Dead In Red (24 page)

“What’s with you?” I asked. “You’re
happy.”

“It’s my last couple of days of freedom and
I want to enjoy it.”

“Freedom? For years you’ve nagged Brenda to
marry you. You having second thoughts?”

“Not at all. But getting married means
commitment and responsibilities, and—”

“Being a real grown up?”

His smile dimmed. “Yeah, but it’s also the
first time in months that I’ve felt good.”

I envied him that. I didn’t like to dwell on
it, but the fact I might never fully recover from the mugging,
might even develop new symptoms, like seizures, was a constant
shadow hanging over me. And now the threat from that phone call
loomed over me as well.

“You’ve got to get over it, Jeff. What
happened, happened. It’s over. Move on.”

I stared at the rain dancing on the
driveway. Was he talking about the shooting that nearly killed him,
or me being mugged? It didn’t matter. And I didn’t want him to know
how much that weird electronic voice had freaked me.

“I’m working on it.”

“Good.” His smile returned. Then he hauled
off and punched me, hard, on the arm.

For a long second I stood there, stunned,
then I punched him back with equal force.

He rubbed his bicep, grinning. “Come on,” he
said. “Let’s go!”

* * *

A torrent
of
rain did nothing to improve the gray, peeling exterior of the house
where Gene Higgins lived. As luck would have it, a parking space
was open right out front—just like always on a TV drama. Richard
did a superb job of parallel parking and we sat there gazing at the
drab building.

“Ugly, isn’t it?” Richard said.

“Butt ugly.” Most of the houses were either
duplexes or had been divided into apartments, which meant
off-street parking was at a premium. I scanned the road for a
silver Alero, but didn’t see one.

“Think it’s worth knocking on the door?”
Richard asked.

“Nah. But as long as we’re here.”

Richard glanced over his shoulder to the
back seat. “I think Brenda’s got an umbrella back there.”

“You won’t melt.”

“I’ve already got a black eye. Do I need to
catch cold four days before I leave on my honeymoon?”

“Wuss.”

“Idiot.”

He might be right. “Come on.”

Leafy maple trees sheltered the car and
sidewalk, so we weren’t actually soaked as we made a run for the
cover of the duplex’s porch. At the sound of our footsteps, the
muffled sound of a dog barking came from within the house. A
plastic strip labeled “Higgins” was attached to the second-floor
apartment’s mailbox. I pressed the doorbell. Some part of me was
hoping to tap into the vision I’d seen with the red sparkling shoe,
the polished nails, and the stiletto. I didn’t. Then again, how
many people actually push their own doorbell?

The dog continued to bark.

“He here?” Richard asked.

I clasped the door handle, closed my eyes
and concentrated. I expected the vision of the red shoe to burst
upon my mind, but nothing happened. I opened my eyes, stared at the
door’s chipped white paint.

I jiggled the handle; locked. “I figured I’d
get something, feel something familiar, and I’m not getting
anything.”

Richard shifted from foot to foot.

The door to the other apartment opened, and
the wild yapping got louder. A short, white-haired woman in dark
slacks and pink polyester tunic stood behind the screen door. “What
do you want?” she snapped.

Richard faced her, had to shout to be heard.
“We’re looking for Gene Higgins.”

The old lady homed in on his black eye,
scowled. “He’s not home.”

“He’s usually here weeknights, though, isn’t
he?” I asked.

“That any of your business?”

We’d get nowhere with her. I took out my
wallet, another calling card, and my pen. I jotted a note on the
back and wedged it between the doorframe and screen. Gene might
miss it if I just shoved it under the door.

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t remove
the card. Mr. Higgins needs to talk to me.”

A brown-and-white terrier mix jumped up and
down at her side. “You some kind of repo guy?”

“I’m a friend of his aunt’s. She’s gone
missing. He’ll want to talk to me about it.”

She looked skeptical, but my mostly true
explanation would probably keep her from ripping the card to shreds
the minute we took off.

I took the steps two at a time. Richard
murmured a “good evening” and was right on my heels.

Once back inside the car, Richard grasped
the steering wheel and looked out through the foggy windshield. “We
forgot the bag with the food in it.”

