Authors: Josh Lanyon
You stare at him wordlessly, the pulse fluttering away in the hollow of your throat. Your skin seems to tingle beneath his touch. He stares at you, and you know he can read your thoughts as easily as if they were subtitles at the bottom of a movie screen. In this case, probably a horror movie.
“Go home, Adrien-with-an-e,” Riordan says softly. His breath is warm against your face, and scented of spearmint. “Go home before you get into real trouble.”
__________
If you choose to go home, click here
If you decide to stay and get into real trouble, click here
I
t occurs to you that you do know someone who was around at that time. Tara. You phone her and ask her what happened with the Chess Club. She refers you to Mr. Atkins, the sponsor of the club.
You’re about to call and arrange a meeting with Mr. Atkins when Detective Riordan calls.
“We just got the paperwork from Buffalo PD. Richard Corday died from injuries sustained falling twelve stories onto a cement pool yard.”
You are almost afraid to ask. “Was it suicide?”
“It was a suspicious death.”
“Was there a chess piece anywhere?”
“One chess piece. A queen.”
So…that’s pretty conclusive, right? But Riordan seems to think there’s still more investigating ahead. And, of course, it’s true that your suspect has no name or face.
That evening you meet Bruce for dinner. Bruce is a nice guy, but TMI over the swordfish and fennel salad. However, you drink a bit too much, as per usual, and you don’t want to spend the night alone, so you let him persuade you to go back to his place.
Bruce lives in one of those weirdly familiar Chatsworth neighborhoods, in one of those sprawling brown-and-yellow ranch-style houses. You have a little more to drink because you know in your heart you should not be leading this guy on. You have sex with Bruce and he tells you he loves you.
Oh you GUY!
When you finally drag yourself home, you find your answering machine blinking with a message from Riordan, ordering you to call the minute you get in.
Which you don’t do because you don’t like being ordered around (something he should know about you up front) and because you’re still embarrassed your mom lodged a formal complaint about the police being too mean to you.
The next day, Mr. Atkins calls and you go meet him at the nearest Denny’s.
Atkins orders the Deli Dinger and you go for the Moons Over My Hammy. Well, maybe not, but remember that old Denny’s menu? That was some yummy stuff. Anyway, Atkins reveals that there was a scandal revolving around the old Chess Club. This is all news to you because you were stuck doing the whole invalid gig your junior year of high school.
“We were invited to the All City Tournament, and Grant Landis, the big doofus, cheated. Tried to cheat anyway. Knocked the board after making an illegal move or some such crap. You can’t cheat at chess. Not like that.”
You’re full of questions. “And you quit sponsoring the club? Why not just throw Landis out? What happened to Landis? I don’t remember him my senior year.”
“About a month after the whole fiasco, Landis was jumped one night coming home from the library. They held him down, shaved his entire body, smeared makeup all over his face, and put him in a dress. Then the little shits took photos which they handed around the school.”
“Landis must have known who did it,” you point out.
“He said they wore masks. Maybe they did, but I always thought he was lying. I think he knew who it was, but what the hell. It wouldn’t have made his life any easier to finger them.” He adds caustically, “Nowadays, he’d have just come back with an automatic weapon.”
“Why did you assume it was somebody in the Chess Club? It sounds more like something a bunch of asshole jocks would do.”
“The Chess Club
was
a bunch of asshole jocks,” Mr. Atkins retorts. “Hersey was on the tennis team. So were you for that matter. Felicity, or whatever her name was, was the shining star of women’s softball. And Andrew Chin was a diver.”
You’re pretty sure that you now know who is behind Robert’s murder and the attempts to terrorize you, but Mr. Atkins shoots your theory down before it even leaves the airfield.
“The one with the — er — motive would be Landis. Right? Well Landis is dead. He died right after high school.”
So there goes that theory.
When you get home, Bruce has left a message wanting to get together with you AGAIN. Who knew you were so damned charming?
