The Hired Man (30 page)

“I'm afraid I do,” I said.

I suddenly realized I had no idea where he lived.

How the hell did anybody ever give you a license to practice, Hardesty?
my little voice asked.

“Where are you located?” I asked.

“Belamy Towers, apartment 2801,” he said.

Belamy Towers? My, my! The boy lives well,
I thought. Belamy Towers was one of the city's newest and most exclusive apartment complexes. Well, he'd said he liked nice things.

I realized, too, that my earlier concerns about not confronting him alone had more or less gone out the window. I did think about calling Phil to let him know where I was going, but first of all, I wasn't anywhere near the point of confronting anyone about anything, and it was very unlikely that, even if worse came to worst and Gary turned out to be the killer, he would try to off me in his own apartment.

Besides, remember the odds—six billion to one it wouldn't be Gary anyway.

*

Belamy Towers stood at the top of a hill overlooking the river and downtown. I imagined it had a spectacular view at night, and at twenty-nine stories, it was visible from almost anywhere in town.

It was so new they were still putting the finishing touches on the impressive lobby, all marble and mirrors, and only about half the tenants had moved in. Even though I'm sure Gary was in great demand as an escort and a model, I still questioned how he could afford to live here.

Then, as I waited by the elevators, I noticed a bronze plaque set in the wall. It listed the building's construction firm and the architect, and at the bottom were the words: “Glick Enterprises.” Question answered.

The elevator had that overpoweringly
new
smell that hinted of sawdust and fresh lacquer. The hallway of the 28th floor, when the doors opened with barely a sound, reflected the quiet elegance of the building. Thick burgundy carpet, simple but dramatic lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows at each end of the hall, two doors on each side of the hallway to the left of the elevators, one door on each side to the right. Directly across from the elevator was another elevator, which I'd not noticed from the lobby.

Two of the six apartment doors stood open, and I moved toward the ones on the right just far enough to take a quick look inside. In one, carpet was being laid; from the other the smell of fresh paint and a section of dropcloth extending into the hall indicated tenants had not yet moved in.

I turned back past the elevators just as the door to the one I'd not seen in the lobby opened, revealing it to be a freight elevator. A really cute guy wearing white coveralls and a painter's cap emerged carrying several cans of paint. We exchanged smiles and a nod, and I reluctantly forced myself to head in the opposite direction to find Apartment 2801.

I had no sooner rung the bell when the door opened to reveal a rather subdued looking Gary. He gave me a small smile as we exchanged a handshake and he showed me in. The small foyer, with parquet floors, was painted the exact same shade as his eyes, and on two of the walls were a series of small seascape paintings. When we moved into the living room, I was more than a little impressed.

He had a corner apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows covering two-thirds of each of the two outer walls. The view was that of the river and downtown, of course, and again I could only imagine what it must look like at night. Either he had hired a top-notch interior designer, or Iris Glick had been right—Gary was a Renaissance man.

In either case, he had fantastic and expensive tastes, perfectly balanced, from the small islands of carpeting in a sea of polished wood flooring to the mist-blue walls to the comfortable but obviously very expensive furniture.

“Like it?” Gary asked.

“Wow,” I found myself saying, yet again demonstrating my worldly sophistication.

He managed a small grin.

“Yeah, me, too,” he said. “It's a long way from Nebraska.”

He motioned me to a seat, and I took one where I could look out the window.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, and I shook my head.

“I'm fine, thanks.”

He took a seat opposite me and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands folded.

“So, what did you want to see me and Matt about?” he asked.

I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath.

“Well, to be honest with you, I wanted to see the two of you together. The police are starting to zero in on ModelMen, and you're going to be right up there on the top of their list, like it or not.”

“Me, not Matt.”

I nodded. “Afraid it's heading in that direction.”

“Because of the hooker.”

“Yeah, mostly.”

“But how in hell can they tie her in with the other two deaths? Other than her and Billy both being found in a Dumpster. What did she have to do with that Anderson guy?”

Either he didn't know about the knife, or was pretending not to.

“The police apparently have some pretty good evidence of the link,” I said.

He looked at me, eyebrow raised, and leaned even farther forward.

“Such as?”

“I'm not sure,” I lied. “The police don't exactly take me into their confidence.” Which was largely true despite Lt. Richman's occasional sharing of information.

Gary unfolded his hands and sat slowly back in his chair. I decided to take a couple steps out onto the high wire.

“Do you use prostitutes?” I asked.

He looked at me a moment, then shrugged.

“Yeah,” he said. “I don't have to. I can get women just about anywhere any time I want them, but every now and then it's just simpler to go out and pick up a hooker. I do it mostly after I've been with a client who doesn't reciprocate. Sometimes I'm too horny to want to bother standing around in a bar for fifteen minutes hoping to score.”

Fifteen minutes?

“And did you happen to pick up a prostitute the night Laurie Travers—that was her name—was killed?”

He looked decidedly uncomfortable and wiped his open hand over his face quickly.

“Yeah, damn it!” he said. “I picked up
a
hooker, but the chances it was the same one…I didn't ask her name, of course. Picked her up on McLeod and Spruce, drove her to an alley not far away. She blew me, I paid her, and I left.”

“You left her in the alley?”

“No, of course not. I dropped her off at the corner a couple blocks away, near that all-night restaurant where the hookers hang out, on Cole.”

