Just after four o’clock, Turner and Fenwick met Roosevelt and Wilson at Au Naturel. The interior of the bar was filled with what must have been the largest single gathering of hot male flesh since William Higgins’ classic porn video Class Reunion.
“That one’s mine,” Wilson said. She nodded toward a well-muscled black man.
Roosevelt said, “You have excellent taste.”
After an hour and a half of interrogating, however, they got absolutely nothing for their trouble.
Finally the detectives got the entire group together. Dana Sickles stood next to the detectives.
“Who’s not here?” Fenwick asked.
Several guys raised their hands.
Sickles said, “I kept a list from yesterday and today. Between them you got everybody but two. I haven’t been able to get hold of them, which is not that uncommon.”
“Who were they?”
She consulted the list. “Jim Barnes and Lance Thrust.”
The four cops stared at her.
“Lance Thrust is his real name?” Turner asked.
“We pay in cash.”
Fenwick said, “You have to have an address to send W2s, a real name and a social security number.”
Sickles told them to wait. She returned from her office in a few moments. She handed them the two applications.
Barnes lived at an address in Wicker Park. Lance Thrust listed his home as six twenty-three School Street.
The bar owner said, “I never had to mail him anything. Generally, W2s are handed to them. Those who are around. Some move and never get them. I try my best. This is a transitory profession. Taxes are their problem.”
“Tell me about Barnes and Thrust,” Turner said.
“Sounds like a pornographic law firm,” Fenwick said.
Sickles said, “Barnes claimed he was straight, but he said he wanted to give dancing a try. He heard the money was good, and he thought it might be fun. Been working here for about a month. Thrust has been here since last January. Longer than most of them. Did his job. Neither guy caused any trouble. Got here on time. Got lots of compliments from the customers.”
“Either one a reddish blond?”
“Both are light blond.” She pointed at the red-and green-track lights above the dancing platform. “We put those in for the season. Could easily dim or enhance skin, hair, eye color. You saw the lights in the dressing room.”
Turner asked the assembled dancers if any of them were friends with Barnes or Thrust. Most shrugged. One or two looked uncomfortable.
“Nobody dances and nobody works until we get some information about them,” Fenwick said.
Sickles began a protest.
Fenwick said, “I’m tired of this crap. If we don’t get information, we’ll find a way to shut you down.” He glared at her and then at the employees.
None of them moved.
Dana said, “Look, why don’t you step down to the corner for a cup of coffee. Let me talk to them. You’re not going to get anywhere by bullying them.”
“I want answers,” Fenwick said.
“Why don’t I just call my lawyer and we’ll all get nowhere together? My lawyer will be happy to slow you down as much as he can.”
“Do you really think he can stop us if we’re determined?”
“Going to run an inspection? Get ten or fifteen cops in here just to check my license?”
“We need to get some questions answered,” Turner said. “We can do it simply and relatively painlessly, or we can go through a big hassle and do it the hard way.”
“I suppose you could shut me down, or ruin the place for good, if it hasn’t been already.” She sighed. “Give me a chance.”
“We’ll give you time to talk to them,” Turner said.
The cops left. Wilson and Roosevelt drove off to pursue one of their own cases. After fifteen minutes in the coffee shop, Fenwick began to get restless. After half an hour, he was drawing faces in the ice on the inside of the huge picture windows.
Thirty-five minutes later, they saw Dana Sickles emerge from her bar. A herd of bundled-up male flesh trailed after her. They quickly scattered. Dana entered the coffee shop alone.
She ordered a cup of coffee and joined them. “Thank you for leaving.”
“Seemed reasonable,” Turner said. “As long as we get some information.”
“I’ve got a couple things for you. If you want to talk to the guys who gave me the information, fine. I got them to agree to that.”
Fenwick grumbled, “How lucky for us.”
“Barnes has moved recently. He’s living in a building on the southeast corner of Belmont and Lake Shore Drive.”
“He can afford that?”
“The guys think he has a sugar daddy.”
“I thought he was straight,” Turner said.
“Are any of these guys really straight? Maybe so, but if you offer a guy enough money, straight or gay, who knows?”
“Name of the guy?” Fenwick asked.
“Can you be a bit less aggressive? I’ve got the drill down.”
She pointed at Turner first, then Fenwick. “You’re ‘good cop’ and he’s ‘bad cop.’ Don’t you get tired of it?”
Fenwick said, “Sometimes we switch.”
“He’s in apartment seventeen-oh-three.”
“How about Mr. Thrust?”
“Couldn’t get a real name out of them. One of the dancers said he went back to Thrust’s apartment with him once to have sex. This was Christmas Eve and Thrust was pretty drunk. None of the other guys said they ever went home with him. It was the first apartment building west of the El tracks on Loyola Avenue. North side of the street. He didn’t remember the address.”