Detective Riordan has also left a message ordering — there’s that word again — you to call him pronto.
You call Riordan rather than Bruce, which almost certainly means something. It’s not even a choice because between Bruce and Riordan, there really isn’t a choice.
It turns out Riordan actually has been following up on the leads you gave him, and they are heading in a direction that even he finds unsettling. “Listen,” he tells you very quietly. “I don’t want you to overreact, but I think you may be…next.”
When you calm down enough that he can get a word in edgewise, he says, “It’s this frigging Chess Club thing. I spent the last forty-eight hours checking into it.”
“And?”
“They’re all dead.”
You stammer, “A-a-all of them? They’re
all
dead?”
“All but you, buddy boy.”
You share what you learned from Mr. Atkins. Riordan hears you out.
“Not too bad for an amateur, English. I’ll give you that. Now listen to me very carefully. I will take it from here. You keep your goddamned nose out of it. Is that clear? Do I make myself understood?”
“And how am I supposed to protect myself?” you ask, reasonably, it seems to you.
“By letting the police do their job.”
You’re a little testy on this point. “Twenty-four hours ago the police thought I was a hysterical faggot making this up, if not actually a murderer. Sorry if I don’t have a lot of faith in the p —”
He interrupts, “I said I was sorry. Okay? That’s a murder investigation. Feelings get hurt. Hell, why am I explaining?”
He keeps explaining though, and the gist of it is, everybody’s dead except you and he doesn’t have a suspect. By process of elimination, YOU remain the police’s favorite suspect.
Riordan’s plan, such as it is, is that he will continue to follow leads and investigate, and you will stop amateur sleuthing and try to avoid getting yourself killed.
It’s not much of a plan, but it’s more than you got.
So you spend the rest of the evening worrying uselessly and then Bruce calls to get together.
__________
If you choose to get together with Bruce, click here
If you choose to listen to Riordan and stay home, click here
If you’d like to take another look at the picture of Adrien and Jake at Ball and Chain, click here
Y
ou stare at Riordan for a long moment, and then, without speaking, you drag your turtleneck back on. You tell yourself you’re relieved. You are way out of your element and the whole sex club thing is just…awkward. But the fact is, you feel sort of let down. Disappointed. Very disappointed.
“Hey,” he says.
You look at him mutely.
“Another time.” His big hand closes on the back of your neck, drawing you in. He cups the base of your skull, tilting your mouth up. He kisses you with a deep and dizzying thoroughness. Not like earlier. Not like when he was sort of giving you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. This is very different. No one has ever kissed you like this, kissed you so hotly, so sweetly, so passionately. This is the kind of kiss they talk about in books. Well, not the books
you
read, because you read mysteries, and love — let alone sex — is a no-no in crime fiction, but you happen to know that in romance novels people kiss and the earth moves beneath their feet. Like now. You instinctively reach for Riordan because you honestly feel like the earth is slipping out from under you.
How does someone learn to kiss like that?
A
lot
of practice.
Or maybe he plays the clarinet.
At last Riordan releases you. You stagger back and he steadies you, warm hands resting on your shoulders. He’s smiling. It’s a knowing kind of smile. He knows exactly what that kiss does to people. That smugness is a wake-up call.
You say, with only a touch of breathlessness, “Right. Well…see you around.”
His eyes narrow.
You reach behind you for the door and step out into the hall. The door swings shut, closing off your last glimpse of Riordan. He’s frowning.
All around you guys are giving or getting blow jobs. Right here, in this drafty, gloomy hallway that looks like it hasn’t been properly mopped since…since the last time the Bacchanalia held their quarterly shareholders meeting. Nothing like a little public sex to break the magic spell. There but for the grace of God…
You return to the main floor of the club and look for Claude.
He’s nowhere to be found.
You try calling him on your cell phone, but he doesn’t pick up.
Finally you notice Riordan has also returned to the main room and is zeroing in on a slender, red-haired man about your own age. You definitely don’t want to be around to watch that merger go through.
