr. Stark were…roommates?”

  He did it again—that damned pause before “roommates,” as though he didn’t believe it for a minute.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, “I would be willing to stake my life on the fact that Phil’s having known Stuart Anderson has absolutely no relationship whatsoever to his being roommates with and best friend to Billy Steiner, or with Billy’s death. And while I agree that coincidences do make weak alibis, let me ask you how you can possibly relate the most recent death of the woman to the first two deaths? I certainly can’t.”

  Richman had never officially told me about the knife, after all.

  Neither man said anything for a full minute. Then, Offermann said, “Very well, you can go…for now. But be aware we will be keeping a very close eye on you for your own protection. You do seem to have a penchant for becoming very directly involved with murderers.”

  Whatever in hell that meant.

  I got up from my chair, followed by Offermann and Richman, and shook hands with them both. I’d just about made it to the door when Richman said, “Just a minute, Dick. I’ll ride down with you on the elevator.”

  I stepped into the hall, leaving the door open, and heard a muffled exchange between the two officers. Then, Richman emerged and closed the door. We walked in silence to the elevators, and as the door opened, he said, “Let’s stop by my office for a minute, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. Part one of interrogation completed; part two beginning.

  Again silence until we entered his office and he closed the door, motioning me to a chair. He walked around behind his desk and sat down.

  “Okay,” he said. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off.

  “I’ve gone way out on a limb for you more than once,” he said, “but I’ve played a few games of dodgeball in my day, and I know it when I see it. Do you think I don’t know about your contact in the coroner’s office? You know damned well the knife stolen from Anderson’s room was used to kill Laurie Travers.”

  “No, as a matter of fact I hadn’t known that!”

  “That was either one of the stupidest moves ever made or the killer damned well wanted us to know the killings are linked.”

  “Captain Offermann is no dummy, either, and you can be damned sure that if we’d caught you in one outright lie up there, your ass would be in a cell right now. Now we can either talk, or you can get the hell out of my office.”

  Hey, he had a right to be pissed.

  “You’re right, Lieutenant,” I started. “I know you’ve been a lot more supportive than just about anybody else in the department would have been, and maybe that’s part of it. I trust you, but I’m not too sure where Captain Offermann stands. I know you’ve got a job to do, and a damned important one. But I’ve got a job to do, too. Now I’m going to go out on a limb with you and hope to God I’m doing the right thing.”

  I told him about ModelMen’s escort branch, and the Glicks’ having hired me to protect ModelMen’s interests, and their sincere concern for what was happening, and that they weren’t a couple of sleezebag pimps taking advantage of either their clients or their escorts. I admitted to playing the semantics game occasionally, but that, as an employee of ModelMen, Phil was not technically a hustler. And I told him again, and truthfully, that I wasn’t sure yet what the murder of the prostitute meant in the overall scheme of the case, but that I sincerely hoped to find out.

  “Now, again,” I pointed out, “no one can stop you from having the department step right in and take over the whole case, starting from scratch, or we can continue to work parallel. You know as well as I that if I’d mentioned ModelMen and its escort branch immediately, some of your colleagues would have turned it into a circus. Finding the murderer would take poor second to rooting out which rich married men are paying other men for sex.

  “The Glicks have promised me they and the escorts will cooperate fully in exchange for not having to reveal the names of their clients. What possible good could come from ruining the reputations of a lot of decent men whose only crime is in perhaps not being one-hundred percent heterosexual?”

  Richman sat staring at me as though he were carved in stone. After a good sixty seconds of silence, he said, “I don’t know if I can do that. I’m not in the homicide division, as you know.”

  “Yes, but Captain Offermann obviously listens to you and trusts your judgment. So, can you try?” I asked. “All my clients and I want is for the police to not go charging into matters that do not directly relate to the case. By all means, interview the Glicks and the escorts. If your investigation of the prost…of Laurie Travers’…death leads you back to ModelMen, so be it. And if anything I find out from anyone associated with ModelMen should lead to her, I give you my word I’ll tell you immediately. What do you have to lose?”

  I stopped talking, and I swear it seemed so quiet I could have heard a mouse sneeze. The silence was finally broken by the ringing of the phone on Richman’s desk.

  He picked it up, still staring at me, and said, “Lieutenant Richman.” Silence, still staring, then: “Thank you,” and he replaced the receiver into its cradle. He sat back in his chair. “Glen O’Banyon, huh?”

  I wasn’t exactly sure whether he was referring to Phil’s alibi or the sudden linkage of the case to one of the most powerful lawyers in the city, but I nodded.

