by Parnell Hall
Including her cop husband.
I wasn’t prepared to do that. At least not yet.
And assuming I set a trap, who would be there to spring it? Not MacAullif. He wouldn’t go near it. That left Thurman. I didn’t want to help Thurman, I wanted to get Thurman.
Me and Richard? Me and Alice? How about Richard and Alice, and I stay out of it?
By the time I’d arrived at my first sign-up I’d more or less washed out the idea of setting a trap.
I’d also come to the conclusion that I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, and desperately needed more facts.
The problem was, finding Mrs. Gardner should have cracked the case. Instead, it had turned out to be a dead end. Leaving me no real leads to investigate. Unless you wanted to count F-Stop Fitzgerald. But aside from the mystery man in the blackmail photographs, who for all my effort I was not one whit closer to discovering, was there any lead in this case, however slim, that I hadn’t traced yet?
I thought about it the rest of the day as I drove along doing signups and photo assignments. I thought about it hard.
By the time I was heading home, I had only managed to come up with two things.
52.
THE YOUNG MAN LOOKED AT ME suspiciously. “You’re not a reporter?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Swear to god?”
“I’m not a reporter. I’m a private detective. You don’t have to believe me, but it happens to be true.”
“If you were a reporter, that’s just what you’d say.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But if I were a reporter, I’d already have my story, and it wouldn’t matter if you confirmed, denied, or sat there and said nothing. I’d print what I’ve got.”
He frowned and bit his lip.
I felt sorry for him.
His name was Mark Cirrus.
He had been Jack Fargo’s boyfriend.
We were sitting in his apartment in Chelsea. It was a studio apartment, not unlike Jack Fargo’s. Or Cliff McFadgen’s, for that matter.
Mark Cirrus frowned again and took a breath. He was a good-looking young man, with a clean-cut, country-boy face and sandy hair. It was hard to imagine him with the pudgy, middle-aged Jack Fargo.
“How did you find me?” he said.
He was obviously stalling for time, but for my purposes it was as good a point of departure as any.
“It has to do with the murder of Cliff McFadgen.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Did you know the murders of Jack Fargo and Cliff McFadgen were connected?”
“No. Not connected. They were lumped together in the same news story. Along with that woman. Because they were all actors. Who got killed. But connected?” He shook his head. “I doubt it. The guy was shot. And Jack ...”
His face contorted. He broke off, couldn’t go on.
“I know,” I said. “I know this is hard, and I apologize for being here. You asked me how I found you. I started to tell you. There is a chance the murders are connected. When I was interviewing actresses in the McFadgen murder, I naturally asked them if they knew anything about Fargo. One of them mentioned he was gay. That was a while back, when it happened. But it occurred to me, in going over the police files, that no one had ever come forth. So I went back, jogged the actress’s memory to come up with a name. She couldn’t, but she asked around and a girlfriend came up with you.”
He frowned. “Damn.”
“You were Jack Fargo’s longtime companion?”
He made a face. “I hate that expression. That’s how they refer to someone whose lover died of AIDS.”
“I’m sorry. But the fact is, you and Fargo were involved.”
“You’re sure you’re not a reporter?”
“If I were, and I’d taken this long to find you, I’d be fired. Look, let’s ignore these personal questions. They’re preliminary anyway, and I don’t give a damn. I’m only concerned with solving this crime. If you knew Fargo at all—and I don’t care how—maybe you can help me. I take it you’d like to see his killer caught.”
He said nothing, just gave me a look.
“Okay,” I said. “Help clear up some things for me.”
“What things?”
“First off, were you aware of any connection between Jack Fargo and Cliff McFadgen?”
“They were in a showcase together. That’s the only connection. Otherwise I wouldn’t even know his name.”
“Did you see it?”
“Of course.”
“Then you knew Cliff McFadgen.”
“I didn’t know him. I saw him in that play.”
“And he and Jack weren’t close?”
“Absolutely not!” Mark Cirrus said. He flushed slightly, embarrassed by the overreaction. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t think Jack ever mentioned him. Except that he was pushy in rehearsal.”
Exactly what he’d told me. I didn’t mention it. I didn’t want this young man to know I’d seen Fargo just before he died. Perhaps even contributed to his death.
“What about Patricia Connely?” I said.
“What about her?”
“Did you know her?”
“No, I didn’t. I’d never even heard the name.”
“What about Bradley Connely?”
“Same thing.”
“You never heard of him?”
“That’s right.”
“I see,” I said. I paused, took a breath. “This is somewhat delicate.”
He looked at me defiantly. “Yes?”
“Jack Fargo was somewhat older than you.”
His face got hard. “Yeah? So what?”
I put up my hands. “I’m sorry. That was preliminary. I’m just wondering how long you’d actually known him.”
“Is it important?”
“It might be.”
“I’d known him two years. Can you tell me why that matters?”
“If you’d only known him two years, it probably doesn’t. I’m wondering if you are aware if, in the past, Jack Fargo had had any experience with pornography?”
Mark Cirrus came out of his chair. “Damn you!”
I stood up too. I wasn’t sure what his intentions were, but I wasn’t about to sit there and get slugged.
