The Ninth Man (11 page)

Our drinks arrived, and he insisted on paying.

“I always sort of fantasized about being a detective,” he said as the bartender rang up the sale. “When I was a kid, it was a toss-up between being Sam Spade and a fireman. So I ended up with the airlines.”

“What do you do for them?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“I’m what’s known as a passenger service representative for Pan World. Sort of a social director for VIPs traveling with us—make sure they’re happy while waiting for their flights, keep the madding crowds at bay, that sort of thing.”

“This is your home base, then?”

“More or less. I work all over, actually. I spent the last year in Nairobi. Before that, it was Singapore, Guam, Anchorage, Lima. Frankly,” he said, giving me another grin, “I think I’d rather be a detective.”

I shook my head. “Any time you want to switch jobs, just give me a call.”

“I think I might like that,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.

“Look,” I said on impulse, “if you’re not heading off for Pago Pago or someplace equally exotic tonight, how’d you like to have dinner with me? The food’s pretty good here, and maybe you could give me a vicarious tour of Nairobi.”

He gave me a smile that was definitely not teasing.

“I think I might like that,” he said.

Something told me I might, too.

I was right.

Chapter 6

Remember the last time you had an evening when
just
about everything went right? When you really enjoyed just being with someone, relaxed?

Well, that was my evening with Ed Grayley. We hit it off as through we’d been pals since grade school. He was quick, funny, totally unaffected and, best of all, he really seemed to be having as good a time as I was.

If I’d met Ed while out cruising, I’d have jumped on him in a minute, but I had to remind myself that this wasn’t really a cruising situation. And while I was sure I was getting some definite vibes from him, I knew this wasn’t the time to start letting my crotch rule my head. I had a strong suspicion we were going to see each other again, and as I told myself, good things are worth waiting for.

Was he a potential suspect? I hoped not, but at this point who wasn’t? The fact of the matter was that this was the first time I’d had a chance to get my mind off the case, and I took it. Selfish of me, maybe, but…

It was ten-forty-five when we left the Carnival. Ed had an early-morning flight of foreign dignitaries he had to look after, but said he’d give me a call late in the afternoon; there was a movie playing locally that we’d talked about and both wanted to see.

The crackle of lightning and a blast of thunder that sounded like it originated next to my bed jolted me awake at three a.m. The rain came down in buckets, and I thought about my open office window. Then I figured,
Fuck it—at least it’ll be cooler tomorrow
, and went back to sleep.

*

The rain had ended by morning, and with it the heat wave.
I got to my office around nine, halfway expecting to open my door to a tidal wave of water from the open window. But somebody up there must like me, because there was only a small puddle under the sill; the wind must have been blowing in the right direction, or the rain had fallen straight down.

There was, however, a new dark, wet spot on my ceiling directly overhead, indicating the office over mine had shared the same experience.

At nine-thirty, the phone rang.

“Hardesty Investigations,” I answered in my best professional voice.

“Hi, there, sailor, new in town?” It was Tim.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” I said. “Know where a guy can go for a little action?”

“Well, I’m not home right now, but…”

“Okay, Charlie Tuna, what’s on your mind?”

“Not much. I’m on my coffee break and thought I’d see how things were going with you.”

I leaned back in my chair and gazed out the window at nothing in particular.

“Kind of slow. But I’m more sure than ever there’s a link between all six guys, that it isn’t just some sicko wandering around with a cyanide-filled amyl bottle picking up casual tricks. Mind you, I haven’t got a single thing to go on other than my hunches and a few very weak leads, but I’m willing to bet a bundle I’m right. Anything new on your end?”

Tim laughed. “You want to rephrase that?”

“Bright little rascal, aren’t you? You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know. And no, nothing’s new here. Just your usual garden-variety corpses—car accidents, stabbings, shootings—the everyday stuff. It’s been nearly two weeks since our unknown friend pulled a number. Maybe he ran out of cyanide.”

“Let’s hope so. But even if he has, it won’t be much help for the six guys he’s already knocked over.”

“True,” Tim agreed. “You manage to talk to everyone on that list I gave you—excluding the corpses, of course?”

