Chapter 8

Lane poured a cup of coffee and took it to Tony’s desk. Propping a hip on the corner, he sipped from the cup. Tony was leaned back in his chair, tossing a Koosh ball from hand to hand.

“Let’s see,” Tony said reflectively, “no murder weapon. No eye witnesses. No DNA matches. No vehicle ID.” He looked at Lane. “What exactly do we have?”

“Not a hell of a lot. The sum total of our evidence would fit on the head of a straight pin.”

Tony pursed his lips and frowned. His phone rang and he answered, still tossing the Koosh up in one hand.

He listened for a while and his brows rose. “Yeah?” Tucking the phone under his chin, he said to Lane, “They got a guy in lock-up. Said a gay crack-head was shooting off his mouth about a murder. Said he saw something. He was staying at the inn.” Into the phone, he said, “Got a name?” He wrote on a notepad. “Your guy know where Ramirez is?” Listened again. “Thanks, man.” He hung up the phone.

“What’d this guy see?” Lane asked. “Who is he?”

“Dupree is the guy in lock-up. Said a dude named Garrett Ramirez claimed he was staying at the inn the night of the murder. Went out for a smoke and saw a couple of guys with a gun.”

“A couple? Everything points to our guy working alone.”

“Yeah, but Ramirez swears he was there. Wouldn’t hurt to talk to him.”

“Does Dupree know where we can find Ramirez?”

“Nah. Just hangs with him on the streets from time to time.”

“I bet Ramirez is the mystery guest Bay entertained that night. Run Ramirez through the database. Get an address. Might as well check NCIC while we’re at it.”

Tony dropped the Koosh ball and turned to his keyboard.

“Did I hear you say Garrett Ramirez?” a female voice said.

Lane looked around to find Lucinda Rochester standing behind him.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Gay guy?”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “Whatcha got?”

“I got him. Murder victim. Last night at Ziggy’s.”

“No shit?”

“Absolutely no shit.”

Lane looked down at Tony. “Ramirez runs his mouth about the B and B murder. Now he ends up dead? The head of the pin just got a little more crowded.”

“Yep. Not likely a coincidence.” Tony turned to Lucinda. “What’s the story?”

“Bar patron found him last night in the alley behind the bar. Stab wound to the mid-section. Dead at least twenty-four hours. We confirmed he was at Ziggy’s Wednesday night. Went in and out with several different men throughout the evening. No suspects thus far. No eye wits. We talked to his roommates. Two straight women. They were pretty shaken up, but no help. Why are you guys interested?”

Lane explained the connection to the B and B killing, that Ramirez had been a guest the night Hebringer was murdered.

Lucinda nodded. “Might put a whole new light on both our cases.”

“If this guy was killed because of what he saw, how did the killer find out he saw anything?” Lane asked.

“Good question,” said Tony. “Unless he’s into the dope scene, too? Word got back to him?”

“Possible,” Lane mused. “We need to talk to the guy in lockup. Can’t talk to Ramirez, might as well see what else this guy knows.”

“After, you want to head over to the scene and see if anything grabs you?” Lucinda asked.

“Yeah,” Lane said. “We also need to talk to the employees at the bar. Give us an hour and we’ll meet you in the alley. Unless you want to come along while we talk to the people in Ziggy’s?”

“Nah,” Lucinda said. “I’ll just meet you outside. Depresses the hell out of me to be in a room full of hot guys, knowing they’d rather have another hot guy than me. Tough enough to keep up the self-esteem as it is.”

****

Johnny Dupree was pale and thin, with long fingers that tapped continuously against his thighs. He had blond, close-cropped hair and a triangle-shaped head that God no doubt intended to be covered by a hat.

Lane and Tony sat across from him in the interview room.

“So,” Lane said. “Where do you know this Ramirez guy from?”

Dupree shrugged. “The streets, man.”

“When did he tell you about the murder?”

“Didn’t.”

“Didn’t?” Tony cut in. “Thought he was shooting off his mouth about a murder at a bed and breakfast?”

Dupree’s head nodded vigorously. “Yeah, but not to me.”

