On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard. Страница 15

"Top o' the mornin', Lieutenant. A grand day, isn't it? Be right with you."

I finished up my last phone call—still no luck—and joined the surly assemblage at the kitchen table. Dot hadn't slept well and was red-eyed and shaky. McWhirter, Timmy, and I hadn't slept at all and were beginning to feel the effects of the heat, which was coming back fast. Bowman, who most likely had slept nicely in an air-conditioned lair in Delmar, did his characteristic best to stimulate the conversation.

"So, who's the alleged missing person? This Greco's the little guy I saw hanging around out here yesterday? He's your roommate, Mr. McWhirter?"

"Peter Greco is my lover," McWhirter said in a clenched voice. "Peter Greco has been my friend and lover for nine years. Yes."

"Oh, is that a fact? Uh-huh." Taking his time, Bowman carefully printed something out in his notebook. We sat watching him. Dot picked up her coffee cup, which rattled in its saucer.

"And what is the subject's home address?" Bowman asked next.

"Four-fifty-five Castro," McWhirter said evenly. "San Francisco, California."

Bowman's eyebrows went up, as if he were already onto something. I leaned over far enough to see him write down "455 Fidel Castro St.—Frisco."

"Now then," he said. "Before I drove out here I checked the police blotter and the hospitals and found no record of your roommate's having run afoul of the law or

having met with an accident." In fact, I'd run the same checks and come up with the same result. "So, tell me," Bowman said. "What gives you the idea that your friend is 'missing'? What went on last night, Mr. McWhirter, that put this notion in your head?"

McWhirter shot a look at Dot, who sat rigid and grim-faced. Timmy, witnessing for the first time the storied Ned Bowman in action, was taking it all in with a look of slightly crazed fascination. I got up and exchanged my coffee for a glass of iced tea, which I briefly considered pouring over my head, or Bowman's.

As McWhirter described the events of the night before, Bowman took notes. He interrupted once to mention that he had seen McWhirter on the six o'clock news. "Good luck with your strike, Mr. McWhirter," he said blandly. "Me, I'm an old union man myself." He glanced over at me, poker-faced, so I could see what he was thinking: This fruit McWhirter's a real laugh and a half.

"... and Peter always lets me know where he's going to be," McWhirter nervously concluded. "And he would never just leave the car like that. I'm really afraid something's happened to him," he said, shaking his head in frustration. "A lot of people don't like us—don't like me. I've been threatened hundreds of times . . . and people know . . . they know how much Peter means to me, how much I mean to him, and—." His voice broke and he turned away, blinking, unable to speak.

Bowman screwed up his face, unsettled by this display of emotion one man could show for another. He stayed quiet for a moment and looked thoughtful. Maybe he'd seen this before. Or maybe he himself had felt something akin to what McWhirter was feeling, once a very long time ago, and had strangled the sensation at birth. Whatever his possibly useful thoughts, he rid himself of them soon enough.

He said, "Mr. McWhirter, has your friend ever gone

off with another man? Just for a little fling? Know what I mean? Doesn't he do that every once in a while?"

I let my peripheral vision take in Timmy for a few seconds. His cheek twitched accusingly, but he didn't look my way. Dot harrumphed and did look my way. I shrugged. McWhirter slowly turned toward Bowman, and when I saw his murderous look I glanced around to make sure there was no lethal object within his reach.

Through clenched teeth, McWhirter said, "You would assume that, wouldn't you?"

"Well," Bowman said, unfazed by McWhirter's anger, which Bowman apparently took to be routinely defensive, "I think you have to admit that a lot of your people can't seem to help being . . . promiscuous." He glanced at Dot. "I hope you'll pardon my language, Mrs. Fisher."

I sneered at Bowman but avoided looking at Timmy.

"That's quite all right, Lieutenant," Dot said. "You may say 'promiscuous' in this house. If that's the word you consider to be appropriate."

She gave me a little half-wink, which meant "Just don't say 'rotgut.'"

McWhirter, not easily amused under the best of circumstances, was seething, just barely under control. When Timmy and I arrived at five-thirty, McWhirter had been frantic, unable to stop talking or to stand still, demanding that a posse be organized, the National Guard called up. Then, following a sudden violent outburst of anger at Greco for having let something happen to himself and "fucking up everything," McWhirter had plunged into a desperate sulk, which lasted for an hour or so, during which he simply sat and stared. Now the rage was back, but with a new target.

"You pathetic ignoramus!" he hissed. "You know nothing about Peter. You know nothing about me. Your bigoted head is so full of homophobic stereotypes and ..."

McWhirter made a speech. The gist of it was that gay ways of living were as varied as straight ways of living. Except, he pointed out, those gay men and women who were "sexually active"—a group that no longer included himself and Greco, he emphasized—were more relaxed and open and "joyously fulfilled" about it than were straight people who lived the same way. This was hardly the whole truth, or even half of it. But it didn't much matter that McWhirter was fiddling the facts, because Bowman, tapping his pen on the table and whistling under his breath, wasn't listening anyway.

When McWhirter concluded with a rude suggestion as to what Bowman could do with his "outmoded, mind-slave, cop-think attitudes," Bowman glanced coolly at his watch and said, "I'm due at the first tee at Spruce Valley at noon, Mr. McWhirter. If you provide me with a photo of your roommate, I'll see that the subject is listed as a missing person first thing Monday morning."

McWhirter stood up abruptly and charged out of the room. Ignoring him, Bowman turned to Dot. "I'm glad to see that you're getting along nicely, Mrs. Fisher, and haven't been troubled by any more vandalism problems or threats. If you want a patrolman to come by periodically during the night to check out your property, just let us know. And believe me, we're going to utilize every resource at our disposal to make an arrest in this case. I'll have a man out here Monday morning to check out the neighbors, and if you don't feel safe in the meantime, it might be a good idea to stay over for a couple of days with a relative or friend. I wouldn't take the threats too seriously, though. It's most likely kids or harmless kooks, and you've gotta roll with it till either it stops or the department makes an arrest."

He closed his notebook, stood up, and playfully waggled a finger at me. "I'd say you're plenty safe with this

guy on the job," he said, grinning. "Strachey's got clout now. I hear you're on Crane Trefusis's payroll these days, Strachey. I wouldn't mind a little piece of that action myself. How about putting in a good word for an old cop next time you run into Crane?"

"You wouldn't be comfortable at the new Millpond, Ned. Crane's turned into a gay libber. That's why he hired me."

"Is that a fact? Crane's tastes sure have changed all of a sudden. The word I hear is, Trefusis is spending a lot of time out at the Heritage Village apartment of that long-legged Miz Compton who parks herself outside his office door, while Mrs. Trefusis is up to Saratoga playing the ponies and taking the waters. But you never know, you never know."