Authors: William Bernhardt
Mike was suddenly glad he had left his Trans Am back in Tulsa. “Know anything else about him?”
“Well . . . I don’t know it for a fact. But some of my homeboys said they thought he was pushing.”
“As in drugs?”
“That’s what they said.”
“Pushing what?”
“I couldn’t tell you. Nothing too serious, I think.”
“X?”
“I don’t know. I’m not into that at all.” She turned back toward the strip. “I just love to race!”
Tanya scampered away. Mike talked to several of the other kids in attendance, but no one knew more about Manny Nowosky than she had. Mike did, however, learn a lot about drag racing.
“You’re dying to try it, aren’t you?” Swift said, coming up behind him.
“I don’t know about
dying
,” he mumbled.
“Put it on hold for a minute, Top Gun. There’s someone here you need to meet.”
Standing beside her, Mike saw, was a young black man, maybe in his mid-twenties. He was solidly built, with strong and well-shaped features.
“Roger Hartnell,” Swift explained.
Mike shook his hand. “So you knew Manny Nowosky?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What do you do?”
Swift answered for him. “He’s a head honcho in the Chicago office of ANGER.”
“Regional director, actually,” he corrected.
“That’s the gay activist group, right?”
“Gay and lesbian,” he corrected.
“Isn’t that like saying, ‘people and women’?”
Swift laughed. “Sorry, Mr. Hartnell. Major Morelli was an English major. He gets like this.”
Mike ignored her. “Mind if I have a few words with you?”
Hartnell shook his head. “Sure. I’ve been quizzed by so many police officers and reporters I could do it in my sleep.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“My close friend was killed. Murdered brutally. Because he was gay.”
Mike’s eyes widened. “Are you talking about Tony Barovick?”
Hartnell nodded.
Mike pulled the man away from the roar of the crowd. Swift followed behind. “How well did you know Tony Barovick?”
Hartnell thought a moment. “Very well.”
“Meaning?”
“We were lovers.”
“How long had you been together?”
“About six months. From last November until . . . We had an apartment near campus.”
“Must’ve come as quite a shock.”
“You could say that.”
Hartnell remained remarkably stoic, but Mike supposed he had talked about his lover’s death so many times he could do it without flinching. Better switch to the investigation at hand. “And you knew Manny Nowosky?”
“I recognized his picture. I’ve seen him here. And I’ve seen him at Remote Control—that’s a bar where Tony worked and where I used to spend a lot of time. Tony and I used to speculate about what his deal was. Tony thought he was an undercover cop. I thought he was a pusher. Either way, we didn’t like having him around.”
“Well, I’m happy to inform you that’s not going to be a problem anymore.” Mike gazed at the photo. “I can guarantee he isn’t an undercover cop. The rest I’m not so sure about. Know anything else?”
“Sorry, no.”
Mike decided to run with a hunch. “Ever see him talking to Tony?”
“I think maybe Tony took his order once or twice. He used to help out sometimes on the floor.”
“Ever see Manny with anyone else?”
“No. Always alone.”
“So I don’t suppose you have any idea why someone might want to take him out.”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
Mike pursed his lips. This guy was tight-lipped—more monosyllabic than most guilty people he interrogated. Was there a reason for that? Or had he just learned to be careful?
“And you work for this ANGER group?” Swift asked.
“It’s a volunteer position, but, yes.”
“May I ask why?”
“I just think it’s important that we all make a contribution. Do something to make the world a better place. After what happened to Tony—how can anyone deny the need for this group’s work? I absolutely believe this is the defining issue of our time. A hundred years from now, history will look back on people who disparage homosexuals the same way we look back on slave owners. As primitive, ignorant hatemongers. Bigots. I want to be remembered as one of the good guys.”
“But this isn’t just altruism,” Swift said, cutting to the heart of it, as usual. “You have a personal interest in this crusade.”
“Because I’m gay? True enough. Doesn’t make the cause any less important.”
“What exactly is it you ANGER folks do?” She had to shout to be heard over the zoom-zoom; another race was starting.
