CHAPTER

ELEVEN

Emilia: But did you ever tell him she was false?

Iago: I did.

Emilia: You told a lie, an odious, damned lie; upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.

I DREW IN A BREATH AND BEGAN, “TWENTY YEARS ago, John, Stephen and Rodney Jessup met in the Hercules Theater in New York City. They knew each other for three months.” In my mind, I could see the theater on 8^th Avenue, the one I turned tricks in so many times, the men huddled in the corner, hunched in the seats.

John was slumped on the couch, his face in his hands.

“Do you understand what that means?” I asked. “Stephen’s a threat. He can ruin the reputation of a man who’s running for President.”

John looked up; his eyes were red and swollen.

“Jessup’s powerful, John. Even if he doesn’t have a chance in hell, Stephen can still knock him out of the race. Jessup might fear extortion. Stephen could earn millions on the talk show circuit, not to mention the book sales.”

“Stephen’s not a blackmailer and he wouldn’t stoop to tabloid journalism.”

I sat beside him and put my arm around his shoulders. John sunk against my chest. I thought of the money Stephen mentioned. Half a million dollars.

***

The police from District Four finished their investigation about 3 a.m. After rousing a neighbor, John phoned the police and asked for Chris Spinetti, but was told he was “out of the car.” The two cops who prowled through the apartment told us that Detective Spinetti was on a case and promised to get here when he could, but not to wait up, he would knock. As if anyone could get any sleep now. One of the cops shot me a lecherous smile, as if he pictured some early morning ménage a trois organized by the distraught host. The thought repulsed me. Every District Four cop must have known about the rumors swirling around Chris. The detective, if he was in the closet, was a ticking bomb: A man challenged by societal conventions and stereotypes, still coping with the frightening reality of his sexuality, living alone and poor compared to his married standards, loathed by a good deal of his fellow Americans, and, most likely, ridiculed by his fellow officers.

It promised to be a bumpy night.

The cops questioned John and me. We recounted the evening, including my conversation with Rodney Jessup. Jessup, of course, had the perfect alibi, being in a bar with me during Stephen’s disappearance. One of the cops, Officer Handman, whose flesh ridged like a stack of pancakes under his uniform, pulled on his belt buckle and explained that a kidnapping “might have occurred,” although he was treating the case as a simple burglary for now. If John wanted to file a missing persons report, he could do that, Handman explained. John, agitated and hoping Stephen would walk in the door any minute, dismissed kidnapping and paced nervously in the living room while the cops talked to us. John reported that he could find nothing missing. The only real damage was to the front door and a few kitchen glasses. However, the apartment was a mess. No drawer, file, or shelf had been untouched. The cops got fingerprint dust everywhere, but promised nothing in the way of results. They might find only the occupants’ prints, they said.

The only clear lead was the computer screen. Aryan America. But the words could have been written to throw everyone off track. John had saved the language without disturbing evidence— at least that’s what he thought. Officer Handman told John the computer might have to be confiscated later in the investigation.

After the cops gathered their information, they told John to “sit tight” and keep his hands off everything until Chris or another detective could come and conduct a more thorough investigation. Community Disorders would follow up, Handman said. He talked about the possibility of FBI involvement. John told them in a thick voice that he would wait as long as needed.

I wanted to go home, but John asked me to stay until he could get in touch with Win Hart. “The whole thing makes me so fucking mad,” he yelled as he dialed Win. “I feel like I’ve been raped. Stephen hasn’t come home and all I can think about is the fucking mess in this apartment. Shit.” A few moments later, he got Win on the phone.

I understood what he was feeling: Security, comfort, and love had disappeared in one evening. Everything—the books, the stereo, the classical music, the fireplace—everything that had cheered them through their seasons together in Boston was meaningless now.

