by Dorien Grey
I shook my head. “Any time you want to switch jobs, just give me a call.”
“I think I might like that,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.
“Look,” I said on impulse, “if you’re not heading off for Pago Pago or someplace equally exotic tonight, how’d you like to have dinner with me? The food’s pretty good here, and maybe you could give me a vicarious tour of Nairobi.”
He gave me a smile that was definitely not teasing.
“I think I might like that,” he said.
Something told me I might, too.
I was right.
Chapter 6
Remember the last time you had an evening when just about everything went right? When you really enjoyed just being with someone, relaxed?
Well, that was my evening with Ed Grayley. We hit it off as through we’d been pals since grade school. He was quick, funny, totally unaffected and, best of all, he really seemed to be having as good a time as I was.
If I’d met Ed while out cruising, I’d have jumped on him in a minute, but I had to remind myself that this wasn’t really a cruising situation. And while I was sure I was getting some definite vibes from him, I knew this wasn’t the time to start letting my crotch rule my head. I had a strong suspicion we were going to see each other again, and as I told myself, good things are worth waiting for.
Was he a potential suspect? I hoped not, but at this point who wasn’t? The fact of the matter was that this was the first time I’d had a chance to get my mind off the case, and I took it. Selfish of me, maybe, but…
It was ten-forty-five when we left the Carnival. Ed had an early-morning flight of foreign dignitaries he had to look after, but said he’d give me a call late in the afternoon; there was a movie playing locally that we’d talked about and both wanted to see.
The crackle of lightning and a blast of thunder that sounded like it originated next to my bed jolted me awake at three a.m. The rain came down in buckets, and I thought about my open office window. Then I figured, Fuck it—at least it’ll be cooler tomorrow, and went back to sleep.
*
The rain had ended by morning, and with it the heat wave. I got to my office around nine, halfway expecting to open my door to a tidal wave of water from the open window. But somebody up there must like me, because there was only a small puddle under the sill; the wind must have been blowing in the right direction, or the rain had fallen straight down.
There was, however, a new dark, wet spot on my ceiling directly overhead, indicating the office over mine had shared the same experience.
At nine-thirty, the phone rang.
“Hardesty Investigations,” I answered in my best professional voice.
“Hi, there, sailor, new in town?” It was Tim.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” I said. “Know where a guy can go for a little action?”
“Well, I’m not home right now, but…”
“Okay, Charlie Tuna, what’s on your mind?”
“Not much. I’m on my coffee break and thought I’d see how things were going with you.”
I leaned back in my chair and gazed out the window at nothing in particular.
“Kind of slow. But I’m more sure than ever there’s a link between all six guys, that it isn’t just some sicko wandering around with a cyanide-filled amyl bottle picking up casual tricks. Mind you, I haven’t got a single thing to go on other than my hunches and a few very weak leads, but I’m willing to bet a bundle I’m right. Anything new on your end?”
Tim laughed. “You want to rephrase that?”
“Bright little rascal, aren’t you? You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know. And no, nothing’s new here. Just your usual garden-variety corpses—car accidents, stabbings, shootings—the everyday stuff. It’s been nearly two weeks since our unknown friend pulled a number. Maybe he ran out of cyanide.”
“Let’s hope so. But even if he has, it won’t be much help for the six guys he’s already knocked over.”
“True,” Tim agreed. “You manage to talk to everyone on that list I gave you—excluding the corpses, of course?”
“Just about. I’m debating whether or not to even try with Klein’s parents. I will talk to the roommates, though.”
“Good luck,” he said. “So, what did you think of Gary Miller?”
“You were, as always, right. He’s quite a guy.”
“The voice of experience?”
I ignored him.
“I haven’t gotten in touch with Bill Elers, but I’ll try to drop by his place today and leave a note for him to call me.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,” Tim said sincerely. “Well, look, I’d best get back to work. Keep me posted, huh?”
“You bet—you’re still my Number-one Son, don’t forget. Bye. And thanks.”
“Ciao,” he said, and hung up.
No sooner had I replaced the receiver in its cradle when the phone rang again, startling me. I waited until the second ring, then picked it up again.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“Mr. Hardesty!” It took only five syllables for me to recognize Rholfing’s twitter.
“Yes, Mr. Rholfing,” I said, again using my all-business voice. “What can I do for you?” Shit! I did it again!
But Rholfing apparently wasn’t into cute this morning. Instead, his voice was breathless with excitement.
“I know, Mr. Hardesty! I know!” He sounded like a ten-year-old with a secret he was just dying to share.
“I’m glad, Mr. Rholfing. What is it you know?”
He was nearly panting.
“I know those people you were asking me about! I remember them all!”
I felt the adrenaline pumping through me but tried to keep my voice—and myself—calm.
“Are you sure?” I asked, hoping this wasn’t just another of his ploys to get me into the bedroom.
The excitement in his voice was tinged with just a slight pout.
“Of course I’m sure. I was so stupid not to have known the minute you mentioned them, but as I told you, I’m absolutely dreadful with names. But I remember other things.
