A Time for Secrets (10 page)

And then he had my feet in the air, his cockhead nosing around my ass. I blush as I write this. I’ve never been the kind who plays the woman in love—

This stopped me. Ronald wasn’t a bottom usually? But he’d admitted himself he was effeminate. Why wouldn’t he take the woman’s role? Then I remembered a conversation I’d once had at four o’clock in the morning with Miss Minerva Jones, the DJ drag queen at Paradise Isle who’s a couple inches taller than I am. She explained to me that drag queens were almost always tops. When I asked why this was, he said, “There’s a particular kind of man out there who just can’t resist being fucked by a lady in a pretty dress.”

With SR it was all I wanted to do. I wanted him in me. I felt empty when he wasn’t in me. He spit on his hand and was inside me. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. It hurt for a moment, as it always did, and then it began to feel good. Very good. Mostly though, I just loved looking up at this incredible man. This incredible man who was mine. He thrust into me again, and again. I began to whimper. He put his head close to mine and kissed me. I wrapped my legs tighter around him. My toes curling each time he pumped me.

I tried to hold my climax back, but as always happens with SR, I just couldn’t. I think I called out as I suddenly covered my stomach in semen. SR pulled out and jerked himself until he mixed our juices together.

I set the journal down on my desk. Somewhere along the line, I’d opened my pants and taken out my cock. My own juice now covered my groin and the bottom of my t-shirt. I took a few minutes cleaning myself in the lavatory and buttoned my jeans as I walked back to my desk. Slipping the tiny jar of Vaseline—which was there mainly for chapped lips in the winter—back into my drawer, I glanced out the window at the senior apartment building across the street. I should have remembered to close the blinds.

It was possible I’d just given someone a heart attack.

CHAPTER TEN

My little block of Clark Street had seen better times. Besides the copy place downstairs, there was a vacuum repair shop, a corner bar called Skip’s or something equally as bland—there was no sign other than a neon one that said “BAR,” and a small storefront theater that used to be called “Up Stage
,
” but now had a black and white sign that said “Leftovers.” The name made me wonder how long they would be there.

On the other hand, the way they’d done up their window made it look as though they were doing well. They’d been running a show called
Lady MacByrne
. From the review they’d blown-up and hung in the window, it seemed this was some kind of mixing of Shakespeare with Chicago politics. The reviewer thought it was a great blend. Of course, some wiseacre had come along and pasted a bumper sticker for Alderman Finnegan over the review.

There was a Chinese place near the corner of Belmont and Clark called Happy Table, so I went over and picked up some chicken fried rice and an egg foo young. My plan was to walk home and have lunch with Harker. I knew his mother would be there, but I enjoyed the idea of him shoving aside whatever she’d prepared and having Chinese with me instead. She hated Chinese food. When I’d brought it home before she said, “I throw better than this into trash.” I took a nice little chunk out of my tongue when she said it, too.

When I walked into the apartment, I sensed something wasn’t right. I didn’t immediately know what it was. Things were quiet. That wasn’t all that unusual. There was no smell of Mrs. Harker’s cooking in the air; normally that was a good sign. Suddenly, I realized what it was. I smelled cologne—an unfamiliar cologne. I wasn’t sure what kind exactly, but I’d smelled it on guys coming into Paradise Isle. It reminded me of wood chips soaked in lemonade. It was very popular.

I walked into the living room and found Harker sitting with his little friend, Christian. This time Christian wore a peach sherbet-colored alligator shirt. I wondered if he bought them in bulk. An empty pizza box sprawled on my desk; some crumbled up paper napkins lay next to Harker on the couch. Obviously, they’d just eaten.

“I brought Chinese for lunch,” I said, an ugly tone in my voice that I just couldn’t help.

“You should have called,” Harker said. “Christian brought pizza.”

“I could have gotten an extra-large. I mean, if I’d known you were going to be here,” Christian said.

“I live here. I’m here a lot.”

He stuck his chin up in the air. “Okay. Next time I’ll get extra-large.”

I didn’t like the idea of there being a next time.

Without another word I went into the kitchen and got a fork. I supposed I could have used the chopsticks that were in the bag, but I preferred putting food into my mouth to dropping it into my lap. I sat down at the kitchen table and opened up the white cardboard containers.