“To who then?” Tony asked.

“Crack whore named Teresa.”

“Teresa told you about the shooting?”

“Yeah. Said this guy was staying at the bed and breakfast, went outside for a smoke and saw these dudes with a gun. We thought it was kind of cool Ramirez saw it since the dude really got popped.”

“Yeah, cool,” Lane said. “Do you know where we can find Teresa?”

Dupree shook his head. “She’s around, man, you know? Just… around.”

“What does she look like?”

Another shrug. “Like a crack whore. Skinny, shriveled up. Herpes on her mouth. Thin, brown hair.”

“Got a last name?”

“Nope.”

“Did Teresa say who else was around when Ramirez told about the shooting?”

Dupree squinted, rubbing a finger along the side of his nose, as if anticipating the coke that would be inserted later. “No, man. She just said Ramirez was this fag who saw some dude get popped.”

“Thanks.” Tony said, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “You’ve been superfluously helpful.”

Dupree looked up, a spaced-out grin on his sallow face. “That’s good, right?”

****

Friday was Coburn’s birthday, so an unscheduled dinner was being held in his honor.

The house smelled of pot roast and chocolate cake. Dad and my brothers were sprawled in the living room watching the World Series of Poker on ESPN.

On the rare occasions when there were no televised pro or college football, baseball, basketball, or hockey games, and no UFC championship fights, the men in my family tuned into whatever competitive fare the sports network offered. After all, their very survival was dependent upon observing some type of competition, preferably of the sweaty, testosterone laden nature. When that wasn’t possible, watching an edge-of-your seat, tension-racked card game would do.

Recently, I’d seen this event called rodeo poker. Spectators had the opportunity to play a card game in the middle of the ring. They would release a bull and the player to stay the longest at the table without fleeing in fright was declared the winner. Now there’s a card game worth watching. Release a thousand pounds of horns and fury in the middle of the World Series poker tournament, and I’m all over it.

“I’m going to help Mom in the kitchen,” I told them. “Keep me posted.”

I received a few non-committal grunts, which didn’t leave me optimistic about my odds of receiving updates.

Naomi was in the kitchen, looking content and radiant in a blue dress and one of Mom’s aprons that barely hid the bulge in her tummy. She was about my height, but slender with naturally curly red hair and hazel eyes.

Naomi greeted me in her usual friendly manner, and my mother said, “You look nice, dear.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said when I had sufficiently recovered from the unexpected praise. I’d worn champagne colored slacks and a long, green tunic style blouse. I’d made more effort than normal, feeling guilty about my previous slovenly appearance. I was dubiously pleased at the compliment. I’d grown accustomed to her ignoring the positive and accentuating the negative.

Then, she said, “I don’t see how you can afford nice clothes since you didn’t earn that promotion. Still, it’s good to see you looking somewhat feminine for a change.”

And the planets of my world were once more aligned.

“Monroe, will you chop the salad?” she went on. “Be sure to cut up radishes. Coburn absolutely loves them.”

“Yeah,” I said as I headed to the sink. “Coburn loves a lot of things.”

Both women looked at me quizzically. My voice must have conveyed the double intender, but neither of them commented. I let a relieved sigh escape. If I were going to tell them, I’d break it to them gently. I wouldn’t do it with snide innuendos.

But I wouldn’t tell them. Even though Coburn didn’t deserve my loyalty, I couldn’t hurt them like that. Not even my mother. I never found out for sure, but when I was in my early teens, I suspected my father had been unfaithful to my mother. Once, when he was out and hadn’t gotten home when expected, I walked into their bedroom and caught her sobbing, holding her wedding album. I wouldn’t say anything now because I didn’t want her to feel betrayed by yet another man in her life.

I washed my hands, then began rinsing vegetables while Coburn’s fan club chatted behind me.

I focused on the clock above the sink, trying to tune them out, but my irritation only increased. The clock was festooned with brightly colored fruit—although over the years, the colors of the fruit had faded—and hadn’t worked for more than half of my life. The hands perpetually declared the time to be two-thirty-seven. At least it was correct twice a day.

