“ROD? I’M REALLY sorry.”
The boy slowly got to his feet. He was tall, an even six-footer at least, but hunched his shoulders slightly, making him seem shorter. The object he’d been carrying was a backpack. He picked it up with one hand, and with the other tamped down a mass of greasy, black hair. There was a stubborn patch of acne on his chin and a faint trace of beard on his cheeks. His clothes—slacks, a white shirt, a blue blazer—were dusty and soiled. The sweaty, sour smell of fear issued from his thin body. Only his eyes were beautiful—large, dark, clear: his sister’s eyes.
“That’s okay,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Someone broke into my house recently. I’m a little jumpy. Come inside,” I said, unlocking the door. I led him into the kitchen and automatically set about making a pot of coffee. “How did you get here?”
He fell into a chair, dropping his backpack. “I ran away at the airport. We had to fly to San Francisco to catch a plane to Salt Lake. When they started calling our flight, I told my Dad I had to use the bathroom. As soon as I saw him board the plane, I ran outside and jumped on a bus that took me to San Francisco. I wandered around there for a day deciding what to do. I went to the Greyhound station to buy a bus ticket to here, but I only had enough money to get to Santa Barbara. I hitchhiked the rest of the way.”
“Why didn’t you call Phil Wise in San Francisco?”
“I only talked to him once. I didn’t know if he would help me. I knew you would.”
“You look like you’ve been traveling for weeks.”
He grinned with shy pride. “I know. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“When did you get into LA?”
“Yesterday. My ride dropped me off at the beach. I slept there last night and then I started walking to your house. This is a big city. It took me all day.”
“You walked here from the beach? Why didn’t you call me?”
“I needed time to think,” he said.
“To think about what, Rod?”
“Everything that’s happened since my dad told me he knew about you and Mr. Wise. It’s been like bam! bam! bam! One thing after another.” His voice trembled. “And this city, it’s so big, Mr. Rios. There are so many people and all of them look like they hate being here. It’s totally overwhelming.”
“Especially on an empty stomach. I’ll order some takeout while you clean up,” I said. “I’ll show you the guest bathroom. You can take a shower if you want.”
“I don’t have any other clothes,” he said.
“We’re about the same size,” I replied. “You can borrow a pair of jeans and a tee shirt.” I glanced at his feet; they were boats. “You’re on your own for shoes.”
He started to laugh, then broke down, shaking and sobbing. I didn’t understand why an offer of clothes should have that effect on him, but then I hadn’t spent two days on the road, running away from parents who wanted to commit me to a psychiatric hospital to a stranger who might or might not take me in. And I hadn’t been sixteen in nearly thirty years, but I remembered, dimly, that emotionally, sixteen was like walking over a suspension bridge in a high wind, and if you were gay on top of it, those winds could reach hurricane velocity. Whatever the trigger, he had earned his tears.
I squeezed his shoulder. “It’s all right, Rod. Everything will work out.”
He wrapped his arms around my waist and buried his face in my stomach.
I watched him empty carton after carton of Chinese food, pausing only to ask, “What’s this?” before he inhaled it. Cleaned and combed, in a white tee shirt and black jeans, he looked as wholesome as a Gap ad except for the incipient worry lines that bracketed his mouth and furrowed his forehead. As he drank a liter of Coke, I remembered the line from Robert Frost, “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” But it wasn’t any kid stuff that had etched those hard lines in his face or caused the hurt in his eyes. He explained what had happened after an anonymous caller told his father Rod was about to abducted by two adult homosexuals.
“He said you and Mr. Wise would torture me and murder me,” Rod said between bites of kung pao chicken. “Like that guy who kept people in his refrigerator …”
“Jeffrey Dahmer,” I said. “What did you tell your father when he confronted you?”
“I told him the truth,” he said. “I said you were lawyers who were going to help me stop him from sending me to a mental hospital. I told him I wasn’t crazy, I was just gay, and that’s how I was born and nothing was going to change it.”
“How did he take that?”
“He hit me. He said he was going to beat the devil out of me. My mom had to stop him. He told me to pack.” He mashed a grain of rice with his fork. “My dad never hit me before. Never.”