“Our main goal is the dissemination of information. Educate the public, that’s what we’re about. We may be too late to get the old boys who grew up on the farm and learned to hate everyone who’s different from themselves, but there’s a lot we can do with their children. The world is changing.”
“Is it?”
“Absolutely. You know how many schools started gay clubs after Matthew Shepard’s murder? Hundreds. Most of the kids in them aren’t even gay—they just want to show their support.”
“I’m all for education,” Mike said, “but ANGER has done a lot more than that. You guys are the ones who put the
active
in activism.”
“We’re not much for sitting on our hands, if that’s what you mean.”
“You’re not above resorting to violence, either.”
“What choice do we have?” Mike could see the phlegmatic exterior fading a touch. “We live in a violent world. Do you know how many hate crimes are committed against gay people in this country every year? More than a thousand. The Matthew Shepard case got all the publicity, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. There were a dozen other hate-based murders of gay people that year. People you never heard about.”
“It does seem to be on the upswing,” Mike admitted.
“There’s nothing new about hate. Do you know about Claudia Brenner? She was out hiking the Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania with her girlfriend, back in 1988. They were minding their own business, having a great time. Too great for some people. Some backwoods hoods showed up with shotguns. They killed her girlfriend. Seriously wounded her.”
“She became a gay activist, didn’t she?” Swift said.
“Damn straight. Wouldn’t you? We got killers out there. Frat boys who think hate is cool. Preachers telling young people that God sends hurricanes because of gays. Or that it’s a mental disease that can be cured. That gays will be the downfall of civilization. Hell, one of the kids who killed Tony was a church choirboy! The other one was an Eagle Scout! It’s all around us, and always has been. There’s nothing more hateful than prejudice, whatever its brand. We have to take action—strong, decisive action!”
Mike had the sense that Hartnell had delivered this speech more than once. “Is that what you told Paul Metheny? Just before he went to the courthouse and shot two people?”
Hartnell raised his hands. “Hey, I had nothing to do with that. ANGER has officially condemned his act.”
“But he was a member of your organization?”
“He was a loose cannon. Paul had always been a little unbalanced. He was bipolar, and had strong sociopathic tendencies. I’m not even sure that was his real name. He was on medication, but I guess he stopped taking it. So he lost his head in the courtroom. Tragic.”
“Come on. You must’ve applauded when you heard what happened.”
“I’ve told you. We publicly condemned his action. Immediately.”
“But you must’ve been privately pleased.”
“No way.”
“Those two kids killed your lover!”
“And I wanted to see them pay, too. I’ll admit it. But not like that. Not vigilante style.”
Swift cut in. “I’ve read about the graffiti your group inflicted on that law office downtown. The one that’s representing the surviving defendant.”
“That was not our act, either.”
“ANGER took credit for it.”
“No, we released a press statement approving of the sentiment behind it. That’s a vastly different thing.”
“If you say so.” Mike had done his best to needle the guy, pressure him into saying something he might not otherwise, but it wasn’t working. He checked Swift to see if she had anything more. She shrugged. “So what brings you here today?”
“Are you kidding? I love to race.”
“You seem a little intellectual for this scene.”
“What, because I went to college I can’t have a little fun?” He paused. “Tony and I used to come out here all the time. It was one of the few places where he could just cut loose and be himself.” He shook his head, eyes glistening. “Who ever thought he’d be killed for that? Being himself.”
After they’d talked to everyone on the premises, Mike reconnoitered with Special Agent Swift. “I think we’ve done everything we can out here.”
“Just as well. The thrill is gone.”
“And by my watch, it’s five o’clock. I’m officially off duty.”
“And that means? . . .”
“I think you know. You won’t tell Chief Blackwell, will you?”
“Depends. Can I ride shotgun?”
“I don’t know. How much do you weigh?”
“Excuse me!”
He grinned. “All right, but try to sit lightly.” He started sprinting toward the parking lot. “I’m going to show these kids what an old fogy in a borrowed cop car can do.”
22
At precisely 12:05, Charlie the Chicken spotted the person he feared most, the one he knew was hunting him.
The one who would stop at nothing to silence him.