“Just about. I’m debating whether or not to even try with Klein’s parents. I will talk to the roommates, though.”

“Good luck,” he said. “So, what did you think of Gary Miller?”

“You were, as always, right. He’s quite a guy.”

“The voice of experience?”

I ignored him.

“I haven’t gotten in touch with Bill Elers, but I’ll try to drop by his place today and leave a note for him to call me.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,” Tim said sincerely. “Well, look, I’d best get back to work. Keep me posted, huh?”

“You bet—you’re still my Number-one Son, don’t forget. Bye. And thanks.”

“
Ciao
,” he said, and hung up.

No sooner had I replaced the receiver in its cradle when the phone rang again, startling me. I waited until the second ring, then picked it up again.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Mr. Hardesty!” It took only five syllables for me to recognize Rholfing’s twitter.

“Yes, Mr. Rholfing,” I said, again using my all-business voice. “What can I do for you?”
Shit! I did it again!

But Rholfing apparently wasn’t into cute this morning. Instead, his voice was breathless with excitement.

“I know, Mr. Hardesty! I know!” He sounded like a ten-year-old with a secret he was just dying to share.

“I’m glad, Mr. Rholfing. What is it you know?”

He was nearly panting.

“I know those people you were asking me about! I remember them all!”

I felt the adrenaline pumping through me but tried to keep my voice—and myself—calm.

“Are you sure?” I asked, hoping this wasn’t just another of his ploys to get me into the bedroom.

The excitement in his voice was tinged with just a slight pout.

“Of course I’m sure. I was so stupid not to have known the minute you mentioned them, but as I told you, I’m absolutely dreadful with names. But I remember other things.

“Alan Roberts or Rogers or whichever it is, is a painter. Clete Baker is a big man with a football player’s body and the IQ of a baked potato. Arthur…uh, what was it?…Granger has this thing for truck drivers and Hell’s Angels rejects; I think he and Clete had something going there for awhile, but I’m not sure. And Arnold, uh, Klein may look like a mouse, but he’s a certified sex maniac, I can tell you. Am I right? Am I?”

I hoped he was near the bathroom, because it sounded as though he might pee in his pants any second. Still, by this time, I was getting nearly as excited as he was. I fought to keep my voice cool.

“It sounds like you’ve got it just about right,” I said. “But how do you know them? What’s the link between them, if any?”

“Oh, there’s a link, all right. But that’s all part of the surprise! I’ve got to tell you in person. Why don’t you stop by tonight around five-thirty? We can have cocktails, and I can tell you all about it.”

I wanted to reach through the phone and grab him by the neck, but I kept my voice calm.

“Well, couldn’t you tell me now?”

His voice changed from excited schoolgirl to Gestapo interrogator.

“No, I can’t! You probably know already, anyway. You haven’t kept me up-to-date as you promised, Mr. Hardesty. I mean, I hardly know what’s going on—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rholfing,” I said, trying to soothe him and feeling only slightly guilty. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I just come by now, and we can talk about it?” I could always bring along a cattle prod in case he got too out-of-hand.

“I’m afraid I’m going to be…uh…busy this morning, Mr. Hardesty,” he said, his voice, like a well-maintained transmission, shifting from scorned bitch to coy suitor once again. “Five-thirty would be much better. I should be…through…by then.” A girlish giggle. “Oh, yes, and I have some more money for you. And you
will
tell me everything you’ve been doing on the case, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course. Look, I don’t mean to press you, but perhaps if you could give me some clue over the phone, I’d be able to work on it today and have something more for you by this evening.”

Tell me, you twit!

“Well, maybe just a little clue won’t hurt. As I say, you probably already know, but…” There was a muted sound of bells in the background. Rholfing’s voice regained its excited tone. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry, but my gentleman caller has arrived. I must go. See you at five-thirty. Ta-
taaa
.” And with that, he hung up.

I held the receiver to my ear for a full five seconds before finally hanging up. A knot in the pit of my stomach told me something was wrong. Very wrong. Oh, God, what was it? I felt like I’d eaten a cannonball.