It had always bugged me that the broken clock still hung uselessly in the kitchen. I mean, what was the point? It wasn’t as if it enhanced the décor. It was hideous. The microwave and stove both had digital clocks, yet my mother kept that monstrosity on the wall.

I wanted to turn and scream at my mother, “Take the fucking clock down, already! By the way, your golden boy is a lying sleaze.” Then, to Naomi, “your perfect husband is a cheating dick-head.” Instead, I continued rinsing and chopping until I heard my mother triumphantly proclaim that dinner was ready.

We sat down to a feast of pot roast, new potatoes, squash, and homemade dinner rolls. For dessert there would be double-chocolate layer cake. All of Coburn’s favorites. Well, all his favorites except ‘slutty blonde bimbo.’

“When do you leave for Miami?” my mother asked Coburn.

“Monday morning,” Coburn said.

“You’re going out of town?” I asked.

“Yeah. A medical convention.”

“Is Naomi going?”

Coburn had been reaching for a dinner roll, but stopped in mid-motion. “No,” he said quickly.

“You really should.” I turned to Naomi. “You’d enjoy getting away and you guys could treat it like a second honeymoon before the baby comes along and there’s no more alone time.”

Coburn looked at me as if I’d suggested he dunk his head in a toilet.

“True. It would be lovely to go to Miami,” Naomi said, sounding hopeful and doubtful at the same time.

“That’s not a good idea,” my mother said firmly. “It wouldn’t be good for the baby. Naomi needs to stay here near her doctor and take care of herself and the baby.”

Coburn gave her a pathetically grateful look. Without even knowing it, she’d come to the aid of her special boy once again.

After dinner, I offered to clean the kitchen by myself, insisting that Naomi and Mom should relax since they’d done most of the cooking.

I really just wanted to be alone.

When I finished loading the dishwasher and wiping down the counters, I stepped out on the back porch and stood in the blissful stillness of the cool night air.

The door behind me opened and I turned, relieved to see that, of all the people it could have been, it was Gable.

“There you are,” he said, coming to stand beside me. “You better come inside. You’ll miss out on the bestowal of gifts.”

“Wouldn’t that be a shame,” I replied.

“It would. The wise men are due to show up any second.”

I laughed. Gable liked to align himself with me in a ‘we’re in this together’ sort of way, as if we were on the same level in my mother’s eyes. Truth was, although Coburn was her obvious favorite, Gable and Mitchum tied for a very close second.

I looked above the tree line to where the moon was a narrow silver parenthesis in the inky black sky.

“Remember when Dad used to tell us that was his big toenail he lost?” I said.

“Yeah. I believed it, too.”

“So did I.”

“Remember before the days of pre-moistened towelettes when Mom would ‘can a washcloth’ to take with us on trips?” Gable laughed and shook his head. “And, what was with heating a towel in the oven for earaches? I mean, there were heating pads, right?”

“I think it was more labor-intensive to do the towel thing. Showed she cared more than sticking a plug in an outlet would have done.”

“To tell you the truth, I liked it when she did that. It felt good. All toasty and cozy. Made me feel secure for some reason. I even liked the way it smelled.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I faked an earache, just to get the baked towel.”

I smiled. “Ooooh, how many hail Mary’s did that one cost you?”

He smiled back. “Not nearly as many as you might think.” Reaching out, he gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “Have you heard from Josie?”

I shook my head. “Not a word.”

“Saturday, I visit the local shelters. I’ll ask around a little, keep my ears and eyes peeled.”

“Thanks,” I said, putting my hand over his and squeezing back.

“Now, let’s go inside and pay proper homage to the Chosen One.”

****

Ziggy’s didn’t look like a gay bar, in that the walls weren’t painted in rainbows and there were no photos of Liberace or Lady Gaga. There was, however, a disc jockey playing a duet of Elton John and George Michael singing “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me.”

Tony motioned for the bartender, who finally spotted them and made his way to where they waited.

“What can I get you?” he asked, but he eyed them like he knew they weren’t here for the same reason as his other customers.

