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Authors: Scott Sherman

Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) (10 page)

BOOK: Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery)
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13
Men in Blue
Tony and I walked back to the kitchen, still damp and tingly after our post-shower workout. I looked at the carton he’d left on the table.
“Anything for me?”
His brief pause made me think he was going to go for another oral sex joke, but he resisted the cheap shot. “In the frig. I wasn’t sure how late you’d be.”
Chicken chow fun. One of my favorites. I brought the carton with a pair of chopsticks over to the table and started going through the mail. Bills, bills, bills. I was tempted to throw them away; after all they’d just send more. Then something more interesting, which Tony had opened.
An engraved invitation.
The Police Officer’s Public Service Division Invites You to Join Us for Our Annual Hero Awards Ceremony for Meritorious Service. This Year’s Recipients Include . . .
There, along with nine other names, was Detective Tony Rinaldi. He was signaled out for Detective of the Year.
My Tony.
I looked up to see him watching me with a pleased, expectant expression.
I jumped into his lap and smothered him with kisses. “This is incredible! What an honor!” Then I pulled back. I had no idea what these awards were . . . Maybe everyone got one. I regarded him with concern. “This is good news, right?”
Laughing, Tony squeezed me tighter. “Yes, it’s great news. They really are very prestigious. Proud of me, baby?”
“So proud,” I asserted, squeezing back.
“I could never have done it without you,” Tony said.
“That’s sweet of you,” I said, a little dismissively. “You know what they say, ‘Behind every great man is another pretty good one.’ ”
“No, literally.” Tony put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me back until he could meet my eyes. “A major reason I got this was for my work on the Harrington case. But you’re really the one who cracked that open.”
After having spent years apart, Tony and I were reunited when he was the lead investigator of my friend Allen Harrington’s murder. Although it was true I had done a lot of the legwork on the case (and by “legwork” I mean stumbling over my own two feet on my way to accidentally stumbling over the truth), in the end, Tony saved my life when I found out that confronting murderers wasn’t quite the cakewalk one might think it would be. Turns out they’re not the easiest people to get along with, and their social skills leave a lot to be desired.
Due to many complicating factors, not the least of which was my lack of desire to be exposed to the world as a male prostitute, I worked hard to keep my name out of the story and direct all possible credit to Tony for breaking the case. When the murder turned out to be not just an isolated incident but part of a bigger and deadlier conspiracy, Tony’s profile was further elevated.
As far as I was concerned, he deserved all the credit in the world. He was a great cop: caring, hardworking, and unafraid to put his own life on the line in the service of others. Yeah, it just so happened he’d collaborated with me on solving Allen’s murder, but there were many other, lower-profile cases that didn’t make the papers but which brought justice to those who most needed it.
“Please,” I told him, “if you hadn’t figured out what I’d gotten myself into, I wouldn’t even be alive today. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the untold parts of the story that most qualify you as a ‘hero.’ At least to me.”
Tony ran his thumb over my lips. “How do you always manage to say the nicest thing?”
“I follow my heart.” I nipped at his finger.
Tony ran his hand through my hair as I scanned the rest of the invitation. The seats ran $500. Not all of them, mind you, just one.
No disparagement to the Police Officer’s Public Service Division, but, apparently, I wasn’t the only whore in Tony’s world. What the hell, I’d like to know, were they serving for $500 a plate? Maybe I should get into the catering business.
Luckily, the card explained,
As a recipient of an Award, you will receive two complimentary tickets. We hope you will share this important evening with the loved one of your choice.
While a small portion of my attention went toward continuing my discussion with Tony about what a great honor this was and how excited I was for him, the major part of my ADHD-adlled, multitasking mind was pondering the question that has preoccupied gay men on occasions like this since time immemorial: What Will I Wear?
The invitation called for “business attire,” but that wasn’t as clear as it sounded. I wanted to don something tasteful, but not too dull. I had half a closet of conservative Brooks Brothers suits I used to wear to visit some of my escorting clients (either because it was their fantasy to screw a young Republican or because I needed to pass as one to fit in at their apartment/restaurant/hotel), but all of that seemed too boring and generic for Tony’s dinner.
I also had some fetish-wear from the old days, but, while I did wear it for work, I was pretty sure it wasn’t the kind of “business attire” that’d be appropriate. Disregarding what anyone else thought, I doubted Tony would appreciate my wearing leather chaps, a Catholic schoolboy’s uniform, or gold lamé shorts. Well, at least not to his event.
My work attire these days was pretty casual. Consisting mostly of polo shirts in the summer and sweaters in the winter, it also Would Not Do.
Which all led me to one exciting conclusion: I had to go shopping.
