Innuendo (34 page)

“Thank you,” he said, the relief clearly audible. “Thank you very much. I've been working on something, you see, and it's very complicated.”

“I don't doubt that.”

“I mean, I just don't want to screw things up.”

“I see.”

Rawlins had to curb his tongue, had to keep himself from asking if the guy was really a professional photographer or if perhaps he was a closet queen who had an obsession with Tim Chase. Yes, thought Rawlins, if the guy was something like the latter—a stalker perhaps— that would of course explain why he'd secretly spied so much going on at the Chase residence. And it would also explain why he was so reticent to meet with Rawlins.

He glanced across the room and saw a couple of guys laughing and talking as they sat down, then asked, “Is there anything else that you can remember? Anything else that comes to mind that might be helpful to us?”

“Um, no, not really. Not that I can think of, anyway. But I'll call right away if I do think of anything else.”

“Good, we'd appreciate that.” Fearful that losing him now would mean losing him forever, Rawlins, trying not to seem desperate, asked, “Is there any way I can contact you if I have any questions?”

“Well, not really.”

“Not even a number I could call, say, just to leave a message?”

“No. Like I said, I just can't get involved.”

“Sure, I understand.”

Okay, Rawlins told himself. Think. And think fast. Remember what Foster told you a few months back, that story of an informant in a drug ring and how Foster had arranged to contact him anonymously?

“Listen, I have an idea.” Through the receiver Rawlins could hear the wail of an ambulance, and he raised his voice, and said, “I want to think of some way that I can send a signal to you, some kind of signal that would tell you I need to talk to you. I'm probably going to have some questions after all.”

“Like what? What were you thinking of?”

“How about a cop car? If I want you to call me I'll park an empty squad car down by Lake Harriet. I'll park it right where you saw that Saab. Can you check there, say, every day around twelve-thirty for the next couple of weeks?”

“Sure. Sure, I can do that. I can go down there and check. And if I see it there, then I'll give you a call as soon as I can.”

“Exactly.”

“Cool.” As the siren ambulance grew closer and louder, the witness said, “Just a minute—I can hardly hear you.”

The wail rose and contracted over and over, screaming as the ambulance tore to some emergency or was it a fire engine? Whatever type of emergency vehicle it was, it was awfully close, and as Rawlins pressed his small cellular phone to his ear it seemed as if he could hear the siren in both ears. Actually he could, couldn't he? The next instant he held the phone away from his head and realized he could hear the siren just as loudly, which meant it wasn't far away, not by any means.

Dear God.

He looked at the two men who'd just sat down and in one stupid second understood that they'd walked right past the very phone the witness had been using. It was them Rawlins had overheard. Which meant only one thing: the witness had been willing to come only so close.

Over the cry of the siren, Rawlins desperately said, “Hang on one second. I've got one more thing to ask you.”

With the phone pressed to his ear, Rawlins was off the bar stool and hurrying across the room. And then he was running. There was no reply from the other end, only the sound of the wail, which was now growing weaker. Rawlins tore toward the entry, dashing around the corner. But there was no one standing there at the pay phones, only one of the receivers, gently swinging to and fro by its long cord. Rawlins glanced at the door, saw it easing shut. Charging forward, he hurled open the door and ran right into the parking lot.

There was no one.

He glanced at each and every car, half-expecting to see one racing off, its tires peeling. All he needed was a license plate number, nothing more. Instead the lot was perfectly quiet. Spinning around, Rawlins looked across Excelsior Boulevard, sure to see someone racing across on foot. Instead the broad concrete road was deserted, virtually so.

Turning from side to side, Rawlins folded up his phone and slipped it back into the pocket of his jacket. The witness had been that close, only a matter of a few yards away but his paranoia must have made those last few feet seem like a million miles.

“Hey pal,” called a voice.

Rawlins turned, saw the bartender hanging out the half-open door, a smile on her face, her long hair hanging off her right shoulder.

