Innuendo
by
R. D. ZIMMERMAN


PUBLISHED BY

DELACORTE PRESS

Random House, Inc.

1540 Broadway New York, New York 10036

This novel is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Book design by Donna Sinisgalli Copyright 1999 by R.D. Zimmerman

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher,
except where permitted by law.

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc."  and
the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Zimmerman, R.D. (Robert Dingwall) Innuendo / by R.D. Zimmerman.

p. em.

ISBN 0-385-32377-8

I. Title.

PS3576.I511815 1999

813'.  54--dc21 99-31966

CIP

Manufactured in the United States of America Published simultaneously
in Canada

November 1999 13579 10 8642

For Leslie Schnur, for making this series possible

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to the usual suspects, including investigative reporter
Gail Plewacki, producer Cara King, Sergeant Rob Alien, Dr.  Don Houge,
Gail and Betsy Leondar-Wright, Ellen Hart, Katie, and Lars.  Special
thanks as well to Rick Nelson for the inspiration and to Tom Spain for
the green light.

In the last minutes of his young life, Andrew had never known such
bliss.

His eyes covered with a thin black blindfold, he blindly kissed his
lover just when they were at their peak.  Right there, right at the
height of their pleasure, the very one the two men had been humping and
groping toward for close to forty minutes, Andrew's mouth locked onto
the other man's, sucking, biting, doing everything and anything but
letting go.  With his eyes covered from the very start, Andrew had no
idea what his carnal partner actually looked like, yet he clung to the
gorgeous body as if his life depended upon it.

But soon, of course, it was over.  They spent themselves within seconds
of each other, and then as Andrew lay there reveling in the dreamy
afterglow, he wondered if this mysterious guy was it, his Mr.
Wonderful.  Unable to bear the curiosity, he broke the one cardinal
rule, pushing the blindfold up on his forehead and staring right into
the eyes of the stunning man who'd just taken him to the stars and
back.

"Oh, my God," muttered Andrew in total shock.

"You dumb little shit," snapped the other.  "You shouldn't have done
that, you really shouldn't have."

Well, thought Todd, looking down at the mass of newspaper clippings
and articles spread on his dining room table, what if it was true? What
if one of the biggest stars in America, one of the most famous actors
in the world, was really gay?  And what if Todd, an investigative
reporter for WLAK, actually got an interview with Tim Chase, who was in
Minneapolis shooting a film?  How would Todd approach it, what angle
would he take?

Raising his head, Todd stared out the balcony doors of his condo.  An
interview with Tim Chase was, to put it mildly, a long shot, but if by
chance Todd got it, he'd have to handle it with the utmost care.  After
all, it was only a year or so ago that Chase had sued one of the
supermarket tabloids over a headline that read "Mean Queen Chase Denies
7 Year Gay Romance & Buries Boyfriend in Poverty."  And he'd won too.
Big-time.  While the tabloid had sold completely out of that issue, the
story had eventually cost the journal $8.5 million, a sum that Tim
Chase's spokesperson said, "..  . clearly vindicated Chase's
sexuality."  Todd still shuddered at the homophobia permeating that
quote.

A shrill ring broke his thoughts, and he quickly reached for the
cordless phone lying atop the glass table.

As if it weren't late evening and he weren't at home but still at work,
he said, "Todd Mills."

"It's me."

"Hey, you."

Todd glanced at his watch, saw that it was just after nine, which

meant that Steve Rawlins, Todd's lover, had less than ninety minutes
to go on middle watch.  With any luck, Minneapolis would remain
murder-free at least until ten-thirty, when Rawlins's shift on Car
1110, which was manned twenty-four hours a day by homicide
investigators, was over.

"I wish you'd come home so I'd stop working," said Todd.

"Well," began Rawlins in that deep, buttery voice, "that's why I'm
calling.  Something just came up."

"Don't say that."

"Unfortunately, it's all over the police bands.  You haven't heard
anything yet, huh?"

"No."

But Todd was sure he would any minute.  If it was all over the police
bands, the tip callers--any variety of nerdy informants who sat by
their radios--would be calling WLAK and every other station in town
with the hot information.  Which meant that it would not only be a late
night for Rawlins, who would automatically be assigned the case, but
for Todd as well.  No doubt about it, Todd was going to have to
scramble like hell just to keep up with the competition.

"I'm guessing I won't be home until very late, if at all," Rawlins
said.

"That doesn't sound good--what happened?"

"Foster and I are on our way there now--I'm calling from his car.  All
I know is that some kid's gone and got his throat slit."

"Oh, God," replied Todd.  "Where?"

"Twenty-fifth and Bryant."

"Got a name?"

"Todd .. ."  muttered Rawlins, clearly irritated.

"Well, you know damn well I'm going to find out sooner or later."

Rawlins hesitated before saying, "No, I don't have a name yet.  All I
know is that it's a young white male."

Todd grabbed a pen and jotted down the address and bit of information,
knowing that no matter how hard he tried he wouldn't get anything more
out of Rawlins, for the collision of their careers was one

of the two most contentious issues between them.  The second, which
had only recently come up, was whether they should continue to have a
monogamous relationship or perhaps agree to an open one.

"I guess I'll be seeing you in a few minutes," said Todd.

"I guess."

They chatted a bit more, and then Todd hung up.  As was his habit, he
glanced again out the balcony doors at the dark sky over Lake Calhoun
and made a mental list of whom he had to call and what he had to do.
Next he went into full speed.

Some fifteen minutes later Todd was racing north on Lyndale, thinking
that, no, this wasn't like being an ambulance chaser, it was being an
ambulance chaser, this push, this desperate rush not simply to be the
best, but the first.  And not simply the Johnnyonthe-spot, but the one
with the most dramatic, the most real and gruesome of shots.

Glancing at his watch, Todd saw that it was twenty-five minutes until
the ten P.M. Yes, it could still happen.  Before leaving his condo,
Todd had called WLAK and requested an ENG truck, one of those boxy
vehicles equipped with tape decks, video monitors, and a microwave
mast.  He'd then phoned Bradley, his photographer, at home,
interrupting him and his wife in the middle of their favorite show. And
with any luck, Todd, Bradley, and the ENG technician would converge at
the scene of the crime, get all set up, and start broadcasting live
right at the top of the late news, WLAK's 10@10.  If things went
perfectly, too, Bradley would still be able to get some tape of that
all important shot, the one of the body as it was rolled away.  Then
again, who knew just when they'd be taking the body away.  The scene
was sure to be a madhouse, swarming with cops, the Bureau of
Investigation team, and the guys from homicide, namely Rawlins and his
partner, Neal Foster, who'd been on duty on Car 1110 since three that
afternoon.  So it could be hours, perhaps as long as two, even three,
before the medical examiner rolled out the victim.

Driving his new Jeep Grand Cherokee, his old one having been smashed in
a tornado that past summer, Todd took a deep breath.

Brace yourself, he told himself.  Who knew if this would be a great
story, but it definitely would be a late night.

In his early forties, Todd Mills was almost too old to be chasing
around like this, at least by television standards.  He was still in
great shape, no doubt about it, and his face, which was almost rugged
but definitely handsome with a small mouth and chin and eyes that were
much too soft, still attracted attention.  He had a full head of medium
brown hair, too, the importance of which could never be overlooked in
television.  But this was a young person's job, and at some point in
the not so distant future he was either going to have to make the leap
to an anchor position, in which case he'd be one of only two or three
openly gay anchors in the country, or he'd have to retreat, per se, to
the position of a producer.  And if he stayed in the area, Todd was
betting on the latter.  As liberal and open-minded as Minnesota liked
to believe it was, there was only so far, Todd had come to feel, things
could be pushed.  In other words, he was highly skeptical that viewers
would knowingly tolerate a homosexual every night in their homes, let
alone see an openly gay anchor as a pillar of honesty and trust.  And
if even a handful of viewers objected to a gay anchor, that would be
one too many for management, which could only be described as
skittish.

His truck hit a pothole, of which there were so many these days,
particularly on Lyndale, an old street pocked with time, and the entire
vehicle rattled.  His fingers tightened on the wheel, and his mind
skipped back to the official request he'd submitted to Tim Chase's
publicity people just last week.  What he wanted to find out, of
course, was if what he'd heard about Chase was really true.  He
couldn't deny he'd been all but obsessed since he'd heard the story
several months ago and particularly now that Chase was in town.  Todd
had heard lots of gossip about famous people from friends of friends
who knew someone whose uncle was in the movie business, but this was as
direct as he would ever get.  Marcia, an old college pal, had called
Todd up not even two hours after she'd heard it directly from John
Vox.

"Oh, my God, Todd, you're not going to believe this!"  she'd
exclaimed.

While Marcia had appeared in a couple of commercials, she'd never made
it literally beyond the role of a Skippy mom, and so she'd gone back to
school and gotten a degree in accounting.  However, John Vox, one of
her instructors from Northwestern, had eventually left the university
and been "discovered," becoming not one of the big stars, but
establishing himself as a quality actor known for his wide range.  Now
in his mid-fifties, his blond hair gone gray, his cherubic face
interestingly lined with time, he was in recent years becoming
America's favorite bad guy, playing every part from conniving con man
to corrupt congressman.  And just a few months ago when he was in
Chicago playing some loan shark in a film based on an Elmore Leonard
book, Marcia and he had had lunch at the Ambassador Hotel's Pump Room.
They talked about it all, Marcia's life in the corporate world, her
divorce, and eventually John's films, including one that he'd done a
couple of years ago playing an evil traitor opposite none other than
America's favorite, Tim Chase.

"You know, John, I'm sorry, but I gotta ask you this," said Marcia,
leaning across the table.  "I mean, I know he's married to Gwen Owens,
and, my God, she's sooo beautiful and such a talented actress.  And I
know they have a little boy.  But I've heard this rumor--and of course
there was that big lawsuit when he sued some magazine or something--so
you gotta tell me, is Tim Chase gay or isn't he?"

The way Marcia told the story, John Vox covered his mouth with his fine
white napkin, leaned back his head, and roared with laughter.

"Well," demanded Marcia, unable to bear it, "is he or isn't he?"

"Let me tell you," Vox finally said, his face all red, "Tim is a great
guy.  And a real pro, too.  I mean, he's one of the finest actors
around because he wants to do it right, get it right.  He's very
smart--always picks good scripts.  And his wife, Gwen Owens, was a
wonder--she brought their son and spent a week on the set.  And make no
bones about it, they are devoted parents."

"So, get to the dirt, already, alright!"

"Well..  ."

"Well?!"

"Tim had a lover, a very nice guy, very handsome, who lived with him
right in his trailer."

"You're kidding!"

"No.  And everyone knew it, from the gaffer on up."

"But what about..  . what about Gwen Owens?  Did she know?"

"Actually, things did get a little messy.  I can't quite remember the
sequence of events, whether she flew over and then Tim and this guy,
Rob, had a huge fight, or ... or they had the fight first and then Gwen
came.  I don't know.  But Rob was there, all over Tim, for about two
thirds of the time we were shooting in Europe."

All of that was whisked out of mind when Todd turned a corner and saw
an orchard of cherry lights throbbing in the late-September night.
Parked this way and that, cop cars and an ambulance filled the narrow
street, a deja vu image of autumnal pandemonium that conjured up the
darkest time of his own life.

Quickly scanning the area, Todd noted a boxy electronic news gathering
vehicle off to the side, which unfortunately wasn't theirs but WTCN's.
Great.  That meant not only that the competition had beat him to the
scene, but that his former coworker Cindy Wilson was probably lurking
somewhere.  Looking farther ahead, he saw a photographer with a WTCN
camera hurry across the street, and beyond him a crowd of gawkers.
Cindy, he guessed, was already worming her way to the body, going for
some grisly shot.

Driving at a crawl, Todd pulled in front of a thick old elm, parked,
and got out.  The night air was chilly and damp from a slight, early
evening rain, and Todd caught the gentle but distinct smell of smoke.
Yes, he thought, as he made his way across a mat of sodden elm leaves,
the lucky ones were home in front of the first fire of the season.

Wearing black jeans and a maroon shirt, black leather boots and a black
leather coat, Todd crossed the street and zeroed in on the vortex of
tonight's attention, a dark brick apartment building.  Three stories
tall, the structure was rectangular and squat, the kind that had been
built in this neighborhood, the Wedge, in the teens and twenties.
Studying the flurry surrounding the building, Todd noted the cops

slipping on latex gloves as they rushed through the front door, and
saw the dozens of people held at bay by a band of yellow police tape.
Spying a knoll in the park across the street, he thought that, yes,
that might be a good place to do the shoot.  It wouldn't be the
tightest angle, but they'd get the apartment building, the flurry of
flashing lights, the cops darting around, and, of course, the
tantalized crowd.  A great background indeed.

"Todd!"

He looked over, saw Bradley pushing through the crowd, his camera, a
large Betacam, held awkwardly under his arm.  A tall thin man with skin
as dark as the night, he had a small face, short hair, and now wore
khaki pants and a blue nylon jacket.

"What's up?  What happened?"  asked the photographer.

"I don't know anything more--I just got here too."

"Any sign of the ENG?"

"Not yet.  It'll probably be another five minutes or so.  I think they
sent Jeff," said Todd, referring to the technician who'd been assigned.
"Listen, I gotta try and find Rawlins, see what he can tell me."

"Sure."

"Why don't you get some footage--let's say fifteen seconds of cops, ten
of real estate.  And ten of the crowd out here."

"Sounds like a plan."

The band of yellow police tape had been set up at the sidewalk's edge,
and fifteen or twenty people stood crowded around, trying to see what
was going on.  Todd peered through them all, but Rawlins was not among
the cops out front.  Undoubtedly he was inside along with the B of I
guys, who were surely already going at it, documenting anything and
everything.

Coming up next to a guy with a shaved head and a pierced nose, Todd
asked, "What happened?"

"This guy got himself fuckin' killed."

"Really?  Who?"

"Our new caretaker, that's who."

"You live here?"

"Yeah.  And this guy--he just started a month ago, moved into the
basement apartment behind the laundry room.  Young guy too.  A kid."

"That's awful."

"No shit."

"What was it, drugs?"

He stared at Todd with angry eyes.  "How the fuck would I know?"

Todd shrugged.  "What was his name?"

"Fred Flintstone," he said, turning away.

It was a start, anyway, but if Todd was going to do a live story in a
few minutes, he was going to have to dig up a hell of a lot more
information.  Glancing to the side, he saw a small woman with big blond
hair, who was laughing and smiling and batting her eyes at a young cop
who looked like he'd eat right out of her hand.  It was Cindy Wilson.
Some things never changed.  Someone in plainclothes emerged from the
building and ducked to the side.  If there'd ever been such a thing as
a press badge, Todd wished he had it now.  Equipped with nothing more
than a business card, however, he knew there was no way he'd get past
the police barrier, and so he shouted out.

"Rawlins!"

Without lifting his head, Rawlins circled a birch tree and headed to
the distant end of the police tape.  Todd scooted out of the crowd and
around, staring the entire time at the other man.  Seeing Rawlins raise
one hand to his eyes, a tremor of worry rippled through Todd,

Hurrying up to him, Todd said, "What's going on?"

They stood with the yellow tape slowly rising and falling between them,
and at first Rawlins shrugged and said nothing.  Todd, however, could
see that the other man's eyes were red, which was odd because Rawlins
was more than used to this kind of thing.  Sure, Todd had held this
shorter, stockier guy as he sobbed over the death of a friend from AIDS
or when Rawlins, himself, had discovered that he was HIV-positive, but
he'd never seen him teary, not over murder.  This was business, his
business, and when it came to that, Rawlins was as butch as the next
investigator.

"What's up?  What's wrong?"

Rawlins bit his lip and looked away, obviously eager that the other
cops didn't see him.  More cute than he was handsome, he had dark hair
and a short dark mustache, not to mention those dark brown eyes, all of
which were usually lightened by a smile, broad and quick.  Long ago
he'd decided what he lacked in height he'd make up in beef, and so he
was broad-shouldered and stocky, a borderline muscle queen to be sure.
Tonight he wore blue jeans and a brown cotton jacket.

Finally he muttered, "Oh, fuck."

Todd reached across the tape, touched him gently on the elbow.  Jesus,
what had happened in there?  How horrible was it, and just how had the
purported young white male met his end?

He asked, "You been in?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

Rawlins wiped his eyes, said, "He ... he was just a kid."

"Who?"

"Wait a minute," said Rawlins, catching himself and remembering who was
who and just why they were both there.  "We haven't notified the family
yet, so this isn't for public consumption, okay?"

"Sure."

"I'm serious--you can't go on the air with this."

"Of course I won't."

"Well, then .. . oh, shit.  I can't believe this.  I mean, he--"

"Who?"

"Andrew--he was just seventeen."

At first the name rattled without an echo, but then Todd began to
remember that wonderfully charming grin, the toothy one.

"My God, you don't mean that kid down at the DQ, do you?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, shit."

The Domain of Queers, or the DQ, was the official youth center for, as
Todd called it, the corporation of queers: gay, lesbian, bisexual,
transgender, and the sexually questioning.  One of the few such centers
in the country, it was located in an old ballroom above a drugstore on
Franklin Avenue, and it operated both as a haven for runaways as well
as a center for fostering pride.  Todd and Rawlins had spoken there
twice, talking about the closet, which Todd knew far too well, and
about finding and developing a healthy relationship, which the two of
them were inching toward.  Getting still more involved, Rawlins had
joined the mentoring program.

"When I was a kid," Rawlins had ranted not long ago, "we didn't have
any heroes.  There was no one to look up to, no one to show that you
could be gay and happy.  And, you know what, it did zip for my sense of
self-worth.  I don't want to be invisible too."

Yes, Andrew was Rawlins's first men tee  Todd remembered the cute kid
and that engaging smile, a young man whose folks had kicked him off the
family farm when they found out he was gay.  Over the course of the
last two months Rawlins had taken the younger man out to lunch a few
times and had even given him a tour of the police department.

"Oh, my God, I can't believe it," Rawlins now said, his eyes beading
with tears as he looked back at the entrance of the building.  "He was
a smart kid too.  Really capable."

"I'm sorry."

"I ... I was trying to help him see that being out and being gay didn't
mean limiting what you could do.  He was even talking about going to
law school."  "You were good to him, Rawlins.  You were already making
a difference in his life."  "Evidently not enough."

"Don't start thinking like that," Todd softly said.  "There was nothing
you could have done."

"He was really proud of himself, proud of getting his own apartment and
everything."

"Someone out here said he was the caretaker."

"Yeah, he took care of a couple of buildings around here."  He took a
deep breath.  "Oh, my God.  Why?"

Why would anyone want to murder a nice, energetic kid who had a
productive, robust life ahead of him?

Todd said, "I don't know."

But he was wise enough to know that this would be a well of obsession
from which they would both drink for weeks if not months.  He just
hoped it wasn't a bottomless one, for the search for the truth was a
compulsion to them both, to Todd the investigative reporter as well as
to Rawlins the homicide investigator.  Just as a number of gay people
had become psychologists in an attempt to understand what made them
different, just as a number had become artists to explore their
individuality, so had Todd and Rawlins chosen fields where truth was
paramount.  That was what they had in common most of all.  No, actually
it was what they had in common more and more, because initially for
Todd his career had been all about image first, substance second.

Todd hated to ask.  Fearing the answer, fearing that it wasn't a simple
robbery or argument gone bad, he took a deep breath.

"What happened?"

"I haven't heard too much yet, but he's lying in bed with his throat
slit.  Chances are he picked up some guy and .. . and .. ."

Oh, shit, thought Todd, he didn't want to have to go on the air with
this.  "And they had sex?"

"Yep."

He knew what that meant.  And he knew how, in the greater scheme of
things, the reportage of this crime was doomed to go.  It wouldn't be
seen as an argument between friends gone horribly wrong.  Nor would it
be looked upon as someone killed by a lover.  No, by and large this
would be treated as it had been treated historically, an incident
between two deviants, who by their very nature were so twisted that of
course they couldn't help but kill.

"That means we have a gay murder on our hands."

Rawlins opened his mouth to confirm, then caught himself, remembering
the thin line that divided them, and said, "Is that what the media's
going to say?"

Clutching the green plastic bag in his right hand, the unseen man
crept through the dark and pushed through the thick lilac bushes.  He
trotted lightly over the first of the fall leaves as he made his way
right up to the wrought iron fence and peered through the bars.  On the
other side and across the lush green lawn stood the yellow brick house,
an enormous dwelling built in the 1890s for a lumber king who'd made a
fortune hacking down the northern woods and floating the timber down
the Mississippi.  Searching the property, he turned slowly, his eyes
following the front walk all the way to the gate that opened onto Mount
Curve Avenue, a twisting street lined with any number of old robber
baron mansions.  He couldn't be sure, but when he'd driven slowly up
Mount Curve, he thought he saw someone waiting in a car.  Whether it
was a fan, a stalker, or a photographer hoping for a shot, he couldn't
tell, but he most certainly had to be careful.

Even though it wasn't that cool, he wore gloves, lightweight brown
ones, and he tightened his grasp on the dark green plastic bag.  He
surveyed the house and its grounds one last time, then confident that
he couldn't be seen, reached out with his left hand and took hold of
one of the thick iron bars.  Not wasting a moment, he put his right
foot on a crossbar at the bottom, then started pushing and pulling
himself up.  In one quick swoop he was atop the iron fence, then
jumping down on the other side.  Landing on the soft ground, he hurried
forward and sank behind an hydrangea bush.  No, there was no way anyone
had seen him.  No way anyone would even suspect.

The house itself was one enormous rectangular box constructed of brick
and covered with a slate roof, a structure built like a palace and
meant to last the centuries.  The place was dotted with any number of
windows, all of which had their curtains pulled shut for privacy and
many of which now glowed with light.  The large piece of property,
covered with a glen of oaks that swayed like exotic dancers in the
light breeze, sloped downward from the street.  At the rear of the
house a basement-level room opened onto a terrace, and next to that
stood the garage, built sometime in the teens or twenties and, with the
Minnesota climate in mind, politely attached to the house.  He just had
to get there, just that far, just to the garage, and everything would
be fine.

From his hidden spot, he checked the street one last time and tried to
ascertain if they were up there, any of the dreaded paparazzi.  He
didn't doubt it, for they were always lurking around, hoping for that
one photo that would make them rich.  After the death of Princess Di
things had quieted down, but now they were back, hungrier and worse
than ever.  A picture of Tim Chase and Gwen Owens kissing and holding
hands wasn't even worth five grand, but a picture, say, of them
fighting might bring upward of twenty thousand.  And a shot of any star
in the nude or perhaps kissing someone other than his or her spouse
would bring dramatically more.  With prices like those it was no wonder
the photographers were as aggressive as they were.  Just two months ago
Gwen Owens herself had been nearly forced off a mountain road by three
swarming photographers on motorcycles.

Like the best of spies, he crouched over and darted across the lawn,
racing across the open space and right up to the edge of the house
itself.  Reaching several towering old arborvitaes, he paused behind
their evergreen branches.  Yes, so far so good.  He was, he knew, just
outside the living room window, and he listened but couldn't hear any
voices from inside.  That, however, didn't mean much because the six or
seven people living here could be anywhere in the huge place.  The kid
was probably upstairs with either Gwen or the nanny, the personal
trainer was perhaps either working out in the basement or was

up in his room, while the cook was, as usual at this hour, probably
watching the food network in perpetual search of new creations.

Moving along, he crept through the bushes planted along the foundation
of the house.  He passed beneath a series of high windows, then came to
the rear corner of the house.  Peering around the edge, he saw the lawn
fall away and then, below, caught sight of the old patio, which was now
submerged in darkness.  Not far beyond stood the garage.  From here,
even in the faint light, he could see the side door.  More eager than
ever to be rid of it, he clutched the plastic bag and felt the long,
menacing blade of the hunting knife within.  Yes, he thought, you've
almost made it.  You've nearly done it.

Knowing what he did about Andrew, knowing without question that he'd
most definitely been gay, Todd also knew that he had information no one
else did.  Which, in fact, was the ideal situation for any reporter to
find himself in.  Unfortunately, Todd was none the happier for it.

Once Rawlins had pulled himself together and returned to the small
apartment in the basement of the building, Todd studied his
competition, this circus of media activity zeroing in on the meat of
their business.  Cindy Wilson and her WTCN crew were claiming turf,
setting up equipment so that the apartment building door would be right
behind her.  Another ENG truck had arrived, this one from WMDW TV, the
third of the local affiliates.  And off to the side, Todd took note of
a reporter, a tall thin guy from Minnesota Public Radio, who was
speaking into a small digital cassette recorder slung from his
shoulder.

So in the space of about fifteen seconds, Todd realized that if he
broadcast live from here his coverage would be just like all the
others.  And that just wouldn't do when he possessed the opportunity to
do something different, which of course was the name of the game.

Much to his relief, he finally saw WLAK's big white ENG truck pulling
up and parking on 25th.  He then pulled his cell phone from his black
leather jacket and dialed the station, getting immediately through to
the assignment editor.

"Steve, it's me, Todd.  I'm here at this murder scene--along with every
other reporter in town.  It's kind of a zoo, but I think I've got a way
to come at this thing that's entirely different."

His was a deep voice that was no-nonsense, no-shit, just-get-to
the-point.  "So what do you want from me?"

"Another photographer--right away."

"Oh, come on, Todd, give me a break.  Do you know how short staffed we
are tonight?  Besides, you've already got Bradley, and he's the best.
Plus you got the ENG van.  That's more than plenty."

It was all about resources and the limit thereof, Todd knew that only
too well.  To get what he wanted, therefore, he knew he was going to
have to come at this one hard.  And big.

Keeping his voice low, he said, "Steve, like I said, this is a very hot
scene--and this is potentially a big, big story."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"Listen, I knew the guy who was murdered.  I met him a few times.  He
was only seventeen."  He paused not only for effect, but to make sure
no one else could overhear.  "And he was gay, which is why I want to do
the report from another scene."

There was only an instant of silence.  "Let me check this with
Craig."

Todd was parked on hold while Steve went to confer with the ten o'clock
producer.  It took all of five seconds.

"Okay, I'm sending Mark," said Steve.  "He's already on his way out the
door."

"Great."

"Just don't leave until he gets there."

"Of course not."

That was one thing you never did, leave a site like this unattended,
not at least until it was cleared.  It might be hours and hours before
the police left, but who knew what might happen during that time, and
so you sure as hell didn't want to miss any shots.  Or worse, leave
something for one of the other stations to get.

"So where are you going?"  asked Steve.

"I knew where this kid used to hang out.  I want to get some footage
from over there."

"Okay, so what do you want to do, a VOSOT?"

No, thought Todd.  A voice-over-sound-on-tape would require that at
least part of the sound--say, an interview--would be married to the
videotape.  But Todd couldn't guarantee that, not with so little time.
All that he could hope for was a simple voiceover.

"No, let's just do a VO."

"Sure."

Todd hung up, then searched the crowd for Bradley, finally spying him,
camera on his shoulder, as he photographed the crowd.  Todd wasted no
time in working his way over there.

"You got it all laid down?"  he asked.

"Yep, and then some," replied Bradley, who was sure to have gotten
extra footage.  "The cops, the crowd, the real estate--all just like
you asked."

"Great.  Let me take the tape over to the truck.  You stay here."  In a
low voice, he added, "We got another photographer on the way.  As soon
as he gets here, we're leaving."

"Just say when."

"Cover the front door in the meantime."

"You bet," replied Bradley, handing Todd the tape then loading
another.

Todd wound his way through the crowd, a growing group of gawkers who
were simultaneously stretching their necks and gossiping in whispers.
As he neared the street, he saw that the ENG truck's mast, a towering
pole with a microwave dish atop, was already fully raised.  Even though
they weren't all that terribly far from the Golden Valley station,
everything would have to be bounced off their downtown antennae.

Todd came to the rear of the truck and knocked once.  Jeff, the
technician, immediately opened the door.  A young guy with short red
hair and a pasty complexion, he had a mountain of energy, which was
usually what it took to get into this business.  And last more than a
few months.

"Hey, Todd."

"I want you to feed this back to the station right away.  We're going

to do a VO, so they're going to have to edit it.  I want fifteen of
cops, ten of real estate, and ten of the crowd."

"Sure, thirty-five seconds in all."

"Right, and as soon as you've sent that, I want you to pack up and go
to this address," said Todd, taking out a pen and paper and writing it
down.  "Park across the street so we get full angle.  And don't make
any big deal about getting out of here either.  Just do it as quickly
as you can.  We'll shoot live from there."

"Yep."

Todd turned back to the crowd, studied the scene, tried to get the
story rolling in his head.  Seeing a clump of neighbors gossiping, he
thought he should drift over there, see what they were talking about,
glean what they might know.

"Hey, Todd."

He turned to see an attractive woman with big blond hair and a big fake
smile.  She wore a puffy olive parka that made her slim body look all
the trimmer, gray pants, and black shoes.  Todd bristled immediately.

"Hi, Cindy."

Not so very long ago, during his days at WTCN, she'd worked for him.
For a while they'd attempted to be a team and even pretended to be
friendly.  But then, of course, Todd had been accused of murder and
she'd feasted on the story, hoping that Todd's demise would propel her
rise.  She had far less talent than she did ambition, though, and she
was still groping for that career-making story.

"What do you hear about this?"  she asked with a coaxing grin.

Todd shrugged.  "A young guy was killed, not much more."

"That cop over there--see the cute one with the light hair and
mustache?--he says they're already calling it a homocide.  That true?
Was he gay?"

Yes.  Yes, of course it was.  Some poor gay kid whose family kicked him
out because he was queer has ended up in some dump of a basement with
his throat slit.  But who in the hell had leaked

that?  Never mind, he thought just as quickly, for Cindy was a pro at
using that smile and that figure.  If she knew or even suspected,
however, did that mean it was going to be all over her report?  And
would she press the issue, using Andrew's sexuality to paint him the
deviant?

"That's news to me."

"Really?"  she said, studying his face, searching for the truth.  "Say,
I've been meaning to call you.  Arsenio Hall's coming to town next
month, and I'm going to do a piece on him.  Is he gay?  A friend of
mine said he was, said there were all these gay comedians--Louie
Anderson, Paula Poundstone.  In fact, my friend says all the men on
Frasier are gay except for Frasier himself.  What do you think, that
true too?"

The names of supposedly gay celebrities were continually flying --John
Travolta, Richard Gere, Tom Selleck, James Spader, Kevin Spacey, Mark
Harmon, Ellen DeGeneres, Rosie O'Donnell, Jodie Foster, Lily
Tomlin--some of them true, some of them not.  But as always, the media,
which had left in the closet such greats as Rock Hudson, Barbara
Stanwyck, Errol Flynn, Tab Hunter, Gary Grant, and Malcolm Forbes, was
shy of such things.

"Cindy, you're walking through land mine territory, you know.  You say
stuff like that on the air and you're liable to get your ass sued,
which actually would be just fine with me."

"Well, I just thought--"

"That they were guilty of something?"

"God, Todd, you're so touchy."

He didn't know why he said it, except of course that he remembered she
was a huge fan of his, and it just came blurting out: "You know what, I
heard that Tim Chase is definitely gay."

"Him?"  she said as if she'd been slapped.  "Dream on, Todd.  That
guy's so gorgeous--don't be ridiculous."

Behind him Todd heard the familiar sound of an electric motor humming
away.  He glanced over, saw the mast on their ENG truck

begin to lower.  Nope, he couldn't let her see that they were packing
it in.  No way in hell.

He turned back toward the apartment building, and said, "Hey, is that
the medical examiner?  Is he here already?"

"Where?"

"Up there.  I think he just came out of the building."

She was gone in a second, determined to miss nothing.

Relieved, Todd wandered over to a group of three or four people who he
assumed were neighbors, because, as if they had just dashed outside,
none of them wore jackets.  Without trying to be too obvious, he
slipped alongside them, tried to hear what they were saying.  His eyes,
of course, were elsewhere, on the building, on the cops gathered off to
one side.

And it was then that his gaze fell upon someone in particular, a tall,
thin young man.

Todd noticed him at first because he just stood there crying, his eyes
puffed and raw as tears came streaming unabashedly down his cheeks.
Crushing the yellow police tape in both hands, he stared at the front
of the door, his young, pale face transfixed with shock.  He had very
long light brown hair that he flicked back with a shake of his head,
and it was that movement, that toss of his silky mane, that made Todd
realize something.  Surely this kid wasn't even twenty, but somehow
Todd knew him, somewhere they'd met once or twice.  But when and
where?

Instinctively Todd started toward him, but just at that moment the kid
lifted the yellow tape and lunged toward the building.  The very next
moment a couple of cops shouted out and came running over.  Still the
young man didn't stop, hurrying forward one long step after another,
until the cops caught him and took him by the arms and pulled him back,
shoving him once again beneath and behind the police tape.  And as they
herded him back, the kid said nothing, did nothing to protest.  He only
stared with sodden eyes at the building.

Of course, realized Todd.  That's one of Andrew's friends.

Todd beefed it up, hurrying around one clump of gawkers, another.  He
ducked around a tree, saw the kid just standing there looking as if
he'd never move again.  But then the next instant the young guy was
gone.  Immediately Todd started both running and scanning, checking the
side of the building, the scattered clumps of people, and the various
media.  He looked toward the park, down the street, back toward the
building, but there was no lanky figure with fine, long hair hurrying
away.  Todd ran right to the spot where the kid had been standing and
crushing the police tape in his hand, turned from side to side.

Wait.

There he was, scurrying across the street, into the park.  Todd burst
forward.  And then someone caught him by the arm.

"Hey, Todd.  I'm here.  I made it."

It was Mark, the second photographer.  Todd glanced at him, then took
one last look across the street as the kid disappeared into the park
and the night.  Next Todd checked his watch.

Running one hand through his hair, Todd said, "We don't have much time,
do we?"

"No shit," laughed Mark.

The people on the technical side of things were always pretty macho, in
part because they were mostly guys who were proud of the heavy
equipment they lugged around.  Mark, holding his Betacam beneath his
arm like a large football, was no exception.  With a sort of stocky,
square body, he had hair that was cut into short bangs, while the back
was long, almost shoulder length.  It was the perfect Minnesota hockey
haircut, and Mark stood there chewing gum and grinning, ready to play
any game.  This was going to be close, and he loved it.

Todd said, "Just keep this place covered until we get back."

"You got it."

"Where the hell's Bradley?"

"Right over there."

Todd saw him and darted through the crowd.  He grabbed Bradley by the
arm, and the two of them made their way out of the crowd, around a few
cop cars, and toward his Jeep.

"Think we're going to make it?"  asked Bradley, a twinkle in his eye.

"Five bucks says we will."

"You're on."

They had less than three minutes, and Todd wondered if there was a
chance in hell.

Once inside the huge house, he stood there barely breathing.  But
there was nothing, no one, not as far as he could discern.

Carrying nothing, he proceeded up a half-dozen steps, entered a back
hall, then froze.  Just up ahead he heard running water, followed by
the dull but steady sound of something striking wood.  Following that,
he came to a doorway and peered into a huge kitchen.  Scanning the
room, he saw countertops of rare blue marble, an eight-burner range, a
separate high-powered wok, an enormous Sub-Zero refrigerator, and,
standing at a copper sink, a lone woman.  Wearing a baggy T-shirt and
blue jeans and with her light hair put up in a loose bun, she was
chopping vegetables on a cutting board.

He cleared his throat, and said, "Hi, Amy."

She gasped and spun around, her left hand on her chest, her right
clutching a small paring knife.

"Tim, oh, my God, it's you."  She took a deep breath.  "You scared
me."

"Sorry," said Tim Chase, one of Hollywood's top stars.  "Sometimes I
feel like I'm sneaking around my own house.  I mean, there's not one
but two photographers out front."

"It's awful."

"Yeah."  He nodded toward the pile of vegetables next to the sink.
"What are you making?"

"Oh," she said, turning back to her work and collecting her thoughts.
"Just finishing up some broth for tomorrow.  I'm going to

poach some fish--that Hawaiian fisherman I use is Fed-Exing me some on
aga and ahi he caught this afternoon.  Isn't the world a wonder?  He
caught it at four this afternoon and it'll be here in fly over land by
ten tomorrow morning."

"I'm sure it'll be great."

"Are you hungry?  Can I get you anything to eat?"

"Nope, I'm all set, thanks."  He glanced at the wall clock, saw that it
was just about ten.  "Where is everyone?"

"I'm not sure where Vie is--I think he just went up to his room.
Charlie's downstairs watching a movie."

Vie was Tim's main bodyguard, a skilled professional who traveled with
him and who organized security whenever Tim appeared publicly.  Charlie
was the number two guy, not only Tim's personal trainer, but also in
charge of household security; he was hired a year ago after Gwen and
Tim started having trouble with a stalker.

"I think Maggie and Gwen are upstairs."

"Thanks."  He grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter and started
out.  "If you see Vie, tell him I need to talk to him."

"Sure."  A moment later she called, "Breakfast at five again
tomorrow?"

"Yep.  Gotta be on the set at six."

He passed through the pantry, a long room with shelves of dishes and
two dishwashers, then entered the dining room with its tall ceiling and
mahogany paneling.  Next he stepped into the entry hall, an enormous
space nearly twenty feet wide and some thirty feet long.  It was
ridiculously big, this place, much more than they needed, with an
indoor pool and ten bedrooms, but the producers had just wanted to make
sure Tim and his entourage were happy.  And the owner, the top
saleswoman for a cosmetics company who'd totally rehabed the place just
several years ago and who was now off in the Aegean, had been only too
eager to lease it for fifty thousand for ten weeks.

Tim just hoped to hell it wasn't a mistake coming to the Midwest and
doing this film.

With a face that was too often described as all-American, rich

brown hair, a lean, hard body, and a smile that could light up any
room, not to mention any screen, Tim Chase was everyone's heartthrob.
By everyone's count, he was one of a few truly bankable stars whose
name alone--like Harrison Ford, Julia Roberts, Tom Cruise, and Mel
Gibson--could open a movie.  But his successful fare had always been
action heroes--an underdog soccer player in one film, a DBA agent in
another, a diplomat in one of his latest.  Yet here he was in
Minneapolis shooting The Good Heart, the story of a gay man who watches
not only his lover die from AIDS but his conservative, judgmental
father, from whom he has been estranged for over ten years.  It was the
riskiest of roles for him, there was no doubt about it, and his agent
and manager had deeply questioned whether he should play the role of a
gay man.

"Fuck it," he had told them all.  "This is an Oscar-winning role if
I've ever seen one.  Besides, it's a story that should be told."

"But, Tim," whined Jed, his agent, "you know I'm as queer as a three
dollar bill, and I'm not sure this is good for you.  What about all
your fans, what about your sex appeal?  You're one of the four or five
most valuable franchises in Hollywood.  This is not good, this is not
wise.  All those girls in middle America are not going to be cool with
this."

"I'm married, Jed.  I have a kid.  Everyone knows that."

"Yeah, but, Tim, you do this and the rumors are going to start flying
again.  Trust me, the tabloids are going to have a heyday."

"Don't you see, Jed?  My fans aren't going to think I'm gay because I'm
playing a gay part.  If anything, this is going to make them think I'm
straight..  . and kind of gutsy.  And when they're bawling their eyes
out at the end of the film, they're going to love, love, love me all
the more."

"It's your career, pal."

"Hey, don't forget how great Tom Hanks was in a role like
this-Philadelphia was a terrific flick."

"Yeah, but..  ."

But maybe he was right, Tim now thought.  Maybe it wasn't going

to work.  Maybe America couldn't handle Tim Chase in anything but the
role of the charming hunk next door.  Over the years and with the
advice of many, from his mother to his agent to numerous studios, heads
to the most expensive public relations firm in the country, Tim Chase's
career had been carefully carved and molded.  And the secret of his
appeal was no secret, but simply its breadth.  Guys loved him for his
virility, while women of every age loved him for his blatantly charming
and sweet sex appeal.  Tim knew and knew well that it was a numbers
game, that his superstar success was due, of course, to his mass
appeal.

But don't worry, he told himself as he reached the imposing staircase.
It's going to be okay.  Everything's going well--great script, great
director, great cast.

Grabbing onto the carved newel post, he bounded up, taking the steps
two at a time.  As he neared the top, he heard the large and
unmistakable voice of Jack, who wasn't quite three, piercing the quiet
of the house.  Of course the kid shouldn't be up this late, but Tim
smiled anyway.  Gwen and Jack, along with Maggie, officially the nanny,
had arrived just yesterday, and Tim was more than glad for it.  This
house had been much too big, much too quiet without them.

Stepping into the middle bedroom, the one at the front of the house and
over the front door, he found them all, mother, nanny, and child,
sitting on the floor, a veritable riot of multicolored Duplos scattered
all around them.

With a big smile, Tim asked, "Hey, is this a party or what?"

"Daddy!"  shouted the kid, jumping to his feet and running over.

Tim scooped him up, taking the tiny kid with the angelic face into his
arms and kissing him on the cheek.  His son, Tim swore, was not only
the best thing that had ever happened to him, but was the most gorgeous
child in the universe.  Blue eyes radiated from his round face, and his
dark hair was thick and rich.  Nothing, absolutely nothing, gave Tim
Chase the same thrill--not Academy Award, not rave review, not legions
of adoring fans--as did this boy.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're here now," said Tim, snuggling Jack and
kissing him.  "It was so lonely without you.  But what are you still
doing up, Jack?  Don't you know that all the other little boys in the
world are already asleep?  Don't you know how late it is?"

He put a finger to his mouth and shook his head.  "Noon?"

"Noon?  Noon?  You think it's that early?"

"Yeah, it's noon!"

Gwen, wearing a long cotton nightgown with a floral print, pushed
herself up from the floor.  "What he thinks is that it's two hours
earlier than it really is.  In other words, the little charmer's not
quite used to the time change yet."

"Ohhhh."  Tim kissed his son again.  "Listen, Jack, you know you're my
favorite son, don't you?"

He nodded quickly, having heard that line any number of times.

"Then I want you to do exactly what I tell you, okay?"

"Hmmm, okay."

"I'm going to bed now because I have to get up very, very early to
work.  And I want you to go to bed now too."

"But..  . but I want to play!  I want to--"

"Nope, it's time for bed, Mister Twister."

"But--"

Maggie rose from the floor, saying, "How about I read you a story,
Jack?"

"Great idea," said Tim.

She came over then, eternally patient and beautiful Maggie with the
slender waist and bobbed dark hair.  She wore jeans and a loose striped
top, and the truth was that she'd spent more time with Tim and Gwen's
son than either of them had.  She'd been there right from the day he
was born, caring for the child as if he were hers, and she now lifted
him from Tim's arms and carried him to the bed against the far wall.

Gwen brushed back a bit of hair, and called, "I'll be back to give you
a kiss, sweetheart."

"Love you, Jack!"

"Love you, Daddy."

With a small, but warm smile, Tim stepped into the hall, followed by
his wife.  God, he'd hated being away from them.  And, dear God, he was
glad they were here now.

"I missed you," he said, taking his wife's hand.

"Me too," she said, pulling the door shut with her free hand.

She was beautiful, he thought.  Several inches shorter than him, Gwen
was one of the most regal young actresses around, her chin alike skin
offset by soft brown hair.  She had a small mouth, lips that were full
and always plush with color, and long legs.  Although her father was
American, she claimed her mother's homeland, England, as her own, and
in fact she had lived almost half her life there.  Though she could
convincingly play any kind of American, she was a natural for English
roles, and just last year she'd been nominated for an Oscar for her
part in a Jane Austen adaptation.

Standing there in the hallway, Tim reached out, took her into his arms,
and kissed her.  "Hi."

She came into his arms without a wisp of resistance.  "We worked
everything out this afternoon--we'll be able to stay for the rest of
your shoot."

His lips touched her forehead.  "That's great."

