So who the hell was this guy? Was he not a closet queen but a photographer who regularly sold his pictures to the tabloids? Was the answer that simple?
As he approached the door, Rawlins casually glanced around the crumbling parking lot. He should have, he realized, done this a bit differently. He should have sat in his car for a few minutes and jotted down as many license plates as he could have. Instead he took quick note of the fifteen or so cars scattered about—a couple of Ford Explorers, three pickup trucks, a Honda Accord, and a few other sedans.
Pulling open the door, Rawlins entered a small lobby with a couple of pay phones hanging on the wall to his left. It was two minutes to seven. He proceeded to a broad, open doorway and gazed into the main room, which was dark and faintly smoky. Glancing to his right, Rawlins saw two of the pool tables in use. He then peered to the left, saw some tables and chairs, the bar, and off in the dark distance the quiet dance floor. Here and there were couples, men and women drinking and gabbing, and a few men who'd obviously met after work for a beer. All in all it was fairly quiet; the real action wouldn't begin for several more hours. Rawlins stood for a long moment, surveying the scene and noting that there wasn't any lone person here by himself. And that unto itself, Rawlins knew from experience, didn't bode well. A tipster like this was either here exactly on time or not at all.
Scanning the dark room, Rawlins made his way to the bar, where he sat on a tall stool.
“What can I get you?” asked the bartender, a trim, handsome woman with long brown hair and a quick Minnesota smile.
“A Leinie.”
“You bet.”
As she pulled him a draught Leinenkugel's, Rawlins turned on the stool, again looking casually over the room and toward the doorway. No one was looking his way, nor even paying him the slightest bit of attention.
“You want to run a tab?” asked the bartender, sliding the tall glass of beer to him.
“Yeah.” Rawlins took it, then asked, “I'm supposed to meet someone here, you haven't by chance—”
“Male or female?”
“A guy”
“What's he look like?”
“Actually, I don't know. We've never met before.”
“Well, there hasn't been anyone waiting around, least not as far as I can tell. You late or something? What time were you supposed to meet?”
“Seven.”
She glanced at her wristwatch, then looked up at him and winked. “Drink up, hon. The night's young.”
“Whatever.”
Sitting sideways with his right arm on the bar, Rawlins kept his attention on the door and sipped his beer. With this few people in the place the bartender surely wouldn't have missed a single man sitting around, which meant the guy had yet to come. So how long would Rawlins give him? A half-hour? If he was going to show, which Rawlins already doubted, he'd certainly make it by seven-thirty.
Glancing down the bar he saw the bartender casually leaning against the back counter. Holding a cigarette to her mouth, she took a long drag, sucking on her vice as if it offered much more than a mere puff of smoke. Not only was the night, as she said, young, it was also slow, and she looked at Rawlins with a generous grin that could be read in the most generous of ways. Rawlins briefly returned the smallest of smiles and immediately averted his eyes. He took a sip of beer and then turned back to the entry.
Come on, buddy. Don't crap out on me.
Rawlins glanced at his watch. At the most two minutes had passed. So where was this guy? And where the hell, of course, was Todd?
Suddenly there was a ringing right against his side, which caused him to jump. His phone. As a few heads turned his way, he put down his beer and snatched the small device out of the pocket of his jacket. Please let it be Todd, he thought. Please let him be okay.
Covering his left ear with one hand, he held the receiver to his right, and said, “This is Sergeant Rawlins.”
“Hi.”
Rawlins immediately knew it wasn't Todd. His voice was remarkably clear and clean with plenty of resonance, while this one was softer, even timid. It was him, the witness. Damn. From experience Rawlins guessed this guy wasn't calling to say, sorry, I'm going to be a couple of minutes late, just sit tight. He was calling because he wasn't going to show. Shit, thought Rawlins, realizing he was going to have to start tap-dancing real quick before he lost the guy altogether.
“Is this my friend?” asked Rawlins.
“Yeah, it's me.”
“I'm here, I'm at Jam's, just waiting for you. Everything okay?”