“He panicked. People don’t behave very well when they panic.”
He stuffed another bite of food into his mouth and chewed anxiously. “What’s going to happen to me?”
I’d been expecting the question, and dreading it. Rod was now a runaway, but that didn’t change his legal status as an unemancipated minor subject to the control of his parents. Pending the outcome of the petition Phil had filed in juvenile court, I was duty-bound to notify Rod’s parents of his whereabouts and return him to them. They would then ship him off to Utah and remove him from the California court’s jurisdiction. If I harbored him until the court acted on the petition, I would be breaking various laws including, but not limited to, contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Moreover, I couldn’t even tell Phil that Rod was in my custody without putting him in the position of either having to disclose Rod’s whereabouts to the court or risk contempt by refusing.
“I don’t know yet,” I said. “Phil filed the petition to declare you a ward of the court. It’s set for hearing next week. We’ll have to show up for that.”
He frowned. “What if my parents try to take me back?”
“You’ll be with Phil and me.”
“What if the court says I have to go with them?”
“Then you’d have to go with them,” I said, “but we could ask the court to order them to keep you in the state until the case is resolved.”
“You know they’ll send me away,” he said.
“They would be breaking the law.”
“My dad says there’s man’s law and there’s God’s law, and if there’s a conflict, a Christian has to follow God’s law.” He pushed his plate away. “If the court makes me go back to them, you’ll never see me again.”
“If I don’t return you to your parents, then I’ll be breaking the law and unlike your father, it’s the only law I have. Anyway, we both know they’ll come looking for you here.”
He bolted from the table outside to the deck. I went after him and found him searching the red night sky.
“Rod …”
“This girl in my history class gave a report on the Underground Railway for Black History Month,” he said. “She said there were people who would take the slaves from the South to Canada by following the Big Dipper.” He pointed to the faint glimmer of the constellation above a row of palm trees. “They stayed in safe houses on the way. I was looking at the Big Dipper last night on the beach. I thought I would be safe here.”
“You can’t run away from being a minor, unfortunately. When you’re eighteen, your parents won’t be able to touch you.”
He turned, leaned his thin frame against the railing, and looked at me. “What is it like to be gay?”
“What do you mean, Rod?”
“You’ve been gay all your life,” he said. “What is it like? You live alone, don’t you?”
“I haven’t always lived alone,” I said. “My lover died about a year ago.”
“He had AIDS?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you?”
“No, Rod, not every gay man has AIDS.”
“When I was in San Francisco,” he said, “I found the gay neighborhood, what’s it called? Castro Street. I saw a man in a wheelchair. His face had purple scars and he was so skinny I couldn’t believe he was alive. He had AIDS.”
“Probably,” I said.
“I guess I was staring at him because he asked if I was cruising him. I mean, he’s half-dead and still thinking about sex.” He crossed his arms. “There were men in leather clothes, and guys dressed up like nuns with their faces painted like clowns. I didn’t see anyone my age. They were all old. They didn’t look happy.”
“You can’t tell by looking at someone whether they’re happy or not.”
“Are you?”
“You mean, am I happy to be homosexual?”
He nodded. I sat down at the edge of the chaise lounge where Josh had spent his last days lying bundled up in the sun, staring at the sky. I looked at the thin, dark-haired boy and saw myself at sixteen, the age when I also realized I was gay, and tried to think what answer I would have wanted to hear to his question. I knew that answer, but it wasn’t the one I could provide. I couldn’t tell Rod that once he came out his troubles would be over.
“Happy and unhappy are feelings, Rod,” I said. “They come and go and they don’t have much to do with character. I mean, the worst person in the world may be happier than the best person in the world, but which one would you rather be?”
After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “I would rather be happy. I don’t know if I can find that out here, but I know what’s waiting for me at home. I’m not sure I’m going to make it to eighteen if you send me back.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll think of something. I’ll find you a safe house.”
I put him to bed in the guest room and pondered my next move. Gradually, I formulated a plan. The first step involved calling Richie. I reached his answering machine, which now said, “Miss Otis regrets … You know the rest.” When I said “urgent,” he picked up.