I’d have to bring Freddy. He’d enjoy it even more than I would. I’m a bit of a fashionista, but Freddy made me look like someone who’d consider the men’s clothing at Walmart the height of haute couture. He could tell the difference between a Giorgio Armani, Hugo Boss, or Ansell Darling suit at five hundred paces. Plus, his taste was impeccable, and he had a way of flirting with salespeople that not only got us the most conceivable attention but the best possible price. For a man who looked his best naked, Freddy knew a lot about how best to cover up.
I was imagining how excited he’d be to paw through the racks of Bloomingdales with me when the part of my brain that was listening to Tony alerted me that I was wasting my time.
“. . . especially after all we’ve been through,” Tony was saying, “I think it would be for the best. Don’t you? I think it would mean so much for her to be there.”
He was talking about his mother. Ever since he’d told her about his divorce, she’d been cold and withdrawn from him. Tony came from a religious family where you stayed married no matter what the problems were. Infidelity, spousal abuse, incarceration: None of these were good enough reasons to put asunder what God had joined together, or some such thing. Even though it was Tony’s wife who’d initiated the separation, his mother held it against him.
While a part of me enjoyed knowing it wasn’t only Jewish mothers like mine who tortured and manipulated their children with guilt, my heart broke for Tony. He truly loved his mother, and, in his typical good-guy, Boy-Scoutish, has-to-be-perfect, rule-following way, he couldn’t deal with disappointing her.
Not that he’s ever talked about it. Tony wasn’t exactly the type to go on about his feelings.
His bringing her to the awards dinner, I knew, would mean a lot to her. He needed to give her an opportunity to be proud of him. They both needed it.
Tony’s decision made perfect sense. His distance from his mother had to be causing him pain, even if he kept it to himself. Maybe sharing that evening with her would help heal the rift between them.
That would be good for me, too. I wanted Tony to be open with his family about us. Maybe seeing him win this accolade for his professional dedication and achievement would help them understand he was still the same person, with the same high morals and ethical standards, no matter who he loved.
Sure, it would have been nice had Tony chosen me to take to dinner. It would probably be one of the most important nights of his life, and part of me felt I should be the one to share it with him. But, big picture, his decision had the potential to do more good for our relationship than any one evening. If I were mature about it, I had to admit it was a win for me, too.
So, why did I feel like I’d suffered such a loss? Everything Tony said made sense. I even agreed with it.
Yet I couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that if I were a
girl
friend, I’d be there with him. That Tony’s bringing his mother as his “date” had less to do with her than with me. It was just another example of my being the Dirty Little Secret.
Was that true? Or just another example of my being self-centered, thinking everything Tony did was a referendum on “us”?
Did it even matter? Supposedly, I’d come to terms that Tony needed time to accept being with a man. So, why was I comparing him to Kristen LaNue earlier and why was I questioning his motives now? I expected him to love me openly and unconditionally, but did he get that from me?
As Tony continued to explain—defend?—his decision, I tried to be encouraging. I said every supportive, self-sacrificing thing I could think of, never letting on I was hurt.
“You and your mom enjoy your five-hundred-dollar dinners,” I told him at one point. “Having spent half her life raising a pain in the ass like you, god knows she deserves it.”
When it doubt, keep it light. Or a little dirty. “But when you come home,” I said, leeringly, “you’re mine. And you and I will celebrate your accomplishment in bed. Deal?”
Tony beamed, looking relieved and grateful. He had to have known I’d expect to be his date. My letting him off the hook so easily probably came as a surprise. A welcome one, at that.
It was a gift I was willing to give him. At least, tonight I was. But tomorrow, or next week, or next year, I was going to need him to start giving back.
If there was one thing I’d learned working the sex trade, it was that love, in any form, comes at a cost. The guys who paid me a couple of hundred dollars to feel cared for got off cheaply. Real love was paid in sacrifice, compromise, and the willingness—no, the desire—to put someone else’s happiness above your own.
No matter how hard it was or how far it took you out of your comfort zone.
Would Tony be willing to pay that price?
Would I be willing to wait?
14
Total Corruption
The next day I was in Andrew’s office reviewing the week’s schedule when my mother burst in waving a piece of paper.
Holy déjà vu, Batman.
“Did you see this?” she shouted.
Andrew looked pained. I could see he was trying to find a polite way to talk her off the ledge.
Happily, I didn’t have to be as diplomatic. While I hated to think of myself as the beneficiary of nepotism, there were certain informalities awarded to me by being the star’s son. One was being able to do things that would be completely inappropriate for any other staffer.
So, not wanting to play the “Guess What I’m Waving Frantically in Front of Your Face” game again, I just snatched the sheet from her hand.
It was a Xeroxed article from that morning’s
New York Times
. My mother actually brought three copies, which was uncharacteristically organized and thoughtful. I credited her assistant. I handed one to Andrew, another back to my mom, and sat down to read the third.
As the story had nothing to do with my mother, I wasn’t sure why she’d brought it in. It was a powerful article, though.