“Listen, I'm… I'm sorry, but I'm not going to make it.”
“Really?” said Rawlins, feigning surprise and at the same time shaking his head in frustration. “You know, I can wait if you need a little more time. That's absolutely no problem.”
“No… no, it's not that. I just can't get any more involved than I already am.”
“I only wanted to meet for a drink, that's all, nothing more.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Trust me,” said Rawlins as he glanced over at the bartender, who looked at him and smiled back, “there's nothing to worry about.”
“I don't know. I…”
With the receiver pressed hard against his ear, Rawlins heard voices—a couple of men laughing—and what sounded like a door slamming shut. So this witness, wherever he was, was again calling from some anonymous phone. Rawlins had to give him that, he was consistent.
Fearing that he'd lose him completely if he kept pushing, Rawlins forced himself to take the conciliatory path, saying, “I just wanted to meet for a quick drink, but if you're uncomfortable with that then let's not. You've been amazingly helpful, and it's absolutely your choice if you want to limit your involvement to the tips you've already given us. I mean, it's more than we could have hoped for. Not everyone's willing to do as much as you've done, that's for sure.”
“Thank you,” he said, the relief clearly audible. “Thank you very much. I've been working on something, you see, and it's very complicated.”
“I don't doubt that.”
“I mean, I just don't want to screw things up.”
“I see.”
Rawlins had to curb his tongue, had to keep himself from asking if the guy was really a professional photographer or if perhaps he was a closet queen who had an obsession with Tim Chase. Yes, thought Rawlins, if the guy was something like the latter—a stalker perhaps— that would of course explain why he'd secretly spied so much going on at the Chase residence. And it would also explain why he was so reticent to meet with Rawlins.
He glanced across the room and saw a couple of guys laughing and talking as they sat down, then asked, “Is there anything else that you can remember? Anything else that comes to mind that might be helpful to us?”
“Um, no, not really. Not that I can think of, anyway. But I'll call right away if I do think of anything else.”
“Good, we'd appreciate that.” Fearful that losing him now would mean losing him forever, Rawlins, trying not to seem desperate, asked, “Is there any way I can contact you if I have any questions?”
“Well, not really.”
“Not even a number I could call, say, just to leave a message?”
“No. Like I said, I just can't get involved.”
“Sure, I understand.”
Okay, Rawlins told himself. Think. And think fast. Remember what Foster told you a few months back, that story of an informant in a drug ring and how Foster had arranged to contact him anonymously?
“Listen, I have an idea.” Through the receiver Rawlins could hear the wail of an ambulance, and he raised his voice, and said, “I want to think of some way that I can send a signal to you, some kind of signal that would tell you I need to talk to you. I'm probably going to have some questions after all.”
“Like what? What were you thinking of?”
“How about a cop car? If I want you to call me I'll park an empty squad car down by Lake Harriet. I'll park it right where you saw that S
aab. Can you check there, say, every day around twelve-thirty for the next couple of weeks?”
“Sure. Sure, I can do that. I can go down there and check. And if I see it there, then I'll give you a call as soon as I can.”
“Exactly.”
“Cool.” As the siren ambulance grew closer and louder, the witness said, “Just a minute—I can hardly hear you.”
The wail rose and contracted over and over, screaming as the ambulance tore to some emergency or was it a fire engine? Whatever type of emergency vehicle it was, it was awfully close, and as Rawlins pressed his small cellular phone to his ear it seemed as if he could hear the siren in both ears. Actually he could, couldn't he? The next instant he held the phone away from his head and realized he could hear the siren just as loudly, which meant it wasn't far away, not by any means.
Dear God.
He looked at the two men who'd just sat down and in one stupid second understood that they'd walked right past the very phone the witness had been using. It was them Rawlins had overheard. Which meant only one thing: the witness had been willing to come only so close.
Over the cry of the siren, Rawlins desperately said, “Hang on one second. I've got one more thing to ask you.”