I walked to the bay window and looked out toward the hazy yellow light that rose above the eastern rooftops. Through the maple leaves, a few low clouds shimmered like pearls in the reflected city light. The room was in that strange time between light and dark, when objects took on a heightened dimension. The reds and blues in the oriental carpet gathered into liquid patterns as brilliant as stained glass on a sunny afternoon. The walls seemed there and not there—transparent and opaque at the same time. I clutched the top of the settee and felt as alone as John, or as alone as I imagined Stephen must be at that moment. When John came back into the room with a soda water in hand, I was shaking with fear. I turned quickly to the window and mumbled about the sunrise. I hated the Bay Village fortune teller. I knew Stephen was in danger, possibly dead. At least that was what I felt. I wanted to tell John, but I couldn’t.

John leaned against the broken door frame. “I feel like shit,” he said. He walked back to the kitchen and returned with two aspirins, which he swigged down with the water. He threw me a pack of cigarettes he’d found buried under the potholders, apparently Stephen’s hiding place in the kitchen. I was dying for a smoke. I asked him if we could sit on the stoop and watch the sun come up. John, in his numbness, agreed.

“Skinheads,” I said as we sat on the top step. I inhaled a deep drag and the smoke immediately gave me a nicotine lift.

John, still in his tux, leaned against the concrete stair well.

“The knife I showed Stephen came from one of them. Maybe there’s a connection.”

John turned his head and spit out the words savagely. “Don’t even think it! It’s not true. He’s drunk. He got cold feet about us, or he’s seeing someone else…something, anything.”

I saw Win Hart round the corner at Columbus Avenue. He was the kind of man who looked jaunty no matter the situation. He bounced down the street, concerned but confident, carrying three paper bags in his hands.

“Soup’s on,” he yelled from half a block away. “Egg drop. Guaranteed to calm you down.”

John managed a weak smile when Win arrived. “I can’t eat,” he said.

“Eat,” Win ordered. “I didn’t call this order in at four in the morning for nothing. Voilà. Chinese breakfast in a jiffy.” Win stroked John’s head and then put the bags on the landing. “So, tell me what’s up.” Win pulled plastic forks and spoons, bowls and plates from one of the bags. He ripped open another and poured out generous portions of soup. John lifted his bowl and stared into the steaming liquid. Next came a carton of chicken with pea pods.

“Cody was telling me that Stephen may have been kidnapped by skinheads,” John said.

“I didn’t say that.”

Win rolled his eyes. “Pardon me, but what the hell was all that crap about tonight. I thought Stephen was over the edge. Death threats? Was he serious?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I said.

“Get out,” Win replied. “Why would anyone want to kill Stephen? I mean, everybody loves him. He’s gentle, kind, and, no offense, an ordinary guy. God knows, he isn’t rich.”

“Money’s hardly the object,” I said. “There are other reasons.”

John sniffed and wiped tears from his eyes.

“Oh, God, John,” Win said. “Forgive me. I’ve been an asshole.” He reached over and gave John a kiss on the cheek. “Maybe we should go inside.”

John pushed his plastic spoon into the bowl and the handle snapped. “The place is a mess.” He turned to me. “I swear to God, Cody, if you know something, you have to tell the police.”

I thought of Chris Spinetti and froze. John picked up on my reluctance.

“I’m talking about Stephen, not some unknown victim. If you don’t talk to the police, I’ll make sure they talk to you.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Or you can find Stephen yourself.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll find Stephen.” All I had to do was look at John and think about the missing friend who meant so much to me and the decision was made. It was that easy.

“Let’s go in,” John said. “I can clear places at the table. Can you stay, Win? I think a detective will be here soon.”

Win and I carried in the food while John went downstairs to change. Win’s mouth opened as he surveyed the apartment.

“I’m glad we’re alone,” Win said. “Something weird happened while we were at the dinner.”

I was all ears.

“A young guy, kind of cute, was hanging out at the Body Club about the time the dinner started, but he looked rougher than the usual types you see outside the gym.”

“Who told you this?”