“Alan Roberts or Rogers or whichever it is, is a painter. Clete Baker is a big man with a football player’s body and the IQ of a baked potato. Arthur…uh, what was it?…Granger has this thing for truck drivers and Hell’s Angels rejects; I think he and Clete had something going there for awhile, but I’m not sure. And Arnold, uh, Klein may look like a mouse, but he’s a certified sex maniac, I can tell you. Am I right? Am I?”
I hoped he was near the bathroom, because it sounded as though he might pee in his pants any second. Still, by this time, I was getting nearly as excited as he was. I fought to keep my voice cool.
“It sounds like you’ve got it just about right,” I said. “But how do you know them? What’s the link between them, if any?”
“Oh, there’s a link, all right. But that’s all part of the surprise! I’ve got to tell you in person. Why don’t you stop by tonight around five-thirty? We can have cocktails, and I can tell you all about it.”
I wanted to reach through the phone and grab him by the neck, but I kept my voice calm.
“Well, couldn’t you tell me now?”
His voice changed from excited schoolgirl to Gestapo interrogator.
“No, I can’t! You probably know already, anyway. You haven’t kept me up-to-date as you promised, Mr. Hardesty. I mean, I hardly know what’s going on—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rholfing,” I said, trying to soothe him and feeling only slightly guilty. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I just come by now, and we can talk about it?” I could always bring along a cattle prod in case he got too out-of-hand.
“I’m afraid I’m going to be…uh…busy this morning, Mr. Hardesty,” he said, his voice, like a well-maintained transmission, shifting from scorned bitch to coy suitor once again. “Five-thirty would be much better. I should be…through…by then.” A girlis
h giggle. “Oh, yes, and I have some more money for you. And you will tell me everything you’ve been doing on the case, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course. Look, I don’t mean to press you, but perhaps if you could give me some clue over the phone, I’d be able to work on it today and have something more for you by this evening.”
Tell me, you twit!
“Well, maybe just a little clue won’t hurt. As I say, you probably already know, but…” There was a muted sound of bells in the background. Rholfing’s voice regained its excited tone. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry, but my gentleman caller has arrived. I must go. See you at five-thirty. Ta-taaa.” And with that, he hung up.
I held the receiver to my ear for a full five seconds before finally hanging up. A knot in the pit of my stomach told me something was wrong. Very wrong. Oh, God, what was it? I felt like I’d eaten a cannonball.
My mind raced through the file cabinets of my memory, frantically searching for…something.
Oh, shit! ShitShitShit! I fumbled frantically through my address book looking for Rholfing’s number. Finding it at last, I dialed, cursing the phone company for the slowness of its equipment. An eternity passed, and finally…a busy signal! A fucking busy signal!
I ran out of the office, mentally fighting with myself to keep from panicking. I made it to Rholfing’s apartment as fast as I could. Every inch of the way, my mind kept repeating: Alan Rogers, Gene Harriman, Arthur Granger, Clete Barker, Arnold Klein. Let me be wrong about Rholfing’s “gentleman caller!” Let it not be who I think it is!
Rogers, Harriman, Granger, Barker, and Klein—Rholfing didn’t know they were dead!
*
The door to Rholfing’s apartment was ajar. I knocked several times then entered cautiously, my stomach still in knots.
“Mr. Rholfing?” I called, knowing full well there would be no response. The phone, on the bookshelf near the bedroom hallway, was off the hook.
He lay on the bedroom floor in a flowered kimono. The bed had been made then turned down. There wasn’t a wrinkle on it.
I bent over the body to see if there was a pulse and detected the very slightest scent of almonds. His eyes were open, and his face, although the muscles were now relaxed, suggested he had died with a look of surprise. His lips and fingernails were distinctly blue; and he was, of course, quite dead, although his body was still warm.
Getting up quickly, I surveyed the room. Nothing appeared to be out of place. Using a handkerchief to open drawers and doors, I went through his dresser and closets. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but they always do that sort of thing in detective stories, and I figured it couldn’t hurt.
On top of a built-in chest of drawers in his walk-in closet was Rholfing’s wallet. I opened it and found five one-hundred dollar bills, four twenties, six tens, several five’s, and some singles.
The five hundred was, I suspected, what he had intended to give me that night. Feeling guilty as all hell but rationalizing that Rholfing had intended me to have it—and that the case was not over yet—I took the five bills, leaving the rest.
A check of the rest of the apartment revealed nothing, and there was little point in my hanging around. Using my handkerchief, I replaced the phone on the cradle, waited a moment then picked it up. When I heard the dial tone, I called the police, saying there had been a death and giving Rholfing’s address and apartment number. Leaving the front door slightly ajar, I left.
*
Regardless of what you may have read, heard, or seen, finding dead bodies is not a regular part of a private investigator’s life. At least, it sure as hell wasn’t a part of mine. The last dead body I had seen was five years before at my uncle’s funeral. I do not count corpses as one of my favorite things.
After leaving Rholfing’s, taking the stairway instead of the elevator and hopefully not being seen, I went straight home and took a long, long shower. Unlike a lot of people, I don’t sing in the shower. I think. And God knows I had enough to think about.