“And did anybody see you drop her off?” I asked, realizing it was a pretty stupid question.

Gary looked incredulous.

“In that part of town? At that time of night? There are probably bums and winos and hookers lurking in the shadows all over the place down there, like some cheap vampire movie. How the hell do I know if anybody saw me, and how could I expect them to remember even if they did? There was a bag lady with a shopping cart crossing the street as I was coming up the block, but she was gone by the time the hooker got out of the car.”

“Well, it's something,” I said.
But not much,
I thought.

“Yeah, like finding a needle in a haystack. Anyway, after I dropped her off, I came home. And as far as it being the hooker who got killed, that whole area is crawling with hookers. There's no way it could have been the same one.”

“Well,” I said, “I suspect the police may have a picture of her they'll be showing you, and if it
is
the same one…”

Gary shook his head. “This is bullshit!” he said. “How in the hell could they suspect me? Just because I'm bisexual?”

“I don't think it's just a matter of your being bisexual. But you did know Anderson and Billy, and you and Steve are the only two escorts who openly admit to having sex with women as well as men.”

Gary sat forward in his chair again.

“That's ridiculous. I didn't kill that hooker! I swear!”

I decided that now would be a good time to switch the subject.

“And nobody has accused you of it,” I said. “Let's not start jumping to any conclusions. But like water running downhill, the police tend to take the most obvious route. They want a suspect, and you're one of the most likely. Let's just wait to see what they ask you and where they think they're going with this. You can ask for Glen O'Banyon any time you want, but I'd probably wait until you thought it was necessary. You don't want to give the cops any reason to think you're covering anything up, and if you asked for O'Banyon the minute you walk in the door, they'd take that as a sure sign you felt you needed a lawyer.”

Gary shrugged again. “Yeah, I guess you're right.” He got up from his chair suddenly. “I could use a cup of coffee,” he said. “I've got a pot in the kitchen. You want some?”

“Sure,” I said, getting up to follow him and appreciating the break in the conversation.

The kitchen, just off the dining room, was straight out of the set of a TV cooking show. Everything you could ever imagine a kitchen having, Gary's had. Designer pots and pans, the kind I very much doubted he'd picked up at K-Mart, hung from hooks above the chopping-block counter next to the island stove, everything gleaming and spotless and obviously top of the line. Gary not only liked nice things, he had them.

He took two coffee mugs from a built-in rack under a cabinet and poured coffee from one of those fancy black, intricate-looking German coffee-makers.

“Cream and sugar?” he asked, and I shook my head.

“No, thanks.”

“A man after my own heart.”

Under other circumstances…quite possibly,
I thought.

Handing me one of the mugs, he said, “Shall we go back into the living room or sit in here?”

“Here's fine,” I said, and we went over to the small table near the window.

Once we were seated, our coffee mugs in front of us, Gary slid forward in his chair, leaned forward, and put his elbows on the edge of the table. We drank our coffee in silence for a minute or two, looking out the window at a bank of dark clouds tumbling slowly in from the west.

I had the feeling Gary was deliberately staying silent, waiting for me to make the first move, so I did.

“Now, about you and Matt,” I said.

Gary continued to stare out at the rolling clouds.

“I told you, I really don't want to talk about it.” Then he turned those marvelous sea-green eyes to me. “And I don't want to be rude, but it just isn't any of your business.”

“You're right,” I said, wrapping my hand around the coffee mug and feeling its warmth. “It isn't any of my business. But I'm pretty sure the police will consider it
their
business, so you can talk to me now and maybe let me come up with some ideas of how to help you, because you can be sure you'll be talking to the police later. I'm sure they'll have found out about Matt by now, and I'd be willing to bet he'll be number two on their likely-candidates list. They're going to be very tempted to lay all three murders squarely at your feet. Or Matt's.”

“Well,” he said, looking at me steadily, “If I had a choice…”

“You think Matt could have done it? Even the prostitute?”

He gave a dismissive shrug.

“I wouldn't put anything past him.”

“I thought you said Matt was strictly gay,” I said, not a little disturbed, although I guess not really surprised, by his willingness to turn on his former…

Were they ever lovers or not?

He raised one eyebrow slightly.

“You know that, and I know that…”
Sort
of, my mind added, “but as far as the police are concerned, I'd imagine they might reason that Matt's got kids, therefore Matt fucks women, therefore he can't be all gay, therefore…”

He was right, of course. If I'd thought I was pretty dense when it comes to the subject of bisexuality, imagine how it is for the cops. Not one in a hundred has a clue.

Gary just shrugged again and took another sip of coffee.

“Look, Gary,” I said, “I can't do very much to help you until I know everything we're dealing with. I don't handle surprises well, and frankly, I suspect you and Matt have quite a few little surprises lying around.”

Gary gave a deep sigh and settled back in his chair, index finger hooked around the handle of his coffee mug. Still looking at me, he slowly chewed his lower lip a moment before beginning.

“Yeah, I guess you're right. But that's not my problem. Matt is.”

“Meaning?” I said.

He set his coffee down and looked at me, long and hard.

“Okay, you want the whole story?”

I nodded.

He got up and went to get the coffee pot, which he brought to the table and refilled his cup. He looked at my cup and raised an eyebrow, and I put my hand over it to indicate I'd had enough. I suspected the last thing I was going to need would be something else eating at the lining of my stomach.