Garland Rooms was a three-story brownstone on Tenth Street that had been converted into a boarding house. Connor met me in the parlor on the ground floor and let me look him up and down while he surreptitiously did the same. He wore skintight jeans and a long-sleeved Henley. His hair was a mass of blond cornrows, and mascara spiked his eyelashes. I could see why a man like Honeycutt would want him. He looked like jailbait… until you saw the expression in his eyes.
“It’s a hundred up front, and another hundred after.”
“I just want to talk.”
He shrugged. “It’s the same however you want to do it.”
I raised an eyebrow. He thought I wanted to talk dirty to him? I didn’t say anything, just took a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet and handed it to him.
“And you still give me extra for lunch.” He held it up to the light, looking for the silk threads that would indicate it wasn’t counterfeit, and then tucked it away in a front pocket of his jeans, deliberately drawing attention to the bulge of his cock.
“Okay, it’s this way.” And he led me up the stairs to his room at the rear of the third floor, making sure I got an eyeful of his ass.
He flung the door open with a flourish, and I stepped in. I remembered how tidy Pretty Boy’s room had been, all those years ago, and he hadn’t been expecting company. This room—jeans and shirts were draped over a chair and dumped in a corner beneath a double window. The bedspread was lumpy and wrinkled. He stretched out across it with negligent ease.
He saw the way I looked over the room and flushed. “You’re early. I didn’t have a chance to straighten up.” There was resentment in his voice.
“Actually, I’m right on time. I always am.”
“Fuck it,” he muttered. “Start talking.” He scratched at his arm. Were there track marks under his sleeve?
I shoved the clothes off the chair, sat down, and crossed my legs.
“You know Alfred Honeycutt.”
He bolted upright. “What are you talking about?” The abrupt change in his attitude from blasé to panicky was almost laughable.
“He was keeping you.” I nodded toward the watch on the battered dresser. “That’s a Cartier, if I’m not mistaken. He wasn’t pleased that you took it with you when you left.”
“He gave it to me!”
“But he wanted something in return, and I’m not talking about your ass.”
“I… I don’t—”
“No. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. Honeycutt wanted a rent boy known in the business as Sweetcheeks. Your job was to lure Sweets into his parlor.”
“What do you care?”
“He happens to be a friend of mine.” I draped an arm over the back of the chair and let my suit jacket fall open to reveal my Glock.
“What do you—Look, forget about lunch. I’ll give you your money back. I’ll give you a blow job. You can fuck me!”
I shook my head at each offer and he became more frantic.
“Please…!”
“Start talking.”
“What?”
“I’m paying you to talk.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with how you knew Sweetcheeks?”
“I… I was in his stable for a while a few years ago.”
“I don’t remember seeing you.”
For a second I thought he was going to sneer at me, but then his gaze darted to the Glock, and he swallowed. “I wasn’t there long.”
“Why were you willing to sell Sweets out?”
“I wasn’t… Honeycutt is a wealthy man. He’d have made Sweets’s fortune!”
“But Sweets isn’t in the business anymore.”
His lips took a petulant twist. “For how long? He thought the guy he was living with would stay with him forever, but that’s bullshit.”
“What did that matter to you?” I wasn’t inclined to agree with him, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Honeycutt was going to cut me loose. Do you have any idea how long it took me to get that dirty old man’s notice? But he took one look at Sweets, and his tongue hung out. That was when he decided he was done with me. He gave him his business card, and even though Sweets tore it up, he still wanted him. And now he has the nerve to ask for his watch back? I don’t fucking think so!”
“Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”
“Huh?”
“Were you aware Honeycutt planned to sell Sweetcheeks?”
“What are you talking about? People don’t get sold nowadays.” He really believed that? “Anyway, Honeycutt told me he wanted him for himself! That’s why I—”
“He had a buyer for him. If you’d succeeded in getting Sweets to Honeycutt’s hotel room, he’d have been drugged and shipped out of the country. And considering where his final destination was, do you want me to give you the odds of his chances of ever turning up alive?”