“It had better be urgent,” he sniped. “It’s eleven o’clock at night. I’m getting cold cream all over the phone.”
“I need a favor from you, Richie,” I said. “A very big favor.”
“A big favor? That calls for a cigarette.” I heard him strike a match. “All right.”
“Rod Morse turned up at my doorstep tonight.”
“I thought his evil parents shipped him off to the snake pit in Utah.”
“He ran away at the airport.”
“You go, girl!” Richie said. “Good for him.”
“But not so good for his case,” I said, and explained why.
“You’re not going to send him back to the Himmlers,” Richie said.
“His parents? No, I can’t bring myself to do it,” I replied. “But I can’t keep him here, either. They’ll come looking for him, Richie. I was hoping you’d take him in.”
“Me? Why me, Henry? I don’t know anything about kids.”
“You’re paying his legal bill,” I pointed out.
“Writing checks is one thing, changing diapers is another.”
“He’s sixteen, Richie.”
“Oh, great, he probably wears black tee shirts, listens to heavy metal and sniffs hair spray out of paper bags.”
“He’s a nice kid, naive, scared. You were institutionalized when you were a kid, Richie. You must know how he’s feeling.”
After a moment, he said, “How long?”
“A week or two, max,” I said.
“Well, it would be fun to have someone to watch movies with,” he allowed. “That’s all I’m doing these days.”
“Great,” I said, “you can screen the great camp classics for him. I doubt if he’s seen them. Just tread gently.”
“What does that mean?” he asked waspishly.
“Like I said, Richie, he’s naive. His parents have been filling his head with scary ideas about gay people …”
“Are you calling me scary?”
“You can be a little overwhelming. It’s just a matter of bringing your fabulousness down a notch or two.”
“You asshole!”
“I’m trying to protect him.”
“Against what? The parts of fag culture you personally despise?”
“He’s been through a lot, Richie, and he’s going to go through a lot more. I’d like him to feel safe for a while.”
“There’s no safety for us,” Richie said.
“He doesn’t need to know that yet. I’m sorry if I offended you, Richie. He’s just a kid …”
“Henry, are you okay?”
“It’s been a long day.”
“Listen, honey, I’ll take care of the rugrat. You pull yourself together.”
“Will do. By the way, Richie? You’ll be breaking the law by helping us out.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The next day, I called Phil Wise in San Francisco and lied to him.
“Rod’s in Los Angeles,” I said. “He called me yesterday and told me he managed to give his dad the slip at the airport and hitchhike down here.”
“Where is he?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. He’s afraid I’ll tell his parents. I told him you filed the petition in dependency court and he agreed to show up for the hearing, but listen, I have a better idea. Dismiss the petition up there and refile it here in LA. We stand a much better chance of winning here.” I laid out my reasons, more liberal judiciary, greater familiarity with the problems of gay kids. “What do you think?”
“Brilliant, Professor K.,” he said. “Are you sure he’s down there?”
I looked across the room to Rod. “I’m positive.”
“I need to see him,” Phil said. “I can fly down tomorrow morning with the papers.”
“He’s calling me this afternoon,” I said. “I’ll arrange a meeting.”
“Call me back,” Phil said. “And Henry, it’s better that neither of us knows where he’s staying, in case the court asks.”
“I understand.”
I hung up. “Come on, Rod, let’s go. Richie’s expecting us.”
“What did Phil say?”
“I’ll tell you in the car.”
As we drove to Richie, I explained the situation.
“Thank you for not calling my parents,” he said. “I know this could get you into trouble.”
“I’m trying to avoid that.”
“What if they say you kidnapped me?”
“They can say whatever they like. A judge will decide what’s true. In the meantime, you have your safe house, although Richie’s not exactly Harriet Tubman.”
“What’s he like?”
“When Richie was a kid, his parents committed him to a mental hospital where he was supposed to be cured of being gay, just like your parents want to do with you. As you’ll see, the cure didn’t take.”
Javier let us into Richie’s apartment. Rod was studying the pink and blue mural depicting the rape of Ganymede that was painted on the wall of the entry hall when Richie emerged from his room in parrot-green silk trousers and a bright yellow shirt. He air-kissed the sides of my face. I introduced him to Rod.