"Are you okay?  Is something the matter?"

"No, I just need to talk to Vie, that's all."

"Where'd you go earlier?"

He shrugged and grinned.  "Out."

Eyeing him suspiciously, she said, "Tim?"

"It was my first time off, the first time I could get away since I got
here.  I just wanted to escape ... so I did.  I just drove around,
that's all She rolled her eyes knowingly and shook her head.  "I just
hope to hell you were careful."

"Aren't I always?"

"Yes, but..  ."

"But what?"

"This is a new city.  The people are different here."  She shrugged.
"Did you take Vie with you?"

"No, I didn't need to."

"Oh, Tim.  I don't know.  Anything could happen.  I just worry about
you so, that's all, particularly since that creep started stalking
us."

"Don't worry, we're in the Midwest now and there's nothing to be afraid
of.  You just have to trust me, Gwenny.  Believe me, I love you, I love
our son, I love our life together.  I'm not going to screw that up."

She took a deep breath, ran her slender fingers through his hair.
"Okay, then, my hero."  She kissed him.  "Good night."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"Will I see you for breakfast?"

"I think I need to sleep.  How about Maggie, Jack, and I drop by the
set sometime late morning?"

As he headed off, knowing he had to find Vie before going to bed, Tim
Chase said, "Sounds great."

A good reporter was never afraid and never excited, just prepared.

So as Bradley drove Todd's Cherokee to the live shot, Todd sat in the
passenger seat scribbling away in his reporter's notebook, one of those
elongated pads.  He was writing it all down in detail, exactly what
he'd say in those thirty-five seconds of voice-over, though of course
he knew from experience that he wouldn't end up reading it word for
word.  Somehow it just never turned out that way, somehow he always
ended up punting.  After all, as they said whenever there was a screw
up, why do you think they call it live TV?

But how was he going to come at this thing?  In many ways Todd had the
perfect situation, the best of both worlds.  Not only did he have the
crime scene footage, which viewers always wanted to see, but he was
going to be shooting live from this other location.  In other words, he
would have something no one else would, not to mention an entirely
different angle.  But he was going to have to be careful.  On the one
hand the police hadn't officially released details of Andrew's
sexuality, yet on the other Cindy Wilson already knew.  And whatever
was in her head would come out her mouth, of that Todd was sure.

Fortunately it was only a matter of eight blocks to the live shot,
straight out to Lyndale, then directly north to Franklin, and finally a
left.  Two blocks down, on the same corner where it had stood for
nearly sixty years, was Oak Drugs.  And above that neighborhood fixture
of medications and Hallmark cards was the neighborhood newcomer, the
Domain of Queers, which had moved there just over a year

ago.  To the surprise of many, there had been no resistance to a gay
youth center opening in the neighborhood, and the DQ now included a
small handful of meeting rooms, a coffee bar, and a large, old ballroom
used for Friday night queer teen dances.  It was here that Todd and
Rawlins had first spoken to a group of young gay people, and it was
here that they had first met Andrew.

As Bradley pulled up, Todd looked at the second floor windows draped
with rainbow flags, saw the big pink neon triangle framing the initials
DQ.  Yes, it would provide a great backdrop.  And their ENG truck, the
mast raised high, the microwave dish aimed toward downtown, was parked
exactly opposite the building, just as Todd wanted.

"Perfect," said Todd as the truck came to an abrupt stop.

"Looks like I lost," said Bradley with a laugh.  "We've got all of
about fifty seconds."

Todd liked to have anywhere from eight minutes to a minimum of thirty
seconds, although the latter was cutting it rather tight.  And now
leaping out of the Cherokee, Todd and Bradley went into army like
action, charging across the street, and then, with the help of Jeff,
who emerged from the ENG, setting up.  Cables were dragged out from the
rear of the truck.  Cords were attached.  A single light stand thrown
up.  And then seconds later Todd was standing in front of Bradley's
camera, which was now poised atop a tripod.  As Jeff hopped back into
the ENG and started to adjust the transmission levels, as Bradley
placed a small monitor at the base of the tripod, Todd simultaneously
grabbed a stick microphone and an earpiece, which he slipped into
place.  No sooner had he gotten the small plastic thing in his ear than
the news director called out.

"Voice check, please."

Todd lifted up the mike, said, "Good evening, this is Todd Mills
reporting live from--"

"Got it."

The line producer came on next, saying, "What's your roll cue, Todd?"

He glanced at his pad.  "Ah .. . "Night of darkness and mystery.""

"Check: "Night of darkness and mystery."  " A moment later he advised,
"Ten to the top."

Todd rolled his neck from side to side, gave it a small crack.  Just as
he couldn't reveal Andrew's name until the authorities released it, nor
could he come right out and say Andrew was gay, at least not at this
point.  Yet while he didn't know if Andrew's sexuality would ever prove
to be relevant to his murder, he couldn't ignore it tonight, not simply
because he had to give viewers a reason to watch him, Todd Mills, but
because Cindy Wilson and WTCN were already clued in.  Which left Todd
precious little room in which to maneuver.  Therefore, it would be
best, not to mention safest from a legal standpoint, to speak from his
personal contact with Andrew.

Via IFB transmission, Todd heard the line producer give his final
count, "Five to the top."

Todd adjusted his black leather coat, then glanced down at the monitor
that was aimed up at him from the base of the tripod.  The screen
flashed from an herbicide commercial--after all, this was the Midwest
and this was the late news, when every farmer tuned in if not for the
news, then certainly the weather--to the 10@10 logo.  Next filling the
screen was the face of WLAK's star anchor, an indisputably handsome man
with a long face, dark hair gone quite salt and pepper, and an unwieldy
ego that was, fortunately for WLAK, invisible on television.  Gaining
stature as the most valued and watched anchor in the Twin Cities, he'd
recently demanded and gotten a new contract paying him just over a
million bucks a year.  Such was the value of those white teeth, the
even cadence of his speech, and the trust that he could, with cool
professionalism, turn on in a second.

"Good evening and welcome to Ten at Ten.  I'm Tom Rivers, and we have a
number of stories tonight, from a problem with the Teacher's Pension
Fund to a cancer-fighting enzyme recently discovered at the University
of Minnesota.  We begin tonight's coverage, however, on a very serious
note, that of the murder of a young white male in south Minneapolis.
Just over an hour ago Minneapolis police received a call reporting the
crime.  Here with a live report of this

still-developing story is our investigative reporter, Todd Mills."
Tossing it, he said, "Todd?"

Holding the stick microphone in a tight grasp, Todd stared straight
into Bradley's camera.  Yes, that's how these things went.  Anchor
toss, reporter in full-on camera, VO, reporter tag, ad lib.  All of it
back-timed to the second.

Todd forced every thought out of his head, and then let it flow back,
evenly and precisely.  All you have to do, he told himself, is walk
your viewers through this, one steady step at a time.

"Tom, this story is still evolving, very much so, and the police have
been reticent to release what little information they may have.  What
is known at this point, however, is that a young white male, whose name
is being withheld pending notification of family, has been murdered in
his basement apartment in a building at 25th and Bryant Avenue South.
I've been told by residents of the building that the victim was
recently employed there as a caretaker.  And I do believe that that job
represented the first major step for a young man embarking on a dream.
Unfortunately, it was a dream that has now dissolved into a night of
darkness and mystery," said Todd, giving the roll cue.

The video, which had been edited down from Bradley's footage to
precisely thirty-five seconds, began to roll, and Todd's eyes fell to
the monitor.  Nine times out of ten, he helped edit such things, and,
of course, wrote the script for them, marrying video and sound into a
single prerecorded package.  Tonight, however, he was simply going to
have to watch the monitor, try to read what he had prepared, or, more
likely, simply talk to the pictures.

Seeing footage of marked units, flashing lights, and cops in their
blues, Todd looked at his notes and said, "After receiving a frantic
call from a building resident a little over an hour ago, the
Minneapolis police were quick to arrive at a small apartment building
at Twenty-fifth and Bryant Avenue South.  As you can see, there are a
number of police at the scene, along with homicide investigators and
the team from the Bureau of Investigation.  Both the front and rear
entrances to this building have been sealed off, and a barricade has
been set up to keep

the crowd at a distance.  The authorities are now going over the
apartment, searching for any evidence that may be relevant, and the
medical examiner has yet to remove the body."

The video cut to an image of the rectangular, redbrick structure, and
Todd said, "I'm told that the victim only recently moved into this
building, a two-and-a-half story walk-up located in a neighborhood
known as the Wedge, and that he lived in a small basement apartment at
the rear of the building.  He was employed here as a caretaker for this
and several other apartment buildings on the block."

His eyes flicking between the monitor and his notes, Todd now saw a
crowd of neighbors milling around, gawking and gossiping.  Most of
them, he knew, were as horrified as they were entertained.

"As you can see, Tom, quite a crowd has gathered here, primarily
neighbors who are both upset and worried by the crime.  The Wedge has a
very strong and active neighborhood organization, and they've spent a
considerable amount of time and effort in maintaining the safety
of--"

The news director, via the earpiece, said, "Three seconds."

"--their neighborhood.  Naturally, this comes as quite a shock."

Todd looked up, staring into Bradley's camera, which was now live on
him.  "As I said, Tom, little information has been released on the
victim, but he was known to frequently visit the Domain of Queers,
which is a center for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender teens.
I'm currently standing just across the street from this center, which
you can see is located on the second floor of that building, just above
Oak Drugs.  It moved to this location just over a year ago, and has
been very successful, serving not only local teens, but a number of
runaways as well."

Tom Rivers cut in, his voice deep and luxuriant, and said, "Todd, was
the victim simply employed at this center as well, perhaps as a
caretaker or janitor, or was he there as a teenager to use and enjoy
the facilities?"

Todd knew damn well, of course.  When Rawlins and he had spoken at the
DQ, Andrew had not only been in the front row, he'd been

sitting there holding hands with some other guy.  With a bright, eager
grin, he'd asked lots of questions, laughed, and gotten a veritable
debate going regarding--what was it?--the feasibility of a gay
relationship.  Right.  And later on, of course, he'd met with
Rawlins.

"I do believe, Tom, that the victim came here for the center's
services.  As a matter of fact, I first encountered the victim two
months ago when I was here giving a talk to gay youth."

"Does that mean for a fact he was gay?"

Rawlins was going to give him shit for this, but Todd had no choice,
and he said, "Well, the Domain of Queers, or the DQ as it's commonly
called, is a center to serve gay teens.  Whether the victim was indeed
gay and/or possibly a runaway will soon, I'm sure, be officially
known."

Even though Todd always tried to focus every bit of his energy and
attention on the camera, out of the corner of his eye he saw a tall
figure come hurrying around the corner.  It was a young man, his head
bent, his long, silky hair bouncing with each of his long, awkward
strides, and Todd recognized him immediately.  And the kid, seeing the
camera and the lights, looked up, his eyes red, his cheeks still wet
with tears, and froze in surprise.  An odd, almost fearful look washed
over him, and then he turned and quickly hurried off.

Into the earpiece lodged in Todd's right ear, Tom Rivers said, "Thank
you very much, Todd, and we look forward to any other information you
might have on this sad story.  In other news ..."

Todd glanced down, saw the image of Tom Rivers fill the monitor.  Then
he looked up, saw Bradley still hunched behind the camera.  The next
second, Bradley raised his head.

"Clear."

Ripping away the earpiece and stuffing that and the stick mike into
Bradley's hands, Todd said, "I'll be right back!"

Spinning around, he saw the kid scurrying across the street not toward
Oak Drugs of course, but toward the DQ.  Sure, scared and upset,
horrified and confused, he'd walked here from the murder scene and was
now fleeing to the one safe isle he'd ever found, that

refuge of his peers.  Which is exactly where Todd had seen him before.
He didn't know the kid's name, but Todd was sure of it, this young man
with the long, silky hair was a friend of Andrew.  Or was he more?  Had
he been the one sitting there holding hands with Andrew during Todd and
Rawlins's talk?  If so, what did that imply, that they'd simply been
queer friends, or that they'd perhaps been sweethearts?

A boxy truck with a smiling cow on the side rolled past, next a blue
van and two cars, and then Todd darted into the road.  His eyes fixed
on the tall young man, he watched as the kid hurried up the sidewalk
and reached the double doors that led to the Domain of Queers.

"Hey!"  called Todd from the middle of the street.

Spinning around, the kid brushed his hair back and glanced toward Todd,
his eyes now smoldering with what, anger?  Recognition?  The young guy
hesitated for a second, then lunged for the glass door and swung it
open.

Every bit of his reporterly instincts was piqued, and Todd wasted no
time, breaking into a quick jog, charging up the sidewalk and past the
display windows of Oak Drugs that were already filled with Halloween
costumes.  This kid, Todd was sure, wasn't just upset, he knew
something.  Throwing open the door and hurrying into the building, Todd
looked up the broad staircase that was easily six feet wide and lit by
row after row of fluorescent lights.  The walls were painted a bland
white, and Todd saw him just past the mid-point landing, climbing two
steps at a time.  "Wait a minute!"  When the kid didn't stop, Todd
called, "I need to talk to you, just wait a--"

Without turning around, without stopping, he screamed, "Fuck off!"

More than a little surprised by this opening salvo, Todd hesitated,
even slowed.  Okay, what was going on here?  Was Todd merely being an
asshole of a reporter by treading into tender territory?  Or was Todd
right in chasing after this kid, sensing he might know something about
Andrew's tragic end?  There was, for sure, only one way to find out.

Todd didn't remember the rules, couldn't remember if uninvited adults
were even allowed in the DQ, particularly at this time of night, but he
plunged on, unable to stop himself.  Grabbing the railing, he started
up the wide stairs.  He was about to call out again when the kid
reached the top and disappeared from sight.

Todd continued up, and when he reached the top, huffing for air, he was
immediately greeted by a young African-American girl, perhaps no more
than sixteen or seventeen and wearing a plain white T-shirt and blue
jean overalls.  Her face round and cute, she wore glasses and had her
hair pulled back in pigtails.

"Can I help you?"  she said, from behind a reception desk.

"I'm looking for the guy who just came in here.  I need to talk to
him."

"Well, I'm afraid you can't.  I mean, adults can't come in unless
they're invited to speak or do something official.  Anyway, from the
looks of it, Jordy doesn't want to talk to you or anyone else, for that
matter."  She pushed up her glasses and glanced down a hall.  "What
happened, anyway?  He's awfully upset."  She looked Todd up and down.
"You're not his dad, are you?"

Gee, thanks, thought Todd with a scowl.  But it was true.  He was
easily old enough.  Todd's own son was, in fact, even older than this
kid.  And, yes, that was his name.  Jordan.  He'd been the one sitting
there, holding hands with Andrew.  Todd was sure of it now.

Trying not to sound like a bullying adult, Todd said, "No, I'm not
family.  My name's Todd Mills, and I'm a television reporter from--"

"Oh, yeah, I remember now," she said with a bright smile.  "You're the
gay guy on TV.  Didn't you and your lover come in here and speak or
something?"

"Right.  That was a couple of months ago.  But we've got a problem
tonight, and I need to speak to Jordy."

"You know, I really don't think he--"

"I'm sorry, but either I talk to him or I call the police."

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait," she said, holding up both hands,
palms out.  "Come on, we don't need any shit like that.

Particularly not on my shift, okay?  I mean, I'm just supposed to be
monitoring the place.  I'm just volunteering."

"I mean it."

"Oh, man."  She bent her head, rubbed her forehead with one hand, and
then, without looking up, pointed down the hall and said, "He's down
there, first room on the right.  Leave the door open.  If I hear him
shout or anything, you're gonna have to leave.  Clear?"

"Thanks."

Todd took a deep breath, held it a second, then blasted it out between
pursed lips.  Feeling oddly like the enemy, he proceeded past the
monitoring desk and down a hall with fresh beige carpeting and newly
painted walls.

Originally the DQ had been in a dump of a storefront on Lake Street, an
idea born of a dream and that functioned on a shoestring.  And it had
worked, not only proving to be a much-needed haven, but garnering a lot
of media attention, gay and straight.  The dollars had followed, both
from the queer community as well as, surprisingly, the corporate, and
the organization had expanded and grown and moved here.

Todd stopped at the first door and looked into a room that was
furnished with two couches, a coffee table, and a couple of standing
lamps, one of which now dimly burned.  A counseling or conference room,
Todd assumed.  Jordy was in there, slumped on one of the couches, his
long hair swept forward, his body trembling and shaking as he sobbed.
He wore old black and white high-top tennis shoes, baggy jeans, and a
ratty, old wool coat that he'd either gotten from his grandfather or
the Goodwill, probably the latter.

Todd glanced down the hall, saw the girl at the front desk staring
after him, then knocked twice on the doorjamb and said, "Can I come
in?"

Jordy looked up, and though he'd perhaps reached his full height, his
face was still that of a boy, the skin smooth and pure, untouched by
either acne or, for that matter, much of a beard.  His face was long
and thin, his chin narrow, and his eyes--those red, red eyes--were
small, etched on top with two heavy eyebrows, the most manly of his

features.  A kid, that was all he was, frightened and scared to hell.
And now witnessing Jordy's grief, the raw pain that was flowing
unrestricted out of his soul, Todd knew what this was all about.  Not
some little tale of intrigue, but the death of a friend.  The loss of a
loved one.

Todd spotted a box of Kleenex on the coffee table, picked it up, and
placed it on the couch next to Jordy.  He then sat down opposite him.

"I'm sorry."

Jordy caught himself, wiped his wet nose with the back of his hand,
then tossed his hair back.  "Is ... is it really .. . really true?  Did
someone kill him?  Kill Andrew?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Oh, God!"  He grabbed some tissues, blew his nose, started crying all
over again.  "Andrew wanted me to come over a couple of hours ago.  I
should've gone.  I should've been there.  Maybe he'd be okay.  Maybe ..
."

"It's not your fault."

"But..  ."  He slammed a fist down on his knee.  "Fuck!"

Todd was at a loss.  What was he supposed to do?  Sit there at a
distance and let this kid fall on his own, or take him into his arms
and catch him?  In a moment of panic, Todd realized he didn't know what
to do, how to handle this, in large part because he'd never learned
anything like this from his father, who'd been so physically
reticent.

Jordy shook his head, buried his face in his hands.  "Andrew was just
trying to get away from his family, just trying to start his own life,
that's all!  He just wanted to be himself, nothing more."  He stopped
breathing for a minute, then blurted, "I hate this!  I hate being
fucking gay!  Why?  Why the fuck was I born queer?  I didn't ask for
this, I didn't!"

He dissolved into a fresh round of tears, and Todd felt something in
his heart begin to break.  A young man tonight had been murdered, the
truth of which might never be learned.  It was a tragedy, no doubt, but
it was the sight of a kid beating himself up with self-hatred that
crushed Todd.  Perhaps it was because this was simply too familiar,

that Todd had been there, berated himself time and time again, and had
for so long hated himself for his sexuality.  It had taken almost all
of his adult life to get past it, and even then just barely, and so
seeing it now, seeing it so fresh in someone so young, was almost more
than he could take.  It was as if he was watching a movie of his own
emotions.  Was there nothing he could do, no way he could protect this
kid, make him see the truth?

He got up and crossed the room, sitting down next to Jordy and wrapping
one arm over Jordy's shoulders.  Just as quickly, Jordy elbowed Todd in
the ribs and shoved him away.

"Get away from me, you fucking queen!  Get your fucking hands off me!"
he shouted.  "You guys--all you think about is sex!  You're nothing but
a bunch of old trolls!"

It was like someone had slammed a board into Todd's gut.  The color
rapidly falling from his face, he jerked away his arm, pushed himself
up, and quickly moved back across the room.

"Jordy, that's not what--"

"Shut up!"

How the hell could he convince him that he hadn't come here to lurk?

A head poked in, and, through a nervous smile, the girl from up front
said, "Everything okay in here, guys?"

Todd nodded curtly.  "Fine."

"Jordy?"  When he didn't reply, she said, "Well, I'm just down the
hall.  Holler if you need me, okay?"

Oh, Christ, thought Todd, sinking back in the couch and folding his
arms.  Sitting there in tepid silence, he watched as Jordy grabbed some
Kleenex and blew his nose.  Now what?

"When's .. . when's it going to get easier?"  Jordy mumbled.

"Trust me, it does.  It will."

"Trust you?"  said Jordy, looking at Todd as if he were crazy.  "Why?
Why the fuck should I trust you of all people?"

Something else was going on here, that much was clear.  And Todd didn't
like it, not one bit.  He felt Jordy's accusative eyes glaring at
him,

and Todd, for some inexplicable reason, became suddenly afraid.  Shit,
what did Jordy know that he didn't?

Spitting hate as he spoke, Jordy demanded, "You've come for me too,
haven't you?  That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"Jordy, I don't know what you're talking about.  I was just doing a
report out front when I saw you.  I just wanted to talk about what
happened tonight, I just wanted to see if you might be able to help."

"Bullshit!"

"Jordy, I--"

"Awhile back you came in here, you and that boyfriend of yours, and
told us how happy you were, how lucky you were to have found each
other.  You came in here and told us how much you loved each other,
but--"

"What the hell are you talking about, Jordy?"

"--but it was nothing but a bunch of fucking lies!  You know what, I
hate you!  And I hate fags!  I hate 'em, because they just turn into
old trolls like you that feed off kids like us!"

Through a haze of confusion, Todd began to see a glimmer of what might
be going on in Jordy's head.  Was that what this was all about,
vulnerable boys with perfect bodies and powerful men with bulging
wallets?  Had Andrew, the runaway, found a way to make a buck not by
cleaning hallways but giving blow jobs?  And if so, did Jordy know who
Andrew had been with earlier this evening?

"Jordy, was Andrew hustling?"

"How can you say that?"  he said, staring at Todd with utter shock.
"What do you think I am, just some sort of dumb-ass kid?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just trying to understand."

"Understand?  Understand?!"  He bit his lip, reached down, and started
pulling at a button on his old wool coat.  "Well, understand this: I
loved Andrew.  I mean, I really loved him.  I wanted him and me to live
together forever, you know.  I wanted to get married to him so I'd
never lose him.  I wanted the two of us to be happy, just like you two
fuckers said you were when you came in here prancing around like the
beautiful couple, all happy and everything.  But then he came

and took him away.  He had everything too.  Everything I didn't.  He
was so butch and muscley and hairy--it drove Andrew crazy.  He fell in
love with him right away.  He had a car and money and--"

"Who, Andrew?  Who?"

"Why are you doing this to me?  Why?"  he cried in a shrill voice as he
pulled at his long, gorgeous hair.  "Just stop it!  Stop fucking with
my head like this!"

"You're telling me Andrew was having sex with some older guy?"

"Of ... of course I am."  He wrapped his arms around himself and
started shaking.  "You mean, you really don't know?"

"No," said Todd quietly, as something akin to fear swept through him.
"Why should I?"

Suddenly he knew.  Or feared he did.  And his entire insides wrenched.
The answer was right there, too horrible to be thought, let alone
spoken.

Still, he had to know, it had to be said, and in a deep, slow voice,
Todd demanded, "Jordy, who was Andrew sleeping with?"

"Are you going to hurt me if I tell you?"

"No, absolutely not," replied Todd, his voice shaking.

Andrew sat there for a second, wiped his nose with the back of his
hand, then stared at the floor and said, "It was him, your .. . your
boyfriend, Rawlins.  That's who did it, who took Andrew away from
me."

It took more willpower, more self-control, than Rawlins thought he
had.

He stepped through the front door of the apartment building, continued
down the half-flight to the basement, and then just stopped and stood
there.  Leaning against the cool wall with one hand, he put the other
to his head.  You've got to get yourself under control.  You can't let
anyone see.  You can't let anyone know.

He took a deep breath, then lowered his right hand and studied it.
Seeing it violently tremble, he grabbed it with his left and clutched
it.  Just stop it!  That little shit's dead and there's nothing you can
do!

Jesus Christ, he thought.  Todd hadn't guessed, had he?  He couldn't
possibly suspect anything, could he?  Already Todd knew him better than
almost anyone, not simply through the actual time they'd spent
together, but through their long hours of conversation, during which
Rawlins had divulged more about himself than he ever had to anyone
else.  It seemed as if he'd told Todd every secret, every fear, every
hope, and every lust.  Every lust, of course, but one.  So had Todd
just caught a glimpse of that through Rawlins's tears?  Had he sensed
the truth in Rawlins's panic?

Oh, shit.

Just be cool.  This was going to be the worst.  If he could get through
tonight, even the next fifteen or twenty minutes, then he was sure he'd
be able to handle it.  He'd nearly vomited when he'd first gone in and
seen Andrew lying there, his eyes covered with that black

mask, his naked body half concealed by the sheet, and the river of
blood that had flowed from his neck onto the bed and floor.

"Sergeant?"

Rawlins turned to see a young officer before him, her wiry brown hair
cut short beneath her hat, her face sincere and plain.  She was just
about Rawlins's height, and she wore a gun belt with ease, but Rawlins
had never seen her before.  That didn't mean much, however, since the
force had in the past few years expanded from slightly over seven
hundred to just under a thousand officers.  There were tons of younger
cops like this one--seventy percent of the force had less than two
years' experience--and Rawlins wondered how long this woman had been at
it.  She was obviously into what was going on here tonight, there was
no doubt about that, but that could simply stem from the fact that
she'd been the first one on the scene.  She'd been on patrol nearby,
and dispatch had sent her over.  Finding the victim DOA, she'd sealed
the scene, called her supervisor, who in turn had called Cars 1110 and
21.  All exactly according to the book.

Right, thought Rawlins.  Just follow procedure.  You know how these
things are supposed to go.  Just do it.

Rawlins wiped his mouth, cleared his throat, and said, "Yeah?"

"I've checked with several different people in the building, and as far
as anyone knows, the victim was the only one residing in the
apartment."

Rawlins knew that of course, but he asked, "How about the mailbox in
the lobby?"

"Only one name on it."

"Good."

"Anything else for now?"

Rawlins looked down the hallway, saw his partner, Neal Foster, stepping
out of the apartment, and said, "Yeah, get two other officers and
canvas the building.  I want a complete list of the residents' names.
And I want to know everyone's schedule--who was here this afternoon and
when, who was at work and when they returned.  Be sure

and see if anyone heard anything or noticed anything--including anyone
unusual in the past few days."

"Yes, sir."

His gut cinched tight, Rawlins proceeded down the stark hall.  Overhead
ran a series of pipes and wires, and he continued past a door labeled
BOILER ROOM and met Foster halfway.  Rawlins immediately felt the older
man's eyes studying him, and Rawlins stopped, scratched his chin, and
leaned against a wall.  Just be cool.

"You okay?"  asked Foster.

Just a year short of retirement, Foster had gray hair, a chubby body, a
round face, and a smile that was reticent, reflecting of course the
years and years of gore he'd seen as a homicide investigator.  It was
Foster who had plucked Rawlins out of the juvenile division and brought
him into homicide after they'd successfully worked a bridge case, that
of a teenage murder.  Foster was also the first person Rawlins had come
out to as a gay man, and perhaps he'd also be the first person on the
force Rawlins would come out to as being HIV positive.

Rawlins replied, "Yeah."

When he'd first walked into that room down there, it was almost more
than he could take.  Speechless, Rawlins had struggled not to hurry to
Andrew's side and cry out.  Foster, who knew him so very well, had
sensed something like that, and of course he'd seen Rawlins's eyes
redden and swell as he turned and darted out of the room.

Feeling a need to explain, Rawlins now said, "I met him a few
times--down at this gay center for teens.  Todd and I gave a talk
there.  He was a good kid.  He was interested in law enforcement, and I
... I was helping him try to figure out some career stuff.  It's just
such a shock, that's all."

"Sure."  Foster, a sweet but gruff kind of guy, ran a hand over his
mouth and looked judgment ally at Rawlins.  "You gonna be able to
handle this one?  It's not gonna be a problem, is it?"

It wasn't that unusual for a cop to know a murder victim.  Over the

course of his police career Rawlins himself had known roughly ten men
and women--mostly drug dealers, but others who'd been abused or been
involved in previous crimes--who'd ended up dead one way or the other.
So it wasn't a problem for a cop to investigate the death of someone he
knew unless, of course, there was a relationship, either platonic or
romantic.  And that's what Foster was asking here, that's what he
wanted to know: Was this going to be a conflict of interest for
Rawlins?

Rawlins looked down at the floor and simply said, "No."

"Good.  Come on, I got the girl who found him."

Relieved that he'd gotten over that hump--and certain that Foster would
never bring it up again--Rawlins followed his partner through the first
door on the right and into the laundry room.  Like everywhere down
here, the concrete floors were painted a glossy battleship gray and the
walls an old, dull white.  The room itself was a large space, holding
only an old table and chair, two deep sinks, two mustard-colored
coin-operated washers, and two coin-operated dryers.  On the outside
wall were three high, narrow windows that peeked onto a walk alongside
the building.

Near one of the washing machines stood one tall cop, and next to him
sat one distraught young woman.

The officer, a big guy with a dark goatee and a rather severe look on
his face, had obviously been grabbed from the perimeter and now stood
nearly motionless.  The girl, somewhere in her twenties, sat on a ratty
orange chair, her dark brown hair tumbling down and around her round
face.  Wearing ragged jeans, a baggy Carleton College sweatshirt, and
only socks, she fiercely clutched a wad of tissues and stared down at
the floor in shock.

"Rawlins," began Foster in a soft voice, trying to sound sensitive,
"this is Kathy Diedrich.  She lives in the building and she's the one
who found the body.  Ms.  Diedrich, this is my partner, Sergeant Steve
Rawlins.  Together we'll be investigating what happened here tonight.
Thanks for talking to us."

She slowly looked up at Rawlins, her red but dry eyes studying him for
an odd moment.  A flash of panic zipped through Rawlins.  Did she
recognize him?  Had she seen him here in this very building?

Her gaze then falling slowly to the floor, she said, "I've never seen
a dead body before--never."

Rawlins managed to say, "I'm sure it was a shock."

"My grandfather died last year, but..  . but I didn't see anything."
Her bottom lip started to quiver.  "It was a closed casket, you
know."

It flashed through Rawlins's head: Girl, do you have any idea how lucky
you are?  Do you know how many I've seen?  Then he took note again of
her sweatshirt.  A Carleton grad.  Okay, so she was probably smart.
Probably from an upper-middle class family.  Relatively sheltered. 
This was probably her first apartment, her first time living in the
city. And her first real taste of tragedy.

"Can you tell us," asked Foster, "why you came down to the apartment
and what you found?"

She looked at him, shrugged, and in a small voice said, "My sink backed
up.  I didn't have a plunger, so ... so I came down to ask Andrew for
one.  I mean, he was the caretaker and everything so ... so .. ."

"About what time was this?"  asked Rawlins.

"Eight-twenty."

"You're sure?"

She nodded.  "My favorite show was on at eight-thirty and I didn't want
to miss it, so I glanced at my clock just before I came down."

Rawlins continued, saying, "So you came down the front steps?"

"Uh-uh.  The back ones."

"Did you see anyone else?"

"No."

"Notice anything strange?"

"Uh, I don't think so."

Foster cut in, keeping his gravelly voice soft.  "And then?"

"Then .. . then I came down here.  His door was open."

"You mean, unlocked?"

"No, I mean open.  You know, cracked open about three or four inches. I
called out to him and knocked and just sort of stuck my head

in."  She put a hand to her mouth and started softly crying.  "He ...
he was there on the bed and .. . and there was all that blood."

Rawlins said, "Did you go in?"

"No, I screamed.  I screamed and I ran back upstairs.  I was scared
that whoever did it was still in there ... or somewhere else in the
basement."

"But you didn't see anyone, right?"

"No, not at all."

"And then?"

"Then I ran straight up to my apartment and called nine-one-one."

Rawlins looked over at Foster, and they both intuitively knew it.  This
was as much as they were going to get out of her here and now.  Neal
Foster raised his brow in silent question, and Rawlins replied with a
nod.  On to the next phase.

Posing it as a request when actually it was a necessity, Foster asked,
"Ms.  Diedrich, would you mind coming downtown to the police station?
We'd like to get a full statement from you."  Her eyebrows pinching
together in an anxious roof shape, she said, "But .. . but I don't know
anything else."

"It's just a technicality, that's all."

"Well..  ."

"It would help us very much."

"Okay, sure."  She wiped her nose.  "But I don't need, like, a lawyer
or anything, do I?  I mean, I didn't do anything.  I'm not in trouble,
am I?"

"No, it's just standard procedure to get a statement from all
witnesses."

"Oh, yeah," she mumbled, as if she remembered seeing something like
that on television.  "But can I go up to my apartment?  I need to,
like, get my shoes.  And .. . and can I call my boyfriend and tell him
where I'll be?"

"Of course."  Foster motioned to the tall cop, who had stood quietly
this entire time.  "You go upstairs and make your call and get your
stuff, and then Officer Sandvik here will take you downtown in his
squad car."

She nodded, wiped her nose, and then pushed herself to her feet.
Rawlins caught Sandvik's eye and gave him a nod, and the officer
followed the young woman out.  Once they'd disappeared, Rawlins crossed
the room and leaned against one of the beat-up washing machines.

"She doesn't seem to know much."

"Nope, but we'll just have to see what we can jog loose."  Foster
shrugged.  "She didn't mention the mask."

"Maybe she didn't notice it.  Maybe she just saw all the blood and ..
."

"Yeah, probably."  Foster thought for a moment, then said, "Let's not
release that to the media--you know, that his eyes were covered."

"Good idea," replied Rawlins, hoping to God there wouldn't be any
copycat murders.

"From the looks of it--I mean from the way the blood is still pretty
wet--I'd say this happened pretty recently, maybe within the last two
or three hours.  Of course, we won't know for sure until the ME has his
say."

"Now what?"

"The B of I guys are in there goin' full tilt."

Right, thought Rawlins, scratching his chin.  Technically, at this
point the R of I team and Foster and he were the only ones who were
supposed to have access to the crime scene itself.  Once all the
forensic evidence had been gathered, once Rawlins and Foster had
completely gone over the scene, then they'd call the medical examiner,
who'd remove the body for autopsy.

Rawlins said, "It looks like the kid lived alone."

"Well, you never know," replied Foster.  "We still need to get a search
warrant.  I mean, we don't want to lose anything."

If they didn't and there was something in there that belonged to
someone else--say, to a kid who had crashed there for a few days-that
evidence would become inadmissible, no matter how valuable.  Something
like that had happened a year ago on a murder case when a rookie cop
had discovered a gun in a closet and taken it without a

warrant.  It had turned out, in fact, to be the murder weapon, but
because it belonged to the victim's sister, who also lived in the
house, it was thrown out of court.  And the sister, who had become the
prime suspect, went free.

"You want to write up the warrant?"  said Rawlins, wondering how in the
hell he was going to get back in there.

With a shrug, Foster replied, "Sure.  I got my computer out in the car,
all I gotta do is find a printer.  You want to go downtown and take her
statement?"

"Actually .. . actually, can't we get someone from the dog watch to do
that?  We're going to have a shift carry over in a few minutes," he
said, meaning that the next Car 1110 rotation was about to begin, "and
I really don't want to leave here yet, not while this is so fresh."

"Sure."

An empty silence fell between them.  They both knew what had to be done
next.  And they both knew it was the worst.

Foster said, "What about the family?  You want to do it?  I looked in
his wallet and got his home address."

"Listen .. ."

"Okay, okay, I'll do it but you're gonna owe me, big-time too."  Foster
pushed himself to his feet.  "You know what the best part about
retirement's gonna be?  Not having to make these shitty calls, that's
what.  Not having to call up some mother or father or wife or husband
in the middle of the night and say, guess what, your worst nightmare
has just begun."

"Thanks.  I'll do the next call, I swear.  And I'll take care of all
the other ones tonight."

Among other things, of course, he'd have to call dispatch and see if
they had a record of any recent calls from this address.  Then he'd
have to run a CA PRS check and see if the Computer Assisted Police
Reporting System indicated the victim had any felonies or arrests.

"I want a beer and a burger out of this one," said Foster.

"You got it."

They left the laundry room, Foster heading to his Crown Vie,

parked somewhere in the mayhem outside, and Rawlins starting down the
hall toward Andrew Lyman's apartment.

Rawlins figured he had an hour, plus or minus.  It would take Foster
that long to write up a warrant on his laptop, swing by one of the
precinct stations--probably the fifth--to print it up, then stop by an
on-call judge, who'd read and sign it.  And that, Rawlins was sure,
would give him more than enough time.  Technically, of course, he
shouldn't look through anything, but a search warrant in a murder case
was a foregone conclusion--no judge in his right mind would deny
it--and who was going to quibble with a bit of time this way or that?

You just gotta do it.  You just gotta go back in there.

Right.  He simply had to get some distance.  And then he had to walk
back into that single room basement apartment and not see some kid who
was lost and looking, not some gorgeous farm boy whose young, firm body
had pressed against his.  No, he had to go back and look at a corpse.
Andrew was gone.  All that was left was the shell.  This was work, and
in the scope of things Rawlins had seen much worse, from decapitations
to vivisections.

Forcing himself down the hall, he took a deep breath, then turned into
the room.

This was the door, he told himself, that Kathy Diedrich had found ajar.
She'd come down, found it cracked open, knocked once or twice.  And
perhaps the door had swung open.  Looking into the room just as she
must have done, Rawlins saw the body, the blood.  But not the mask. No,
Andrew's head was tilted back slightly, so she easily could have missed
the thin black material covering Andrew's eyes.

Ignoring the two people from the Bureau of Investigation coolly going
about the room doing their work, Rawlins focused on the double mattress
on the floor.  The sheets were kicked this way and that.  And the
beautiful naked body, trim and muscular, once so active, now lay
forever still.  It was a perfect body, Rawlins saw that now more than
ever.  The chest was big and broad, the nipples erect with just a trace
of youthful blondish hair around them.  And that perfect waist was
smooth and lean, again with just a hint of hair leading up to and sur
rounding the navel.  The arms were big, too, not pumped up, not
overblown, but firm and naturally muscular.  Exactly, Andrew was no gym
queen, vainly working biceps or triceps over and over again.  There was
no one muscle that had been overworked and swollen to the point of
deformity.  No, this boy's body was perfect, naturally so, because he'd
grown up on a farm, hauling bales of hay, shoveling seed, driving fence
posts.  And in that regard, Andrew had died at his physical peak.

But the neck .. .

Once lean and powerful, now destroyed by a single powerful slash that
cut deep into muscle and vein.  And, yes, blood.  A great river of it
that had burst from the body and spilled onto the bed as if onto a
floodplain.

Oh, Christ, thought Rawlins.  What a handsome kid.  He saw those small,
firm lips, the very ones that had kissed his neck, and Rawlins felt his
stomach swell and shrink.  Just keep it professional, he told himself.
Just pull back.  Just look at the scene.  What's going on here?

There's one very dead young man lying in the middle of this room and,
besides himself, there were two B of I guys circling the body; only
they weren't both guys like they usually were.  One was a heavy man in
gray polyester pants and a striped shirt, his hair gray, his face
wrinkled.  The other was a woman wearing dark slacks and a blue
sweater, her long, thick hair just barely streaked with gray.  He was
putting a new filter into a small, handheld vacuum cleaner, and she was
holding a small video camera to her eye and obsessively taping every
inch of that beautiful body, every fold of the sheet, and every drop of
death.

Slipping into professional mode, Rawlins stepped farther into the room,
crossed to their work kit, and grabbed a thin pair of latex gloves from
a small cardboard box.  He pulled them on and went to work.

The acrid smell of death filled the room, both from the drying blood
that was growing more thick and syrupy by the minute as well as from
the body's bowels, which had discharged.  Rawlins stepped closer, saw
that the apricot-colored sheets were darkened with a foul stain.  The
top sheet was pushed halfway between the navel and the crotch, and
Rawlins lifted it up and peered in.  Ignoring the fresh gust of fecal

matter, he saw light brown pubic hair and a shrunken, lifeless
circumcised penis.  He also saw exactly what he expected, a dried milk
ish dab of semen on the tip of the penis and a glycerin like shine on
the shaft.  As if to confirm it, Rawlins dropped the sheet and glanced
to the left of the bed and saw a plastic bottle of lubrication and a
crumpled white towel that had surely been used for cleanup.  Could the
perfect DNA samples be simply and easily found in those soft folds?

Turning his attention to the slashed neck, he saw that the deepest part
was in the center and then continued to the left, a thick cut that
indicated the perpetrator was right-handed.  The blood spilled down the
neck and to the left as well, then onto the mattress, some of it
soaking in and a great lot of it flowing over and onto the floor in a
puddle that was undisturbed by footprints or the slightest of smears.
That alone indicated that the body hadn't been moved and that the
victim had been killed not simply in this apartment, but right here in
this bed.  Rawlins surmised there had been no struggle, that the attack
had come as a total surprise.

But why the mask?

Turning his full attention to Andrew's face, Rawlins studied the thin
black mask covering the eyes and held in place by an elastic band
around the back of the head.  A narrow thing, it resembled the infamous
mask of Zorro, except of course this one had no slits cut for the eyes.
So it wasn't really a mask, but a blindfold.  But why?  The obvious
reason was to prevent Andrew from seeing someone, and that someone was
most surely either the last person he'd had sex with or the person who
had killed him.  More likely than not, it was one and the same, but
perhaps not.  In any case, the mask indicated why there'd been no
struggle--Andrew literally hadn't seen what was coming.

Oh, God, the poor kid.  Shaking his head, Rawlins turned away and rose
to his feet.

Andrew, Rawlins knew, had taken the job as caretaker to this and two
neighboring apartment buildings not because of the pay, which was
nearly negligible, but because it included this cold, one-room
apartment.  Actually, caretaker was a glorified title.  Andrew's job
wasn't

to screen tenants and lease apartments, for that was done by the
owner, who lived in a big ranch house in the suburb of Richfield.
Rather, Andrew's job was to vacuum the hallways, empty the trash in
common areas such as the laundry rooms, rake the leaves outside, and
shovel the walks front and back.  All of which he gladly did in
exchange for his own place, his first apartment, which was furnished
with the abandoned goods of former residents--this lumpy mattress, the
beat up white dresser, the sagging couch, that broken coffee table.

Where would Andrew have put it?

Standing up, Rawlins looked around.  There was this room, a closet in
the corner, and an alcove that held a small kitchen with a built-in
dinette table.  Rawlins turned and headed straight to the dresser.  As
the B of I guy started vacuuming around the bed, sucking up any fiber,
any hair that he could into the small brown, high-filter machine,
Rawlins scanned the top of the dresser.  Some change, a movie stub, a
mostly burned candle.  Keys.  A beat-up old nylon wallet, dark green
with worn-out black stitching on the edges.  No, realized Rawlins,
Andrew wouldn't have kept it in the open, not just sitting right out
here for anyone to see.

Looking carefully over his left shoulder, he saw that the woman-what
was her name?  Glass?  Marcia Glass?--had put down the video camera and
picked up a 35mm camera.  Focusing her complete attention on the body,
she was now shooting picture after picture of the slash on the victim's
throat, a close-up from this angle, a broader shot from the right.
Good, thought Rawlins, relieved not to be in the camera's view, for he
couldn't by any means have this documented.

There were three drawers to the old dresser, the top one narrower than
the bottom two.  Obviously the piece of furniture had been painted a
number of times, the latest coat being white, and he had to tug at the
top drawer to get it open.  As it revealed its contents, Rawlins's eyes
were immediately caught by a photograph of a naked body, a muscular guy
posed on a beach, his cock fully erect.  Reaching in, Rawlins did a
quick check, guessed there were, what, three, maybe

 four porno magazines.  Tugging the drawer a little farther, he saw a
small stash of sex toys, including a handful of condoms, a chrome cock
ring, and a pinkish latex butt plug.  Ignoring the paraphernalia,
Rawlins saw a handful of pencils and pens on the other side of the
drawer, some paper clips, a rubber band, a checkbook, and a small
spiral notebook with a red cover.