He looked like he was about to throw up.
“No, I didn’t think so.” I stared at him thoughtfully. “According to Honeycutt, he picked you up here in DC.”
“The lying bastard. We hooked up in New York.”
“How long were you with him?”
“About four months.”
Yeah, he was a lying bastard. “Were you with him when he got the videotape?”
“Ye-yes. Sort of.”
“What do you mean, sort of? Did you see the woman who gave it to him?”
“No. We were at a restaurant in South Beach, Marisol’s. I… I went to the men’s room, and… and when I got back, he had it. He wanted to go to the hotel room right away so he could look at it.” He glanced away. “He fucked me while he was watching it. He didn’t even give me a chance to shower….”
“Did you recognize Sweetcheeks?”
“After the fourth or fifth time, yeah. There’s one shot of the side of his face almost at the end. I’d seen that expression on his face once, and suddenly it clicked.”
“And you told Honeycutt.”
His shoulders slumped. “Yeah. He was pissed when he realized I’d tricked in the men’s room and I was desperate to distract him.” And that was why he’d wanted to shower?
“Y’know what, Connor? I think you’d better leave DC. A lot of the boys like Sweets and if it gets out what you’ve done, well, let’s just say this town isn’t going to be too healthy for you.” I got up, took out my wallet, and peeled off another hundred dollar bill. For what he’d had a hand in, he was lucky I didn’t give him the same treatment as Honeycutt. “As for lunch, this should cover it for you. Be grateful I’m feeling generous.” I gave him a twenty and walked out.
I’d hoped he might have a lead to “Jane Smith,” but that seemed to be a wash, so tomorrow I’d talk to Romero.
Now I had to go looking for our Miss Smith.
I’d managed to come up with a current address for her, and I drove to the Frederick W. de Woedtke Apartments in Annandale.
The buildings were neutral almost to the point of invisibility, which was probably appropriate, given who’d chosen to live there.
I parked and walked up to the middle building. Miss Smith’s apartment was on the first floor. I started to rap on the door, and an interesting thing happened.
It swung open—the lock hadn’t been engaged.
I pulled out my Glock and used my elbow to ease the door farther back. The foyer opened onto the living/dining room, and a quick sweep revealed it was empty.
But I heard crooning coming from the kitchen. The soft sound didn’t hide the irritation of the words, though. “You miserable, strimpin’ cat, get your ass over here so I can feed you and go home. Why I ever promised Becca… Ah hah! Gotcha!”
I put my Glock away and called out, “Hello?”
There was a bang, “Ow!” and then a head popped up beyond the pass-through. The guy was in his early twenties, and he clutched a gray tabby kitten to his chest with one hand, while he rubbed his head with the other. The kitten yowled, and its hind legs pistoned in an attempt to do as much damage as they could.
“Who’re you?” He scowled and switched his grip to the scruff of the kitten’s neck, giving it a shake. “Bastard,” he snarled.
“Sorry.” I assumed that last was directed at the kitten and not me. “My name is Joe Wells. And you are?”
“Uh... I’m Randy.”
“Randy.” I’d have offered my hand through the pass through, but the kitten was intent on giving him a hard time, and I didn’t want to get within range of its claws. “I was looking for Miss Smith.”
“She’s not in trouble, is she?”
“Why would you think that?”
“You look official.”
“Thanks, I think, but I’m just a mechanic.” He looked over my suit, and I gave him my most harmless grin. “I’m dressed like this because I’ve just come from church.”
“I see. Well, you’ve missed her.”
“That’s a shame. When will she be home?”
“God knows.”
Okay. “Well, do you know where I can find her?”
“No,” he snapped, resentment obvious in his tone. “She said she had a family emergency and left early Thursday afternoon.”
So I’d missed her by a couple of days. “Will she be back?”
