The Ninth Man (12 page)

Unfortunately, patience has never been one of my greater virtues.

Sighing, I turned off the water, reached for a towel, and began drying myself off. I’d just finished one leg when the phone rang. Hastily drying the other, I dripped my way to the phone.

“Dick Hardesty,” I said, probably sounding as though I weren’t quite sure myself.

The voice on the other end picked up my spirits immediately, although I didn’t have time to wonder why it should.

“Dick, hi. This is Ed. I took a chance that you might be home. How are things going?”

“Ed,” I said with total conviction, “you don’t want to know. It has not been one of my better days.”

“Hey, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, and I could sense that he was. “Anything you feel like talking about?”

“Not right now, I’m afraid. Maybe later.” I forced myself to brighten my tone. “How come you’re calling so early? Not that I mind, of course. As a matter of fact, I’m delighted you did. I needed to hear a friendly voice.”

“Good. I’m glad. No special reason—I just finished work early and thought I’d try to reach you. Still feel like going to the show tonight?”

I didn’t but also didn’t relish the idea of letting my guilt and frustration take me too far down the path to depression. I’d been down it often enough before to know it went nowhere.

“Sure,” I forced myself to say, still drying with my free hand. “I could use a little distraction right about now. What time, and where?”

“Well, I thought we might grab something to eat first, if you’d like. I can fix something for us at my place, if that’s okay with you, then we can leave from here.”

“Sounds great.”

The thing was, despite how lousy I felt, it did sound great.
Watch it, Hardesty
, I told myself.

“All I need to know is where, what time, and what I can bring.”

“The where’s easy enough—four-eighty-one Kenmore, number thirty-four. I think the movie starts around eight, so would six be too early?”

“Six is fine.”

“And as to what you can bring, nothing. Just come as you are.”

I looked down at myself and grinned.

“Four-eighty-one Kenmore, number thirty-four. See you at six. But don’t be surprised if I’m early.”

“Whenever. ’Bye.”

As I hung up, I was shaking my head, a new set of thoughts crowding out the others. Why in hell was I acting like a teenage kid with a crush on his gym teacher?

You need to get laid, Hardesty
, I told myself.

I’m not the kind of guy who “falls in love” every fifteen minutes, but who said this had to be a long-term anything?

Relax, for crissakes! You just met the guy, and with all the pressures you’re under right now, you’re just a little off-guard. Relax and enjoy it. Don’t make a big thing out of it.

Okay, I’d convinced myself. For the moment, at least.

But something told me I wasn’t really fooling myself. I knew full well that the more I thought about Ed, the more I thought about Ed.

I threw the towel into the clothes hamper and started to get dressed. I felt I really should call Tim and let him know about Rholfing, but I didn’t want to risk calling him at work. I decided to try him at home, later.

*

At exactly 5:49, I rang the bell on number 34, 481
Ken
more. What I’d seen of the place thus far had favorably impressed me. An older building, solid, the kind with wood beams and real fireplaces; the kind other people always live in but you can never find for yourself when you have to move.

Ed opened the door, smiling.

“Ah, not a moment too soon,” he said, extending his hand. We shook hands, and he closed the door behind me.

The living room was to the left of the small entry. Sure enough, there was a fireplace; peg-and-groove floors; sparsely furnished in a mixture of styles, but the overall effect was warm and comfortable.

“I just got this place when I got back from overseas,” Ed said by way of explanation. “I still need a lot of things. Before I left the country I sold most of my stuff; the bulk of this has been in storage most of its life. But now that it looks like I’ll be operating out of the home office for the foreseeable future, I can start doing a few things I’ve been holding off on.”

He smiled and put a hand on my arm, casually.

“What would you like to drink? I don’t think I can make an Old Fashioned, but I’ve got just about everything else.”

“What are you having?”

“A Manhattan, I think.”

“Sounds good.”

“Good. Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me while I monkey around with dinner? It won’t take long.”

The kitchen, off the small dining room, was roomy and pleasantly cluttered—not messy, and a lot neater than mine, but lived in.

Ed fixed the drinks, and I sat at the kitchen table while he moved back and forth between the sink, refrigerator, and stove with professional casualness.