Seven men were dead—one of whom, if I were to choose to wallow in mental masochism, which I didn’t, might not be dead now if I’d bothered to let him in on what little I knew. If only I’d told him at the outset that the men I’d asked about were dead! No matter how I rationalized it, I had a strong sense of guilt.
Rholfing had said he knew the other victims—all of them. But how? What was the link? What did they all have in common? Why didn’t anyone I’d talked to know any of the other victims if, indeed, the victims had known one another?
Mike Sibalitch had said he’d met Klein, and that Harriman and Klein had known one another, but that could well be coincidence. Even in a city this big, the gay community is relatively small, and that any two gay men might know each other couldn’t be described as unusual.
Most frustrating of all, of course, was the question of whether the chain ended with Rholfing, and if not, just how long a chain it was.
There was something. Something in the back of my mind that wouldn’t reveal itself. Something each of the men I’d talked to had told me that might be what I needed. Damn! It was right there. Why couldn’t I grab hold of it?
I’d learned years ago that my mind could be a real rotten sonofabitch. Whenever I pushed it too hard, thoughts would deliberately stay just out of my reach. I had to calm down, to force myself not to think too hard. It would come, tiptoeing up behind me when I wasn’t looking, whispering the answer in my ear.
Unfortunately, patience has never been one of my greater virtues.
Sighing, I turned off the water, reached for a towel, and began drying myself off. I’d just finished one leg when the phone rang. Hastily drying the other, I dripped my way to the phone.
“Dick Hardesty,” I said, probably sounding as though I weren’t quite sure myself.
The voice on the other end picked up my spirits immediately, although I didn’t have time to wonder why it should.
“Dick, hi. This is Ed. I took a chance that you might be home. How are things going?”
“Ed,” I said with total conviction, “you don’t want to know. It has not been one of my better days.”
“Hey, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, and I could sense that he was. “Anything you feel like talking about?”
“Not right now, I’m afraid. Maybe later.” I forced myself to brighten my tone. “How come you’re calling so early? Not that I mind, of course. As a matter of fact, I’m delighted you did. I needed to hear a friendly voice.”
“Good. I’m glad. No special reason—I just finished work early and thought I’d try to reach you. Still feel like going to the show tonight?”
I didn’t but also didn’t relish the idea of letting my guilt and frustration take me too far down the path to depression. I’d been down it often enough before to know it went nowhere.
“Sure,” I forced myself to say, still drying with my free hand. “I could use a little distraction right about now. What time, and where?”
“Well, I thought we might grab something to eat first, if you’d like. I can fix something for us at my place, if that’s okay with you, then we can leave from here.”
“Sounds great.”
The thing was, despite how lousy I felt, it did sound great. Watch it, Hardesty, I told myself.
“All I need to know is where, what time, and what I can bring.”
“The where’s easy enough—four-eighty-one Kenmore, number thirty-four. I think the movie starts around eight, so would six be too early?”
“Six is fine.”
“And as to what you can bring, nothing. Just come as you are.”
I looked down at myself and grinned.
“Four-eighty-one Kenmore, number thirty-four. See you at six. But don’t be surprised if I’m early.”
“Whenever. ’Bye.”
As I hung up, I was shaking my head, a new set of thoughts crowding out the others. Why in hell was I acting like a teenage kid with a crush on his gym teacher?
You need to get laid
, Hardesty, I told myself.
I’m not the kind of guy who “falls in love” every fifteen minutes, but who said this had to be a long-term anything?
Relax, for crissakes! You just met the guy, and with all the pressures you’re under right now, you’re just a little off-guard. Relax and enjoy it. Don’t make a big thing out of it.
Okay, I’d convinced myself. For the moment, at least.
But something told me I wasn’t really fooling myself. I knew full well that the more I thought about Ed, the more I thought about Ed.
I threw the towel into the clothes hamper and started to get dressed. I felt I really should call Tim and let him know about Rholfing, but I didn’t want to risk calling him at work. I decided to try him at home, later.
*
At exactly 5:49, I rang the bell on number 34, 481 Kenmore. What I’d seen of the place thus far had favorably impressed me. An older building, solid, the kind with wood beams and real fireplaces; the kind other people always live in but you can never find for yourself when you have to move.
Ed opened the door, smiling.
“Ah, not a moment too soon,” he said, extending his hand. We shook hands, and he closed the door behind me.
The living room was to the left of the small entry. Sure enough, there was a fireplace; peg-and-groove floors; sparsely furnished in a mixture of styles, but the overall effect was warm and comfortable.
“I just got this place when I got back from overseas,” Ed said by way of explanation. “I still need a lot of things. Before I left the country I sold most of my stuff; the bulk of this has been in storage most of its life. But now that it looks like I’ll be operating out of the home office for the foreseeable future, I can start doing a few things I’ve been holding off on.”
He smiled and put a hand on my arm, casually.
“What would you like to drink? I don’t think I can make an Old Fashioned, but I’ve got just about everything else.”
“What are you having?”
“A Manhattan, I think.”
“Sounds good.”
“Good. Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me while I monkey around with dinner? It won’t take long.”