My mind raced through the file cabinets of my memory, frantically searching for…something.

Oh, shit! ShitShitShit!
I fumbled frantically through my address book looking for Rholfing’s number. Finding it at last, I dialed, cursing the phone company for the slowness of its equipment. An eternity passed, and finally…a busy signal! A fucking
busy
signal!

I ran out of the office, mentally fighting with myself to keep from panicking. I made it to Rholfing’s apartment as fast as I could. Every inch of the way, my mind kept repeating:
Alan Rogers, Gene Harriman, Arthur Granger, Clete Barker, Arnold Klein. Let me be wrong about Rholfing’s “gentleman caller!” Let it not be who I think it is!

Rogers, Harriman, Granger, Barker, and Klein—Rholfing didn’t know they were dead!

*

The door to Rholfing’s apartment was ajar. I knocked
seve
ral times then entered cautiously, my stomach still in knots.

“Mr. Rholfing?” I called, knowing full well there would be no response. The phone, on the bookshelf near the bedroom hallway, was off the hook.

He lay on the bedroom floor in a flowered kimono. The bed had been made then turned down. There wasn’t a wrinkle on it.

I bent over the body to see if there was a pulse and detected the very slightest scent of almonds. His eyes were open, and his face, although the muscles were now relaxed, suggested he had died with a look of surprise. His lips and fingernails were distinctly blue; and he was, of course, quite dead, although his body was still warm.

Getting up quickly, I surveyed the room. Nothing appeared to be out of place. Using a handkerchief to open drawers and doors, I went through his dresser and closets. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but they always do that sort of thing in detective stories, and I figured it couldn’t hurt.

On top of a built-in chest of drawers in his walk-in closet was Rholfing’s wallet. I opened it and found five one-hundred dollar bills, four twenties, six tens, several five’s, and some singles.

The five hundred was, I suspected, what he had intended to give me that night. Feeling guilty as all hell but rationalizing that Rholfing had intended me to have it—and that the case was not over yet—I took the five bills, leaving the rest.

A check of the rest of the apartment revealed nothing, and there was little point in my hanging around. Using my handkerchief, I replaced the phone on the cradle, waited a moment then picked it up. When I heard the dial tone, I called the police, saying there had been a death and giving Rholfing’s address and apartment number. Leaving the front door slightly ajar, I left.

*

Regardless of what you may have read, heard, or
seen, finding
dead bodies is not a regular part of a private investigator’s life. At least, it sure as hell wasn’t a part of mine. The last dead body I had seen was five years before at my uncle’s funeral. I do not count corpses as one of my favorite things.

After leaving Rholfing’s, taking the stairway instead of the elevator and hopefully not being seen, I went straight home and took a long, long shower. Unlike a lot of people, I don’t sing in the shower. I think. And God knows I had enough to think about.

Seven men were dead—one of whom, if I were to choose to wallow in mental masochism, which I didn’t, might not be dead now if I’d bothered to let him in on what little I knew. If only I’d told him at the outset that the men I’d asked about were dead! No matter how I rationalized it, I had a strong sense of guilt.

Rholfing had said he knew the other victims—all of them. But how? What was the link? What did they all have in common? Why didn’t anyone I’d talked to know any of the other victims if, indeed, the victims had known one another?

Mike Sibalitch had said he’d met Klein, and that Harriman and Klein had known one another, but that could well be coincidence. Even in a city this big, the gay community is relatively small, and that any two gay men might know each other couldn’t be described as unusual.

Most frustrating of all, of course, was the question of whether the chain ended with Rholfing, and if not, just how long a chain it was.

There was something. Something in the back of my mind that wouldn’t reveal itself. Something each of the men I’d talked to had told me that might be what I needed. Damn! It was right there. Why couldn’t I grab hold of it?

I’d learned years ago that my mind could be a real rotten sonofabitch. Whenever I pushed it too hard, thoughts would deliberately stay just out of my reach. I had to calm down, to force myself not to think too hard. It would come, tiptoeing up behind me when I wasn’t looking, whispering the answer in my ear.