“I hope you don’t mind meat loaf,” he said, pausing to take a drink from his Manhattan. “That, steak, and chili I can handle. Everything else is a disaster. My general rule of thumb for cooking is, if you smell it burning, it’s done.”

We small-talked our way through his preparations, then adjourned to the living room.

“Feeling any better?” Ed asked, handing me a coaster. “You really sounded pretty down when I talked with you earlier.”

“Yeah,” I said, sensing the back burner of my mind switching on despite my efforts to keep it off, at least for tonight. “Like I said, it was a rough day. I sort of lost a client.”

Still, ingredients were beginning to drop into the pot—McDermott; B. Kano; missing photos; open doors.

Later, damn it! Let me just relax tonight, okay?

“Hmm,” Ed said. “Sorry about that. But a guy like you should have lots of clients.”

“Yeah, usually. Mostly piddling stuff. This one’s different. A lot different.”

I leaned forward, idly stirring the ice cubes around in my drink with an index finger. I suddenly remembered Tim. I’d tried to get him before I left the apartment, but he wasn’t home yet. I wouldn’t feel right about asking to use Ed’s phone—talking about finding corpses wasn’t exactly conducive to the flow of a pleasant evening.

Besides, I didn’t want to bring Ed into the whole mess. I decided that if I couldn’t call Tim tonight, I’d try him first thing in the morning.

Rogers: cheating on a lover. McDermott: a “tramp.” Granger: into rough types. Klein and Harriman knew each other—of course they did. Rholfing knew them all, so the odds were pretty good they all knew one another.

“Well,” I heard Ed saying, “I don’t want to butt into your business, but any time you feel like talking to someone about it, I’m a good listener.”

I smiled, suddenly aware of just how much I’d been wandering. Looking directly at him, I said, “I appreciate that, Ed. Really. And I hope you don’t mind if I seem a little preoccupied every now and then. I don’t mean to be, but I can’t seem to help it.”

He returned the smile.

“No sweat.”

We small-talked some more, finished our drinks, and Ed went into the kitchen to get us a refill and check on dinner.

Why wouldn’t Bell, Sibalitch, or Miller have known any of the other victims? What link was there in the fact that they
didn’t
? There was one. That bastard part of my mind knew, and it wouldn’t tell me.

“A-hem.”

Startled, I looked up to find Ed standing in front of me, holding a fresh drink. Embarrassed, I took it.

“Some company I am,” I muttered.

“I told you, no sweat. I get that way myself from time to time.”

Time!
I nearly dropped my glass.

“Time!” I said aloud, producing a look of surprise and slight bewilderment on Ed’s face.

“Time for what?”

“Time! It’s a link!” I heard myself say.

I lost track of everything around me in the rush of thoughts, like air filling a vacuum. I wasn’t even aware that I was talking aloud.

“Martin Bell was out of the city for an extended period starting about three years ago. Mike Sibalitch had been with Gene Harriman a little less than three years. Klein and Harriman had known each other before that. Rholfing and McDermott had been together about a year but had known each other quite a while before that. Gary Miller and Alan Rogers had been together less than two years. Whatever they had in common has to go back at least three years!”

Ed just stood there, looking at me and shaking his head.

“Whew!” he said. “You lost me way back there. Right about when you shouted ‘time!’”

I felt like a complete fool.

“Oh, shit, Ed! I’m sorry. I really am! You must think I’m some sort of nut—and you’re probably right.”

He smiled and motioned me toward the dining room.

“Forget it, Sam Spade. You can help me set the table. It’s just about time to eat.”

Time was a link!

But to what?

I got up to set the table.

Chapter 7

Rholfing was dead, and I was technically without
a client.
But I had about $300 of his retainer money in the bank and another $500 stashed at home. I also had a burning sensation in my gut that told me I was going to follow the case no matter how long it took or where it might lead.

I still couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility I had for Rholfing’s death. If he knew the victims, he knew the killer—I was positive of that much. And if I’d told him Rogers, Klein, Harriman, Granger, and Barker were dead, he would never have invited his killer in. And if wishes were wings, elephants could fly.