“I sure as hell hope so! She left this demon behind, and I’m stuck feeding it. And is it grateful? No, it isn’t! Look what the fucking thing did to me!” He held out his free hand, which was crisscrossed with scratch marks that looked fresh. And painful.
I couldn’t say I blamed the kitten. If the person who was supposed to be looking after me kept referring to me as it, I’d be pretty annoyed too.
“But you don’t know?”
“What, if Becca will be back?” He shrugged. “She told Mr. Cruikshank she’d get in touch with him as soon as she knew what was going on back home.”
“Who’s Cruikshank?”
“He’s the complex manager.”
“Did she leave a forwarding address?”
“If she had, don’t you think I’d have shipped this… this nightmare to wherever she was? Don’t you dare!” he snapped at the kitten, which looked like it was getting ready to strike again. “Look, I’ve got stuff to do. Since you’re here, do me a favor and feed this pain in the ass!” He barreled around the peninsula and into the dining area, and thrust the kitten into my arms. With a final glare and a grimace at the blood on his hands and arms, he bolted through the front door and slammed it shut behind him before I could object.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I warned the kitten. “I like this suit, and I don’t want it shredded. And pardon me for this, but I have no intention of referring to you as an ‘it’ when I call the Humane Society.” I didn’t really know how to tell a cat’s sex, but I figured balls were balls. I turned it around and raised… okay, no balls, so her tail. “With that out of the way, let’s see if your former caretaker actually got around to feeding you.” I stroked the kitten’s head and ears, and rubbed the spot under her chin. She made it obvious she liked that, slitting her eyes and purring, and I took her into the kitchen.
A can of cat food and a bowl were on the counter. I put the kitten on the floor, popped the lid off the can, and dumped the food into the bowl.
“Here you go, Pita.” I couldn’t help laughing at the temporary name. It would have been too convenient if she’d worn a collar with a name tag, but her neck was free of even a flea collar. “Now, I’ve got a couple of things to do, so stay out of my way.”
I pulled on a pair of latex gloves, went back to the door, and locked it before doing a thorough search of the apartment.
According to this complex’s listings, it came furnished, but Miss Smith/Jones/Godard’s personal belongings were gone: clothes and toiletries, books and music, knickknacks if she had any. And there was no sign of a computer.
Dammit. A dead end.
Although why the fuck had she left her pet behind?
I looked down. The kitten must have finished eating, because now she was winding herself in and out of my legs. I crouched down, and she sprang up, causing me to lose my balance and wind up on my ass. She made herself comfortable on my thigh.
She was a pretty kitten, maybe about six months old, with blue eyes that reminded me of Quinn’s mother.
Maybe I wouldn’t be calling the Humane Society. Maybe I’d give Portia this kitten as a Mother’s Day gift.
“Want to come home with me?” She butted my chin, and I assumed she had no objection. “Well, let’s see what kind of supplies you have.” She patted cautiously at the glove on my right hand, probably uncertain because of the texture. I scratched the spot between her ears, set her aside, and climbed to my feet. I might as well take whatever Miss Smith/Jones/Godard had for the kitten.
Which turned out not to be much. No bed, no toys, no scratching post, no carrier. Not even any more food. The can I’d given her must have been the last one. It was a good thing Pita was coming with me. I had a feeling Randy wouldn’t have spent a penny on her.
There was a half-filled bag of cat litter, but Miss Smith/Jones/Godard was using an Adidas shoe box as a litter pan. It was behind the door in the bathroom, piled high with litter, and the area surrounding it was covered with the clay granules. Jesus, was this kitten a shit machine?
“I saw a pet store on the way here. Looks like we’ll have to stop and pick you up some stuff.” The bowls for her food and water seemed to be cereal bowls, more appropriate for people. I washed them out and placed them next to the sink to drain. “But let me tell you something, cat. I’m not driving the car with you running around loose in it.” The last thing I needed was for her to wrap her tail around my eyes because she’d decided she liked the view from my head.
