The Bottle Ghosts (10 page)

*

I'd finished my shake and sandwich, and was just writing up a draft of my first—and I realized, under the circumstances, perhaps my last—report to John Bradshaw, when Gresham called.

“You were right. Sam Roedel and Greg Barnett, Fred DeCarlo's…uh…‘other half'…belong to Qualicare. Roedel's…partner's name is Peter Warlum. While I was at it, I got the names of everyone in the group—told them we were looking into a minor hit-and-run that took place near the hospital at around nine-thirty Thursday night and asked if they might have had any group meetings letting out about that time. I didn't even have to specify which group—she volunteered it. You want 'em?”

“Sure!” I was impressed that he'd been able to get all the names without making it too obvious.

“The membership is apparently pretty fluid, from what I could gather. They seem to keep track of only the past several weeks, as a matter of fact. But the names they have now, other than John Bradshaw and Jerry Shea, are Carl Sweeney, Jay Tabert, Andy Phillips, John Ellison, Keith Hooper, Victor LaVallee, Paul Carter and Frank Reese. When I asked if Roedel, Barnett, DeCarlo, and Warlum were members, she put me on hold while she checked farther back, then said they'd all dropped out some time ago. I can probably ask her to go back even farther, if you want.”

“I don't think that'll be necessary right now, but thanks for getting what you did.”

“So what now?”

Good question.

“Now I think I'd better talk to Lieutenant Richman.”

“Okay, but try to keep me in the loop, will you?”

“It's a promise. Talk to you soon. And thanks again.”

Rather than ask Gresham to transfer me up to Richman, I hung up and re-dialed

City Annex.

“Lieutenant Richman.”

“Lieutenant; it's Dick again. I think we have something of a situation here that we should talk about as soon as you can.”

“Gee, Dick Hardesty and a ‘situation.' Now there's a first.”

Fortunately, I could tell he was being facetious.

“It happens. But I do think this is something you should definitely be aware of even though I don't think there's anything you can really do about it right now.”

He was silent only for a moment, then said: “Okay, how about meeting me for breakfast at Sandler's tomorrow morning?”

“At seven?” We'd met frequently enough at that particular restaurant at that particular time that I didn't really even have to ask.

“Right.”

“Okay, I'll see you there, then. And thanks.”

*

Even after writing, rewriting, and re-rewriting my report to Bradshaw, I realized it was a pretty pathetic piece of work. Shea was gone. Period. Not a trace. That so were three other guys only made it worse, but I didn't want to open that can of worms by mentioning it in my report. That there was almost surely a link to Qualicare's gay alcohol counseling group was far easier to accept in the mind than on paper. And if I embarked on this course of infiltrating the group, there were all sorts of built-in obstacles: how to try to find out anything concrete without having everyone involved with the group know I was investigating the case—and by direct implication, them? The group met only once a week. How many sessions would I have to attend before I could piece together any worthwhile information? Several, at least, I'd judge, even before I could get a sense of what might be a clue and what might not.

Shit!
I was used to cases where I started out on day one and worked like hell straight through to day however-many-it-took. From what I'd gathered, socializing between the couples in the group was not encouraged outside of the meetings. I might try to push that one a bit. But otherwise this was a case that would have to develop two hours at a time, one day a week.

Did I mention:
Shit!
?

Well, one thing I hadn't faced up to until now, but realized I'd been pretty sure of almost from the time I heard Shea wasn't the only missing man, was that time wasn't a factor in the need to find them. My mind and my gut told me they were well beyond rescuing. The only thing I might be able to do, other than find out what happened to them and why, was to prevent another disappearance.

I rewrote the report one more time, ending it with the comment that I did have a lead, but that he could not expect anything definite for some time to come. While my gut told me there was little doubt but that his lover was dead, I couldn't just come out and say it without some sort of proof. But I didn't want to lead him on with false hope, either. So I'd have to leave it up to him. If he wanted me to keep going on the investigation, that would be fine. But if he didn't…well, four men had vanished and I knew it. And I knew me.

*

I got home about an hour early. With Chris and Max arriving the next day, I wanted to make sure the apartment looked as good as it could, even though they wouldn't be staying with us. I was again infinitely grateful that Jonathan was as good about things as he was. He kept the place picked up and embarrassed me into not being quite the slob I was when I was living alone. But with him working a full-time job and now going to school on Wednesdays, I certainly couldn't expect him to do all the work around the place.

I got out the vacuum, went through about a can of furniture polish, and was mopping the bathroom floor when I heard Jonathan come in. When he saw me hard at work with a sponge and a mop bucket, he came over, scowling.

“Who are you and what have you done with Dick?”

Then he broke into his usual grin and hugged me. “I was going to do this,” he said, looking around at my handiwork.

“I know, but I didn't marry you so you could be a housewife.”

“Well, thanks. I appreciate that.”

While I was dumping out the mop pail into the toilet, Jonathan headed off to the kitchen to have his evening chat with Tim and Phil—the goldfish, not the people—and to start dinner. In Jonathan's defense, I probably should point out that these chats consisted generally of asking them if they'd had a good day, telling them how nice they looked, chastising Tim for hogging all the fish food and admonishing Phil for letting Tim boss him around. While all this was going on, I took the opportunity to strip and take a quick shower.

As I was drying off, I heard the phone ring and Jonathan call: “I'll get it.”

I heard him answer, listen for a minute, then say: “I'd better have you talk to Dick.”

Seeing me come out of the bathroom, he held out the phone to me and said “It's Mr. Oaks from Qualicare.”

