call when he got back. Mildly pissed, I left.
I wasn’t particularly hungry, but when I got to my building I deliberately took the time to go to the café in the lobby and order a Denver omelet and coffee, which I took my own sweet time eating. Then I stopped to pick up the paper from the newsstand. When I got into the office and checked my messages, there was nothing from Anderson.
I didn’t know the guy well enough to tell if this was standard operating procedure for him, but I rather doubted it. Something must have come up, although if he’d just gotten into town the night before, there wasn’t really all that much time for anything to have distracted him. Oh, well.
I read the paper and started to do the crossword puzzle, but my heart wasn’t in it. I called the Montero and asked them to ring Mr. Anderson’s room. When they said there was no answer, I asked if he had picked up my message. He hadn’t.
Since I knew he was intending to set up interviews for his prospective managers, I couldn’t imagine he could just ignore the fact I had their résumés. I even toyed with the idea of trying to call Phil. He’d said he wasn’t intending to see Anderson Sunday night, but things might have changed.
Still, I couldn’t imagine them spending the night anywhere but in Anderson’s room. Very odd, indeed.
At 11:30, the phone rang. Finally! I thought. I let it ring twice then picked up.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
The voice was not Anderson’s.
“Dick, this is Mark Richman. Could you come down to headquarters right away?”
Mark Richman? What the hell did I do now? I wondered.
Mark Richman was Lieutenant Mark Richman of the City Police Department, a nice guy I’d worked with before. But I’d been on his—and the department’s—shit list for a while.
“Sure,” I said. “I’m expecting a client to call any minute, though. Could you tell me what this is about?”
“Stuart Anderson,” he said.
Shit!
“I’ll be right there.”
I considered possible scenarios all the way to the City Building. Anderson had been busted trying to pick up an undercover cop posing as a hustler. Or, worse, he and Phil had gotten busted together. I wished I’d taken the time to call Phil before I left the office. Third possibility, they’d busted the whole ModelMen Agency, and Anderson had been caught up in it.
But if any of those things had happened, why wouldn’t Anderson, or Phil, just have called me directly from jail? What was Richman doing in all this?
I parked in the underground garage beneath Warman Park and walked the two blocks to the Police Annex of the City Building. Wending my way through the sea of blue uniforms that always washed back and forth in the lobby, I went directly to the elevators and up to Richman’s floor. I’d not so much as talked with him since my little falling out with the department and had no idea of the kind of reception I might expect. Too late to worry about that now, I thought as I knocked on the door with M. Richman written in black letters on the opaque glass section at the top.
“Come,” Richman’s voice commanded.
Taking a deep breath, I turned the knob and entered.
“Dick,” he said, his face expressionless as he got out of his chair to shake hands.
“Lieutenant,” I replied, hopefully with a matching lack of expression and reaching across his desk to take his extended hand. A very quick shake-release, and he motioned me to the nearest chair.
“You were at the Montero this morning looking for Stuart Anderson?” he asked.
The question took me aback.
“Yes, I was. Why?”
“What was your business with Mr. Anderson?”
Come on, Richman, what are you getting at?
“He hired me to check out some prospective managers for his new stores here in town,” I said. “I was bringing him my report, as he’d asked me to. Is—”
“Your clients are all gay, aren’t they?” As was usual when we talked, he never took his eyes off me.
Whoa, there,
I wasn’t particularly hungry, but when I got to my building I deliberately took the time to go to the café in the lobby and order a Denver omelet and coffee, which I took my own sweet time eating. Then I stopped to pick up the paper from the newsstand. When I got into the office and checked my messages, there was nothing from Anderson.
I didn’t know the guy well enough to tell if this was standard operating procedure for him, but I rather doubted it. Something must have come up, although if he’d just gotten into town the night before, there wasn’t really all that much time for anything to have distracted him. Oh, well.
I read the paper and started to do the crossword puzzle, but my heart wasn’t in it. I called the Montero and asked them to ring Mr. Anderson’s room. When they said there was no answer, I asked if he had picked up my message. He hadn’t.
Since I knew he was intending to set up interviews for his prospective managers, I couldn’t imagine he could just ignore the fact I had their résumés. I even toyed with the idea of trying to call Phil. He’d said he wasn’t intending to see Anderson Sunday night, but things might have changed.
Still, I couldn’t imagine them spending the night anywhere but in Anderson’s room. Very odd, indeed.
At 11:30, the phone rang. Finally! I thought. I let it ring twice then picked up.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
The voice was not Anderson’s.
“Dick, this is Mark Richman. Could you come down to headquarters right away?”
Mark Richman? What the hell did I do now? I wondered.
Mark Richman was Lieutenant Mark Richman of the City Police Department, a nice guy I’d worked with before. But I’d been on his—and the department’s—shit list for a while.
“Sure,” I said. “I’m expecting a client to call any minute, though. Could you tell me what this is about?”
“Stuart Anderson,” he said.
Shit!
“I’ll be right there.”
I considered possible scenarios all the way to the City Building. Anderson had been busted trying to pick up an undercover cop posing as a hustler. Or, worse, he and Phil had gotten busted together. I wished I’d taken the time to call Phil before I left the office. Third possibility, they’d busted the whole ModelMen Agency, and Anderson had been caught up in it.
But if any of those things had happened, why wouldn’t Anderson, or Phil, just have called me directly from jail? What was Richman doing in all this?
I parked in the underground garage beneath Warman Park and walked the two blocks to the Police Annex of the City Building. Wending my way through the sea of blue uniforms that always washed back and forth in the lobby, I went directly to the elevators and up to Richman’s floor. I’d not so much as talked with him since my little falling out with the department and had no idea of the kind of reception I might expect. Too late to worry about that now, I thought as I knocked on the door with M. Richman written in black letters on the opaque glass section at the top.
“Come,” Richman’s voice commanded.
Taking a deep breath, I turned the knob and entered.
“Dick,” he said, his face expressionless as he got out of his chair to shake hands.
“Lieutenant,” I replied, hopefully with a matching lack of expression and reaching across his desk to take his extended hand. A very quick shake-release, and he motioned me to the nearest chair.
“You were at the Montero this morning looking for Stuart Anderson?” he asked.
The question took me aback.
“Yes, I was. Why?”
“What was your business with Mr. Anderson?”
Come on, Richman, what are you getting at?
“He hired me to check out some prospective managers for his new stores here in town,” I said. “I was bringing him my report, as he’d asked me to. Is—”
“Your clients are all gay, aren’t they?” As was usual when we talked, he never took his eyes off me.
Whoa, there,
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