Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 2 - Stellium in Scorpio (19 page)

"Rose,
you're obviously not telling us something," I said.

"Too
many people. Even I don't know who's on whose side," she said almost
inaudibly.

"We
think you landed on the ghoul pool list to ensure someone's silence or your
own. True?" I asked.

The
door opened and Marlena filled the doorway. "You shouldn't be alone,
Rosie. Come on, you're too upset." She gave us a look that indicated how
sorry she felt for poor Rose, and she helped the girl up. "We have to
go," Marlena said to us, and we watched her shepherd Rose away.

"They
always seem to know where Rose is," Callie said.

"Let's
hope they're protecting her. Ever since those names appeared on my palm I've
been worried it's a gallows list."

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

As we
headed back down the stairs and through the maze of ropes and pulleys
backstage, the phone rang and Wade Garner's voice sounded solemn as he asked me
if I'd told anyone else about my request that he do some investigating for me.
When I assured him I hadn't, he said he'd gotten an anonymous call warning him
off the case.

I
apologized profusely and told him to back off. This wasn't his affair.

"No
way," he replied. "I'm just impressed that you're dickin' around with
crooks who have the balls to call me a thousand miles away to threaten me. Must
mean you're getting close. Stay in touch," he said. And I knew he was
saying stay safe.

While
my body was moving through the theater, my mind flashed back to the Star Bar,
where I'd been the night Wade called and I'd stepped outside to get better
reception. Everyone always met at the Desert Star Bar. Everyone had to step out
of the bar to make a call because no one could get reception inside, and
everyone had to face in the only direction one could face and get a cell phone
to work. The spot outside the bar where the phone would work faced a series of
overhead glass panels just off the lobby.

They’re
scanning everyone’s cell phone conversations through the glass. It happens in
the lobby,
I thought. I picked up my
pace, wanting to get out of the theater and back to the glass panels to check
out my theory.

I
don't know what made Callie look up as we proceeded across the theater's back
stage. I only heard her gasp and my eyes followed the tilt of her head. Up
above us, a man stood on his tiptoes, on scaffolding that jutted out away from
the tall theater walls. His anguished expression seemed to communicate that he
was committing suicide. He let out a piercing scream and my heart nearly leapt
out of my chest as he tumbled down, diving to his death. Our hands
instinctively covered our mouths to stifle our own screams as we watched in
horror, not wanting to hear the dull splat, but then at the last moment, he
pulled out of the dive like an aircraft, his arms outspread, soaring above our
head under his own power, shrieking and laughing in the most maniacally
chilling flight. Callie and I ducked as he dive-bombed us. I searched for wires
or filaments or any support system but saw none. Suddenly he seemed to lose
control of his aerobatics and crashed to the floor, just missing our heads by
inches, and now it was our turn to scream. We bent over the body and it was
nothing but a dummy, a mannequin. Elliot Traugh stepped out onto the grid work
up above our heads. "Oh, good heavens, I'm so sorry. Hector could have
killed you! Are you all right? Hector is our flyboy test dummy!"

"Sound
effects are pretty hair-raising," I responded.

"No
one's supposed to be in here without permission," he said, fretting
insincerely over the near tragedy.

"And
if they are, you're forced to kill them?" I joked.

"Should
I call the hotel nurse?" Elliot asked without the least bit of concern in
his voice now that he presumed we were uninjured.

"No,
we're leaving," Callie said and pulled me back toward the place where we
had entered.

"Put
the Do Not Enter sign up please on your way out," Elliot called to us.

"What
do you know about Joanie's death, Elliot?" I couldn't leave without
asking.

"I
know it was tragic, a great loss to the theater community and to this
show," he replied solemnly.

"Was
it an accident.. .really?" I probed.

"That's
what the paper said, and all the newscasts," Elliot responded.

"Who
found her?" Callie chimed in.

"I
sent Sophia to her house with a key when she didn't show for rehearsal.
Sophia's still very upset. I don't understand your fascination with this... are
you police or reporters... or just bored?" He went back to being the
acerbic gay man.

"Sorry
we bothered you," Callie said.

Out
of Elliot's earshot, I leaned into Callie. "Why would he send Sophia? If
he suspected Joanie was injured or maybe even dead, why wouldn't he send
another drag queen who would know what things to remove or hide or who to
call?"

"Perhaps
he wanted to send Sophia a message. Perhaps he
knew
Joanie was dead and
her corpse was an up-close reminder of what could happen to people who
talk," Callie said. "But why would Sophia talk?"

"Maybe
because of her relationship with Rose. If they're close friends, and one of
them is in danger, I would imagine the other one should watch her back," I
said.

We
retraced our steps up the steep incline, through the double doors, and back out
into the brightly lit lobby.

"The
dummy—was it an accident?" I looked into Callie's eyes as we found
ourselves outside the darkened theater and once again in the hubbub of people
having normal lives.

"No,"
she whispered softly. "The dummy flying down at us, the death of Joanie
Burr.. .nothing here is by accident."

"I'm
getting skittish, Callie. Too many places an attack can come from, and it
always looks innocent."

"Wrap
ourselves in white light," Callie said firmly.

I
said nothing, thinking we'd most likely used up our personal ration of white
light at this point.

Callie
and I took Elmo outside, taking solace in mundane activities. As the Queen of
England purportedly said, the secret to success is never to pass up an
opportunity to go to the loo. That was Elmo's secret to success as well. He
hunched his body up at the base of an ornamental shrub, making it only slightly
more ornamental when he was through. I was busy looking over my shoulder for
would-be attackers and didn't have my plastic bag with me, so I left Elmo's
token for the gardeners. I was thinking we needed to find Sophia and ask her
about her discovery of Joanie's body.

