Dead In Red (20 page)

I moved my hands up to ten and two o’clock
on the steering wheel. Shards of music—too brief to comprehend
. . . disco mostly—wound through my gray matter like a
dozen radios playing simultaneously, much too much to assimilate.
My fingers tightened and the sensation of joy swooped over me like
a sirocco; wind, speed and the thrill of danger.

I repositioned my fingers to nine and three
on the wheel. A horrible weight pressed against my soul. Something
so terribly wrong—horribly bloody—could never be righted.

Walt’s death?

I clasped harder, hoping for clarity, but I
wasn’t sure Cyn had actually seen Walt in death—seen his blood
splashed on tiled walls—in a bathtub?

True? Real? Nothing was set in concrete.
Nothing I could grab onto—truly understand.

One and seven on the wheel brought something
different: Gene. A powerful pull to protect him. She loved him like
nothing else in her life. But that, too, had been tainted. Her love
for him was black and blue and the startling crimson of
fresh-spilled blood.

Sorting through the plethora of thoughts and
feelings that bombarded me, one thing was certain; Cyn had not
killed Walt. Just the thought of his death had horrified her. I
couldn’t quite grasp what she knew or how she was involved, but
instinct still told me that she knew or suspected something
terrible about Walt’s death and it had done much more than unsettle
her. She was in deep denial about something. I couldn’t comprehend
what, but whatever it was had shaken apart this sometime party
girl’s world.

Nausea pulled at my insides as I tried to
sort through the building maelstrom, but I couldn’t seem to pick up
any one emotion and stay with it. Like slogging through Jell-O, I
kept getting bogged down and losing track of what it was I was
tuning into. My hands fell limp to my lap, lay there for eons—lead
weights too heavy to ever lift.

The dashboard’s dark displays eventually
drew my attention. How long had I been sitting there staring at
nothing? A glance at my watch told me at least twenty minutes.

Had I suffered a seizure? One of the quacks
I’d consulted during the past few months had warned I might have
one—more—at some time in the future. Head injuries weren’t
predictable. There was so much medical science didn’t know about
the brain . . . probably never would.

I managed to pull open the latch, slunk out
of the car, shoved the door with my hip to make it catch. I
shuffled away from the Mercedes, ducked into the side door to
shamble up the apartment stairs. Less than thirty seconds later, I
was back behind the drape, panting, and counting. Ten, twenty,
thirty—

At forty-seven seconds, Cyn stepped out of
Richard’s back entrance. She paused on the steps, speaking to my
brother. Afternoon shadows were already starting to lengthen.

Ten, twenty, thirty—

Cyn turned, took the last step and headed
for her car. Richard came out on his step.

Cyn opened the driver’s door, ducked to
enter, paused.

Could she smell the stench of the fear I’d
experienced—relived—in the cockpit of her Mercedes?

She straightened, staring down at her pretty
little car, her brow furrowed. Then she tilted her head to look up
to the apartment, her face pale, eyes shadowed. I jumped back,
pressed myself against the wall, my heart thumping, my breaths
coming so fast I was in danger of hyperventilating.

I closed my eyes and started counting again
until I heard the car door slam, and seconds later the sound of an
engine. I waited until I couldn’t hear it anymore before peeking
out the window. Richard stood in the driveway. He waved me
down.

By then I had my breathing almost under
control and trotted down the stairs. Richard’s back was to me as I
rounded the corner of the garage, his arms crossed over his chest,
looking down the empty driveway.

“Well?” I asked.

He turned, his eyes troubled, and I wasn’t
sure if I was in for a scolding or a lecture—or both. “That’s one
unhappy lady.”

“Go on,” I urged.

Richard closed his eyes briefly and shook
his head. “I need a scotch.” He turned and headed into the house,
with me at his heels.

The screen door slammed behind me and I
followed him through the pantry and into the kitchen.

“You could’ve moved a little faster,” Brenda
scolded me from her seat at the table. We both watched as Richard
opened the cabinet where they kept their kitchen liquor. “That
woman wouldn’t leave the room. You have no idea how nerve wracking
it was to try to keep her attention from straying to the window
while you were out in her car.”

