Innuendo (39 page)

“Oh, shit.”

“Well, I really don't know if he is in fact gay.”

“Come on, Todd, you can't be that stupid.”

“Maybe I am.” Todd hesitated, then added, “On the other hand, maybe I just need to find out something. Maybe I need to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

Sure that there really wasn't such a thing as the one and only, that special person,
the
person, that prince on a horse, and that Tim Chase wasn't the man Todd was meant to be with for the rest of his life. Shit, all that Todd did know was that he couldn't wash Tim Chase from his mind and that, yes, a huge wave of infatuation had knocked Todd over and was not only on the verge of sweeping him away, but tugging him from the coast of Rawlins. Shouldn't he, didn't he need to, find out if Tim Chase was the one with whom he was supposed to live happily ever after?

Finally Todd, albeit weakly, replied, “Listen, Rawlins, I just don't want to have any regrets, that's all.”

“Great, I don't want you to end up with me as your second prize either.”

“Wait, I didn't mean that to sound so—”

“You realize, don't you, that we're about two inches from putting Chase under close investigation for the murder of Andrew Lyman? What do you think of that?”

“Rawlins, come on, cut it out. You know he didn't kill anyone.”

“Right, and neither did a certain other celebrity kill—”

Out of nowhere, someone started pounding on his door. Todd rubbed his head with the heel of his hand, but couldn't think, didn't know what to do. The heavy knocking on his door went on, but instead of ignoring it, which he easily could have, Todd seized the opportunity.

“Rawlins, someone's here. I gotta go.”

A voice outside his office called, “Todd, you got a Federal Express package!”

“Listen,” pleaded Todd into the telephone receiver, “I'll call you back.”

“When?”

“In an hour.”

“Maybe I won't be here.”

“Please, Rawlins. Let's just both calm down and clear our heads. I'll call you back in an hour and then we'll figure this out, okay?”

“Sure,” replied Rawlins, who then slammed down the phone.

Todd lowered the receiver back into its cradle, and then just sat there. Could things be any muckier? No, not at all. He just didn't know what to do, what to think. Why in the hell would he even be tempted to jeopardize his relationship with Rawlins? On the other hand, why did he feel so deeply touched by Tim Chase? And how had Chase done that, gotten to Todd so easily, so quickly? And why?

A few moments later Todd rolled his chair over and cracked the door. A large express envelope fell halfway in, and Todd grabbed it, then shut the door again. At first it didn't make any sense, he wasn't expecting anything. Or was he? He glanced at the label, saw that it had been sent from New York. Looking more closely, he realized that Suzanne Levine at
The National Times
had fulfilled her promise. Ripping open the envelope, a note and a back issue of the weekly rag tumbled out.

Dear Todd,

Fun talking with you today—hope life is great out there in Minnie-zohta. Here's the back issue.

All best,

Suzanne Levine

Todd picked up the old issue of
The National Times
and the headline in big bold print jumped right out at him: “Mean Queen Chase Denies 7 Year Gay Romance & Buries Boyfriend in Poverty.” Right beneath that was nothing less than the studliest photograph Todd had ever seen of Tim Chase, his hair whisked back, the eyes warm and dark and seductive, the smile flashing. Everything about him said cute, adorable, hunky, sexy, charming, friendly, disarming, engaging. And all of it, Todd knew in his heart of hearts, was absolutely true, and then some. He'd held Tim Chase against him, groped that gorgeous body, and bathed in his charm. He wondered what it would have been like, doing the act with Chase, and then he found himself wanting to do nothing more than just that. Chase had to be gay, didn't he? After all, Todd had felt the passion, seen it, heard it, right?

Rawlins drifted out of Todd's mind, Chase surged in, and Todd imagined seeing lots more of Tim Chase. He pictured himself going back to that big house, spending the night. Spending many nights. And then? How serious might it be? Could it be? But was that the life Todd wanted, a life with one of the most famous men in the world? Maybe not, but, dear Lord, he was just so handsome, so nice, so… so… Who in the world would be fool enough to turn him down?

Todd's eyes tore back through the article, reading yet one more time about Tim Chase's romance with Rob Scott. Yes, it had to be true, didn't it? Tim had to have been in a long-term relationship with this guy, whom the journalist Maria Glore described as a beauty of a blond. And if so, Todd didn't doubt that Tim Chase had thrown him out, either. But had Scott really been beaten up and bruised? Had Tim hit him… or could Rob Scott have been something like drunk or high? In which case, could he have fallen? And if they'd been together, why had they blown apart? What had prompted the fury that had consumed the relationship? There was a story behind the story, but the one that had surfaced and been served to the American public was by no means, Todd knew, the truth. No, America got what it wanted, a vindicated prince. The court of laws had made sure that the real story remained buried.

Flipping into the inside of the issue and the rest of the piece, Todd recalled the other articles he'd read on Lexis-Nexis, including of course the one about the photograph of Chase in the arms of another man. Todd hadn't seen it, but he now realized that it might not have been doctored, that it could in fact be real. All the other post-trial pieces about Chase winning those eight million bucks for slander could easily have been crap as well, products of Hollywood studios and PR firms.

The inside of the issue was a gallery of photographs of the world of Tim Chase, including pictures of his gorgeous wife, Gwen Owens, their son, Jack, their L.A. mansion, numerous photos of Tim and his horses, Tim flying a jet, and even Vic, the loyal bodyguard. Not to be missed, of course, were the photos of Tim's alleged former boyfriend, Rob Scott, and Todd's eyes caught there, on the face of the handsome blond. And handsome he was, his chin small, his smile sweet. The two must have made quite the beautiful couple.