“Please,” I said.
He pointed at me. “No. Don’t please me. What’s the matter with you people? You hear gay, you think pervert. If you’re gay, you must be into pornography, right?”
“That’s not true,” I said. “But the heterosexual angles in this case seem to lead to pornography. So if the homosexual ones did too, it would be a connection.”
“There’s no connection.”
“You’re very quick to judge. What if I were to tell you the Cliff McFadgen murder was connected to a blackmail attempt involving pornographic pictures?”
Mark Cirrus’s eyes widened. “You’re crazy,” he said. “I read all the newspapers. There’s been no mention whatever.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Because the cops aren’t giving it out. They always withhold something only the killer would know. But there were blackmail photos, and they happen to have disappeared.”
Mark Cirrus looked at me as if his world were collapsing. “You mean photos of ... Jack?”
I put up my hands. “No, no. Not at all. Still, there’s the question of whether he knew the people in the blackmail photos.”
He thought that over, rubbed his head.
I felt sorry for him. I’d planned to get him on the defensive, ask him why he hadn’t come forward, why he wasn’t in the police file. But that would be pointless and cruel. With the guy so concerned I might be from the press, it didn’t take a genius to figure out why he hadn’t stepped forward. Most likely he had parents back in Iowa somewhere, who didn’t know he was gay.
And his grief for Jack Fargo seemed genuine to me.
I guess I’m just too soft to be a private detective. It was like the Mrs. Gardner thing all over again. I didn’t want to be the o
ne to blow the whistle.
He looked up at me. “Who were they? The people in the pictures?”
I shook my head. “The police don’t seem to know.”
He frowned, looked at me. “Then I don’t understand.”
I nodded. “Join the crowd.”
53.
“THAT’S VERY INTERESTING,” Bradley Connely said.
It was kind of him to say so. What I’d just told him wasn’t very interesting. In fact, it was dull as hell. I hadn’t mentioned the porno photo, for instance. Or Jack Fargo’s boyfriend. All I’d done was given him a rather bland rehash of everything we’d known a month ago.
I’d done it because I’d needed a reasonable pretext to get into his building. Calling on him had seemed as good as any. Of course, I didn’t have anything I wanted to say to him. Hence the bullshit.
Which he found interesting. Or at least said he did.
I found that interesting. Actually, it was the situation I found interesting. Because Bradley Connely was being much more gracious to me than one would have thought necessary At the same time, I could tell he wasn’t really paying any attention to what I was saying, he just wanted to get me the hell out of there. Not that he gave any evidence of it—as I say, he was perfectly gracious. So perhaps I was just projecting it.
I had good reason to. Because I was there chasing down the other loose end, the other lead I still hadn’t traced yet.
Bradley Connely’s girlfriend.
And what made me feel I was on the right track, that I was not just projecting it, and that Bradley Connely really did have something to hide, was the fact that at one point during our conversation I could have sworn I heard a sound come from the direction of his bedroom. It wasn’t a voice, it wasn’t a footstep, it wasn’t a click, snap, thud, cry, or anything else identifiable. It was in fact so insignificant I might have even missed it.
Except Bradley Connely reacted.
Nothing big. Nothing major. Just for one split second, his eyes flicked in that direction. But that was enough to sell me on the idea. She’s in the bedroom. The woman I want to find is in there right now.
If I were a different type of person, I suppose I could have stood up, said, “Excuse me, could I use your bathroom?” and before he could stop me gone crashing through the bedroom door. But that’s not exactly my style. No, for my part I was perfectly content to sit there, talking aimlessly about the case and confirming my opinion that Bradley Connely wasn’t about to tell me to go to hell, because he happened to have something to hide.
What he was hiding was probably just a hot babe in the bedroom, but even so. It was by now over a month since his wife’s death, and even if I’d caught him banging a hot babe in the bedroom, there’s no law against that. Since he was dressed when I rang the bell, she was probably dressed when I rang the bell, so why he had to hide her was beyond me. At any rate, it sure was interesting. Gave my theory an added kick.
When I felt I’d tortured him long enough, I thanked him for his time, shook his hand, went outside, and pretended to ring for the elevator. Instead, I slipped into the stairwell.
The first thing I did was make sure the damn door didn’t lock. After all, this was the sixteenth floor, and if I were to get locked in the stairwell and find I couldn’t get out without going down to the lobby, I was gonna be pissed. But there was no danger of that—the stairwell doors did not lock. Score one for the good guys.
They also had a window. Small, diamond-shaped, just at eye level. Score two for the good guys.
And from that window I could see Bradley Connely’s apartment door. Score three for the good guys.
And she can’t stay in there forever, so the good guys are gonna win.
Unless he had a kitchen door. That was an unsettling thought. There was a back door to someone’s apartment right behind me. And it wasn’t Bradley Connely’s, of course, since his apartment was across the hall. So there had to be another stairwell over there, another back hall for the apartments on the other side. So, what if Bradley Connely’s wise to what I’m up to, and she goes out the kitchen door and right down the stairs?