“Jay, our boss. I called him after I got home to tell him about the evening. I mean, with Stephen walking out and John being so upset….”

Win lowered his eyes as if he was embarrassed about the call.

“Go on,” I said.

“Well, Jay said this guy looked like a skinhead—his words— short hair, long sideburns, black jeans, a white T-shirt, high-top boots, a swastika tattooed on one arm. Gave Jay the creeps. Jay wasn’t certain at first, because you know how some of the leather sisters get off on that shit, but a swastika—come on. In poor taste, if you ask me, even for Halloween. Some of the gym queens complained because they were getting creeped out, too. So, Jay told this guy to move his ass away from the club. Jay swore the guy said, ‘fucking faggot,’ under his breath, and then gave him a look that was downright frightening.”

I thought of Clay, but I knew it wasn’t him. There was no swastika on either of his arms. “Did he do anything else?”

“No. Just watched a couple of boys go in, like he was cruising them. Then he left.”

“The BIC dinner was publicized, right?”

“All the gay rags, some fliers.”

“Was Stephen mentioned?”

“Yeah. The ads said he was the keynote speaker.” Win looked toward the kitchen. “Stephen’s always been too serious. God, I don’t want to upset John.”

We heard John rattling around in the kitchen. He reappeared, attired in jeans and a short-sleeve shirt, with three bowls of hot rice on a tray.

We were all exhausted. At least Win had grabbed some sleep before John’s call. We ate in silence at the table, and then, ignoring the cops warning about touching anything, settled in the living room after replacing the chair cushions. The room was growing brighter by the minute. I looked at my watch—it was a few minutes before 5 a.m.

“I should be going,” I said. “I really need some sleep.”

“Not yet, Cody,” John said. “Wait a few more minutes.”

“Where the hell is Chris?” I asked, irritated by my captivity.

“He’ll be here,” John snapped. “Go downstairs and sleep if you want. I can’t.”

I got up and paced the room. John put a few books back on the shelf. Win found the television remote and turned on a cable channel. An old John Wayne movie was playing. Win switched to CNN after a few minutes, complaining that he couldn’t watch the slaughter of Native Americans in the name of westward expansion.

Slaughter got me to thinking about skinheads and Clay. Krieger, or someone like him, must have been looking for Stephen for months. I ached and my stomach hurt. I never used to ache or get scared because I obliterated those feelings with drugs or alcohol; but now that I was clean and sober, I had to face all the shit that life threw my way. It would have been very easy to walk out of the apartment and leave John to his troubles. After all, Stephen wasn’t my lover. I really didn’t have to be so concerned about what was happening to him. Who was I kidding? I cared a great deal about him and I was getting much too wrapped up in this whole mess.

I left John and Win and walked into the dining room determined to do a bit of detective work on my own. Stephen’s empty computer cart sat surrounded by papers, books, manila folders, and letters, some sealed, some ragged and open. I attempted to be casual about my snooping. Nothing much on the floor struck my interest: bills, magazine solicitations, a letter from Stephen’s parents, the usual stuff. The books didn’t promise much either, except for one. It was a small blue book, but after I opened the cover and saw the handwriting, I knew what I had. It was Stephen’s diary—dated entries that might hold some clue. I wanted this book before Chris or any of the cops from District Four got their hands on it. Knowing Stephen, he probably kept his diary a secret from John, who would never miss it.

I was plotting a maneuver to palm the diary and shove it down my boot when John, laughing maniacally, appeared at the dining room entrance. I casually shoved the book under some papers on the cart, hoping to come back to it later.

“You’ve got to see this, Des,” John said, and then waved several pages in the air. Win, half asleep, looked up from the couch.

“Stephen got the funniest letter yesterday.” John’s voice cracked and then his mood shifted, like someone flirting with sorrow and joy and not knowing which one to settle down with for the evening.