Todd ran his right hand over
The National Times,
pressing the pages flat against his desk. Staring blankly at the photographs of Tim Chase and his world, Todd was wondering if a life with any star, particularly one so closeted, could actually work, when suddenly he saw the answer that had so far alluded not only Rawlins and him, but also the entire police force.

Yes, studying one photograph in particular, it was all too clear who had in fact slit young Andrew Lyman's throat.

Thirty minutes ago Rawlins
had run a criminal background check on their prime suspect, Victor Radzinsky. Rather than turn to the Bureau of Research, he'd simply headed over to the old, beat-up teletype machine parked in one corner of Homicide and contacted the NCIC, the National Crime Information Computer. And what had come back was none too surprising: Victor M. Radzinsky was a convicted felon who'd served time in California for promoting prostitution. Foster was now in the process of contacting the Los Angeles authorities for the specifics, yet both Rawlins and Foster were assuming that he had in fact been pimping not women, but young boys. Whether this was one of Radzinsky's secondary duties for Tim Chase remained to be proven, but it was most definitely a possibility.

And now…

Rawlins had spoken with Todd several more times, and instinctively he knew that Todd, whether by chance or simply through good research, had just discovered the key to Andrew Lyman's murder. And while all Rawlins wanted to do was sit there and obsess about Todd and their rapidly cooling relationship, he had a job to do. Right, this was no time to slack off, particularly if Todd's information was going to lead to an arrest, which it certainly might.

After Todd's first call, Rawlins had consulted with Foster and agreed what must be done next. Grabbing another officer, Rawlins had gone down to Lake Harriet and, according to their arrangement, left a marked unit. Now it was almost one, and he'd returned to City Hall and his corporatelike cube in Homicide. As he attempted to uncover a turkey sandwich that had been sheathed in an overabundance of plastic wrap, he saw how stupid he'd been and just how much it had cost him. Would that he could do it all over again—things would be entirely different.

The phone on his desk began to ring, and he snatched it up. “Homicide, this is Sergeant Rawlins.”

“Hello, Sergeant, this is Martha Lyman, Andrew's mother.”

“Yes, hello,” he said, wondering what might have come up. “What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to let you know that I have a new phone number. My daughters and I are moving in with my sister for the next few months.”

“I see. Has there been a—”

“I've left my husband. We'll be divorcing.”

Her bluntness surprised him, but didn't. The harsh realities of farming had surely dealt her a life of absolutes—drought, flood, frost, debt—and taught her to deal with such things matter-of-factly, even coldly.

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Trying to pry more out of her, Rawlins said, “I didn't know you were having problems.”

“Let's just say that I've learned that Andy wasn't so different from his father after all.” She paused only briefly, then concluded, “Here's my phone number in case you need to reach me. John will be staying on the farm, of course. You can reach him there.”

Rawlins wrote down the number, and then Martha quickly hung up. She had, he realized, just confirmed what Todd had earlier told him, and Rawlins was just starting to take some notes when his phone rang a second time. Hoping this time it was him, he immediately picked it back up.

“Homicide, this is Sergeant Rawlins.”

“Hi.”

Recognizing the voice, Rawlins was immediately pleased that this guy had kept his promise. “Hey there. It's you, right, my witness?”

“Yep. I saw the car. I just swung by the lake over lunch and checked and saw the empty cop car.”

“Thanks. And thanks for calling so promptly,” said Rawlins, who, with so much on his mind, was having trouble keeping everything straight. “I just wanted to let you know that I think we have our guy.”

“Really? Wow, that's wonderful.”

“Yeah, it is. And it's all because of you, because of the tips you provided.”

“No kidding?” replied the witness, his voice happy, even proud-sounding. “What happened?”

“Well, all the information you gave us just sort of fell into place. Particularly the identification of the car—that was very helpful. I can't say too much, but we're tying up all the loose ends now.”

“Wow.”

“So I just wanted to say thanks, and I wanted to ask if you'd check in with me regularly. You don't have to give me your name, we won't try and identify you, but I'd like you to call me tomorrow and the next day just in case we have some more questions. Can you do that? Can you call me in the morning?”

“Sure. How about ten? Can I call about then?”

“Ten would be fine. I'll make sure I'm here at my desk.” Rawlins paused, then added, “There's something else I wanted to ask. You mentioned that you were a photographer and that you're working on a project. I'm not really interested in what you're actually doing—that's your business, of course—but I would like to know if you have any photographs of the man you saw down at the lake. Any chance?”

“Of… of who?”

“The bald man you spotted is our primary suspect, of course, and I'd like to know if you have any pictures of him.”

“Him? Well… well, no. At least I don't think so.”

“Could you check? We'd all really appreciate it.”

“Sure…”

“Good, check and then call me at ten tomorrow, okay? With any luck we'll be making our arrest within the next twenty-four hours.”

Rawlins hung up, then sat at his desk, staring down at the turkey sandwich, which was finally uncovered and lying plainly in front of him. Was any of this really happening? Better yet, would their plan really work?

A few seconds later, Foster returned to their shared cubicle and saw Rawlins sitting there, staring at his sandwich.

“What are you looking so glum about, pal?” asked Foster. “Didn't your little witness fellow call?”

Rawlins shrugged. “He did. Everything's all set up.”

“Excellent.”

“I talked to Todd again too.”

“Oh, so there's the problem.”

“We talked everything through two or three times, and I really do think his theory about the murder is right.” Rawlins could barely force himself to admit this one additional thing, barely force himself to say, “And Todd said he's going to go ahead and do it, he's going to go back to Tim Chase's tonight.”

“No, shit, you're really going to let him?”

“Like I could stop him? It's his choice and he's determined.”

Foster came over and squeezed him on the shoulder, and said, “Don't worry, pal. We're going to get the guy who killed that kid, and you're going to get your fellow back, you'll see.”