When
we reentered the lobby, I was struck by the number of businesspeople happily
holding their conferences and meetings amidst what could only be termed total
chaos: noise, lights, and throngs of humanity—like trying to hold a church
service at a carnival. A man strode across the lobby and gripped the hand of a
friend in a strong handshake that lingered just a beat too long, making me
wonder if they were gay.

"Did
you know that at one time there was a tribal group in New Guinea that shook
penises," I said, causing Callie to stop walking and pay full attention.
"They believed if you could trust a stranger with your most vulnerable
body part, you could trust him with your life. I wonder how that got started. I
mean, there had to be that first guy who said, 'May I shake your penis?' and
then it caught on."

"Teague,
your mind is a very strange place." Callie giggled.

"No,
I'm dead serious. Can you imagine a New Guinea woman ever in her wildest dreams
deciding that women should shake each other's tits? You see what I mean? I
don't care where they are in the world, men's thought processes are just damned
strange," I concluded.

As I
thought about the men in the lobby, shaking hands instead of penises, my mind
reached back into its databank and pulled up the image of Giovanni shaking our
hands so warmly at dinner, first me, then Callie. "Callie, Gio put the
letters on my palm when he shook my hand just before we left the restaurant. I
remember thinking his hand was so warm, a bit sweaty, but he was so sweet
holding my palm to his. He was transferring the ink. But did he mean it as a
threat or a warning?"

"A
warning—one that's too late for Joanie but not for Rose. Check the ring,"
she whispered, her lips barely moving.

I
looked up and, sure enough, the dealer was wearing the signet ring on his
pinkie finger. I looked past the dealer and spotted one of Hollywood's most
famous leading men, Sterling Hackett, walking toward us. I punched Callie and
nodded in his direction, and then we both pretended not to have noticed him.

I
slid onto the end chair at the blackjack table, and Elmo and Callie stood
beside me. Mid-deal, Sterling Hackett sat down to my left. "Is the dog
winning?" he asked dryly.

"He
just started playing," I said, not cracking a smile, but the dealer did.

The
cards were dealt, and I checked mine—ace and eight—I waved my hand palm down
three inches above the cards, giving the sign that I didn't want another.
Sterling looked at his cards, two eights, and told the dealer to double down.
The dealer laid a six over one of the eights and a king on the other: fourteen
and eighteen. The dealer then turned his own card over, revealing a ten to go
with his king and beating us both.

"Elmo,
you lost," I said over the edge of the table as the dealer dealt us cards
again.

"I'm
busted," Sterling said, this time holding twenty-two, and the dealer took
it all with twenty-one. "I've had fourteen be a winning hand," he
mused. "Well, I'm hitting the hay and tackling this tomorrow."

"Good
night, Mr. Hackett. I enjoy your movies, by the way," the dealer offered.

"Thanks,"
Sterling said without looking back, and he wandered off toward the elevators.
Callie yanked on my jacket, and I cashed in my chips. Elmo, Callie, and I
caught the elevator and got off on eighteen. Sterling entered room 1823. Callie
said she felt strongly that we should hang around for a few minutes. I stood by
the elevator with Elmo for fifteen minutes until he and I were both tired of
shifting our weight from one leg to the other. Suddenly,
whoosh!
and the
elevator doors opened and a young man who looked to be prepubescent walked down
the hallway, escorted by an older, shorter man wearing lifts. He knocked on the
door of room 1823, and I pulled Elmo back out of sight. Sterling opened the
door and let the boy in, and the older man left. I could see Callie's
countenance cloud over, and I knew what she was thinking. I didn't want to
think about it. After all, maybe that was the boy's father who brought him
there for an audition.
You know that's bullshit,
a voice in my head
said.
Well, so what!
the warring voice in my head replied.
So what if
Sterling had boys come to his room late at night? There could be a million reasons,
none of them our business.

Elmo
was so tired he was beginning to stumble. When basset hounds wear out, they
wilt like a flower in a matter of minutes, and Elmo had gone from being a tulip
to a pansy. The voice in my head would not be silenced.
You know that
Sterling Hackett has a reputation for sexual encounters with underaged boys. It’s
been reported in all the trades in L.A. You know that he’s probably boffing
that kid right now.

"Do
something!" Callie said as if residing in my head. There was scuffling and
a muffled protest coming from the room.

"Like
what?" I replied.

"Are
you going to let him harm that boy?"

I
knew from police work that the boy had probably been harmed before by many men.
In fact, he was what older gay and bisexual men called chicken—fresh meat. But
I chose not to tell Callie that.

"Teague..."
Callie's voice was strained. I handed her Elmo's leash, telling her to hold him
and get back out of sight. I charged the door, more out of frustration of being
drawn into this drama than any idealistic view that I could save this kid. I
banged on the door loudly with my fist and lowered my voice.

"Vice
Squad! You've got five seconds to open this door! One! Two! Three..."

There
was silence, and I jumped back out of sight. The door blew open suddenly and
the young boy flew out of the room, his shirt hanging off him and his pants in
his arms. He looked terrified, perhaps by Sterling Hackett or perhaps by the
specter of the vice squad. I ran after him and caught him by the arm.

"You
okay?" I asked him, panting slightly from my short sprint.

"Yeah."
He ducked his head.

"What
are you doing here?" I pulled him out of sight of Sterling's hotel room
door.

"Nothing.
Visiting," he said.

I
pushed him ahead of me down the hallway and into a small linen closet. Callie
and Elmo followed. "You're going to talk to us about what's going on
around here. Who do you work for?"

"Whoever
pays me," he said.

"To
do what exactly?" I pressed.

He
started to bolt, but I had him in a grip he couldn't escape. "I will turn
you in to the police unless you talk to me for five minutes. What's your
name?"