“Dear Mr. Cross,” John read aloud. “Because of your record of support for conservative causes, and your belief in the basic values of America, I am appealing to you to open your pockets in this time of need.”

John snickered. “Once Stephen got a certificate proclaiming him a member in good standing of that other party. He ripped it up and tossed it in the fireplace.”

He continued reading, “As our country struggles with issues that will shape it into the next century and as I begin my exploratory campaign for the presidency, I need your dollars and your support. We have achieved great victories, but the battle has just started.

“It goes on from there.” John stopped and looked at me. “It’s from the Council for Religious Advancement, signed, ‘In Christian Love, Rodney Jessup.’ When Stephen was reading it he got very frisky. We ended up in bed and both laughed about it.”

I saw no humor in the letter and wondered how Stephen got on Jessup’s mailing list. Was this a perverse joke, or an example of Jessup’s warped sense of humor after Stephen’s phone calls? Had Stephen’s name been mentioned in the higher circles of the Council, or was this an error caused by some scatter-brained employee who crossed lists at a direct mail house? Or maybe Jessup dared to be smug because Stephen wasn’t telling the truth. But why would he lie? Stephen had written plenty of damning articles—enough to be the target of more than a few groups. He was well aware of the risks and the enemies he made.

The buzzer vibrated on the wall and the outside door squeaked open. John dropped the letter on the mantle and turned. All eyes were directed at the apartment door just in time to see Chris Spinetti. Boston’s most enigmatic detective looked as if he’d been up all night. He was wearing a white shirt and tan chinos, but the shirt looked as rumpled and creased as he did. Great dark half-circles underlined his deeply set eyes. He carried a black briefcase and a cup of coffee. The detective’s mouth curled when he saw me.

“Stephen home yet?” Chris asked in a weary voice. John shook his head.

“Filed a missing persons report?”

“Not yet,” John answered. “The cops didn’t seem to think it was necessary until after we had talked.”

“Half the time, they don’t fucking know what they’re talking about.” Chris glared at me and then directed his question to John. “Does he have to be here?”

“Yes. Only Stephen matters.”

“Some interviews need to be private.”

“Fuck privacy,” John said matter-of-factly. “This is about Stephen and we need all the help we can get.”

Chris took a few steps in and looked into the dining room. “Did a number, huh?” He turned to John. “Sorry, it’s been a long night. We’ll find him. District may put another detective on the case. Anything we say now is outside policy.” Chris motioned for Win to move his legs so he could sit on the settee. Win complied, but not before giving me a look.

The detective withdrew a yellow legal pad and pen from his briefcase. “Could Stephen be somewhere else?” he asked. “A party? Drunk? Stoned?”

John looked incredulous. “Stephen? At six o’clock in the morning? He’d be home. He would never be that drunk and he doesn’t do drugs.”

“Got to ask. Has Stephen been out? You know, fucking around?”

John’s face flushed.

“Look,” Chris said. “Do you want to find him or not? A guy leaves a hotel and doesn’t come home. Could be a million reasons, could be one. You’ve got to start somewhere.”

“I understand,” John said, “but Stephen would never do that.”

“Just asking. Temptation’s out there. I saw Stephen at the Déjà Vu.”

“He went to find you,” I said. “He wasn’t fucking around.” The detective turned to me and his eyes had that beady “back off” expression. “What about you, Cody? You been fucking around?”

I took the bait in the detective’s provocation. “I don’t think we’re in the same league, Chris.”

Win sighed. “You guys are talking trash and getting nothing accomplished.”

The detective glared at me. “What do you know about this?”

“Not much; however, the street does speak to me. Alas, alack, Chris, I like not this unnatural dealing.”

“Cut the crap. Speak English.”

“It’s the King’s English, Chris. Your problem is you can’t see beyond your Hollywood face. The answer may be right in front of us.”

“Then start talking,” the detective demanded.

“It’s nothing definitive.”

“If you’re withholding information, you’ll be crawling on a cell floor with the rest of the cock…roaches.”