I went looking through the apartment again, this time searching for the lid to the box. I had a roll of duct tape in the glove compartment. I’d poke some holes in the box for ventilation and secure the lid with the tape, just until I could buy a cat carrier.
I found the lid under the bed. Maybe Pita had been playing with it, because otherwise I had no clue how it got there. I brought it into the dining area and left it on the table.
“Stay put, Pita.”
She opened her mouth in a soundless meow, before contorting herself, bringing her hind leg over her head in an almost ninety degree angle, and licking it industriously.
“Easy for you to say.” I found a box of trash bags under the sink in the kitchen, and I took out a bag and placed it in the trash can. Now all I had to do was get the “litter pan.”
Pita paused in what she was doing, then unwound herself and followed me into the bathroom. “This really isn’t something you need to keep track of,” I assured her. I cleaned up the scattered litter and then picked up the box.
She didn’t seem to think so. She trotted at my heels back into the kitchen and watched as I emptied the litter into the trash.
What the fuck? A baggie had fallen into the can. Drugs? “Maybe you’ve got the right idea, cat.” I retrieved it cautiously.
Not drugs. A diskette.
I had to get this home and check it out.
I stripped off the gloves, went out to the car to retrieve the duct tape, then returned and placed it and my pocketknife on the table.
Then I chucked the can and lid into the trash bag, and tied it up—I’d find a dumpster and get rid of it later—and stored it and what was left of the clean litter in the Dodge’s trunk. I couldn’t take a chance on anyone getting curious.
Back in the apartment, I punched some holes into the shoe box with my knife. I folded the knife shut, slid it into my pocket, and reached for Pita. She was fine until she realized I intended to put her in the box. That pissed her off, and she made me aware of how unhappy she was about that—I barely escaped having my hand clawed.
“This isn’t for long, I promise you!” I said as I wrestled the lid onto the box and wrapped the duct tape around it to hold it closed.
With that done, I used the cuff of my coat to pull the door shut behind me. Fortunately, Pita decided to plan her revenge in silence rather than yowl. I put the box on the front passenger seat, and the kitten and I got out of there.
***
“Goddamned son of a bitch bastard,” I growled under my breath. I’d parked the Dodge in front of my building, and now this was the third trip I’d had to make from my car up to my condo. The first one had been with Pita in the carrying case I’d bought for her, and the others were for everything else. Who’d have thought a little kitten would need so much crap?
Three hundred and fifty fucking dollars. A visit to the vet services in the pet store, where I was informed she was most likely a Maine Coon cat and if I had no plans to breed her, I should make an appointment to have her spayed. Then she was groomed, dewormed, had a microchip implanted beneath the skin at the back of her neck, and finally, had her claws trimmed. The whole process was something else that pissed her off… she turned her back on me and refused to acknowledge I was there.
Tough.
I had to find a shopping cart, because I couldn’t carry everything the sales associate assured me was essential for her to have: a bed, food and water bowls, an electric litter pan, the special litter for it, and extra waste receptacles, the carrier, toys, catnip, a cat condo I’d have to assemble....
When I got my hands on the Godard bitch, I was going to blow her fucking brains out.
I didn’t begrudge the money; I’d have had to spend at least that much on Portia for Mother’s Day anyway, but why the fuck get a pet if you weren’t going to take care of it?
Unless… I thought of the shoe box, of the people bowls. Was Pita a cover for what I’d found under the litter in the box?
Once I had everything inside, I opened the cat carrier and let Pita hop out. “Don’t get too comfortable,” I warned her. “You’re just visiting.”
I thought giving her to Portia for Mother’s Day would be a great idea. But first I’d have to find out if Portia was allergic. When she’d been brought to the emergency department of GW Hospital after that “accident” last fall, Quinn had told the ED doctor she was healthy as a horse, but did that include not having allergies? I’d check with him about that.
I fastened a black and green breakaway collar around Pita’s neck. It had a little bell on it. I didn’t want Novotny shooting her if she surprised him.