A rush of relief surging through him, Rawlins reached for the notebook,
then just as quickly caught himself.  Glancing back, he ascertained
that neither Glass nor the guy was either watching or photographing
him, but were both still focused on the corpse and its immediate
environs.  Knowing that he'd never have another chance, Rawlins lowered
his hand into the drawer, cracked the small notebook, and saw the
small, neat handwriting, page after page.

Oh, Christ, it was all in here, wasn't it, just like he'd said it
was.

And without another moment's hesitation, Rawlins shut Andrew's diary,
carefully lifted it from the drawer, and slipped it into his coat
pocket.

It was their nightly ritual.

While the water power of the mighty Mississippi had once made
Minneapolis the milling capital of the world, the title, due to the
advent of the gasoline-powered engine, had been lost decades earlier. A
substantial share of the world's grain was still grown in the upper
Midwest, of course, and the most important thing to the people who
farmed the land even today was simply and absolutely one thing: the
weather.

So as they did every night just before ten, John and Martha Lyman sat
down in their living room and turned on the television.  They lived in
a white three-bedroom rambler that John's father had built some thirty
years ago when he'd torn down the old farmhouse that had stood for
almost seventy years.  They'd wanted something new.  Something modern.
A few of the conveniences, because, after all, they did live almost one
hundred miles west of The Cities and the land did stretch boringly flat
for as far as the eye could see and the mind could imagine.

And while what happened in Minneapolis and St.  Paul was of little
concern to those who lived out here on the plains, the weather forecast
was critical.  Particularly now.  It was mid-September, and things
would start changing fast.  The first snows could come anytime, really,
though usually nothing stuck until after Halloween.  After that, pretty
much anything went.  Two years ago the summertime high had been one
hundred and five above, while the wintertime low had been forty-four
below.

"Don't forget tomorrow night's the parent-teacher conference," said
Martha, sipping some strawberry herbal tea as she sat down on the
couch, a plaid thing done in orange and green.

She was a trim, reasonably handsome woman, with shoulder length blond
hair that she usually pulled back into a ponytail.  She wore a wool
sweater and, as she did most days, blue jeans.  A busy woman, her days
were filled with two things, the farm and their children, two of whom
still lived at home.

"You're not going to be late again tomorrow, are you?"  she asked.

Relaxing in the brown imitation leather recliner to her right, her
husband replied, "Nope."

He'd been gone all day until just a little while ago.  Off doing some
business, he told her.  It was something about a loan for a new piece
of equipment, though she didn't much like the idea of that.  It had
been John's grandfather's farm, and while they owed no money on the
land, trying to keep this place going was more than a challenge.  For
over five years now they'd been trapped in a cycle of horribly low
prices, grisly weather, plant diseases, not to mention a bad dip in the
export market.  In the last two years alone six nearby families had
gone bankrupt.

Glancing at her husband, she saw a big man, his skin weathered, his
shoulders thick, and his jaw square.  He'd put on weight, no doubt
about that.  And too much of it, for sure.  She still saw it in him,
though, the cute high school guy she'd fallen in love with.  And they
were still in love and they were going to make it, right?  Right?

Actually, she thought, sadly staring into her tea, she was no longer
sure.  With each year it seemed John had grown more distant, more
preoccupied, so much so that Martha sometimes wondered if she really
knew him anymore, if they weren't together just as a matter of habit.
She tried to tell herself that it was the farm, that John was simply
overwhelmed with financial worries, but sometimes she couldn't help it,
couldn't help but worry that he didn't find her attractive anymore,
that perhaps he had someone else.  To top it off, of all their years,
of all the troubles they'd been through, this last had been the hardest
to come their way.  Drought and debt, blizzard and isolation,

the near death of Annie, their youngest--Martha had thought they'd
been through it all.  But they hadn't, not until this past year.

Just one day at a time, she told herself.  Isn't that how you were
supposed to get through these things?  The kids were already in bed,
and her day would last just a few minutes longer, until about 10:17,
when the weather segment concluded.

Hearing the all-too familiar music, she blew on her hot tea, then
looked at the TV screen and saw the 10@10 logo.

And then that wonderfully familiar man said, "Good evening, and welcome
to Ten at Ten.  I'm Tom Rivers, and we have a number of stories
tonight, from a problem with the Teacher's Pension Fund to a
cancer-fighting enzyme recently discovered at the University of
Minnesota.  We begin tonight's coverage, however, on a very serious
note, that of the murder of a young white male in south Minneapolis."

"Oh, God," she muttered.

It struck her immediately, of course, just the way such things had
since he'd disappeared in the dark.  Practically every moment of every
day since then she'd wondered what had happened to him, just as she'd
wondered how the news would finally come back.  Would he call?  Would
he write?  Would he simply come walking up the drive, his boots kicking
up the dirt the way they always did, that playful grin lighting up his
face?

And as she did every single time she heard any horror story, she now
silently prayed.  Don't let this be about him.  Not about my baby.  Not
about Andy.  She was planning on getting up enough money to hire a
private investigator, though she didn't actually know how to go about
finding such a person.  She was, however, almost positive he was there,
somewhere in The Cities, and ever since that horrible, horrible night
she was afraid of something like this.  Afraid that one of these times
she'd pick up the newspaper or turn on the television and the news was
going to be about her boy.

"Just over an hour ago," continued Rivers, "Minneapolis police received
a call reporting the crime.  Here with a live report of this still
developing story is our investigative reporter, Todd Mills.  Todd?"

Her husband immediately sat forward and started groping around for the
remote control.

She quickly said, "Leave it, John!"

"Oh, come on.  We don't need this crap," he snapped back, zapping the
off button.

In an instant the television screen went blank and melted into
blackness.  She sat forward, her hands clutching her mug of tea, and
fear clutching her heart.  There'd been no word from Andy, not since
John had dragged him kicking and screaming into the barn.  For his
seventeenth birthday three months ago she'd wanted so very much to send
him a birthday card, a present, money, something, but where?  Where in
God's name was he?

"But what if..  ."  she protested, "what if it's something about Andy?
What if something's happened to him?"

"Then he'll have gotten exactly what he deserved, just like I said!"

"Jesus Lord in heaven, how can you say that about your own son, John
Lyman?!"

"Because he's no son of mine no more, that's how.  If you had seen what
I saw, Martha, you'd still be sick to your stomach, just like I am.
That kid's not natural, and he's no son of mine!  It's time you forgot
about him.  We got two kids now--two beautiful girls, that's what we
got."

The tears just burst out of her, and she dropped her entire mug, its
handle cracking off as it hit the floor, the hot tea streaming onto the
beige carpeting.  Stumbling to her feet, she burst into a run and
charged into the kitchen.  She hated what had become of her son, she
was disgusted by the very thought of it, but now she was beginning to
hate her husband too.  Would they never, she thought, dropping herself
on a chair at the Formica breakfast table by the back window, get past
this?

"Jesus Christ," cursed John, tromping into the kitchen after her and
throwing the mug into the garbage beneath the sink, "you went and broke
my favorite mug.  Plus you got tea all over everything, and that shit
stains, you know.  It stains real bad."

One hand over her mouth, she stared out the window at the old silo and
the two white metal pole barns they'd put up some years back.  In the
pale farmyard light, she saw his blue Ford pickup, her old Chevy.

And that night came whirling back.

They'd dropped the younger ones at her mother's for the night, left
Andy at home with a friend, Jordy Weaver, and gone to town to see a
movie.  It was the first time they'd been out in months, but rather
than stopping for a drink after the show they'd come straight home.
John was exhausted, and they'd come home over an hour earlier than
they'd told Andy.  She'd gone to the barn to see how that litter of new
kittens was doing, and John had come in, gone straight to their own
bedroom, and what did he find in their queen-sized bed but the two of
them, Andy and that Weaver kid from the other high school, both of them
buck naked.  John had knocked out two of Weaver's teeth, then dragged
Andy naked and kicking and screaming into the barn, where he threw him
up against a wall, stripped off his own belt, and screamed, "You little
shit, I'm gonna kill you!"

Oh, God.  She'd thought she'd known her husband.  She thought she'd
seen every one of his dark corners.  But she hadn't.  Not until that
night.  He would've killed Andy, too, would've beat him to death,
unless she'd come out there with the twelve-gauge.

"Stop it!"  she'd screamed, firing a shot straight through the metal
roof.

"Do you know what ungodly things they were doing?  And in our bed for
Christ's sake!"  John had countered, his face flush with disgust.  "In
our very own \>e&,\"

"Just stop it!"

Then, while she'd held the shotgun on her husband, she told her oldest
child to run.  And run he had, charging into the house for some
clothes, next down the dark road and into the night.  He'd never
returned, and the only thing they'd heard from him since was a phone
call three days later, apologizing and saying he wouldn't be back.

So whose fault was it?  Hers?  His?  Theirs?  Was it something they'd
done?  Something they didn't do?

Starting to cry all over again just when she thought it wasn't
possible to shed another tear, she bent her head forward.  And that's
when it happened.

The phone rang.

Martha spun around on the first ring, stared right into her husband's
eyes, her husband who still stood at the sink.  And they both silently
thought it: Who in the world would be calling this late?

Clutching her stomach with her left hand, clasping her mouth with her
right, she knew in her heart that this was it, the one call she'd been
fearing all these months.

And the tears started sliding from her eyes even as her husband picked
up the phone and in a weak voice said, "Hello?"

II

In the City of Lakes water was never far away.

Clutching the dark green plastic bag, the bald man stood on the edge of
Lake Harriet, the cool fall water nipping at the soles of his heavy
black leather boots.  Like the other lakes in the city, this one wasn't
so large, just an oval body of water some three miles around.  And like
the others, it, too, was surrounded by a parkway of road and paths,
both bicycle and pedestrian, as well as huge old homes in a riot of
styles, from French Normandy to Prairie School and Italian ate.  There
was a band shell on this lake, though, and a rose garden and a heavily
wooded bird sanctuary too.  Beautiful in a way, he thought, peering
across the dark waters and at the lights on the far side, yet so quiet,
so utterly calm.  Exactly.  Which was why he had left here so long ago.
Much too dull.

Though he wasn't a towering man, he was good-sized, with broad,
muscular shoulders and massive arms.  The first thing that people
noticed about him was not his high cheekbones or quick eyes, but his
smooth head, which actually wasn't bald, but shaved.  In college at the
University of Minnesota he'd been a star football player until he'd
been kicked out for selling pot, and then he'd somehow ended up in Los
Angeles.  There'd been trouble and then some with the law out there,
but then, of course, some twelve years ago his life had dramatically
changed.  Until then he hadn't had a career, yet now he was a
professional whose work took him around the world, including back to
Minnesota, his home state.  Never in his life would he have predicted
it, that he'd voluntarily return, if only for a few months.

His jeans and leather coat were black like his boots, and he would
have blended perfectly into the dark Minneapolis night except for his
head, which glowed like a moon.  Wondering if anyone had noticed him,
he glanced over his shoulder.  On one path a woman with a nylon pack
mounted on her back went riding quickly by on a bicycle.  And there,
farther down, he saw a guy walking his dog.  Yes, he had to be careful.
He remembered from his childhood that there was always someone down by
these lakes, and that was still the case now.  He remembered, too, how
surprisingly deep this particular lake was, and he was counting on
that.  It was the only reason he was here.

He twisted his feet so that his black leather boots sank slightly into
the sand, then, clutching the bag in his left hand, bent over and
grabbed a rock with his right.  So how did you do this?  He hadn't done
it in years, not since he'd left the Midwest, but he did it now, bent
low and to the side, brought his arm back, and heaved.  The rock shot
out over the water but then abruptly sank with a distinct plunk.  Not
sure what he'd done wrong, he bent over and fumbled around until he
found another one.  Holding the rock carefully, he brought his arm back
a second time, launched the rock, and watched as it hit the water's
surface and dove under without a single skip.

Was anyone watching his failed attempts?

He looked around, saw no one.  And then he reached into the plastic bag
and pulled out the long metal object.  Not wasting a moment, he bent
slightly to the side and threw the heavy knife as hard as he could,
watching it whirl far out over the water until it, too, sliced through
the surface and disappeared.

Satisfied, he bent to the water and rinsed his hand with a couple of
quick swirls.  He then reached for one last rock, took it, and hurled
it out over the lake.  Success was not his.

He crumpled the green plastic bag and walked slowly away from the lake,
stretching once and yawning.  He crossed the pedestrian path, stuffed
the bag into a metal garbage can, and continued on past the bicycle
path to his car, which was stopped along the parkway next to a stand of
trees and the bird sanctuary.  He sat for a few minutes in

the white Saab as if he were relaxing, but in truth watching to see if
anyone--anyone who might have seen him--came along.

But there was no one.

Pleased, the large man with the shaved head started up the car and was
just about to drive away when his cellular phone started to ring.  He
immediately knew who it was.

Picking it up from the passenger seat, he flicked on the phone and
said, "Good evening, this is Vie."

"It's me.  Did you get it all taken care of?"

"Absolutely.  Don't worry, it's all under control."

"Great," said the voice with an audible sigh.  "Thanks a million."

"No problem, that's what I'm here for."

Standing in the woods of the bird sanctuary, the attractive man with
the light hair watched as the white Saab pulled away from the curb and
sped off into the night.  Wearing a rust-colored cotton coat and
clutching a camera, he peered suspiciously around a thick oak, saw the
red taillights shooting away, and he said to himself, Okay, remember
this.  Remember this because something important just happened.  Did
that guy just throw what you think he did into the lake?

He'd been there the entire time, hidden by the trees and wondering just
what in the hell that other guy, the bald one, was up to.  In the faint
light from the streetlights he'd taken note of the large, muscular man
in the shiny black leather coat.  And at first he'd presumed the other
had come down here to cruise these woods, like the handful of other men
lurking among these trees tonight.  But, no, the bald man had instead
crossed the road and gone straight down to the small beach.  And then
.. .

Behind him he now heard the snap of a twig, which sounded so jarring in
the night shadows.  He turned, saw a bush, a tree.  And finally eyes.
They burned out of the darkness, focused straight on him.  The
light-haired man stared back, and a moment later a man emerged out of
the pool of blackness.  The other was of medium build, not trim but

 not fat either, and he wore a dark suit, white shirt, and tie.  Nice
enough-looking, too, with thick eyebrows and chestnut brown hair and
what looked like a heavy beard.  His mouth was pinched tight, his face
taut, even tense, and he looked almost angry, but of course he was
merely hungry, his body famished with lust.  The younger one had seen
him earlier, their eyes had caught when he'd first made his way in
here.  He'd seen the wedding ring too.  Some exec, he presumed, who'd
probably told his wife he'd be working late tonight.  Probably made a
couple of hundred thou', had two kids, a dog.  And while the wife might
one day suspect her husband of screwing his secretary, she'd probably
never imagine that he was instead down here screwing the boys.

Shit, he thought, feeling his heart suddenly tighten.  He's just my
type.  But, no, not tonight.

Diverting his eyes, he slipped his camera inside his coat and turned
away, abandoning any pretext of interest.  Carefully and purposefully
not looking back so as not to encourage the other, the young man moved
out of the woods in two quick steps, then dashed to the left and
hurried off to his car.

Was the idea of a gay relationship ludicrous?  Impossible?

Immediately after speaking with Jordy, Todd bypassed the station and
returned to his apartment, a two-bedroom condo on the fifteenth floor
of a high-rise with killer views of Lake Calhoun.  Usually hesitant to
drink alone because of the alcoholism that had run so freely in his
family, he poured himself a large glass of cabernet just moments after
he walked in the door.  He was desperate for something to slow his
thoughts, if not his heart, and he stood at the sliding glass balcony
door, peering into the night and thinking only: What the fuck was Jordy
talking about?

Not long ago Todd had seen something on CNN about sexuality and the
sexes, and it now came back to haunt him with the thought that a
relationship between two men could never work.  According to the
report, which was done to explain the sundry interests of none other
than the President, a man's evolutionary duty was to spread his seed
far and wide, while a woman's was to guard her future, i.e."  the
offspring.  In scientific terms that made sense, he thought, but how
did it apply to two gay men?  And did it mean that by their very nature
they were doubly destined to sleep around?

Todd took a long, deep swallow of red wine, then turned and wandered
over to the black leather couch that was the main fixture of the living
room.  He dropped himself into the deep cushions and thought how the
heterosexual role model that his parents had provided him as a kid was
certainly nothing to rave about.  In fact, it was all but a lie.

His father had been a drinker, verbally abusive to both his wife and
sons.  His mother had been sweet on the outside, but torn with anguish
within, coming to life only after her husband had drunk himself to
death.  In retrospect, Todd thought they should have divorced, for
neither parent had been happy.  It was, looking back on it, a pathetic
waste of two lives.

Yes, Todd had grown up with that archetype and had for a good while
mimicked it nearly to a T. He'd married Karen, and they'd looked the
beautiful Chicago couple, he a dashing reporter, she a successful
physician.  They'd been popular and well-off, the quintessential yuppie
couple all about the Windy City.  The entire time, however, Todd's
truth, his sexuality, had been eating at him, and eventually he did the
best thing he ever did for his wife, he divorced her.

So he didn't want either the type of relationship he'd seen while
growing up, or the type he'd lived before coming out.  Yet for all
intents and purposes, his relationship with Rawlins had fallen into
that marital model and that monogamous expectation, at least until
recently.

"I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, I really
do," Rawlins had said over dinner last month.  "But I'm not sure a
monogamous relationship can really work, that it's really practical for
two guys.  Do we want to be that confined?  That restricted?  I mean,
if by chance I end up having a quickie with someone, I don't want to
have to end up lying to you just to save our relationship."

Totally unprepared, Todd asked what immediately came to mind.  "What..
. what are you saying?  Are you trying to tell me you've already had
sex with someone else?"

"No, I'm just trying to be realistic, that's all.  And I'm not just
talking about gay people either--just look at all the straight people
screwing around and lying about it.  They always end up splitting up
because of some stupid expectation.  I want us to be better than that
and .. . and I don't want us to break up.  That's why I've never been
in a monogamous relationship before."

"Well, maybe that's why none of your other relationships has lasted
more than a year."

"Todd, come on, be serious."

"I am.  It's fine for other people, but an open relationship is not
what I want.  I just don't think it can work, at least not for me.  I
don't have that kind of energy."

No, either he didn't have that kind of emotional and mental energy to
be continually processing who was seeing whom and doing what with whom.
Or he simply wasn't secure enough.  It was, he thought, surely a
combination of the two, but the latter, if he was completely honest to
himself, was probably the far greater of the reasons.  No, he didn't
give a rip what anyone else did or wanted or how they defined their
happiness, but in this restless world he wanted one rock that he could
claim and rely upon as his and his alone.

It was the beginning of an ongoing conversation, one that didn't leave
Todd with any warm, fuzzy feelings, either.

"I don't want to be confining and restrictive, I really don't.  The
last thing I want to do is try to crush someone," Todd had recently
said.  "But, I'm sorry, I just can't handle the thought of me staying
at home watching TV while you're off screwing someone else."

"But what about this: You're out of town doing a story, you have too
much to drink, and a gorgeous waiter seduces you.  It could easily
happen, you know."

"Yeah, but, Rawlins .. ."

"Yeah, but what?  If it happens you'd rather lie about it?"

"No, I ... I ..."

The closest they'd come to a compromise was to agree upon total trust
and total honesty.  In other words, they wouldn't go looking for it,
but if something happened, if one of them strayed outside the
relationship, the first to find out would be the other.  And then it
would be no big deal, end of story.

Todd's black cat, Girlfriend, came sauntering into the room, her tail
swishing from side to side in that seductive kitty way.  She jumped
onto the couch, then made her way into his lap, and he stroked her,
running his hand down the length of her spine and all the way to the
tip of her tail.  She had belonged to Curt, who'd died of AIDS and

who'd been so terribly worried about what would happen to the
simplest, most innocent thing in his life, this creature.  Todd gently
pulled her closer, nuzzling her until she broke into a motor of a
purr.

Oh, shit, thought Todd as he took another sip of wine, the fucking
problem with a gay relationship was that it was like trying to reinvent
the wheel.  First of all, there was no one sanctioned way to establish
a same-sex relationship, particularly not legally, which certainly
didn't help.  After all, how could you encourage a union with someone
without the support of the community, the culture, and the legal
system?  And how could you support your rights to happiness and
prosperity when you had no legal rights to look after your spouse's
well-being, health, or financial needs?

On the other hand .. .

Perhaps it was good that everything was open to discussion and
negotiation, particularly if the archetypal model, the heterosexual
one, had its flaws.  And perhaps it was better if things didn't work
between two people that they simply split and went their own ways.

But where could you turn for a model of a gay relationship that worked?
And what, for that matter, did work?

Trust.  Honesty.

Once again, when it came right down to it, that was all Todd wanted:
the knowledge that no matter what happened in this wonderful, shitty
world, there was one person he could count on for his integrity, for
his word.  And that was why his heart now ached, not so much because
Rawlins might not have kept his dick zipped up in a chastity belt of
morality, but because it looked like Rawlins had already broken their
recent agreement by not saying anything.  Had the entire discussion
been futile?  Had Rawlins merely been trying to justify something he'd
already done?

Or had there been nothing?

Of course that was a possibility, but if something had happened it was
now infinitely more complicated.  Andrew was seventeen, just a kid.
Rawlins was a cop, someone in a position of authority.  If something
sexual had happened between them, not only did Todd find it

reprehensible, but it also opened an insidious can of trouble.  Major
league trouble.  Todd didn't know the exact Minnesota statutes, but
there was no doubt in his mind that sex between someone that young and
someone that much older constituted criminal sexual conduct.

And now Andrew was dead and Rawlins would be investigating his
murder.

"Oh, shit," mumbled Todd to himself.

This was not good.  If Rawlins had screwed Andrew, things couldn't be
worse, both in terms of the law and in terms of Todd and Rawlins's
relationship.  And, Jesus Christ, what if... what if Rawlins knew
something relevant to the murder case itself?  Would he withhold it,
just as it seemed he had been withholding information from Todd?

It was almost more than Todd could stomach, and he downed the rest of
the wine, then sat there in the dim light, slowly stroking the cat over
and over.  His eyes wide and tired, he looked straight ahead but saw
nothing.  Some fifteen or twenty minutes later Girlfriend, unable to
bear the monotonous, nearly compulsive attention, scurried off,
bounding behind a chair and out of Todd's reach.  Seeing that it was
well after midnight, Todd got up, took his wineglass into the kitchen,
where he set it on the white counter, then sauntered down the narrow
hall to the bedroom.

Dear God, what was he going to say, what was he going to do, when
Rawlins came home, whenever that might be?

He washed, brushed his teeth, and stripped, then went to bed and lay
just like that, awake and naked, for well over an hour.  He fully knew
how these things went, that the first hours of any murder investigation
were the most critical, and that if Rawlins came home at all it
wouldn't be until very late.  Very, very late.  In fact, he might just
work through the night.  And although with each wakeful moment Todd
seemed increasingly confident that he himself would never fall asleep,
somehow he did just that.

But then he heard the click of keys in the front door.

Rolling over, he glanced at his digital clock and saw that it was 4:09.
Lying as still as the dead, his ears traced Rawlins's every movement 
He heard the zipper of his jacket, the closet door.  Then came the soft
padding of steps down the carpeted hallway, through the bedroom, and
into the bathroom.  A door was shut, the fan went on, a spray of water
charged to life.  Just as he so often did after a long, tense day of
work, Rawlins took a brief shower, washing away the grime of his job
and, undoubtedly tonight, the odor of Andrew's death, which was sure to
have permeated so very much.

Tense with fear and worry and still without the faintest idea of how he
was going to handle this, Todd continued to lie motionless until
Rawlins finally came out.  With all his attention, he discerned Rawlins
coming around the foot of the bed, then sensed, of course, the
comforter pulled back.  Next the mattress sank as Rawlins climbed in
and scooted across, and a second later he was spooning Todd from
behind.  Todd bit his lip, forced himself not to move, not to say
anything, as he felt that thick hairy chest press against his back, as
the muscular arm wrapped around his stomach.  And it was more than he
could bear when he felt Rawlins kissing him on the back of the neck.

Finally, in a faint voice Todd said, "Hi."

Right off the bat Rawlins said, "I love you."

It was far more than he could resist, and he turned his head so that
his mouth could find Rawlins's.

"I love you too," he said, and then kissed him.

Never had Todd meant it more.  And never had Todd wanted him more, both
physically and emotionally.  In one quick swoop he twisted fully
around, and then they were in each other's arms, kissing and groping,
pulling and tugging.

I want you, thought Todd.  I need you.  Don't go.  You're the best, the
most wonderful thing that's ever happened to me.

In an instant he was ready.  His hand shot down, surfed the fur on
Rawlins's stomach, then plunged into Rawlins's coarser pubic hair and
found him just as he wanted, rigid and erect.  Todd stroked him, and
Rawlins shook and clung to Todd, his strong fingers digging into Todd's
shoulders.

And then Rawlins, his voice deep yet weak, said, "Are ... are you
alright?"

"Not really."

Right then Todd realized that no matter how desperate he was to know,
he wasn't going to ask, not about young Andrew.  No, if this
relationship was going to work Rawlins was going to have to come to
Todd and tell him.

"How about you?"  asked Todd, realizing that he had just given Rawlins
rope and then some with which to hang himself.

"I'm .. . wiped out."

Todd clung to him, kissing him pathetically on the cheek, the ear, the
neck, and realizing finally what was going on here.  This was a test. 
A test Rawlins didn't even know he was taking, but one that he was, at
this point, most certainly failing.

It was just after seven when Todd sensed Rawlins forcing himself out
of bed, then back into the shower and eventually back into his clothes.
Through a haze of sleep Todd wondered why Rawlins had bothered coming
home at all, but of course it wasn't that unusual.  When a murder
investigation was just cranking up, Rawlins grabbed sleep whenever and
however he could.

With each moment Todd woke up more and more, quite quickly so, but he
didn't call out to Rawlins, nor did he even flinch.  Rather he just lay
there completely still until he was absolutely positive that Rawlins
was out the door.  He didn't get up because he didn't want to talk to
Rawlins.  And he didn't want to talk to him because he simply didn't
know what to say: I love you, I hate you.

Once he heard the front door open and shut, Todd was pulled out of bed
by the rich smell of coffee, the lure of which he could rarely resist.
He slipped on his dark maroon terry-cloth bathrobe and headed down the
hall to the kitchen, where he saw not only the red light of the
coffeemaker still burning, but his favorite mug, a tall, thin black and
white one with a large handle, which Rawlins had set out for Todd.  For
Todd's perusal, Rawlins had also left today's issue of the Star Tribune
on the middle of the counter.  And he'd fed the cat.  Yes, thought Todd
as he surveyed the scene of seemingly domestic bliss, it certainly
looked like just another day.

"Good morning, Girlfriend," said Todd, when the cat looked up from her
kibbles.

As he poured himself his first cup of coffee he realized that he felt,
well, numb, his insides heavy and his limbs weak.  He wasn't much
interested in the idea of breakfast.  Actually, the thought of going
back to bed sounded best of all.  Okay, Todd, he told himself, face it:
You're depressed.

Carrying his coffee, he slowly made his way back down the hall, through
the bedroom, and into the bathroom.  He reached into the shower stall,
turned on the water, then slipped off his robe.  Mug in hand, he
stepped into the shower and just stood there as the hot water pounded
on his back.  Shit, he wondered, taking a sip of coffee, what was this
all about?  And what the hell was going to become of them, Rawlins and
him?  This couldn't be the beginning of the end, could it?

Unfortunately, the only thing he was sure of was that he couldn't lose
control of the story of Andrew Lyman's murder.  Which meant that he
couldn't stay in the shower as long as he was tempted.  Nor could he
mope around the apartment or lounge on the balcony and stare out at the
lake.  Or crawl back into bed and doze away the morning.  He simply
didn't dare.  It was approaching eight o'clock and WLAK's daily
editorial meeting started in just over forty minutes, with last night's
murder surely at the top of the agenda.  Forcing himself to move, he
grabbed the pile of articles on Tim Chase from the dining room table,
stuffed them into his briefcase, and was out the front door, his second
cup of coffee in hand.

Rarely did it take more than twenty minutes to get anywhere in the Twin
Cities.  This morning it took him just over fifteen to traverse the
ribbon of freeways and flat landscape to reach suburban Golden Valley
and WLAK, a squat, mostly concrete structure that looked more like a
war bunker than a successful television station.  Immediately to the
rear of the building were a dozen or so satellite dishes, and a parking
lot filled with a fleet of trucks and vans and ENG vehicles, all
emblazoned with WLAK's logo.

Using his ID card to enter the rear glass doors, Todd bypassed the
crowded and busy newsroom to his right, headed down a wide, dimly lit
corridor lined with awards and photographs, and turned into a large

conference room.  Their yellow legal pads and morning coffee before
them, a dozen people sat around a dark wooden table in the middle of
the room.

It began this way every day at WLAK.

At eight-thirty every morning the news director, the five P.M. and six
P.M. producers, the executive producer, a scattering of reporters, and
the crew from the assignment desk, including the manager, the editor,
and a couple of assistants, all filed into this room.  First on the
agenda would be feedback from the previous few days' stories.  Then
those who had been up since the crack of dawn reading any and all
newspapers, studying the wire services, and taking as many calls as
came in would present a slew of story ideas.  Next the general tug
would begin as they hashed out what would be reported as the day's most
compelling news, who was to handle it, and exactly how it would be
covered.  If you didn't get ownership of a story right here, Todd knew
only too well, there was no telling which way an idea would go.  That
was exactly why Todd was here: some of the things these people came up
with were absolutely nuts, particularly when it came to homosexuals and
murders.

Rather than taking a place at the table, Todd leaned against one wall,
ready to pounce on the Andrew Lyman story, determined to claim it as
his own.  He stood silent, half-listening as the news director, Tom
Busch, opened the meeting and covered the usual items.  As they
discussed the ongoing saga of whether the omnipotent Mn Dot--the
Minnesota Department of Transportation--was going to persevere in
building a huge bridge over the St.  Croix River, Todd decided on the
angle he was going to take for his own story and just how he'd pitch
it.

"The federal judge assigned to this bridge thing will be announcing her
decision just after lunch," said Busch, a burly guy with brownish hair
and big round shoulders.  "Any of you reporters want to pick it up?"

Carol Wyman's hand immediately shot up.  "Yep.  I'll take it.  My
parents have a cabin on the St.  Croix, so I'm quite interested in
this."

"Fine, it's yours.  Just remember, I want equal coverage of the

issue.  Minn DOT all worried about traffic congestion, and the
Department of Natural Resources is concerned about the quality of a
national scenic waterway."

"I'd like to get something in there about the bridge encouraging urban
sprawl, which it certainly would do," said the attractive, slim
reporter, her brunette hair clipped short.  "I mean, if they build a
four lane bridge from Minnesota to Wisconsin you can bet the
subdivisions are going to sprout like weeds over there."

The executive producer, Bill Summers, a lawyerly looking type with
silver hair, looked up and coolly said, "Just keep it even."

"So what are we talking here?"  asked Steve Carlson, the assignment
editor, who figured prominently in all these meetings.  "A sixty second
package?"

"No, we covered this one pretty extensively about two months ago," said
Busch.  "I think a thirty second live report just about the judge's
decision would be enough."

"How about I do it from Stillwater?"  suggested Carol.  "We can get a
downstream shot of the river."

"Fine."

"Okay, it's a go," said Carlson, writing it down.  "A thirty second
live shot from Stillwater.  We're talking for both the five and six,
right?"

"Right."  Looking up at Todd, Tom Busch said, "Now, what about this kid
who was killed last night?  What's the story there, was or wasn't he
gay?"

Todd, who had correctly assumed the story would come up on the early
side of the meeting, stepped away from the wall, and said, "I couldn't
report on it any more directly last night because the police haven't
released it, but Andrew Lyman, the kid who was killed, was most
definitely gay."

"That a factor in the murder?"

"I'm pretty sure it was.  He was found in bed at eight-thirty in the
evening with his throat slit.  From what I was told by one of the
homicide investigators, chances are he'd just had sex with someone,"
said Todd, knowing that this was it, his pitch to obtain complete
control of

the story.  "Andrew was a runaway, and he grew up on a farm somewhere
out state  I think it was in western Minnesota, actually.  From what I
understand, his parents found out he was gay and kicked him out.  I met
him at the Domain of Queers, the gay lesbian youth center where I gave
a talk."

"Did you know him well?"  asked Summers, scrutinizing him.

He was asking, Todd knew, if it was going to be a conflict--which of
course it would be for a host of different reasons.

"No," replied Todd.  "I met him just a couple of times.  But that's
enough, of course, for me to be able to put a personal angle on this
thing."

Busch said, "So we got a gay murder on our hands?  Is that how you want
to come at it?"

"Absolutely not.  First of all, I think just about every other station
is going to use that tack.  Second, I want to give the story more
depth, if for no other reason than it raises some very complex
questions.  I want to start out by talking about a young, healthy kid
who happened to be gay.  I want to talk about a kid who was lost and
looking, a kid whose parents threw him out because of his sexuality.
And I want to work this in with the Domain of Queers and how they're
trying to provide a sense of place and direction for kids with poor
self-esteem and nowhere to go."

Carlson, always wanting to keep things focused on who was doing what
and when, asked, "What are you thinking?  A package at five?"

No, Todd wanted the big one.  He wanted the six P.M. All of this,
though, was simply a matter of negotiation.

"No, I'm not sure I can be ready by then.  I want to get as much from
the police as possible, and I want to try and dig up something on the
parents too.  The more time I have the better."

"Then how about a VOSOT at five?"

Perfect, he thought.  He could easily do one for the five o'clock,
which would in turn give him exposure on both evening shows.

"Sure," he replied.  "Then I can front a package at six."

"Okay," said Tom Busch, looking around the room, "then let's make this
our lead story on both the five and six.  Do we agree?"

"Sure," replied Carlson.

Bill Summers nodded, which prompted a few more heads to go up and down.
And then it was all set.  Todd's work for the day was cast in stone.

As they launched into a discussion about the proposed merger of two
area banks and how it should be covered, Todd grabbed his briefcase and
ducked out.  In the hallway he passed several reporters just now
heading into the meeting, and then he turned into the newsroom.  It was
a large space filled with cubicles and dominated by the assignment
desk, which was elevated and looked out over everything, functioning
much like flight control.  Only a handful of producers were at their
desks, some hammering away at keyboards, a couple yammering on the
phone, as producers, of course, were wont to do.

Todd passed a dark hallway of glass edit booths, wound his way around,
and turned into his glass-walled office.  As always, the first thing he
did was hit a couple of keys on his computer and check his e-mail.
There was not much of significance--notification of a joint birthday
party for four coworkers at five this afternoon, a message from one of
the producers that she'd submitted one of Todd's pieces for an Emmy,
and a staff-wide notice about vacation procedure.  He then picked up
his phone and listened to his voice mail, finding that three tip
callers had phoned in last night to tell him about the murder, then
someone else had phoned this morning from one of the local gay
organizations wondering if Todd had any more information.  The last
call was from a man asking if Todd knew anything about a recall on blue
cheese.  There was nothing from Rawlins, which Todd didn't know how to
take.

While he worked almost exclusively with Bradley, whom he considered to
be their best photographer, not to mention the easiest and most
flexible, Todd didn't have his own researcher producer  Last month the
news director, Tom Busch, had told him he could have such a person, but
Todd had been and still was reticent.  Perhaps he was being both
foolish and selfish, but he didn't want to be tied down, just as he
didn't want to be responsible for filling another person's day.

In the past when he'd needed either research assistance or a producer
he'd always simply commandeered someone.  It was times like now,
however, that were making him reconsider.  Not only would it be good to
have someone to bounce ideas off of, there were a myriad of questions
that had to be answered today.  Exactly how old was Andrew?  Was he
previously in any kind of trouble?  What were the names of his parents
and what was their phone number?  Exactly who was Andrew working for
here in town?  And, of course, had the runaway with no assets except
his body ever hustled?

Todd was just reaching into his desk when the phone rang.  Hoping it
wasn't someone else calling about a blue cheese recall, he picked it
up.

"WLAK, this is Todd Mills."

A bright female voice said, "Hi, Todd, how are you?"

"Ah .. . fine."

"I hope I'm not calling too early."

Uncomfortable with her personal tone, he hesitated, then said, "No."

"Oh, good.  Listen, I just wanted to check in.  Do you have a couple of
minutes?"

She was young-sounding and definitely energetic, but who the hell was
she?  Another crackpot caller?  Her voice didn't sound the least bit
familiar.

He asked, "I'm sorry, but who is this?"

"Oh, how stupid of me.  It's me, Melissa.  And I'm just calling
regarding your request."

"My request?"

"Yes, it was faxed to me last week.  Sorry it's taken me so long to get
back to you."

Todd stretched his mind this way and that, but he couldn't quite get a
handle on it.  Just as he didn't know her voice or her name, nor did he
know what in the hell she was talking about.

Melissa said, "So do you have a couple of minutes to visit with me?"

This wasn't making any sense, and he said, "I'm sorry I'm not tracking
you here.  You're calling regarding a fax?"

She laughed in an almost too familiar way.  "No, no, Todd.  I'm calling
you regarding the interview with Tim Chase.  They faxed me your request
from Hollywood.  I'm Mr.  Chase's publicist."

Suddenly Melissa, who was obviously not Minnesotan at all but
oh-so-casual Californian, had Todd's complete attention.  He sat
forward in his chair and cleared his throat.  Just sound cool.  Just
sound collected.  And intelligent.

She continued, saying, "Didn't anyone from L.A. call to let you know
I'd be in contact?"

"Actually, no."

"Oh, I'm sorry!  And here I'm calling out of the blue and babbling on
and on."

"That's okay.  I'm just pleased someone's calling me back.  Thank you
very much."

"Of course.  It's my job, after all.  Actually I'm calling you this
morning because I saw you on TV last night, you know, at ten o'clock.
Nice work."

"Thanks," replied Todd.

"It's so sad, though.  Was he really just a kid?"

"Yeah, just seventeen."

"Do his parents know yet?"

"That's a good question.  Actually, I don't know."  Trying to get
control of the conversation, Todd said, "But if you saw me on TV last
night that means you must be here in town."

"Yeah, I am.  I flew in with Tim ten days ago."  In a light way and
with a slight giggle, she added, "I travel just about everywhere with
him."

Which meant, of course, she had power.  Big power.  Todd had no idea if
she worked for Chase or if something like a studio had in fact hired
her to keep an eye out on one of their biggest investments. 
Regardless, she was obviously the gatekeeper--a purposely sweet, cheery
one at that--to one of the most powerful Hollywood stars.  So

what was this call?  The nice letdown?  Was she calling to tell Todd
that, no, he didn't get the interview?  Perhaps.  And perhaps he was
getting this call simply because he was part of the media and Tim
Chase's keepers certainly didn't want to piss off anyone who could make
ripples, however small.

"So," Melissa continued, keeping the spotlight on Todd, "what are you
going to do?  I mean, is there anything new on the case?"

"Not really.  Not yet."

"So was the kid gay?"

"Well, the police haven't confirmed it yet, but, yes, he was," replied
Todd, finding it odd that she was taking such an interest.  "He was a
teenager and he was gay and he was a runaway."

"Wow.  How sad.  And now he's dead.  What are you going to do next?  I
mean, do you have another report to do?"

"Oh, yeah.  One at five and then a larger one at six."

"I see.  So do you have to talk to the police again?"

"I've got to talk to everyone--the police, people in the apartment
building where he lived, his friends, and hopefully his parents."

This, he thought, even as he spoke, was weird.  Publicists didn't keep
you on the phone for seemingly no reason.  They had better things to
do, like press releases to write, influentials to schmooze, not to
mention about a million phone calls to make.  So what was going on
here?  As friendly and as sweet sounding as she might pretend, Todd
definitely found himself squirming.  What kind of game was this?  He
had a distinct feeling that she'd done her homework and that she knew a
good deal about him.  So could it be that instead of a thanks
but-no-thanks call she was actually feeling him out?  In other words,
was this an interview?  It was, wasn't it?  Shit, realized Todd, could
he be that close to Tim Chase?

Wanting to sound as real and intelligent as possible, he quickly
thought of a tack, saying, "I'm sure most if not all the other stations
will be exploiting the victim's sexuality, but I think that's too
cheap.  I want to keep it as personal and real as possible.  From what
little I do know at this point, I doubt this kid was killed simply
because he was

gay.  Rather, I'm going to try to show how a family broke down over
one particular issue and what that eventually led to."

"You mean, like the permanent destruction of the family?"

"Exactly."  "Cool," replied Melissa with such an accent that it sounded
as if she was saying kewl.  "You know, that almost sounds like the
theme to Tim's movie.  You know, The Good Heart, the one he's filming
here."

"Perhaps."

"Listen, Todd, getting to the point of why I called, Tim only likes to
do one television interview per town.  It just gets too competitive
otherwise--you know, who's going to run the first interview, who's
going to come up with the snappiest angle, the juiciest gossip.  Let me
tell you, it's a recipe for disaster."

"Sure, sure."

"So we have to be really careful about who we choose.  And that means
we kind of have a different process for doing these things."  She
paused, and in a kind of bright but fake way, she asked, "Am I making
any sense?"

Todd sat there, the phone pressed firmly to his ear.  What the hell was
she saying?  Did he or didn't he have the interview?

Todd said, "I think I'm following."  ^

"Well, let me put it this way.  Tim wants to meet you before we agree
to anything."

"I see," he replied, hoping his tone didn't belie his surprise.

"Good.  How about tonight?  Tim was wondering if you could come over
about nine for a glass of wine.  How's that sound?  Tonight okay?"

"Nine tonight sounds great."

"Fantastic.  Here, let me give you the address."

Wanting to see if anything new had come in, Rawlins and Neal Foster
met the guys on dog watch, Meyers and Erickson, not long after they
came off their shift.  They gathered at a booth at Perkins on Lake
Street, where each of them drank coffee like water and ate breakfasts
that were massive enough for two or even three.  Discussing the murder
of Andrew Lyman took all of about ten minutes, for there was nothing
new, at least not in the few hours that Rawlins and Foster had crept
away to sleep.  Even Kathy Diedrich's formal statement, which Meyers
and Erickson had taken at the beginning of their shift, had revealed
nothing significant about the way in which she'd discovered the body.

Immediately afterward, Foster headed over to the medical examiner's to
take another look at the body, and Rawlins went to the downtown station
in City Hall.  Rawlins parked his silver Taurus alongside the huge red
granite structure, the walls of which were as thick as a castle, then
passed through the arched entrance on 4th Street.  Entering the dimly
lit lobby, he made his way past the large marble statue of Neptune and
the small bust of Brian Coyle, the city councilman who had died of
AIDS.  Proceeding up the massive marble staircase worn smooth with age,
Rawlins headed to the second floor, where a receptionist behind a
bulletproof window buzzed him into the Criminal Investigation
Division.

Everything here had been recently renovated, and the only hint that
this was a turn-of-the-century building was the soaring ceilings and
the huge windows, which were now covered with copper-colored

miniblinds.  While the Homicide Division used to be a true Bull Room,
with a bunch of old desks in one large space and everyone shouting and
moving about, it now more resembled a corporate office at the Pillsbury
Company.  The mauve carpet with its square pattern ran throughout, the
cubicles, designed for two investigators each, were lined up in neat
rows along the windows, and the modern desk chairs were not only
ergonomic, but their mauve fabric matched the carpeting.  Rawlins kind
of hated it, particularly since there was no privacy.  It didn't matter
whether you were calling a suspect or a lover, everyone could hear
everything--it was that tranquil, that professional-looking.  The only
indication of what went on here was a hanging clipboard that was packed
full of arrest bulletins and the occasional gun belt draped over the
back of a chair, neither of which you'd ever find at the Doughboy's.

