Besides, it was time to get ready, and he for one was going to take a shower, determined to wash the day and that man out of his mind, at least for a few short hours.
Parked on the street in front of Todd's building, Rawlins didn't know what in the hell he should do, go up to Todd's apartment or stay down here in his car.
Of course he wanted to do the first. Of course he wanted to go up there and finish this off, this argument disguised as polite—well, okay, so it wasn't so polite—dinner discussion. Shit, it had been just like Todd to snap at him and storm away instead of finishing things off. That guy could be a real drama queen when he wanted. From his work in the media he knew how to sensationalize the facts, how to focus on certain things to bring undue attention to one particular detail and blow it out of proportion. Rawlins just couldn't compete, and they both knew it. But what in the hell had Todd been talking about? A date?
Shifting in his seat, Rawlins tugged at his mustache. Todd didn't know about Andrew, did he? He couldn't, could he? But then why all the strange questions? Why the odd mood? It was almost like Todd had been leading Rawlins, trying to trick him into tipping a card or saying something inopportune. So what else was new? It was, however, exactly why Rawlins didn't just head up to the condo right now, because he was terrified Todd somehow knew and things would blow wide open.
Of course Todd was up there, Rawlins knew that for a fact. After Todd had stormed out of the restaurant, Rawlins had grabbed a carry-out box, dumped his pizza in it, and then charged out after him. By the time he'd gotten to the parking lot, however, Todd was just pulling into the street. Not by any means unfamiliar with getaways, if this in fact was one, Rawlins scrambled into his car, drove down the side street, and caught up with Todd, which had proved no difficult feat. As he tailed Todd around the northern end of Lake of the Isles, Rawlins had soon discerned that Todd was going home. Yet instead of hurrying up and trying to get Todd to pull over, Rawlins had kept his distance, letting one and then two cars slip in front of him. He could have even been very nineties and called from his car to Todd's, but he chose silence as the safest course. He wanted desperately to talk to Todd but he was terrified of what they'd get into, specifically the subject of Andrew Lyman.
Sitting in his parked car, he reached across the seat of the Taurus and flipped open the lid of the takeout box. And as if this truly were a stakeout, he started eating, only now it was designer pizza instead of donuts and coffee. His meal was only less than reasonably warm, and he gobbled down a single slice in two or three bites. He was only halfway through a second slice when he licked his right fingertips clean and reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled it out, Andrew's diary, that small spiral-bound notebook with a slick red cover.
It was not something Rawlins had been looking for, sex with Andrew or any other boy for that matter. But now this diary and God only knew what else were lying around like time bombs waiting to go off and ruin Rawlins's life and career. It wasn't merely that Rawlins was more than twenty years older than Andrew either. No, that was far too simple. Just this afternoon Rawlins had reread the Minnesota Statutes, and the very thing he'd feared had jumped right out at him: criminal sexual conduct in the third degree. Yes, Andrew had been at least sixteen but less than eighteen and Rawlins was not only more than forty-eight months older, he was also in a position of authority. The allegations alone could ruin Rawlins and set back by ten years the progress gays and lesbians had made on the police force.
He'd read only a line or two here and there, and he now opened the diary and thumbed through the first pages. There were pages about Andrew's trip to Minneapolis, how Jordy and he had hitchhiked here, what they found, where they stayed, things about his parents and how he hated his father and never wanted to see him again, then pages and pages about his relationship with Jordy, who seemed to want to control every aspect of Andrew's life. Rawlins raced through it all, and then his eyes finally skidded to a stop when he saw the first mention of his own name written on the fine lines. There it was, as incriminating as possible.
I had my first date with Steve Rawlins. He's a cop, he's got dark hair and beautiful eyes and he's hairy, and I think I'm in love. I mean, big love. And what's so cool is that I think he likes me too. No, I'm sure of it. He took me out and paid and everything and now he wants to see me again. I can't wait. I can't wait to have sex with him—I'm certain we will, I'm certain he wants me.