  “I’ll talk to the captain,” he said, “but no guarantees.”

  “That’s all I can ask for,” I said. “And again, thank you.” There was another long silence. “Can I go now?”

  Richman slowly nodded, a
nd I got up and reached across his desk to shake hands. Neither of us said another word, and I turned and left.

  *

  From a corner phone booth, I called Glen O’Banyon’s office. Donna said he was in court but was expected back within the hour. I asked her to please have him call me the minute he got in.

  Back in the office, I made a couple quick calls, first to Phil (no answer; I couldn’t imagine the police would still be questioning him, but…), then to the Glicks’ home. Johnnie Mae said they were both at the office, where I managed to speak to Mr. Glick and fill him in briefly on my meeting with Richman and Offermann. I suggested they prepare the escorts.

  Then I plopped down in my chair and waited for O’Banyon’s call.

  While I waited, I went mental fishing, trying to hook those elusive thoughts that kept darting back and forth beneath the surface of my consciousness. The police knew nothing, as far as I could tell, about Matt Rushmore, but there was only an outside chance it wouldn’t come up at some point. I had to find out more about him and his relationship with Gary, and Gary’s relationship with Iris. I’d gotten some very strange signals from Gary on that latter score and wondered whether the relationship was quite as rosy as it appeared. It struck me that someone whose mother had abandoned him as a child might well hold considerable resentment against her.

  Sometimes thinking too much is self-defeating. There are just too many thoughts, too many questions…and too few answers. It boiled down to two extremely obvious—well, obvious to me, at any rate—conclusions. Either Anderson’s and Billy’s deaths were coincidental to their links to ModelMen, and the death of Laurie Travers meant the killer was a faceless, unknown and unknowable psycho, or Laurie Travers’ death was somehow tied in to ModelMen. If that were the case, it was pretty obvious—maybe too obvious—that the killer was bisexual. And since Gary was openly bi, that pointed directly to him.

  Once again, Thoreau was right, “Circumstantial evidence is finding a trout in the milk.”

  That said, Gary didn’t strike me as being particularly stupid. He could see the bisexual implications of the murders as clearly as anyone. So, why would he go out of his way to tell me that Matt, the other “obvious” bisexual and, therefore, the other obvious suspect, wasn’t really bisexual? I mean, if I were Gary and I was the killer, I’d be pulling other bisexuals out of the woodwork to get the focus off myself. He did make that comment about “It’s the ones you don’t know you should worry about.”

  Aaron? Just because he’s butch? Does that mean somewhere in the back of my mind I equated being butch with being bisexual? Lavender isn’t exactly my favorite color, either, but I know I’m sure as hell not bi. How about Steve? That thing about his wife not letting him screw around with other women was hardly enough to rule him out.

  Give it a rest, Hardesty, I thought.

  Luckily for me, the phone rang before I decided I was definitely in the wrong profession.

  “Hardesty Investigations.”

  “Dick, it’s Glen. Sorry I didn’t call you the minute I got back to the office, but I had to give priority to a call from Captain Offermann.”

  “Everything okay, then, with Phil?” I asked. “I tried calling him when I got back from a meeting with Richman and Offermann, but he wasn’t home yet.”

  “I know,” O’Banyon said. “Apparently, they were waiting for my verification of his alibi before they released him. He should be home now.”

  I breathed a small sigh of relief.

  “Good,” I said. I filled him in on my meeting with Offermann and then Richman, and told him I’d called the Glicks to prepare them.

  “I appreciate that,” he said. “They’re next on my call list. I told Captain Offermann I wanted to be present when the Glicks are questioned. I’ve been in trial all week, but fortunately, it wrapped up this morning.” There was a pause. “And have you found out anything more about these killings?”

  It was my turn for a pause.

  “Nothing at all solid, I’m afraid,” I said truthfully. “Lots and lots of ideas and hunches and loose ends that are driving me crazy, though. Par for the course.”

  “Well, maybe we could get together for dinner some night, and you could bounce them off me.”

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate that,” I said.

  *

  Eggshell walking is for the graceful, for the light of foot. I, alas, am neither. I had early in life given up any idea of seeking a career in the diplomatic corps, realizing I could probably quite easily manage to bring us into a war with Canada.

  So, how to do what had to be done? How to ask Matt and Gary, “Hey, did either of you two guys happen to murder three people?” Or to ask Iris Glick, “So, after you dumped your kid and took off, how are you two getting along?”

  Well, I’d tiptoed around the subject with both Gary and Matt at one time or another. I’d never really had the chance to talk with Mrs. Glick about her past and what, really, she knew about her little boy. I decided to start there.

