By the time Shaw parked the Mercedes, purple dusklight soaked the Central West End. The street with Mark Sevcik’s walk-up was stripped of people for the moment, and Shaw’s footsteps ran ahead of him, magnifying the emptiness until it felt like this block went on for a mile.
But that sense of emptiness only registered on the edge of Shaw’s consciousness. His attention was turned inward, dialed in on an interplay of sensory details and memory that Shaw had only experienced once before. Shaw saw the horizon, where a band of purple swelled and dropped like the pulse on a heart monitor, and he thought of the innermost rim of Matty’s eyes, amethyst crags almost breaking the ring of the iris. Shaw felt the April air, cool and humid, feather the side of his neck, and he thought of the final impression of Matty’s fingers before he pulled his hand away. The door to the Kaldi’s coffee shop opened, and the smell of roasting coffee and cinnamon swirled out on the heels of a well-dressed blonde with a Yorkie under her arm, and Shaw thought about the way coffee had tasted on Matty’s breath that morning, about how much blonder Matty’s hair was than the woman’s, about whether or not Matty liked dogs. The whole world had become an index for Matty Fennmore, the way it had, eight years ago, been an index for North.
North was waiting inside the lobby, and although he’d ditched the UPS hat, he still wore the brown shirt and shorts. Very short shorts. Shorts that showed muscled thighs and calves with thick, blond hair. Sexy UPS guy had been, for Shaw, the object of too many fantasies. Especially when North did his Southie accent. Especially when North tugged open the top of the shirt to expose two inches of chest, a few scant blond hairs shining like sunlight. Except that this time, Shaw found himself wondering not what it might be like to work his fingers under the buttons, to feel the cotton unstick from North’s sweaty chest, but instead what Matty might look like in the uniform.
“What are you smiling about?” North asked as he held the door open for Shaw.
“Your fly’s down.”
North’s hand dipped reflexively.
“Made you look.”
“I didn’t look.”
“You checked.”
“But I didn’t look.”
Shaw took the stairs two at a time, and North thundered after him in those huge Red Wings. When they got to Mark’s apartment at the back of the building, police tape crossed the doorway in an X, and the door was locked.
“Guess your boyfriend didn’t want us poking around in there.” North rattled the handle and shoved. The door slipped from the broken jamb and swung open. “But if he really wanted to be sure, he should have set the deadbolt.”
Shaw slid between the crossed lines of tape. “Do you think you can get through here without breaking the barrier?”
North glared at him.
“It’s those big, macho boots, isn’t it? They’re too heavy, aren’t they?”
“You’re basically wearing carpet samples, Shaw. You don’t have room to talk.”
“Mine are comfortable.”
North raised one foot—exposing a long patch of pale thigh where the shorts slid up—and then wobbled and put his foot back down. “See how comfortable they are when you step on a fucking nail.”
“They’re eco-friendly.”
“That’s going to be a real comfort when you get tetanus.” North tried again, this time sliding the massive Red Wing between the strands of tape before dropping his foot. The whole building seemed to shake with the crash.
“They’re quiet,” Shaw said with a wince.
“Give me a hand.” North was bent double, trying to swing his other leg through without snagging the tape.
“And they’re fair trade.”
“Just give me a hand, please.”
Shaw helped him through, and the building trembled again as North dropped his second foot to the ground.
“Next time I’ll fucking crawl.”
“I’ll get you a pair like mine next time I’m in Barcelona.”
North groaned something, and Shaw thought it sounded like a very long, very muffled fuck me.
They moved through the apartment systematically. Shaw read the room in layers, as though excavating strata of an ancient civilization. The uppermost layer, the most visible and the easiest to read, was the search that the police had conducted. Kitchen drawers had been emptied, their contents strewn across the tile. Cabinet doors hung open. A sack of flour had been poured into the trash, outlining the trash can in white drifts like snowfall. In the living room, the sofa had been overturned, the dust cover slashed, the cushions opened and the foam ripped out in chunks. The bedroom had suffered a similar fate: the mattress and box springs cut, the closet doors ajar, clothes tossed around the room. The signs of Mark’s various interests manifested like the bones of past lives. Two Cardinals jerseys. Cleats. T-shirts branded with games like Destiny and Dragon Age and Call of Duty. In a separate pile, all by itself, was an incandescent white velour robe. Then, in the closet, Shaw found a matching hat and staff and wand. One of the asshole cops—he assumed it was Barr because Reck, even though he was an asshole, didn’t seem like this particular brand of asshole—had snapped the wand in half.
Shaw’s mind turned over a single question: had Reck and Barr had a warrant to search this place? For some reason, he doubted it. And if not, what had prompted them to conduct a warrantless search? Were they banking on an open door and signs of a fight to hold up in court as exigent circumstances? Or did they simply not care? That last possibility opened a door onto a darker world.