That little shit, thought Rawlins. That stupid little shit. That hadn't been a date. Yes, Andrew was enormously handsome. Yes, he had the body of a young god. And, yes, Rawlins had noticed all of that and then some, from his broad chest to his slim hips to the bulge in his jeans. But that hadn't been a date. Hell, no. Rawlins hadn't taken him to lunch because he wanted to get in his pants. No, he'd taken him to lunch because he recognized a kid who needed help, who needed direction. He was a runaway and he was a good kid, and Rawlins didn't want to see him flush his whole life away just because he was having trouble with his family over his sexuality. That was the whole idea of being a mentor to a young gay person, the chance to offer advice and direction and support to a kid who couldn't get it anywhere else.
But…
There was more about Jordy. Lots more. They were living in a ratty old apartment along with six other young guys, and Jordy was becoming more demanding, more controlling. Andrew wrote how hard it was to get away from him, even for an hour or two. One night Andrew went out with some other kids and snuck into a gay bar and danced and danced and danced. And Jordy went ballistic. It was shortly after that that Andrew took the job as the caretaker for the apartment buildings.
I love Jordy but I have to get away from him. He's just always in my face. He just never quits, never gives me any space.
Andrew then went on to write about his new apartment and how great it was. It was so cool, so great. His own place. Not that big, but wonderful. He was out of the closet and on his own. He was a real adult now.
I had to do this, I had to break from Jordy. When I told him I was moving out he cried and cried, begged me not to go, begged me to let him come with me. I was really firm. I told him no. I said I just needed some space. He kept pushing, saying how much he loved me, that he couldn't let me go, and asking if there was someone else. I kind of just sort of said there was. That's when the shit hit the fan. He hit me, started beating on me. And I told him to stop, to get away. I punched him real hard, started screaming to leave me alone, to get away. I told him my new boyfriend was a cop and he'd arrest Jordy if he so much as touched me again.
Oh, fuck. Rawlins lowered the diary to his lap, sat there staring out the windshield. He forgot about the pizza, forgot about where he was. And he didn't see the dark night all around him. No, instead he was seeing it all so clearly for the first time. A setup, that was what it was. Andrew had been plotting and setting this thing up all along. How could Rawlins have been so stupid, so naive? Why hadn't he seen it in those dreamy blue eyes, all that want and lust?
I'm in love, big love. Rawlins took me out for lunch again and we talked and talked.
Right, we talked about your future, about going to law school. Or was your interest all bullshit?
And I think I had a hard-on the whole time. I brushed his arm, felt the fur there, the muscles. God, he just drives me crazy. He's just so butch. Rawlins Rawlins Rawlins. He's all I think about, all I dream about. I told him I have a diary, that I write everything in it, and I know he knows that I'm writing all about him. It's going to be so good, me and him. I can't wait to get in bed with him. I know he wants me too. I can see it in his eyes, sense it in his voice, hear it behind his words. Actually, I think it's going to happen tomorrow. I invited him over, told him I needed some help moving some furniture, but when he comes…
Oh, shit, cursed Rawlins, throwing the diary on the seat next to him. One big lie. One big plot. How could Rawlins explain? How could he make anyone believe what had really happened? Yes, he'd gone over to Andrew's apartment, and all by himsel
f too, which had been stupid. He'd gone over there just hours before Andrew was killed. And, yes, Andrew had been all over him, not just throwing himself into Rawlins's arms and kissing him, not just rubbing Rawlins's crotch, but dropping his pants and exposing his wildly lustful self.
Oh, God. Rawlins had been such a fool. Such an idiot. Why hadn't he seen it coming? And now? Now what? Andrew hadn't been crazy, not by any means. No, he'd been a kid, lost and lonely, tossed out of his home and frightened, seeing Rawlins as some kind of hero, some kind of savior. And Rawlins now understood that, just as he understood that Andrew's crush on him was just a desperate grab for something stable and secure in a world awash with confusion.