We typically think of easily visible child abuse as taking place in lower-class, less-educated communities. Wealthier parents in “better” neighborhoods are subtler in the ways they torture their children. Hence, the thriving psychoanalytic practices on the Upper West Side.
This feature, however, described the case of a couple, the Merrs, in one of the city’s most exclusive condominiums, who adopted a child through a private agency two years ago. The infant had never been taken to a doctor or, for that matter, been seen outside of the apartment. His existence was basically unknown until neighbors began complaining about what they thought was a cat screaming for hours on end. The closer ones also contacted the building’s management about an objectionable smell they thought was coming from the walls. “I thought a rat died in there,” said one.
The Merrs were what you’d call a “power couple.” He was the director of the Oncology Unit of one of the city’s largest hospitals. He was also an author and highly sought-after speaker on his specialty—the connection between stress and various forms of cancer. It was a popular topic, easily understood in layperson’s terms, and Merr dumbed it down further. I’d seen him once or twice and disliked his blame-the-victim approach. His message could have been hopeful and inspiring, but he came across as mean-spirited and blameful. It’s your
fault
you’re sick. His most consistent claim was that tumors were the result of unexpressed anger, which grew in your body in the form of tumors. More on that later.
Mrs. Merr was the co-anchor of a fluffy morning “news” program on a local station—
Wake Up, New York!
A second—probably trophy—wife, she was in her mid-thirties, a pretty if unremarkable bottle blonde with a sensible haircut and a perky voice perfect for tackling hard-hitting stories like “Finding the Best Manicurist in Your Neighborhood,” or “Online Dating: Web of Lies or a Connection to Love?” Ironically enough, the last segment of hers I remember watching (I swear, I was channel surfing at the time) was “Ten Fun Things to Do with Your Kids This Weekend.”
Left off that list was her and her husband’s favorite activity: Lock him in a cage and raise him like an animal. That’s the sight that greeted the police when they paid a surprise visit to the chipper talking head and her equally famous husband.
As far as anyone could tell, Adam had spent his entire life in a large dog enclosure. It was filthy, crusted with uneaten food and human waste. Although most two-year-olds are speaking in full sentences and can understand more, Adam didn’t have any usable language. Low muscle tone and a failure to reach physical milestones—he could barely crawl, let alone walk—indicated he hadn’t spent much—if any—time out of his crate.
Adam was also covered in a collage of bruises, burns, and scratches that told a story that went beyond neglect into full-blown, systemic abuse.
It was a tale of horror motivated by twisted impulses that would never be understandable by anyone normal. While evil doesn’t discriminate, it’s still somehow shocking to see this kind of insane abuse perpetuated by such seemingly mainstream, wealthy, successful, and, by conventional measures, intelligent and well-educated people. It spoke to a breathtakingly scary level of sadism.
I can understand a crime of passion—the slap or shot that accompanies a moment of unexpected rage. It’s not okay, but it can be human nature to strike out when hurt. But what to make of two people who’d gone to the trouble and expense of adopting a healthy white infant (not a cheap or easy thing to do) for the sole purpose of torturing him? This involved planning, a long process of ongoing deception, and a complete lack of morality or empathy. Was this Dr. Merr’s prescription for good health—take out your anger on an innocent child? Raise a kid like a rutabaga and you stay cancer-free?
After his adoption, Adam suffered two years of torment so pronounced as to be literally incomprehensible, both in motive and effect. Those are incredibly important years in a child’s development—what would become of this child, who’d learned nothing other than pain and how to endure it?
Besides the Merrs, Adam’s birth mother, and the agencies that carried out his adoption, there was no record or report to indicate anyone even knew he existed. It was as if he’d dropped off the earth and directly into hell.
I’d been thinking of Brent metaphorically as a Lost Boy, but Adam was the real thing.
After the article described Adam’s horrific living conditions (and I suspected the genteel nature of the
New York Times,
along with the discretion of law enforcement, combined to leave out some of the more graphic details), it explained the Merrs were in custody, held with various charges related to child abuse, endangerment, and neglect, but none that promised a penalty that seemed harsh enough to match the severity of their crimes.
Adam was alive. Unless they actually kill their kid, the law doesn’t have that much interest in going after bad parents—even the spectacularly bad ones. Oh, sure, Child Protective Services swooped in, and Adam will receive medical services and a new home. But losing custody of their son hardly seemed like sufficient punishment for the Merrs’ deliberate, soul-crushing depravity.
Meanwhile, the Merrs hired some of the best lawyers in the world and weren’t talking. I had the sinking feeling that they were going to get off relatively easily.
