Innuendo (36 page)

“Okay,” said Rawlins. “I'll come pick you up. Where are you? Down at City Hall?”

“No, I'm at Christo's getting something to eat. You wanna bite? You had dinner yet?”

“No, I haven't.” Rawlins tried to clear his head. “Why don't you order me something? I'll be there in ten minutes.”

“Got ya.”

Rawlins hung up, dropped the phone on the seat next to him, then started up his car and headed off. A quick bite, then a visit to a house supposedly leased by Tim Chase. At least that would be interesting. Who knew, perhaps he'd even get a chance to meet the star himself.

About
an hour later, taking Foster's big brown Crown Victoria, they turned up the gently arching Mount Curve Avenue and found it lined with cars.

“Must be a wedding or something going on,” commented Foster as he pulled over and parked.

“Yeah,” mumbled Rawlins, scanning the street for either a white Saab or, for that matter, Todd's Jeep Grand Cherokee. “So how are we going to do this?”

“Let's just ask for Victor Radzinsky and take it from there.”

“That's not much of a plan.”

“You got a better one?”

“No.”

When they reached the front iron gate, Rawlins turned the handle and found it, of course, locked. Wondering if this was as far as they were going to get, he then pressed the button on the intercom box.

A moment later a man's deep voice called, “May I help you?”

Rawlins nodded to Foster, who stepped up to the small box and said, “We'd like to speak with Victor Radzinsky. Is he there?”

There was a distinct pause before the voice replied, saying, “Who is this?”

“I'm Sergeant Neal Foster and I'm here with Sergeant Steve Rawlins. We're from the Minneapolis Police Department, and we'd like to ask Mr. Radzinsky a few questions. Can we come in?”

“Ah, just a minute. I'll see.”

It was a long minute, three or four actually. Either there was a little conference going on or they'd been blown off, and Rawlins was about to lean on the intercom button again when he heard something up at the house and saw the front door pulled open. And there he was, their guy, Victor Michael Radzinsky, stepping outside. Rawlins recognized him in an instant.

“That's him,” said Rawlins quietly, peering through the thick iron bars at the shaved-headed man.

“Well, well, well.”

He was a fairly large guy, there was no doubt about that, with a thick neck and broad shoulders. As if he'd been pumping a lot of iron, he walked stiffly, and his dark clothes looked expensive.

Keeping his voice low, Foster said, “Looks like a friendly guy, eh?”

Radzinsky took his own time, stopping just a couple of feet short of the gate. He looked at them in the fading light, cocked his head to the side.

“How may I help you?”

“Are you Victor Michael Radzinsky?” asked Rawlins.

“So?”

“Is that you?”

“Yes, but of what interest is that to you?”

Rawlins pulled out his badge and held it up. “I'm Sergeant Steve Rawlins with the Minneapolis Police Department, and this is my partner, Sergeant Neal Foster.”

“Nice to meet you, I'm sure. What can I do for you?”

“For starters,” began Foster, “there's speeding and reckless driving. There's also endangerment. Plus there's the fact that you were evading two police officers.”

“What?” he asked, cracking a small, nervous smile. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“That was us behind you this afternoon,” said Rawlins. “We were in that silver car, you were in the white Saab.”

“That was you chasing me?”

“Yeah, no shit, that was us.”

He smiled. He smiled a naughty grin, looked down at the ground, and ran one hand over the moonlike dome of his head.

“I'm very sorry. We've been having some problems and I thought you were someone else.”

“Like who?” asked Rawlins.

“A photographer—the so-called paparazzi. Unfortunately, we get them all the time, chasing us in cars, hanging from trees, dressing up like mailmen and coming up to the house. You see, I work for someone very important, someone who's quite—”

“We know, Tim Chase.”

“Right. Exactly right. I'm in charge of his security, and I thought you were trying to take pictures of me or something.”

Clearly not amused, Foster said, “You nearly sideswiped a school bus. Someone could've been badly hurt.”

“Yes, well…”

“Mr. Radzinsky,” said Rawlins, cutting in, “where were you on the night of September twenty-second?”

“When?”

“That's three nights ago. Where were you at approximately ten-thirty that evening?”

“I don't know. Here, I suppose.”

“A witness saw a white Saab with California plates down at Lake Harriet. That car is registered to you, and the witness saw someone who matches your description throw a knife into the water. We've since recovered that knife, and our forensics lab is now testing it to see if that was the weapon used to kill a teenager by the name of Andrew Lyman earlier that—”

“Please, gentlemen,” pleaded Radzinsky, smiling nervously and holding up both hands. “You've got the wrong guy.”

“I'm not so sure we do.”

Foster stepped right up to the gate and grabbed onto one of the bars. “Listen, we need some nice, simple answers.”

“And we could,” added Rawlins, “arrest you right now for that little escapade this afternoon. Reckless endangerment and evading an officer are two charges that come to mind.”

“Is that what you'd like? Shall we take you downtown, where we can have a nice, long, serious talk?”

“Please, let's not be too hasty,” replied Radzinsky, reaching up and unlocking the gate. “Perhaps you'd like to come in and speak to my employer, Mr. Chase?”

It wasn't easy for
Todd to relax. In fact, sitting naked in a hot tub with such a famous person made Todd, if anything, more tense. After all, where was this headed and why were they even in here at all?

Placing his wineglass on the edge of the tub, he sank into the hot water all the way up to his neck, paused, then slipped down until it was up to his chin. Directly across from him sat Tim Chase, his head tilted back against a cushion, the water churning and whirling up and around him.