He grabbed another piece of pizza, crammed it into his mouth, and started chomping down bite after bite without even tasting the artichoke. What should he do? He should go right up there, right up to Todd's apartment, and tell him the whole thing. At the least it seemed as if Todd already suspected, so Rawlins should just go up there and blurt it all out: I fucked up, I got myself into a bad situation, and I need the advice of the person I love more than anything or anyone else. Help me, tell me what to do.
Oh, God, how he loved Todd. He just didn't know how to describe it, the peace that he felt when they were together. Or rather the peace he usually felt but hadn't, not since the night Andrew was murdered. Ever since then Rawlins had felt as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff ready to be pushed off.
He gobbled the last bit of artichoke off the piece, then tossed the crust back in the container. Yes, that was exactly what he had to do, go right up there and, as his mother would say, have a good old-fashioned heart to heart. Todd would help him sort it out, Todd would tell him how to handle this. And then maybe they could start over, maybe they could even go out for dinner again and get things right back on track. Or maybe… maybe they'd just have some wine and crawl into bed.
Energized, Rawlins checked himself in the mirror, then climbed out and hurried toward the glass lobby. He glanced up, wondered which lit window was Todd's. And he wondered too how far away they were from the next big step in their relationship. For Todd, who kept close track of his finances, that meant getting a joint checking account, but for Rawlins that meant moving in together. After all, wasn't sharing the same legal address about as close as a gay couple could come to getting married?
He was just entering the glass doors when he saw a familiar vehicle come barreling down the driveway from the garage. Todd? Rawlins was just about to dash outside when he caught a glimpse of him and noted right away that he'd gotten himself all slicked up. No, Todd couldn't have a date. He couldn't, he wouldn't do that to him, really go out with some other guy. Or…or had that been why he'd been acting so weird tonight?
It was as if he'd been punched in the gut and all the air knocked out of him. Rawlins just stood there, his feet cemented to the floor, watching as Todd sped past the lobby. The house, the joint checking account—all of their hopes and plans whooshed through Rawlins's head.
Fuck. The bastard really did have a date.
And then in a bitter rush of jealousy he was pushing his way out the door, charging to the street, and leaping into his car. He'd followed Todd here, and he damn well wasn't going to stop now.
20
Displaying his Midwestern punctuality, Todd parked on the street, then got out and approached the iron gate at precisely nine. Even in the dark he recognized the place, a yellow brick mansion sitting prominently on Lowry Hill and right on the edge of downtown. The house, just up the hill and a few blocks west of the Walker Art Center and the Guthrie Theater, was one of the few gated residences within the city limits. Hadn't Todd even heard there was a pool in the basement?
And Tim Chase was in there? And they were about to meet?
The sheer strangeness of it wiped everything from Todd's mind, including, in particular, Rawlins. Relieved to escape his troubles, at least for a few hours, Todd went up to the iron gate that was painted a shiny black, tested it, and found it locked. Then he saw the small brass intercom box and pressed a button.
A moment later a deep voice from the box cracked and snapped as it said, “May I help you?”
“Yes, my name's Todd Mills. I have an appointment to see Mr. Chase.”
“Certainly.”
The gate vibrated with a deep electric buzz, and Todd pushed it open.
He'd spent a lot of time thinking about how he would dress. While a suit had been appropriate for his interview with someone like Congressman Johnny Clariton, it was definitely out for tonight as too uptight, too conservative. Todd likewise nixed a sport coat and tie as too nerdy, too unhip. He thought about jeans but didn't want to appear too informal or unprofessional. In the end, he opted for his most casual but hippest-looking shirt—and also his most expensive—that some New York designer had conceived of in green and brown and black, a black leather belt, and fine black wool pants that made Todd look as slim as a model. He topped it all off with his black leather jacket, the most expensive article of clothing he'd ever bought, which hung perfectly from his broad shoulders.