Given their celebrity status and the nature of the accusations against them, the Merrs were in solitary confinement. Flashing back to my memories of the HBO prison series
Oz,
I found myself hoping a guard “accidentally” released them into the general population, where the criminal code of honor dispensed some rough justice on accused child abusers. I wasn’t generally a vindictive person, and I didn’t believe in the death penalty, but that only applied to people. The Merrs sounded like monsters. I wouldn’t have minded if Buffy dropped by to slay ’em.
Hell, I’d have handed her the crossbow myself.
I shuddered and teared up a little. It wasn’t like me to consider violence. Monsters beget monsters.
What would become of little Adam?
It took me a minute to find my voice.
“This is a terrible story,” I said. I looked over at Andrew and saw his eyes were just reaching the end of the article. It wasn’t that he was a slow reader—I’ve always been a fast one. Another thing I credit to my ADHD—typical of the syndrome, I find it hard to focus on one thing at a time. But when I do get interested in something, I hyperfocus. It’s like my superpower.
Well, that and the sex stuff. I’m good at that, too.
Andrew looked up. “So, what do you want to do?” he asked my mother. “Try and get the Merrs on the show? Or someone else to talk about the case?”
I took it this was the kind of “hard-hitting” journalism my mother said she was looking for. Although, my guess was everyone was going to be all over this story in the coming weeks, and I wasn’t sure my mother’s credentials as a professional
yenta
would open any doors CNN couldn’t get through first.
Her answer, again, surprised me.
“Everyone’s going to be trying to interview the Merrs,” she said. “And their friends, families, neighbors. Not to mention every expert on child abuse out there. I don’t think we need to go down that road.”
Wow. She just made sense.
“Plus, you know what?” she continued. “Who cares what those people have to say? Can you imagine if I actually sat down with one of the Merrs, those
fakakta
pieces of
dreck?
” She was hauling out the Yiddish, once again, a sign she was getting upset. “A
shandeh un a charpeh
like I’ve never seen,” she spat.
“Zol men er vern in a henglayhter, by tog zol er hengen, un bay nakht zol er brenen.”
My mother’s Yiddish wasn’t perfect, and mine was worse, but I recognized some catchphrases in there. She was basically calling the Merrs crazy pieces of shit, the likes of which she’d never seen. That last part was a saying that roughly translated to “May they be transformed into a chandelier, to hang by day and burn by night.”
Which wasn’t so far off from what I’d been wishing upon them.
“No,” she continued, “I keep coming back to
him
. The child. Adam.” Her voice cracked. “As a mother, I can’t help but think of that poor, poor boy. And it makes me so angry.
“Those pigs, the Merrs, they should be put down like dogs. But what about the other people involved?”
“From the article,” Andrew observed, “there was no one else. Even their parents didn’t know they’d adopted. Their friends, their families and co-workers—the Merrs kept that child a secret from everyone.”
“Not from everyone,” my mother said. “Someone gave them that child. Placed that boy into their care.”
She took another folder from her handbag and passed out some more papers. Holy cow.
“This is from the Web site of the agency that handled the adoption, Families by Design. Listen:
“ ‘Adoption can be a difficult, time-consuming, and frustrating process. Finding the right child for your kind of lifestyle may seem impossible. But we’re here to tell you that families like yours never have to settle for less than a perfect match.
“ ‘Let us find you the child you’re looking for, the one that fits in with your special family. Our exclusive network of social workers, lawyers, and doctors will help connect you with the child of your dreams. He or she is out there. We’ll bring him or her home to you.
“ ‘Our assistance isn’t for everyone—only for the privileged few who demand—and deserve—the very best.
“ ‘This unique combination of one-on-one attention and access to only the crème de la crème of highly trained professionals isn’t for everyone. Our premium service is for the elite few willing to make a significant investment in that which we know to be more precious than rubies or gold—the happy, healthy child that looks like your family and that you were
meant
to have.’ ”
My mother put down the paper and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Those words. ‘Exclusive.’ ‘Privileged.’ ‘The elite.’ In my days, they meant ‘No Jews Allowed.’ Today? ‘Only the rich need apply.’ ”
My mother’s flaring nostrils, and her eyebrows, which drew toward each other as if trying to meet in the middle, reducing her eyes to lizard-like slits, indicated her genuine outrage. “This isn’t an agency for the Angelina and Brads of this world. No Rainbow Coalition going on here. This is for perfect little parents who want perfect little children—or, as I like to call them, stuck-up rich bitches who want white kids with a clean bill of health and a good pedigree.
“These people don’t want children.” She was practically frothing at the mouth. “They want show dogs. Babies they can wear as accessories before passing them back to the nanny-of-the-month.”
“Or locking them in a cage for two years,” I muttered.
“Exactly!” my mother exclaimed.
Andrew’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “This story means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” he asked my mother. His tone was sympathetic and, if I read it right, kind of impressed with her, too. As if he was pleased to see her interested in something that wasn’t completely trivial and meaningless.
BOOK: Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery)
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