“Damn. It’s still in your car.”

“Where to now?”

“You want to get something to eat,
right?”

“It’ll help kill time until we can hit the
gay bars.”

“You say that with such enthusiasm.”

He ignored the comment. “If you didn’t get
anything on Gene just now, whose vibes have you been tuning into?
Veronica’s?”

“It’s a possibility. But Gene is definitely
involved. What if Veronica killed Walt? Dumping his body by the
mill could have been done to implicate Gene.”

“Only the cops didn’t bite?”

“Exactly.”

“What if Veronica has skipped town?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Gut instinct?”

“I trust it.”

Richard started the car, switched on the
front and rear defrosters to take care of the windshields. “You got
a motive?”

“Not yet.” The old lady continued to watch
us from her door, her yappy dog still bobbing up and down like a
yo-yo. She’d probably wait up for Gene just to tell him about us,
which was okay with me—if it made him call. I had a feeling that
right now he was sweating. Cyn must’ve pieced things together and
wanted to distance herself from her nephew—even if it meant closing
her café. But what was it that Gene feared if Veronica was Walt’s
killer?

And what if we found Veronica? I wasn’t sure
what I’d do.

Richard pulled away from the curb and headed
for Hertel Avenue. He was enjoying the chase. I wish I could say
the same. The closer we got to resolution, the more my insides
squirmed. It wasn’t going to be a happy conclusion—of that I was
sure. Something inside me—and the damned vision of the bloody
hands—told me it would be awful and messy and … somebody was going
to die.

I just hoped to God it wasn’t going to be
Richard.

# # #

CHAPTER 20

BoysTown
was probably the
next-to-best gay hotspot in Buffalo after Club Monticello. Loud
disco music boiled from within and gyrating, shirtless men in tight
jeans hopped around the dance floor in—what else—gay
abandon.

“God, they look happy,” Richard shouted in
my ear.

“Of course they’re happy. They’re—”

“Gay!” he finished. “I need a beer.” He
headed straight for the bar and ordered for us. I fished out Walt’s
and Veronica’s, as well as Cyn’s, pictures. We sucked back our
brewskies and I asked everyone within listening distance if they’d
ever seen any of the people in the pictures.

No. No. And—no!

I asked the bartender which was the next
club below them.

Fifteen minutes later, Richard and I had
moved the car two blocks and headed for Club QBN—Queer Boys
Network—and had ordered another round of beers. More disco music,
more sweating, shirtless guys boogying down.

I shoved the pictures under every available
nose. No, no one had ever seen Walt. Veronica looked familiar, but
nobody would stake his or her life on it. Sparkly red stiletto
heels? Why darling, every girl in here has at least one pair!

Next down the line was Daddy’s Place. A
little less noisy, a little less boisterous, and still no one knew
Walt. Veronica, however, was a known entity, although no one had
seen her in at least a week—maybe two.

Closer, but no cigar.

Richard wasn’t looking quite so cocky. “What
the hell do we do if we find her?”

Good question. Confrontation was
out—especially in such a crowded venue. She could deny she even
knew Walt—except for all the picture evidence, and even then she
could say Walt had been a patron and it was just good PR to pose
with the clients. Then again, the bartender at Lambrusco’s could
verify she and Walt had at least been acquainted. That is, if he
could be trusted to swear by it.

That Veronica was familiar was one thing.
Where she lived, no one knew. No one knew the name on her/his
driver’s license. Wigs and makeup and fancy dress were great
concealers of the truth. In a feel-good place like a bar, who knew
or who cared what people did in their regular lives—what their day
jobs entailed and/or how they made their daily bread?

I hefted my third bottle of beer and found I
couldn’t take another sip, setting it back down. Richard, however,
sat facing the dance floor, elbows on the bar, enjoying the
spectacle. “I haven’t been bar hopping since my college days,” he
said, his head nodding in time with yet another Bee Gees
favorite.

“Why don’t you get out there and dance?” I
suggested.

“If Brenda was here, I might. Then again,
this isn’t my kind of dancing. I’m better cheek-to-cheek.”