Rawlins went directly to his cubicle, a long, rectangular space with
two desks and one computer, which he shared with Foster.  Without
taking off his brown leather jacket, Rawlins sat down at the outer
desk, then leaned forward and let out a distinct huff of air.  No doubt
about it, he thought, as he bent forward and bowed his head into his
hands, this was all fucked up.  That Andrew was dead was unbelievable. 
What was worse was that now he himself could be linked.

Leaning back, Rawlins glanced around the corner of the cubicle and saw
no one.  He then reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out
the small spiral notebook.  Opening the diary, he glanced at the first
few pages, each one filled with Andrew's tight, precise handwriting,
and each paragraph filled with details of his exploits.  Seeing nothing
of particular concern, Rawlins thumbed on, learning more than he
actually cared to about someone else's life.  Flipping toward the end,
Rawlins saw his own name.  Shit.  He read a couple of more pages, which
described everything, then pulled open his file drawer, found a file
marked for receipts, and dropped the small notebook in the back.

Jesus Christ, how the hell had he gotten into this mess?  Just what the
hell had he been thinking?

He shook his head and forced himself to press on, for quite simply he
had massive amounts of work to do.  While last night he'd gone home to
catch a few hours' sleep, more often than not on a new case Rawlins
simply stayed up, working through the night, looking at every angle,
examining each and every piece of evidence.  Every homicide
investigator worth shit knew it and knew it well: if a suspect didn't
surface in the first twenty-four hours, your chances of identifying one
began to plummet as fast as a boulder dropped in a lake.

As it was, Rawlins had stayed at the scene of Andrew Lyman's murder for
over five hours.  He'd been in the apartment until the Bureau of
Investigation team filmed every square inch and sucked up every single
fiber and hair, and then he'd watched in near shock as the medical
examiner loaded Andrew's beautiful young body into a vinyl bag, zipped
him up, and rolled him away.  He'd then checked with CA PRS and the
local police station, neither of which had any logged complaints
against Andrew Lyman or record of disturbance for this particular
address.  Moving on, Rawlins had interviewed several other residents,
searched unsuccessfully for any additional witnesses, then finally
taken the license plate numbers for eight cars parked in the rear of
the building.  As a matter of fact, he now thought, the registration
checks on those vehicles should already be complete.

So where was he going to start today?  First, of course, he wanted to
read through the statement of the young woman who had found Andrew's
body.  Then he'd contact forensics, see if there were any early
results, perhaps any hair samples.  And when, he wondered, was the
autopsy scheduled?  He doubted that they'd learn anything new on the
manner of death--Andrew had obviously been killed by a large, sharp
object slashed across his neck, and Rawlins was ninety percent positive
that it had happened right there in Andrew's own bed--but he was
curious to see if there were any drugs in Andrew's blood.  That was the
one thing he didn't know about Andrew, whether or not he did any kind
of dope.  And, of course, he had to find out who Andrew had been
hanging out with at the Domain of Queers.

A list.  Right, he thought, opening his top drawer and pulling out

a half-used pad.  Just do what you always do: make a list and go down
it nice and methodically.

He was just taking out a pen when his phone rang.  He yawned as he
reached for the receiver.  Could it be Todd?

"Homicide, this is Sergeant Rawlins."

"Hi," said a hesitant male voice.  "I'm trying to find the detective in
charge of the murder of that kid.  Someone put me through to you.  Have
.. . have I reached the right person?"

Rawlins was immediately awake.  A tip call?

"Yes," he replied.  "That's my case.  Who's calling?"

"You know, I don't think that's really important.  I mean, I'd rather
not say.  I just can't get involved."

Okay, maybe he'd get the name later.  The important thing was not
losing him, whoever he was.

In as even a voice as he could, Rawlins asked, "Is there something
you'd like to tell me?  Do you have any information that might be
helpful to us?"

"That's just the thing.  I'm not really sure.  You see, I was down at
Lake Harriet last night and .. . and I saw something kind of strange.
It didn't really click until I read the paper this morning.  You know,
when I read about that kid getting killed."

"What did you see?"

"Well, there was this guy--he threw something in the lake.  I couldn't
see what it was, but it looked like a piece of metal.  I mean, I don't
even know if it was a gun or a tin can, but it was just kind of
weird."

"Where exactly was this?"

"You know where the Rose Gardens are?  I was near there in some woods.
I mean, this guy, he couldn't see me."

Was Rawlins understanding correctly?  The woods just to the west of the
Rose Gardens was a known cruising area.  So had this guy been in there,
hunting for anonymous sex, and seen something?  Quite possibly. 
Rawlins thought for a quick moment.  How in the hell was he going to
get it out of him?  Was his best chance being as direct as possible? 
Perhaps, but then again maybe not.  If he was down in those woods he
could easily be a closet case.  And chances were that if Rawlins came
right out and asked him if he was cruising, he'd hang up.  A little
information this guy didn't mind giving, but outing himself was, as
they said in Russian, an entirely different opera.  So how could he do
this in the least threatening way?

"About what time was this?"  asked Rawlins.  "Urn, a little after
eleven."

"And you were down in the woods by the Rose Gardens?"  "Ah .. . yeah. 
I was down there with my camera."  "And this guy, he was where?  Down
by the lake?"  "Exactly.  There's a small beach.  He was standing down
there."  "I see.  You know, this might be very helpful to us.  I
appreciate your calling."  Okay, thought Rawlins, he'd just simply lay
out his own cards.  "I'm gay, which is why I'm particularly interested
in this case.  You see, the young man who was murdered was also gay."
"He ... he was?"  "Yes, most definitely."  "Oh, God."

Rawlins could hear it, the trepidation quivering in this guy's voice.
Which meant what?

"Listen," began Rawlins, "I don't want to get into anything too
personal, but--"

"I'm sorry, but I can't tell you my name."  "No, of course not.  Of
course you don't have to."  "And if you're trying to trace this call,
it won't work," he said matter-of-factly.  "I'm not at home."

"Please, you don't have anything to worry about."  "I just wanted to
tell you about something that might be important."

"And we appreciate--"

"I was down there," said the tip caller quickly, "and I saw this guy
who was completely bald throw something in the lake.  Then he turned
around and stuffed something in a garbage can.  And .. . and

then he got in his car--a white Saab convertible with a black roof-and
took off.  That's all."

"That's wonderful, we really do appreciate it.  I--"

"Listen, I gotta go."

"Wait, don't hang up!"

"You don't understand."

"Wait!"

Oh, shit, thought Rawlins, hearing the click on the other end.  He'd
lost him.  Shit, shit, shit.

He held the receiver to his ear for a long moment, then slowly put it
down, cursing himself for having come on too strongly.  He'd been out
of the closet for so long that he'd forgotten how frightened, how
threatened, people could be by their own sexuality.  Or how dangerous
it could be for someone.  Perhaps the tip caller was married and had
kids.  Or perhaps he was worried about work.  Or maybe he was in the
military.  But Rawlins was quite sure of one thing: that guy hadn't
been down in the woods taking pictures of birds or the moon.  For
Christ's sake, it had been going on midnight and it was a cloudy night.
No, surely the caller had been tricking, surely he'd gone down there
for what he couldn't or dared not get elsewhere, sexual contact with
another man.  Maybe he'd had sex with this bald guy.  Maybe not.
Regardless, he'd witnessed something he wasn't supposed to have.

Angry at himself for having lost the tipster, Rawlins sat there shaking
his head, yet knowing what he had to do next.  It might be nothing, but
he certainly couldn't ignore it.

Right, time to go fishing.

Todd stared at the piece of paper and couldn't help but grin.  This
was none other than Tim Chase's address here in Minneapolis.  And none
other than Tim Chase himself, one of Hollywood's biggest stars, had
invited Todd over for a glass of wine.  About nine tonight.
Unbelievable.

Unable to wipe the stupid smile off his face, he rolled back his chair
and stepped out of his office.  Still shocked, he stopped dead, stared
down at the paper, read it over again.  No, he wasn't delusional.  Yes,
this might actually happen.  And as the thrill of it all started
pumping through his body, he cut through the newsroom, out the side
door, down the corridor, and proceeded directly toward the conference
room, where this morning's meeting was still in progress.  Holy shit,
he couldn't wait to tell them.  Were they going to love this or what?
Management would wet their collective pants.

Turning into the room, he saw them all sitting there, a stuffy
hodgepodge of decision makers who were deciding what was news and what
wasn't.  A couple of heads turned his way, including the steely white
hair of Bill Summers, the executive producer, who all but glared at
him.  That guy, thought Todd, didn't know shit about what it was like
to go in front of a camera, to have your work judged every time you
appeared on TV not in terms of quality but in terms of clothing and the
way you smiled.  He didn't know a thing about hunting for a story,
finding a source, or digging out the truth.  All that jerk cared about
was what brought in the viewers.  All he wanted were good numbers, big
numbers.

And damned if Todd was now going to bring in news of his possible
interview with Tim Chase.

For one thing, it was still just that, a possibility.  After all,
tonight was just a preliminary meeting, a chance to talk over a glass
of wine.  There were to be no cameras, no tape recorders.  In other
words, it was a test in faint disguise.  Only if Todd passed--i.e."
only if Tim Chase, Inc."  thought Todd would and could deliver the
right kind of image that would enhance his fame and fortune--would he
get the chance to do the real interview.  And if Todd flunked, then
that was it, bye-bye.  And if the latter came true, if Todd didn't get
the interview, he sure as hell didn't want to walk back in here and
say, Oops, sorry, I lost Tim Chase.

Second, Todd was sure of it, certain that Bill Summers hated him.  The
glare was that strong.  The judgmental casting of the eyes that bitter.
Did Summers simply dislike gays or had Todd done something specific
that had pissed off this particularly powerful person?  Whichever it
was, nearly every time Todd saw Summers he wondered why the hell he'd
been hired in the first place and if it had been against Summers's
strong objection.  Regardless, Todd didn't want to give him any reason
whatsoever to add a black star to Todd's scorecard.  Which meant he'd
come back to them only when the interview was a sure thing.

Sobered, Todd turned away and started back down the dimly lit hall.  So
how was he going to do this, all the things that needed to be covered
today?  He needed to get a VOSOT ready for the five P.M. and a package
for the six.  But what about the late news, 10@10~?  Who knew what they
were deciding back in that meeting, whether or not they wanted a piece
for then.  If they did, there was no way it could be live.  No, they
could always run a tape of the story, because Todd for sure wasn't
going to be around, he was going to be having his wine with Tim Chase.
And if there were any problems he'd work it out with Tom Busch, the
news director.  Sure, Todd could confide in him, tell him what he was
nurturing.

There was no doubt about it, the Andrew Lyman story was going to take
up the vast majority of the day.  Once Bradley arrived they'd have to
dig in, Bradley working on the photography, Todd on both the

concept and the text.  Glancing at his watch, however, Todd realized
the photographer wouldn't be in for another hour, perhaps two.  Which
left Todd a bit of time to prepare for tonight's meeting with Chase.

No, he thought, trying to imagine what a glass of wine with a Hollywood
star actually meant, he wouldn't have to come with a host of prepared
questions.  Nor would he have to be ready to conduct the perfect
interview.  Todd just had to be sharp.  Alert.  And on guard.  Right,
he had to think in opposite terms, for the truth of it was that Todd
himself was the person scheduled to be checked out and in essence
interviewed tonight.

His pace definitely slower, he returned to the newsroom, which was
slowly filling with associate producers and reporters, then circled the
elevated assignment desk and went to the rear of the room, where he
grabbed a coffee mug.  Turning to one of the large stainless-steel
urns, he poured himself a cup, glanced at the gathering of newspapers,
including The New York Times, USA Today, The Wall Street Journal, and
Los Angeles Times--all of them there to keep the staff abreast of world
developments--then headed back to his office.

As he passed between the cubicles and toward the glass walls of his
narrow office, Todd found himself wondering what the real Tim Chase was
like, then realized he would obviously soon find out, more or less,
anyway.  Which was weird.  While Todd had met a few famous people in
his life, from politicians to newspeople, he'd never met one who was
truly larger-than-life, one whose image had captured both the
imaginations and hearts of so many millions.  So who would be there
tonight, just Tim?  Tim and his publicist?  Tim and his wife?  Or would
Tim merely make a token appearance and disappear?  That, Todd thought,
was a very real possibility.  Tim might just come in, shake Todd's
hand, smile that charming grin, perhaps proffer a wink, and then his
publicist and someone like his agent might hammer out how Todd would
conduct an interview if, they would probably say, hanging out the big
carrot, Todd were so lucky to get an interview with superstar Tim
Chase.  Recalling an interview he'd done with conservative Congressman
Johnny Clariton--an interview that of course had

ended in total mayhem--Todd remembered all the restrictions and
conditions his people had tried to get in place.

Damn, thought Todd.  He should have asked Melissa more questions.  He
should have inquired as to who would be there tonight, what they wanted
to know about him, what he might expect.  Keeping Todd in the dark,
however, was probably exactly what Melissa had wanted.

He suddenly felt the fool.  Although he'd always been fascinated by the
endless rumors of who was gay and who wasn't in Hollywood, he'd never
been much of a star fucker.  In other words, he'd never been driven to
the point of obsession, to the point of sexual desires and fantasies.
Or had he?  After all, just why the hell had he pursued an interview
with Tim Chase?  Exactly what had gotten him this far?  It was, of
course, that stupid story Marcia had told him about Tim Chase having a
same-sex lover.  So what did Todd want to do?  What was his goal?  Out
one of the biggest stars?  Prove that Tim Chase was no god, but someone
just like Todd?  Did Todd need that kind of assurance, that kind of
validation?

Well, you idiot, you need to go in for that glass of wine with a lot
better reason than that.  You need a real, solid angle, a specific idea
of where you'd take an interview with Tim Chase, or you're going to be
chewed up and spit out.  Exactly.  You sure as hell better get your
head screwed on for this one, he told himself as he went into his
office and sat down.  Make no doubt about it, tonight wasn't going to
be some nice little social call.  Tim Chase wasn't just some cute guy.
He was a multimillion-dollar industry, and Chase and his keepers sure
as hell weren't going to let some shit from fly-over land do even the
slightest bit of damage to a golden egg that was all about one thing
and one thing only: money.

He took a deep breath, cleared his head.  Throughout his career, Todd
had faith in only one method, preparation.  It was, he had come to
realize, the lone rule that had saved him over and over again, not
simply that he should go into an interview armed with a number of
facts, but that he should search for a profound knowledge and
understanding of the subject at hand.  Like pulling a rabbit out of a
hat, he'd

I

gotten out of countless binds right in the middle of an interview by
recalling a certain item he'd read somewhere.  Better yet, being well
prepared let him be flexible and creative, sparking new angles mid
conversation.  Simply, Todd was well aware that the more he knew going
into a story, the better the end result.

This would be no different.

Lifting his briefcase onto his lap, he found the inch-thick file he'd
started months ago.  It was all about Tim Chase, every piece of paper
therein, and from the top Todd took a copy of his original request for
an interview.  No doubt about it, he realized as he now reread the
letter, he'd been a tad cavalier, for in all actuality he had expected
to be declined.  Yes, Todd had played the gay card right off the bat.
Using the "g" word right there in the first paragraph, he told them he
was a gay reporter, said he was interested in how Tim Chase would
portray a gay man, and wondered, too, how Tim Chase's fictional family
in the film would deal with AIDS.  That alone, Todd remembered
thinking, probably would scare them away, for there was nothing that
sent a publicist--particularly a Hollywood publicist--running faster
and farther than those subjects.  Oddly, however, that instead seemed
to be what had caught their interest, or so Todd was guessing.

Tossing the letter onto his desk, Todd came to the real meat, a stack
of articles he'd pulled from the Internet as well as LexisNexis, the
news service that had available in its memory just about everything
printed.  There were, of course, a number of bios, many so saccharine
and banal that they were probably done for a legion of teen fans.  Not
the least bit critical or even questioning, they'd surely been written
by a publicist or someone at a public relations firm who had probably
never met Tim Chase, nor would even get close to him.  In fact, they
seemed obviously written to fuel the frenzy, to further the stardom of
Tim Chase, to give him allure and magic that he very well might not, in
all actuality, possess in real life.

Most of the bios began with Tim Chase's reportedly difficult childhood,
which had, they claimed, been the source of his profound inner strength
and resolve.  His father, a traveling salesman for a lubricants

firm in central Ohio, had been on the road constantly, but then was
killed on his way home for the Fourth of July when his Oldsmobile was
struck by a semi-truck.  Tim had been eleven, his kid brother seven,
and from there it had all been downhill.  His beautiful mother, once
the perfect housewife, had fallen apart, washing away her sorrow with
gin-and tonics and handfuls of valium.  By the time Tim was thirteen,
his mother's alcoholism was so severe that the county took steps to
place little Tim and his brother, Greg, in foster care.  However, Tim,
the man of the house now, would have none of that, and somehow found a
wealthy sponsor, once a lush herself, to pay for his mother's treatment
and also to pay for summer camp for the little boys.  Eight weeks
later, with the mom just released and the boys just returned from the
woods of northern Michigan, the slow, difficult task of rebuilding a
family began.  Tim took a job at a car wash, his mom took a job at a
shoe store, young Greg concentrated on school.  Tim soon took a second
job, then a third, all in a desperate attempt to earn enough money to
keep the family together.  And somehow he did.  His beautiful mother
stayed dry but depressed, his little brother flourished in his studies
and eventually became a doctor, a dermatologist to be precise.  Tim,
however, paid a price, for his school grades were nothing less than
awful.  While many thought him dumb, he was simply exhausted from
working so many jobs, and barely finished high school.  He made a brief
stab at a junior college, then did the only spontaneous thing he'd
purportedly ever done, he hitchhiked west with a buddy of his.  A month
later he found himself in Los Angeles without enough money to pay for a
meal, let alone a place to stay or a bus ticket home.  Desperate, he
auditioned for a commercial.  And a star was born.  Only in Hollywood.
Only in America.

Looking up for a moment, Todd wondered about it all, how much of this
was fact and how much was myth.  Todd didn't doubt that Tim Chase's
childhood was a mess, for that of course was the case with many, many
actors, but Todd couldn't help but look at a number of the purported
facts with an air of skepticism.  Had his father really been speeding
home to be with his boys for the Fourth, or had he simply been
returning from an arduous week on the road?  And what about

the mother, was she a drinker before her husband's death and was that
what kept him away?  How long did she work in the shoe store, a week? A
year?  And Tim's grades, why were they so poor?  Sure, he easily could
have been exhausted from working so much, but he could also simply have
been tormented by same-sex feelings.  Perhaps he was sleeping around
with every boy in the neighborhood.

Homosexuality.  Who knew if you were born bent, if you were made, or if
it was a cocktail of the two, but Todd could definitely see a queer
thread running through even these light biographies.  There was the
struggle over his parents, one who failed him by dying, the other who
overshadowed his life simply by abdicating her parental role.  Then
there was Tim's overwhelming sense of responsibility, if that was
actually true, which Todd tended not to doubt.  Yes, and several of the
bios told of Tim's poor sense of self-worth, that it had been and
always would be his Achilles' heel.  And what about that trip to Los
Angeles?  Who was that friend?  A fuck buddy?  Quite easily, Todd
thought, Tim Chase could have thrown his cares to the wind for the
first time in his life and followed the first big love of his life,
some guy, to California.

Or was Todd wrong about that?  He definitely saw something familiar
there, something that Tim Chase and he both had in common, and realized
it could just as easily be alcoholism in the family as well as
homosexuality.  Todd's own father, who'd emigrated from Poland just
after World War II, had never found his place in America--except in
vodka.  For Todd it had meant that at a very early age he was more
responsible than his father.  He'd known, just by the glint of moisture
in the corner of his father's eyes, when he'd had his first drink of
the day.  He'd known when not to argue, because, of course, it was
futile as well as dangerous, for his father would whip him with his
belt at the slightest of provocations.  And he'd known when the old man
had drunk too much and it wasn't safe to drive with him.

Todd had never known, however, how to earn his father's approval.  No
matter how hard Todd had tried, no matter how polite, nor how good his
grades, he'd never won his father's praise.  Todd assumed it was he,
the son, who was doing something wrong, and that,

naturally, that something was his sexuality.  As long as his father
was alive, Todd had lived in fear that his father would find out his
boy was gay, and Todd had done everything and anything possible,
including getting married, to prevent that from happening.  In an odd
but real way Todd came to believe that if he was good enough his father
would stop drinking, but that never happened, of course, because Todd
did the one thing good little boys never did, he had sex with other
little boys.

Projecting his own needs and fears on Tim Chase, Todd was surprised to
feel something he hadn't previously felt for the superstar-sympathy.
Earlier, when Tim Chase was more abstract than simply tonight's date,
Todd had been obsessed with the Marcia story.  But, now, well .. .
Shit, what was he going to say to Marcia when they next talked?  Oh,
say, Marcia, I almost forgot to tell you--I had a glass of wine with
Tim Chase.  Oh, he's cute.  But, oops, sorry, I forgot to ask him who
he slept with.

Reading on, there were several pieces about Tim's deep interest in
horses, his recent purchase of a Montana ranch, and how he was often
sighted at rodeos sporting cowboy boots and hat.  Next came a slew of
articles analyzing Chase's films, or more to the point, his acting
ability.  Many slammed him for his one-note acting, known more for its
intensity than its finesse, the fury in his voice that brought
attention rather than art onto the screen.  Many others sighted his all
American good looks--that dazzling smile, the quick laugh, those
charming eyes--as the overriding and perhaps singular reason for his
success.  That he was gorgeous no one denied.  Nor did anyone deny that
that was what had launched his career.

His films were many, particularly for someone so young, and they had
earned fabulous sums of money, ranking as some of the largest grossing
movies in history.  There was the hit he'd done about a hunk baseball
player, another box office smash where he'd played opposite Robert
Redford.  Then he'd co starred with Tom Cruise in a Civil War epic.
Next a popular comedy opposite Julia Roberts.  That was followed by
another sports flick, which had done only so-so.  Todd read all the
reviews, right up to the spy thriller that Chase had starred in with
John Vox, the very guy who'd started Todd's snooping by blabbing to
Marcia about the Tim Chase boyfriend.

So did it all seem possible?  Could Tim Chase really be gay?  In a way,
no, at least not the way his propaganda machine had construed his life.
But in another way, absolutely so.  Todd could see the hints, the
subtle shading.  And what reason, after all, would John Vox have to lie
about his friend Tim Chase?

Coming to the supermarket tabloid story, Todd read it all over again.
He'd gotten this copy from Lexis-Nexis, which was reproduced in simple
text, so it didn't have all the flair of headlines and photos.  It was
all there, however, beginning with the ball-buster headline, "Mean
Queen Chase Denies 7 Year Gay Romance & Buries Boyfriend in Poverty."
The story went on to tell about how Tim Chase met Rob Scott, a handsome
blond, at a bar in L.A. The two had quickly become passionate lovers,
the tabloid claimed, with Chase buying a condo and just about
everything else for Scott.  More important, they were the toast of
parties all over Hollywood, wined and dined by the likes of David
Geffen, who was gay, and Michael Eisner, who was straight.  The affair
continued even as Chase married the beautiful actress Gwen Owens, and
the two had a child.  But then there was a horrible spat, and Chase
kicked Rob Scott out of his life, more specifically out of the condo
and onto the street without so much as a dime.  Furthermore, the writer
claimed there was a vast conspiracy of silence, proven by the fact that
no actors or Los Angeles journalists, who knew the truth of this story,
would comment.  Almost immediately Tim Chase, Inc."  went on the
offensive, claiming that The National Times, which had a huge national
circulation, had paid Rob Scott, who was destitute, $100,000 for a
story that was completely fictitious.  A lawsuit against the tabloid
soon followed, which Tim Chase eventually won to the tune of $8.5
million and which his extraordinarily powerful people claimed "clearly
vindicated Chase's sexuality."

His head spinning with innuendo and information, Todd flipped

through the last of the articles in the file.  Most recently Tim Chase
had been on the cover of Newsweek complaining about the lack of privacy
suffered by stars.  More to the point, they each had harrowing tales of
the paparazzi, those nasty little photographers who were hiding
everywhere to snap the juiciest of pictures.  Todd didn't doubt it in
the least, but was Chase just irritated, finding the photographers a
mettlesome intrusion, or was he living in terror that one day they'd
catch him with a guy?

Todd gathered the articles, laid them back in the manila file, and sat
there.  Nine tonight, huh?  Unable to imagine what it would be like, he
was sure of only one thing: at least the wine would be good.

It was almost ten by the time Rawlins was able to get away from his
desk.  He wasn't totally convinced, of course, that he needed to go, at
least today, for more than likely the tip wouldn't pan out.  That was
what this job was all about, however, going down every little path and
checking around every single corner.  Ninety percent of his job was
monotonous footwork, most of which proved to be worthless, but it was
the small details that he discovered here and there that eventually
added up.  And that's how you built a case, piece by piece by piece.
More than once he'd staked out a suspect's house and sat there for hour
after hour, day after day, only to discover something of critical
importance just as he was about to give up.

So exactly what had the anonymous caller seen last night down at Lake
Harriet?  A man perhaps discarding some token of love after a fight
with his girlfriend?  Or a killer hurling a murder weapon into the dark
waters?

Heading south on the freeway from downtown, Rawlins took 46th Street
over to the lake, then skirted the eastern shore of the round body of
water.  Passing the huge houses, each one larger than the last and
perched on the ridge overlooking it all, he followed the parkway, which
eventually led down to the water on his left and, of course, the Rose
Gardens on his right.  He glanced at the expansive gardens, a large,
rectangular space with a broad path down the middle, and knew that all
the fragile plants therein would soon be buried beneath a couple of
feet of straw and leaves to protect them from the

winter freeze that was destined to come this way.  No, Minnesota was
not kind to roses.

Looking farther ahead he saw the large stand of woods that bled into
the trees of the bird sanctuary.  Of course that was the place.  And of
course he knew what went on there.  Hidden by the depth of the night
and the density of the trees and bushes, men met with men to get what
they could get no other place, a touch, a kiss, a blow job, a hand job.
And sometimes more, all with no strings attached.  Rawlins had always
believed that an inordinate share of men who frequented places like
these--the banks of the Mississippi, the second floor men's room in the
department store downtown, the basement men's room out at one of the
malls--were simply closet cases.  While a great many of these men were
openly gay guys who liked sex--and a lot of it--an equal amount were
either married men or others who masqueraded as straight.

Rawlins drove just past the Rose Gardens, parked, and got out, thinking
how odd straight people were, or more specifically how odd it was that
they confided so much of their sex lives to their gay friends.  Did
straights assume that gays thought about nothing but sex and would
therefore be only too glad to hear of their endless sexploits?  Or were
straight people that uptight, that repressed, that they couldn't talk
about sex among themselves?  For whatever reason, more straight people
than he could ever have imagined, men as well as women, had told
Rawlins how often they had sex, if they'd ever had a homosexual
experience, what position they liked best, with whom they'd had an
affair, their penis size, what made them come, and so on.  Usually once
straight people got going, it just came flowing out of them, frequently
punctuated by comments like "God, I've never told anyone this before"
or "I can't believe I'm blurting all this out" and always "Please,
don't you dare tell anyone, but..  ."

All this came rushing to Rawlins's mind, of course, because of Joe
Younger, an old high school pal who had three kids, one boy and two
identical girls.  And these woods across from the Rose Gardens were
Joe's.  Once a month, perhaps more, he came down here to cruise.  Joe

had spilled the beans a couple of years ago, calling Rawlins out of
the blue and inviting him out for a beer.  And what Rawlins had
expected to be an evening of awkward conversation--they really didn't
have much in common--somehow turned out to be a night of Joe's
confession.  He loved his wife.  He loved sex with her.  But they only
had sex once every month or two.  He couldn't take it, needed it more.
And here in these woods he had found it aplenty.  Rawlins listened to
it all, how Joe said he wasn't attracted to any women besides his wife,
how he thought he had too much testosterone coursing through his veins,
and wondered with a laugh if he shouldn't just get his nuts chopped
off.

"I mean, I've tried, but I just can't stop coming down here," Joe had
blurted over his beer.

None of this, of course, Joe had even hinted to his devoted wife, who,
by the by, happened to be a workaholic.  Hearing that, Rawlins surmised
that Joe's purposely busy wife not only sensed her husband was a closet
queen, but was in as much denial as he.  And Rawlins felt nothing but
an overwhelming sense of pity for this family, a wife who was being
used for the socially accepted facade she provided and maintained, and
a man whose integrity was as abject as it was bankrupt.

So, Joe, were you down here last night as well?

Rawlins looked in the woods, saw a few paths beaten down, and supposed
that if worse came to worst he could try giving Joe a call.  Maybe, if
by chance he'd been down here just last night, he'd seen something as
well.  If he hadn't then perhaps he knew someone who had, although
whether or not he knew anyone by name was one question, and whether
he'd release such guarded information was altogether another.  Getting
someone to talk would be even still more complicated.

Studying the large trees at the edge of the woods, Rawlins guessed that
the tip caller had been standing right in that area.  And actually,
Rawlins thought, as he rotated slightly, the bald man the tipster had
spied had probably parked his Saab, the white one with the black
convertible top, over there, just about in the same place where
Rawlins's silver Taurus was now parked.  Perhaps the tipster had seen

the other man pull over, then watched him get out, hoping he was
headed for these illicit woods.  And then the tipster, hidden by a
tree, had watched the bald one cross to the lake, stand there, and
heave something shiny far out into the waters.  Yes, and right there by
the pedestrian path was the garbage can the caller had referred to as
well.

Surely, thought Rawlins, now crossing the street, it must have gone
something like that.  That is, unless, of course, the tip caller was
not calling to report something he'd actually seen, but done himself.
And that was a very real possibility.  It was not uncommon for the
killers themselves to call in with the best tips of where to find the
bodies, just as it was not uncommon for a killer to get the game afoot:
Go on, you idiots, catch me if you can.

Studying everything about the scene--the trees, the parking area
alongside the parkway, the spot where the bald man supposedly stood
down by the water, the garbage can, that bush--Rawlins first of all
tried to ascertain if it could have happened as the tipster had
claimed.  He checked the angles, the sight lines, and, yes, adding it
all up, Rawlins realized it could have.  The distance between the two
was perhaps fifty feet, so the specifics might be a tad difficult, but
even if it was a dark night, as it was last night, the lampposts would
have provided a fair amount of light.  Yes, there was no doubt, it was
physically possible that someone could have stood hidden in those woods
and watched as someone came down to the lake and heaved something out
into the water.

But what about anyone else?

Minneapolis's saving grace--and perhaps the main reason it had not
become the Los Angeles of the Midwest--was its extensive park system.
More than a dozen small lakes dotted the city, all of them linked by
fifty-plus miles of paths that led from lake to lake to Minnehaha Creek
and the Mississippi River.  Beautiful and safe, the parks were heavily
used, day and night, winter and summer, which meant there were people
out here all the time.  Rawlins himself had jogged around Lake Calhoun
at five on a dark winter morning, and

he'd strolled around the very same body of water with Todd at midnight
on a hot summer eve.  So if one person had seen something suspicious,
could there be a second out there somewhere, someone who might not have
been lurking in the woods?

First things first, he told himself as he crossed the bike path.  First
you've got to find out if your tip caller really saw anything at all.

He spotted the green garbage can, an oil barrel of sorts with a small,
spring-loaded trapdoor on the lid, the kind dotting all the parks.
Crossing directly to it, Rawlins thought, okay, the bald man had
reportedly stood by the lake, thrown something into the water, then
come up here and thrown something away.  But what?  Lifting open the
trapdoor of the receptacle, Rawlins looked in, but was immediately
slapped with the most egregious of odors, something akin to a rancid
melody of both food and excrement.  Which, thought Rawlins, was
probably exactly right.  He dropped the small trapdoor, then pulled off
the whole lid and let it fall to the ground.  Peering in, he saw a
small riot of garbage, from square Styrofoam containers dribbling
refried rice to pieces of plastic wrap holding small crusts of bread
smeared with sandy peanut butter.  There was a running shoe, old and
ripped.  A healthy representation of just about every kind of pop can,
the remains of their syrupy insides spilling over everything like a
sticky waterfall.  Entire newspapers.  And a variety of plastic bags
from clear to blue that held, of course, fermenting dog shit.  Yes, by
law and by nature, Minnesotans were tidy.

Rawlins spotted a small stick a few feet away, reached for it, then
used it as a crude spoon with which to poke this stew of discard.
Squinting as if the odor were burning his eyes, Rawlins poked about,
thinking how things would be much simpler if he only knew what the hell
he was looking for.  He flipped back a newspaper, moved a dark green
plastic shopping bag, lifted the shoe--had it given way mid-jog?--then
dropped it.  And suddenly saw that the end of the stick was covered
with a dark red sticky substance.  Was that what he thought it was?

A voice behind him said, "Are you looking for something, sir?" 
Holding the stick high in one hand, he turned around to see a black
woman in the blue uniform of the Minneapolis park police.  So, he
thought as he reached into his jacket for his badge, just whose
jurisdiction was this going to come under?

Holding up his badge, he said, "I'm Sergeant Rawlins, homicide,
Minneapolis police, and I think we need to cordon off this area."

It proved, of course, to be blood.

That was the first thing the Bureau of Investigation team from Car 21
did, study the stick and in turn the dark green plastic bag, the inside
of which was smeared with the dark red substance.  They then sprayed it
with Luminol, held a black light to it, and the substance fluoresced
with a real attitude, indicating a massive presence of certain proteins
found only in human blood.  After that, everything kicked into gear,
quickly.

While they waited for the diving team to arrive, this team of B of I
guys--two former cops, both around sixty, who'd burned out on street
work and were waiting for retirement--practically combed the grass.
They collected some pocket change, a couple of cigarette butts, and a
pen, all of which they dropped into small plastic evidence bags even
though it all looked as if it had been lying around in the park much
longer than twenty hours or so.  Rawlins, operating on little more than
a guess, next had them search one particular area of the thin beach,
hoping they'd be able to pick up something, ideally a footprint of some
sort.  But what the lake's small waves hadn't washed away since last
night, a dog, running up and down the shore, had recently trashed.
There was, in short, nothing to be gathered, save for a few pieces of
junk Rawlins was sure were not relevant.

Just about an hour after Rawlins had made his first call, a team of
divers arrived from the Hennepin County Sheriff's Office, which had
jurisdiction over all the lakes and rivers, both above and below

the surface.  Launching their small aluminum boat by the band shell,
they motored over, the sputter of an engine a rare sound on any city
lake.  By the time they dropped anchor and two divers in black wet
suits plunged into the chilly fall water, the crowd of gawkers was none
too shabby.  Held back by a thin strip of yellow police tape, there was
a gathering of thirty or forty people who'd stopped mid-walk and
mid-bike ride to see what was going on.  Turning slowly and looking
about as casually as he could, Rawlins attempted to study them all,
wondering if the tip caller was in the crowd and if he hadn't been a
simple witness but in fact Andrew Lyman's murderer.  There were three
older men, perhaps retired, and a handful of older women out for their
daily constitution.  Some kids with skateboards.  And any number of
youngish people who seemed to be just out enjoying the day.  When
Rawlins saw some guy pulling out his cell phone, perhaps to report to
someone what was going on, Rawlins knew there was a call of his own
that he should make as well.

Staring out over the water as the divers slowly bobbed up and down,
Rawlins took out his own phone, dialed a number he knew so well, and of
course reached a recorded message.  This, however, was too important,
so he hung up and dialed a number based on WLAK's call letters and
reached the front desk.

"Good afternoon, WLAK-TV, how may I direct your call?"

"This is Sergeant Rawlins from the Minneapolis police, and this is an
urgent message for Todd Mills," he told the receptionist.

"Just a minute, I'll try his--"

"Wait, I just tried his office.  Would you please just tell him to get
down to Lake Harriet with a photographer right away?"

"You don't care to hold, sir?"

"No, just get him that message.  Or give it to one of the producers or
something.  It's regarding the murder story he covered last night."

"I'll take care of it right away," she said as coolly as a 911
operator.

As he hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket,

Rawlins saw Neal Foster ducking beneath the yellow tape and heading
his way.  His eyes lined with heavy circles, Foster had been down at
the lab for the last several hours.

Mustering a small grin, Rawlins said, "Do I look as shitty as you?"

"Worse."

"Anything new down at the lab?"

Foster shrugged.  "Just like you thought, that towel they found by
Lyman's bed has a large semen stain on it.  It's way too early, of
course, to tell if it's Lyman's, but they're guessing that it is, and
they're guessing that there's only one person's semen on there."

"Really?"  said Rawlins, unable to hide his disappointment.

"But..  ."

"But?"

"Well, did you see any of that Kleenex they found in the wastebasket
not too far from the bed?"

Of course he had, and he clearly remembered the B of I team emptying
the contents of the cracked white plastic basket into a large evidence
bag.  By and large it had all been tissue, crumpled into tight, messy
wads.  And from the amount of tissue Rawlins had assumed that someone
had either had a cold or used the tissue for cleaning up after a sexual
encounter.

Rawlins said, "Let me guess, more semen?"

"Yep."

"Excellent."

"Again, it's too early, but let's hope we get lucky there.  Otherwise,
I spoke with the ME and he said so far they hadn't found any semen in
the kid's mouth.  None in his rectum either, but they have found
evidence of a lubricant on his anus."

"Tell me it's from a condom."

"It is.  At this point they think it's a Trojan."

"So .. . since we didn't find any condoms at the scene, it's safe to
say that whoever last had sex with Andrew--let's just presume that it
was the killer--either flushed the condom or took it with him."

"Something like that, anyway."

The phone in Rawlins's pocket began to ring, and he pulled it out, and
said, "Sergeant Rawlins."

"Hey, it's me," said Todd.  "The receptionist just paged me and gave me
your message.  What's going on?"

Wanting to talk to him about this and so much more, Rawlins hesitated a
split second, then pushed into business, saying, "Well, I'm down here
at Lake Harriet, by the Rose Gardens, and .. ."

Rawlins looked out over the small waves, which were moving across the
surface at a soft but steady pace.  He saw a man in the boat staring at
the water.  And he saw one of the two divers, his head sheathed in the
black wet suit and his eyes covered with goggles, surface and swim to
the boat.  The diver raised one hand and gave a thumbs-up sign, and
then a second diver appeared from beneath the water.

"Listen, Todd," said Rawlins into the receiver, "things are happening
pretty fast.  I think you better get down here."

He'd been almost positive of what he'd seen last night.  He'd been
lurking in those woods right over there and he'd seen that guy hurl
something into the lake and then drive away in that Saab.  And when
he'd read this morning's newspaper, he knew he had no choice but to
call the police.

Yes, thought the man with the light hair, standing deep in the crowd of
gawkers on the end of Lake Harriet.  There was no doubt about it, he'd
done the right thing.  He'd wondered how they would handle it, if
they'd actually take him seriously since he hadn't identified himself
to the detective this morning.  But he just couldn't tell him who he
was.  Hell, no.  There was no way he could have given his name, no way
he could let anyone know he was down in these woods last night.

About a half hour ago he'd driven down here just to see if the police
had followed up on his call.  Surprised that they had already done so
and that the area was now cordoned off, he'd turned past the Rose

Gardens and parked.  And now, his large camera hanging by a strap
around his neck, he surveyed the scene, looking for any good shots.
There were a bunch of cops in uniforms and he wondered if one of them
was him, that detective he'd spoken to.  Or could he be that guy in the
middle, the one in plainclothes with the dark hair and mustache?  Or
was he the old guy who'd just arrived?

Everyone's attention now seemed focused on the divers who had just
resurfaced and were swimming back to the boat.  What did that mean?
That they'd given up?

"Look," said an older woman wearing a lavender nylon jogging suit and
sun visor, even though she'd surely never broken into a sweat in her
life, "the divers are getting back in the boat."

"What's that?"  asked her friend, who wore a similar outfit but in
peach, with fingernails painted a matching shade.

"What's what?"

"That thing.  Doesn't one of 'em, one of the diver guys, have something
in his hand?"

"Oh, God, Marge," said the lavender one with a sardonic chuckle.  "The
eyes--they're going!"

A nearby younger man, his large German shepherd leashed and sitting by
his side, squinted and said, "Yeah, looks like the second guy's got
something in his hand.  Something like a knife."

"A knife?"  gasped Marge, the one in peach.

"Heavens, I wonder what this is all about," said her walking pal,
clucking her tongue and shaking her head in matronly disapproval.

So, thought the man as he stood listening, he'd been exactly right in
what he'd witnessed last night.  It was just as he thought.  That big
bald guy had snuck down here and disposed of a knife in Lake Harriet.
Which meant what?  That the police would be able to tie it to the
murder of that kid?  Maybe, maybe not.  Maybe a night soaking in Lake
Harriet would have washed away any definitive evidence.

Shit, he thought, raising his camera and peering through the telephoto
lens at the divers, what the hell was he supposed to do now?  Even if
they were able to confirm it was the murder weapon, then

what?  How in the hell were they going to find the bald guy and then
link it?  After all, even if they somehow managed to find a few
suspects for a lineup, he sure as hell wasn't going to come forward to
identify the guy he'd seen down here.

Okay, he thought, you gave the police some information and led them
this far.  Now it was time to give them a little more.

You're supposed to be a rich boy.  A rich gay boy.  Your family is
supposed to have a huge house overlooking Lake Minnetonka, some twelve
miles due west of downtown Minneapolis, and this is supposed to be the
big homecoming scene.  Big, big homecoming scene.  After all it's been
eleven long, painful years.  Your sister's gotten married, has two
kids, and Mom's gone totally gray and Dad's lost sixty pounds because
it's eating him, this thing he himself once cursed as the gay disease.
Just as you said to yourself when you drove out of the driveway and off
to California over a decade ago, nothing would ever be the same
again.

Get it?  Dad's loaded, you're a fag, and now you're coming home not
because you have the dreaded thing, but because he does.  Think,
thought Tim Chase as he sat in his trailer prepping for his next scene,
big irony.  He kicks you out because he thinks fags are vile and
disgusting, as exemplified by AIDS ... yet now he's the one that's got
it.  You want to say it out loud: Serves you right, you old bastard.
But you can't.  You can't even think that because those were his words
the last time you saw him.  He stood there at the big white front door
with the shiny brass knocker, screaming, shouting, saying one thing
that stuck like nothing else: It'll serve you right if you get AIDS!
And for eleven years your very own father's curse has echoed in your
head as you've watched friends and strangers in San Francisco succumb
to the dreadful plague, and you've thought one thing over and over
again: No one deserves this, no one but someone like your own dad.

And now he's got it.  And you're sick with guilt as if you yourself

somehow wished it upon him, as if you yourself somehow had been in
that operating room and personally selected the two pints of tainted
blood that were pumped into his body.  So that's why you've come home,
to untangle the love, hate, and guilt so tightly braided in your heart.
And There was a light but distinct knock on the aluminum door of his
trailer, and a woman's voice said, "Tim?  Tim, are you in there?  It's
me, Melissa.  I need to talk to you.  Do you have a moment?"

Looking up from the script, he muttered to himself, "Oh, crap."

He should have left instructions that he didn't want to be disturbed.
Not only did he have too many lines to learn, but every time someone
asked a question, particularly regarding business, it pulled him out of
the mind-set of the story.  Hadn't he always been clear on that? Didn't
everyone know that business came either at the beginning or the end of
the day, but not in the middle, not during shooting?

Wearing a navy blue sweater, a freshly pressed blue shirt, and khaki
pants--the costume his character would be wearing when the taxi drove
from the airport and into the drive of his family's home--he remained
seated on the couch, and called, "Yeah?"