I hurried over to take the phone. “Mr. Oaks. Thank you for calling. Jonathan said he'd called Qualicare today.”

The voice on the other end was masculine and…professional, by which I suppose I mean personable without being overly friendly.

“Yes, they got me the message. I understand you and your partner are interested in joining our Gay Couple's Alcohol Counseling group.”

“Yes, we are. Very much.”

“And only one of you is alcoholic, is that right?”

“Yes. My partner Jonathan.”

“Okay, I tell you what. The group meets on Thursday evenings from seven to nine-fifteen, but I'd need to have something of an interview with both of you first, to be sure the group could be of benefit to you. Would it be possible for you to come by my office at Qualicare at six o'clock tomorrow evening? We could have a brief talk and, if everything goes well, you could join the group the following Thursday.”

Chris and Max!
I reminded myself, and did some fast logistics-juggling.
Qualicare at six, we'd be out by six-thirty, run home and change, arrange to pick Chris and Max up at the Montero at eight; cutting it razor thin but yeah, it's doable.

“That will be fine, Mr. Oaks. We appreciate it. Are you in the main building?”

“No, I'm in Room 429 of the new Family Care Center, directly across from the main hospital on Saxon Boulevard.”

“We'll find it. And thank you again.”

“See you tomorrow, then.”

I replaced the receiver onto the cradle and turned to see Jonathan about two feet away, holding out my Manhattan. Startled me, somehow. Apparently I'd made an involuntary jerk.

“Sorry. All set?”

I nodded.

“Good. You have your Manhattan while I run into the shower and get ready for class. Dinner's in the oven.”

I followed him into the bathroom as we discussed the logistics of Chris and Max's arrival in light of the meeting with Oaks.

*

Jonathan insisted on taking the bus to school, though I'd offered to take him and pick him up (actually a bit impractical since I'd either have to find somewhere to wait for the two and a half hours he was in class or drive back home then practically turn right around and go back). So we compromised by my coming to pick him up when he got out. We'd discussed and agreed that he should get his drivers' license as soon as possible, so he could take the car and drive himself back and forth on school nights.

This was actually the first night since we'd been together that I'd been home by myself and—again, how quickly we become spoiled—I didn't like it. I decided to leave the apartment around eight o'clock and swing by my favorite bar, Ramón's, for a few minutes to see our good friend Bob Allen, who owned the place. I felt just a little guilty about going into a bar by myself other than in conjunction with my work, but…

What a fucking
wimp! my mind said contemptuously.

My crotch leapt nobly to my defense:
Now, now, the boy deserves a few minutes of rest and relaxation. Y'know, see what's goin' on out there…
.

And of course that's precisely why I felt mildly guilty in the first place: I knew exactly what it was up to.

*

Things were a little slow when I arrived. Jimmy, the bartender, threw up his hands when he saw me, tossing the bar towel he'd been holding into the air.

“He's alive, gang!” he called, causing the four or five patrons to look at me oddly.

I walked over to the bar and pulled out a stool. “Oh, come on! It's only been a week or so.”

“Uh-huh. That Jonathan's got you right where he wants you! How come he let you out alone?”

“He's taking a night class at Grant Tech. I'm going to go pick him up in a bit. In the meantime, I'll have a bourbon and Seven, weak. And is Bob in?”

Jimmy reached for a glass, filled it with ice, and reached for the bourbon bottle. “He's in the office,” he said without looking up from his task.

We exchanged money for drink, and I picked up my glass and napkin, got up from the stool and walked back to the office.

“Come,” Bob's voice called in response to my knock.

I opened the door just wide enough to stick my head in. “Is it okay if I just ‘enter'?” I asked.

He looked up sharply from the stack of bills and receipts on his desk and grinned.

“Dick! Come on in. Grab that chair.”

I closed the door behind me, pulled out the folding chair against the wall beside the door, opened it, and sat down within two and a half feet from him, which was about as far away as the small office would permit.

We small-talked for a while about how things were going in general. He and Mario saw Jonathan fairly regularly, since they were frequent customers at the nursery where Jonathan worked. He knew from Jonathan that Chris was coming into town, and wanted to be sure to see him. I told him we hoped to go to Steamroller Junction's opening, and that T/T (Tondelaya /Teddy), the drag queen, would be performing. We tentatively agreed to try to all get together either Saturday night or, if not, to all go over to Bob and Mario's for brunch on Sunday.

The talk got around to what I was working on, and I told him. I don't normally discuss my business…and especially specific cases…with people, but Bob and I could tell each other anything without fear of its going any further.

When I mentioned Qualicare and the Gay Alcohol Counseling group, I saw Bob's eyebrows go up like a flag being raised.

“Brian Oaks runs that group!”

Now it was my turn for the raised eyebrows.

“You know him?”

“Sure! We went to college together. I was a couple years ahead of him, but we both lived in the same dorm. He went on to get his degree in psychology and moved out of the area for several years, then just came back a little before Qualicare started their expansion. He and his lover Chad live over on Ridge, and Brian runs a small private practice out of his home as well as working for Qualicare.”

He looked at me and shook his head. “One hell of a small world, huh?”

I thought that one over, and knew he was right. “Maybe too small in this case.”

He gave me his cocked head quizzical look.

“Jonathan and I are trying to join the group. I figured it's the best way to find out what's going on. Something sure in hell is. But I don't want anyone at Qualicare or in the group know that I'm a P.I. So if you should happen to run into Brian Oaks, please don't say anything to him until I know better what the situation is.”