“Bubbie,” he murmured maternally.
“You’re Richie?” Rod said, wide-eyed.
“None other,” Richie said, “but think of me as your Auntie Mame.”
“My what?”
“You don’t know about Auntie Mame?” Richie asked grandly.
“She’s a character in a movie,” I explained. “A kind of fairy godmother.”
“More fairy than mother,” Richie added.
“May I use the bathroom?” Rod said.
“Javier, show him the powder room,” Richie commanded.
After he left, I said to Richie, “Knock it off, Richie.”
“Are you sure he’s gay?”
When Rod returned, I took him aside and said, “I have to go now. You’ve got my page number. Call me whenever you feel like talking. Don’t let Richie scare you. He’s really a very good guy.”
He was staring at the mural on the ceiling, a sky held up by four lascivious cherubs. “His house is like a museum. I was afraid to dry my hands on the towel in his bathroom. You’re sure I can’t stay with you?”
“Richie’s harmless,” I said. “I’ll call you later.”
Phil Wise came down from San Francisco the next day, met with Rod, and filed a new dependency petition in juvenile court in LA that included an emergency request to have Rod declared a ward of the court to prevent his return to his parents. We were lucky to draw a judge named John Fuentes who had run a child’s advocacy organization before his appointment to the bench. He scheduled a hearing on the emergency request for the following Monday. In the meantime, Phil served Rod’s parents.
The next day, Phil phoned. “The Morses filed their response to our petition,” he said. “You won’t believe the shit their lawyer let them put in their declarations.”
“Bad?”
“They actually use the phrase ‘agents of Satan,’” he said, gleefully.
“That’s great. The crazier they sound, the better we look.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not all ranting and raving,” he said. “They also filed a motion to dismiss the LA petition on jurisdictional grounds and haul us back into the valley.”
“Rod’s physically present in LA,” I said. “That confers personal jurisdiction.”
“He’s a runaway, Professor K.,” Phil replied. “That’s the only reason he’s in LA. His home is with his parents. Got an argument?”
“Fuentes won’t dismiss our petition if we can persuade him that by sending Rod back to the valley, he’ll be sealing his doom,” I said. “He’s the one judge in the entire county who may agree with us that trying to cure your gay kid of being gay is child abuse. All we have to do is keep his eye on the substantive issue instead of the procedural one.”
“You’re right,” Phil said, brightening. “But you’re going to have tell Rod when he shows up in court on Monday there’s a chance he’ll be returned to his parents. Can you guarantee he’ll be there?”
“Yes,” I said, though I wasn’t sure at all.
“I’m counting on you,” Phil said.
I took Rod to lunch, where I explained the status of his case. I forced his reluctant agreement to show up for the hearing, even at the risk of being ordered home. I had no sooner dropped him off at Richie’s when my car phone rang. It was Serena Dance. She was jubilant.
“Good news, Henry,” she said. “Odell came through. He found a witness who identified Jim Harley at the scene of the car bombing. He arrested Harley last night, and not only did he cop to the bombing, he incriminated Asuras and your friend Donati.”
I had been too preoccupied with Rod to give much thought to the Asuras case, but I was worried by Serena’s overconfidence. “What exactly did he say?”
“Donati approached him about doing the job. When he balked, Asuras personally called him. They paid him a hundred thousand dollars. I’m working on arrest warrants for Donati and Asuras for conspiracy.”
“Have you run this past the DA?”
She bristled. “I don’t need his permission to file the case. I have hard evidence.”
“A co-conspirator’s statement isn’t admissible against another unless it’s corroborated by independent evidence,” I reminded her.
“I know what the law is,” she huffed. “This is enough to arrest them. Now I can go after them for the murders.”
I started to object, but thought better of it. “Great. I’m here if you need me.”
