“Not anymore.” Cody put his hand over Freddy’s.
“But there used to be. It was the name of the original
thirteen colonies that were ruled by the British in the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, until the
American Revolution forced them to recognize the
United States as a sovereign nation.”
Freddy and I looked at him.
“What?” Cody asked.
Freddy smirked with pride. “Nothing, baby.” He
took the hand that Cody had placed on his and gave
it a squeeze. To me, he added, “I knew all that, by
the way.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. I looked at Cody. “Watch
Jeopardymuch?”
“I have a mind for trivia.”
Freddy wriggled his eyebrows. “And an ass for . .
.”
“Freddy!” Cody yelled. He put his hand over
Freddy’s mouth.
I figured I’d change the subject and save Cody
some embarrassment. “So, do you want to hear
about my undercover operations at Jacob Locke’s
headquarters?”
They both did.
First, I filled Cody in on the circumstances that led
me to look into Locke in the first place. After
summing up my suspicions, I told them about my
visits to the office. I described Jason and Lucille, the
general lassitude of the campaign, and, mostly, I
went on about the many moods of the mercurial
Locke. I described his vanity, his open campiness,
and the blatant way he cruised me.
Freddy said, “Well, darling, what did you expect? He’s a man of the clothanda conservative politician. If you were writing a recipe for closet homosexuals,
those would be the two main ingredients.”
Cody asked, “You really think he’s behind what
happened to Randy?”
“Randy!” I exclaimed. “I can’t believe I haven’t even
asked how he’s doing. I’m a terrible friend.” Freddy looked at me with sympathy. “Yes, but
admitting you have a problem is the first step to
healing, darling. I, however, asked about Randy as
soon as I saw Cody, and I’m happy to report he
continues to get better.”
“Is he talking yet?” I asked Cody.
“Not coherently. He kind of blurts things out, like he
did when you saw him the other day, but he’s
definitely making progress. The doctors expect a full
recovery.”
More good news.
“OK, but back to my question,” Cody continued.
“You’ve spent some time with him. You really think
Locke could be a killer?”
“I think that man would do whatever he had to do to
get ahead,” I said.
“Or, to getsomehead,” Freddy added.
“I mean,” I continued, “how do you go out there and
say such terrible things about gay people when
you’re having sex with men, yourself? What kind of
person would do that?”
“In Nazi Germany,” Cody observed, “the Gestapo
enlisted Jewish people to turn in their friends and
family. They were called ‘Jew Catchers.’ They sent
their own people to concentration camps in
exchange for immunity and comfort.”
“Locke is a Fag Catcher,” Freddy said.
“Someone who’d do that would do anything,
right?” I asked Cody.
Cody shrugged. “Who knows?”
“I don’t know what’s worse,” Freddy said, “the fact
that he’d betray his own people, that he might be a
murderer, or that he wears bronzer.”
“He’ssovain,” I agreed. “Everything about him is
perfectly turned out. He was wearing more hairspray
than the entire cast of a John Waters movie. He even
does eye exercises so that he won’t have to wear
glasses anymore.”
Cody put his elbows on the table and leaned
closer to me. “What do you mean? Did you see him
doing them?”
“No, it just came up in conversation. He said he
had an astigmatism.”
Cody turned a shade paler and shivered. He
picked up his tea with both hands. They were
shaking.
Freddy put his hand on the back of Cody’s neck.
“You OK, baby?”
Cody took a swallow of his tea. “This is just a little
creepy.”
“What?” I asked.
“Do you know how you treat an astigmatism?” Freddy and I shook our heads. Cody was making
us feel like the slower students today.
“Well, with an astigmatism, one eye is weaker
than the other. So, your other eye works harder to
make up the difference. Got it?”
We nodded.
“The problem is, the muscles in your eye are like any other. You have to use them to make them stronger. But once the good eye starts working harder, the eye with the astigmatism just gets lazy. It
lets the good eye do all the work.
“So, you have to force the bad eye to work harder.
And the way you do it . . .”
It was my turn to get a chill. “. . . Is by covering the
good eye.”
Cody blanched. I felt the blood run from my face,
too.
“I don’t get it,” Freddy said.
“When Locke is training his weak eye to work
harder . . .” Cody began.
“He covers his good eye,” I continued. “What do
you think he’d use for that?”
Freddy looked at me, then at Cody, then at the
table. He lifted his head with a jerk. “An eye patch!” “Got it in one,” I answered.
“Like that guy who came to see Randy in the
hospital. He was standing three feet away from me.”
Cody shivered and Freddy pulled him into his lap. “And I think that the person driving the car that hit
Randy was also wearing an eye patch,” I added. “OK, that settles it,” Freddy said. “I amsonot
voting for him.”
“Locke has gray hair,” I said to Cody. “You said
the guy at the hospital was a brunette.”
“He could have been wearing a toupee,” Cody
said.
If he took the trouble to wear the patch to disguise
himself, that made sense. “You’re right.”