She said, “I hope you're coming back in to pay for that beer. You are, aren't ya? Right?”

Acting the perfect Minnesotan and not belying his frustration, Rawlins replied, “You bet.”

On his way back
to his condo, Todd stopped at a gas station and bought two glass bottles of mineral water. One he drank down immediately. The other he pressed against his temple, the chilled, sweaty glass sending a rush of relief through his aching head. He took Interstate 94, crossing the Mississippi, which acted something like a Berlin Wall, dividing one metropolitan area into two capriciously distinct cities that, unlike Berlin, had never possessed any desire to be united. No, old and proud St. Paul wanted nothing to do with its flighty neighbor, and Minneapolis, feeling itself far more dynamic and hip, all but ignored its stodgy sister.

It was approaching seven by the time Todd parked his car and rode the elevator up to his apartment. He let himself in, finally uncapped the second bottle of mineral water, and, sitting on his leather couch, drank it down. A few minutes later he was roused by Girlfriend, who leapt on his lap, purring and rubbing against him as if he were the greatest of gods. Immediately Todd understood that, no, she wasn't all full of sympathy and love. The slut was hungry

Going into the kitchen, Todd opened a can of cat food and fed Girlfriend, who was swirling about his feet in a Pavlovian frenzy. He then glanced across the kitchen counter and saw the blinking red light of his answering machine. There were two messages. As he could have guessed, the first was from the six o'clock producer, Nan.

“Todd, where the hell are you? It's almost six! You better get your butt in here in the next two seconds or…or…”

He knew there was going to be hell to pay, he just didn't want to hear about it now, and he fast-forwarded it to the second message. Which was from Rawlins, as he also could have guessed. Of course Todd needed to call him back, he thought as he glanced at the clock on his stove and saw that it was a couple of minutes after seven. Picking up the phone, he started to dial, but then stopped. He put his hand to his forehead, but the number that was always there had, apparently, been beaten out of him. He quickly pulled open a drawer and pulled out his phone list, which was scribbled on a yellow legal pad, and saw the number he thought he'd never forget. When he dialed it, though, it rang busy. He waited no more than five seconds and tried again. Damn, he thought. He was never going to make it to Chase's by seven-thirty. Frustrated, Todd glanced again at the list, saw Rawlins's number down at CID, and called there.

Reaching Rawlins's voice mail, Todd stumbled over his thoughts as he said, “Hey, Rawlins, it's me, Todd. I'm okay… I think. It's a long story—I'll tell you later—but obviously we have a lot of things to talk about. Listen, I've got to meet someone in a few minutes. I'll call you back later.”

Shaking his head as he hung up, Todd realized he was in no shape to talk on the phone, let alone go to Tim Chase's. Hoping a shower would help, he went straight to his bedroom, where he stripped, then headed for the bathroom. Taking two aspirin, he chased the pills down with water from the tap, and next turned on the shower full blast and climbed in. Thank God, he thought as the water pounded and massaged his head and body, for the seemingly unlimited amount of hot water this building could produce.

A half-hour later he was driving along Mount Curve Avenue, and if he wasn't completely revived, then he was at least coherent. Looking as good as he could on this particular night, he wore black jeans, a blue shirt, and his leather coat, but who was he hoping to impress? And what exactly was he hoping would happen tonight? Recalling the strong embrace and the gentle kisses from the night before, Todd knew damn well.

As he rounded a bend and approached the house, he saw that the street was lined with cars, expensive ones too, from Mercedes to Cadillacs to Range Rovers. Could Tim Chase and Gwen Owens be having a party? Might this not be the intimate evening that Todd had envisioned? Taking the first space, Todd pulled over and parked. Up ahead on the right he saw well-heeled people streaming into a massive Tudor house; one of Tim Chase's neighbors was evidently having quite the bash.