I’d barely eaten a mouthful of fried rice when Harker and Christian both came into the kitchen.

“Nick, don’t be antisocial,” Harker said.

“My mother taught me not to talk with my mouth full,” I said, my mouth full of food.

Harker smirked. I should have known better. Whenever I behaved like a petulant teenager he got a real kick out of it. Well, he was about to have a ball.

“Christian was just asking about Roger Doty,” Harker said. Roger was the only one of the Slasher’s victims who’d lived. That made him an important witness. When he ran away, his parents hired me to find him, which I did moments before the Slasher found him a second time.

“I’d love to interview Roger Doty. You and he are the only ones who’ve ever seen the Slasher and lived to tell about it. I have questions I’d like to ask him.”

“I doubt he’d be interested in answering them,” I said, though I hadn’t laid eyes on the kid for almost a year, so what did I know?

“I’d like to at least check. Can you tell me where he is?”

“No, I can’t. He’s in a safe place. Somewhere the Slasher can’t get to him.”

“I respect that. I would never disclose the location. It’s just…I’d like to talk to him. Even a phone call would be helpful. Maybe you could arrange to have him call me.”

I could have called Roger’s parents to see if Roger might be interested. It had been almost a year. He hadn’t had much interest in helping out before, but maybe the kid had developed a sudden attack of civic pride. It would have been easy enough to at least call and ask, but instead I said, “No. He’s not interested.”

Christian smiled and bit his lip with a calculated shyness. “How did you become involved in that case?”

An uncomfortable question to say the least; Doty’s parents happened to be friends with my ex, Daniel. That was how I’d gotten the case, and that was how Daniel had come back into my life. Neither of which Harker knew.

“I don’t talk about my cases. Part of what I’m paid for is discretion.”

“I guess I’m stuck with you then,” he said, and sat down across from me at the table.

Out of the blue, Harker offered him a beer. Then he grabbed two Millers out of the refrigerator. I hadn’t bought them, and I doubted Mrs. Harker had. They must have come with the pizza.

“It’s a little early in the day, isn’t it?” I asked Harker, who I hadn’t seen drink anything stronger than tea in months.

He shrugged and took a sip.

“So how did you find the Bughouse Slasher?” Christian asked.

“I didn’t find him. I found my client.”

“How did you find your client?”

I smiled at him. He’d fallen into my trap. “I don’t talk about my cases.”

Christian gave me what he hoped was a pretty pout.

“Do they know you’re a fag down at the
Daily Herald
?” I asked.

He paled. “Probably. I’m not hiding it.”

“But you’re not telling anyone.”

“I didn’t include fellatio as a skill on my resume, no.”

I almost smiled at that or at least the idea of him putting shorthand, speed typing, and fellatio at the bottom of his resume.

“How many people did you tell when you were Christian’s age?” Harker asked me.

I could have asked how many people Harker had told by the time he was forty, but I decided not to be mean or, at least, meaner than I was already being.

“Point taken.”

Christian crossed his bare legs and tilted his pretty little head. “Do I really have to tell people I’m gay? I think it’s pretty obvious.” And he was right; despite the East Coast prep school image he attempted to project, it was very obvious. At least, if you knew what to look for.

“Never underestimate a heterosexual’s ability to deny we exist,” I said.

Christian blushed. “So, if I go down there and tell them I’m gay will you give me an interview?”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t care what you do. I just wanted to talk about something other than my giving you an interview.”

He frowned. “I’m persistent, I know. Some people call that rude.” When I didn’t jump in and correct him, he added, “Would you at least think about it?”

“I think about a lot of things.”

He smiled and said, “You guys are a really great couple. I admire you both.”

I took a mouthful of fried rice and wondered why the sudden change of subject.

“Thank you, that’s sweet,” Harker said.

Christian flushed then said, “Bert and I were talking about the van.”

“Good for you,” I said. It had taken him twenty whole seconds to get back to talking about the Slasher. Complimenting our couplehood was some kind of feint.

“What do you think about Bert’s van theory?” he asked me.

I had no idea what he was talking about, and my curiosity was piqued. “What do you think about Bert’s van theory?” I asked to avoid answering.