You head for the main entrance and as you exit, a fire alarm goes off.
People start piling out of the club, and you spot Claude. He is holding his embroidered leather pants up with one hand and holding his keys with the other.
“Why didn’t you answer your phone? Where have you been?” you demand.
“The same place as you,” he pants.
“I don’t think so!”
“Not the same
pants
,” he says. “The same place. The Members Only part of the club.”
“Wait a minute. Are you telling me you’re a member?”
“Did I say that?”
“Are you telling me that skinny little twink —?”
Claude grabs you, turning you toward the parking lot. “Will you let it go? Let’s get out of here.”
You run for the parking lot, jostling shoulders with the people running around you. “I thought we were supposed to be investigating Robert’s murder?” you continue to bitch. “You just brought me here so you could get laid.”
“I brought you here so
you
could get laid,” Claude retorts. “I’ve never seen anyone who needs to get laid more than you,
ma belle
.”
There should be a special ring in hell reserved for helpful friends.
Claude drives you home and you wish him sweet dreams. Surely there’s some country where that gesture means “sweet dreams”? I mean, if the peace sign can also mean V for Victory…
Anyway, you bid Claude a fond adieu and head upstairs to get plastered. You’re on your third brandy when the downstairs buzzer rings.
You’re not expecting anyone.
The memory of Rob’s gruesome death rises spectral-like before you.
Warily, you sneak downstairs, not turning on the shop lights, and peer outside.
Moonlight — er, no — streetlight illumines the pale hair and flinty profile of Detective Riordan. His dark gaze probes past the glass door and security gate, though it’s doubtful you’re more than a shadow in the dim interior. He rings the buzzer again.
The sound is jarringly loud in the silent building.
Is this how Robert met his fate? You’d have to be crazy to open the door to Riordan. You know for sure now he’s a suspect in Robert’s murder, right?
Of course, so are you.
You continue to watch him. He’s wearing a black leather coat over his leather jeans. Is he still bare-chested beneath that coat? Does he still have that belt with the studs on? Aren’t police officers always supposed to be armed? Where the hell would he hide a gun in that outfit?
As you stand there weighing the pros and cons, he reaches up and gives the back of his neck a squeeze like his muscles are tight or he’s nervous.
The gesture disarms you.
__________
If you choose to let Riordan in, click here
If you choose to sneak up the stairs and pretend you never heard the buzzer, click here
If you can’t quite decide, click here
Y
ou order Chinese takeout and then you take another look at that yearbook of Rob’s. It occurs to you that you do know someone who was around at that time. Tara. You phone her and ask her what happened with the Chess Club. She refers you to Mr. Atkins, the sponsor of the club.
You arrange to meet with Mr. Atkins the following afternoon.
Detective Riordan calls. “We just got the paperwork from Buffalo PD. Richard Corday died from injuries sustained falling twelve stories onto a cement pool yard.”
You are almost afraid to ask. “Was it suicide?”
“It was a suspicious death.”
“Was there a chess piece anywhere?”
“One chess piece. A queen.”
So…that’s pretty conclusive, right? But Riordan seems to think there’s still more investigating ahead. And, of course, it’s true that your suspect has no name or face.
Riordan also says that Tara was in Los Angeles around the time of Robert’s death, which you didn’t know. Of course, if Robert is the victim of a serial killer, that lets Tara out.
After Riordan hangs up, you watch a little TV. A local channel is running a late night marathon of an old British cop show called
The Professionals
.
You watch a couple of episodes, then you turn the TV off, brush your teeth and go to bed. You dream you’re driving around Los Angeles in a gold Capri while being chased by terrorists. The terrorists all have wax vampire fangs like the ones you used to be able to get for Halloween. (Maybe you can still get them, but it’s a long time since you’ve gone trick or treating.)
Anyway, the terrorists hurl death threats at you, but the fear factor is significantly undermined by the fact that they have to keep sucking up their drool thanks to the wax teeth.