“Were you bartending Wednesday night?” Lane asked, showing the bartender his shield.

“I bartend every night. It’s my bar.”

“You Ziggy?” asked Tony.

He shook his head. “Don Walsh. Ziggy is my favorite cartoon.” He leaned his hands on the edge of the bar. “Anyway, like I told the other cops. I was here Wednesday night.”

Tony reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photo of Garrett Ramirez, extending it toward Walsh.

Walsh didn’t spare it a glance. “Guy was killed right outside my door. He was a regular. You think I need a picture?”

Tony slid the photo back in its place. “So, you noticed Mr. Ramirez here on Wednesday night?”

“Garrett’s in the room, you can’t not notice.”

“Why’s that?”

“Look around you, Detective. You got all kinds of people.” Lane glanced around the bar to where same-sex couples, mostly men, either sat at tables, some with their arms draped loosely over one another, or swayed together out on the dance floor. Many of them wore Halloween costumes. One group of men even went so far as to dress as the Village People. “Not every homosexual looks like an extra in a cabaret show. I mean, do I look gay?”

He didn’t. He was solidly built with a Fu Manchu mustache and thinning hair. Looked more like a teamster than a bartender at a gay bar.

Not waiting for a reply, he continued. “Garrett was a stereotypical flamer. Flamboyant, loud, feminine. Kind of a little bitch sometimes.”

“You’re saying he stood out?”

“Stood out. Put out. Went out.” Walsh jerked a head toward the back of the bar.

“Went out?”

“Garrett liked to… entertain, for lack of a better word, out back. Any given night, you’d see him go outside with anywhere from three to ten men. All different.”

“He did that on Wednesday?” Lane asked.

“Every night he was here.”

Lane took out his notebook. “Do you know the guys he went out with? Names? Especially the last one you saw with him?”

“Don’t know any of them.”

“Is there a camera on the back door?”

Walsh sighed, straightened up. Crossing his arms, he said. “Let me speed this up for you, Detective. No cameras on the back door. No cameras in the alley. Don’t know with who or what time he went out the last time. Don’t know the names of anyone he went out with that night, or any night. Don’t know who he hung out with when he was here. Don’t know the guy who found the body. I told you everything I know. Period. Just like the other cops. Now, it’s Friday night, fellas. I need to get back to work.”

“One more question,” Tony said as Walsh started to turn away. “And this is just for my own curiosity. Did you every hook up with Ramirez?”

Walsh snorted a laugh. “I like my men a little more masculine. If I were going to go for someone as feminine as Ramirez, I’d have saved myself a lot of headaches and just stayed straight.”

****

Lucinda met them in the alley behind Ziggy’s. She’d changed clothes since they’d seen her at the station. She wore tight black pants and spike-heeled boots. Her black knee-length coat was open, showing a silky cream-colored blouse, unbuttoned to nearly nipple depth.

Lane had to force his gaze away. It had been a very long time since he’d had a woman.

Tony’s eyes rounded and a low whistle escaped between his clenched teeth. Lucinda pretended not to notice, but Lane saw a smile curve her lips.

“The body was found over here.” She led them to a dumpster. “One stab wound in the mid-section, then a slice upward. A bar patron found him last night when he came out for some fresh air. Not the best place to go for fresh air. I suspect he came out here for something a little more stimulating. Ramirez was killed the night before.”

“What about the guy who found him? You run a check on him?”

“Yeah. We cleared him. No priors. Tight alibi for the night Ramirez was killed. From all we can gather, never laid eyes on Ramirez until he was dead.”

Lane searched all sides of the dumpster, then the wall along the alley, checking carefully in the area where the body was found.

“Were any messages found at the scene?” he asked Lucinda.

“Messages? You mean, like, did the killer leave a note?”

“Right.”

Lucinda shrugged. “Nothing we found. But maybe we should check the dumpster for the paper? It could gotten mixed up with trash.”

Lane shook his head. “No. Probably not paper. At our scene, the words, ‘Partners in Crime’ were painted in red on a tree near the body.”

“Blood?”

“Spray paint.”

“Nothing like that around here, but we can have the techs go over it again tomorrow when it’s light.”

