The Hired Man (23 page)

At this point, Mr. Glick emerged from the house, followed by Johnnie Mae pushing a covered caterer's cart I assumed contained lunch. She stopped at the umbrella table and began efficiently transferring things from the cart to the table, while Mr. Glick came over to greet me. Even when he was dressed informally, as he was now, he still looked like an ad for a Distinguished Gentlemen's clothing store.

Gary went behind the bar to get him some wine; then Mrs. Glick motioned all four of us to the table. Johnnie Mae was just setting out the last of the cart's contents, and I was once again in awe of her efficiency. Whatever the Glicks were paying her could never have been nearly enough. We exchanged smiles, and she turned the cart around and headed back for the house.

Lunch turned out to be an incredible crab salad with a side dish of fresh fruit—slices of honeydew melon, cantaloupe, watermelon sprinkled with fresh raspberries. We small-talked pleasantly through lunch until Johnnie Mae returned with coffee and took the empty dishes back to the house on the same tray.

“So, tell us, Mr. Hardesty,” Mrs. Glick said as we drank our coffee, “what was it you wanted to ask?”

I glanced at Mr. Glick and thought I noticed just a flicker of…what?…discomfort?…cross his face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual expression of complete composure. I felt suddenly very awkward, not knowing what to say.

Gary caught on instantly.

“Perhaps I should excuse myself,” he said with a small smile, but Mrs. Glick reached out and touched his arm.

“Nonsense,” she said. “I'm sure whatever Mr. Hardesty has to ask isn't privileged.” She glanced at me. “Is it, Mr. Hardesty.”

“Well, no…it's just a general question about the escorts' services.”

“Please,” Mr. Glick said, “ask.”

I took a deep breath.

“I understand that each of the escorts is selected partly for his ability to cater to specific client requests, with each one providing a different area of expertise.”

Jeezus, Hardesty! You want to try that one again, in English?
my mind asked.

Mr. Glick gave a very small smile of amusement.

“That's true, yes.”

Oh, to hell with pussyfooting
, I decided.

“Are any of your escorts bisexual?”

There was a long silence until Mrs. Glick said, “We understand several of the escorts have had heterosexual experiences.”

I recognized sidestepping when I saw it, and pushed ahead.

“Yes, and I realize that a large number of your clients are themselves bisexual, but do any of your escorts specialize in requests for bisexual activity involving women?”

Another awkward silence.

“That would be me,” Gary said with a smile, his eyes fixed on mine.

Chapter 10

I hope to hell my face didn't show the surprise the rest of me was feeling, but, on reflection, I probably should have been able to guess. Matt Rushmore made no bones about his being bi, and he'd said that he and Gary had been buddies in the Marines.
Two plus two, Hardesty!
And how do you know if somebody's bi or not, unless they tell you? Nobody wears signs.

“Ah,” I said, in yet another classic example of Hardesty non-statement.

“Matt used to be our designated bi,” Gary went on, still smiling, “but when he left, I filled in. Not that there's all that much demand for that particular specialty, but if they want it, they got it.”

“Actually,” Mr. Glick said, “in light of the most recent terrible death, Mrs. Glick and I thought that might be the gist of your question, and we agreed it might be good if Gary were here to directly answer any other questions you may have. Do you think the police will follow your same line of reasoning?”

I shook my head. “No way of knowing, really. I do know that Lt. Richman, though not officially a member of the homicide division, is pretty sharp. He's got a lot better feel for what goes on in the community than most of the force.”

“So, do you?” Gary asked, reaching for the coffee carafe to refill our cups.

“Do I what?” I put my hand over mine to indicate I'd had enough.

“Have specific questions for me?”

“Well,” I said, “we went over most of the basic ones before this bi issue came up. I just think it's a pretty good idea to understand that if I can see the potential link to ModelMen, the cops may do the same thing. The only advantage we have right now is that the police apparently aren't aware of ModelMen's escort branch. I suspect it's only a matter of time before Richman or somebody else decides to retrace their steps to see what they've missed, and when they do…”

We all sat for a moment, the only sounds being the water cascading down the little manmade hill surrounding the pool house and the drone of a passing airplane.

“Gary,” I finally said, “if I were you, I'd go over your alibis for the nights of all three murders pretty carefully—you may well need them. I'd suggest the same to every one of the other escorts as well.”

I turned to Mr. Glick.

“You told me the client Phil was with the evening Anderson was killed would be willing to come forward if necessary. I hope that's true, because Phil is a definite and obvious link between ModelMen and Anderson. If they track him down and he can immediately offer up the name of the man he was with that night, that might deflect attention from ModelMen entirely. You should alert the client he might be brought into all this.”

Mr. Glick finished his coffee and set the cup down carefully on the saucer. He looked at me and smiled.

“He already knows,” he said, “and has no hesitation in coming forward if he's needed.”

Why was I getting a strong sense that I knew who Phil's client was? No one had mentioned a name, just that the guy was a prominent fig…

Shit, of course! That photo of Phil and Stuart Anderson taken with the senator and…Glen O'Banyon! Why Glen, you devil, you!

I don't think Glen O'Banyon customarily paid for sex, but in Phil's case, I'm sure he'd be willing to make an exception. Hell, almost any gay man in his right mind would consider it! I made a mental note to ask Phil, just for my own curiosity.

I also made a mental note, in light of the connection between Matt Rushmore and Gary, to call Matt with a few more questions; I had a few specific things I wanted to check. My crotch immediately jumped in with a question or two of its own.

