The Hired Man (8 page)

You've done it. You find yourself looking at the clock so often you determine
not
to look at it. You look. It says 5:43. You force yourself not to look for a good twenty or twenty-five minutes. Then you look at the clock again. It says 5:44.

Oh, the hell with it,
I thought, and was just reaching for the phone when it rang, scaring the shit out of me.

“Dick Hardesty,” I said after the second ring.

“Hi, stranger.” Tim's voice, cheerful as always. “It was great to hear from you. It's only been…what…six years?”

“Oh, come on!” I said. “It can't have been more than three years next Michaelmas.”

“Well, however long it's been, it's been too long,” he said “Of course, a phone line does have two ends, so I'll forgive you one more time.”

“You're a saint,” I said. “When can I make it up to you? I won't ask how.”

“Well,” he said, “that part goes without saying. But Gay Pride's coming up this weekend. You want to go to the parade with me…maybe the carnival afterwards?”

“Sure,” I said. “That'd be fun. But, uh, there was something else I wanted to mention…”

“Here it comes,” he said with a long, dramatic sigh.

“Hey, no,” I said. “This just came up, I swear! I called you before it happened.”

“Stuart Anderson.”

“You got your diploma from mind-reading school, I see. But, yeah, I'm afraid you're right. How the hell did you know?”

Tim gave a little laugh. “You…a murdered gay guy—well, a murdered bi guy, you must be expanding your territory—it figures.”

He had me shaking my head.

“And how in hell did you know he was bi?”

“Because there was evidence of semen—his—on the sheets from his bed. He was taking an active part in the sex.”

I was now stepping over a threshold I didn't really want to cross. But…

“The word I heard used to describe the cause of death was ‘hacked.' Not ‘stabbed.' What's that all about?”

Tim paused. “I can't give you the details, but let's just say ‘hacked' doesn't quite do it justice. He was…dismembered. But the cause of death was one stab wound directly through the heart.”

“Jeezus!” I said. “How in hell could that happen in a hotel room? Wouldn't it have taken an ax or a chainsaw?”

“No, just a relatively small sharp knife in the hands of someone who knew what he was doing.”

“Good God!” I said. “That's horrible!” I
knew
I didn't want to know the answer to the next question, but I had to ask. “And there's something else…”

“Yes, but…”

“You can tell me,” I said. “I'm sitting down.”

He sighed. “Something was inserted into a body cavity.”

I waited. “Meaning…?”

“Meaning whoever did it shoved Anderson's wedding ring up his ass.”

Chapter 4

Like you
had
to know that, right, Hardesty?

I didn't say a word. In fact, I didn't say a word for so long that Tim finally said,

“Hello?”

“I'm here,” I managed. Then I paused again but forced myself to ask, “How in hell do you do it, Tim?” I knew I didn't have to explain what I meant.

“It's my job,” he said calmly. “A lot of times I don't like it, but like the cliché says, somebody's got to do it. And if something I find rummaging around in a chunk of meat that used to have a person inside helps find out exactly how and why the person left it, it's worth it. I just always remember that a body isn't a person anymore; nothing I have to do to it matters to the human being it used to belong to.”

“I guess you're right,” I said, and I knew that he was.

“So,” Tim went on, his voice once more that of the chipper little hunk I always think of him as being, “are we set for Sunday, then? Around noon at my place?”

“Sure, but why don't we make it a little earlier and grab brunch. The parade starts at one-thirty, I think.”

“Great idea,” he said. “But we'd better call for reservations, like, tonight—everyplace will be jammed.”

“I'll do it,” I volunteered “I might have to call around, though, to see what's available. I'll call you later.” Then I had a thought. “Have you ever met my friend Jared?”

There was a slight pause before Tim said, “No, I don't think so. Should I?”

“Oh, yeah!” I said. “I was thinking of asking him to join us at the parade, if you don't mind.”

“Fine with me. You can ask him if he wants to join us for brunch, too, if you'd like. Are we doing our ‘Dick Hardesty, Boy Yenta' number here?”

I laughed. “No way! Shit, if I get you married off we couldn't have our far-too-infrequent-as-it-is little bedroom chats. But Jared's a special piece of work, and I know you'll like each other. I'll give him a call.”

“Okay.”

After we hung up, I dialed Jared's number, not really expecting to find him home, and was surprised when he answered on the first ring.

“Just waiting for my call?” I asked without identifying myself. Obviously, I didn't have to.

“Dick, hi,” he said. “I was just picking up the phone to call you. Chalk another one up to ESP. What's up?”

“I was wondering if you'd like to join my friend Tim Jackson and me Sunday for the Gay Pride parade.” I said. “We're going to try for brunch beforehand, too, if you can make it.”

Jared didn't hesitate a second.

“Sure,” he said, “sounds great. Tim's your buddy at the coroner's office, right?”

“That's him,” I said, “and I'm pretty sure you'll like each other.”

“Meaning?”

I laughed. “Meaning I'm pretty sure you'll like each other. Don't worry, I'm not trying to set anybody up.” I paused for only a second before saying, “So, let me check around for reservations, then, and I'll call you back with the time and place, okay?”

“I'll be here,” Jared said. “I'm starting to put the final touches on my thesis, so I'm not going anywhere.”

“Talk to you soon, then,” I said, and we exchanged goodbyes and hung up.