At seven-thirty the next morning, I was on the phone.

“Good morning.” Tim’s voice as a bit groggy.

“Tim. Hi. Sorry if I woke you, but I’ve got some news I wanted to prepare you for.”

“I’ve got VD.”

“No…”

“
You’ve
got VD.”

“No, damn it! We’ve got another death. Rholfing—McDermott’s lover.”

“Holy shit! That must have been the one they were wheeling in just as I was leaving. He was in a body bag, but it wasn’t all the way zipped up and I thought that bleached blond hair looked familiar.” He paused, then said, “But how did you find out?”

“I found him yesterday afternoon. I called the police from Rholfing’s apartment, but didn’t identify myself and wasn’t about to stick around for them to get there. I didn’t want to call you at work, and wasn’t able to call after you got home.”

“I had a date right after work,” Tim said. “I didn’t get home until late.” Another pause. “I don’t suppose I have to ask how Rhol…Rholfing, was it?…died?”

“Not if the slight scent of almonds and blue skin gives you any clue.”

He gave a long, slow sigh.

“Here we go again.”

“Look, Tim,” I said, “I really hate to put you out on a limb like this, but could you make an extra effort to find out what’s going on with the police? Surely they’re not just going to sit on their hands with seven deaths and counting.”

“Dream on, good sir.” His voice showed his bitterness. “From everything I know, they’ve done nothing but sit on their hands so far. ‘Proceeding with all deliberate speed,’ I believe they call it. They’re positive it’s a serial killer, though, which gives their lack of action a certain credibility, in their eyes at least. All they can do is wait for the next body and hope the killer makes some sort of traceable mistake.”

There was yet another slight pause, then: “Tell you what. I know one of our people on the force. I don’t know whether he’s aware of what’s going on or not—I told you that rabidly homophobic police chief of ours is trying to keep this a very private party—but I’ll check with him without giving too much away. It’s a toss-up as to whether he’ll have anything or not, but it’s worth a try.”

“Tim,” I said honestly, “I don’t know what I’d do without you! I really owe you.”

“How about a partial payoff with lunch today? Maybe by that time I’ll have rustled up something.”

“You’re on. When and where?”

“Well, I only get an hour, and I still have to be pretty careful. Can’t go anyplace gay during working hours, and straight places make me nervous. Why don’t you grab some fried chicken or something and meet me at the fountain in Warman Park? About noon, or a few minutes after.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

“Okay. I’d better start pulling the old bod together for work. The way I feel this morning, it’s going to be a major project. See you at noon.”

I hung up the phone and poured myself a second cup of coffee. It was going to be a long morning.

*

I’d tried to reach Arnold Klein before I left the apartment, but there was no answer, so I tried again when I got to the office. Still no luck. I decided to try once more that evening and, if there was still no response from the roommates, to just drop by their apartment and leave a note for them to call me.

Which is what I also decided to try with Bill Elers, Clete Barker’s lover/roommate, since neither was listed in the phone book.

I futzed around the office until the bank opened, deposited Rholfing’s posthumous $500, and headed for 4427 West Avondale—Elers’s apartment. I didn’t really expect to find anyone home, and didn’t. I slipped my card under his door with a note asking him to please call me that evening, giving both my office and home numbers.

By the time I made it back downtown and stopped at a fast-food place for some chicken and a couple large Cokes, it was nearly noon. Warman Park is about two blocks from the City Building, where Tim worked, and I sat on the edge of the fountain—the upwind side, to avoid windblown spray—and waited for him.

Fortunately, Warman Park has some very nice scenery—hunky office workers, up-and-coming young execs, a few scantily-clad joggers—so the time passed quickly. Still, it was nearly quarter after when Tim showed up.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, plopping down on the ledge beside me. “We did the autopsy this morning on you-know-who. God, even dead he looks like a faggot.”

“Any surprises?” I asked.

Tim looked at me, one eyebrow cocked.

“You expected surprises?”

The breeze made a sudden shift, and a few drops of spray began to fall around us. I grabbed the chicken and Cokes, and we moved off to a shady area under a tree about twenty yards from the fountain and ten from the nearest pathway.