But, no, Todd told himself as he climbed out of his truck, a roll in the hay with Tim Chase wasn't impossible, it was outrageously impossible. Tim Chase wasn't simply one of the most famous actors in the world, he was also gorgeous. And rich. If in fact he was gay—after all, he could have been playing with Todd last night, rehearsing as he said—he could have the most beautiful of queer men. So why in the world would he want Todd, who was not only in his forties and eight or nine years older than him, but also not a stunning, drop-dead Calvin Klein beauty? There was no way. Perhaps Todd was soon going to learn the secrets of Tim Chase's personal life, but, he realized, there was no way in hell they were going to have sex. It just wasn't going to happen.

Besides, there was Rawlins.

Or was there? It seemed quite obvious that Rawlins was not only unable to maintain a monogamous relationship, but that he had also broken their compromise agreement of pledging to tell the truth. So now what? There was nothing else—least of all, no other laws or ceremonies—binding them, so if Todd couldn't count on Rawlins for the simple truth, then did he really want him at all? As he was buzzed through the gate and started up the front walk, Todd realized once again that what he wanted was not a lover whom he could trust in some suburban sense, but someone who couldn't help but be totally honest. Exactly. In a restless world like this one Todd wanted something stable, a rock, someone he could count on. The sad thing was that now it was going to be so very, very tough to get back to the beginning, to what they had before. Love, lust, passion—that was one side of a relationship. The other was trust, honesty, and respect—the three of which operated in a delicate, mysterious balance and that were, once violated, all but impossible to reset. Perhaps time could both repair and restart what Todd and Rawlins had so recently had, but… .

As he approached the huge front door, Todd checked his watch, saw that he was almost fifteen minutes overdue. Perhaps that was nothing by the standards of the coasts, but in the Midwest, particularly Minnesota, that was significant. Well, thought Todd, he was just glad to be here.

As he climbed the first of three steps, the door swung open, and there she stood in tight, worn blue jeans and a baggy white T-shirt, Mrs. Tim Chase, better known throughout the world, of course, as Gwen Owens. She wore her beauty as she wore her clothes, with casual ease, and she looked right into Todd's eyes and smiled at him as if they were old friends.

“Hi, Todd, come on in.”

“Hi,” he said, still feeling nothing short of sheepish for last night's escapades with her husband. “Sorry I'm a few minutes late.”

“Don't be silly, you're not at all late. Tim's in the living room—he's been on the phone with his attorney for the last forty minutes. I think he spends half his time either filing a lawsuit or defending himself against one.”

“Really?” replied Todd as he passed through the vestibule and into the huge entry hall.

“Yeah,” continued Gwen, her walk and manner entirely easy, “now I think he's trying to take some photographer to court, some guy who actually blocked Tim as he was pulling out of a parking space. You know, trapped him so he couldn't move, which really pissed him off. Apparently the photographer was going after a picture of Tim and some guy.”

Todd's reporter ears perked up. Some guy? Some guy like who?

“Anyway, you can just go in. He'll be off in a minute.” Gwen shut the inner door, then turned and started for the huge staircase at the far end of the entry hall. “Nice to see you. Take care.”

“You're not joining us?” he asked with feigned innocence.

“Me? No,” she replied with a coy smile as if to say, Who are you trying to kid? “Maggie and I are going out for a while.”

What the hell, wondered Todd, did that mean?

From the wood-paneled entry hall, which in itself was as big as a ballroom, Todd headed left into the living room. Tim Chase sat on the large couch facing the fireplace, a telephone to his ear. Glancing over, he raised one hand in a big, familiar hello.

“Okay, Art, that's cool. Yeah, you do that. Get it all written up and Fed-Ex it out. I'll take a look at it right away, just as soon as it gets here. Listen, I gotta go. A friend just stopped by for dinner.”

Standing there on the edge of the room, still wearing his black leather coat, Todd couldn't help but take note. A friend? He didn't much feel like one. In fact, for some reason he felt almost uncomfortable and, he realized, certainly more nervous than he had yesterday.

Chase paused as his attorney obviously said something, then added, “Yeah, you too. And say hi to Leslie.”