I immediately called Calypso's and Rasputin's; both were booked solid. Then, on a whim, I tried Napoleon. I felt just a little bit uncomfortable even thinking of it, since that was where I'd last seen Stuart Anderson, and they normally didn't do brunches.

But it being Gay Pride, I figured they might. I lucked out. They were, indeed, having a special brunch for the occasion, and I was able to get a reservation for 11:45.

Life goes on,
I told myself.

Yeah, but not for Stuart Anderson,
my mind answered.

*

I couldn't get Anderson—and what had happened to him—out of my mind. How could someone not have seen something? The two of them coming in through the lobby, assuming Anderson had gone out and picked up a hustler; somebody covered in blood going out?

Chopping up a body is, I'd imagine, a pretty damned messy affair. There had to have been a lot of blood. How could the killer not have gotten it all over himself? Even if they'd both been naked, since the dismemberment took place in the shower, the killer couldn't have washed off all that well. What about bloody towels?

Technically, the Glicks hadn't hired me to find Anderson's killer but to run interference for ModelMen. But to my mind, one thing equaled the other—if there was a tie-in, I wanted to know it. If there wasn't, that would still be to their advantage in defending themselves.

I thought of the reception desk clerk's comment about the parking garage—that runners often used it rather than going through the lobby. I had no idea whether Anderson might have rented a car, but if he had, and driven in with a hustler, or if the killer had somehow left through the garage, I wanted to know about it.

Of course, there was the problem of the police and me stumbling all over one another's feet. I had the feeling I might be allowed a little more leeway than a straight PI, not because of my irresistible charm and razor-sharp insights but simply because, when it came to serious cases involving the gay community, I was a hell of a lot better able to move around in it than they were.

Lt. Richman, and possibly Captain Offermanns, head of the Homicide Division, realized that, so until the department got around to hiring openly gay police officers, it was a lot easier for them to do a little
quid pro quo
with me. But I wasn't stupid enough to take this little arrangement too much for granted, or to try to press my luck too hard.

Was Anderson robbed? Were any of his things missing? Shit! How would I find out? Richman might well know, but I'm pretty sure he wouldn't or couldn't tell me. Maybe, if I could find out something I could offer in trade…

*

At the office the next morning, I tried to rough out exactly what I might do to earn my keep with the Glicks. I wished I had a photo of Anderson, since I planned to go to Faces that evening to see if anyone remembered his being there and whether he'd left with anyone that last Sunday night. On the far outside chance Phil might conceivably have one, I waited until I was pretty sure he'd be up then called.

Billy answered, and when I asked if Phil was around, said, “No, he's doing some catalog stuff for ManSport Outfitters. He won't be back until late this afternoon. Anything I can do to help?”

Uh, now that you mention it…

“Probably not,” I said, forcing myself to shift focus from crotch to brain, “unless you might know if Phil ever had his picture taken with Stuart Anderson.”

Billy thought a minute, then said, “Yeah! He did! He went with Stuart to some function that big lawyer Glen O'Banyon gave, and they had their pictures taken with O'Banyon and Senator Marshfield. It's right here. Do you need it?”

“I'd like to borrow it for a day or so, if you don't think Phil would mind.”

“Nah, I'm sure he wouldn't,” Billy said. “You want to come by and pick it up?”

“Great. I'll be right over. Thanks, Billy…I'll owe you.”

“MasterCard and Visa gratefully accepted,” he said. “See you when you get here.”

*

It was interesting to hear that Anderson had known Glen O'Banyon. O'Banyon was one of the wealthiest and most prominent attorneys in the city. Although his being gay was no secret, his wealth and power gave him access to the city's upper crust, and he was constantly hosting or attending fundraisers and social events of one sort or another. Anderson would have felt comfortable in those surroundings and evidently sufficiently so to take Phil with him—no doubt as a “business associate.”

I'd done some work for O'Banyon and liked him, although we hadn't been in touch recently. It occurred to me to contact him to see how well he had known Anderson. I called his office and was put through to his secretary, Donna.

“Donna, hi, this is Dick Hardesty. I was wondering if you could ask Mr. O'Banyon if he could call me when he gets a chance. Nothing urgent, but I would like to speak with him. He has my home number, I believe, if that's more convenient for him.”

“I'll give him the message, Mr. Hardesty,” she said in her usual cheerfully efficient manner.

I finished up a few things around the office then headed out for Phil and Billy's apartment.

*

Billy answered the door in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, his face and torso glistening with sweat. I noticed he had a small tattoo on his left pec just above his nipple—a little field mouse sitting back on its haunches. I'm not big on tattoos, but this one somehow suited him perfectly.

“Come on in, Dick. I was just working out a little. Have to keep the merchandise in mint condition,” he added with a big grin.

After I'd entered and closed the door behind me, he motioned me to a seat.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks, I'm fine,” I said.

“So I've heard,” Billy said with another wicked little grin. It really fascinated me how such a cherubic, innocent face could suddenly turn so…well…
sexy
.

I wasn't sure whether I should let that one pass or not, but being a Scorpio…

“Phil been telling tales out of school again?”

Billy picked a framed photograph off the top of a bookcase and brought it over, standing directly in front of me.

“He didn't go into detail, if that's what you mean,” he said, holding the picture out just slightly in front of his gym shorts where I couldn't help notice that little Billy may have been small, but oh, my!

I reached out for the photograph, but somehow my hand kind of got…um…sidetracked, and Billy just pushed his hips slightly forward to meet it.