“This is getting scary,” Cody said. “What are you
going to do?”
I knew, but I wasn’t going to tell them. If I did, they’d
try to stop me.
Only an idiot would do what I had in mind.
38
Tonight “This is the point where Charlie’s Angels get the cops involved,” Freddy said as we left the café. “You need to call Tony.”
“He’s right,” Cody said, holding on to Freddy’s arm.
I really didn’t have time to go into the hundred reasons why calling Tony wasn’t an option. “OK,” I said, meaning, “OK, I’ve heard you,” not “OK, I’m taking your advice.”
I kissed them both on the cheek and we said good night. I liked watching them walk away together, arm in arm.
A quick flash of jealousy surprised me. There’s always been a spark between Freddy and me. Now, with Tony out of the picture, was I letting him get away too easily?
I’d have to figure that out later. Right now, I had a more pressing engagement.
I put my hand into my front pocket and played with what I’d slipped i
n there earlier this evening. The metal felt smooth and cool. Should I use it or not?
Freddy told me to go to the cops. With what? I had no evidence. Nothing tangible to suggest that the attacks on my friends were related, let alone connected to Jacob Locke. The business with the eye patch wasn’t going to be enough to convince the police to open a murder investigation into a major political figure.
I needed hard proof.
My pocketed fingers traced the shape of the silver cross and the keys attached to it.
Locke’s keys.
I’d lifted them from his coat when I’d gotten it for him back at the campaign office. He and Jason had joked about how Locke kept losing his keys, so I figured I could grab them with no one the wiser.
When I took them, I hadn’t planned on using them. I just figured it would annoy Locke to lose them again and did it out of spite.
A childish prank, but now I was glad of my immaturity.
Did Locke really have eye patches at his office? If so, what else might I find? Don’t serial killers keep mementos of their victims, or was that just on Bones? What about other evidence? Weapons or drugs?
I held in my hand the means to find out.
The problem was, I didn’t have long to act. Jason had teased Locke about the expense of changing the locks every time Locke lost his keys. Which meant that if Locke noticed them missing anytime soon, the copy I took from him would quickly be useless.
I might have only one shot at snooping around the office.
Tonight.
If I had told Freddy and Cody what I was planning, they would have stopped me. Ditto Tony, not that he was in the picture anymore. Bastard.
The idea of breaking into Locke’s office made me nervous, but, really, what was the risk? Locke was gone for the evening and I doubted he’d be going back late on a Saturday night. There was a chance Jason could still be there, but if he were, I’d just turn around and come back later.
What’s the worst that could happen?
On my way to Locke’s office, I stopped by a drugstore and picked up a flashlight and latex gloves.
As late it was, the streets by Times Square were still busy with theatergoers and tourists. As I approached Locke’s office, I was heartened to see the lights off. Once there, I cupped my hands to my eyes and looked through the window. Best I could see, there was no one there. Unless someone was scuffling around in the dark, the place was empty.
I put on the gloves and fished out Locke’s keys. I thought that maybe I should text Freddy and let him know what I was doing, just in case something happened. But that might be jinxy. I opened the door.
Sneaking into the office, I felt like a total criminal. Considering I’ve spent the last few years illegally getting paid for sex, you’d think I’d have that feeling more often, but no. The laws against prostitution are archaic and wrong. Break-ins and trespassing, on the other hand, you could make a reasonable case against.
The street lamps and flashing lights of Times Square made it bright enough that I didn’t need the flashlight in the main office. Unfortunately, it also meant that if anyone from the street looked inside, they’d see me. After relocking the front door, I dropped to all fours.
Why is it that no matter what I do, I keep finding myself in that position?
Trying my best to stay out of sight, I crawled across the office floor till I reached the door to Locke’s personal office. That was locked, too. Luckily, the key to it was also on Locke’s chain.
As an interior office, Locke’s space had no windows. When I closed the door behind me, I was in pitch-black. Should I turn on the lights? They’d make it easier to snoop around, but the thought made me nervous. What if there was a gap at the bottom of the door and passersby could see a sliver of light leaking out? Probably, no one would think or do anything about it, but it still made me nervous. Well, more nervous.
I was already pretty nervous, and standing here in the inky darkness wasn’t doing anything to make me feel better.
I switched on my flashlight. A circle of light illuminated the wall opposite me.
Sneaking around Locke’s office in the dark was creepier than I thought it would be. Every surface had a picture of him, and in each one he seemed to be staring at me, saying, “You’re going to burn for this, son.”
First stop, the desk. I sat in Locke’s comfortable chair and opened the top drawer. Bingo. Right there. A box of black eye patches.
Aye, matey.
Nothing incriminating in any of the other drawers. Random papers, a bottle of hand lotion, a Bible, a brass letter opener, some gum. Where else could he be hiding something? I swung the flashlight around the room.
In the back was the credenza I’d observed earlier. Yahtzee. Shining the flashlight at the floor, I carefully crossed the room.