“God, isn't this the greatest?” groaned Chase, his eyes closed and a contented grin on his face. “Did you find the jets?”

Todd reached behind his back, felt a shot of water, and slid over. “Yeah.”

“This should make you feel better in no time. Is it hot enough for you? I can turn up the temperature.”

“Actually, it's perfect.”

“Good.”

Todd stared right at him. Or rather he stared right at Chase's body, but the churning bubbles were so thick his eyes couldn't see beneath the surface.

He asked, “Have you been using this thing much?”

“No. This is something like only the second time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but I have a scene like this in the movie we're shooting. My character, Rich, goes to visit an old friend, who's now married, and they have this sort of awkward encounter in a hot tub.”

“Oh, so that's what this is all about,” said Todd. “The two of us— you a married man, me gay—in a hot tub. Is that why you suggested this?”

“Well, you did get yourself a little beat-up, but like I've said, I do need to do some more research.”

“Ah, the ulterior motive.”

“Something like that, anyway.” Tim opened his eyes and gazed over at Todd. “Hey, I should ask if you've ever slept with a married man.”

Todd thought for a moment, then replied. “I really haven't had that many sexual partners, but I have done it once with a married guy. Well, kind of, that is.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Well, how was it?’

“In a word, humiliating.”

And that it most certainly was. Todd recalled the cheesy motel room they rented, the awkward attempt at intimacy, the dirty aftertaste.

“Why was that?” asked Chase.

“Well, it wasn't my idea. Sure, I was attracted to him. He was an old friend in Chicago, Mike, and we got together and went to a Cubs game. Somehow it came up. Somehow he said he was afraid that he might be gay. I told him I had the same worries. Actually, this was when I was married too. I didn't really want to try it, but one thing led to another. I don't know, he really pushed for it. He was quite aggressive.”

“So what happened?”

“Of course I had to pay for the motel room because Mike didn't have enough cash and he was afraid his wife would see his credit card bill. Anyway, we went to this dump and… and nothing much happened. In the end we both got an answer, each of them different.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, lo and behold, he literally couldn't get it up for another guy.”

“But you could?”

“Exactly, which left me kind of excited and exposed in front of a guy who realized he was, after all, straight. It was embarrassing for me, to say the least, and we never spoke again. Last I heard he was still married, but I got divorced soon thereafter.”

Todd sat up a bit and twisted around. He grabbed hold of one of the jets and tried to turn it, but the thing wouldn't budge.

“What's the matter?” asked Tim.

“I was just trying to aim this thing but it's stuck.”

“Yeah, they can be a little tough. Here, let me help you.”

Before Todd knew it, Tim Chase had floated over and the two of them were side by side, their wet arms sliding up against each other as they worked at the jet. In a second the device twisted in one direction.

“There, that's great,” said Todd as his heart broke from a walk to a trot.

Todd pulled back, sitting right where he had before. Tim didn't return to the other side, but instead sat down so that his shoulder butted up against Todd's. Todd looked over, saw the other man smiling back, and then, unseen beneath the churning water, felt a hand on his thigh. Against Todd's will, a rush of desire stormed through him and his heart proceeded from trot to gallop.

“Tim,” said Todd, his voice low and unsteady, “what are you doing?”

“Research, remember?”

“But—”

“Shh. The trouble with reporters is that they don't know how to listen.”

Oh, yes, Todd was aroused, very much so. But he wasn't going to be so exposed and left so stupidly vulnerable like that time so many years ago after the Cubs game. No, and he wasn't going to be used, and he slid his hands down over his crotch. Besides, what did he himself really want and what was he tempting by simply being here?

But then…

Then he glanced over at gorgeous Tim Chase and his last defenses vanished. Yes, he could fall real hard for this guy, and a hot little voice in his head cooed: why shouldn't you? After all, Rawlins had had his fun, so why shouldn't he?

The next moment Todd felt Tim lean over and start kissing him on the neck, the ear. Todd closed his eyes and tumbled into it, into him. Yes, he could fall real, real hard.

“Tim, I—”

“If I were a gay man seducing someone else in a hot tub, is this how I'd do it?”

“Well…”

“Well?”

“Yes, I'd say you were doing pretty…” Todd felt a hand slither across his stomach and slide up his chest. “… Pretty damn well.”

But was this just a game? Was he just being used?

“Tim, maybe I'm too much of a Midwesterner to understand, but you just gotta tell me if this is what people in Hollywood call research or…” said Todd, trying to throw up a last line of defense. “No, you just gotta tell me—are you or aren't you gay?”

“Fuck labels.”

Right, thought Todd. Screw ’em. And he turned into Tim, embraced him, clutched him in a desperate, almost hungry way. The other man hugged back, and Todd couldn't believe it, couldn't believe he was in this mass of swirling water, his heart and his body pounding with want and lust for him, for Tim Chase, and that Chase was actually returning the passion.

Or was he? Couldn't it all be simply… acting?

Determined not to be duped, Todd's hand drifted down the other man's side and to his waist, groping for that so-called thermometer, determined to know how it would read, knowing that a man's mind and mouth could lie buckets, but the ever-honest penis could not. And sensing Chase's taut, rippled stomach in the water, Todd lowered his hand, but Chase, realizing the destination of Todd's wayward grope, scooted back.

Looking suddenly, even oddly, worried, Chase said, “Just take it easy there, champ.”

“But…”

“Not too fast, okay?”

Now it was Todd's turn to pull back, and Todd, not without a bit of anger in his voice, softly demanded, “Tim, quit screwing with my head. What's going on here?”

“Off the record?”

“Of course.”