That was Wednesday, The arrests of Asuras and Donati made national news the next morning. By that evening, the charges had been dropped and the District Attorney had issued an abject apology to the two men. In her haste to arrest them, Serena had forgotten that the car they had allegedly conspired to destroy was leased to Samsara, a company Asuras owned. His lawyer claimed the explosion was an experiment in special-effects technology for an upcoming movie in development at Parnassus. He pointed out that the leasing company had been completely compensated for the car so, in effect, Asuras was being charged with conspiring to destroy his own property. He also distributed a sworn statement from James Harley retracting his earlier confession to the police on the grounds it had been coerced.
I called Serena at home as soon as the broadcast ended. The answering machine picked up.
“Serena, it’s Henry,” I began.
“Hi,” she said, wanly, picking up. “I’m screening.”
“I just finished watching the news.”
“You call to gloat?” she asked, bitterly. “You warned me.”
“I’m not gloating. It was pretty nervy strategy for Asuras. I don’t see how you could’ve anticipated it.”
“I’ve been fired, Henry.”
“What?”
“I have two weeks to get my cases in order and submit my resignation.”
“You have civil-service protection.”
“No,” she said. “I was a special hire to run the hate-crimes unit. I serve at the DA’s pleasure. He’s not pleased anymore.”
“What about Josey Walsh’s statement? What about Harley’s statement that he blew up the car because Alex wouldn’t return it to Asuras?”
“You saw the news,” she said. “Harley retracted his confession. Josey Walsh’s statement doesn’t mean anything unless you buy the whole package, and the DA’s not buying. We had a meeting with Asuras and his lawyers. When I tried to raise the Walsh statement, Jack shut me up.”
“He already knew about Walsh?”
“I laid everything out for him after Asuras was arrested. Everything, Henry,” she emphasized, “including my belief that he’s a murderer.”
“And the DA said what?”
“I swear I heard him piss his pants,” she replied, “but what he told me was to go slow and keep it out of the press. Later on, when he fired me, he told me he knew I was wrong about Asuras all along. He said if I indulged these fantasies publicly, he’d see I was disbarred.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“You thought I was grandstanding, didn’t you? You thought I wanted the credit for my personal glory. That wasn’t true, Henry. I needed to win a big case to keep the hate-crimes unit alive. Now Jack will probably disband it.”
“The DA knows Asuras is a murderer and he’s going to let him get away with it?”
“Incredible, isn’t it,” she said.
“What about the sheriff? Could he be interested?”
“I persuaded him to arrest Asuras and Donati. He’ll be grateful if they don’t sue him for false arrest.”
“Did Donati do the talking at the meeting with the DA?”
“Donati wasn’t there,” she said.
“What?”
“He wasn’t there,” she repeated. “That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Maybe it’s more than just strange,” I said.
“Nick, it’s Rios, please pick up. I know you’re there because I tried your office and your secretary said you were working at home and she’d just got off the phone with you. Nick …”
“You never give up, do you?” Donati said thickly.
“I thought you might to want to talk to someone other than a bottle of scotch.”
“About what?”
“I heard when Duke met with the DA yesterday morning, you weren’t included. Either he’s about to throw you to the wolves or you’re finally sick of all the blood on your hands.”
After a long silence, he said, “What do you care, Henry, you’re not the cops.”
“I’m a defense lawyer, Nick. I think you could use my services.”
He cackled. “For what? I’ve just been exonerated by the District Attorney.”
“I can believe that Asuras is a sociopath who doesn’t feel any remorse for what he’s done, but you’re not. You drink like a man who’s having trouble sleeping, Nick. I know. I’ve been there.”
“What’s this, a twelve-step call? I told you, I’m in the clear.”
“So is Duke,” I said. “The cops will never catch him. What’s that going to do for his ego? He already thinks he’s above right and wrong. What’s his next trick? Who’s his next victim? Are you helping him with that cover-up, too?”
He hung up. A few minutes later, the fax machine spit out a fax from him. You’re phones are tapped. Come to my house tonight at 10. Careful you’re not followed. N.