“I think it’s pretty brilliant.”

I was hoping Christian would tip a little more of what Harker’s theory actually was. I turned and stared at Harker. For a moment I thought he might be having too much fun at my expense to actually explain his theory, but then he began, “I’m assuming the Slasher lives within five miles of the area in which he’s dumped the bodies. I mapped that area, and I’ve been calling body shops to see if anyone repainted a white Chevy van in August, September, or October of last year.”

“There are a lot of assumptions there,” I said, even though it wasn’t a bad theory. “What if he lives six miles from the body dump zone? What if he chose a body shop five miles in the other direction from where he lives? What if he painted the van himself?”

“Those are all possibilities,” he acknowledged. “If my initial search doesn’t yield anything interesting, then I’ll expand it.”

“What if he lives in Milwaukee and drives down?” I suggested.

“He doesn’t,” Harker said confidently. “If he did, the murders would take place on the weekends and holidays when it would be more convenient for him to drive down.”

If there was any doubt in my mind what this conversation was really about, it was answered by the rapt look on Christian’s face. Harker was flirting by talking murder to the boy and doing a damn good job of it.

“Why not just get a list of every Chevy van in Chicago?” Christian wondered. “I know there are probably thousands, but if you focus on the five-mile area…”

“Connors has already done that. Didn’t come up with much,” Harker said.

Christian chewed on his lip in an obvious way. I wanted to slap him.

“It’s not a registered vehicle,” I said, “or at least it’s not registered in Illinois.”

“How do you know that?” Harker asked.

“Because the Slasher is smart. He’s known from the beginning you’d eventually be looking for the van. He’s made sure you can’t find it.”

“So, you think all of this is pointless?”

“Not at all,” I said. “There’s a van. It exists, so it can be found. The question is how. How has he screwed up?”

“Don’t most serial killers want to be caught?” Christian asked, quoting a popular Hollywood misconception while drawing attention back to himself.

“This one doesn’t,” Harker said glumly.

I ate almost all of the Chinese food I’d bought while I listened to Harker and Christian flirt their way through some other possible theories. Christian had a theory the killer was some closeted right-wing preacher or politician. As appealing as that might be, it was pretty unlikely. Those people practice their evil in the light of day.

No, the Slasher was some poor schlub who lived with his wife in a tract house and led a Boy Scout troop on weekends. Someone so boringly normal that when they were finally caught their neighbors would barely believe it and say things like, “He seemed like such a nice guy” on TV. Someone like Gacy who played a clown for kids, someone who appeared normal on the surface. I didn’t point that out though; I was too busy watching Christian’s fetching body language. He lingered until it was nearly two o’clock. I hadn’t planned to stay away from my office that long. I needed to get back and read the rest of Meek’s diary, but there was no way I was leaving Harker alone with the intrepid reporter.

After he finally left, I hung around, mainly so it didn’t seem like I’d been waiting for Christian’s departure.

“Don’t you have a case you’re working?” Harker asked while I was thinking about an excuse to go back to my office.

“What case?” I asked, too blandly.

“Your double murder.”

“We talked about that. I’m staying out of it.”

“Sure you are,” he said. “How’s it going?”

Of course, I could have told him about the journal, but I knew he’d tell me to turn it over to Haggerty. I shook my head and said, “I’ve got nothing on my plate. In fact, I was thinking of taking a nap.”

Harker didn’t believe me and called my bluff
.
“Go ahead then. Take a nap.”

“Where’s your mother?” I asked. She was always a good excuse for me to be at my office. I didn’t appreciate her failing me now.

“She doesn’t seem to like Christian much, so I told her not to come today.”

There were a couple of things wrong with that statement.

“So, you knew Christian was coming by, but you didn’t mention it to me.”

“Did I need to?” he asked.

I wondered for a moment if he was up to something—something more serious than being on the receiving end of some heavy flirting. Of course, I had no right to be upset about that. Our relationship was a two-way street. If I asked him to shut down his lane, then I’d have to shut down mine. Was that it? Was that what Christian was about? Harker trying to trap me into monogamy? But that seemed silly. Harker was barely having sex with me. That was a big part of why things were the way they were. So what was happening?