“Any time, sailor,” said a skinny guy with a
black tank top and painted-on white pants.

I snagged the guy’s shirt strap. “You ever
see this queen?” I shoved Veronica’s picture under his nose.

God knows how he focused in such bad light,
but his eyes lit up. “Veronica! Oh, she’s a sweetheart. Yeah, I’ve
seen her. Every weekend over at Big Brother’s. She’s moving up in
the world. Another year or so, and she’ll be the toast of the
town.”

“And where do we find Big Brother’s?”
Richard asked.

“Over on Pearl. But not until the Wednesday
night show. She does a mean Brittany Spears. Doesn’t quite have the
nose for it—but hey, you can’t have everything.” He danced by us
and dissolved into the crowd.

“Two days?” Richard almost whined.

I glanced at my watch. “Technically, it’s
one day and twenty-two hours. And I thought you were enjoying
yourself?”

“Sure, as a change of pace. But I wouldn’t
want to do this on a regular basis.”

“We ought to go over there and ask, just to
make sure. But I won’t go flashing Veronica’s picture again. That
could scare her off. As it is, if someone I’ve already shown it to
mentions it to her, she’ll probably leave town in a hurry.”

So off we went to our fourth bar that
night.

Big Brother’s was smaller than I
anticipated; intimate was how it was advertised out front. Sure
enough, a poster-sized color photograph of Miss Veronica Lakes in a
white, baby-doll dress, blond wig, and pouting lips greeted us. Her
co-stars, Margarita Ville and Sandy Waters, only rated eight-by-ten
black-and-white photos.

“I don’t think she looks like Brittany,” I
told Richard.

“I couldn’t pick Brittany out of a lineup,”
he admitted.

“God, you’re an old fart.” He followed me
inside, where we made sure that yes, Miss Lakes would be appearing
on Wednesday. Did we want to make reservations?

We headed out the door. A glance at my watch
told me it was after one. The sidewalk was still wet, but the storm
and the lingering rain had passed, breaking the hot spell. Richard
yawned as we walked toward the car. “I’ll drive,” I said, and
unlocked the passenger side door for him, then moved to the
driver’s side.

Richard fastened his seat belt, crossed his
arms over his chest, and settled back in his seat. “Home, James,
and don’t spare the horses.”

I pulled away from the curb and headed back
for Main Street. Richard was asleep before we got there.

I braked for a red light, one of those crazy
ones with the strobing bar of white in the middle. Bloodied hands
flashed before my eyes. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
Not now, not when I’m driving.

Bloodied hands. Rivulets of scarlet
cascading down the wrists, soaking into a forest of dark hair past
the wrists. No jewelry, no nail polish.

Slowly the hands turned, palms out to face
me. Strong, masculine hands.

So much blood!

Honk!

The vision winked out. I jammed my foot on
the accelerator and the car lurched forward. Richard didn’t
stir.

I was glad to have the wheel to hang on
to—it kept my hands from shaking. I wouldn’t have to worry about
some crazy coming after Richard if I crashed the car and killed us
both. But the vision didn’t replay. I drove like an old lady, made
it home and parked the car in the garage before giving up my death
grip. I sat there, listening to the engine make tinking noises for
at least a minute before I could move. The garage door opener’s
light would go off in another minute. I gave Richard a poke to wake
him.

“We’re home.”

He took in a deep breath and straightened.
“I wasn’t asleep.”

“Sure,” I said and opened my door. Richard
did likewise.

We got out of there and I closed and locked
the garage’s side door before the light winked out. Brenda had left
the outside lights on and I sorted through my keys to open the back
door. Richard bumped into me. “God, I’m tired.”

I opened the door. “Go to bed.”

He saluted me and stepped over the
threshold. “Yes, sir.”

Stepping up behind him, I pushed him in the
direction of the kitchen. “Good night.”

Eyes closed, I stood in the silent pantry,
listened until his footsteps faded, realized I was too wired to
sleep. What I needed was a walk. A nice long walk to calm my
nerves.

I headed back out the door, paused to lock
up, and started down the driveway.

* * *

“You’re late
tonight,” Sophie told me as she ushered me inside the bakery,
then locked the door behind me.