The Dream Ender (32 page)

I heard the phone being picked up, followed by, “Hello?”

“Mr. Reardon, Dick Hardesty. Sorry to bother you again, but I should have asked you when we talked yesterday—would you be willing to tell Jake Jacobson’s attorney what Art told you about having killed Hysong?”

“Why should I?”

“You said you’d come forward at trial if you had to, but we might be able to stop this whole thing before it ever gets that far. And if you don’t, Jake may go to prison for a crime you know he didn’t commit. I appreciate your loyalty to Art,” I said, “but the fact is he’s dead now. He can’t be prosecuted for Hysong’s murder. I can’t imagine you’d want to see Jake tried for it.”

“No, of course not.” He paused, then said, “But you’re asking a hell of a lot.”

“I know that,” I said. “But Art doesn’t need your protection now. Jake does.”

“Let me think about it.”

“That’s all I ask.”

He hung up without saying good-bye, and I replaced the receiver on the cradle, my lips pursed.

I really wanted to call Jake and Jared right away to let them know that Reardon had confirmed Art Manning had killed Hysong, but Glen had specifically asked me to channel anything I found out about the case through him. Hard as it was to resist the temptation to let Jake and Jared know immediately, I understood.

I knew Glen could and would subpoena Reardon for the trial even if he couldn’t get him as a voluntary witness for the defense. And I knew that even if he did cooperate, St. John would claim his testimony was hearsay and probably try to get it ruled as inadmissable. Shit! What did I know about how lawyers and D.A.s did their jobs? I shouldn’t even have been speculating.

And why did I keep getting a mental picture of Reardon pushing his motorcycle backwards up the ramp? It must have been a bitch maneuvering the rear tire. Lowering it down the ramp rear tire first would be infinitely easier, I’d think.

And what the hell did that have to do with anything?

I knew that, whatever Reardon’s decision, for me the bottom line was the case was solved. Art Manners had killed Cal Hysong. Jake was, as I’d known from the beginning, innocent. It was up to Glen to convince either the D.A. or a jury of that fact. I’d do whatever else I could to help, but I largely saw my job as done.

I did, but something in the back of my mind didn’t.

*

I was glad I decided to eat lunch at my desk—I’d called down to the diner in the lobby to order a chili cheeseburger, two cartons of milk, and salad, and when I ran down to pick it up I left my phone off the hook. I did that sometimes to avoid having someone leave a message when I knew I’d be right back.

I was just wiping a glob of chili off the edge of my desk when Glen called at twelve thirty. I quickly sketched in what I’d learned from Reardon, and he asked if I could type up a detailed report of exactly what had been said and drop it by his office on my way home. Since he was on a lunch break from court, we didn’t have much time for anything else.

I spent the next hour or so typing up as much of my conversation with Reardon as I could remember, including some of the questions it had engendered, then decided that rather than waiting until the end of the day, I’d take it over to Glen’s office in case he might return early.

*

The weekend came and went quickly, as weekends are wont to do. Though we hadn’t seen the gang in a while, we managed to talk with everyone at one point or another. All was well with Tim and Phil and Mario and Bob and we made the usual promises to get together soon. However, with Jake and Jared the casualness of the call was not quite the same.

I always find it fascinating to consider the little dances we all do to protect those we care about. I was, as always, particularly concerned about Jake and how all the stress he and Jared were under might affect his health. I didn’t discuss this with Jonathan because I didn’t want to upset him, which I knew it would. I didn’t directly ask either Jake or Jared—I was sure they’d tell me if I did, but I didn’t want to intrude upon what was a very private part of their lives.

So, aside from the obligatory, “How are things?”-type questions, I had to rely on what information they might volunteer. From everything I could gather, Jake was doing very well. He was, Jared had told me, under the careful watch of his brother Stan and had been put on a regimen of medications that changed from time to time as new information on AIDS became known.

Again I took comfort in the fact that Jake had access to the very forefront of the fight against the disease, which was still bloating the obituary columns of the newspapers.

No matter how hard I tried to keep my mind off it and to tell myself my part of it was largely over, I kept going back to everything that had happened since Manners was killed. Something just wasn’t right, and of course, I hadn’t a clue as to what that something might be. It had to do with Reardon, though. I wished to hell I knew more about the details of their relationship. Just how much of a relationship was it, and on what levels? I doubted it would fit with my conceptions of a romantic one—I found it hard to picture the two of them sitting on a sofa in front of the TV holding hands—but I long ago learned that every person sees the world through his own eyes.

I found myself wondering again about their financial arrangements. Had they ever been finalized? Carl Brewer told me Reardon had made what he called a “half-assed” offer, but I didn’t know if that had been before or after Art’s money had entered the picture. I somehow suspected it was before. With Art’s money, Reardon could have made a more solid bid—and I wondered if he might have, subsequently. I made a mental note to check with Brewer on Monday.

The fact Reardon was still talking about buying the Male Call even with Art now dead made me really curious about the current state of Reardon’s finances, and I made another mental note to see if there were some way Glen could check into them.

If I weren’t still working for Glen, I quite probably would have wanted to talk directly to Marty and Lt. Richman to see if the police might be able to step in on the basis of the information I’d been able to gather. But this was Glen’s show, and I trusted him to know when to do what as far as bringing the police in.

Even while we were spending time with Joshua at the park on Sunday afternoon, my mind kept flitting from thought to thought. There was something Don Gleason had said about the relationship between Manners and Reardon. What was it? Not about their being fuck-buddies, but…

Damn! Probably wasn’t important anyway, but I hate not being able to remember things, and I particularly hated wasting my time worrying about things that were now out of my hands.