The knob turned, and an attractive young woman entered.  Rather short
and small-framed, she had a gorgeous face with dark eyes and a bright
white smile.  Her long, curly brown hair was put up in a haphazard bun,
and she wore a baggy gray sweater and tights that hugged her slim hips.
Everybody loved her, not simply because she was beautiful, but because
she had a knack for getting people to gab and, of course, eventually
say more than they ever wanted to.  Both of which were why Tim had
hired her in the first place.  More often than not, she was the first
real image the media folk saw of Tim Chase, Inc., and he needed her not
only for the positive first impressions she so easily made, but also
for the information she could so successfully glean from the outer
world.

"Hey," said Melissa, stepping inside.  "Sorry to bother you.  This will
only take a minute."

"What's up?"  he said, managing a smile, albeit a small one.

It was a typical trailer, with goldish-tan carpeting, one couch, a
couple of chairs, and a tiny kitchen filled with a stainless-steel sink
and some fake wood cabinets.  In the back was a single bedroom Tim used
for napping.  Melissa, a thick file in hand, crossed to one of the
chairs and sat down opposite Tim.

She said, "Okay, so this is all the stuff I have on him, this Todd
Mills guy from WLAK."

"Oh, right, the guy I saw on TV last night."

He watched as she opened the manila file folder, which was stuffed, and
pulled out a sheaf of papers.  Taking them, Tim quickly thumbed through
the printouts of articles and stories.  All he saw were words, words,
words and an occasional highlighted sentence.

"Jesus Christ, Melissa, the fucking CIA couldn't do a better job."  He
looked up at her with a grin.  "Where did you get all this shit?"

"Mostly the Net.  Some I had to have faxed from the California office.
They pulled it off a news service we subscribe to."

"And?"

"And you're right, he is gay."

"Yes, I knew that," said Tim.

"He's got a good reputation too.  He's won a couple of Emmys, a bunch
of other awards, and he's very, very out.  From what I read, he didn't
used to be, but then he was implicated in some sort of murder case and
was outed.  Something like that, anyway.  It looks like he used to work
for one of the other stations in town, so he's been around here for a
while."

"Perfect."

He glanced out the small window and down the hill toward the house and
Lake Minnetonka, where they were setting up the cameras for the day's
shoot.  The house they'd leased for the film was long and white, a sort
of French Colonial thing, a story and a half with a big cedar shingled
roof.  It had commanding views of the huge lake, a perfectly manicured
lawn that spread down to the water's edge, massive oaks and maples that
were just beginning to turn into perfect Martha Stewart shades of fall,
and, of course, a large white dock.  It reeked executive  Stunk of old
money.  Had WASP written all over it.  In other words, it was perfect
for this movie.

Late last night Tim had watched the local news.  And as soon as he saw
Mills covering the murder, he had that sense about him, that gut
feeling.  Right then and there he'd known that, yes, they needed him.

"But, Tim," pressed Melissa, "are you sure?  Isn't giving him an
exclusive opening a can of worms that you really don't want to have
opened?  You're paying me for my opinion and direction on these things,
and frankly I don't think it's such a great idea.  You know it's going
to come up, the rumors and all, not to mention the lawsuit."

She didn't get it, he thought, looking at her.  She didn't understand.
But then again, why should she?

"Don't worry, Melissa.  I know this is the guy we want.  I know he's
the one we want on my side.  Besides, one meeting with him can't
hurt."

"Well..  . okay."  She paused, then said, "I just spoke with him
and--"

"What's he like?"

"Nice enough.  Rather direct, kind of smart.  I think he was surprised
I called."

"I bet."

"I wanted to see what he was really like, so I just started blathering
away without introducing myself.  Then I lied, told him someone from
L.A. was supposed to have already called to let him know I'd be in
touch.  He was a little impatient, but then very, very nice once he
found out I was your publicist."

"So he'll be there?"

"Oh, yes.  Nine o'clock tonight, your place.  I already gave him the
address and all the specifics.  Namely, I told him this was just sort
of a preliminary thing to see how things go.  No notebook, no
recorders, no cameras.  And no one else.  Just a chance to talk a bit."
Melissa added, "But I want you to think about it, Tim, I really do. If
you change your mind, just let me know.  I can always cancel, I can
always tell him that you're going to be late on the set or
something."

Tim cracked one of his famous smiles, bright and kind of sassy. 
"Don't worry, I know exactly what I'm doing."

"Okay, you're the boss, but I should be there too.  Actually, you don't
even have to--"

"Melissa, Melissa, there's no need to worry.  Since when haven't I been
able to handle myself with a reporter, huh?  Trust me, there's no need
for you to waste your evening.  I can take care of this guy."

"But--"

"But what?"  he said, the smile still coming, naturally so.  "Everyone
knows about the rumors.  And everyone knows about the lawsuit, which,
thank you very much, I won big-time.  And I'm married --maybe I'll have
Gwen swoop in for a minute or two--and I have a son.  Yes, I'm doing a
film where I play a gay man, but why?  Because I work in Hollywood,
because I've seen a lot of people die from AIDS, because this is a
story that not only needs to be told, but transcends all sexuality.
It's about family.  It's about love and hate in a family searching for
something good, and how, maybe, they might just find something
great."

She folded the file shut and looked up at him with a small grin, and
said, "You know, you are good.  I mean, very, very good."

"I know," he replied.  "How else would I have gotten so far in an
industry as fucked up as this?"

There was no doubt in her mind that it was Andy, that her firstborn
was dead and gone.  Martha Lyman felt it in her heart, felt the pain
digging so deep that she could barely move.  But still she had to do
this.  She had to go into that next room and identify her baby.  The
authorities here in Minneapolis already said they had positive
identification --someone who had known Andy--but she wanted to make
sure, absolutely sure.  And, yes, she wanted to see him, Andy, her
oldest child, just one more time.  She wanted to look at him, touch
him, kiss him, and cradle her beautiful boy in her arms just once
again.

Oh, God, she thought as she sat on a short vinyl couch in some basement
room of the Hennepin County Medical Center complex.  It wasn't supposed
to happen like this.  Her family wasn't supposed to be torn apart.  And
none of her children was supposed to die before her.  Nothing, nothing
whatsoever, had prepared her for this kind of pain, this unimaginable
horror.  Even though she'd never said it, she'd always thought John
would die first, that he'd keep gaining weight and that one day,
perhaps during harvest season, his heart would give out and he'd
peacefully collapse in the fields or in the barn.  Then Andy, who would
have a wonderful wife and lots of kids, would take over the farm.  And
when it was her time, she was supposed to fade away, watching lots of
grandkids play in the yard and witnessing the miraculous cycle start
all over again.  That was how it was supposed to happen, how she had
envisaged the closure of her life until the last year.

Instead .. .

She stared downward, her eyes wide and red, and saw nothing,
particularly not the bland linoleum floor with its ripples of beige
running through it.  Her blond hair hung limply, and her blue dress lay
wrinkled, particularly after the long drive here.  How had she done it?
How had she gotten to The Cities all by herself?  She wasn't really
sure, everything had been such a fog since the police had phoned last
night, but somehow this morning she'd gotten in the car and driven a
hundred miles.  And now she sat alone in the waiting room of the
Minneapolis morgue.

Yes, alone.  While one part of her was collapsing under the weight of
her grief, another part was seething with anger.

"I'm sorry, Martha," her husband, John, had said to her early this
morning, "I just can't."

"You .. . you can't what?"

"I can't do it.  I can't go with you."

"What are you saying?"

"I don't want to look at that body."

"Wh-what?  What in God's name are you saying?"  she had begged through
her tears as she stood at the kitchen counter.  "You can't be
serious?"

"I swore that night that I never wanted to see him again.  And I meant
it."

"But..  . but he's your boy!  Your own flesh and blood!"

"No, my boy, Andy, was someone else.  Someone who died that night,
someone who's long gone.  Besides, Lord knows I've got work to do
around here."

Everything came to an immediate rush of a boil--her grief, her
frustration, her fury--and Martha had taken two steps across the
kitchen floor, brought back her right hand, and slapped John as hard as
she could.  He took it without a flinch, standing there, his eyes
shrinking, viper like his face flushing red.  And then Martha had
turned away, charging through the living room where her two daughters
sat huddled in tears and confusion.  She changed into the blue dress,
made a feeble attempt at brushing her hair, then grabbed her purse and
stormed out the kitchen door.

 Over the past months she'd tried to forgive her husband for that
night when he'd dragged Andy into the barn and threatened him so
horribly.  She'd told herself that, yes, what her boy had been doing
was disgusting and ungodly and that her husband had been justified in
losing his temper.  But how in the name of the Lord could she forgive
him this, for rejecting their boy even in death?  It was too much, far,
far too much, this double-edged sword of grief.  Here she'd lost her
boy, and now she felt as if she were clearly seeing the distance and
difference between John and her for the first time.  And hating him.
Was he really so repulsive a human being?

"Mrs.  Lyman?"

She looked up, saw a man with silvery hair and a kind face.

He said, "I'm Sergeant Neal Foster.  I'm the one who called you last
night.  Thank you for coming."

Her voice barely audible, she replied, "Oh .. . yes."

"As I said on the phone, someone who knew your son has already provided
positive identification.  Are you sure you want to do this?"

Biting her lip, she nodded.

"Okay, then.  It's this way."

She pushed herself to her feet, then felt him by her side as they
walked toward a door, which he held open for her.  Suddenly her heart
started pounding, both horrified and fearful of what she was soon to
see--Andy, really dead, the life truly drained from him?  Suddenly she
wanted nothing more than to run, to turn and charge away, but she
couldn't, not by any means.  As if by instinct Martha was drawn
forward, her body operating on its own, her legs taking one step after
another.  She was aware of him, the policeman, close by her side.  She
felt his hand on her elbow as they left the waiting room and crossed a
wide hall.

She heard him mumble something, and then, "..  . Through these
doors."

She saw two wide stainless-steel doors, one of which he pushed open.
Immediately she breathed it in, the strangest of odors, at once
medicinal yet also repulsively foul.  And immediately she recognized
it

even though she'd never sensed anything like it before: the smell of
death.  Suddenly she found it difficult to breathe.  Suddenly the
strength ebbed from her legs.  Dear God, could she really, truly go
through with this?  Was she going to make it?

Straight in front of her was a woman in a clean white jacket, a woman
who smiled but didn't smile and who said something else.  Martha
glanced to her left, saw a wall of stainless steel with row after row
of small square doors, some fifteen doors long and four high.  Yes, she
knew what that was, a cold beehive of the dead.

With a gentle nudge on her arm, the policeman drew her to a stop and
there it was, a long bed, a gurney to be exact, with a sheet-covered
figure reposed like a white shadow.  Her eyes ran up and down the
outline of a body, realized the head was up there, the feet down at the
other end.  Andy?  Oh, please, sweetheart, don't let it be you.  I love
you, you know I do.  You know I never stopped.  Please let this all be
a mistake.  Please come back.  I've missed you, I really have.

And then she felt Foster's grip tighten on her arm.

He said, "Okay."

As neatly as if she were turning down a bed in the finest of hotels,
the woman in the white doctor's coat pulled down the crisp sheet. 
First to emerge was the gorgeous hair, which in his childhood had been
as white as cotton but was now in his adolescence the rich color of
straw. Then came the forehead, John's forehead, wide and proud, with
the slight scar right in the middle from when he'd fallen out of the
hayloft.  Next his eyebrows, flowing and golden.  And then his eyes,
once as blue as the sky, now closed and forever dark.

"Oh, God!"  she sobbed as the world fell away.

C hap the r 16

Rawlins hadn't been back from Lake Harriet for more than ten minutes
when he looked out of his cubicle and saw Foster leading a woman with
shattered eyes into the Homicide Division.  He looked at Foster, then
at her, the blond woman whose face bled with pain, and Rawlins was sure
all over again that this was the worst, that interviewing a parent
after the murder of his or her child was the toughest part of his job.
Closing a file on his desk, Rawlins rolled back his chair and pushed
himself to his feet.  This wasn't going to be fun.  Having to confront
a parent and ask some of the toughest, most frank questions about their
kid never was, particularly in a case like this.

Rawlins grabbed a microcassette recorder from a shelf above his desk,
then started after Foster and the woman.  Some ten steps behind, he
followed them around a corner and to the second door on the left,
entering the small room just as Foster was helping Mrs.  Lyman into one
of the four chrome-and-plastic chairs gathered around a table.  It was
a small, claustrophobic chamber with horribly bland beige vinyl
wallpaper, an overhead fluorescent light bright enough for an operating
room, and a vent in one wall that concealed a video camera.

"Hi, Neal," said Rawlins as he came in and headed for one of the
chairs.

His face grave with compassion, Foster looked up briefly, then turned
to the woman on his right and said, "Mrs.  Lyman, this is Sergeant
Steve Rawlins.  He's my partner and he's actively involved in this case
as well."

Without raising her eyes to his, she nodded.

"I knew your son," began Rawlins, his voice low, as he took a seat on
her right.  "I met him at a youth center here in town, and he was a
very fine young man.  My sincere condolences to you, Mrs.  Lyman.
Andrew's death was a big shock to me and has been very upsetting.  You
can be assured that Neal and I are going to do everything we can to
find out what happened."

She nodded again, this time a bit more forcefully, then stared at the
grill on the wall vent.  Following her gaze, Rawlins was about to say,
no, don't worry, we're not going to videotape this, but then she bowed
her head and rubbed her eyes with her left hand.  She looked too
stunned to cry.

"To fill you in," said Foster to Rawlins, "we've just been to view the
body.  Mrs.  Lyman came by herself, and she's headed back to her family
farm this afternoon.  She's kindly agreed to talk to us before
leaving."

"Thank you very much, Mrs.  Lyman.  We need as much information as
possible, and anything you can tell us will be helpful, I'm sure."

"Martha," she said, mustering the smallest of voices through her grief.
"Please call me Martha."

"Of course."

Lifting the tiny cassette recorder onto the tabletop, Rawlins asked,
"Would you mind if I recorded this conversation?"

"No.  No ... not at all."

He pushed a couple of buttons, placed the recorder on the table, and
speaking into it, said, "This is Sergeant Steve Rawlins and I'm here
with Sergeant Neal Foster and Martha Lyman, mother of Andrew Lyman.
We're in a conference room at the Criminal Investigation Division in
downtown Minneapolis.  Is that correct?"

She nodded as she faintly replied, "Yes."

"And, Mrs.  Lyman, you understand English and you're speaking of your
own free will?"

"Yes.  Yes, that's right."

Rawlins paused, rubbed his hands together.  "I'm sorry to sound so
formal, but the procedures for an interview are fairly rigid."

"We just want to ask you a few questions about your son, Andrew
Lyman," said Foster, his voice buffed to gentle.

A handsome, stoic-looking woman, she nodded.

"How old was he?"  continued Foster.

"Seventeen.  Andrew turned seventeen just a few months ago."

"And where was he raised?"

"On our farm a hundred miles east of here."

"Was he the oldest?  Youngest?"

"Oldest.  We have two girls, both of them younger."

"When did you last talk to Andy?"

"This past .. ."  She wiped her eyes.  "This past fall.  Almost exactly
a year ago."

"Not at all since then?"

"No."

"Do you remember approximately when and where your last conversation
was?"

"Yes."

"Could you tell us, please?"

"It was last October."  She took a deep breath, then hesitated before
continuing.  "October the tenth, to be precise.  It was at our farm."

Knowing the vague circumstances but nothing specific, Rawlins cut in,
asking, "Can you tell us what that conversation was about?"

She nodded, started to speak, then stopped, and tried again.  "We .  we
found out Andy was ..."

When she failed to say anything, Rawlins interjected, "Gay?"

"Yes, exactly.  That was when we found out our son was gay."

"Which was, what, a shock?  No surprise?"

"The first.  It was a shock.  A big shock."  She shook her head
slightly and helplessly shrugged her shoulders.  "I never even
imagined."

"And what happened?"  pressed Rawlins.

"He left."

"Left?"

"Our farm.  Our home.  He left that very night."  Taking a deep breath,
she let the air come out in one long, pained exhale.  "It was

very difficult, very awful.  Trust me, it's not something any of us is
proud of.  We all said things we shouldn't have, and .. . and Andy
left."

There was, Rawlins knew for a fact, far more to it.  Over the course of
his brief friendship with Andrew, Rawlins had gleaned some of the
details, all of them ugly, all of them painful, and he could now see
all of that and more etched in the fine lines of Martha Lyman's face.
Rawlins couldn't imagine what it must have been like for young Andrew,
tumbling out of the closet and landing at his parents' feet and at
their mercy.

"I ... I thought they were going to kill me," Andrew had confided in
Rawlins.  "I really did.  But I guess it's my fault.  I guess I
deserved it."

As he told at least part of what happened, Andrew had been close to
tears.  And Rawlins hadn't doubted him one bit, for sex between boys in
rural Minnesota was anathema to farm and family and church.

And now, sitting in the small room in City Hall, Rawlins, Foster, and
Martha Lyman were going to have to revisit that night, searching the
memory thereof for any details that might be relevant to the present
nightmare.

He asked, "What do you mean he left?"

"Andy .. ."  She wiped her eyes.  "Andy ran away."

"Did he go to a friend's?  To an aunt's?  An uncle's?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged.  "Andy just walked down the drive and .. .
disappeared."

"So you had no idea where he went?"

"None.  I called everywhere 1 could think of.  And I drove around too.
I thought he'd be back the next morning, or even within the next day or
two.  A few days later he called and apologized, but he didn't come
back.  Eventually I assumed he came here, to The Cities, but I never
knew for sure.  I never heard a word.  Not until last night when you,"
she said, nodding her head slightly to Foster, "called."

"Not a letter or anything?"

"No.  Nothing."

Foster cut in, asking, "How about the local police--did you contact
them?"

"At first no.  My husband, John, didn't want me to.  He said it was
none of their business.  He said it was a family thing."  Martha Lyman
slowly shook her head.  "I don't know.  I think we did it all wrong,
made every single mistake possible.  Actually, I think--no, I know that
my husband didn't want to have to tell the police what the fight was
about, and--"

"What do you mean he didn't want to have to tell them?  Was he
embarrassed?  Ashamed?  Angry?"

"All of that, actually.  John just didn't..  . didn't approve.  I mean,
he still doesn't."

"Of what?"

"That life."

"Homosexuality?"

"Yes, and .. . and," she said, as if she were quickly changing the
subject, "like I said, I thought Andy would come home in a day or two.
When he didn't turn up after a week, I went to the police myself."

"You mean alone?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't your husband go with you?"

"Because .. . because .. ."

At first Rawlins thought she was going to say because he was harvesting
the corn.  Or tilling the field.  Instead she looked right at him and
told him what could only be the flat-out truth.

"He didn't come with me then for the same reason he didn't come with me
today--he never wanted to see Andy again.  And frankly, I'll bet
he's--"

She cut herself off, then just sat there in silence.  Rawlins studied
every little flinch of her face.  He's what?  Glad that his boy is
dead?

Rawlins waited and waited, and when she said nothing, he asked, "So
what did the police say when you went to them?"

"Not much.  I guess there wasn't much they could do.  I told them Andy
ran away--I didn't say why--and they filed a report, checked around
some, but .. ."

Rawlins asked, "Has this been a difficult thing for your family, Andy's
coming out as gay and then running away?  What has the last year been
like in your family?"

"You have no idea," she said, shaking her head as she stared at the
plain laminate surface of the table.  "It's .. . it's been awful.  Just
awful.  I haven't stopped thinking of Andy, I haven't stopped worrying
about him, not for one single minute.  It's .. . it's .. ."

"What?"

"Well," she said, perhaps voicing the truth for the first time, "it has
destroyed my family."

Rawlins wanted to come back to that, the night the Lyman family
exploded.  He wanted to know specifically what had happened.  And he
wanted to know exactly what had been said.  But not yet.  He didn't
want to seem too antagonistic, too adversarial.  In other words, he
wanted to postpone her shutting down, which they always did at some
point.

Rawlins glanced at Foster and nodded.

"Martha," said Foster, "could you describe Andrew for us?  What kind of
young man was he?  Was he kind of a happy guy?  Sad?  Did he have many
friends?  Was he very social?"

"Andy was .. . sweet.  He was just always kind.  And gentle.  That's
why I can't understand .. . understand .. . how .. ."  Her bottom lip
started to quiver, and she pressed her right hand to her mouth as if to
stuff back the pain.  "I don't understand why anyone would have wanted
to hurt him."

"He never got into any fights at school?"

"Andy?  Never."

"So he didn't have any problems with other kids that you knew of?  No,
I guess you might say, rivalries?  No enemies?"

"Everyone loved Andy.  The girls and the boys.  I mean, there was
always a girl who had a crush on him because .. . well, he was cute.

And he was always popular with the guys because he was the best
quarterback at school.  You know, on the football team.  Frankly, the
team wasn't any good, but he was their star."

"How about his grades?"  asked Rawlins.

"They were okay.  B's and C's mainly, every now and then an A."

"What year was he in?"

"Last year he was a junior."  She shook her head.  "I wanted so much
for him to graduate, to get his high school diploma.  I wanted him to
be the first of our people to go to college."

"What about drugs?"  asked Foster.  "Is there much of that where you
come from?  Was he ever involved in anything?"

"No, not my Andy.  I'm sure of that.  Oh, he might have had a few beers
with his pals, but no drugs.  I know that for a fact."

Did she?  But how could she, Rawlins wondered, be so sure of it?  After
all, she hadn't suspected her son's sexual orientation.

"What about any kids?"  continued Foster.  "Did he keep in touch with
any of them once he left home?"

She leaned forward, bowing her head into her hands.  "Yes.  I mean, I
don't know for sure, but .. . but the other boy ran away from home a
couple of days after Andy did."

Rawlins asked, "Other boy?"

She nodded.

"What other boy?"

"The .. . the Weaver boy.  Oh, God, I just wish they'd never met.  I
don't think any of this would have happened."

"What are you saying?"

"This boy, the Weaver boy--Jordy Weaver, that's his name.  Jordy
Weaver.  For something like six or seven months before all this
happened, you know, before Andy ran away, Jordy was always calling up
Andy, always hanging around him.  It was like he was obsessed with
Andy.  He just never left my son alone.  And .. . and ..."  She wiped
her left eye.  "And that's who Andy was with that night, with him, with
Jordy Weaver."

Tripping over the name, Rawlins sat there speechless.  He'd had

no idea, not a clue.  They were from the same town in western
Minnesota?  They hadn't met here in Minneapolis?

"Are you saying that these two boys, Andrew Lyman and Jordy Weaver, ran
away together?  That they came here to Minneapolis?"

"I never knew for sure because .. . because I never knew where Andy
went, but that's what I always assumed.  Like I said, Jordy was
obsessed with my boy.  He wouldn't let him go."

Todd's day was like a moving sidewalk that he got on and couldn't get
off.  There was the call he'd received from Tim Chase's publicist to
set up this evening's meeting, the numerous developments in the story
of Andrew Lyman's murder, and then, of course, there was Rawlins.

Rawlins.

It was the one thing that Todd kept coming back to, compulsively so:
was there any truth to what Jordy had said about Andrew and Rawlins
being involved?  All afternoon as Bradley and he dashed around town
putting together tonight's story, Todd silently sorted through the past
couple of months trying to ascertain if and when and how the two of
them could have been carrying on an affair.  A Saturday afternoon? 
That Monday morning?  Wednesday nights?  Was it even logistically
possible? And if it had really happened, what did it mean, if
anything?

No, he now thought, as Bradley and he stood on the shore of Lake
Harriet waiting for the six o'clock, that wasn't right.  It did mean
something.  It meant the world about Rawlins.  It said everything about
his ability to stick to their agreement.  And it said everything about
his integrity, for Andy was barely seventeen, a kid who by all means
was still learning to cope and establish his own boundaries.  If
Rawlins had taken advantage of his position as a mentor, what in the
hell did that say about him?

Oh, shit, Todd thought.

He wore a blue shirt with a blue and yellow tie, black pants, and his
black leather jacket.  In the field he never wore a coat and

tie, especially not a suit, because while he wanted to look
professional, he wanted to look like what he was, an active
investigative reporter.

They'd arrived a little over an hour ago, with Bradley and he setting
up the camera by the water's edge and the ENG truck pulling up on the
curb and stretching its microwave mast as high as it would go.  For the
five o'clock Todd had done a VOSOT, where he'd talked live to the
recorded pictures for some thirty-five seconds.  As VOSOTs tended to
be, it was also a little rougher, more immediate, and after a sound
byte from the police chief, the video had come back out to Todd and
he'd done a quick tag.

As they now approached the six o'clock, Todd once again ran the IFB
wire up the inside of his jacket, pulled it through the back of his
collar, and placed the earpiece snugly in his right ear.  Not more than
two seconds later, the quiet, distant voice of the news director,
speaking from Golden Valley, said, "Voice check, please."

Todd raised his stick mike, and said, "Good evening, this is Todd Mills
reporting live from--"

"That's perfect, Todd."

The six P.M. line producer cut in, saying, "We're two minutes away."

In front of him Bradley was peering into his Betacam, which rested on a
large aluminum tripod.  From the camera a thick snake of a cable
stretched across the ground, then awkwardly across the pedestrian and
bicycle paths to the ENG truck.  Per usual, a crowd had gathered, this
group numbering around fifteen and growing.

"Is my tie all the way up, Bradley?"

"Your tie is perfect."

He turned, glanced briefly over the lake, where a gentle wind was
sending an endless army of ripples across the surface.  With that, the
small hill on the opposite shore, and the sunset, it would be the
perfect backdrop.  In his mind he reviewed all that he had learned
today, from the specifics of Andrew's bloody demise, to a better
picture of his home life, to, of course, the most important item, the
object the police divers had

pulled from this lake.  Yes, whatever a reporter learned most recently
was always the first information, the thing you gave right off the top.
From the inside of his jacket he then pulled his notebook and read
through his notes once, twice.  The producer, who had these things
back-timed to the second, had told Todd that he couldn't afford more
than a ten-second intro to precede the one minute fifteen-second
package.

"We're ten from the top," said the line producer as coolly as a flight
controller.

Yes, everything was perfectly timed, had to be.  A second of dead air
on TV was more like an hour, a disaster to be avoided at any cost. 
And, at least on the computer line up, this was how this thing was
scheduled to transpire: anchor toss, Todd intro, package, tag, ad
lib.

"Five from the top."

Todd glanced at the base of the tripod, saw the small monitor aimed up
toward him.  A second later a color bar appeared.  Moments after that,
the end of the national news came on.  As soon as that concluded,
WLAK's star anchor, Tom Rivers, appeared, always dapper and now in a
navy blue suit with an off-white shirt--a truly white one was much too
stark, too contrasty under the lights--and a tasteful tie with ribbons
of blue and red.  That full head of hair, those big white teeth, the
perfect cadence of his voice--every time he was on camera it was
obvious why he was worth millions, particularly in the Twin Cities,
which had one of the three highest production values in the country.

"Good evening, this is the WLAK evening news, and I'm Tom Rivers.  Our
stories tonight include the latest on the plans to put a freeway bridge
over the scenic St.  Croix River, the latest on the upcoming
gubernatorial race, and our lead story, an important development in the
murder of a teenager in south Minneapolis."  He turned to stare into
another camera, and, reading the TelePrompTer, said, "As we reported
last night, shortly after nine P.M. yesterday evening police were
summoned to an apartment building just off Twenty-fifth and Bryant
Avenue South, where they discovered the body of a young man, Andrew
Lyman, who was--"

A throaty, secret agent--like voice in Todd's earpiece said, "Ten to
you."

"--killed by an apparent knife wound to the throat.  For the very
latest developments, we now join our investigative reporter, Todd
Mills, at Lake Harriet."

"Five to you."

Tossing it to Todd, Tom Rivers said, "Todd, I understand some important
evidence has been discovered.  What can you tell us about it?"

"Well, Tom," said Todd, looking straight into the lens because he was
full on camera, "following up on a tip, the police came here to Lake
Harriet shortly after noon today."  Offering his roll cue, Todd said,
"And what they discovered beneath these waters may very well prove to
be the weapon used to kill Andrew Lyman."

Todd held his position as they cut to the package that Bradley and he
had earlier put together.  They began, of course, with the few shots
Bradley had been able to catch of the police boats on the lake, and
then the camera panned the crowd of gawkers, men and women, walkers and
bikers, kids and dogs.  The clip showed two women with a stroller, a
couple of women in nylon jogging suits, a few men, including one guy
with sunglasses and a shaved head.  As the images went by, Todd went
into detail how a hunting knife had been found in about twenty feet of
water.  It was still too early to tell if they could get any
fingerprints from the weapon, but early testing by the police indicated
that the blade had been recently exposed to blood.  At this point the
police were not inclined to speculate, but many thought it might in
fact be linked to the murder.

His eyes on the monitor beneath Bradley's camera, Todd now loosely
watched as the package, with his recorded voice-over married to the
tape, played on.  There was a bit of last night's real estate and the
crowd gathered around the apartment building, as well as the all
but-required shots of the bagged body being carted out.  The package
continued with some personal information on Andrew Lyman, including his
athletic abilities and his popularity, both of which Todd had

garnered from one of Andrew's former teachers, then cut briefly to a
shot of the Domain of Queers.  The piece then wrapped with the shot of
the police chief and his sound byte asking anyone with any information
to please come forward.

The line producer cued Todd, and then Todd lifted his mike.  The
package concluded exactly according to schedule, and they came back out
to Todd for a live, on-camera tag.

"Tom, I find this story especially sad," began Todd, "because several
months ago I personally met Andrew Lyman, and found him a bright,
energetic, and handsome young man, eager to complete his high school
requirements.  Instead, a young man is now dead in what police are
describing as a very brutal crime."

Beginning the ad lib, which was essentially just a Q & A, Rivers said,
"Can you tell us where you met the victim?"

Oh, brother, thought Todd when he heard the question through his
earpiece.  What did Rivers think, that they'd met in a sauna?  Under
the bushes?  Or was Rivers just trying to do it, make Todd say all over
again that he was gay?  Shit, didn't the entire world already know?

"Certainly.  I met him when I gave a talk at the Domain of Queers,
which is a center for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender youth."

"My understanding is that there are a number of runaways there.  Is
that correct?  Had Andrew Lyman run away from home?"

Even though Todd knew that Andrew's split from his family had been most
acrimonious, WLAK lawyers had advised against broadcasting that
information not out of good taste, but out of fear of offending the
family and tempting legal fate.  Evidently, though, Rivers hadn't
gotten that information.  Or had spaced it, which would have surprised
no one at WLAK.

With no choice, Todd walked around the issue as gingerly as he could,
saying, "Tom, I've been told only that Andrew had not been in contact
with his family and that news of his death came as a total shock to his
parents."

"I'm sure it did.  You mentioned that the police went down to Lake
Harriet to follow up on a tip.  Can you tell me anything more about
that?"

"My understanding is that they received an anonymous tip call from
someone who'd been down at the lake and seen something rather
mysterious.  The police aren't saying anything more, but evidently that
is what's behind the police chief's request for anyone with information
to come forward.  In the hope of learning more, they want the tip
caller to come forward and identify him or herself."

"I see.  And thank you, Todd, for a most interesting report."  Rivers
paused, turned back toward the first camera, and said, "In other news
today--"

As Todd stood quite still, he heard the slight snap as the audio
transmission was broken, then looked down and saw the image on the
monitor disappear.

Raising his head from behind the camera, Bradley said, "You're clear,
Todd."

Todd lowered the mike, rocked his head from side to side until his neck
cracked, and then carefully lifted the earpiece from his right ear.
Okay, he thought, that was done, now on to the next, a quick dinner
with Rawlins.  And then wine with one of the most popular stars in the
world.

They met at D'Amico & Sons, an upscale Italian deli on Hennepin Avenue
South with a tall ceiling, open kitchen, dark woodwork, and a faint
resemblance to things Tuscan.  When Todd saw Rawlins push through the
double glass doors he saw not the familiar man he was attracted to, but
a near stranger who looked preoccupied and distant.

And the first thing that Rawlins uttered was, "You look tired, Todd."

Todd wanted to say, no, I'm just stressed.  Stressed about you.  About
us.  About where we're going.

"Yeah, I am exhausted," he replied instead.  "You look it too."

"Tell me about it."

They knew the routine, and they moved silently to the large arching
glass display case and studied the very nineties array of salads,
sandwiches, salamis, and olives.  For a long indecisive moment Todd
looked at them all, the roasted vegetables, the couscous salad, the
chicken and feta rotelle, and realized he just didn't care.

"Do you know what you'd like?"  asked a server, a tall, young woman
with a body like a boy's and cropped blond hair tucked beneath a black
baseball cap emblazoned with d'amico & SONS.

"Ah .. ."

In the end, Todd asked for the chicken pen ne a small Caesar, and black
coffee, and the woman, leaning on the counter, wrote it all down.
Rawlins ordered the pizza of the day, a concoction of artichoke hearts
and feta cheese, and a glass of the house red.  Todd let Rawlins pay;

they were almost to the joint checking account stage of their
relationship, but not yet.  And as he watched Rawlins write a
check--which were accepted just about everywhere in the Twin Cities,
more often than not without identification--Todd wondered if the two of
them were now going to make it to the banking phase of their
relationship.

"What are you getting coffee for?"  asked Rawlins as they sat down and
waited for their food to arrive.  "Are you on at ten again?"

"Actually, I was going to be," replied Todd, taking off his coat and
hanging it on the back of his chair, "but I'm not."

"What do you mean?"

Todd had held out when they'd talked briefly earlier today; he hadn't
mentioned Tim Chase, and he wasn't going to, at least not yet.  If
Rawlins was going to start a game of poker, then Todd wasn't going to
take the high road.  Hell, no, he'd play right along too.

He volunteered simply, "I have a meeting at nine."

"Oh?  With whom?"

Right, this was poker, and Todd decided he wasn't going to do it, he
wasn't going to play his lucky card, the one that would dominate the
conversation, just yet.  No, he thought, looking across the small
table, he wasn't going to tell Rawlins if for no other reason than he
didn't want to sidetrack things.  He had to keep things focused.
Focused on Andrew Lyman.  And Rawlins.

"It's not important."

Never a fool, Rawlins studied him for a long moment.  "What's the
matter?  Everything okay?"

"It's been a long day, that's all."

As he unfolded his napkin in a manner that was much too deliberate,
Todd realized that the test hadn't concluded last night.  No, Rawlins
was still taking it.  This was part two, otherwise known as the second
chance.  And if he failed this part?  Oh, shit, thought Todd, he
already didn't know how to handle this.

He leapt right in with the acid question, "So, anything else new
regarding Andrew Lyman?  Anything turn up?"

The issues of Andrew Lyman and infidelity lay there, oddly, horribly
like a loaded gun waiting for someone to trip over it.  Rawlins raised
his eyes and, Todd was sure, looked at Todd with more than a little
suspicion.  And Todd sat there thinking, Yes, you fool, I know!

Rawlins said, "Aside from the knife, not really."

"But you still think it was the murder weapon?"

"It fluoresced blood when they sprayed it with Luminol, but I don't
think they'll be able to get a blood sample off it.  After all, it was
sitting in water at least overnight.  With any luck we'll be able to
get some prints, but I don't hold up much hope for anything else."

"And the mom?"

"Like I said, she came to town alone, which was strange.  I mean, where
was her husband?  Why wasn't he here?"

"I don't know.  Why?"

"Beats me."

Todd looked at him with a cocked eye.  "Divorced?"

"No, not that I know of anyway.  But there's something strange, and I
bet you dollars to donuts that it started when they found out Andrew
was gay."

"Ah, homosexuality--the ruin of many a family."

Todd felt Rawlins's eyes upon him, felt Rawlins studying him.  Okay, so
what of it, so Todd was being pissy.

Rawlins leaned forward, cupping one hand over Todd's, and with those
deep, warm eyes that had hooked him right from the start, said, "Man,
you have had a long day, haven't you?"

Todd withdrew his hand, cast his eyes to the side.  No, he didn't want
to be pulled out of this.  Rawlins had a gift for that, using those
wondrous eyes or the subtle grin to lighten Todd's mood, and Todd was
determined not to let Rawlins charm him tonight.  Just tell me |i
whatever happened, he wanted to say, because I don't care.  I just
can't l stand silence.  Do you get it?  It's silence that makes me
crazy.  And I love you, and I need to know about Andrew and you right
now.  No, t] actually I need to know if there's only one of you and if
that person is { all mine.  Or are there two, one guy who loves me and
a second who ,!  loves many others?  '

 "Well," continued Rawlins as he fiddled with a fork, "there is one
other thing, something I don't think I told you.  Do you remember
another kid Andrew was with?  Sort of tall, long hair."

Of course Todd knew who he was talking about, the very kid who'd leaked
the news, but he said, "No, not really."

"He's maybe a year or so older than Andrew.  Nice-enough-looking.  I
think he was at the meeting we spoke at."

"And?"

"And it turns out that he's from the same town as Andrew.  His name's
Jordy Weaver, and I think they had something going even back then. They
were either little lovers or fuck buddies, I don't know."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and it looks like the two of them ran away together, came all
the way here."

"Well..  ," Todd didn't know what to say, everything or nothing, and
instead the snottiest came out.  "So what do you think, was our little
Andrew the whore about town?  Is that what happened the other night? Do
you think the two of them, Andrew and this Jordy--"

"Jesus Christ, Todd," snapped Rawlins, glaring at him.  "Even if they
were doing tricks, which I don't think they were, it doesn't mean
Andrew deserved to have his throat slit."

Todd looked out the window and stared at a plain yellow car.  "I'm
sorry.  No.  No, of course not."

They sat there in silence.  A moment later Todd looked over, saw
Rawlins eyeing some other guy, some young stud with a bubble butt.
Okay, great.  Maybe this wasn't the big romance of Todd's life.  Maybe
they were already through it, maybe they were already finished with the
best that they could be together.  And maybe tonight Todd was just
trying to make that perfectly clear, maybe he was merely trying to
drive Rawlins screaming from the table.

With a cloud of savory steam, their food descended in front of them.
Todd took one look at the beautiful nuggets of chicken, the glistening
tubes of pasta, and realized this wasn't at all what he wanted.

Not some nice meal.  Not some pleasant place.  Fuck, he wasn't even
hungry.  He glanced out the large glass window, saw the same yellow car
sitting there.  Yes, the traffic on Hennepin was building to a forceful
crawl.  And, yes, little by little the Twin Cities were growing up,
each year becoming less and less toy towns.

Again, Rawlins leaned forward and in the gentlest of voices said,
"Todd, what's the matter?"

Some bullshit came to the tip of Todd's lips.  He was going to say
something about the station manager, something about running around all
day, but then he tripped over his own insurmountable need to know.  He
speared some pasta with a javelin like pitch of his fork.

And said, "You haven't been holding out on me, have you?"

Balancing a slice of pizza in hand, Rawlins clearly flinched. 
"What?"

"Let me be as blunt as possible."

"So what else is new?"  asked Rawlins with a nervous smile, having been
on the receiving end more than once.

"Is there more?  Is there something about Andrew Lyman that you haven't
told me?"

Todd watched him, studied his every facial tic, the cock of his head,
the way his hand quivered ever so slightly as he put the uneaten slice
of pizza back down on his plate.  Oh, shit, realized Todd, he'd backed
Rawlins into a corner from which there was no escape.  And this was it,
the final acid test.  As Todd knew only too well from cornering a
politician or a developer or a murderer, you learned more about a
person by what he didn't say than what he actually did.  Yes, that was
the horrible truth.

"Actually .. . actually there is something," confessed Rawlins.

Todd's gut flooded with relief.  "Yes?"

"Oh, shit..  ."

Rawlins wiped his mouth even though Todd didn't think he'd taken a
single bite.  Sure, in this long pause, Rawlins was weighing something:
the consequences.  And Todd's heart began to pound.

Zimmerman

"Todd, it always comes down to this, doesn't it?  It always comes down
to our jobs.  You know, that's the one thing that really scares me
about us and our relationship.  Our careers.  It's the one thing that
we keep coming up against, that we keep butting heads about."

"What?"  replied Todd, afraid that he was in fact understanding.

"There is something else about Andrew Lyman, something that I haven't
mentioned, but..  . but as a cop--"

"Oh, fuck, Rawlins, don't do this to me.  Don't fuck around.  I just
want a simple answer to a simple question."

"And I'm just telling you--"

"I don't believe this."

"--what we both know.  That as a cop there are certain things I can't
say to you, Todd Mills, star reporter."

"Shit.  Shit, shit, shit."

If they'd been at home Todd would have gone completely tilt.  He would
have started yelling, started stomping around and waving his hands and
cursing at the top of his lungs.  Because instead they were in a public
place, he somehow mastered control of his fury.  Every one of Todd's
muscles tightened rock hard as he somehow perfectly folded his napkin
and laid it down on the table, put his fork quietly down on the plate,
then reached behind and lifted his coat from the back of the chair.
"Todd, what the--"

"I've got to go."

"What?"

"There's something I haven't told you, either.  That meeting?  It's
actually, well, a date."

"What?"

"You heard me, a date.  I've decided maybe I do want an open
relationship after all."  Todd was glad for the instant pain he saw
burning on Rawlins's forehead.  "I'll see you later.  Like much
later."

"Wait," pleaded Rawlins in a hushed voice that was pathetically weak.
"Todd, don't do this!  Don't go when you're so upset.  Please, sit back
down, let's--"

"Sorry."  He pushed himself to his feet.  "I just want you to think
about this: I know."

A wildfire of shock whipped across Rawlins's face, and then Todd turned
and started for the door, wondering just what in the hell he was
walking out on, a plate of pasta or the greatest thing in his life.

With a knot wrenched so tight in his stomach that he felt he might
vomit, Todd headed home.  Driving through a neighborhood that was
dominated by clapboard houses with big Midwesternly front porches, he
eventually came to Lake of the Isles, which in truth wasn't much of a
lake but more of a sprawling pond long ago dredged to Victorian scenic
standards.  He followed the single lane parkway around the gently
curving lake, past the Malt-O-Meal mansion, a Dayton dwelling or two,
then three mansions built at the turn of the century for the Cream of
Wheat clan.  Oblivious of the couples strolling along in the cool air,
and not so much as glancing at the tranquil waters, Todd eventually
came to Cedar Lake Parkway, where he turned.  Operating on automatic,
he followed that and still another meandering parkway all the way to
his condo.  As he headed into the private drive that led up to the
building's garage, he glanced at his watch and figured that he had
about an hour and a half before he had to leave to meet with movie star
Tim Chase.  And about an hour and a half to get his shit together.  Was
he really going to be able to put on a happy face?

Coming out of the closet had had one remarkable and undeniable effect
on Todd--he no longer felt obligated to any kind of guy stereotype.
When he'd been in the closet he'd held back so very much, far more than
just his sexuality.  Preventing family and friends from discovering his
"horrible" truth had meant he had also prevented them from learning
just about all his inner hopes and desires.  And once he'd finally
admitted to himself that he was gay he'd liberated a great deal

more than just his sexual orientation.  Absolutely.  Once he'd broken
the dam so very much more than just his love of men had come bursting
forward.  Like a good chunk of his personality, not to mention his
soul.  And perhaps for that very reason he now felt totally flooded
with emotion.  Yes, and he was drowning in confusion.  If he were a
crier he'd be bawling right now, but he'd never been very good at that,
expressing his pain in tears.  For him being queer didn't automatically
bring that benefit.  So what in the name of God was he supposed to do?
Beat his head against the wall?