With the phone pressed to his ear, Rawlins was off the bar stool and hurrying across the room. And then he was running. There was no reply from the other end, only the sound of the wail, which was now growing weaker. Rawlins tore toward the entry, dashing around the corner. But there was no one standing there at the pay phones, only one of the receivers, gently swinging to and fro by its long cord. Rawlins glanced at the door, saw it easing shut. Charging forward, he hurled open the door and ran right into the parking lot.
There was no one.
He glanced at each and every car, half-expecting to see one racing off, its tires peeling. All he needed was a license plate number, nothing more. Instead the lot was perfectly quiet. Spinning around, Rawlins looked across Excelsior Boulevard, sure to see someone racing across on foot. Instead the broad concrete road was deserted, virtually so.
Turning from side to side, Rawlins folded up his phone and slipped it back into the pocket of his jacket. The witness had been that close, only a matter of a few yards away but his paranoia must have made those last few feet seem like a million miles.
“Hey pal,” called a voice.
Rawlins turned, saw the bartender hanging out the half-open door, a smile on her face, her long hair hanging off her right shoulder.
She said, “I hope you're coming back in to pay for that beer. You are, aren't ya? Right?”
Acting the perfect Minnesotan and not belying his frustration, Rawlins replied, “You bet.”
35
On his way back to his condo, Todd stopped at a gas station and bought two glass bottles of mineral water. One he drank down immediately. The other he pressed against his temple, the chilled, sweaty glass sending a rush of relief through his aching head. He took Interstate 94, crossing the Mississippi, which acted something like a Berlin Wall, dividing one metropolitan area into two capriciously distinct cities that, unlike Berlin, had never possessed any desire to be united. No, old and proud St. Paul wanted nothing to do with its flighty neighbor, and Minneapolis, feeling itself far more dynamic and hip, all but ignored its stodgy sister.
It was approaching seven by the time Todd parked his car and rode the elevator up to his apartment. He let himself in, finally uncapped the second bottle of mineral water, and, sitting on his leather couch, drank it down. A few minutes later he was roused by Girlfriend, who leapt on his lap, purring and rubbing against him as if he were the greatest of gods. Immediately Todd understood that, no, she wasn't all full of sympathy and love. The slut was hungry
Going into the kitchen, Todd opened a can of cat food and fed Girlfriend, who was swirling about his feet in a Pavlovian frenzy. He then glanced across the kitchen counter and saw the blinking red light of his answering machine. There were two messages. As he could have guessed, the first was from the six o'clock producer, Nan.
“Todd, where the hell are you? It's almost six! You better get your butt in here in the next two seconds or…or…”
He knew there was going to be hell to pay, he just didn't want to hear about it now, and he fast-forwarded it to the second message. Which was from Rawlins, as he also could have guessed. Of course Todd needed to call him back, he thought as he glanced at the clock on his stove and saw that it was a couple of minutes after seven. Picking up the phone, he started to dial, but then stopped. He put his hand to his forehead, but the number that was always there had, apparently, been beaten out of him. He quickly pulled open a drawer and pulled out his phone list, which was scribbled on a yellow legal pad, and saw the number he thought he'd never forget. When he dialed it, though, it rang busy. He waited no more than five seconds and tried again. Damn, he thought. He was never going to make it to Chase's by seven-thirty. Frustrated, Todd glanced again at the list, saw Rawlins's number down at CID, and called there.
Reaching Rawlins's voice mail, Todd stumbled over his thoughts as he said, “Hey, Rawlins, it's me, Todd. I'm okay… I think. It's a long story—I'll tell you later—but obviously we have a lot of things to talk about. Listen, I've got to meet someone in a few minutes. I'll call you back later.”
Shaking his head as he hung up, Todd realized he was in no shape to talk on the phone, let alone go to Tim Chase's. Hoping a shower would help, he went straight to his bedroom, where he stripped, then headed for the bathroom. Taking two aspirin, he chased the pills down with water from the tap, and next turned on the shower full blast and climbed in. Thank God, he thought as the water pounded and massaged his head and body, for the seemingly unlimited amount of hot water this building could produce.