As he followed a brick walk straight up to the house, he saw the massive door in the center and two large rooms symmetrically positioned on either side of the house. Everything was lit up, the tasteful lights along the walk, all the rooms downstairs, and every single window on the second floor. How many people were staying here, just Tim Chase, or an entire entourage? Was he going to be one of those stars who moved around the world in larger-than-life style, or would he be one of those whom you occasionally heard about, someone who was as real as he was down-to-earth? The power that the American public gave over to the stars of Hollywood had always amazed Todd. They were our de facto aristocracy, as American as anything could possibly be because their positions were made, not created, and their titles lasted only as long as they curried favor.
So was Todd going to do it? Was he really going to ask Tim Chase if he was gay? Perhaps, but definitely not in so many words.
He climbed the front steps and approached a huge front door filled with stained glass in a rich pattern of red, green, and yellow leaves and flowers. Todd didn't know much about these things, but he wouldn't have been surprised if it was the work of Tiffany or some other East Coast artisan. After all, the wealthy of the Midwest had always been eager to deny the corn and the forests and the coal that had made them rich, relying on more worldly acquisitions to prove their class and sophistication.
When Todd was only some four feet away the door began to pull open.
“Come in, please,” said a large man with a shaved head.
“Thank you.”
Todd quickly looked him up and down, saw that he was wearing black leather boots, black jeans, and a simple white shirt that was perfectly pressed. This guy was no butler, no personal valet. No, he was Tim Chase's bodyguard, for the life of the rich and famous didn't come without its ball and chain, namely life in a gilded cage and with hired muscle always at hand. No matter the wealth and the toys it bought, Todd didn't know how they could stand it, living under such constant scrutiny.
“This way, Mr. Mills,” said the man in a deep, courteous voice.
Todd followed the guy through an enormous center hall that alone was the size of many smaller houses and lined with deep, rich mahogany paneling. They turned immediately left into a living room that was borderline gaudy and by no means whatsoever cozy; Todd's friend Jeff, a banker and a drag queen, would have called it early whorehouse. The ceiling soared a good fourteen feet and a huge, ornate marble fireplace and mantel—definitely not from Minnesota, Wisconsin, or Iowa, but surely cut out of some French castle—dominated the center wall. Three expansive couches covered in dark, heavy floral fabric were placed in a U around the fireplace and a glass coffee table the size of a small billiard table sat in the middle. Huge old oil paintings, over a half-dozen and each of them perfectly lit, hung in strategic locations. Looking at them, Todd guessed they'd been chosen perhaps not because of their artistic
merit but, like the old books interior designers bought by the yard, because the meadows and the mountains and the chateaux they portrayed looked so very old, so tr?s riche.
“It'll be just a moment,” said the bodyguard, who stood against one wall.
“Thank you.”
Suddenly Todd realized what was missing: people. If nothing else he'd been expecting to walk into a group of people. Melissa, the Tim Chase publicist. Some young guy, the Tim Chase assistant. Someone else, the Tim Chase manager. For hours Todd had been imagining some kind of committee that would, very L.A. style, hand him a glass of wine, smile and laugh, tell him all sorts of wonderful things, pretend that they loved Todd, all the while silently judging him, wondering if he would do, if in fact he suited their purposes. Yes, he expected to be greeted not by a bunch of fake people, but by a group of extraordinarily casual-appearing people who were in all actuality vicious guards, the Hollywood variety, with one job and one job only: the protection of the Tim Chase franchise. Yes, he expected the: I love you, you're great, this is wonderful, fabulous, now read my smile: You dumb fuck, you're nothing.
Instead there was no one except Mr. Muscle.
At a loss, Todd stood in the middle of the enormous room, looking at the furniture that was too new to be old money and the paintings that were too safe to be masterpieces, when he heard steps from somewhere else in the house. Todd turned and looked at the hired thug, who was undoubtedly good at tossing out people but who needed a few quarters of finishing school. From the quick, light steps Todd presumed it had to be her, Melissa. Looking past the massive guy, Todd stared into the entry hall that was the size of a ballroom.
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