*

I wanted to talk to Brewer before calling Glen on Monday but held off until I was pretty sure he’d be up. When I finally did call, around ten forty-five, the phone was answered on the first ring.

“Brewer.”

“Yeah, Mr. Brewer, this is Dick Hardesty. I’ve got a couple of questions for you.”

“I guess that means you haven’t caught the guy who killed Cal, then?”

I wasn’t about to go into the details of Manners’ culpability, so I merely said, “Afraid not, but we’re getting there.”

“So, what do you need from me?” he asked.

“I was wondering if you’ve had any more offers on the bar?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah. I got a pretty good offer from a guy and I almost took it until I found out he was a front for Pete Reardon, so I turned it down.”

“How long ago was that?” I asked.

“Last week.”

“After Manners was killed?”

“Yeah, I guess so. What’s that got to do with it?”

Well, it was a pretty good clue that Manners’ and Reardon’s financial arrangement had gone through. The question now was exactly what the arrangement was, in that it apparently had not terminated with Manners’ death.

“Nothing, really,” I said, pulling myself back to reality. “I just was surprised Reardon would make an offer so soon after Manners’ death, since I’d heard they were really close. Any idea how Reardon got the money to come up with the new offer?”

“Not a clue. Probably just blowing smoke out his ass as always. But you never know what he might have up his sleeve.”

Like Manners’ money? I wondered.

“Do you think Manners might have been behind the offer, somehow?”

“Well, I’ve got my suspicions,” he said.

“Oh? Like what, if I can ask?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Manners hadn’t been shoring up Reardon financially for quite awhile. It’s pretty clear to me Reardon held the hoop and Manners jumped through it.”

“Master/slave, you mean?” I asked. That had never occurred to me.

“No, I don’t think it went that far, but I think Manners would do just about whatever Reardon told him to.”

Like kill Cal Hysong? The thought came totally out of the blue and actually startled me. And I realized that’s what I’d been trying to remember about what Gleason had said—that Manners would do anything for Reardon.

“Like I think I told you,” Brewer continued, unaware of my thought processes, “I always suspected the only reason Manners came to the Male Call was to keep an eye on things for Reardon.”

“Interesting,” I said, and meant it.

I was curious about the most recent offer he’d received and why he’d turned it down, so I asked. Again, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d refused to answer—it wasn’t any of my business, really, but that never stopped me from asking a question.

“The offer came from a guy whose name I recognized from the Dog Collar days as being one of Reardon’s cronies. I might have taken it if I hadn’t realized what was going on.”

“But aren’t you obligated to take an offer if it meets your asking price?”

“If I was going through a realtor, yes, which is why I’m doing it myself. You can always come down on a deal, but you can’t go up. By doing it myself, I’ve got control over who gets it. It’s a hassle, but I’m deadly serious when I say it’s not going to Reardon. I’ll lock up the place and walk away first.”

We wrapped up the conversation a minute or two later. I didn’t even set the receiver back on the cradle before dialing Glen’s office.

Transferred to Donna, I asked if she could have Glen call me as soon as was convenient.

“He’ll be calling in momentarily,” she said pleasantly—Donna is never anything but pleasant, “and I’ll give him the message. Are you in your office?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be here for a while and will wait to hear from him.”

Not five minutes later the phone rang.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Dick, Glen. Are you free for lunch?”

“I can be, sure,” I said. “Etheridge’s?”

“No,” he replied. “I’m taking a deposition near the Imperator. You want to meet me there at our usual time?”

“Sure,” I said, glancing at my watch. I could just make it.

“Okay. See you there,” and he hung up.

The Imperator? That place was way out of my league. I’d had dinner there once a long time ago—about the time of the Dog Collar fire, and as a matter of fact, while I was working on a case that involved it. Fantastic food, but at those prices it should be. Actually, I remembered, I had no idea what it cost—the menus had no prices and the tab went directly to the host, who fortunately wasn’t me. But it’s like Andrew Carnegie or some rich guy once said, “If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.”

Luckily, I kept a sport jacket and tie neatly folded in the bottom drawer of a file cabinet for just such contingencies. I hadn’t had occasion to use them in a long time but was glad they were there.

Chapter 23

The Imperator was just as I remembered it—the very definition of the word elegance. Lots of heavy, rich paneling—probably mahogany—ornately carved moldings, soft lighting, large potted plants, original art you knew didn’t come from a Starving Artists’ sale, thick burgundy carpets with a quiet blue pattern of some sort that muffled any sounds in the large room. I took a glance around looking for Glen; not seeing him, I stepped to the maitre d’s podium.

“I’m meeting Mr. O’Banyon,” I said—I had no doubt he’d know who I meant, “but assume he’s not here yet?”

The maitre d’, impeccably dressed, impeccably groomed, and impeccably well-mannered, smiled and said, “Mr. O’Banyon is expected any moment. Let me show you to his table.” He then led me to a corner of the room near the large windows looking out over a manicured courtyard.

“Your waiter will be here momentarily,” he said, smiling, and turned to go back to his podium, where two crisply business-suited men awaited his attention.

I wondered briefly what there was about the very rich that their clothes never seemed to wrinkle.

A white-coated waiter appeared to ask if I would like a cocktail, and I told him I would wait. Smiling, he poured water into a stemmed goblet, then carefully and expertly tonged a sliced wedge of lemon onto the rim and left.

As I waited I looked around the room a bit more closely. I’d realized after my first visit that the restaurant that had gotten its name and many of its decorative features from the old pre-WWI German ocean liner
Imperator
, which was confiscated by the British after the war and renamed the
Berengaria
. That fact accounted for the large marble bust of Kaiser Wilhelm at the entrance and the elegant glass domed ceiling, which had come from the ship’s banquet hall.