I’d only been to Donati’s house once and when I tried to find it again, I got lost in Laurel Canyon’s dark, twisting roads. When I finally reached his fortress, I was an hour late, but at least I was certain I hadn’t been followed. Upstairs, the lights were on and there was a Land Rover in the driveway. The plates stopped me: PROUDJD. Where had I seen those plates before? Unable to remember, I continued to the house and rang the bell. I heard furious barking, followed by light footsteps, a muted voice quieting the dogs and then silence. A minute passed, then two, and finally the doorknob turned and he pulled the door back. I could smell the booze on him. His dogs snapped and growled behind him as if expressing the fear he had smothered with scotch.
“Quiet,” he commanded them. He was in jeans, a button-down shirt and loafers without socks. His hair was disheveled, his face darkened with stubble. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“I got lost in the canyon.”
He smiled, displaying his supernally white teeth. “Like Dante. Come in. Watch me have a drink.”
Things were subtly amiss in the expensively austere upper floor; a spill of whisky on the burnished dining table, the Doré lithograph of the wood of the suicides jammed between the cushions on the couch and the stale smell of heavy drinking in the air.
He picked up a smudged, half-filled glass. “You mind?”
“No.”
He came toward me. “I can’t imagine you drunk, Henry. I can’t imagine you out of control.”
“Drinking is a sickness. It has nothing to do with self-control. If anything, I imagine getting drunk gives you what little control you have over your thoughts. I saw pictures of what Asuras did to Alex Amerian. That’s not something I’d want to see every time I closed my eyes.”
“Don’t be too sad for that little whore.”
“I know he tried to blackmail Asuras,” I replied. “He still didn’t deserve that kind of death. The other victims deserved it even less.”
He sprawled on the couch. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
I sat down across from him. “I believe you.”
“That’s a comfort,” he said, taking a slug from his drink.
“But you did help Asuras with the cover-up,” I said. “That makes you an accomplice with the same liability as his. Now’s the time to make a deal with the cops, Nick.”
He laughed. “The cops. The fucking cops were in on it, Henry. What’s his name? Gaitan. How do you think he got to Bob?”
“What do you mean?”
He put his glass down with a drunk’s precision. “The cop and I planned it,” he said. “There would be enough evidence to put Bob on trial, but not enough to convict him. Things would disappear, witnesses would change their stories.” He grinned. “You would give an excellent summation.”
“How did you talk Bob into that?”
“I told him he could move in with me when it was all over.”
“If Bob agreed, why was he killed?”
“The fucking cop did that,” he said. “Duke’s orders.”
“Gaitan killed Bob Travis? Why?”
“When Bob realized he was actually going to be arrested and go to jail, he panicked. Duke was afraid he’d crack, so he told Gaitan to take care of him. I didn’t know, I swear.”
I remembered how distraught he’d been the night Travis died. “Asuras didn’t tell you because he was afraid you’d object.”
He nodded. “Bob didn’t have to die. I could’ve handled him.”
“Was that the only time Asuras double-crossed you?”
“I didn’t know about Schilling either,” he said.
“He’s a megalomaniac.”
“Duke? That’s like saying the sky is blue. Everyone at Duke’s level is a megalomaniac. Duke’s crossed the line.”
“What line?”
“The M’Naughten line,” he said, referring to the legal standard for insanity in criminal cases. “But since this is Hollywood, no one’s noticed. The Industry rewards ruthlessness and cruelty, and if you’re powerful enough, you can rob, cheat and steal and people look the other way. Not just people in the Industry, the police, prosecutors, judges. I was relieved when we were arrested. I thought it would finally be over, but even I underestimated Duke.”
“I need to know what your part was in the murders.”
“Why?”
“To figure out what kind of deal I can make for you.”
“You said it yourself, Henry, I’m as guilty as he is.”
“That depends. What happened, Nick?”
“I helped with … disposal.”
“Were you coerced?”
The drunken eyes focused. “Is that what you would tell a jury? I was afraid for my life so I followed orders because I wasn’t man enough to stand up for myself?”
“All I want to know is what happened.”
“I was a fifth-year associate at an entertainment firm, and I was going nowhere when I met Duke. He hired me to run the legal department at the studio because he said he saw the warrior in me. I was going to help him conquer Hollywood.”
“He knew you were gay,” I said.