The answer came bouncing back: honesty, you fool.  That was all he'd
been asking of Rawlins, and yet that wasn't at all what he himself had
been dishing in return.  No, he'd been making Rawlins feast on a bitter
diet of Todd's own ruse, and as a consequence the both of them were
getting more than a little queasy.  Todd saw it now quite clearly, that
after a certain point he'd been just as deceptive as Rawlins.  And
there was no quicker way to poison any kind of relationship, gay or
straight, business or platonic, than that, the withholding of
information.

Upon entering his two-bedroom apartment, Todd passed the kitchen on his
right, entered the living room, and crossed right to the balcony.  He
pulled aside the door, then stepped out into a day that was dying
beautifully, the sky fading from blue to red to midnight blue.  A cool
wind, fresh from the plains of Canada, whirled around him, and he
breathed it in, relishing it as a chilly aperitif of what was soon to
come these ways.

The great things in life were, if not impossible, then truly difficult
to find.  And yet he had found someone again.  First there was Karen,
then Michael, and now there was Rawlins.  Somehow he had gotten that
lucky.  Lucky enough to have found someone like both his ex-wife,
Karen, and Michael, who had loved Todd even though he'd been in the
closet, and now lucky enough to have found someone like Rawlins, who
loved him out.  At this point in his life Todd was too humble to think
he was so great that love was destined to tumble his way, but he didn't
know how he'd gotten so lucky either.  He wasn't

particularly religious, but having found these people was the one
thing that really made him believe in a higher power, because God only
knew he didn't deserve it.  Or was Rawlins not a gift?  Was he a trick
or a curse, something that was now beginning to come unraveled?

Leaning on the balcony railing, he fell into that hole--gift or
curse?--and stood there for the longest time pondering a question that
had no answer, at least not yet.  Eventually Girlfriend came sauntering
out, rubbing against the railing, then peering not out at the dark
night waters, but straight down at the traffic below.  When the black
cat poked her head through the railing, followed by one paw and then
another, Todd's stomach began to roll.  No, those cars hundreds of feet
down were not little ants scurrying around.  And, no, this towering
honeycomb of condos was not like a tree you could scamper up and down.
Forgetting all about Rawlins, he carefully grabbed the cat around her
waist, pulled her back, then carried her inside.

Besides, it was time to get ready, and he for one was going to take a
shower, determined to wash the day and that man out of his mind, at
least for a few short hours.

Parked on the street in front of Todd's building, Rawlins didn't know
what in the hell he should do, go up to Todd's apartment or stay down
here in his car.

Of course he wanted to do the first.  Of course he wanted to go up
there and finish this off, this argument disguised as polite--well,
okay, so it wasn't so polite--dinner discussion.  Shit, it had been
just like Todd to snap at him and storm away instead of finishing
things off.  That guy could be a real drama queen when he wanted.  From
his work in the media he knew how to sensationalize the facts, how to
focus on certain things to bring undue attention to one particular
detail and blow it out of proportion.  Rawlins just couldn't compete,
and they both knew it.  Rut what in the hell had Todd been talking
about?  A date?

Shifting in his seat, Rawlins tugged at his mustache.  Todd didn't know
about Andrew, did he?  He couldn't, could he?  Rut then why all

the strange questions?  Why the odd mood?  It was almost like Todd had
been leading Rawlins, trying to trick him into tipping a card or saying
something inopportune.  So what else was new?  It was, however, exactly
why Rawlins didn't just head up to the condo right now, because he was
terrified Todd somehow knew and things would blow wide open.

Of course Todd was up there, Rawlins knew that for a fact.  After Todd
had stormed out of the restaurant, Rawlins had grabbed a carryout box,
dumped his pizza in it, and then charged out after him.  By the time
he'd gotten to the parking lot, however, Todd was just pulling into the
street.  Not by any means unfamiliar with getaways, if this in fact was
one, Rawlins scrambled into his car, drove down the side street, and
caught up with Todd, which had proved no difficult feat.  As he tailed
Todd around the northern end of Lake of the Isles, Rawlins had soon
discerned that Todd was going home.  Yet instead of hurrying up and
trying to get Todd to pull over, Rawlins had kept his distance, letting
one and then two cars slip in front of him.  He could have even been
very nineties and called from his car to Todd's, but he chose silence
as the safest course.  He wanted desperately to talk to Todd but he was
terrified of what they'd get into, specifically the subject of Andrew
Lyman.

Sitting in his parked car, he reached across the seat of the Taurus and
flipped open the lid of the takeout box.  And as if this truly were a
stakeout, he started eating, only now it was designer pizza instead of
donuts and coffee.  His meal was only less than reasonably warm, and he
gobbled down a single slice in two or three bites.  He was only halfway
through a second slice when he licked his right fingertips clean and
reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled it out,
Andrew's diary, that small spiral-bound notebook with a slick red
cover.

It was not something Rawlins had been looking for, sex with Andrew or
any other boy for that matter.  But now this diary and God only knew
what else were lying around like time bombs waiting to go off and ruin
Rawlins's life and career.  It wasn't merely that Rawlins

was more than twenty years older than Andrew either.  No, that was far
too simple.  Just this afternoon Rawlins had reread the Minnesota
Statutes, and the very thing he'd feared had jumped right out at him:
criminal sexual conduct in the third degree.  Yes, Andrew had been at
least sixteen but less than eighteen and Rawlins was not only more than
forty-eight months older, he was also in a position of authority.  The
allegations alone could ruin Rawlins and set back by ten years the
progress gays and lesbians had made on the police force.

He'd read only a line or two here and there, and he now opened the
diary and thumbed through the first pages.  There were pages about
Andrew's trip to Minneapolis, how Jordy and he had hitchhiked here,
what they found, where they stayed, things about his parents and how he
hated his father and never wanted to see him again, then pages and
pages about his relationship with Jordy, who seemed to want to control
every aspect of Andrew's life.  Rawlins raced through it all, and then
his eyes finally skidded to a stop when he saw the first mention of his
own name written on the fine lines.  There it was, as incriminating as
possible.

/ had my first date with Steve Rawlins.  He's a cop, he's got dark hair
and beautiful eyes and he's hairy, and I think I'm in love.  I mean,
big love.  And what's so cool is that I think he likes me too.  No, I'm
sure of it.  He took me out and paid and everything and now he wants to
see me again.  I can't wait.  I can't wait to have sex with him--I'm
certain we will, I'm certain he wants me.

That little shit, thought Rawlins.  That stupid little shit.  That
hadn't been a date.  Yes, Andrew was enormously handsome.  Yes, he had
the body of a young god.  And, yes, Rawlins had noticed all of that and
then some, from his broad chest to his slim hips to the bulge in his
jeans.  But that hadn't been a date.  Hell, no.  Rawlins hadn't taken
him to lunch because he wanted to get in his pants.  No, he'd taken him
to lunch because he recognized a kid who needed help, who needed
direction.  He was a runaway and he was a good kid, and Rawlins didn't
want to see him flush his whole life away just because he was having
trouble with his family over his sexuality.  That was the whole idea of
being a mentor to a young gay person, the chance to offer advice and
direction and support to a kid who couldn't get it anywhere else.

But ... There was more about Jordy.  Lots more.  They were living in a
ratty old apartment along with six other young guys, and Jordy was
becoming more demanding, more controlling.  Andrew wrote how hard it
was to get away from him, even for an hour or two.  One night Andrew
went out with some other kids and snuck into a gay bar and danced and
danced and danced.  And Jordy went ballistic.  It was shortly after
that that Andrew took the job as the caretaker for the apartment
buildings.

I love Jordy but I have to get away from him.  He's just always in my
face.  He just never quits, never gives me any space.

Andrew then went on to write about his new apartment and how great it
was.  It was so cool, so great.  His own place.  Not that big, but
wonderful.  He was out of the closet and on his own.  He was a real
adult now.

I had to do this, I had to break from Jordy.  When I told him I was
moving out he cried and cried, begged me not to go, begged me to let
him come with me.  I was really firm.  I told him no.  I said I just
needed some space.  He kept pushing, saying how much he loved me, that
he couldn't let me go, and asking if there was someone else.  I kind of
just sort of said there was.  That's when the shit hit the fan.  He hit
me, started heating on me.  And I told him to stop, to get away.  I
punched him real hard, started screaming to leave me alone, to get
away.  I told him my new boyfriend was a cop and he'd arrest Jordy if
he so much as touched me again.

Oh, fuck.  Rawlins lowered the diary to his lap, sat there staring out
the windshield.  He forgot about the pizza, forgot about where he was.
And he didn't see the dark night all around him.  No, instead he was
seeing it all so clearly for the first time.  A setup, that was what it
was.  Andrew had been plotting and setting this thing up all along. 
How could Rawlins have been so stupid, so naive?  Why hadn't he seen it
in those dreamy blue eyes, all that want and lust?

I'm in love, big love.  Rawlins took me out for lunch again and we
talked and talked.

Right, we talked about your future, about going to law school.  Or was
your interest all bullshit?

And I think I had a hard-on the whole time.  I brushed his arm, felt
the fur there, the muscles.  God, he just drives me crazy.  He's just
so hutch.  Rawlins Rawlins Rawlins.  He's all I think about, all I
dream about.  I told him I have a diary, that I write everything in it,
and I know he knows that I'm writing all about him.  It's going to be
so good, me and him.  I can't wait to get in bed with him.  I know he
wants me too.  I can see it in his eyes, sense it in his voice, hear it
behind his words.  Actually, I think it's going to happen tomorrow.  I
invited him over, told him I needed some help moving some furniture,
but when he comes .. .

Oh, shit, cursed Rawlins, throwing the diary on the seat next to him.
One big lie.  One big plot.  How could Rawlins explain?  How could he
make anyone believe what had really happened?  Yes, he'd gone over to
Andrew's apartment, and all by himself too, which had been stupid. He'd
gone over there just hours before Andrew was killed.  And, yes, Andrew
had been all over him, not just throwing himself into Rawlins's arms
and kissing him, not just rubbing Rawlins's crotch, but dropping his
pants and exposing his wildly lustful self.

Oh, God.  Rawlins had been such a fool.  Such an idiot.  Why hadn't he
seen it coming?  And now?  Now what?  Andrew hadn't been crazy, not by
any means.  No, he'd been a kid, lost and lonely, tossed out of his
home and frightened, seeing Rawlins as some kind of hero, some kind of
savior.  And Rawlins now understood that, just as he understood that
Andrew's crush on him was just a desperate grab for something stable
and secure in a world awash with confusion.

He grabbed another piece of pizza, crammed it into his mouth, and
started chomping down bite after bite without even tasting the
artichoke.  What should he do?  He should go right up there, right up
to Todd's apartment, and tell him the whole thing.  At the least it
seemed as if Todd already suspected, so Rawlins should just go up there
and blurt it all out: I fucked up, I got myself into a bad situation,
and I need the advice of the person I love more than anything or anyone
else. Help me, tell me what to do.

Oh, God, how he loved Todd.  He just didn't know how to describe it,
the peace that he felt when they were together.  Or rather the peace he
usually felt but hadn't, not since the night Andrew was murdered.  Ever
since then Rawlins had felt as if he were standing on the edge of a
cliff ready to be pushed off.

He gobbled the last bit of artichoke off the piece, then tossed the
crust back in the container.  Yes, that was exactly what he had to do,
go right up there and, as his mother would say, have a good old
fashioned heart to heart.  Todd would help him sort it out, Todd would
tell him how to handle this.  And then maybe they could start over,
maybe they could even go out for dinner again and get things right back
on track.  Or maybe .. . maybe they'd just have some wine and crawl
into bed.

Energized, Rawlins checked himself in the mirror, then climbed out and
hurried toward the glass lobby.  He glanced up, wondered which lit
window was Todd's.  And he wondered too how far away they were from the
next big step in their relationship.  For Todd, who kept close track of
his finances, that meant getting a joint checking account, but for
Rawlins that meant moving in together.  After all, wasn't

sharing the same legal address about as close as a gay couple could
come to getting married?

He was just entering the glass doors when he saw a familiar vehicle
come barreling down the driveway from the garage.  Todd?  Rawlins was
just about to dash outside when he caught a glimpse of him and noted
right away that he'd gotten himself all slicked up.  No, Todd couldn't
have a date.  He couldn't, he wouldn't do that to him, really go out
with some other guy.  Or ... or had that been why he'd been acting so
weird tonight?

It was as if he'd been punched in the gut and all the air knocked out
of him.  Rawlins just stood there, his feet cemented to the floor,
watching as Todd sped past the lobby.  The house, the joint checking
account--all of their hopes and plans whooshed through Rawlins's
head.

Fuck.  The bastard really did have a date.

And then in a bitter rush of jealousy he was pushing his way out the
door, charging to the street, and leaping into his car.  He'd followed
Todd here, and he damn well wasn't going to stop now.

Displaying his Midwestern punctuality, Todd parked on the street, then
got out and approached the iron gate at precisely nine.  Even in the
dark he recognized the place, a yellow brick mansion sitting
prominently on Lowry Hill and right on the edge of downtown.  The
house, just up the hill and a few blocks west of the Walker Art Center
and the Guthrie Theater, was one of the few gated residences within the
city limits.  Hadn't Todd even heard there was a pool in the
basement?

And Tim Chase was in there?  And they were about to meet?

The sheer strangeness of it wiped everything from Todd's mind,
including, in particular, Rawlins.  Relieved to escape his troubles, at
least for a few hours, Todd went up to the iron gate that was painted a
shiny black, tested it, and found it locked.  Then he saw the small
brass intercom box and pressed a button.

A moment later a deep voice from the box cracked and snapped as it
said, "May I help you?"

"Yes, my name's Todd Mills.  I have an appointment to see Mr. 
Chase."

"Certainly."

The gate vibrated with a deep electric buzz, and Todd pushed it open.

He'd spent a lot of time thinking about how he would dress.  While a
suit had been appropriate for his interview with someone like
Congressman Johnny Clariton, it was definitely out for tonight as too
uptight, too conservative.  Todd likewise nixed a sport coat and tie
as

too nerdy, too unhip.  He thought about jeans but didn't want to
appear too informal or unprofessional.  In the end, he opted for his
most casual but hippest-looking shirt--and also his most
expensive--that some New York designer had conceived of in green and
brown and black, a black leather belt, and fine black wool pants that
made Todd look as slim as a model.  He topped it all off with his black
leather jacket, the most expensive article of clothing he'd ever
bought, which hung perfectly from his broad shoulders.

As he followed a brick walk straight up to the house, he saw the
massive door in the center and two large rooms symmetrically positioned
on either side of the house.  Everything was lit up, the tasteful
lights along the walk, all the rooms downstairs, and every single
window on the second floor.  How many people were staying here, just
Tim Chase, or an entire entourage?  Was he going to be one of those
stars who moved around the world in larger-than-life style, or would he
be one of those whom you occasionally heard about, someone who was as
real as he was down-to-earth?  The power that the American public gave
over to the stars of Hollywood had always amazed Todd.  They were our
de facto aristocracy, as American as anything could possibly be because
their positions were made, not created, and their titles lasted only as
long as they curried favor.

So was Todd going to do it?  Was he really going to ask Tim Chase if he
was gay?  Perhaps, but definitely not in so many words.

He climbed the front steps and approached a huge front door filled with
stained glass in a rich pattern of red, green, and yellow leaves and
flowers, Todd didn't know much about these things, but he wouldn't have
been surprised if it was the work of Tiffany or some other East Coast
artisan.  After all, the wealthy of the Midwest had always been eager
to deny the corn and the forests and the coal that had made them rich,
relying on more worldly acquisitions to prove their class and
sophistication.

When Todd was only some four feet away the door began to pull open.

"Come in, please," said a large man with a shaved head.

"Thank you."

Todd quickly looked him up and down, saw that he was wearing black
leather boots, black jeans, and a simple white shirt that was perfectly
pressed.  This guy was no butler, no personal valet.  No, he was Tim
Chase's bodyguard, for the life of the rich and famous didn't come
without its ball and chain, namely life in a gilded cage and with hired
muscle always at hand.  No matter the wealth and the toys it bought,
Todd didn't know how they could stand it, living under such constant
scrutiny.

"This way, Mr.  Mills," said the man in a deep, courteous voice.

Todd followed the guy through an enormous center hall that alone was
the size of many smaller houses and lined with deep, rich mahogany
paneling.  They turned immediately left into a living room that was
borderline gaudy and by no means whatsoever cozy; Todd's friend Jeff, a
banker and a drag queen, would have called it early whorehouse.  The
ceiling soared a good fourteen feet and a huge, ornate marble fireplace
and mantel--definitely not from Minnesota, Wisconsin, or Iowa, but
surely cut out of some French castle--dominated the center wall.  Three
expansive couches covered in dark, heavy floral fabric were placed in a
U around the fireplace and a glass coffee table the size of a small
billiard table sat in the middle.  Huge old oil paintings, over a
half-dozen and each of them perfectly lit, hung in strategic locations.
Looking at them, Todd guessed they'd been chosen perhaps not because of
their artistic merit but, like the old books interior designers bought
by the yard, because the meadows and the mountains and the chateaux
they portrayed looked so very old, so tres riche.

"It'll be just a moment," said the bodyguard, who stood against one
wall.

"Thank you."

Suddenly Todd realized what was missing: people.  If nothing else he'd
been expecting to walk into a group of people.  Melissa, the Tim Chase
publicist.  Some young guy, the Tim Chase assistant.  Someone else, the
Tim Chase manager.  For hours Todd had been imagining some

kind of committee that would, very L.A. style, hand him a glass of
wine, smile and laugh, tell him all sorts of wonderful things, pretend
that they loved Todd, all the while silently judging him, wondering if
he would do, if in fact he suited their purposes.  Yes, he expected to
be greeted not by a bunch of fake people, but by a group of
extraordinarily casual-appearing people who were in all actuality
vicious guards, the Hollywood variety, with one job and one job only:
the protection of the Tim Chase franchise.  Yes, he expected the: I
love you, you're great, this is wonderful, fabulous, now read my smile:
You dumb fuck, you're nothing.

Instead there was no one except Mr.  Muscle.

At a loss, Todd stood in the middle of the enormous room, looking at
the furniture that was too new to be old money and the paintings that
were too safe to be masterpieces, when he heard steps from somewhere
else in the house.  Todd turned and looked at the hired thug, who was
undoubtedly good at tossing out people but who needed a few quarters of
finishing school.  From the quick, light steps Todd presumed it had to
be her, Melissa.  Looking past the massive guy, Todd stared into the
entry hall that was the size of a ballroom.

And suddenly there he was.

It wasn't her.  It wasn't Melissa or any other young woman.  It was
him.  At first Todd thought his eyes were failing.  He just looked so
... so small.  He came racing around a corner, sliding on the oak floor
in white athletic socks as if this weren't some huge mansion and he
weren't one of the most well known stars in the whole universe. 
Wearing faded blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and an untucked and
unbuttoned denim shirt, Tim Chase just looked like he was in any old
home and he was just any old regular guy.  No, wait.  Hell, thought
Todd.  Look at that smile.  Those teeth.  That electrifying grin that
could and had charmed ga zillions both male and female.

"Thanks for letting him in, Vie," he said to Mr.  Muscle.  And then
approaching Todd, he held out his hand.  "Hi, I'm Tim Chase."

Much later, Todd would kick himself for not saying something like, No
shit.  Or, Gee, I thought you were John Travolta.  Or, And I'm Bill
Clinton.

Instead he was barely able to mumble, "Nice to meet you.  I'm Todd
Mills."

When their hands met in a formal handshake, Todd was surprised by more
than a couple of things.  First, he was surprised at how short and fast
his own breathing had become.  Second, he was impressed by the firmness
of Tim Chase's grasp, how he squeezed Todd's hand so hard, so very guy
like  Third and most important, the eyes.  Oh, my God, thought Todd. 
What gorgeous brown eyes.  And they were looking right at him. No, he
realized, they were peering deep into him, fishing for some kind of
truth, and Todd was staring right back.  It lasted for just a second or
two, but it was a moment much too long.  Simultaneously and
inexplicably, Todd's stomach tightened and his heart seemed to skip a
beat.  And it scared the hell out of Todd, that rush, that jolt.  He
knew what that was--his gay dar flashing "alert, alert."  It was,
however, more profound than a simple feeling or a mere sense.  It was
in fact a physical reaction.  Holy shit.

The star asked, "Are you hungry?"

Todd just stared at him.

"God, why do I have this effect on people?"  He lifted his right hand
in front of Todd's face and snapped his fingers.  "Sushi?  Do you like
sushi?"

Effect?  No, thought Todd.  He doesn't understand just what he's
exuding.

Todd cleared his throat, forced himself to say, "Sushi's great."

"Vie," he said, turning to the large man, who still stood on the edge
of the living room.  "Would you mind playing meals on wheels again?"

"Of course."

"Get the same combination plate you did last night, okay?  Oh, and
their eel's great, so get some extra."

"Extra pickled ginger too?"

"That's my man."

As Vie left the room, Chase turned back to Todd, and said, "And here
you've still got your coat on.  Vie's almost perfect, but he's never
been to butler camp."

Slipping off his leather jacket, Todd couldn't help but grin.

"Oh, this is nice.  Very soft," said Chase as he took Todd's coat and
carefully laid it on the back of one of the sofas.  "Who would have
thought you could get good sushi in the Midwest, huh?  I mean, when I
grew up in Milwaukee the exotic foods were chili and Reuben
sandwiches."

"Just like it was in Chicago."

"You from there?  Great place.  Lots of fun."

Todd shrugged and didn't know why he said it, why he would divulge
anything so quickly.  "Yeah, but too many memories, and not enough of
'em good."

"Hey, that's exactly how I feel about Milwaukee."  He took a deep
breath and then sighed.  "Some hard shit, I'll tell you that much."

He was talking family dirt.  Divorce.  Poverty.  His mother's treatment
and his taking all the jobs.  Todd had read all about the hard times of
Tim Chase, the stuff that made him tough and resilient, the stuff that
made for good publicity copy.  And there it now was, lying both on the
surface of his soul and the surface of their conversation.  Todd didn't
know why, but it suddenly struck him that he liked this guy.  He just
seemed very real.

"So Melissa made me promise I'd get the formal stuff right on the
table," continued Chase with one of those smiles that could disarm a
nuclear warhead.  "Namely, all this tonight is completely off the
record.  Nothing recorded, nothing quoted.  No stories repeated.  This
is just a chance, you know, to talk.  A chance for us to get to know
each other."

"Sure," replied Todd, at the same time wondering why in the world Tim
Chase would want to get to know him.

"And then .. . then we'll see."

"She won't be here tonight?"

"Melissa?  No."

"What about an assistant or .. ."

"I can take care of myself, if that's what you mean, and they sure as
hell know it.  I mean, after all, I do pay them."

"Sorry, I just didn't know what to expect.  She didn't really tell
me."

"That's my Melissa, Miss Control herself."  Tim rubbed his hands
together, and said, "How about something to drink?  A beer?  Some
wine?"

"Wine would be great."

"Come on."

Tim turned, spinning quickly on his stocking feet, and starting off. As
Todd followed him from the living room and back through the entry, Todd
thought, yes, this guy is gorgeous.  Actually, more cute than gorgeous,
with that perfect brown hair that flopped about, that smile that
glowed.  He was a real star; Todd felt that, already sensed that he was
in the presence of one.  He was normal size, not larger than life. 
Actually about the same height as Todd.  And he was a bit stockier than
Todd had imagined.  But he looked to be in perfect shape, the shoulders
broad and muscular, the legs in those tight jeans strong and
athletic.

"How about this joint, huh?"  said Tim as he led the way into the
dining room.  "We're renting it from some cosmetics queen and she's got
it all dolled up."

"It's huge."

"No shit.  I had to use my cell phone to find Gwen a couple of hours
ago," he said with an easy laugh.  "She was in the den."

"I heard there was a swimming pool in the basement.  Is that true?"

"Yep.  All tiled and everything.  And there's a billiard room up here.
You like pool?"

"Sure."

"Good, we'll shoot some."

The dining room was a tad more intimate, a smaller room with a long
wooden table for a crowd, a carved plaster ceiling, another stolen
marble fireplace, and a Venetian chandelier that had blue and pink
baubles protruding every which way.  From there they passed into a
breakfast room with a tiled floor and lots of leaded glass windows;
Todd easily imagined the robber baron who'd built this place taking his
morning coffee out here.  And then they turned left into an enormous
modern kitchen that stretched all the way along the side of the
house.

Immediately a small voice shouted, "Daddy!"

"Jack!"

Clutching the remnants of a chocolate chip cookie, a young boy, perhaps
no older than three, came charging across the white floor.  Tim scooped
him up and kissed him on the neck.

"How's my best boy?"

"Good!"

"Well, there you are," said a woman who stood at the sink, her
goldish-brown hair put up in a lazy bun.  "He wants to say good
night."

This was his boy, Todd understood.  And that was his wife.  That
beautiful young woman in the jeans and oversized sweatshirt was the
Gwen Owens.  When he'd seen her accepting her Oscar her hair had been
professionally done, her makeup perfectly applied, and she'd worn a
designer gown that had made her look like a goddess, but there was no
mistaking her pale complexion, her small mouth, and the gentle eyes.
Standing at the sink like any ordinary slob, that was she, one of the
hottest female stars in moviedom.  And here they both were, Tim and
Gwen, the legendary couple.

Looking past her, Todd saw a trim, handsome woman with the short brown
hair sitting on the countertop.  So who was she?

"Well, it's that time, is it, little man?"  said Chase, hugging his
son.  "Give me a big kiss and a big hug.  I'll see you in the morning.
I love you."

"Love you too," replied the boy.

"Gwen, this is Todd Mills.  Todd, this is my wife, Gwen Owens.  She
came out for a while so I wouldn't get lonely--and to keep me out of
trouble."

"And this," said Gwen, gesturing to the attractive young woman, "is the
lovely Maggie, my--"

Tim cut in, saying, "Todd's a reporter for a local TV station."

"Oh, is that right?"  she said with a broad smile and without missing a
beat.  "Well, as I was saying, this is Maggie, our lovely nanny."

Todd said, "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," replied Maggie, grinning from where she sat.

Our lovely nanny?  Had something just happened here?  A warning
telegraphed?

"Come on, pumpkin," beckoned Gwen, walking over and lifting her young
son from Tim's arms.  "Time to hit the hay."  She leaned forward and
pecked Tim on the cheek.  "I love you, sweetheart."

"Ditto," he said, returning the kiss.

"Nice to meet you, Todd."  With a wink, she added, "Now, don't keep him
up too late.  He's got to be on the set at six tomorrow morning.  And
God knows it's hard for anyone, male or female, to look beautiful at
that hour."

With her son in her arms, Gwen headed toward the back of the kitchen
and presumably another staircase.  Just as Gwen passed Maggie, her
young son began twisting and squirming.

"I want my other mommy too!"

"Oh, don't worry she's coming," assured Gwen.

Todd stood perfectly still, sucking it all in, trying to comprehend
what was really going on in this household.  He glanced at Gwen, who
didn't seem the least bit fazed by the child's words, and then Todd
watched as Maggie hopped off the counter and followed after them.  When
he looked over at Tim, however, he saw the other man looking straight
at him.

"Kids," said Chase.  "Maggie's been with us since the day he was born.
She travels everywhere with us too."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and she's been a real lifesaver."

So Maggie probably was like a second mom to the boy.  Or was she
really?  Could little Jack have two mommies?  After all, children were
not only remarkably perceptive, they were also naturally honest,
brutally so.

Tim said, "What do you want, white or red?"

"Red if you've got it."

"By the case."  Chase reached into a cabinet and pulled out two large
wineglasses.  "Actually, I'll open a bottle of Jack's wine."

"Your son has his own label?"

"No.  Jack as in Jack Nicholson.  We named our boy after him-he's his
godfather too.  And Jack Nicholson has a vineyard he thinks is the
greatest on earth, which isn't surprising since he thinks he's the
greatest piece of shit on earth.  And maybe he is.  Anyway, he sends us
a couple of cases of his wine every year for Christmas, and it's
actually pretty good."

"Oh."

Like what was Todd supposed to say, how was he supposed to keep up with
that kind of casual talk?  Tell him that two years ago he got a
Butterball turkey from the station manager?

Todd watched his every move, judged his every word, from the way he
pulled a bottle from the cabinet and opened it with ease, to the toast
he made to their good health.  It was weird, there was no doubt about
it.  It was as if he'd walked through a door and was having a totally
normal conversation with Michael Jackson and that he found him just a
regular old guy.  But that's in fact how Tim Chase appeared.  Normal.
It was that sense of ease that so many journalists had written about,
that nice guy quality that sort of couldn't help but come through the
dazzling smile.  Or was that all a facade?  This guy was an actor.  He
was a professional at creating illusion.  And that was what acting was
all about, the craft and art of making people believe that what they
were seeing was the absolute truth.

"Come on, let's go shoot some pool," said Chase, touching Todd on the
elbow.  "Say, I bet you're wondering why we selected you of all the
local journalists for a possible interview."

"Well, that thought had crossed my mind."

"I'll be perfectly frank, it's because you're gay."

 Standing in the back hall, his muscular body pressed against a line
of coats hanging from hooks, the bald man listened to their
conversation.  No, thought Vie, he didn't like this, not one bit.  Gwen
wasn't too bad, but Tim always said too much.  Always.  Which made
Vie's own job that much more difficult.

Now that Gwen and Maggie and the boy had gone the other way down the
hall and up the back staircase, he could move closer.  He had, from
years of Tai Chi, fine control of every muscle, and he silently inched
around some boots, past an umbrella, around a nylon parka, and right up
to the edge of the kitchen door.  No, he thought, there was no way they
knew he was back here.  No way at all.

He heard the pop of a wine bottle, the clinking of glasses.  And he
heard Tim turning on the charm, per usual.  A real master at that, no
doubt about it.  But it made Vie nervous as hell.  He didn't think
there was any way this Todd Mills could know anything.  Maybe he
suspected, perhaps he just wondered.  But this wasn't good, not by any
means, having someone from the media lurking here inside the house.

Listening to every word of their chatter, he then discerned them
heading off to play pool.  Well, he thought, there was nothing to do
now.  Whatever happened was out of his control.

And hoping no damage would be done before he returned with the sushi,
he turned down the narrow hall and started for the garage.

Carrying the bottle of wine as well as his glass, Tim led Todd through
the living room and into the billiard room, which was of course a
chamber of grand proportions with the same soaring ceiling.  Two huge
leaded glass windows filled one of the walls, while on the others hung
random antelope and deer heads, a six-foot-long rattlesnake skin, and a
pair of longhorns, all trophies of when men were men.  Squarely planted
in the middle, with a brass light fixture hanging low over it, was a
Victorian billiard table, a huge thing crafted of carved mahogany.  Its
surface was covered with a field of rich green felt, and from the six
pockets hung woven leather pouches.  This was a gentleman's room, a
manly man's place to discuss money and hunting and port.  And tonight,
the mysteries of sexuality.

Todd sipped his wine as he leaned against the edge of the billiard
table, then couldn't stop himself from saying, "Gee, and here I was
hoping your people had contacted me because of my talents and abilities
as a journalist, not because of my sexual orientation."

"Please, don't be offended."

"For being gay?"

"No," replied Chase looking at him with an oddly seductive grin, "for
my wanting to use you,"

What the hell did he mean by that?  It gave Todd a start, not only the
way Tim Chase said it, but also the way his eyes kept scanning Todd.
Was double entendre the second language of this household?

Determined not to lose his own ground, Todd said, "I'm afraid you're
going to have to be a little more specific."

"What I mean is that I wanted to meet with and talk to a successful
gay person from the Midwest.  Everybody and their brother at a studio
fiddles with a script, but it's me that has his neck on the line.
They're a bunch of West Coast people--and granted, a whole lot of them
are homosexual--but it's me who's going to have to convince an audience
not only that I'm gay, but that I'm from here."

"Oh, so I'm research."

"In so many words, sure."

"But why?  You're from the Midwest."  Did he, Todd wondered, dare? "But
I can see your concern.  After all, the reVe been all those nasty
little rumors, haven't there?  I mean, isn't everyone curious if you
are in fact gay?"

"Ohhh, aren't you the direct one?  And, yes, that's been the sixty four
thousand dollar question: Where does Tim Chase put his cock?"  he said
with a laugh.  "Good God, I'll never live it down, just like Richard
Gere will never live down that apocryphal pesky rodent story."

"Yeah, he probably won't."

"Do you know why they put Princess Di on the cover of so many issues of
People magazine?  Because those issues always sold millions.  And do
you know why all the tabloids put Tim Chase and his love life on the
cover? Because those issues always sell out.  Which leads me to the
second reason I wanted to meet with you.  For this movie I'd like
ultimately to be interviewed by someone who's gay.  I want to meet the
doubters head on so that they can see there's no conspiracy of
silence."

So how the hell was Todd supposed to understand all this .. . this
babble, this elongated non-answer?  In a roundabout way was he saying
no, he wasn't gay, or was he just successfully evading the question?

Tim led Todd to a wooden wall rack and they chose their weapons, the
finest of long straight cues.  At his host's insistence, Todd racked up
the balls into a tight triangle, and then broke them, sinking a striped
ball.  Tim followed, making a difficult shot into a side pocket, then
missing a second one.  They played on, alternating turns and sipping
Jack Nicholson wine.

And it was Todd, who by personality as well as by profession re turned
to risque waters, asking, "So what do you want to know about a gay man
in the Midwest?"

Tim completed a shot, sinking a solid in a corner pocket, and replied
in a near-businesslike way, "I want to know about your work, how long
you've been at the present station and what kind of stories you usually
cover.  I want to know what it's like being openly gay at work .. . and
how long you've been out.  And I want to know if you're out to your
parents, and of course all about your love life."

"Well..  ."

Todd went through it all, answering each of his questions in detail. 
He started with his college years, telling Chase all about his dear
love and dear friend Janice, who also turned out to be queer.  He
talked about being in the closet, about marrying Karen, then being
terrified that viewers would find out and his career would be flushed
down the toilet.  And he talked about doing tricks on the side,
wherever, however he could get them.  And then Michael and Rawlins.

They finished one game, started on another.  And refilled their
glasses.  Tim took it in, every facet of Todd's life.

"You were married?"  asked Chase as Todd neared the end.

"Yeah, for a number of years."  He hesitated, then added, "And I've got
a kid.  A son."

"No shit.  How old?"

"Well... it happened when I was in college, so actually he's in his
early twenties now."

"Wow."

"Unfortunately I don't know him very well.  It's a long story, and
something I need to take care of, but..  ."

No, thought Todd, I'm not going to toss in the fact that my son has a
daughter, which obviously means I'm also a grandfather.  Instead he
went on to tell the story of his coming out, which was when Todd
realized he had Tim Chase completely hooked.  As Todd told the star how
he was outed when Michael was murdered, Tim put down his pool cue,
picked up his glass of wine, and stared at Todd, his face etched with
sympathy and understanding.

"Oh, my God," Tim muttered several times throughout the telling.  "How
horrible.  It must have been .. ."

"Hard, but ultimately good."

Why was it, Todd wondered, that coming-out stories held such universal
appeal to gay men?  Was it simply the common experience?  The same
plunging of the soul for the inner truth, a truth of character that
straight people were rarely forced to discover?  And why did it seem
that Tim Chase was now listening to Todd's story, judging it for how it
might reflect on his own life?  Was he vicariously understanding what
it would be like for him to come out, to put everything he had worked
for at risk simply so that he could assert his own identity and inner
sense of honesty?  Or was he simply a truly kind man?

Tim Chase was already one of the very biggest stars, the kind like
Henry Fonda and Gary Grant, a star who was destined to live on as an
icon for generations.  Todd, in comparison, was a mere speck, if that,
yet as he talked Todd couldn't help but feel that they had something in
common.  No, Todd wasn't particularly intuitive, not by any means, yet
he couldn't help but think they were very similar in one regard, that
they both held a deep-seated fear of what people thought of them.
Without any evidence and despite knowing the man but for a very short
while, Todd supposed that Tim Chase had gone into acting not only as a
way of escaping himself, but as a way of projecting a larger-than-life
image of the person he longed to be: a true hero, a true heterosexual
hero.  Maybe he was straight, maybe he wasn't, Todd had no answer to
that simple question, but he did know that Hollywood was a citadel of
homophobia, a place where people feared one thing almost above all
others: that a particular truth would kill their careers.

The sushi arrived.  Vie, the bodyguard, didn't make much of a waiter,
but he brought in two Styrofoam containers and then silently
disappeared.  Todd and Tim started in on the food, and then Tim dashed
off for another bottle of Nicholson's best.  As Tim poured Todd his
third and soon fourth glass of wine, Todd wondered if Chase felt it
too, this sense that the two of them could be genuine friends.  Or did
Chase just naturally exude that aura, was that part of his star

charm, the ability to make everyone feel comfortable around him?  Was
the magic of his appeal simply based on his ability to make everyone
like him?

"So what about your love life?"  asked Tim, stuffing a tuna roll into
his mouth.  "You mentioned this guy, this cop.  Is he your Mr.
Wonderful?"

Todd picked up a California roll, draped it with a piece of pickled
ginger, then dipped it in wasabi and soy sauce.  As he took a bite, he
glanced at the other man, who was bent over and focusing on a shot.
Could Chase be checking Todd out to see if he was available, or was he
really just asking about Todd's life?  And how should Todd answer? 
What the hell was going on here?

"Rawlins and I are pretty involved."  His mood increasingly dictated by
the wine, Todd decided to leave the door open, and he added, "But we've
recently run into a major bump."

"I see."

Todd found himself looking at Tim Chase's broad hands, his muscular
wrists.  And the clean-shaven cheeks.  He studied the other man's eyes
and eyebrows.  His ears, the back of his neck.

And then he turned away, reached for his glass of wine.

"Your shot," said Chase.

As he took a sip, then put down the glass and reached for his pool cue,
Todd realized he could ask the one question he loved to ask straight
people--if in fact Chase was straight.  In an attempt to keep the issue
on the table, he could pose the fairly non-threatening: Have you ever
had a same-sex encounter?  Probably sixty or seventy percent of the men
Todd had asked had said yes, but how would Chase respond?

Instead, Todd backed down.  "So do you think you'll have a hard time
playing a gay man?"

"No.  I mean, why should I?  I'm an actor.  I've played lawyers, I've
played murderers.  And could I defend someone in court?  Hell, no.
Could I kill someone?  Absolutely not.  This is just a continuation of
my work, that's all."

"But you don't think you'll have any trouble pulling it off?"

Somewhere off in this huge house the phone rang, and it made Todd
realize how utterly quiet it had been up to this point.  There'd been
no music, no distant voices.  Only the slow dance of their conversation
and the occasional chattering of pool balls.

Staring off into the rest of the house, Tim said, "Shit, I wonder who
that is.  Hardly anyone has this number."  When someone picked it up
midway through the third ring, he shrugged and said, "Oh, well."

Todd leaned over, focused on a red striped ball that was hugging the
side.  If he did it carefully enough he could just tap it with the
white ball and get it to roll slowly to the corner pocket.  Squinting,
he took careful aim, then took a shot, and moments later the ball
slipped into the pocket.

"Very nice," said Chase.

Todd came around, saw that the green striped ball was his only chance.
But how the hell was he going to get it in that far corner?  With force
or a slight tap?  Squinting, he bent over.  And then felt hands on his
hips.  His entire body tensed, his heart flew into a rush of a panic.

Slowly enveloping him from behind, Tim Chase said, "So what do you
think, can I pull it off?"

"I ... I ..."

"Don't forget, TV boy, this is off the record."

Todd took a deep breath, felt the hands come around his hips and move
seductively across his waist, then he quietly gasped, "Maybe."

Todd felt the other man's crotch press against his ass, and Todd's body
rushed with a double shot of fear and desire as powerful as a tall
glass of tequila.  The pool cue rolled out of his hands, dropped onto
the green felt.  And he stood motionless as Tim Chase started to dry
hump him from behind.  Jesus Christ, was this really happening?

"You've got a nice body."  He kissed Todd on the back, once, twice,
then slowly moved his hand upward to Todd's chest, and said, "I think
this is how you make love to another man, right?"

"Yeah, I think ... I think, ah, you've got the hang of it."

Oh, fuck.  Was he playing with Todd or really coming on to him?

Was one of America's biggest idols, the same star Todd had seen on the
huge silver screen, now riding him from behind with true lust or' Just
let me do the work," cooed Chase into Todd's right ear.

Like silky magic, Chase's broad hand slid down Todd's stomach, over his
belt buckle, then flew briefly across his lusty crotch.  Oh, my God,
what was going on here?  This guy's wife was right upstairs.  Rawlins
was probably waiting for him at home.  But..  . but this guy was so
sexy.  So amazingly gorgeous.  And if Rawlins had been screwing around,
why the hell shouldn't he?  They weren't married.  There was no dictum
that said, no, don't do this.  Right.  This was the benefit of being
gay, of never being bound, legally or otherwise, to another, of ...
From behind Chase grabbed onto Todd's left nipple and twisted.  The
delight shot through him, and he thought, if this is a game, I'm not
going to be his toy.  And he thrust back with his ass, nudging Chase
slightly away, then spun around.  Their eyes caught and held and it
scared the crap out of Todd.  The next second they were back together,
clutching each other.  Todd felt Chase's lips on his neck, felt his
tongue drawing a moist line upward to his chin.  And Todd was rubbing
his hand across that hard stomach, not merely massaging it, but
determined to probe beneath the belt, to read the only true thermometer
of what was nowA voice from the edge of the room said, "The reviewers
have always said my timing is my best quality.  I almost think they're
right, don't you?"

As if Todd had been caught stealing a bucket of priceless jewels, he
flew back against the pool table.  Glancing over, he saw her, Gwen
Owens.  She was standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, a
wily smile on her face, the same smile in fact that he'd seen her sport
at the Academy Awards.  He turned, looked at Tim Chase, who was
grinning back at her.  What was this, some kind of dream?

Chase wiped his mouth with the back of his right hand, and said, "Just
doing a little rehearsing, sweetheart."

"Of course you are.  After all, we all know what a stickler you are for
details."  She shrugged, turned, and sauntered off, calling over her

shoulder, "Oh, and Brian's on the phone.  Says there's something wrong
with the script, something that you guys have to work out tonight so
the shooting schedule doesn't get all fucked tomorrow.  Actually, I
wouldn't be surprised if he wants to come right over."

Turning to Todd, his mouth pursed in a naughty grin, Tim said, "Oh,
brother, that's the director.  Sorry, but I gotta take this call.  I'm
afraid it's going to be a while, it always is with Brian.  Do you mind
letting yourself out?"

"Ah .. . ah, no .. ."

The naughty grin blossoming into one of his megawatt smiles, Tim Chase
asked, "So what do you think, can I pull it off, can I act the role of
a gay man?  Did I convince you?  I did, didn't I?"

Todd stood there--was that all this was, just a game?--and before he
could reply Tim Chase turned and trotted out of the billiard room.  Had
any of this really happened?  Todd looked over at the pool table, saw
his cue lying there.  He glanced at the half-eaten sushi.  Yes, he'd
just met with Tim Chase.  They'd had wine.  And there, those were their
wineglasses.  And Ducking his head back in, Tim proffered a small,
naughty grin.  "Say, I got a couple of more research questions for you.
Why don't you come back tomorrow night, say about seven thirty?  How's
that sound?"

Wondering what in the hell he meant by that, at first Todd said
nothing, just stared at him, and then hating himself, eagerly replied,
"Sure."

Sitting in his grandfather's worn red leather chair in the living room
of his own apartment, Rawlins took a long drink of beer and tumbled
into a black hole of worry.  What would he do without Todd?  Was he
destined to always be alone?  Was the stereotype of the lonely old
queen prophetic?  Oh, God.  He didn't know when or if HIV would
eventually overtake his life, and that of course worried the hell out
of him, but he'd always feared the double curse of growing old and
being lonely.