“I thought you were going to entertain her
in the living room.”

“What took you so long?” Richard asked,
getting out a glass. “You sat there for the longest time.”

I swallowed, afraid to tell him what I
experienced—what might have happened. “I kinda got mesmerized.”

“And?” Richard demanded.

Looking him in the eye wasn’t easy. “She
didn’t kill Walt.”

He let out a ragged breath, his shoulders
slumping. “I told you so. But knowing that still doesn’t make me
feel any better about luring her over here. You want something,
Brenda?”

“Wine. Pour it into one of the really big
glasses.”

Richard had a right to his feelings. And
that he’d believed in me enough to risk what he thought of as
betraying a friend said even more.

“Well, what went on?” I asked. “Cyn looked
upset when she left.”

Richard reached for one of the balloon stem
glasses. “I don’t know. Something to do with her business. She had
an argument with one of her employees.”

“Since she only has two, and one of them
works mornings, that leaves her nephew, Gene.” I had to swallow,
didn’t want to betray what I already knew—suspected—really had no
clue about. “Did she say what the problem was?”

“No.” Richard opened the fridge, retrieved
the previously opened bottle of wine, yanked out the cork, and
poured it for Brenda, then handed her the glass.

I tried another tack. “You looked upset when
you came out of the house. Why?”

“You try keeping someone captive for half an
hour when they’d rather be elsewhere. I had visions of her yanking
out her cell phone and calling the cops on you. And you sat there
and sat there and sat there.” He poured his scotch. Didn’t even
bother with ice. “She asked about you, too.”

“Yeah?”

“She wanted to know why you were so damned
nosy. She inferred that your harassment was behind her rift with
Gene.”

“How?”

“She didn’t say.
I
didn’t know what to say.” Richard downed
another healthy swig.

“Sorry.”

I watched him take another swallow. He
hadn’t offered me a drink. But then, I wasn’t sure I wanted one. I
needed a clear head to figure out my next move. And then there was
Maggie—a sweet diversion from what we’d all just gone through.

“I got a call from Maggie just as Cyn
arrived. She’s pissed at me again.”

“Why?”

“If I could figure out how women think, I’d
sell the secret and be rich.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll hear all about it,”
Brenda said and swirled the wine in her glass.

Of that I had no doubt.

“So what’s your next move?” Richard
asked.

“I also got the feeling Cyn was upset about
something and she was in denial about it. Someone was talking to
Walt in her office. If it wasn’t her—”

“You think it was her nephew?”

“It makes more sense, really, especially as
she seems paranoid I’m going to find out what went on with her and
Walt and Gene. Maybe Gene’s a drag queen, and maybe he befriended
Walt. I don’t have a picture of him to flash around, and what good
would it do if the people at the clubs only knew him in his female
persona?”

“You think you’d recognize him dressed as a
woman?”

“I don’t know, what with makeup, a
wig, and jewelry. If you see some of these before and after
pictures, sometimes it’s hard to tell. I’ve been in Gene’s presence
twice, and he didn’t give off strong vibes, so it’s not like I
could just tune into him like I can with someone like
. . .”
Maggie.
“Like
I can others.”

They’d both noticed my hesitation. Neither
of them commented.

Don’t think about her, I urged myself. My
mind raced to grasp onto something—anything else. “I need a picture
of Walt to flash around,” I murmured, wondering if Tom had one back
at the bar. Then again, I hadn’t noticed one—not even a grab shot
tacked behind the bar with a bunch of other photographs. “I think
I’ll go back to Walt’s apartment. Wanna come?”

Richard looked up. “I’ll sit this one out.”
He took another swallow of his drink. “Brenda, how about a steak
dinner? You up for going out?”

“Any time I don’t have to cook is cause for
celebration. But I’ll drive,” she said, putting down her untouched
wine and getting up from the table. “Think I’ll go drag a comb
through my hair first. Be right back.”

I watched her head down the hall for the
stairs, and waited until she was out of earshot before speaking
again. “You’ll hear all about it later tonight. Maggie’s pissed
because she thinks helping me look into Walt’s murder will get you
killed.”