“That’s why my career had stalled at the firm. The partners thought I was a little too light in the loafers for their celebrity clients. They didn’t think I’d be tough enough. They found out how tough I am when I negotiated with them for Parnassus.”
“Asuras didn’t care that you were gay, obviously.”
“Obviously? Duke doesn’t think he’s gay, if that’s what you mean.”
“Neither did John Wayne Gacy,” I replied. “But he couldn’t escape who he was, either, and when you start running from yourself, you end up in some pretty dark places.”
“Are you saying if Duke had come out, those men would still be alive? I don’t think so, Henry. I know Duke. The one thing he’s not is repressed.”
“If you knew that, why did you help him?”
“I was gradually sucked in,” he said. “I knew Amerian was trying to blackmail Duke, so I arranged the meeting and had Bob bring Amerian to Duke’s house. Using the cab was Duke’s idea. At the time, I wrote it off to paranoia. Later I realized he had planned all along to kill Alex and to incriminate Bob and me in the murder. But when he called me at three in the morning in a panic, I didn’t consider the possibility he was acting, especially after I got to his house. Amerian’s body was floating in the hot tub. Duke said he and Alex were doing an S&M scene that went too far. I told him to call the police.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he had a better idea.”
“Which was?”
“Make it look like Amerian had been murdered by gay-bashers.”
“Why didn’t you call the cops yourself?”
“I saw the knife wounds and I knew it wasn’t an accident. He had murdered the kid. If it was obvious to me, it would be obvious to the cops. Amerian was a blackmailing little whore. I didn’t owe him anything. That’s how I justified going along with Duke.”
“So what happened?”
“I got Bob back up to Duke’s house. Together we wrapped the body up, put it in the trunk of the car and drove down to West Hollywood, where we dumped it in the alley.”
“You helped dump the body?”
He nodded. “Afterwards, we went to a self-service car wash and cleaned the car from top to bottom.”
“Joanne Schilling was going to testify she saw Bob coming out of the alley by himself.”
“She wasn’t there,” he replied. “She was paid to say what we told her to say.”
“What about the second murder?”
“The same thing,” he said. “A call at two in the morning from Duke. I get to his house and find another body in the hot tub.”
“Jackie Baldwin,” I said. “Did Travis pick him up in the cab?”
He shook his head. “No, that was Duke free-lancing, but he used the cab to further incriminate Bob. We got rid of that body, too.”
“You didn’t say anything to Asuras? Like, stop.”
“Duke said he was afraid the police would suspect him in Alex’s murder unless another victim turned up to divert them. It made a certain amount of sense,” he said wearily, “but by then I was in so deep there wasn’t any way out. He said there would have to be a lot more victims before the police was convinced it was a serial killer. The best I could do was talk him down to one more.”
“Jellicoe,” I said. “Who picked him up?”
“Bob,” he said. “I told him it would be the last time.”
“Too bad for Bob it wasn’t,” I said. “Who killed Joanne Schilling?”
“Gaitan,” he said. “He seems to enjoy killing people almost as much as Duke.” He finished his drink, but when I looked into his eyes, I saw he was sober. “When I found out about her, I realized the killing would never stop.”
“If I were you, Nick, I’d be concerned about my safety.”
“You’re my insurance, Henry,” Donati said. He dug into his pants pocket and removed a key. “This key opens a locker in the international terminal at the airport. Inside you’ll find envelopes, addressed to the District Attorney, the police chief and you. Each of them contains my sworn affidavit laying out everything I told you tonight.”
“Why not just go to the police now, Nick?”
“There’s something I have to do,” he said. “The affidavits are my protection.”
“I know I could work out a deal for you with the DA in exchange for your testimony against Duke.”
“What kind of deal, Henry? Life in prison instead of death row? No, thanks.”
“This affidavit’s not going to be admissible if you disappear,” I said.
“I’ve taken care of its admissibility. The airport locker’s on a twenty-four-hour timer,” he said, glancing at his watch. “You have about an hour to get to them.”
“I’m coming back and we’re going to the cops.”
“You’re a rescuer, Henry, aren’t you? Fixer of broken lives.”
“Wait for me.”
He smiled. “I’ll be here.”