“Good idea.” Lane shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and made one more sweep through the area. “Guess we’ve done all we can do here,” he said when he returned to where Tony and Lucinda stood.

The three of them headed around the side of the building to the parking lot. When they reached Lucinda’s car, she looked up at Lane. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Tony grinned. “Yeah, I’ll just call in to the… uh… thing for the… you know.”

He sauntered away, slid into his car and started it. After a few minutes, Lane could hear, “Feel Like Making Love” by Bad Company blasting from the vehicle. Not a coincidence, Lane was certain. Asshole.

“How are you?” Lucinda asked, stepping closer so Lane got a whiff of her perfume.

“I’m good.”

“Are you really? How’s the situation with the wife?” The last word was said with an edge. Everyone at the station knew his story. Not the dreadful, pathetic details, but they knew the highlights. It was difficult to keep a secret around cops. Especially when it involved betrayal and murder.

“Nothing’s changed.”

“Yet you still remain faithful?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Why complicate it? What you need is pretty basic. You deserve to feel pleasure.”

“It’s kind of a mess right now. I don’t want to add to the turmoil by…” he shrugged as if to say, ‘you get the message.’

She stepped closer, and her throaty voice purred, “Can I ask you one thing? When you do decide to give in to your urges, and trust me, one day you will, promise that I’ll be the one.”

Thoughts of Monroe flashed through his mind, and he closed his eyes briefly. Opening them, he looked down at Lucinda. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, not making any promises.

Lucinda leaned slightly forward, giving him a birds-eye view of the cleavage. She ran a hand down his shirtfront. “I would take very good care of you,” she whispered. “Let me know when you’re ready to feel extraordinarily satisfied.”

“I will,” Lane said, his voice coming out strained.

He dragged himself away and opened her car door. “Goodnight, Lucinda.”

“‘Night,” she said, sliding in, then driving away with a final wave.

Lane took a deep, cleansing breath and released it slowly. He climbed in beside Tony.

“Hey, you should gone with her,” Tony said with a grin. “I wouldn’t have minded you blowin’ me off. Especially if it was so you could get blown.”

“How about you blow me, asshole?” Lane said irritably. “Just drive.”

****

On Saturday night, Asia and Darion invited me to dinner, but I declined. The week had been a bit too exciting. All I wanted to do was be alone and unwind.

I put on a Lifehouse CD and poured a glass of wine. I sank down in my recliner and closed my eyes, trying to clear my mind of all the bullshit that had gone on in the past week. It almost worked, but the wine and music couldn’t quite chase away my dark thoughts.

When the CD ended and the glass was empty, I called Gable to see if he’d learned anything at the shelter. He hadn’t. I hung up after he promised to let me know if anything came up.

In the bathroom, I stripped off my clothes and turned the shower on full blast. I stepped under the hot spray, enjoying the almost painful sting of the water.

I shampooed my hair and scrubbed with ginger-citrus body wash, staying until the hot water was almost gone.

Toweling off, I stood in front of the mirror, naked, and partially blow-dried my hair. As I reached for my robe, I heard a thump, then a scraping sound, and froze.

My legs went weak and a tremble worked its way from my toes through my chest.

What was that?

Even living alone, I wasn’t prone to being skittish or imagining noises. I seldom became frightened. Wasn’t the least paranoid.

That had been something, though. Some noise inside my house.

I pulled the robe over my still-damp body and belted it.

I didn’t have a weapon in the bathroom, or in either bedroom. There was a gun in the living room and knives in the kitchen, but in this part of the house, nothing. My phone was in the front room, too. Although, what would I do if I had it? Call 9-1-1 and tell them I thought I heard a noise?

I rummaged through the cabinets beneath the bathroom sink and came up with a spray bottle of Tilex. Tough on mildew, had to be tough on exposed eyeballs.

Slowly, I eased the bathroom door open and crept to the front of the house. The living room was empty.

I made my way carefully to the kitchen and pushed the door open.

My hands tightened on the spray bottle and I gasped, drawing the attention of the man seated at my dining table.