  I first called Phil to see how his interrogation had gone. Sure enough, the minute they found out Glen O’Banyon was his alibi for the night of Anderson’s murder, they took on a different tone. When they asked, a little hesitantly, if O’Banyon had paid him for sex, Phil did a little tap dancing of his own; he told them no, which was technically true, since all financial transactions were handled through ModelMen. Glen O’Banyon’s reputation as a top-flight lawyer overpowered even the fact of his being a fag.

  And, of course, they made it clear that, even though Phil had an airtight alibi for the time of Anderson’s murder, he still wasn’t out of the running when it came to Billy’s death or, for some totally inexplicable reason, Laurie Travers’.

  With mild trepidation, I dialed the Glicks’ and asked Johnnie Mae if Mrs. Glick was by chance home yet.

  “Why, yes, she is, Mr. Hardesty. She just came in. Just one moment, and I’ll get her for you.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Mrs. Glick’s voice.

  “Mr. Hardesty…what can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if you’d been contacted by the police yet?” I asked, although that wasn’t the real reason for the call, of course.

  “My husband and I are meeting Mr. O’Banyon at police headquarters at nine-thirty tomorrow.”

  “Ah.” Ah? That’s all you can say: Ah? Get on with it, stupid! “I was wondering if it would be possible for you to talk with me privately for a few minutes between now and then.”

  “Privately?” Her voice reflected just the slightest note of suspicion. “I…I suppose so. Yes, of course. Mr. Glick has some business to attend to this afternoon, so if you’d like to come by now, we have time for a brief chat.”

  “I’d really appreciate that, Mrs. Glick,” I said. “I’ll come right over, if that’s convenient.”

  “Yes. Of course. I’ll see you shortly, then.”

  We exchanged goodbyes and hung up. The fact that she hadn’t asked the purpose of the meeting made me think perhaps she already knew it.

  *

  Johnnie Mae greeted me at the door and showed me into the vast living room I had only briefly glimpsed in my previous visits. Mrs. Glick was standing with her back to me near one of the large French doors that opened onto a large terrace. Exactly what she was doing, other than to recreate a scene from dozens of Hollywood movies, I had no idea.

  She turned as I entered the room and came over to greet me and usher me to one of two cream-colored settees flanking a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. The settees were so far apart each had its own matching coffee table, and I was concerned that if she were to sit opposite me, we’d have to use semaphore to communicate.

  Instead, she joined me on the one facing the terrace doors. She turned slightly toward me and smiled. Did I detect just a touch of sadness in it?

  “How can I help you, Mr. Hardesty?”

  I took a mental deep breath and dove in.

  “I hope you’ll excuse me if what I’m about to
say intrudes upon your privacy, but there is certain information I really need, and you are the only one who can supply it.”

  She reached out and touched my hand, as if in sympathy.

  “I understand.”

  I suspected again she knew exactly where this conversation was going, but before I had a chance to continue, Johnnie Mae entered with a sterling silver tray upon which were a sterling silver coffee server, a matching creamer and sugar bowl, and two cups and saucers so fragile-looking they were almost transparent. She set the tray on the table in front of us, smiled, turned and left without a word.

  “Please, continue,” Mrs. Glick said, leaning forward to pour our coffee.

  I waited for a moment, watching her graceful pouring ritual, and gathering my thoughts, then said, “I need to know more about Gary—specifically about his relationship with Matt and his relationship with you.”

  Without turning her head, she darted her eyes to mine then went back to the coffee server, which she carefully replaced on the tray.

  “Gary’s my son, you know,” she said, handing me a cup and saucer, her eyes on mine again.

  Well, that certainly cut to the chase, I thought.

  “Yes, I know,” I said. I wondered how she knew I knew.

  “I was sure you did,” she said, “and therefore thought I’d spare you the possible embarrassment of having to ask.” She took a sip of her coffee, set the cup carefully on the saucer, and moved back slightly on the settee. “I was thirteen.” She shook her head slightly, as if she couldn’t quite believe it herself. “Thirteen. Gary’s father was a roustabout in a carnival that played our local county fair. I never saw him again, of course, and never even knew his last name.

  “There was never a question about abortion. What I’d done was scandalous enough; an abortion would have been unthinkable. And of course, everyone in town knew. I’m rather surprised now, looking back, that I wasn’t required to wear a scarlet A on my clothes.

  “To say that life was difficult for me is an understatement. A thirteen-year-old girl with a baby, in a small town in Nebraska, in those days! My parents never again looked me directly in the eye.