The second archaeological layer that Shaw read in the apartment was a fight. In the front room, a sunflower print had been knocked from the wall, and a large hole showed in the canvas. More holes opened the drywall, and gypsum dust sprinkled the baseboards and the carpet. The dining room table had been overturned. A glass had shattered against the wall. The fight had carried past the front room. Someone had kicked straight through the television in Sevcik’s bedroom. Someone had gone into the bathroom, his blood forming a long, blurred track on the wall, as though he had stumbled—been kicked? punched?—and tried to catch himself.
The third and final layer was the life that Mark had lived before the fight. In the bathroom, Shaw found two different types of hair product: a paste for short, messy hair, and a styling mousse that looked like what Mark Sevcik—from the pictures Shaw had seen—might have used. He found two crusty spots in the toothbrush holder. He found bar soap and a body wash—although someone, presumably Barr, had squeezed out all the body wash to check that nothing was hidden inside. In the bedroom, Shaw found a pair of neon-red bikini briefs under the overturned hamper, although the rest of the underwear in the room was boxers. He found a Marx Brothers DVD in the front room; the cable box was set to ESPN2.
Shaw found North in the bedroom. He was sorting clothes.
“You can do my room next.”
North threw him the finger without looking up.
“What do you think about this?” Shaw asked, tossing the Marx Brothers DVD.
“He had a boyfriend.” North tossed aside the DVD.
“What—how did you—”
“Come on. The toothpaste crust?”
“I know, but—”
“Help me out.”
“Want to tell me what you’re doing?”
“Figuring out who Mark Sevcik was. Take that pile over there.”
They sorted the clothes by style and, as best they could guess, by age. North was surprisingly informed about the rise and fall of clothing trends; Shaw deferred to him on all of it because Shaw barely remembered what he had in his own closet from day to day. The general sorting, however, showed a definite pattern: a large pile of clothes that North kept calling business casual, and he said it like he had a mouthful of dog turds; then a second, smaller pile of t-shirts branded with video games and energy drinks and anime shows—again, North seemed oddly well-informed—as well as hoodies, joggers, mesh shorts and a yellow and black cloth belt with the words Fuck Off woven into the pattern. Then there was the wizard robe, hat, staff, and broken wand. Then there were the two Cardinals jerseys and a pair of battered cleats. And then a flapper-style dress with a beaded fringe. And then there was a final pile: a t-shirt that said Hungry? Hog Hollow Hocks, Loins, and Ribs, with a big stain that might have been blood; four more Hog Hollow t-shirts—these only had the logo; a John Deere cap; a pair of loose fitting, boot-cut jeans; and a pair of snakeskin boots.
“So what the fuck does this tell us?” North muttered, hands on his hips, the smell of his sweat and Irish Spring soap so strong that Shaw felt claustrophobic.
“You know way more about clothes than you pretend to.”
“I had to learn to keep up with all you fucking Chouteau boys.”
“And you know way, way, way more about anime than I would have ever guessed.”
“There was a twink sophomore year. That’s all he would talk about.”
“Right.”
“Wouldn’t fucking shut up about it.”
“Sophomore year?”
“You wouldn’t remember him. I never brought him around.”
“Oh, ok.”
North grunted.
“It’s just.”
A low rumble had started in North’s chest.
“Was he a time traveler?”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Never mind. I don’t want to know. Can we drop this anime shit? I already told you about the twink. Sophomore year.”
“Right, right. It’s just, I did a quick google. And this—” Shaw toed one of the shirts. “This one didn’t even come out until last year.”
North’s head came up slowly. He fixed Shaw with a look that was pure, frozen murder. And he bit off his words. “It was a lucky guess.”
After another look at North’s face, Shaw nodded frantically. Outside, a horn blared, and then came a peal of drunken laughter, with somebody yelling, “Get out of the fucking road.” Tires squealed, and an engine roared. More drunken laughter filtered through the noise as the car raced away.
Only then did North seem to think he had made his point, and he lowered his gaze to the clothing and asked, as though nothing had happened: “So. What does this tell us?”
“Sometimes people hide their nerdy obsessions because, well, they’re afraid that their best friends might think they’re nerdy. Only, their best friends would never think that because they already know they’re nerdy. Like their best friends remember the time they assigned everybody on the dorm floor the name of a Star Trek character, and that was—” Shaw swallowed at the look on North’s face. “—a purely hypothetical example.”
North waited.
A dog barked furiously on the street for fifteen seconds.
North was still waiting.
The dog yelped, the sound fading into the distance, and then the bell on the Kaldi’s door chirped.
North was still, still waiting.
“You know what?” Shaw said. “I think I remembered that wrong. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard the name of a single Star Trek character. Ever.”
North grunted in approval and then squatted to examine the closest pile of clothes. “This is schizophrenic,” he said, touching first the cleats, then the snakeskin boots, then the wizard staff, then the flapper dress. “This is beyond schizo.”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to say stuff like that anymore. Especially not schizo.”