“Don’t be such a goddamn cop. If I knew anything I’d tell you.” I stifled my urge to bash him in the head.

John interrupted our argument in a voice that rang out strong and steady in the room. “Tell him about the knife, Cody.”

Blood rushed to my head.

Chris’s eyes lit up like a man who had found the Holy Grail. “What knife?” he asked and for the first time he smiled at me.

John answered in a flat, unaffected voice before I could answer, “Aryan America.”

“The skinheads?” Chris asked.

“Read Stephen’s computer screen in our bedroom,” John added, to drive the point deeper.

I saw red for a moment; John had betrayed me to a cop I loathed. I pushed back my anger—now was not the time to lose my composure. I didn’t want to make up a story that would trap me later.

“A guy got into my building early Sunday morning. His name is Clay and he used to be a member of Aryan America—not anymore. He was a trick. That’s all. He left his knife.” I lifted it carefully out of my boot and handed it to Chris, who motioned for me to put it next to him on the settee.

He took two latex gloves from his briefcase, put them on, unrolled the cloth and looked at the weapon. A low whistle erupted from his mouth. I assumed dried blood got the detective excited. I didn’t know what else he might be reacting to.

Chris leaned back with a confident smile on his face. I’d never seen him look so happy, glowing like a bride on her wedding day. “Clay Krieger, former skinhead, thug, hustler, piece of shit. Found in a dumpster a few hours ago in an alley off Tremont Street. Been dead about a day. His throat was cut. The Combat Zone Killer strikes again. I’m all over this one. Been in the Zone lately, Cody?”

The detective’s smile turned to a smirk.

My heart skipped a few beats and suddenly I felt cold.

“Damn,” Winn said and leaned forward on the couch.

Spinetti chuckled. I smelled “gloat” all over him. He folded the cloth over the knife, placed the bundle in his briefcase and closed it.

“Are you in the mood to travel?” Chris asked me. “How about a little trip to District? I’m going to look around here first, then we can go. Don’t run off.” He turned to John. “Got some coffee?”

“Regular okay?”

“Fine.”

John, barely giving me a glance, brushed past me on the way to the kitchen. Chris nosed his way through the living room and then the dining room. I sat next to Win, who shook his head and plastered himself against the opposite end of the settee as far away from me as possible. The automatic coffee machine gurgled in the kitchen. I watched Chris, hoping he wouldn’t pick up the diary I had stashed on the computer table. Chris, of course, had always been out to get me. Clay’s knife was gold in his lap. I needed to formulate a plan—quickly.

Chris and John wandered about the rooms, coffee cups in hand, Chris smug and John reserved, talking about every item in the room. Their voices faded as they moved downstairs. Win scrunched up his face in disbelief. I was clearly not welcome on the same piece of furniture, so I moved to the chair. Since Stephen had dropped by my apartment to inform me of the first Combat Zone killing, I found myself on increasing occasions wishing for alcohol or drugs—in this case a black beauty and some speed to wash away my growing fatigue.

Win studied me with tired eyes. “I can’t believe this. This is too freaky for me.”

I waited for the next question—one he couldn’t force himself to ask. I headed him off at the pass. “Don’t worry. I didn’t kill Clay Krieger.”

Win eyed me stonily. We sat, silent, listening to the shuffle downstairs.

When I could take the silent treatment no longer, I walked into the kitchen for a drink of water. On the way back, I paused in front of the computer table—enough time to pick up the diary. I was fairly sure Win hadn’t seen my movement, since he was looking out the bay window. I reached down. There was barely enough room to shove the book between my pants leg and the boot top. I returned to the chair.

John and Chris came back up the stairs about twenty minutes later as solemn as priests.

Chris opened his briefcase and dropped his pad inside. “I’ll contact Community Disorders and file a missing person’s report,” he told John. The detective closed his briefcase, pointed at me and then the door. “Let’s cruise, Des.”