The Bottle Ghosts (9 page)

“Fred DeCarlo? Sam Roedel?” I heard myself asking, remembering Gresham having mentioned those names as two of the missing.

Kemper shrugged. “No idea. Like I said, I never knew last names. I remember Fred talking about being Italian, though. Said he'd started drinking Chianti when he was nine.”

My mind had kicked into overdrive, and I had to really force myself to stay focused on Kemper and what he was saying, and on the moment.

“And what about the therapist—Brian Oaks? Do you know anything about him?”

Kemper moved his head very slowly back and forth as he thought, his lips semi-pursed.

“Nnnno, not really. He's a really nice guy, apparently from a family of alcoholics, though I don't think he is/was an alcoholic himself. He's got a private practice, I know, but again, whether any members of the group might be seeing him outside the group I wouldn't know. He doesn't talk much about himself, of course.”

I was aware that it was about time to wrap things up, but suddenly remembering something Bradshaw had said, I had one more question. “How do the members of the group get along? Any notable conflicts or personality clashes?”

Kemper leaned forward in his chair, apparently also sensing that we'd covered about as much ground as we were going to. “Well… Everybody gets along pretty well. Sometimes some of the couples…well, sometimes things sort of boil to the surface in the course of the session. Carl, especially, has some real problems dealing with Jay's drinking, and he can get downright nasty. And sometimes he directs his frustrations at other members. But Brian keeps things from getting out of hand. And after all, that's what the whole group is about: to share experiences and to help us learn what we can from one another. And since every couple is made up of an alcoholic and a non-alcoholic, it's pretty interesting for everybody.”

I glanced at my watch. Definitely time.

“Well, I really appreciate your coming in, Mr. Kemper, and again I promise that if I come across anything at all that might be helpful to you in finding Mr. Martinez, I'll call.”

We both got up at the same time and reached across the desk to shake hands. “Thank you, Mr. Hardesty. All I care about is finding out where Benicio is and having him come home. Soon.”

I don't know why these things happen, or where they come from, but I suddenly felt an all too familiar rush of deep sadness. Something inside me was telling me very definitely that Benicio Martinez would not be coming home again. Not soon. Not ever.

Chapter 4

All the way home I couldn't get my mind off the fact that I'd done it again: I'd stumbled on a case that I knew was going to take me a lot farther than I wanted to go. There wasn't a shred of doubt in my mind that Jerry Shea, Benicio Martinez, and I'd bet my bottom dollar Fred DeCarlo, had not just wandered off, and that none of them would be coming back. I determined to call Marty Gresham in the morning to ask him to help me confirm what my gut told me I already knew: that the fourth missing man from the past six months…Sam…Roedel…had also been a member of the Qualicare group. Only the fact that Qualicare had not been around more than three years kept me from suspecting that the other two missing gay men in Gresham's five-year review might also have belonged.

But why the hell hadn't anyone made the connection before? How could the group's leader, Brian Oaks, not have known that four of the people he counseled had vanished? To say that something very odd was going on at Qualicare was the 800-pound gorilla of understatements and I realized, however reluctantly, that I was going to have to find out what that something was. How was quite another matter.

*

I arrived home to my customary (how soon we become spoiled) hug, grin, and Manhattan, though for some reason tonight it all felt particularly good, and just looking at Jonathan gave me an oddly indescribable feeling of warmth. He, of course, was oblivious to whatever was going on inside me and sat down beside me on the couch, close enough that I could put my arm around him. He looked at me and replaced his grin with a softer smile.

“Bad day?”

“So-so.”

“Well, I have some good news, anyway,” he said.

“Your ficus getting a seventh leaf?”

He laughed and slapped my leg. “No, Chris just called again from New York; he thought you'd be home. Everything's set and they'll be here for positive Thursday.”

Well, that was nice, but we'd already pretty much established that. I suspected there might be something else.

“And?”

He took a deep drink of his Coke, belched dramatically, made an exaggerated wide swipe of his mouth with the back of his hand and said “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. Classy, huh?”

I grinned at him. “Classy…and?”

His eyes wandered around the room like a bird looking for a way out…a definite sign there was an “and.” Finally his eyes came back to mine.

“Max wanted me to get him a list of A.A. meetings for when they're in town.”

Max? A.A.?
Now
that
was a surprise. I had no idea.

“Yeah,” Jonathan said just a little too casually. “I told him I had one, and that I'd go with him if he wanted.”

???
“Excuse me?”

He looked directly at me. “Why do you suppose I don't drink?”

Fer Chrissakes, Jonathan, you're twenty years old! How could you be an alcoholic?
my mind demanded.
And how the hell couldn't I have known?

He smiled and took another drink of his Coke. No belch this time.

“Don't be so surprised. I started drinking when I was thirteen because it was fun and grown-up. My brother Samuel used to buy us beer and then we'd get drunk and have sex. By the time I was fifteen, I was drinking a lot more but it wasn't fun anymore. So I quit. I went to A.A. meetings from the time I was fifteen until I moved out here. I haven't been to one since I met you, but I know where they are, and if I ever feel like I need to go, I'll go. So if Max wants to go to a meeting while they're here, I'll be glad to go with him.”

I just sat there like someone had hit me on the head with a frying pan.

He looked at me again, and his face grew very serious. “You're…you're not mad at me, are you? For not telling you?”

I set my Manhattan on the coffee table, took his Coke from his hand and put it next to the Manhattan, and pulled him to me in a hug so tight I was afraid I might hurt him.