The credenza had two wide drawers. Locked. I took Locke’s keychain from my pocket, but it held only the two front door keys. Crap. I put the keys down on the credenza.
Given Locke’s tendency to misplace them, I doubted he carried the credenza’s key on him. Which meant it was probably somewhere in the office.
Back to Locke’s desk. I hadn’t been looking for a key before. Maybe I’d missed it.
I sat back down in his chair and opened the top drawer again. It must have been loose in its rail, because it made a banging noise as I pulled on it.
I didn’t remember that from before.
I also didn’t remember the subsequent sound of footsteps and someone whistling as they got closer to where I sat.
This wasn’t good.
Someone else had come in.
39
Wide-screen OK, best-case scenario: Someone was picking something up from the outside office. They’d get whatever they needed and leave. I’d be fine.
Second-best case: It was a cleaning service. I switched off my flashlight and listened like a bat.
A few seconds later I heard a key being inserted into Locke’s office door and the knob starting to turn.
Oh,balls.
I slipped under Locke’s desk and made myself as small as possible.
Someone turned on the lights and walked in. I couldn’t see who it was because of being under the desk and all.
Whoever it was, I hoped he or she wasn’t planning to sit at the desk.
Luckily, the footsteps seemed to be headed away from me. I turned my head and noticed that the wide side of the desk that faced into the room had a hole cut out, probably for computer cables.
Either that, or Locke was such a perv that, out of habit, he’d drilled a glory hole there.
Speaking of pervs, yup, it was Locke in the office. He was in casual mode, wearing a greyWashington Timessweatshirt and a pair of new-looking jeans with a sharp crease pressed along the seam. Pressed jeans. What a dork.
He was walking toward the credenza. “There you are,” he said, picking up his keychain, which I’d left there earlier. He put it in his pocket.
His phone rang. The ringtone was “God Bless America.” Told you he was a dork.
He wrestled his phone from his too-tight jeans and sat down in one of the leather chairs that faced the sofa with the flat screen over it. “Hello . . . OK. No, I’m at the office. I had an opportunity to slip out so I’d figured I’d wait here. About an hour? That’s fine. No, I’ll take a cab. Just call me when he gets there.”
Locke hung up without saying good-bye.
I decided he was arudedork.
“An hour,” Locke muttered to himself. “Hmmm.”
At least I knew he wasn’t staying the whole night. But where would he be going at midnight on a Saturday night?
I had a feeling I knew.
Call me when he gets there.
Someone was arranging a hookup for him.
Locke walked toward his desk. I willed myself invisible. Halfway across the room, he veered left, out of my line of sight.
I didn’t like not knowing what he was up to. I was also getting uncomfortable scrunched under the desk. I
was cramped, nervous, and really had to pee. Which was probably due to the nervousness, but that didn’t lessen the pressure on my bladder, which felt like it was about to burst like a water balloon dropped from the observation deck of the Empire State Building.
OK,I told myself, clenching my thighs together. Don’t think about bursting water balloons anymore. It’s not helping.
From the sound of things, Locke had walked to the door to lock it. It sounded like he jiggled the knob a bit to make sure it was secure.
He walked back to the far side of the room. I felt better being able to see him. He picked up a brass lamp on the end table by the sofa. He turned it over and ran his fingers along the circle of felt on the lamp’s underside. At a certain place, he stopped and pinched the edge of the fabric between two fingers. I heard the zipping sound of Velcro being opened.
Something fell from the hollow cavity of the lamp and landed on the carpet. Too fast for me to see what.
What the hell was he doing?
Locke stuck the felt back into place and returned the lamp to the table. He bent over and picked up whatever had fallen out. Humming to himself, he walked to the credenza.
He brought whatever was in his hand up to the locked drawer, inserted it into the cylinder, and turned it.
Sothat’swhere the key was hidden. I would never have found it there. Smooth.
Locke pulled something from the drawer and put it in his front pocket. Then he grabbed something else and held it in front of him. With his back to me, I couldn’t see what he’d taken.
I had a moment of panic imagining that he somehow figured out I was there and had retrieved a handgun. I held my breath, waiting for him to order me out from under the desk. Or maybe he’d just shoot me through the glory hole.
OK, that sounded dirtier than I meant it to.
Locke walked over to the DVD player. His body still blocked whatever he was doing, but I heard the familiar whir of the player’s tray opening. Locke opened the DVD case he’d gotten from the credenza, inserted the DVD, and pressed “play.”
He picked up two remote controls from the coffee table and sat in one of the chairs that faced the TV. He turned it on.
The menu for the DVD was displayed on the screen.Hairy Squatter and the Horse-hung Prince. An All Boyz Production.
OMG. He was going to watch a porno.
It was official: This was the worst stakeout ever.
Locke picked the option to “Select a Scene” and navigated through two pages of choices until he reached number twelve.
Second You Sin - Sherman, Scott Page 27