Innuendo (33 page)

From his desk on the second floor of City Hall, Rawlins had first tried Todd about forty-five minutes ago, calling him at WLAK. When he'd been dumped into voice mail, Rawlins hadn't left a message but simply hung up. He'd then tried Todd's condo, where he'd reached an answering machine and likewise left no message. Finally he'd called Todd's cell phone, which just rang and rang until some recorded message came on stating in much too bright a voice that, thank you very much, the phone was either turned off or out of range. The frustration brewing, Rawlins went for a cup of coffee, then returned to his desk some twenty minutes later and tried all the numbers again, yet again had no luck. It wasn't that unusual, Rawlins supposed. He could almost always get Todd on the phone, particularly if he called him on his cellular, but there were those times when Todd was doing an interview, when he was in an editorial meeting, or when he was in the studio doing some taping.

Frustrated, Rawlins compulsively tried the numbers a third time. When he still had no success, Rawlins began to wonder if Todd was doing this on purpose. Could he be avoiding Rawlins? Perhaps, even probably. He had caller ID on his cell phone—who knew, maybe even on his phone at work as well—and it would be just like the son of a bitch to take note that it was Rawlins calling and not pick up.

Damn him.

That bit of paranoia—the distinct possibility that Todd was avoiding him—started twirling in Rawlins's mind until it reached tornadic confusion. He got up and started pacing up and down CID, from Homicide all the way down to Juvenile. And he kept at it for a good ten minutes until he came up with an idea. Calling the front desk at WLAK, he asked for Nan, the six o'clock producer whom he'd met on several occasions.

“I'm sorry,” replied the receptionist, “but she's busy with the evening news right now.”

Rawlins glanced at his watch, saw that it was not quite six-thirty. Oh, shit, was it that simple? Was that why Todd had been unreachable, he'd been busy with the evening news?

“Well, tell her Steve Rawlins called. And tell her it's an emergency. Here's my number,” he said, determined to figure this out. “Okay, you got it? Just make sure she calls me right away.”

He sat there, rubbing his face and wondering what the hell he was going to do next, when just a few minutes later his desk phone rang, and he grabbed it, saying, “Homicide, this is Sergeant Rawlins.”

“Where the hell is he?”

“Nan?”

“Yeah, it's me. Where the hell's Todd?” she ranted. “He was supposed to be on at six and he just blew us off. I mean, blew us off completely. Unbelievable. Let me tell you he's got a lot of people really pissed at him. You just can't do that. Do you know how hard it was to fill his slot just minutes before we were supposed to go on? Do you? I mean, what the hell was he thinking? What the hell happened?”

“Actually, Nan, I don't know. I don't have any idea,” replied Rawlins, his tone a bit sheepish. “That's why I called—I was hoping you could tell me. I haven't been able to find him either.”

“But… but…” As if seizing on a novel idea, she said, “God, I hope he's okay, I hope nothing happened.”

“Me too,” replied Rawlins, his anger quickly dissipating, only to be replaced by a deep current of worry.

They agreed to keep in touch and then hung up. Rawlins immediately picked the phone back up and dialed all of Todd's numbers yet one more time, this time leaving a message at home and work.

“Todd, it's me, Rawlins. Where are you? I'm kind of worried. I've got my cell phone with me—call me as soon as you can.”

There was, thought Rawlins, shrugging as he hung up, nothing more he could do, at least not before his seven o'clock meeting.

It was the concrete
that woke Todd.

Cool and smooth against his left cheek, it was as refreshing as a cold, damp washcloth on a hot summer day. And just as invigorating. His eyes fluttered, then popped open. Lying on his side, he didn't move, just gazed around at the huge empty space and saw a small bird, a sparrow, flutter toward a window and bang its body over and over against the glass.

Where the hell was he?

The stale odor of horse manure and straw sparked the memory that his eyes could not. He was at the State Fair in the horse barn. And his head hurt like hell. Right, he'd come here to meet John Lyman, and then… then…

Using both hands, he pushed himself up and then sat there, looking around, sure that John Lyman's body would be lying just a few feet away, bloody and lifeless. Instead there was no one and nothing. Todd turned toward the horse stall against the far wall, wondered if he'd done it in there, gone back to the small space and blown his brains out. Groaning and rubbing his head, Todd got up and started moving slowly, not at all eager to discover someone's remains.

“John?” he called rather feebly.

As he approached the stall he expected to see the large man laid out within the four heavy wooden walls of the stall. Instead, except for Todd's cell phone, which lay smashed in pieces, it was perfectly empty. There was no sign of John Lyman, nor for that matter the saddle he had so lovingly tended.

Leaning against the stall, Todd touched the side of his head and felt the epicenter of the pain, which, like a hangover, was thick and nauseating and rippled from his head to his stomach. At least Lyman wasn't dead. At least Todd had prevented that—although perhaps only temporarily. And that, Todd thought, was a good point, for if Lyman hadn't killed himself in here, then perhaps he'd gone off and done the deed elsewhere. Perhaps he'd stormed out and done it in the front seat of his truck. Pretty.

As his senses regrouped he realized he had to get to the station. He had a broadcast to do. Checking his watch, he stared at the small face and thin hands. Oh, shit. It was a quarter past six. He hadn't lain on the concrete for five or ten minutes, but almost an hour.

Panicking, he bent down and started grabbing at the pieces of his cell phone, the main body right in front of him, the battery over on one side of the stall, and then a couple of small pieces scattered like marbles. His hands shaking, Todd tried cramming the battery in, but it wouldn't stay. He jammed something into something, but the plastic body was entirely cracked. It was beyond hopeless.

Clearly, he'd missed his spot. There was going to be hell to pay for this, but what could he do? It was, he thought as his head throbbed, already too late to simply warn them.

Turning, he started for the door, moving none too fast. As he stepped out into the evening light, he saw his Cherokee sitting right where he had left it. John Lyman's pickup, however, was gone, which meant, of course, that he'd been alive when he'd left. Thank God for small miracles.

Todd rubbed his brow, went around and unlocked his truck. He tossed the broken pieces of his cell phone on the passenger seat and climbed in. What he needed now was a long, hot shower. And then? Something about seven-thirty. Right, he was supposed to do something. Be somewhere. Meet someone.

Of course. He had a date with Tim Chase.

Slipping his cell phone
into the pocket of his jacket, Rawlins headed across the rough, potholed parking lot. His first major worry of the night was Todd and if he was alright. His second was this guy, the witness, and if he was actually going to show.

Jam's was a freestanding building, a green box of a place with black glass windows on one side and a pair of red neon cowboy boots on the roof. Known for its country music DJ, its tiny dance floor, and its half-dozen pool tables, it was a popular pickup bar, and Rawlins wasn't at all surprised that the witness had suggested it.

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.”