I set up the litter pan in the powder room off the entry and introduced Pita to it. Then I filled her water bowl. When Quinn and I had stopped at Safeway the day before to get the grocery shopping done, I’d picked up some ham at the deli counter. Now I tore a slice into bite-size pieces and put them into her food bowl. She lapped at the water, sniffed the ham and then scarfed it down like it was going out of style. After she finished it, she washed her face and whiskers. Neat and tidy once more, she decided to go exploring.
She strolled into the master bedroom, her long, plush tail waving gracefully, and I followed her to see what she’d get up to. I couldn’t help smiling when she went up to Sam and swatted the piece of denim that dangled from his mouth. Quinn had given me the bronze statue of a Rottweiler last year to replace the ceramic Sam that had been destroyed when Sperling tried to break into my apartment in Forest Heights.
“Well, have fun. I’ve got things to do.” I took out the jump drive and was about to head for my study when I realized Pita was beside me. “Want to keep me company? Okay, but trust me, there isn’t anything in the study that will entertain you.”
Something was bothering her, though, because abruptly her back was arched, her ears flattened, and she stared at the French doors that opened onto the terrace and hissed. I crouched down and scooped her up.
“What’s going on?” I ran a knuckle back and forth under her chin. “There’s nothing there, cat.”
Just as abruptly, she relaxed and began to purr.
“Better now? Okay then.” I put her down. “Like I said, I’ve got something to do.” I walked into the study with Pita at my heels.
I booted up my computer and inserted the floppy, wondering if our Miss Smith/Jones/Godard had had enough smarts to encrypt it or protect it with a virus program. I wasn’t worried about that. My antivirus protection was the best R&D and Matheson could come up with.
Turned out I didn’t need to have any concerns about it, though. She was either sloppy, lazy, or in too much of a hurry to do anything but upload the documents and jpegs.
And it was all there: how Davies had approached her to undermine Matheson by whatever means necessary; how when she realized she couldn’t seduce him, she’d attempted to get past the firewalls he’d installed on his computer. How, with failure on both counts—I’d replaced her with Ms. DiNois—Davies had taken matters into his own hands.
There were copies of documents detailing Davies’s involvement with not only Sperling, but with other directors who wouldn’t have minded replacing The Boss.
I went cold. Also included was information about one Germaine Nero, who was a hit man for the diGiradi mob. The picture matched Matheson’s description: six two, one ninety, red hair and blue eyes. Huntingdon knew him as Jerry Black.
The last file contained a single document, dated this past Thursday and addressed to me.
Mr. Vincent—
My father, who was an excellent doctor, is a broken man. He sits and stares out the window but sees nothing. I blamed you for this, believing you’d ruined the sweetest, kindest man on earth. It was for this reason alone that I agreed to assist Anson Davies in his attempt to remove you from the WBIS. But you’re smarter than I gave you credit for, than Davies assured me you were. I should never have believed the Director of Public Relations.
He did help me get out of the building today, but he won’t help me any further. I have to get away from here. I’m leaving this information for you to find. If you’re as smart as everyone thinks you are, you should find it soon. What’s on this disc should settle all scores between us. I’m going to take my father away, and you’ll never hear from me again.
-Rebecca Godard
P.S. I have a degree in thermonuclear physics, among others. Did you really think I was as stupid as I acted?
I didn’t blame Godard for wanting revenge, but I did blame her for believing an asshole like Davies. If she were as smart as she claimed, she wouldn’t have.
I e-mailed the contents of the disc to The Boss, along with a note detailing what Matheson had told me. It would be his decision as to what we’d do about this whole situation.
I removed the disc from the hard drive and went to the laundry room, where I hid it away. At the same time, I removed the videotape. I had to give it to Theo and Matheson.
With that done, I gave Pita some toys to play with and opened the box that contained the cat condo. I laid out the pieces, and after about an hour, wondered if I should call Matheson to come put it together.
Pita decided what I was doing was more interesting than the catnip mouse, and she curled up on my lap to supervise.