“What do you call a guy with like fifteen different personalities in his closet? And don’t make a lame gay-in-the-closet joke, please.”
“Low hanging fruit,” Shaw said. He stepped back, and then back again until he could see everything—including the bulge of North’s powerful thighs, which the short shorts did nothing to conceal. “It’s like his Facebook page.”
North cocked his head.
“He went through phases. Finance bro.” Shaw pointed to the business casual clothes. “Fratty softball guy.” He nudged the jerseys. “Video games—Xbox, I think—and—”
“Wizard?” North said sourly, holding up the broken wand.
“Dungeons and Dragons.”
“Didn’t you play—”
“And drag, I guess.” Shaw held up the flapper dress. “It might fit me.”
“Of course it would fit you. You’ve got no hips.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s not a compliment. What about this?” North pinched the stained Hog Hollow t-shirt and lifted it clear of the pile before dropping it again.
“Redneck phase?”
“Gays don’t go through redneck phases.”
“I don’t know. The cowboy thing, that’s kind of hot.”
“Really?”
“Well, I mean—”
“Because that would explain the leather chaps you’ve got in your dresser.”
Shaw was pretty sure he swallowed a fly because he was suddenly choking on something.
“All three pairs.”
Yep. Yep. Definitely a fly. Shaw pounded on his chest, trying to get his throat open, trying to get some air.
“I mean, it’s not really my thing,” North was saying. “But maybe Matty’s into it.”
“He’s not—I wouldn’t have—”
North’s face was innocent, eyebrows raised.
“They’re not mine,” Shaw finally managed to say.
“You’re just holding them for a friend.”
“Exactly.”
North stood and examined the piles of clothing again. “Somebody’s been in here, right? and we’ve got a narrow pool of suspects. Matty has been here. He told us that.”
“He said he couldn’t find his way back here.”
“He might be lying.” Before Shaw could protest, North continued, “Brueckmann knew where Mark lived. Hell, he owns the place. Regina—damn. Regina didn’t know.”
“Not necessarily,” Shaw said. “Regina was at Teddi’s brunch. She might have overheard what you and Teddi talked about. Or she might have asked Teddi later. It’s not like Teddi’s a vault, you know.”
“So she could have come here too.”
“And we know Barr and Reck were here. So that’s our five.”
“Do you think someone found the recording?”
North shrugged. He was staring at the clothes. “Two jerseys. One wizard robe. A lot of t-shirts with fucking Voltron—”
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“—and then work clothes. He needed to keep his closet organized.”
“Not necessarily. I’ve never organized my closet.”
“You live in a house entirely by yourself. And you’re a fucking pig.”
“Hey.”
North shrugged. “This guy had a boyfriend—you don’t—and this guy had hobbies—you don’t—and this guy had a limited income—you don’t.”
“Hey!”
“So he had to prioritize. He had to organize his closet.” North pointed to the jerseys. “Most importantly, he had to downsize. The oldest stuff is what he has the least of. Every time he got a new idea, he had to pare back, and the oldest stuff was probably the first to go. Drag. Jerseys and cleats. Wizard robe. That’s the oldest stuff. The stuff he was into more recently—God only knows why he picked fucking Voltron—”
Shaw cleared his throat.
“—there’s a lot more of. And the work clothes. He was still working until a few months ago, so he’s got to have work clothes.”
“What about these?” Shaw asked, bending to pick up the Hog Hollow Hocks shirt.
“Pigs and Pups. That’s what’s leftover from when he was Brueckmann’s pet, at least, that’s what I think. The pig, get it? He’s Brueckmann’s pig.”
Shaw rubbed the cotton between his fingers. It was soft from repeated washings. He brought it to his nose. Breathed. And when he lowered the shirt, he was grinning.
“Perv,” North said. “I should have let Brueckmann keep you in that kennel.”
“I was the one who got out first, for the record. And I didn’t have to kick my way out like an old mule.”
“Like an old—”
Before North could finish, Shaw tossed the shirt, and it caught North in the face. North swore, grabbed the garment, and then froze. When he pulled the shirt away, he said, “Barbeque sauce.”
“I don’t think that’s leftover from his sub phase,” Shaw said. “I think that’s leftover from whoever Mark Sevcik was before he started trying on all these different personalities. I think this is good old boy Mark’s favorite barbeque joint. And to judge by the boots and the jeans and t-shirt, he went back a lot. Maybe he felt like he could actually be himself. Or maybe even that was starting to become a role.”
“That’s some pretty lousy armchair psychology.”
“Lucky for me, I get paid by the hour.”
North dropped the shirt and started tapping on his phone. “Would you believe Hog Hollow Hocks, Loins, and Ribs is a barbeque joint out in Chesterfield?”
“Chesterfield? Not Affton? Or Arnold? Or Crystal City?”
“People in Chesterfield like barbeque too. Let’s go take a look.”
“I’ll drive,” Shaw said. “Please?”