The day had started like so many others. He’d hitched a ride out to Michigan and One Hundred and God-Knows-What where all the new houses were going in. He’d rung the bell and been introduced to Stacy. Stacy was a contrast to the Ice Princess in about every way possible. He’d complained about the princess’s stick figure, but Stacy cured him of that quick. She was at least a hundred pounds overweight—one of those poor girls who are so short they never really have a chance once middle age sets in and the pounds refuse to go away. She wasn’t quiet like the princess either; she was a big girl with a big noise . . .
“Oh, baby baby baaaabay . . . Yes! Oh God yes. Yes yes yes yes yes! That’s how you do it, baby. Just keep doing it just like that keep it coming. Oh, don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Oh, you feel so good. Oh, baby. Oh, baaaabay . . .”
It was like having the radio on in the background, except he had no means of turning it off, no matter how desperately he wanted to. Stacy differed from the princess in the movement department, too. Meaning, she knew how to. And did so. With great gusto. When she started whipping those huge hips around, she started tidal waves rippling through the mattress, one way then the next, a kinetic sculpture seen from the worst possible angle. Did it never occur to this woman that it was hard to hit a moving target? Probably not—she was too deep in the throes to be aware of anything. He had to wonder, though—was he really turning her on? Or was she doing it to herself?
Under the big top, he thought, as he crawled beneath the big pink muumuu she was wearing. And that led to the endless portion of tonight’s program. Men talk about women who can’t get enough, but in reality, Charlie had rarely experienced it. Until now. Stacy could not, under any circumstances, no matter what he tried, get enough. She had him where she wanted him, and she was determined to make sure he stayed there, too. With her ample knees pressed against both sides of his head, he couldn’t possibly escape. Minutes seemed like hours. Death by asphyxiation became a real possibility.
“Strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” the coroner would say. “He suffocated to death.”
“Suffocated?” Agent Mulder would ask.
“You heard me. A clear case of death by vagina.”
Perverse, yes, but he had to amuse himself somehow, until at long last, the ordeal ended. The knee lock broke and he came up gasping for air.
Well, at any rate, he didn’t have to wonder whether Stacy liked it, and he didn’t get stiffed either. Two hundred big ones, tip included. A few more gigs like this and he’d be home free.
Or so he thought. Until he saw the face, the one that haunted his nightmares. That changed everything. Until then, his plan had been to lie low, scrape together some cash, and use it to make sure he was never found.
Too late.
It couldn’t be a coincidence—that face, out here, driving around in a car, obviously looking for something. He didn’t think he’d been spotted, but even so—how long would he be safe here? Or anywhere? If he could be traced to his work location, then what he did and who he did it for was obviously known. Probably where he had been living. He could no longer pretend that he was safe for the moment. He wasn’t.
And if he didn’t do something quick, he never would be again.
23
Christina was so busy talking on her cell phone during the walk up the drive that she almost didn’t notice where she was. She fired off a long list of instructions to Vicki, the new hire—whose voice was so soft Christina could barely hear it on the cell—then sent Jones off on several new research quests, then conferred with Loving on various schemes to break through the wall of silence he was getting from her client’s fraternity. By the time she finally rang off, she was already on the front porch.
And what a porch it was. She couldn’t kid herself—just being here made her edgy. She was dead in the heart of the richest section of Nichols Hills. Driving down Sixty-third to get here was like driving through Hollywood Hills; without exception, every house was huge and fabulous—multistoried, pillared Federals and plantation-style estates—with sprawling, perfectly cut green lawns.
And the Kincaid manor was no exception. It was more than a little startling. She sometimes forgot how utterly different Ben’s upbringing had been from her own. He seemed like such a regular guy—too regular on occasion. And the way that he chose to live—insisted on living, actually—was a marked contrast to the way he was apparently raised.
She rang the bell. A few moments later, it was answered by a woman who was dressed in essentially the same style as Christina—a professional assistant, perhaps. Christina was escorted into an inner parlor, where Lillian Kincaid awaited her.
The older woman stood and extended her arms, the picture of graciousness. “Christina! How good to see you again.”