A half-hour later he was driving along Mount Curve Avenue, and if he wasn't completely revived, then he was at least coherent. Looking as good as he could on this particular night, he wore black jeans, a blue shirt, and his leather coat, but who was he hoping to impress? And what exactly was he hoping would happen tonight? Recalling the strong embrace and the gentle kisses from the night before, Todd knew damn well.
As he rounded a bend and approached the house, he saw that the street was lined with cars, expensive ones too, from Mercedes to Cadillacs to Range Rovers. Could Tim Chase and Gwen Owens be having a party? Might this not be the intimate evening that Todd had envisioned? Taking the first space, Todd pulled over and parked. Up ahead on the right he saw well-heeled people streaming into a massive Tudor house; one of Tim Chase's neighbors was evidently having quite the bash.
But, no, Todd told himself as he climbed out of his truck, a roll in the hay with Tim Chase wasn't impossible, it was outrageously impossible. Tim Chase wasn't simply one of the most famous actors in the world, he was also gorgeous. And rich. If in fact he was gay—after all, he could have been playing with Todd last night, rehearsing as he said—he could have the most beautiful of queer men. So why in the world would he want Todd, who was not only in his forties and eight or nine years older than him, but also not a stunning, drop-dead Calvin Klein beauty? There was no way. Perhaps Todd was soon going to learn the secrets of Tim Chase's personal life, but, he realized, there was no way in hell they were going to have sex. It just wasn't going to happen.
Besides, there was Rawlins.
Or was there? It seemed quite obvious that Rawlins was not only unable to maintain a monogamous relationship, but that he had also broken their compromise agreement of pledging to tell the truth. So now what? There was nothing else—least of all, no other laws or ceremonies—binding them, so if Todd couldn't count on Rawlins for the simple truth, then did he really want him at all? As he was buzzed through the gate and started up the front walk, Todd realized once again that what he wanted was not a lover whom he could trust in some suburban sense, but someone who couldn't help but be totally honest. Exactly. In a restless world like this one Todd wanted something stable, a rock, someone he could count on. The sad thing was that
now it was going to be so very, very tough to get back to the beginning, to what they had before. Love, lust, passion—that was one side of a relationship. The other was trust, honesty, and respect—the three of which operated in a delicate, mysterious balance and that were, once violated, all but impossible to reset. Perhaps time could both repair and restart what Todd and Rawlins had so recently had, but… .
As he approached the huge front door, Todd checked his watch, saw that he was almost fifteen minutes overdue. Perhaps that was nothing by the standards of the coasts, but in the Midwest, particularly Minnesota, that was significant. Well, thought Todd, he was just glad to be here.
As he climbed the first of three steps, the door swung open, and there she stood in tight, worn blue jeans and a baggy white T-shirt, Mrs. Tim Chase, better known throughout the world, of course, as Gwen Owens. She wore her beauty as she wore her clothes, with casual ease, and she looked right into Todd's eyes and smiled at him as if they were old friends.
“Hi, Todd, come on in.”
“Hi,” he said, still feeling nothing short of sheepish for last night's escapades with her husband. “Sorry I'm a few minutes late.”
“Don't be silly, you're not at all late. Tim's in the living room—he's been on the phone with his attorney for the last forty minutes. I think he spends half his time either filing a lawsuit or defending himself against one.”
“Really?” replied Todd as he passed through the vestibule and into the huge entry hall.
“Yeah,” continued Gwen, her walk and manner entirely easy, “now I think he's trying to take some photographer to court, some guy who actually blocked Tim as he was pulling out of a parking space. You know, trapped him so he couldn't move, which really pissed him off. Apparently the photographer was going after a picture of Tim and some guy.”
Todd's reporter ears perked up. Some guy? Some guy like who?
“Anyway, you can just go in. He'll be off in a minute.” Gwen shut the inner door, then turned and started for the huge staircase at the far end of the entry hall. “Nice to see you. Take care.”
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