*

As soon as I returned to the office, I looked up Matt's number and dialed it. I wasn't expecting to find him home and was therefore mildly surprised to hear him answer on the first ring.

“Matt, hi…this is Dick Hardesty.”

“Yeah, Dick, what can I do for you?”

I really wish hot guys wouldn't ask questions like that.

“I had a couple quick questions I hope you wouldn't mind answering,” I said. “We can do it over the phone, if you'd like.”

“Sure,” he said, “but I prefer to talk to people in person. Why don't you come over? We can have a drink and talk about whatever it is.”

While my crotch thought that was a great idea, my mind wasn't too sure. He was still very much a suspect-in-waiting.

So, what's he going to do? Chop you up in his own apartment?

“Okay,” I said, “if it won't be a problem.”

“Nah, come on over,” he said. “It's 4242 Harker, just north of Brookhaven. Know where it is?”

“Right off of Decorator's Row,” I said. “I can find it. What time?

“Five-thirty?”

“Okay, I'll see you then.”

We hung up, and on a whim—hell, it wasn't a whim, I was covering my ass!—I called Phil, ostensibly to make arrangements for going to Billy's memorial service Saturday. Luck was with me again, and he was home. We arranged for me to pick him up at around 10:00. The service was at noon, and it was about an hour's drive.

“Oh, and, Phil,” I said, as if it were an afterthought, “what can you tell me about Matt Rushmore—especially anything you might know about his relationship with Gary?”

He thought a moment. “Not too much, really. Matt sort of kept pretty much to himself, though he and Gary did hang out quite a bit together when I first joined ModelMen.”

“Anything happen to change that?” I asked.

“I don't know. I just got the feeling things had pretty much cooled off between them by the time Matt left. I do know that the guy Matt worked over had been one of Gary's regulars. No idea why he decided to go with Matt. I can't imagine that making a difference in their relationship, whatever that might have been.”

“Hmmm.” I shifted the phone from one ear to the other. “Any other impressions of Matt?”

“Just that he's pretty damned butch. I think Billy told me Matt has a wife and two kids somewhere, although how he'd have found out I don't know. For some odd reason, Billy found that idea really hot.”

Although Matt had told me he'd never been to bed with Billy, I thought I'd double-check.

“Did Billy ever get together with him? You said he didn't date the other escorts, but…”

“No, I'm pretty sure he never did. He said Matt had come on to him a couple times, but they'd never actually gotten around to doing anything.”

Interesting.

“Any particular reason you're asking?” Phil wanted to know.

“Well,” I said, “I've got a couple questions for Matt, and I'm going over to his place shortly. I just wanted to see if you knew something I should follow up on.”

“Oh, okay. But, no, nothing I can think of.”

“Well, thanks, Phil,” I said. “I'll see you around ten on Saturday, then, if not before, okay?”

“Okay. Take care of yourself,” he added, which struck me as a rather strange thing to say.

Now, don't get paranoid,
my inner voice cautioned.
It's just a phrase.

We exchanged goodbyes and hung up.

Interesting that Billy had told Phil Matt had come on to him when Matt said just the opposite, and that he didn't dig totally gay guys—and Billy was certainly that. And that Gary had been a regular for the client Matt had beaten up. Did that mean Gary was into a little “down and dirty,” as Aaron called it? Maybe the client switched because Gary wasn't down and dirty enough. Hard to say.

I also wondered what had happened to cool down the friendship between Matt and Gary. Well, I'd find out.

*

The three blocks of Brookhaven just off Beech were known as Decorator's Row for all the exclusive furniture, art, and interior design shops concentrated in that area. Most of the stores were not open to the general public, as the discreet “To the Trade” signs on their doors announced, so foot traffic along that stretch was limited mostly to the occasional peasant looking enviously in the windows at the things they could never afford.

Harker marked the eastern boundary of Decorator's Row, and 4242 was a pleasant courtyard building with a fenced-in small lawn edged with flowerbeds. Matt had not mentioned his apartment number, but I was able to find it easily enough on the list beside the door in the small alcove entry and rang the buzzer. A moment later, there was a responding buzz and the click of the door unlocking.

I found the right apartment and had just raised my fist to knock when the door opened to an impressive panorama of Matt Rushmore wearing a white tank top and torn cut-offs that left little to the imagination.

“Hi,” he said, standing back from the door. “Come on in.”

The apartment reminded me quite a bit of my own, in that neither Matt Rushmore nor I was likely to win a Happy Homemaker award. Not messy, but definitely lived-in. It was comfortable enough, but I didn't get the impression Matt had ever considered interior design as a profession. Functional, livable. That about does it.

But whereas I have a lot—probably way too much—of little personal stuff around my place, breadcrumbs leading to my past in reminders of certain people or places, I couldn't really spot anything that said “This is Matt.” Then, I noticed two small, framed color photos on one wall—a boy around ten and a girl around six. I didn't have to ask who they were.

“Have a seat,” Matt said, and I sat down on one side of a surprisingly comfortable if nondescript-looking couch. “Would you like a beer?” He moved toward what I gathered was the kitchen.

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

I heard the refrigerator door opening then two soft “psshhhht” sounds. He returned a moment later with two uncapped beers. He handed me one before sitting down in a recliner across from me, pushing back with his arms to lower the back slightly and raise the leg rest.

“So what can I do for you?” he asked after taking a long swig of his beer and setting it on the small lamp table beside the chair.

I sat back on the couch and crossed my legs.

“I'd like to hear a little more about ModelMen from someone who isn't directly involved with it.”