Richard poured himself a bit more scotch.
“She’s got it wrong. It’s only me that’s keeping you alive.”

It felt like he’d punched me in the gut. Was
that what Sophie meant when she said he had cause to worry about
me—and that I needed him?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

# # #

CHAPTER 17

The last time I’d been to Walt’s apartment, I
hadn’t noticed if the air conditioning was on—or even if the place
had air conditioning. Entering the dark apartment gave me a chill
that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature. I turned on
the light, paused in the doorway. Nothing looked different, but it
felt like someone had been there. Not Tom. Someone else—and that
person had gotten in with a key.

I did an abrupt about-face and looked around
the dimly lit landing. Two sconces, with what could only have been
twenty-watt bulbs, faced one another, giving only enough light for
the tenants to find a keyhole. I ran my hand across the lintel and
found dust, as well as a dull brass key. Okay, so who knew Walt
kept an extra? Had he locked himself out one time too many and used
it himself, or did his friends know about it?

I pressed the key into my palm. Bam! The
bloodied hands were back. But damn it, whose hands were they?

Replacing the key, I reentered the
apartment, again picking up the feeling that someone had been there
in the last day or so. I stood for a long time, studying the
apartment. Maybe I’d found it so tidy on my previous visit because
there really wasn’t much in it. The walls and flat surfaces were
devoid of homey touches. It was a place to eat a nondescript meal,
watch a little TV, and hit the rack. The focal point of the
apartment was the desk.

Made of cheap pine, the student’s desk had
been painted glossy black and lacked the nicks and dings usually
associated with such a piece of furniture. I pulled out the chair
and sat down, turned on the goose-necked lamp. A blotter of faux
leather covered most of the surface, and on it were a stapler, a
mug filled with pens and pencil stubs, and a cork-bottomed coaster.
Had Walt sat here with a beer or a cup of coffee to write out his
bills?

It had been a tactical error for me to let
Richard go through Walt’s papers instead of doing it myself. Not
that he probably missed much—but he wouldn’t feel a psychic vibe
during an earthquake.

Pulling open the center drawer revealed more
pencils, pens, a legal pad, rubber bands, and Scotch tape. Just the
usual junk. The contents of the other drawers were more
interesting. Bold block letters labeled files as tax receipts,
insurance papers, and one marked “Will.” I ran a hand over the
files and papers. Someone had rifled through them after Richard.
Looking for . . . something they hadn’t found. What that
was, I had no clue.

The will wasn’t that interesting. Walt had
left everything to Tom. He probably thought he’d outlive his
widowed, elderly mother.

I folded the document and laid it on the
desk. I’d give it to Tom tomorrow. Yet I wondered why Tom hadn’t
gone looking for it himself, especially as he’d already been
through the apartment, presumably right after the cops. Then again,
he hadn’t been back to clear out Walt’s apartment, either.

My gaze focused on the blank wall in front
of me. Something didn’t add up. Tom flat out told me he didn’t want
to know what else I’d find, and made it clear he was revolted by
his cousin’s lifestyle. Yet he wanted Walt’s memory kept intact. Or
was it just a matter of family pride? As far as I knew, Tom had
never married, either. Was he worried his customers might think he
and Walt were lovers? It was only when I’d shamed him that he’d
told me to go ahead and keep looking into Walt’s death.

The will bothered me, too. Why cut the old
lady out? Did she know about, or at least suspect what Walt’s
sexual preference was? Tom said it would kill her if the truth came
out, so yeah, she probably did. Were she and Walt estranged because
of it? I wasn’t sure Tom would answer me if I asked.

I pawed through the rest of the documents.
As Richard had said, the receipts were grouped by year in
envelopes. I did a perfunctory check, but nothing looked to be of
interest. It still bothered me that he appeared to have no real
assets. Could he have had a safety deposit box somewhere that even
Tom didn’t know about?

The next drawer contained more file folders
of uninteresting receipts and held six or seven envelopes of
photos. The first couple were old family shots. Birthdays, dinners,
other social occasions. A much younger Tom wore a green,
cone-shaped, sparking Happy New Year hat, and toasted the camera.
Happier times.