“Of course I'm not mad at you!” I released the hug and took his face in my hands. “I'm proud of you!”

I can't remember when I've seen anyone look so relieved. He leaned forward quickly and kissed me. “Thank you!”

When my hands released his face, he reached forward for our drinks and handed me my Manhattan.

“I was really a little worried. I mean, it was bad enough that I was hustling when you met me, but I thought if you knew I was an alcoholic, too, that you could never…”

“…never love you?” I finished. “Well, I do.”

He pulled his head quickly backward as if startled and gave me the cocked-head look of a curious parakeet. “You do? Well, that's funny: so do I…love you, I mean.”

I put my hand on his leg. “I know. What's for dinner?”

*

As I said, I don't know how these things happen, or why, but as I was lying in bed waiting for Jonathan to finish brushing his teeth, things started to come together. I really didn't want to get Jonathan involved in my work. I'd done that once before and it had almost gotten him killed. But there were just too many serendipitous coincidences lying around in this case
not
to take advantage of them. There was absolutely no indication that there might be any actual danger involved. And I'd be there to protect him.

The best way to find out what was going on with Qualicare's counseling group, I realized, was to join it. Each couple included one alcoholic and one non-alcoholic. I'd never been to an A.A. meeting in my life; I didn't know if I could possibly fake being an alcoholic. But Jonathan knew his way around A.A..

After dinner he showed me his 12 Step book, which he'd kept hidden for fear I might not accept him. Like many alcoholics, he knew it by heart.

And most serendipitous of all, Jonathan was already a member of Qualicare!

When he came to bed, I talked to him about it and about the case I was working on and about the four missing men. I stressed to him that I had no idea where it all might lead, and that while the possibility of its being dangerous was only remote, it was still there.

He of course was excited by the very idea and agreed immediately, leaving me once again to wonder if he really realized what he could be letting himself in for. I suggested he think about it until he was sure, but he said there wasn't any need to wait, and that he would call Qualicare during his lunch hour the next day to see about joining the group. Of course I'd have preferred to do it myself, being me, but he was, after all, the Qualicare member.

When we'd finished talking, he rolled over toward me and said: “Gee, Mr. Hardesty, I really appreciate your sharing your sleeping bag with me. I was really dumb to leave mine at home.”

Playtime!

“Why, that's okay, Jonathan.” I found myself immediately taken in by the game. “Are you warm enough? It's getting pretty cold.”

He looked at me with an innocent smile, already totally into it, too. “Well, I am a little cold. Do you mind if I maybe got a little closer?”

I rolled over onto my side, facing him and lifted the blanket slightly. “Sure, Jonathan, come ahead.”

He moved closer until we were belly to belly, chest to chest. Jonathan looked at me with a wide-eyed look of total innocence and said, “Gee, Mr. Hardesty, something's pushing against my stomach! What is it?”

“Why, I don't know, Jonathan. Why don't you move down there and see?”

Let the games begin!

*

The next morning at the office, after I'd finished the crossword puzzle, I considered whether I should talk to Lieutenant Richman again before calling Marty Gresham. I didn't want to get Gresham into any trouble by asking him to do me a favor, but by the same token I didn't want to keep pestering Richman. I figured that if Gresham was willing to do it and he could verify my suspicion, I could then take it to Richman.

I dialed City Annex and asked for the Missing Persons' Records department, hoping Gresham would answer. I didn't want to go through a lot of hassle explaining who I was or what I wanted.

I was in luck.

“Officer Gresham.”

“Marty, this is Dick Hardesty. I wonder if you might be able to do me another favor.”

“If I can.”

“It appears you may have been right the other day…I think there's a pretty good chance I might be on to something in the disappearance of those four guys. It's too early to officially involve the police, but I think whatever is going on is linked, somehow, to Qualicare's alcohol counseling program. I've got an idea how to try to find out for sure, but since I don't know who or what might be involved, I don't want to tip anyone off.

“What I need is to know for sure if, as I suspect, Fred DeCarlo and Sam Roedel were also members of the group. I don't know of any way of accessing the actual group member lists without giving away the fact that we're looking into it, but if we can just determine that they or their partners belong to Qualicare, that would pretty much cinch it. I don't think Qualicare would be willing to give out that information to a private investigator, but they probably would to the police. Could you put in a call for me, and let me know?”

There was no hesitation. “Sure. I'll have to wait until my lunch hour and call from outside the department, just to cover my ass, but…hey, I've always wanted to do a little actual detective work.”

“Great! Thanks a lot. I'll look forward to your call.”

After we hung up, it occurred to me again that I probably could just as easily have called Qualicare myself and passed myself off as a police officer, but since I felt Gresham would be willing to cooperate, I didn't want to risk someone asking for my badge number, or my department extension number at work, or…. And I didn't want to risk my relationship with the department by impersonating a police officer.

*

Jonathan was the first to call, at 12:30. I'd just returned to the office with a BLT and a chocolate shake from the diner downstairs.

“Hi, Dick!” His voice, as always, was full of enthusiasm. “I called Qualicare and they said they'd have a Mr. Oaks call me to talk to me about it and I gave them our home number if that's okay.”

“Sure. Thanks for doing all this.”

“Oh, it's fun! I hope he calls today!” There was a pause, then: “But I've got class tonight! I won't be home if he calls!”

“Well, we'll work it out if he does call.”

“Okay,” Jonathan said, apparently satisfied. “I've got to get back to work, so I'll see you at home later. Early dinner, remember.”

“I remember.”