Just a short while ago he'd followed Todd all the way to that huge
house on Mount Curve.  He'd watched Todd, all dressed up in his
hippest, get out of his car and go up to the gate, and then proceed to
the massive front door.  At first Rawlins told himself that Todd was
merely going to a party, but then he realized there were scant cars on
the street and that, apparently, no one else was coming.  So who lived
there?  Was it some wealthy homosexual, some Spam heir or plastic
surgeon from the Mayo or one of the queens who'd sold a ga jillion of
those ceramic Christmas houses?  Was some fag with buckets of money
trying to steal handsome Todd away from him, a lowly cop whose health
was questionable?

Rawlins, whose temper could be rageful, had been about to go up there
and either shove his way through the gate or climb over the fence.  The
anxiety had been building like steam in a boiling kettle, and he
pictured himself bursting into the huge house.  Then, however, the gate
on the drive had opened and a white car had come speeding out.  It was
so dark that Rawlins thought Todd was in the passenger seat, and so,
madder than hell, he'd sped after the vehicle.  At the very first stop
sign on the next block, Rawlins had pulled up alongside the car and
stared right in, only to look at a man with a shaved head, who was the
only one in the vehicle.  As that car then sped away, Rawlins pulled
over, shook his head in disgust, then pressed on the gas and somehow
managed to get himself to his home, this apartment on the second floor
of a duplex.

No, I won't cave, thought Rawlins, now sitting there.  I won't go to
Todd's, not tonight.  They hadn't slept apart in months, but Rawlins
wasn't going to give.  He didn't want to lie next to Todd and wonder
where he'd been, what he'd done, whom he'd perhaps kissed, because of
course he'd go absolutely and completely ballistic.  He also couldn't
go there because .. . oh, shit .. . because he didn't want to tell him
about Andrew.  Yes, the next time Rawlins saw Todd he'd have no choice.
He was going to have to tell Todd exactly what had happened on that
afternoon only hours before that young kid was killed.

Oh, shit.  How could he have been so stupid?

Rawlins ran his left hand through his short dark hair and pulled at the
roots.  Clutching the cool beer bottle in his right, he raised it to
his mouth and took another swig.  And then he got up and went to his
old brown leather coat, which hung on the back of one of the old chairs
at the dinner table.  He reached into the inside pocket and pulled out
the small spiral notebook.  Staring at the small booklet that contained
so many confessions, so many fears, so many hopes, Rawlins recalled
their last conversation that had taken place early that afternoon.

"You don't understand," Andrew had said as tears filled those beautiful
blue eyes.  "My entire life is so unbelievably fucked up.  You're the
only good thing.  Don't you understand how much I need you?"

"But, Andrew .. ."  Rawlins had tried to protest.

"You can't imagine what happened today.  You can't imagine who came by
this morning.  I mean, I just want to kill myself.  I just want to
throw a belt over that pipe up there and just string my--"

"Stop it!  Don't talk like that!  You're fine.  Everything's going to
be okay."

"But--"

And then Andrew was falling into Rawlins's arms.  No longer the butch
farm boy, he was sobbing like a lost child.

Yes, that was how it had happened, how it had begun.  Rawlins should
have just turned and walked out of there.  No, he should have flown as
fast as a bat out of hell.  But how could he have left him?  He was so
upset, so lost.  Rawlins remembered looking up, seeing that old pipe,
and imagining Andrew hanging himself.  Everyone had let that kid down,
and Rawlins was determined not to, particularly when he was at his
lowest low.  But then Andrew had started it, groping Rawlins, rubbing
his chest, kissing him, and ripping open his own pants and broadcasting
his own eagerness.

Recalling that net of seduction that Andrew had thrown over him,
Rawlins now clutched the diary and returned to the old red leather
chair.  But wait, thought Rawlins.  He'd been so focused on those few
minutes that had followed, so terrified what the police department and
Todd and the world would think--if in fact they ever found out-that
he'd all but forgotten what Andrew had said: "You can't imagine what
happened.  You can't imagine who came by this morning."

What the hell had Andrew been talking about?  Who could that have been?
And could it, Rawlins now wondered, somehow be related to the murder
that had taken place a mere few hours later?  Absolutely.  And could
that secret be hidden here in these pages of a lost boy's confession?
Quite possibly.

His hands all but shaking, Rawlins flipped through the diary, stopping
at that fateful day.

The only true love of my life will he here in a few hours.  He means so
much to me, so much more than Jordy ever did.  And today I'm going to
tell Rawlins how much I love him, how much I need him.  Especially
after today.

Reading those words, Rawlins shook his head.  Obviously he'd done
something to encourage Andrew, but what?  What words, what looks?  What
false messages of interest had he broadcast?

/ need him, now more than anything because now I understand everything
and.  just how perverted this world really is.  I don't know if I can
take it.  The truths of this world are too weird, too twisted.

Rawlins remembered the first crush he'd ever had on another man, his
high school gym teacher.  All but nine years older than Rawlins, who'd
been seventeen at the time, he thought Mr.  Stevens was the handsomest,
sexiest thing around, his voice so deep, his arms so powerful.  He'd
fantasized the two of them going out, having a couple of beers, and
then .. . But of course Mr.  Stevens had been straight, nothing had
even remotely happened, and he had, in fact, gotten married the next
year.

This morning I was out in front of the apartment building, just raking
like I was supposed to.  That's when I noticed that guy--he was sitting
in a car and staring at me.  He scared me right away because he was
kind of creepy-looking.  He was bald and wearing sunglasses and he
didn't look very friendly.  I just kept raking, but he didn't take his
eyes off me.  Finally I heard this car door shut, and I looked up and
saw him coming over.  I kind of wanted to run, and I was about to when
he called out my name.

"Andy, you're Andy, aren't you?"

I didn't say anything.  I mean, I was sure I never saw him he fore.  I
mean, I've done it three times exactly.  Three times I took money--once
this married guy paid me fifty bucks to let him suck me.  Another time
this guy, this businessman, was here for some kind of dentist
convention, and he paid me seventy-five to go hack to his hotel room.
Then another time, this old guy, he was gay for sure, he paid me
twenty-five bucks just to let him watch me jerk off.  But what was I
supposed to do?  I was hungry.  I needed the money.  But this guy, all
I could think was, Who's that old troll?

And then he said, "You got to be Andy--you look just like your dad."

I kind of freaked.  I mean, I probably shoulda just taken off.  Instead
I just kind of tried to look, you know, tough.

And even though I thought my heart was going to pop out of my chest, I
said, "Who the fuck are you?"

I mean, I thought he was a cop.  Or a detective, someone they hired to
come find me.

He said, "A very old friend of your dad, that's who, you little
shit."

1 stared at him, and at first I didn't know what to say, then finally,
"How did you find me?"

It turns out that Jordy Weaver is a higger idiot than I ever thought.
Last night he was all upset--all upset about me, probably-and that
idiot called home.  He probably was bawling to his parents that he
wanted to come home or something.  What a wuss.  And then Mr.  Weaver
called my house and talked to my dad and apparently told him where
Jordy was living.  Dad then asked this guy to come up here and check on
me.  He went to Jordy's, and then that fucking turd sent him right over
here, thank you very much, Mr.  Jordy Fairy Weaver.

Yes, thought Rawlins.  He should have already done it, but first thing
tomorrow morning he'd find Jordy and get a formal statement from him.

So this guy asks if I'm alright, and I say yes.  He said my dad is all
worried about me.  Well, that was a crock of shit, I knew that right
away.  My mom maybe, but not Dad, not after he beat the crap out of me.
You know, so I'm looking at this guy, thinking what is he really here
for?

And so I say, "Dad said he never wanted to see me again, and I don't
ever want to see him either."

"You know what, Andy, maybe you'll understand some day."

"Understand what?"

"Things, that's all."

"Well, if she wants to know, you can tell my mom I'm fine.  Now I gotta
get hack to work."

And then this guy, he goes and pulls a hundred dollar hill from his
wallet.  Like no way.  No way am I going to go to he'd with him.  Fuck!
What a disgusting pig.

"I don't want your money," I tell him.

"Please, your dad is a special friend of mine.  We've known each other
since we were kids.  He just asked me to drive by where you were
living, he didn't want me to stop, hut then I saw you out here,
and--"

"I've never seen you he fore  If you're my dad's friend, then why
haven't I ever seen you?  You've never been at our farm, have you?  And
I've never seen you in town.  So who the fuck are you?"

This bald guy, he looks down at the ground, and then he says, "He's
going to shoot me for doing this, but there's something you have to
know."  The way he said it really scared me, and I asked, "What's .. .
what's that?"

"Do you promise you won't tell him I told you?"

"Sure," I answered even though I knew I was lying.

"You swear?"

"Yeah, I swear.  Now tell me!  What is it?"

And then he tells me.  He just blurts it out.  It just takes one little
sentence, that's all, and then everything's ruined.

"You're a fucking liar!"  I yell at him.

"I'm sure it's kind of a shock, I--"

"You're wrong!"

"No, Andy, I'm not.  I wouldn't lie about something like that."

"No!"

I threw my rake at him and then ran inside.  He tried to come after me,
but I pulled the front door shut and locked it.  He was banging on the
door, yelling at me to let him in, but I didn't.

I never wanted to see that jerk again.  I mean, I couldn't believe it.
There had to be a mistake.  It had to be a lie.  I started crying and I
ran right to my apartment.  I like threw myself on my bed.  What was I
supposed to do?  Believe him?  But..  .

I mean, I had to know.  I had to know for sure.  So what did I do?  A
cat ted Dad.  I called him on his cell phone.  He was out on the
tractor, tilling the south field, and he picked up right away.

"Is it true, Dad?"  I yelled into the receiver.

"Andy?  Andy, is that you?"

"This guy, he just came here, and he said .. . said something bad about
you," I began, breaking my promise.  "Is it true?  Do you know him and
is he telling the truth?"

At first there was nothing, like I hit him in the stomach or something.
And then he started screaming and yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Are you crazy?  Of course it's not true!  And .. . and if you ever say
anything like that again, God damn it, I'll kill you with my very own
hands!"

"Oh, my God .. . it is true, isn't it?"

"You little--" And then I hung up.  I just sort of dropped the phone.
For the first time in my life everything made sense.  I saw how all of
us fit together, Mom and Dad, me, my sisters.  Now I knew why he hit me
so hard in the barn, why he went so crazy.  Everything made sense, yet
nothing did.

I still can't believe it.  In fact, I can't even write it down.  I
mean, if anyone ever found this diary and read it, then they'd know
what my dad's been doing.  And then .. . then Dad really would come
after me and kill me.  For sure.

God, I'm so afraid .. .

Afraid?  Afraid of what?

On the one hand, thought Rawlins, nothing made sense.  On the other,
everything did.  Now he knew why Andrew had been so desperate, why he
had been so needy and clingy.  Now he understood why Andrew had so
wanted to fall into Rawlins's arms.  His father had threatened his
life, and Andrew had wanted love.  He'd wanted comfort, he'd wanted
solace.  Desperately confused, Andrew had needed all of that.  The only
mistake he'd made, however, was that he'd tangled it all up with sex,
which was so often the case with kids, gay or straight, male or female,
for they too often lacked any other way to say: I need comfort.  But
then why should they?  Hell, most adults didn't know how to say those
three simple words either.

It was as horrible as it was pathetic.  If only he'd known, Rawlins
told himself.  If only Andrew had come right out and said something. 
If only he'd told Rawlins what his father was involved in then maybe he
could have helped.

So, mused Rawlins, holding the diary in his lap and now staring at the
blank white wall across the room.  Late morning of the day Andrew was
murdered, a bald man had come to see him and dropped a major-league
bomb.  And then Andrew had called his father, and the father had in no
uncertain ways threatened his very own son.  So had either one of these
men come to Andrew's apartment later in the day, blindfolded him, and
cut his throat?  Had the bald man returned, furious that he'd broken
his promise and talked to his father?  Or had Andrew's own father come
up, knowing that there was but one way to keep silent the truth,
whatever it was?

Oh, God, thought Rawlins.  Could the world really be that horrible that
a father would harm his son?

As he sat outside the coffee shop, the night air chilly and damp,
Jordy Weaver couldn't help but feel as if somebody's eyes were tracking
his every move.  He wanted to be out here, away from all of them, those
gay people inside the cafe who were talking and gabbing and laughing as
if they didn't have a care in the world, but who was that in the car
across the street?  Who was that guy and why did it seem he was just
waiting?  But waiting for what?  Some hustler and a midnight blow job?
A chance encounter with another desperate soul?  Or could he, Jordy
wondered as he sipped his coffee, be waiting especially for me?

The Octopus Cafe, just on the edge of downtown Minneapolis, had once
been a car wash known by almost the same name.  In fact, the very
namesake creature still sat on a pole high above Jordy, only now its
multiple arms didn't hold sponges and buckets but coffee cups, lots of
them.  It was a popular place among queer people, not too far from the
gay bars, of which the Twin Cities had a particularly odd dearth, and
only a few blocks from Loring Park, known for its after-hours cruising.
Tonight, as the bars began to empty, the cafe was getting more and more
packed with men waiting for this evening's sidewalk sale.  After all,
who wanted to be out this late and end up in bed with naught?

Look at them all, thought Jordy, peering in through the large glass
garage door from which freshly scrubbed cars had once exited.  Look at
all those men sitting in there gabbing away about this and that, none
of it important.  Do I want to be like them, those scuzzy homos?  Do I
want to end up like that, smoking and drinking and doing drugs

and fucking everything in sight .. . and getting killed?  Right, now
Jordy knew it for sure.  If you were gay you either got AIDS or you got
your throat slit.  Oh, shit, why couldn't he just be normal?  Maybe he
could change, get rid of this thing inside him.  He'd heard about such
religious organizations that took you in and made you straight.  Maybe
he should give it a try.

In the distance he saw the sky pulse spasmodically with lightning, then
soon thereafter heard the deep grumbling of thunder.  Oh, God, he
couldn't believe this.  All he'd ever wanted was Andrew, but now he was
gone forever.  First Andrew had moved away from him, taking that job
and getting his very own apartment, then he started seeing that cop,
and now .. . now .. .

No, Andrew was never coming back.  Never.  He was dead, dead, dead.
Jordy wondered if there was going to be a funeral back in their
hometown or if his parents were going to keep the shame of their lives
all secret and everything.  If there was a funeral, Jordy wondered if
he'd be invited, but then realized that, no, of course he wouldn't be.
Andrew's parents probably wanted to see him in the grave too.  They
probably even blamed him, Jordy Weaver, for what happened to their son,
and maybe, just maybe, they were right.  At least it hadn't been him
who had started it all.  Nope, it had been Andrew.  He'd been the one
to first bring up sex.  The first one to pounce.

Tears filled his eyes yet again, and he bent over his coffee, which was
getting colder by the second.  He bowed his head and his long silky
light brown hair fell forward, covering his face.  Who would've ever
imagined that something like this would happen to one of them?  He
remembered the first time they'd done it, Andrew and he.  It had been
something like two years ago when Andrew had come for a sleep-over.
They'd just started goofing around--"I'm kind of horny, how about you?"
Andrew had asked.  One thing sort of led to another, and then they
realized what they really had in common.  They'd done it another six or
seven times--in the attic above Jordy's parents' garage, in the hayloft
in Andrew's barn, once in a car--before they got caught and the shit
really hit the fan.  After that it had been Jordy's idea for the two of
them to run

away, to come all the way up here.  Jordy had thought he was so cool,
so smart, coming up with that plan, but it proved to be the stupidest
thing.  Shit, fuck, piss.  This was all his fault.  Andrew would never
have gotten himself killed if they hadn't come up here to The Cities.

"You okay?"  said a deep voice.

Jordy looked up and saw some guy with a rough, bearded face staring
down at him.  Oh, God, was that him, the guy who'd been watching him
from across the street?  No, he didn't think so, but whoever he was,
this guy was a major creep too.  He wore a black leather vest and tight
black leather pants, the crotch of which looked like it had been
stuffed with a week's worth of socks.  Fuck, what a pig.  Why were
these older guys always hitting on him?  Was it because his face was so
boyish, because his tall body was so reed like

"You're going to catch cold sitting out here, kid.  Come on inside and
I'll buy you another cup of coffee."

Well..  . well, maybe, thought Jordy.  Maybe the guy was just being
nice.  Maybe he really wanted to help.  He wasn't that bad, actually.
His voice was gentle enough, the eyes likewise sweet.  And it was going
to rain.  But then Jordy remembered exactly what happened to Andrew,
and he shook his head and looked away.  No fucking way.

"No thanks."

"You sure?  It's fixing to rain.  You're gonna get soaked out here, you
know."

"I said no, so just leave me alone, alright?"

With that the guy turned toward the door, saying, "Hey, listen, you
little shit, I was only trying to be nice."

Under his breath, Jordy muttered, "Yeah, right."

Jordy raised his cup, downed the last bit of now completely cold
coffee, then turned and looked down the dark empty street.  That car
was still parked there, but what about the guy?  Was he still behind
the wheel?  At first Jordy couldn't tell, but then a dark shadow moved
inside the vehicle.  Yes, he was sitting there.  And he was looking
right this way.

Jordy just had to get the fuck out of here.  Not just this place, not

simply this stupid coffee shop, but The Cities.  He wished he could do
it all over again, these past few months.  He wished he'd never left
home, and the next moment he was on his feet, pinning his old wool coat
shut with one hand.  He didn't have a car.  He didn't have a bike.  And
he didn't even have enough money to spend on a bus, which at this hour
would be a long wait, anyway.  It was going to take, he knew, at least
forty minutes for him to walk, which meant it would be after one in the
morning by the time he got back to that shithole of an apartment he
shared with all those kids.  He wondered how many would be sacked out
there tonight, four or five, or ten or twelve.  At least no one had
better be in his bed, that was for fucking sure.

Heading south on La Salle Avenue, he saw the sky again throb with
lightning, and he wondered if he would in fact make it home before the
storm hit.  Picking up his pace, his straight, long hair bounced with
each of his strides.  He was a beanpole of a kid, slightly over six
feet tall with a frame that desperately needed another thirty or so
pounds.  Or at least that was what Andrew always said.  Andrew, who
promised to take Jordy to the gym and help him work out, pump some
iron.  Right, Andrew, who had promised so many things, namely that
they'd always be together.

"We'll get those arms all beefed up, you'll see," Andrew had once said,
lying naked in bed next to him and squeezing Jordy's twiggy arms.
"We'll go work out every day, and you'll see, you'll get some
muscle."

Yeah, sure.  And someday we'll actually cross the Minnesota border,
which neither of them had ever done.  Forget the Dakotas, forget Iowa.
Chicago, that was Andrew's big dream.

"I hear they have some rocking dance places down there."

"Yeah, sure they do.  I've heard all about 'em.  They're supposed to be
incredible, but how the hell would we get in?  Anyone who takes one
look at me knows I'm underage."

"I don't know, we'll get some fake IDs or something."

A stream of cars whooshed past Jordy, and tears came again to his eyes.
He was such a sissy, he knew, but he couldn't help himself, couldn't
stop crying.  Beautiful Andrew.  His beautiful Andrew.  Dead,

his throat slit.  He bit his lip, tried to force the image out of his
mind.  Why?  Why the fuck why?

Suddenly he sensed a car slowing.  He glanced back, saw a brown Ford
Explorer come to a crawl by his side, and then everything inside him
went tense.  Was this the guy he'd seen parked down the street from the
cafe?  The next moment the passenger window slowly descended with a
deep electric hum.  Jordy looked in, saw a heavy man with gray hair
behind the wheel.  He was wearing a white shirt and a fancy suit.  And
he was rubbing his crotch nice and slow.

"It's awfully late," he said, his voice all deep and lusty.  "You need
a lift, kid?  I'll take you wherever you want to go.  You want to get
in?"

"No," snapped Jordy as he kept walking.

"How about fifty bucks?  You need that?  I bet you do, don't you?  How
about fifty, will that do?"

With glaring eyes, Jordy looked into the truck, saw the guy reach into
his suit coat and pull out his wallet.  In the light from a nearby
lamppost he also saw the glint of gold on his left ring finger.

"Fuck you, you old fart!"  shouted Jordy, who then honkered up a good
wad and spit it through the window onto the guy's fat thigh.  "Why
don't you go home to the suburbs and fuck your stupid wife, huh?  Why
the fuck are you out here looking for cock?"

The guy stomped on the gas, and the vehicle flew away, but not before
Jordy was able to kick the side door.  And as the stranger hightailed
it, Jordy wondered just who he was, really some married suburban creep
or an undercover cop hoping for a bust.  The cops were doing that, they
were, going after kids.  He'd heard all about it.  Just last week the
whole DQ had been buzzing because some kid had gotten scooped up by the
cops for hustling.  Well, Jordy had never done it, sold himself, and he
never would.  All he wanted was .. .

Shit, but Andrew was gone.

From somewhere back along the street he heard a car door slam, and
Jordy turned, scanned the parked cars, the empty sidewalk.  It was a
little late and this neighborhood wasn't the best, that was for sure.
He heard footsteps but couldn't see anyone.  Looking at the tall red
brick apartment buildings that were packed in right up to the
sidewalk, he saw maybe three or four lights on.

Clenching his arms around his chest, he hurried on, crossing onto a
bridge that led over the freeway.  The wind was stronger here, the
chill more biting, and he looked over the edge, saw the anonymous cars
hurling along at insane speeds.  It crossed his mind that the guy in
the Ford Explorer might circle around and come after him--this time no
longer offering money--and so he glanced over his shoulder.  He saw
headlights barreling down on him, but they were from a small car, he
could see that right away.  There was something else, though.  Or
rather someone else--just a half-block back a figure was hurrying along
the sidewalk as well.  Some guy, that was all he could really tell. 
Where the hell, wondered Jordy, had he come from?

Walking still faster, Jordy pushed on.  Out of nowhere a sprinkle of
rain came, spraying chilly water across his face.  Shit, he realized,
the storm was going to come sooner than he thought.  Just a couple of
seconds later the sprinkle turned into a steady rain, and Jordy pinched
his collar shut, bowed his head even more, and broke into a quick trot.
Scurrying across the bridge, he glanced back, saw the dark figure
behind him break into a run as well.  Holy shit, he thought.  He's
following me.  It's probably the same guy who'd been watching back at
the cafe, and it very well might be the same guy who got Andrew.  And
now he's going to do it, he's going to get me too.

There was a crack of lightning and an almost instant explosion of
thunder, and Jordy started running as fast as he could.  As if a single
huge switch had been flicked on, the rain came down in sheets, now
falling so hard that Jordy could barely see the other end of the
bridge.  But then what?  Where would he go from there, how would he get
away?  Maybe there was a bar up there.  Or a grocery store.  Just
someplace that was open that he could duck into.

He glanced over the bridge, saw the freeway traffic below now crawling
along through the storm.  Wiping the water from his brow, he checked
over his shoulder yet again.  Oh, shit, the guy was gaining on him!
What if he didn't just have a knife?  What if he had a gun?  Oh,

God, thought Jordy, now running as hard as he could.  Why had he ever
left home?  Why had he ever run away?  He just wanted to be back there,
back with his parents and his brother and their dog.  He'd never do it
again, never have sex with another guy, never get in trouble, if only
he could get back home.  Please, God!  Please, just don't let this guy
get me too!

Reaching the far end of the bridge, he looked up the street, but
through the pouring rain all he could see were apartment buildings and
some big old houses, all of them dark and lifeless.  There were no
businesses, not as far as he could see, no public place he could duck
into.  No, those were all on Nicollet and this was La Salle  Looking
back, he saw the guy charging through the rain right at him.  Oh, shit,
Jordy was never going to be able to outrun this guy, never.  He climbed
up on the railing of the bridge, saw the steep bank and the edge of the
freeway below.  There were cars down there and people.  He could slide
all the way down.  Someone would stop.  Someone would help.

Only ten or fifteen feet away now, the stranger started shouting,
yelling, "Hey!"

Through the pouring rain Jordy glanced back, thought he recognized him,
and cried, "You're not going to get me too!"

But then the man was upon him, and the next moment Jordy was tumbling
head over foot down the steep hill and into the busy stream of traffic
below.

Way in the distance and far to the east, Martha Lyman saw the late
night sky spark and snap with a bravado show of lightning.  Not just
one or two pops, but a bunch of them, one right after the other.  Yes,
she thought, leaning on the fence behind her house and gazing across
their farm at the huge storm, someplace was getting hammered. Someplace
like The Cities.  And Andy, her Andy, was up there beneath that storm,
his body covered by a white sheet and stored in some refrigerator.

She couldn't sleep, not with the image of her dead son burned into her
mind.  In fact, she wondered if she'd ever be able to sleep again.  How
could she?  How could she when all she could see whenever she closed
her eyes was the ashen face of her boy?  Oh, Andy.  He was never that
pale, not her baby.  He used to be so tan from being outside, from
working the fields.  His skin was so rich and healthy-looking, his hair
so golden blond.  What a handsome boy.  Her pride.  Often she just
looked at him, marveled at his strength and his beauty and his youth,
and she'd think: Good God, did such a handsome boy come out of me?  Did
I really make him?

She was glad she went up there today, glad she drove all the way up to
The Cities.  She had to see him one more time, especially before they
hacked him apart.  Just hours after she'd left they were supposed to
have started the autopsy, cracking his chest wide open, pulling his
insides out and slipping all that mess into plastic bags.  The very
thought of it was more than she could bear, butchering her boy up like
he was a side of beef.  She asked them not to, pleaded with the
detective to leave her boy alone, that he was dead and nothing was
bringing him back, but he told her that he had no choice.  It was the
law.  An autopsy was required when someone died of unnatural causes. 
Good Lord, what a final indignity, being split open by some total
stranger.

Aside from the lights that continued to pound in the distant sky,
Martha saw headlights way down the road and coming this way.  Was it
him?  Was her husband finally coming back?  It had to be going on two
or three.  Two or three in the morning, and she was still the only one
home.

After she'd been at the morgue, she'd been interviewed by the police.
But after that Martha really wasn't sure what she'd done.  Somehow she
got into the skyway system downtown and just started rambling around
the indoor system of walkways and pedestrian bridges.  Eventually she'd
found her car.  And then she'd just started driving.  It had taken her
hours to get home, and when she did there was no one here, neither her
daughters nor her husband.  Only a simple note.

Mar thaI taken the girls to their grandmother's for the night.  I'll be
back later, I don't know when.  John

So was this him, was that his truck now speeding this way?  Her eyes,
dazed and achingly tired, focused on the vehicle, watched it as it flew
across the flat terrain that stretched nearly as far as the eye could
see.  But it didn't slow as it neared their farm.  Rather, as if she
and her life hadn't ever existed, it just went flying right on by,
disappearing into the depth of the night.

When she'd come home to no one Martha had in one simple moment realized
that the life she had known would never exist again, that it was gone
forever.  She'd picked up the note and understood that her husband
could have been and probably had been gone all day.  He hadn't put a
time when he'd left, nor had he said when he'd be back.

And looking around the farm, she saw that nothing had been done.  The
tractor was just where it had been this morning, over by the metal pole
barn.  There had been no more tilling, no more bailing.  She'd looked
around, calmly taken it all in, and it just came to her, easily and
simply: I want a divorce.

Yes, she thought hanging on to the white fence, that was going to be
the fallout from all this, the complete and utter dissolution of their
little family.  It wasn't Andy's fault, not at all, but the trauma of
coming to terms with his being gay and running away had forced upon
them a test of greater magnitude than she could ever have imagined.
Sure, it was a test they might not ever have faced, and certainly one
they need not have taken.  And if they hadn't, they probably would have
just marched on, working the farm, raising their kids, and growing old
together.  Or maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a test at all.  Maybe all of
these travails had simply shone a light on the truths she had
previously chosen not to see.  Whatever.  Without all of this, though,
she doubted anything would have changed.  But instead everything had,
most definitely so, especially now with young Andy's death.  It was
just kind of one of those before and after things.  Tonight she saw
everything quite clearly, just who her husband was to her, what role he
really played in her life, how much she could or couldn't depend upon
him.  And she understood that all of this was a storm too great for
them to handle, that this was something from which their marriage could
not and would never recover.

So where had he gone, and where was he now?

It was not a question of dark jealousy, not even one of bitter
curiosity, but merely a point in need of simple clarification.  That
was the lie.  His lie.  And she'd chosen to ignore it, turned away,
pretending not to see something that was lying right before her.  Why
had she thought to never question him?  Because she was afraid of the
answer?  John, her husband of almost twenty years, hadn't gone with her
today to identify the body of their murdered son, and he wasn't home
tonight when she was drowning and needed him more than ever.  And
suddenly it all made sense.  All those stupid stories.  Martha, I'm
going to

go look at a small feedlot this morning, I think it might be a great
investment, but, don't worry, I should be back by dinner.  Sweetheart,
there's a tractor I'm thinking about buying, don't hold lunch.  Honey,
I'm going to play some poker with the guys, don't you wait up on me,
okay?  At least once or twice a month something like that came up, and
not once had she ever doubted him.  You fool, she told herself.  You
absolute fool.

So who was she?

The following morning Todd still wasn't sure who he should be more
flipped out about, his lover, Steve Rawlins, or film sensation Tim
Chase.  Sitting at his desk in his small office at WLAK, he sipped a
cup of coffee and stared at the list of e-mail on his computer screen.
Presuming that he'd be assigned a follow-up piece on the Lyman murder
for tonight's six o'clock, he had a pile of work.  All of that,
however, seemed oddly remote and definitely not of interest.

Todd hadn't been simply glad that Rawlins had chosen not to stay at the
condo last night, he'd been relieved.  Coming home, Todd had checked
his answering machine, finding just a single message from Rawlins
saying not to expect him tonight.  While that could have meant that
he'd be working late on the Lyman murder, Todd didn't take it as such.
Yes, for more than one reason they needed a breather, and apparently
both of them knew that.

So was Tim Chase gay or wasn't he?  And had he or hadn't he been
hitting on Todd?

The way straight men reacted around gay men varied in a most
predictable way.  Though by no means a majority, there were straights
who were entirely comfortable and cool with it, guys who weren't the
least bit threatened by the presence of homosexuals.  Not only were
they the most secure in their sexuality, they were also the
straightest.  Simply, it was a non-issue, primarily because they
instinctively knew that territory was one where they'd never travel. On
the other hand, there were men, a great many actually, who just
couldn't handle it,

who felt deeply threatened.  At a mixed party, they tended to steer
clear of gays, cling to their wives, or just get obnoxiously fidgety,
as if they might be attacked and raped by a queer at any moment.  This
second group, Todd believed, tended to be composed of guys who'd done
it once with another guy, usually as kids, and they were still deeply
ashamed and terrified about what it meant, when all it really did mean
was that they'd been trying to understand how their bodies worked.
There was, after all, nothing much weirder than a penis, this thing
that grew into a hunk of rock-hard salami in the heat of the moment,
then shrank into a piece of limp macaroni when, say, swimming in Lake
Superior.  It was this second bunch, those who were the most
threatened, that Todd had always found the most obnoxious, guys that
used homophobia as a means of defending their heterosexuality.  Didn't
they realize that there was nothing less appealing to a gay man than
another who sported his sexuality as comfortably as a nerd wearing
Jockeys that were four sizes too small?

And then .. . then there were straight men who enjoyed the company of
gay men.  Perhaps they were among the lucky few who saw sexuality as
not a binary thing, not an either/or, straight or gay kind of fixed
deal, but something much more fluid.  Maybe they enjoyed the broader
interests of gays, interests that ran the gamut from the traditional
male territories of baseball, football, and grilling all the way to
cooking, gardening, and opera.  Or maybe they just enjoyed the flirt,
being admired, even sought after.

So in which group did Tim Chase belong?  Any of the above?  Or none?

No, thought Todd, if Chase was straight, he definitely belonged to the
latter group.  That guy was a flirt, a tease.  Or was that not it at
all?  Perhaps he was merely a master at making not simply everyone and
anyone like him, but love and desire him.  Perhaps the sexual chemistry
he put out was the true secret of his charm and broad appeal.

But those hands--so strong.  Those hips--so lean.  And the face-so
gorgeous.  His heart even now charging with lusty excitement, Todd
recalled looking into Tim Chase's eyes and how the gaze had stayed

steady and deep for that all-telling split second too long.  Todd's
gay dar warning had gone off major league, wailing as loud as a Berlin
air raid siren.  Oh, brother, if that guy wasn't gay then .. . then ..
.

But what about Gwen Owens?  Did she know?  Was it just something she
tolerated, a dally she put up with as dutifully as a president's first
lady?  If her husband was indeed gay, though, Gwen had to know.  It
could be no other way.  She certainly wasn't that dumb, nor were her
own handlers, who were certainly Grafting her career every bit as
carefully and masterfully as her husband's.  But why would one of the
most beautiful, most successful actresses in the world put up with it?
Why would she play his beard, unless of course he was playing hers as
well?  Could theirs be a match made only in Hollywood?

Like an obsessed courtier--had Chase really been rehearsing or had he
been in the early steps of seducing Todd?--Todd had to know everything.
Not just the box office deals, the star parties, and the lavish
banquets and homes and cars and yachts and horses.  No, Todd had to
know all the dirt, which pretty much boiled it down to one thing, the
only scandal to publicly break through the perfect veneer of Tim Chase,
Inc.

Forgetting all about Rawlins and the murder of the young man, Todd
turned to his briefcase and pulled out the thick manila folder
containing the stack of articles he'd collected on Tim Chase.  Flipping
through them, he paused at one of the bios which not only made
extensive mention of his mother, but used her full name.  God, thought
Todd, wouldn't he love to talk to her?  Wouldn't he love to hear what
she had to say about her son, Mr.  Wonderful?  But how in the world
would he get her phone number?  It just might be buried somewhere in
the layers of information of Lexis-Nexis, but that was doubtful.  He
could try one of the other search engines.  Or he might ask Rawlins if
he'd check the National Crime Information Computer, though Rawlins, Mr.
Ethical, sure as hell wouldn't do anything like use the NCIC to dig up
any dirt for someone in the media.

Skipping the mother as a bad idea, Todd continued through the stack.
There were a few articles from the Los Angeles Times, an interesting
profile of the moneyed star in The Wall Street Journal, a couple of
more articles from some smaller regional papers.  And then the
bombshell article from the supermarket tabloid The National Times, with
the searing headline, "Mean Queen Chase Denies 7 Year Gay Romance &
Buries Boyfriend in Poverty."  Not even trying to stop himself, Todd
tore through the piece, reading all over again about the supposed
romance between Tim Chase and the handsome blond Rob Scott.  In searing
judgmental prose, the journalist described their great love, which had
begun before his marriage to actress Gwen Owens and then continued
right on until, for some unknown reason, everything exploded in a ball
of fury.  Apparently Chase, otherwise known for his even temper and
kind disposition, totally lost it.  One neighbor claimed he heard Chase
screaming at Scott, another claimed the police were called, and a nurse
from a nearby hospital said she treated Rob Scott for bruises to his
mouth and left eye on that very day.  The writer went on to detail how
the following day Chase's bodyguards, under the direct instructions of
Tim Chase himself, had then kicked Rob Scott out of the condo the star
had bought as their little love nest, allowing Scott to take no more
than a single suitcase of clothing.

What a bitch, thought Todd.  If this was really true, then the tabloid
was certainly right, Tim Chase was in fact a mean fucking queen.  But
what had happened?  If this was all true, what had ignited the
situation, what had caused the alleged love affair to blow up?  And if
Rob Scott had really been Tim Chase's lover, what had Scott been trying
to do by selling the story to The National Times for one hundred
grand--simply make a pile of money or get revenge?  Or both?

Todd wanted to see pictures, none of which was here of course because
he'd pulled virtually all of these articles in this folder from
Lexis-Nexis, which reprinted articles only in simple text.  There were
no telltale graphics, no sizzling snapshots, yet Todd wanted to see
visual proof.  Famous for its paparazzi-style photographs, The National
Times--or The National Dirt, as it was so often called--was sure to
have printed some doozies.  And flipping to one of the last articles,

which another paper had done as a follow-up to the lawsuit Chase had
brought against The National Times, Todd saw that mention was even made
of scandalous photos of the actor in the arms of another man.  Chase's
lawyers had been furious over this, claiming that the pictures were
nothing but fakes, images that had been doctored on a computer.

"Go on the Net," the star's lawyer had fumed.  "See what's out there.
Look at some of that porn and you'll see what they can do, moving body
parts this way and that.  This is no different.  This is just some
sicko's wishful thinking.  We're going to win this case, and we're
going to win big.  You'll see, my client will be vindicated."

However, the journalist who had written the original story, Maria
Glore, stuck by it all, ranting at one point about the vast conspiracy
of silence from, in particular, the Los Angeles media.

"They won't comment even though what I've written is the truth--and
they know it too," Glore had heatedly said.  "What it boils down to is
that they're not only afraid of the major studios, they're also
terrified of being blacklisted by the Hollywood public relations
firms."

But in the end, after a short trial, Chase was, in fact, "vindicated"
to the tune of over eight million dollars, which of course the star
needed about as much as a hole in the head.

Todd turned to the last article, again a follow-up to the lawsuit, that
People magazine ran as their cover story.  The gist was that, yes, it's
been proven now.  Tim's our guy, he's straight and in love, a wonderful
actor, a smashing husband, an adoring father.  America is safe.  He's
vanquished over evil.  He's our prince.

It kind of made Todd's stomach turn.  It just felt too forced, too
contrived, like the Christmas all of us dreamed of but never had.  Yes,
as a culture we wanted and needed someone like Tim Chase, whose image,
albeit secretly manufactured, embodied so much of what we wanted for
ourselves as well as for our country.

Knowing his next step, Todd picked up the phone and dialed information
for New York City.  He didn't know why, but he assumed, and correctly
so, that The National Times was located right in the

heart of it all, Manhattan.  Moments later he had their number, which
he dialed.

"Good morning, The National Times," said a hurried operator who sounded
as if she'd drunk a few too many pots of coffee.

"Maria Glore, please," requested Todd.

"Maria Glore .. . Maria Glore .. . hmmm," she said as she obviously
typed the name into a computer.  "Listen, I'm sorry, I'm checking but
there's no one here by that name.  Nope, sorry, no one."

"She's one of your journalists."

"Well, I'm sorry, doll, but I'm checking and I don't show anyone listed
by the name of G-L-O-RE."

So obviously she was long gone or was a freelancer.  Either was a
distinct possibility.

"Then could I speak to someone in your editorial department?"

"Like who?  We got lots of people in editorial."

At first he drew a blank, and then Todd blurted, "How about the senior
editor?"

"That'll be your Suzanne Levine.  One moment and I'll--"

She spoke and worked so quickly that she unknowingly cut herself off.
Nevertheless, seconds later there was a long ring, followed by a
second, which made Todd think that he'd fallen into the netherworld of
voice mail.  Much to his relief, someone picked up after the third
ring.

"Suzanne Levine."

"Hi," began Todd, realizing he didn't have any kind of ruse prepared,
as was so often needed when trying to hunt someone down.  "I'm looking
for one of your journalists, a writer by the name of Maria Glore."

"Oh, Maria," she said, more than a trace of sadness creeping into her
voice.  "I'm sorry, she doesn't work here anymore."

So had she burned out on tabloid reporting and quit or had she been
fired?  Todd was willing to bet on the second, that management had been
willing to stand behind one of their writers only to a certain point,
which definitely hadn't been up to $8.5 million.

"Do you have any idea how I could find her?"  asked Todd.

"No, I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to give out any information."

"I see .. ."  All the different stories he could say whizzed through
his mind, such as telling her he wanted her to do a story for his
magazine to claiming he was an old college pal, but he opted for the
simple truth.  "I just want to ask her a couple of questions.  I work
for WLAK-TV in Minneapolis, and--"

"Minneapolis?  Are you calling from out there?  Wow, I'm from St. 
Paul, from Highland Park, actually."

Bingo, thought Todd with a confident grin.  The Minnesota Mafia.  There
was hardly anything or anyone more reliable.  Maybe it was the cold,
perhaps it was the common experience of the extreme winter that was the
great equalizer.

"How are things out there?"  she asked.  "How's the weather?  Is it
cold yet?  No, wait, it's too early."

"Oh, please," said Todd, choosing his words carefully in order to spike
her nostalgia, "the State Fair ended only a few weeks ago."

"Oh, for fun, the State Fair!"  she said in a perfect Minnesota accent,
all of which was happening at the back of her nose.  "Oh, I want a corn
dog!  I want some mini-donuts!"

"All I want is a phone number."

"Jeez."

"Any chance?  I just want to talk to her about a story she did."  Todd
added, "I'm doing a story on Tim Chase, the actor."

"He's out there?"

"Yeah, he's filming a movie here."

"Wow."

When she failed to say anything, Todd jumped in, "I really do work for
WLAK.  I'm their investigative reporter, and I can give you my phone
number here if you want to call me back just to verify."

"No, no, I believe you."  There was a moment of pensive silence, and
then Suzanne Levine said, "Listen, I wish I could tell you that Maria's
a freelancer now and that she lives in Park Slope, but I can't.  I
mean, I can't give you her number or tell you where to find her be
cause I don't know.  The last I heard was that she moved to New
Mexico.  Santa Fe, maybe.  Or was it Taos?"

So, thought Todd, she really did get canned.  The National Times had
probably dumped her only minutes after the judge's announcement.  And
by the end of the trial, during which she and her reputation had surely
been pummeled and trampled, she was probably so burned out that she had
perhaps gone off in search of a new career, like waitressing.

As his Polish father used to say, "You must follow your tongue,"
meaning if you ask enough questions you'll get where you need to go.

He said, "That's too bad.  I've read the article she did on him--"

"The lawsuit one.  Yeah, that whole thing was unfortunate, to say the
least."  "--and I was just hoping to ask her a few questions."

"Well, if Maria were here, I'm sure she'd love to talk to you.  She was
pretty bitter about all that when she left here, I'll tell you that
much."

"Actually," said Todd, "I got a copy of her story off Lexis-Nexis, so
there aren't any pictures with it."

"Of course not."

"And I don't think I can get any back copies of your paper at the
library."

She laughed.  "I really don't think so, either.  I think the only
places that stock us, particularly in the Midwest, are supermarkets and
drugstores.  And correct me if I'm wrong, but they don't have
archives."

"But how about you all, do you have back issues?  Would it be possible
to get a copy of the original Tim Chase story, photos and all?"

"Now, that I can do," cheerfully said Suzanne Levine.  "When do you
want it, for morning or afternoon delivery?  I'll Fed-Ex it out right
away."

The Hennepin County Medical Center was a monolithic, eight-story
hospital built in the late seventies, a sprawling building that sat on
the edge of downtown Minneapolis like a gigantic beetle.  Fortunately
for Jordy Weaver, thought Rawlins, as he hurried into the beige
concrete complex, it had the best trauma center in the Twin Cities
area.

Once inside it took Rawlins no less than ten minutes to wind his way
through the corridors to the intensive care ward, where he was directed
down the hall to the second room on the right.  Just as he approached
the room, a short African-American man in a white robe stepped out,
quietly pulling the door shut behind him.

"Excuse me," said Rawlins, reaching into his leather coat for his
badge.  "I'm Sergeant Steve Rawlins with the Homicide Division of the
Minneapolis Police Department, and I'm looking for Jordy Weaver."

The man had a round face and short hair, small eyes, and a serious look
on his face, and he held out his hand and said, "I'm Dr.  Nevin, his
doctor.  Jordan's right here."

Taking several steps, he led Rawlins to a large plate glass window.
Lying on the other side was Jordy, his head swathed in gauze, his left
arm packed in a cast, and his left leg swaddled in a mass of gauze and
splints.  His face, of which little was showing, was pocked with
bruises, and a clear tube ran out of one nostril.  All around him were
a host of electronic monitors, their lights pulsing with regularity,
which actually were the only indication that the otherwise lifeless
body wasn't dead.