Well, then I’d be fucked, but there wasn’t a hell of a lot I could do about it. If I went to the other stairwell where I could watch the kitchen door, then I wouldn’t be able to watch the front door. Maybe I could hear It open, but what could I do then, pop out in the hallway? That would be a smooth move, particularly if it wasn’t the girl at all, but was Bradley Connely himself. If it were him and the girl it would certainly be an interesting confrontation, but if it were him alone, I’d have blown my cover to absolutely no avail.
I stewed about that for a while, and the end result was I did absolutely nothing. Fuck It. If he’s slick enough to send her down the back stairs, he deserves to keep his secret.
Of course, if he did that, his secret would sure be worth knowing. I killed myself with that thought. The saving grace was, as time wore on, as it got to be a half hour and then an hour after I’d taken up my position, I could console myself with the thought that if I moved across the hall now it would do no good, because if she was going down the back stairs, she was probably already gone.
Of course, the unsettling corollary to that thought was, if she was already gone, my present surveillance was also worthless, and I could wind up standing here all night.
It was not a happy thought. And as time wore on, the diamond-shaped glass window that had appeared such a blessing became a horrible curse, since I had to stand there and look through it. It only took me an hour or so to figure out that if the door hadn’t had a diamond-shaped window, I would have had to keep watch by opening the door a crack. And it didn’t take too long after that before I realized I could pretend the door didn’t have a diamond-shaped window and act accordingly. And sure enough, with the door pushed open, I could sit on the floor of the back hallway and keep watch on Bradley Connely’s apartment just fine.
Maybe it was working out that tough logistics problem that gave me a feeling of accomplishment, or maybe it was just that I’d been batting zero for so long that it seemed like my number was sure to come up, but it was right about then that I started to get excited. That I began to start thinking, maybe this would be it. The final piece of the puzzle I needed to crack the case. She’s in there and any moment now she’s gonna walk out and I was gonna see her. And once I knew who she was, everything else would suddenly become crystal clear.
For that to be true, I had to know her. If she wasn’t a known quantity, there couldn’t be a revelation. For this woman to be the piece of the puzzle to crack the case—which I truly believed her to be—she would have to be a member of the cast of characters.
Mrs. Gardner would fit the bill. Oh boy, would she fit the bill. Respectable housewife and mother. Married to a cop. Caught up in a torrid affair with married actor Bradley Connely. Haunted by pictures from her past.
Yeah, if it was her, I’d cracked the case. The details could be sorted out later. But in terms of the broad brush strokes, I’d have everything I needed. Yeah, if it was her it would be perfect.
Only I didn’t want it to be her.
Next on the list was Cliff McFadgen’s girlfriend. Or any of her roommates, for that matter. If it was any of them, could a solution be far behind? I played with the possibilities. Though all were certainly possible, my favorite had to be the wallflower, Bernice. After all, she saw the money. True, she told me about it, but that could be an elaborate double bluff. Wasn’t that the sort of icy-cool logical move a repressed woman like that would love? Laughing at me while gloating in her own secret knowledge. Yeah, all in all, Bernice would do quite nicely too.
As I sat there speculating, trying to figure it out, I thought back to that afternoon when I’d first known Bradley Connely had another woman. When the fax had come through and I’d seen him try to hide the purse. I wondered if there was anything about that afternoon that was significant, anything that might give me a clue.
The purse had been hanging ov
er the back of a chair. An office chair pulled up in front of the computer. The cover was off the computer, lying next to it on the printer. The cover that Bradley Connely had picked up and draped casually—too casually—over the purse.
Was there anything about the purse itself? No. It was a plain saddlebag sort of thing, leather, with a shoulder strap. Nothing ornate or fancy. Just a simple leather purse and—
It suddenly struck me there was nothing particularly frilly or feminine about it.
So what if ...?
Jesus Christ, what if ...?
What if when Bradley Connely’s apartment door finally opened, Mark Cirrus came walking out?
Hell, that would do it. It suddenly occurred to me, that would explain everything. The murder of Patricia Connely. The murder of Jack Fargo. Not the murder of Cliff McFadgen, but that would follow naturally if he were a blackmailer. And there was every indication he was.
That had to be it.
Just as I thought that, the apartment door swung open and out came Bradley Connely’s lover.
It was a woman I’d never seen before.
54.
YEAH, I FOLLOWED HER HOME and found out who she was, but I have to tell you, my heart wasn’t in it. The woman—one Sharon Renzler, if the name on her mailbox were to be believed—lived in a brownstone on West Eighty-first Street. She was an attractive if not glamorous woman of around thirty, of tasteful but conservative dress, and as far as I could see was the very model of propriety. In fact, the only thing I could think to fault her on was her undue lack of caution in listing Sharon Renzler rather than S. Renzler by the doorbell. Aside from that, she was a perfectly nice, respectable woman, and if widower Bradley Connely, whose wife was by now more than a month dead, wanted to date her, who was I to say him nay?
I have to confess, I was not in a particularly good mood when I got home. Especially since it was nearly eight o’clock by the time I got there, and Tommie was eating at a friend’s house, and Alice hadn’t cooked. We ordered Chinese and, when it came, went in the bedroom to watch TV while we ate it.