“Name of your source,” Fenwick said.
“You can beat it out of me if you want, copper.” She gave them the names and left.
Turner and Fenwick drove to Belmont and Sheridan. The door to 1703 was opened by a man who Turner thought might be in his late thirties. He wore black jeans and a white banded collar shirt. He frowned at them uncertainly.
“How did you get past the doorman?”
They showed him their identification.
“May we come in, Mr. Rice?” They’d gotten his name from the doorman.
“Certainly.”
As Rice closed the door, another man, clad only in boxer shorts, entered the room. He was in his late teens or early twenties with broad shoulders and a flat stomach.
“This the other two guys?” the boxer shorts man said.
Rice caught sight of him. “This is the police.”
“Oh.” The kid stood uncertainly.
“We’d like to talk to both of you,” Turner said.
The kid sat down on a couch. Rice remained standing. “We’re investigating the murder of Judge Meade,” Turner said.
“Why come here?” Rice asked.
“We need to ask a few questions,” Turner said. He focused on the younger man. “You’re James Barnes?”
“Yeah.”
“You were at Au Naturel on New Year’s Eve?”
He nodded.
“How about you, Mr. Rice?”
“I was home reading a book.”
“A dancer with blond hair was seen talking to Judge Meade that night.”
“Wasn’t me,” the kid said. “I don’t know any Judge Meade. Who is he?” His voice was deep and sensuous. Turner wished he’d put on more clothes.
“He was murdered.”
“Oh, I think I heard about that. Dana’s been calling around for everybody. Somebody told me, but I was planning to quit so I ignored it.”
Fenwick looked at Rice then back to Barnes, “Did you find a better job?”
Rice and Barnes kept silent.
Turner showed Barnes the picture of the judge. “You remember if he gave you money that night?”
“Hundreds of guys gave me money that night. I couldn’t tell you one from another.”
Neither one admitted to anything more. Turner and Fenwick left. Just coming off the elevator as the detectives were entering were two men dressed in black leather from boots to cap. Each carried a large gym bag.
As the doors to the elevator closed Turner said, “Mr. Barnes seems to have gotten himself a fan club.”
Fenwick said, “The authors in the world would be pleased at the amount of reading occurring in Chicago on New Year’s Eve.”
“We’re close to the address on Belmont that Roman Ayres gave us for Carl Schurz.”
They stopped at the halfway house. The social worker in
charge said, “I saw him late yesterday. He didn’t look good. Is he in trouble?”
“We just need to talk to him. He’s a witness in a case.”
“That kid is very fragile. It wouldn’t take much to put him over the edge.”
No one else at the halfway house had seen or admitted to seeing Carl.
In the car Fenwick said, “It’s only a block or so, let’s check on Mr. Thrust on School Street.” Their hunt for 623 was brief. School Street stopped at Clark and became Aldyne. There was no 623. They drove to Rogers Park to investigate the building they’d been given as a place one of the dancers had met with Thrust for sex.
The directry at the apartment house did not list any Thrusts or Lances. Fenwick rang the bell for the manager. A portly gentleman answered. They identified themselves as police officers. He let them into his apartment. He had a pit-bull terrier and about a million plants. The dog growled and snarled even after he was placed behind a closed door.
“Betsy doesn’t like strangers,” he said.
They asked about Lance Thrust.
“No one by that name lives here. Is this a joke?”
Turner remembered that Lance had started work at Au Naturel in January. “Any tenants come to live here in the past year?” Turner asked. “Especially last January?”
“I’ve had six new tenants. I’ll get you their names.” He produced a ledger book. He showed them the names.
“No Lance, no Thrust,” Fenwick said.
Turner didn’t recognize any of the names.
“Any of them young men, probably good looking, in good shape, might belong to a gym?”
“Got to be Malcolm,” the manager said instantly. “Three of the others are women. Two are older guys who are definitely not in shape.”
“Tell us about Malcolm,” Turner urged.
“Not much to tell. He’s very quiet. Always pays his rent on
time. Odd though, he always pays in cash. Most folks write checks. I have to give him a receipt.”
“Anybody else fitting that description move in last year?” Turner asked.
“No. Malcolm’s a looker. One of a kind. Don’t get them that hot around here unless they’re from the university. They usually can’t afford this place and we don’t let them put ten in an apartment. We have strict limits.”
“He wasn’t going to school?”
“Never saw him with any books.”
“Can we see his apartment?”
“What’s he done?”
“We’re investigating a murder.”
“He kill somebody?”
“We just need to talk to him.”
“I guess I could let you in. That’s not violating his rights, is it?”
“Not if you let us in.”
“Oh.”
They followed him into the hall. Behind them, the lobby door swung open. Turner looked back. The evening gloom showed a blond-haired male. Mike Meade stood in the doorway.