"Oh, my God," muttered Rawlins, staring in and barely able to
recognize Jordy.  "Is he going to be alright?"

"He's a very lucky man.  Lucky that they got him here so quickly and
lucky that he's so young.  When he came in last night I thought we were
going to have to amputate his leg, but I think we'll be able to save
it.  I operated on him about three hours ago and it looks like, with a
great deal of therapy, he'll be able to walk.  It will be a long
recovery, however."

"Is that all?  Is that--"

"Well, he also has a concussion and a broken left arm, but neither of
them is life threatening.  From what I understand, however, if the car
that hit him had been going any faster he would have been killed on the
spot.  I think everyone had slowed because of the heavy rain, again a
lucky break, per se."

"I'm sure this isn't a good time, but I need to talk to him.  It
involves a murder case, so obviously it's very important."

"Well, as you can see, that's impossible.  He's only been out of
surgery for a few hours."

"Can I come back later this morning?  Or how about after lunch?"

"Oh, no, not nearly that soon.  He's on a great deal of medication, you
see.  Sort of a drug-induced coma, and hopefully he won't wake up until
later tonight, perhaps tomorrow."  Dr.  Nevin lowered his hands into
the pockets of his robe and gazed through the glass at the young man.
"Trust me, he's a very lucky fellow, but he's going to be in a lot of
pain.  The longer he's out the better off he'll be."

But Rawlins needed to talk to him.  And he needed to talk to him now if
for no other reason than to find out if this horrible accident was
somehow connected to the murder of Andrew Lyman.  Yes, Jordy had
somehow managed to survive his fall from the bridge onto the freeway,
but was that not at all the intent?  Could his life in fact still be in
danger?

The first time Rawlins and Andrew had lunch, Rawlins had picked him up
at the apartment, a kind of queer teen flophouse, where he'd been
living with Jordy and all those other kids.  Then first thing this
morning, hoping to interview Jordy regarding the death of

his close friend and to see just what he might or might not know about
Andrew's father, Rawlins had gone directly there.  Instead of finding
Jordy, however, Rawlins had found a handful of kids huddled around a
ratty old kitchen table, terrified of what had happened to one of their
own.  All that they knew was what the police, who had found an envelope
with Jordy's address in his coat pocket, had told them around six this
morning that Jordy had fallen off the La Salle Avenue Bridge right into
traffic on Interstate 94 and that he was in the hospital in intensive
care.  A couple of kids were praying that it wasn't a suicide attempt,
particularly since another of their DQ pals had killed himself a mere
two months ago.

"But Jordy wouldn't have tried to kill himself, I just know it," one
young man with short, short hair and a pierced nose had said.  "We've
been doing all these sessions, all this talking about queer teen
suicide and .. . and ... he wouldn't have let us down like that, I just
know it."

"Yeah, but he was so upset about Andrew," another had protested as he
leaned against the refrigerator.  "First Andrew moved out, and then he
was killed.  Jordy was really flipped out, I mean really freaked."

Still another, a young guy with red hair and patches of freckles on
both cheeks, said, "But if it wasn't suicide, then what the fuck
happened?  I mean, hello, you just don't fucking fall off a freeway
bridge.  Couldn't the same guy who killed Andrew have gone after
Jordy?"

"Oh, shit."

"Oh, fuck."

"We gotta stick together."

Rawlins in turn had raced down here to HCMC, all the while wondering if
Jordy had purposely jumped from the La Salle bridge or if he'd been
thrown or somehow pushed.  For Jordy's safety, he had to presume the
worst.

"As I told you," said Rawlins now as he pulled out his business card
and handed it to Dr.  Nevin, "this might be related to an ongoing
murder investigation, so I'm going to give you my number.  It's very
important that you or anyone on your staff call me as soon as Jordy
wakes up and is able to talk."

"Of course.  I'll leave those instructions at the nurse's desk."

"In the meantime, for the safety of your patient, I'm going to have a
police officer posted outside this door.  I want no one to go in except
you and your staff."

"I see," he said, his eyebrows rising in controlled surprise.  "What
about family?  I believe we got his home address off his driver's
license and that our office has contacted his parents.  If I'm not
mistaken, they're on the way here."

"That's fine.  The police officer will need to check some
identification.  But again, I need to talk to him as soon as he
wakes."

"Certainly."

Rawlins glanced in at Jordy, wondered what truths were waiting to be
told, then said, "I'll be staying until we can get an officer
posted."

An hour later Rawlins was at his desk on the second floor of City Hall.
There was any variety of things to be done on the Lyman case, from
checking to see when the final autopsy report would be in, to finding
how long the DNA typing would take on the semen samples.  Actually, the
first thing Rawlins had to do was find his partner, Neal Foster, and
tell him about Jordy Weaver.  Quite possibly, he also needed to tell
Foster that Andrew had been threatened by his father.  But how the hell
was Rawlins going to do that without bringing up the diary?  Perhaps he
could get around it somehow.  Perhaps he could say that he'd heard
something about Andrew's father from one of the kids down at the DQ.

Oh, shit, thought Rawlins.  He had to come up with something like that,
something to keep secret the revealing passages Andrew had written
about Rawlins.  He was, Rawlins knew, between the proverbial rock and a
hard place, and he had virtually no idea how he was going to get out.
Unfortunately, his problems with Todd seemed minor in comparison.
Still, he was obviously going to have to speak to Foster sometime
today.  They were partners, after all.  And they were going to have to
draw up a plan of attack on this investigation, as well as write up
some

kind of progress report to submit to their boss, Lieutenant Holbrook.
Among the many things that needed to be discussed was the black mask
that had been covering Andrew's eyes and whether they should continue
to withhold that detail from the public.  With all that in mind and not
knowing whether Foster was just downstairs or still in bed at home,
Rawlins picked up his phone and dialed Foster's pager.

Yes, he thought, as he waited for the call back, this was a fine mess.
If it ever got out, how the hell was he going to explain his
involvement with Andrew Lyman?  Better yet, who would believe him if he
said nothing happened?  Andrew's stupid diary, his silly confessions,
were nearly enough not simply to get Rawlins fired from the force but
thrown in jail.  A gay cop involved with a runaway minor?  It screamed
rape.  It screamed headlines.  And guilty or not, it screamed witch
hunt and the end of Rawlins's career.

The phone rang more quickly than Rawlins anticipated, and he snatched
the black phone from its cradle.

"Sergeant Steve Rawlins."

"Hi, .. . it's, ah, me again."

No, it definitely wasn't Foster.  And, no, it surely wasn't Todd.  It
was some guy, his voice a tad meek, a bit unsteady, and at first
Rawlins's mind went blank.  The next instant he was very alert.  It was
him, the tipster.  And the moment after that, Rawlins was telling
himself to keep calm, be cool.  He'd lose him if he scared him again,
and he couldn't afford that.

"Is this my friend?"  began Rawlins, as he quickly slid open his top
desk drawer and pulled out a small black tape recorder and a long wire
with a suction cup dangling from one end.

"Yeah, it's me, the guy who saw that other guy down at Lake Harriet.  I
... I saw in the paper that you found something, that you took my tip
and that you guys went down there and everything."

"That's right.  And we all owe you a big thanks.  Obviously we would
never have found anything without your help."

Working as quietly as possible, Rawlins plugged one end of the wire
into the tape recorder and then slapped the other end with its

small suction cup onto the phone's receiver.  Even though this
specific conversation wouldn't be admissible in a court of law because
the witness didn't know he was being taped, Rawlins pushed the record
button.  At this point he needed anything and everything for his own
hunt, and he sat back, telling himself to just sound cool, relaxed.
Obviously this guy's calling back because he's pleased with what
happened, how things went, and you've got to make him believe not only
that he's a hero, but that you need him.  Which was more true than
ever.

"So was that it?  Was that the hunting knife that was used to kill that
kid?  I mean, I hope you're able to nail whoever did it."

ij "Well, we did find it right where you said it would be, but we've
got a ways to go."  As he spoke, Rawlins pulled out a yellow notepad,
jotted down the time, then proceeded to take notes.  "We found evidence
of blood on the blade, and we also were able to get some blood samples
from the nooks and crannies of the handle."

"Wow."

"Yeah, it's great.  Our initial report shows that the blood type
matches Andrew Lyman's, but it's going to take awhile to get a DNA
report.  We're going to expedite it, but it's still going to take a
week or so.  Fortunately the weapon wasn't in the water that long and
we were able to get a couple of good fingerprints too, which is the
really great news.  Apparently there was some sort of oily substance on
the handle that didn't wash off."

"Oh, good.  I'm glad."  Over some kind of background noise, the guy
added, "You know what, there's something else."

"Really?"

Rawlins closed his eyes and focused not only on the voice but also on
the background noise.  Was that a car?  A bus or a truck?  Exactly. 
The guy was outside, probably calling from some pay phone.  Chances
were he was even here downtown, perhaps only a matter of a few blocks
away. God, what Rawlins wouldn't give to get a trace on this and have
the guy picked up.  After all, who was to say this wasn't their guy,
that this story wasn't all a fabrication?

Rawlins asked, "So what have you got?"

"Well, you know, I was down there in those bushes and .. . and I saw
that guy.  The bald guy I told you about."

"Right.  A muscular guy with a bald head," said Rawlins, writing that
down.

"Yeah, he was down at the lake and I watched him throw the knife into
the water."  He broke off as the blast of a car horn drowned him out.
"In case you were wondering, I'm calling from a pay phone.  Like I
said, I don't want this call to be traced.  I'm sorry, I just can't be
more involved than I already am."

In other words, you're a big closet case.  Perhaps you're married,
perhaps not.  And rather than risk telling your friends and family that
you're gay, you're more than willing to risk your health and safety by
sneaking into the woods and having anonymous sex.

"That's okay," said Rawlins at the same time trying to figure out how
he could in fact do just that, get him involved.  "Go on."

"Well, there was that car.  Like I think I said, it was a Saab.  I
mean, I'm sure of that."

"Tell me again what it looked like."

"It was white with a black roof, so it was a convertible.  I'm sure
about that.  And I remember looking at the back license plate."

Rawlins wrote down a couple of notes, then bent forward, lowering his
forehead into his left hand.  Oh, dear God in heaven, please let this
be it.  Tell me this guy, whoever he is, has a photographic memory.

"Did you get a number?"  asked Rawlins.

"No, but it wasn't from here."

"What do you mean?"

"It wasn't a Minnesota plate.  It was from California."

"You're sure?"

"I'm positive."  The caller paused, then asked, "Will any of that
help?"

"Absolutely.  A white convertible Saab with California plates--yes,
that will definitely give us something to look out for.  I'm sure we'll
put out an alert.  Who knows if we'll be able to find anything, or even
if the car is still in the state, but..  . but we'll try our
damnedest."

Okay, how was he going to handle this?  How was he going to hook this
guy and lure him in?  Notwithstanding that, first and foremost they had
to rule him out as the perpetrator; the prosecuting attorney would want
this guy's sworn testimony of what he'd seen.  He was at this point
their only lead, and they needed to make the most of him.  If they were
able to get an ID from the fingerprint, then they'd need this tipster
to identify the man he'd seen throwing the weapon into Lake Harriet. If
the fingerprint didn't lead anywhere, then Rawlins would have to
arrange a photo lineup and see if the tipster could identify anyone.

But how?  How was he going to get him to come in, per se, from the cold
world of the closet?

Rawlins said, "You know, I'd really like to get together with you
sometime and thank you in person.  I'd like to meet you and talk about
this.  Can I take you out for a cup of coffee or a beer?"

"Oh, I don't know.  I really don't think that's a good idea."

"How about it, huh?  Just a cup of coffee?  A beer?  Something quick
and simple?  You name the place."

"This isn't like a trick, is it?  You're not going to like arrest me
and make me come down to the police station and interrogate me, are
you?  I mean, I didn't do anything illegal."

"Of course not," replied Rawlins, wondering if this guy had more to
worry about than his sexuality.  "You've just been very helpful and I
want to meet you, that's all."

"But I've already told you everything I saw."

"I know.  Listen, all I want to do is get together.  Maybe later, if
you want to make a formal statement or anything, then that would be
your decision.  Totally your decision."

"Well .. ."

"Trust me, no pressure.  You just name the time and place, I'll be
there."

"Well, okay.  How about seven tonight at Jam's.  Do you know where that
is, out on Excelsior Boulevard?"

"Sure," replied Rawlins with a smile, for he'd been to the bar more

than several times.  "I'll see you at Jam's at nine tonight.  Don't
forget, the drinks are on me."

"Alright."  The tipster hesitated, then added, "Listen, I should tell
you that I'm a photographer and that I've been working on ... on, well,
a story.  The reason I saw that guy down at the lake is because I
followed him there.  So I'm positive about the car.  And .. . and I
think you know where to look for it too."

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand."

"I saw you down at the lake yesterday--I asked some cop and he pointed
you out.  And .. . and then I saw you last night as well."

"Wh--"

"I'll explain tonight."

The tipster hung up, and Rawlins just sat there holding the receiver
until the dial tone started blaring in his ear.  This guy was a
photographer who'd followed the bald man down to Lake Harriet and
watched him throw a knife into the water.  Then the guy had been down
at the lake again when they'd recovered the knife.  And he'd seen
Rawlins last night as well?  But how was that possible?  And where?

Holy shit.  Rawlins stared down at his notes.  It hadn't clicked, not
until just now, but hadn't he himself seen that very same car, a white
Saab, just yesterday evening?

The murder of Andrew Lyman was a hot story that was getting cooler by
the moment, or so thought WLAK management.  And it was nobody's fault
but Todd's, for instead of attending this morning's editorial meeting
and fighting for his story, he'd been on the phone tracking down an old
issue of The National Times.  Consequently, he didn't get one of the
top slots, but was instead told to prepare a twenty-second VOSOT that
would probably run just prior to the weather.

You idiot, he told himself.

Sitting in one of the dark edit bays, a small glassed-in chamber packed
with monitors and tape players and a bizarre assortment of control
equipment, Todd tried to think of a way to come at this.  But that was
the problem, he was having trouble thinking, or more specifically,
focusing on the who and the why and the what of Andrew Lyman's death.
To do a good story you had to obsess about it.  You had to grab hold
and not let go.  And today he was having trouble doing just that.
Distracted by his problems with Rawlins as well as his encounter with
Tim Chase, Todd had lost the thread of the story.  And right now he
felt as if it were gone for good.

Okay, he told himself.  Just go back to the beginning.  Sort through it
all.  Look at everything.  It'll come back.  You'll get it.

He glanced at his watch, saw that it was pushing noon.  Tensing, he
realized how little time there was until the six o'clock show.  Shit.
Not only didn't he have a thing ready, he didn't have a clear idea for
a

story or even an angle.  He'd never been in this position before, but
he knew enough to be sure that he was headed for certain disaster.

Trying not to panic, he took a deep breath and recounted to himself the
sequence of events over the past few days.  Andrew Lyman had been
killed the day before yesterday, his throat slit early that evening,
though as far as Todd knew, the exact time of death had yet to be
fixed.  He'd covered the event, arriving at the scene shortly after
nine thirty P.M. and finding a host of media already there.  Trying to
differentiate his coverage, Todd had done the lead story for the ten
o'clock live from the Domain of Queers.  Then yesterday the big
breakthrough had been the discovery, thanks to an anonymous tip, of the
possible murder weapon, a hunting knife found at the bottom of Lake
Harriet.  Getting taped footage of that, Todd had done a VOSOT for the
five o'clock and then a taped package for the six.  And now today?
Certainly the autopsy report would be done at some point this morning,
but the authorities might not make the results public right away.
Likewise, the police might also not release any information regarding
search warrants and if any had been filed, which would indicate, of
course, which direction this thing might be going and, most important
of all, if they had any suspects in mind.

But what if they did release the autopsy report and there was nothing
much of interest beyond the time of death?  What then?  The next big
break after that probably wouldn't be until the initial lab reports on
the knife were back, and God only knew when that would be.  Modern
science might pull a rabbit out of the hat, but the weapon had been
underwater for at least eighteen hours, so Todd didn't think it too
promising.  As they stood at the lake yesterday afternoon, Rawlins had
said he doubted they'd be able to use Luminol to detect evidence of
blood proteins, but that they might use Kamazi Blue, another chemical.
He'd said something about that and funky orange glasses and a light
spectrum that would show if there'd been blood on it.  He'd also
mentioned the possibility that they might be able to simply do a
visual.  So had they?  And had they found anything?  Perhaps, but these
things

always took an annoyingly long time.  If they were able to find a
trace of blood they might be able to get a blood type, but DNA testing
usually took at least three weeks and often longer, particularly if a
rush wasn't put on it.  After all, the new serology lab had been
overwhelmed since it opened--on average there was a murder every two
days in the seven county metro area.  On top of that, DNA typing was
now being used in a far broader range of criminal investigations, from
rapes to aggravated assaults, all of which demanded time.

Todd's surest way to get the latest information was, of course, simply
to call Rawlins.  He was hesitant to do just that, however, because
what they really needed to discuss wasn't lab results or search
warrants, but their relationship.  They needed to discuss where they
were headed, what they wanted, what each of them needed, and they
needed to be perfectly honest about trysts that included Andrew Lyman.
And, Todd thought, quite possibly Tim Chase.  After all, Todd had no
idea really what had happened last night between him and the actor, and
he certainly had no idea what would happen tonight, but if Todd was
expecting honesty he was certainly going to have to deliver it as well.
Which he was kind of dreading.  Perhaps a way of circumventing Rawlins
was to call Neal Foster and ask him what was the very latest on the
Lyman case.  If Todd was going to do that, though, he had to do it
soon.

And if there wasn't any breaking news?

Todd's own rule of thumb, one that he always came back to when he was
lost, was: What is it the audience wants to know?  When it came to
murder, of course, people were always fascinated by the details of true
crime, first and foremost who did it and why.  And while in this case
no one yet knew either of those, maybe Todd should do a piece on
exactly what the police were doing to answer those questions.  Perhaps
first he should focus on the knife and what the authorities were doing
to determine if it was in fact the weapon that had been used to kill
Andrew Lyman.  Sure, there was still time this afternoon to whip up a
piece on the various forces of technology, including Luminol, Kamazi
Blue, DNA testing, and what they'd be looking for

down at the serology lab.  In fact, maybe Todd should do his report
from the lab itself.  Having just invested millions in the facility,
Minnesota was one of the few states that could do its own DNA work.
Maybe Todd should nab Bradley and the two of them could head down
there, perhaps even interview a few of the technicians and get them to
explain exactly what they were doing regarding the Lyman case.  All in
all not a bad idea.

However, as long as he was there in the edit booth, as long as he had
all the tapes right in front of him, he decided to review not simply
his report from the first night or yesterday's package, but also all of
the footage they had thus far.  It was another one of his tricks, a way
of getting him back in the groove of a story and also a way to help him
remember exactly what they already had on tape, some of which he might
choose to use for tonight's report.

Popping the first Beta tape into a machine, Todd hit play and watched
as a cloud of snow filled a monitor.  Moments later the footage from
that first night appeared on the screen, images from Bradley's handheld
camera directly from the scene.  There were some shots of cops,
including a group of officers standing there talking, others hurrying
into the building, still others holding back the crowd that was craning
to see what had happened.  Then, just as Todd had asked for, there was
the footage of the real estate, various shots consisting mostly of the
yellow brick apartment building where Andrew Lyman was killed, but also
including a few quick shots of the neighborhood.  And finally there
were a good number of shots of the crowd, people gawking, some shaking
their heads, others, wearing sweatshirts and jackets and bathrobes,
gathered around in small groups.  In one of these Todd quickly caught a
glimpse of Jordy, and he realized that that must have been just before
the young man tried to push past the police line.  Bradley, of course,
had overshot and had laid down not quite four minutes of tape, all of
which was sent via the ENG truck and a relay of microwave towers back
to WLAK, where it was in turn edited for Todd's voiceover.

Watching his report from in front of the Domain of Queers, Todd

realized that he was lax in following up on that.  He needed to do a
little digging around there.  There might or might not be enough
material to do a story on the DQ and Andrew Lyman, but in any case he
needed to get his butt back over there and talk to some of the kids,
most notably Jordy Weaver.  Then again, even if he could track down
Jordy, did Todd even want to hear what the young man had to say about
Andrew and Rawlins?  Could there possibly be anything left to say?  And
how relevant could that be to Andrew's murder, anyway?  Hardly, thought
Todd.  Rawlins might have slept with him, which would have been stupid
enough, but Rawlins was no murderer, of that Todd was positive.  With
all that in mind, however, how much did Rawlins really know about what
happened to Andrew?

No wonder, thought Todd, ejecting that tape and moving on to the next,
Todd was having trouble focusing on this.  There was just too much crap
to deal with, or to be more exact, too much crap he didn't want to deal
with.  Perhaps .. . perhaps the best thing at this point would be to
really have it out with Rawlins, to level with him and tell him exactly
what Jordy had said.

As the last of the footage came up, the monitor filled with the image
of Lake Harriet and the divers and lone boat of the Hennepin County
Sheriff.  Todd and Bradley had arrived almost too late to get anything,
but Bradley had managed to get some shots of the divers as they climbed
back in the boat and then headed for the small pier by the band shell.
Needing more for his report, Todd had asked the photographer to get as
much other footage as possible, and Todd now watched this complete,
unedited tape.  Yes, there was the police and their cars, including
that of the Hennepin County Sheriff.  And, yes, there was Rawlins
standing there on the beach and looking pensive.  Quite so, actually.

Hitting the pause button, Todd stared at the frozen image of Rawlins.
What was going through his mind right then?  Why did he look so very
concerned, so very distraught?  Todd knew Rawlins took his work with
the utmost seriousness, but was he this involved in all his cases?
Shaking his head, Todd felt himself wondering exactly what

had happened between Andrew and Rawlins, and exactly how long it,
whatever "it" was, had been going on.  There couldn't have been any
kind of emotional attachment, at least not a deep one, could there have
been?  What about all those times that Rawlins had told Todd those
three--"I love you"--magical words?  If there'd been any kind of silver
lining to Rawlins's health crisis it had been both his and Todd's
distinct appreciation not only for the meaning of life, but the meaning
and appreciation of their relationship.  Or so Todd had thought.

Knowing he had to move on and pull something together, Todd let the
tape roll on and watched the remainder of Bradley's footage, which
primarily consisted of gawkers.  He watched as Bradley's camera focused
on two young blond moms as they stopped with their strollers, shook
their heads and rolled on.  Next there was a bicyclist who paused and
stared.  And then Todd watched as two older women stood there pointing
and gabbing, obviously trying to decide what was what and if the world
had truly gone to hell in a handbasket.  Standing next to them were two
younger men, one with a German shepherd, who seemed to be listening to
the women's conversation, and a youngish man in sunglasses and a jeans
jacket who obviously realized he was being photographed and quickly
turned away.  The two women, true Minnesotans, just stood there,
blabbing and speculating.  If only Bradley had gotten the audio--now
that would have been perfect.  But this would do quite well.

Todd reversed the tape, then froze it.  Yes, the guy standing there
with his dog, the other turning away in perhaps disgust, and the two
women standing in their fashionable jogging suits, hands raised, mouths
open, exemplified it all, both the public's disgust and the public s
fascination with the crimes eating at this world.

This, thought Todd, would be his opening image for his piece on
tonight's news.  He would begin here with the curiosity and then
conclude with the facts at the serology lab on University Avenue in St.
Paul.

Through the glass walls of the edit bay, he suddenly saw one of their
interns, Scott, rushing down the dark, narrow hall.  A handsome

kid with brown hair and lots of energy, he waved to Todd and tapped
once on the glass door.

"What's up?"  asked Todd, cracking the door.

"You got a page from the front desk--they said it was a phone call.  I
knew you were down here, so .. ."

"Thanks."

A page meant one of two things, either it was someone too important to
be dumped into voice mail, or someone too insistent.  Wondering just
who it was--Rawlins?--Todd rolled his chair over to the phone and
called the front desk.

"One moment, Mr.  Mills," said Renee, the receptionist, "and I'll
connect you."

There was a pause and a click, and a moment later Todd said, "Hello,
this is Todd Mills."

"Oh, hi," said a deep, gruff voice.  "I, ah ... ah ... I need to talk
to you."

Everybody had a story.  And everybody wanted their story on TV.  So
while Todd assumed it was one of those--someone trying to get his
fifteen minutes of fame--and was tempted to slough it off, he knew
better.

"Who's calling, please?"

"Sure.  It's me, John Lyman."

Almost nothing could have changed things more, and in a snap the guy
had Todd's full attention.  Oh, shit, wondered Todd, was it really
him?

"Andrew's father?"

There was a long pause and a deep sigh before the caller said,
"Yeah."

Todd ran his left hand through his hair and tried not to betray his
surprise, at least not audibly.  Either this guy, whom he'd never met,
was calling with information regarding his son, or he was calling to
yell at Todd, which, unfortunately, was the far more likely of the two.
It flashed through Todd's mind: he's pissed as hell at what I've said
on the air about Andrew's murder.

Bracing himself for the expected lashing, which, unfortunately, was
all too common--if you got one detail wrong, people went ballistic
--Todd said, "What can I do for you?"

"Listen, I need to talk with you.  There's something .. . well, I
guess, there's something I ... I need to tell you, something I need to
tell .. . tell someone."  He paused, then muttered simply, "Oh,
Lord."

Sensing something much different than anger--defeat?--Todd leaned
forward and concentrated on his caller's every word.  "Go ahead, I'm
listening."

"Well, actually, it's not something I can talk about right now.  Not on
the phone, anyways."

"Do you want to meet?  I'd be happy to get together."

"Yeah, that'd be okay."

"Just tell me when and where."

"Okay, ah ... well, I'm coming to The Cities this afternoon.  I have to
go to the fairgrounds over in Saint Paul.  I left a saddle up there
during the fair.  Can you meet me in the horse barn, say around
five?"

"Sure, five in the horse barn," replied Todd, wondering what in the
hell he was getting himself into.

"Go in the door right across from the cattle barn, it'll be open."

"I'll be there."

Tim Chase sat at the dinette table in his trailer, his elbows on the
table, his head bowed against his hands, which were clenched in tight
fists.  Was this the disaster that he had been fearing all these years?
Was his world, which had been so carefully Grafted, about to collapse
in a heap of rubbish?

There was a light knock on the aluminum door, and a small voice said,
"Five minutes."

Chase half turned, and shouted, "Fuck off!"

The minion, one of the many that lurked in the coattails of his fame,
scurried away.

He didn't care what the director insisted on.  He didn't care what
scene it was or how much he was needed.  He didn't give a shit how much
each minute of shooting was costing, he couldn't do it.  They could
just fucking well wait.  Oh, shit.  He just couldn't go out there and
pretend everything was fine when actually everything was completely
screwed up.  There was no way in hell he was in the mood to act, no way
in hell he could get into the mind of another.

There was another knock, this one heavier, and a deep voice that said,
"It's me, Vie."

"Yeah."

Not moving, not lifting his head in the least, Chase listened as his
bodyguard opened the door and stepped into the trailer, which moved
slightly under his weight.  Chase wanted to kill this guy, he wanted to
chop off his head right here and now.  And he probably should.

Chase waited a long moment before, in a low, even voice, saying, "I
didn't see the local news last night, Vie.  I mean, I really didn't
have much reason to watch it.  How about you?  Did you catch it?"

"No, sir."

"And I really didn't have much reason to read the local newspaper this
morning.  Even though I was up awfully early I did read the first
section of The New York Times.  Oh, and during makeup I glanced at
Variety, just sort of skimmed through it.  But you know, I'm only here
for a little while and I'm kind of busy, so why would I read the local
paper, right?  Am I right?"

"Correct, but--"

"Shut the fuck up, you moron!"  said Chase, slamming his right fist on
the dinette table, which sent a powerful rattle rippling through the
entire trailer.  "Can you imagine my surprise when just a half hour ago
I'm eating my turkey sandwich in the canteen and I glance over at the
local paper and there's a big article about a knife found in some
fucking lake?  There's even a picture of the sheriff's divers fishing
it out.  Someone called it in, apparently.  A tip.  And now they're
looking at it as a potential murder weapon for that kid.  Shocking,
wouldn't you say?"

"I read the piece."

"Oh, you did, did you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And let me guess, that was the knife, right?  I mean, as soon as I
read about it I just had this hunch.  That was it, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

With fey curiosity, Tim looked at him with a shrug.  "So what'd you
think, Vie?  No prob?  No big deal?"

"I can explain."

"Bullshit you can explain!  There's nothing to explain--you fucked up
everything!"  He jumped to his feet, looked at the stupid oaf, then
turned and leaned against the cheap kitchen counter.  "God, you're a
moron!  A big, fucking dumb moron!  I told you to take it out of my car
and get rid of it.  I told--"

"I went down there and--"

"Shut up before I fire you!  And don't you dare interrupt me again!"

Trying not to panic, Chase told himself to just calm down, to keep a
grip on things.  But how could he when his arch-nemesis, the media, was
dancing at the gates?  God, all they had to do was get a hold of this
one and the world would be screaming for his head.  He'd spent so much
time worrying, fearing the day when the truth got out.  He was the
prince of sex and money and power, and any and every Joe Schmoe
reporter in the world would love to crucify him on this one.

"I told you to throw it away where no one would ever find it, and the
next thing I know it's on the front page of the Minneapolis paper. 
What are you trying to do, ruin me completely?  What the fuck did you
do, just go down to that lake, park your car, and throw it in the
water?"

Vie jammed his hands into his pockets and turned away.  "I took every
precaution."

"Precaution?  Precaution?  Jesus Christ, why didn't you just point the
cops in my direction?  Do you know what this means?  Do you have any
idea what kind of trouble this could be?"

"I was sure no one saw me."

"But someone did, right?  Someone saw you throw that knife into the
lake--which means they can probably identify you too."  Chase leaned
back and pulled at his hair, and as calmly as a madman, said, "What
about my Land Rover?  Did you get it cleaned like I asked?"

"Yes, I did that yesterday while you were here on the set."

"And tell me what they said down at the car wash.  Any of the guys say
anything about that little red puddle in the back?  Anyone say, Gee,
Mr.  Vie, is this blood back here?  Anyone say that, did they, huh?"

"No, sir.  I washed it before I went down there."

"Oh, did you?"

"I can assure you that no one's going to find out, that no one's going
to be able to trace it back to you."

"Right."

But if they do, thought Tim, glaring at this idiot, I'm going to deny
everything.  I'm going to say I never met that kid and that I know
nothing about the knife.  After all, who would they believe, Tim Chase
or some

glorified bouncer with a criminal record?  Exactly.  All they had to
do was learn about Vie's past and all suspicion would get dumped upon
him.

"You know, I should just fire you now.  For starters, I'm not going to
take the fall for this, I'm just not.  Second of all, the guys back in
Hollywood won't let me go down--I'm just worth too much to them."

"As I said, I'm sorry."

"A heartfelt apology--isn't that sweet?  I am so, like, touched, ya
know?"  Chase shook his head in disgust.  "Why are there so many morons
in the world?  And why do they all work for me?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Well, you pull one more stunt like this and you'll be working as a
bouncer at the scuzziest gay bar in the world, I guarantee you that.
I'm paying you a fucking fortune to get me exactly what I like and what
I want and to make sure there's no way in hell anyone finds out.  One
more screw up and you're out.  Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

But now, of course, there was no time to waste.  They had to move,
Chase knew from experience, and move quickly before the cops or worse,
the media, descended upon them.

"Okay, I want to get the cars out of the picture.  First I want you to
take my Land Rover back to the dealership and lease me another one.
Tell them something like some newspaper guy has identified the car as
mine and he's been tailing me all the time, so I need another color or
another model or something."  He put his hand to his mouth.  "No, wait,
this is better.  First take my car--the keys are around here
someplace--and drive it back to the house and just park it in the
garage and leave it there.  Don't let anyone else have the keys.  Then
go back to the dealership and just buy the fucking thing.  Get a check
from my accountant and just do it."

"Sure."

"Then buy another Land Rover that's exactly the same--same model, same
year.  And make sure it's the same white, that's very important.  And
don't buy it there, do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Go to another dealership.  There's got to be two in this rinky dink
town.  So go and get another identical Land Rover, and that's the one
I'll use.  If there are any questions then at least it will be
clean."

"What about my car?"

"Yes, of course .. ."  He thought for a second, and said, "Put it in
the garage along with mine.  Wait, better yet, go out and rent a garage
at one of those self-storage places and put your car in there until
we're through here, until you're ready to drive straight out of town.
Then this afternoon go to another car dealership--what are you driving,
a white Saab?"

"Right.  A white Saab convertible."

"Fine, then go to a Saab dealership and lease one for yourself.  You
can bill me.  But get a totally different color.  Make it green or
whatever you want, I don't care.  Just different.  And make it a
four-door or something like that."

"Sure."

Breaking their conversation came yet another knock on the flimsy door,
and a voice that was at once both annoyed and saccharine, saying, "Tim,
it's me, Brian.  Is there a problem?  Are you alright?  Can I come in
and talk?"

Chase rubbed his eyes and groaned.  It was the film's director coming
to take his temperature, or more specifically to see what the hell was
holding him up.  If he only knew.

"Go on, get out of here," muttered Tim to Vie.  "And tell Brian I'll be
right there.  Tell him I'm in the John."

And Chase did just that, escaped to the bathroom, taking a quick two
steps into the coffin-sized room and sealing the door behind him.  More
often than not a chamber like this was his only escape, his last place
of refuge.  Such was the price of stardom, he thought, as he leaned
against the sink and slumped against the cold vinyl wall.  At least
here he could lock everyone out and no one would come banging on the
door every five fucking minutes wondering if he was okay.

With any luck this might work.  With any luck .. .

He thought about the beautiful farm boy, his hair so blond, his

face so pure and young, and that body, so broad and powerful.  He
remembered when Vie had first brought him by, how he'd paraded him past
for Tim's approval.  And he knew it right away, knew that, yes, that
one would do quite well, thank you very much.  He was just so naturally
pretty, so naturally masculine.  You didn't find kids like that back in
California, not at all.  They were into too many things, fads and
trends from body piercings to tattoos.  But not that kid.  He was
untouched.  A Lolita of boy ness  Yet what a mistake.  What a huge
fucking mistake.

Suddenly he both heard and felt quick steps trooping through the
trailer.  The next moment there was a rap on the bathroom door.

"Tim, it's me, Brian.  Are you okay?  You're not sick or anything, are
you?  You want me to get the doctor?"

Standing there, Chase clutched his fists and tried not to scream.

"For God's sake, I'm going potty, do you mind?"

"Well..  . well, how long are you going to be?  We're all waiting."

"Let me think here.  I've never been a very good judge of these things.
How about five minutes?  That good for you?"

"Sure.  Five minutes, that's great," replied Brian.  "Thank you.  Thank
you very much."

"You're most certainly welcome."

Sealed in the tiny room, Tim heard the director retreat, his hasty
footsteps beating their way through the trailer.  And then, with a sigh
of relief, Tim sensed the outer door open and close.

Okay, he thought, as he rubbed his brow.  The cars were taken care of,
or would be soon, provided that Vie didn't screw up again.  Now all he
had to worry about was, of course, the media.

"So I was parked right about here," explained Rawlins to his partner,
Neal Foster, "when I saw this car come out of there."

From the front seat of his Taurus, Rawlins pointed to the large black
iron gates of the driveway.  It was early afternoon, the sun was
breaking through the clouds, and the shiny black metal glistened,
broadcasting an image of wealth and privacy.  Past the gates and the
fence, past the rich green lawn and thick bushes quietly sat the huge
house.  Though it was the size of a small hotel and though the grounds
were impeccably manicured, the structure and its grounds were
deserted.

"About what time was this?"  asked Foster, seated next to him.

"Nine last night, maybe a little after."

"And what were you doing here?"

"To be perfectly frank, it's a long story, so let's not get into--"

"Ah, sounds like relationship problems to me.  Right?  Am I right?"
Knowing he was dead on target, Foster grinned, entirely proud of his
sleuthing abilities.  "In my humble opinion, that's how stories always
get long.  Or complicated, anyway."

"Whatever," replied Rawlins with a reticent shrug.

No, he didn't want to get into it, and he wouldn't, at least not until
he had to.  The important thing was that last night he'd been parked
right here, right out front of this big house, and he'd seen a white
convertible Saab come barreling through those gates and down this
street.  And the vehicle did have California plates, Rawlins was sure
of that,

just as he was sure that the driver was bald.  But could it all be so
easily solved?

"I want to know who the tipster is and just how and why he knows so
much," said Rawlins.  "He was obviously here last night because he saw
me, but why?  Why would he be hanging around this place?"

"He said he was a photographer?"

"Yeah."  Wondering who in the name of hell Todd had visited inside the
mansion last night, Rawlins added, "And I want to know whose house this
is, anyway.  It has to belong to someone important."

"So no big deal.  We're cops, we can find that out pretty damn easy."

Not hesitating, Foster reached for the radio, which was mounted on the
slender transmission hump between the front seats.  He grabbed the
microphone and, because this wasn't an emergency, called not dispatch
but Channel 7, their information channel.

He said, "Car 1110"

Through the small speaker beneath the dash, a woman's voice warbled:
"Go ahead, Car 1110."

"I need a reverse directory check."

As Foster read off the address, Rawlins wondered how long this was
going to take, either seconds or minutes.  There was never any telling.
If checking the phone records didn't work for some reason, then they
could always use the cell phone to call another department to see to
whom the water bill was sent.  But apparently that wasn't going to be
necessary.

The woman's voice on the radio said, "Car 111 0?"

"1110," answered Foster.

"That residence is listed as belonging to Suzanne Buttons."

"Buttons?"

"Yes.  That's boy-up top-top--"

"Copy."  With a shrug, Foster hung up, then turned to Rawlins. 
"Doesn't ring any bells for me.  How about you?"

Of course it did.  She was no department store heir.  No lumber or
grain scion, of which there was still a wide smattering in the Twin
Cities.  No nouveau computer millionaire either.  Rawlins had read
all

about her in the newspaper, and Suzanne Buttons, who'd made every
penny of her own money, was famous and filthy rich for an entirely
different reason.

"Makeup," said Rawlins.  "She's the queen saleswoman of a direct sales
cosmetics line.  I think she's something like their biggest grossing
sales rep in the country, maybe the world."

"You mean one of those pink Cadillac millionaires?"

"Different company but same idea."

Which didn't tell them a whole lot about what was going on here.  Or,
thought Rawlins, why Todd would have been here last night, unless of
course Todd had simply been working on a story.  Which was a
possibility.  It would be just like Todd to have said he had a date,
implying so very much, when in actuality that date could have simply
been an interview.  But if it had been an interview, what was Todd
looking into?  What scam or crime had piqued his reporterly instincts?
And just who had he seen?

Grabbing his cell phone from the seat, Rawlins said, "I'm going to call
CID and see if the reVe been any police calls on this address."

He punched in the number, and the receptionist answered, saying,
"Criminal Investigation Division."

"Hi, Donna, this is Steve Rawlins.  Can you get me someone in Homicide?
Anyone there?"

"Sure.  I think Lewis is in."

There was a click on the line, and a moment later, a woman picked up
saying, "Homicide, this is Sergeant Lewis."

"Hey, Kathy, this is Rawlins.  We're parked outside a residence in
south Minneapolis, and I was wondering if you could check to see if
there've been any police calls at this address.  I'd be interested in
the last year--oh, and whose name might be on it."

"Sure, but I'm right in the middle of something.  Let me call you back
in five."

"Great," said Rawlins, who then gave her the address as well as his
cell phone number.

No sooner had Rawlins hung up, than Foster ran his left hand

over his craggy face, and said, "You gotta back up a little bit,
Rawlins.  If we're going to figure this out, you gotta tell me what you
were doing here last night.  Just some general information, that's all
I'm asking for."

The problem, of course, was that there wasn't much more to tell.
Squirming in his seat, Rawlins stared at the yellow brick mansion that
was bathed in the bright, cool light.  Did he really want to drag Todd
into this, or was the cat already out?

"Okay," began Rawlins hesitantly, "you're right.  Todd and I are having
problems, but I really don't want to get into it.  Not just yet,
anyway--I mean, I'd like to keep this simple.  But I was out here last
night, and--"

"And he was in there?  Todd was inside the house?"

Oh, shit, thought Rawlins, Foster was a bulldog of an investigator, and
a great one too.  One chomp into something and he never let go.

"Yeah, right, Todd was in there."

"And?"

"Well, so I'm sitting right about in this exact spot when a white Saab
came pulling out.  I was rather curious who was in the car.  Actually,
I thought Todd was with some guy, so I followed it for a block and then
pulled up alongside it.  Okay, maybe it was a little stupid of me, but
I did it."

"And?"

"And .. . and there was only one person in it.  Some guy--big, bald.
And that was it.  I looked at him, he glanced briefly at me, and then I
drove on."

"Can you ID this guy?"

"Sure, I think so."

"Good."  Returning to the Achilles' heel of this, Foster asked, "But
Todd is involved in this somehow?"

"Not involved, not that I can see, anyway, but he was here last night,
obviously meeting with someone."

"Have you talked to him about it?  Have you asked him why he was here?
I mean, that would be the logical place to start."

"Yeah, of course, but..  ."  Rawlins shook his head.  "Oh, shit, Todd
and I've got a few things we need to talk about, and I really
don't--"

"Hey," interrupted Foster, raising his right hand and pointing across
the street.  "Looks like something's going on at the Magic Kingdom."

Rawlins looked over, saw the wrought iron gates begin to swing
automatically open in a grand, manor like way.  Spying no car, he
turned and looked up the street, then glanced in his rearview mirror.
Nothing.  Turning his attention back to the house, at first all
appeared quiet, even desolate.  The next moment a car came speeding up
from behind the north wing of the house.

"Wait a minute .. . wait a minute .. ."  muttered Rawlins, his eyes
trained on a white vehicle.  "This could be our lucky day."

"Is that it?"

It was white.  It had a black roof.  And, yes, it was a Saab.

"Yep," replied Rawlins, watching as it rushed up to the stately gates,
then passed through and turned right.  "And it's coming this way."

"Look at me, Rawlins," commanded his partner.  "You were here last
night, and this guy can probably recognize you too.  After all, you
drove right up alongside his car.  So just play along and look right at
me so that he can't see your face.  We're just sitting here, talking,
gabbing, minding our own business, right?  Right?"

Trying to obscure his face, Rawlins ran his left hand through his hair
and turned toward Foster, at the same time demanding, "Can you see
who's driving?  Is it him, a bald guy?"

"Can't see, not yet.  It's a white Saab, black convertible roof, no
doubt about that.  Just one guy in the car.  He's coming this way.
Don't look over, Rawlins.  I think he's checking us out.  He's got
sunglasses on, so I can't really tell, but I think he's looking this
way.  And .. . and .  yes, big guy, completely bald.  Maybe his head is
shaved, but it's gotta be him, the same guy you saw last night."

Forcing himself not to turn around as he heard the car go shooting
past, Rawlins demanded, "What about the plates?  Are they
California?"

"Ah .. . you bet."

"Can you get a number?"

"Okay, okay, okay ... let me see.  Got it!"  said Foster, who quickly
started jotting it down.

"Excellent."

His eyes still on the speeding vehicle, Foster added, "Yeah, but I
think we've been made."

"Oh, my God, that tip caller was just a little gold mine of
information."  Rawlins reached for the ignition.  "Shall we?"

"Yeah, like right now."

Rawlins brought his car to a roar of a start, then stomped on the gas
and steered the Taurus in a screeching U-turn.  As he did so, Foster
reached again for the radio, this time calling dispatch.

"Car 1110."

"Go ahead, Car 1110."

"Emergency check on a California plate," he said, and then read off the
plate number.

As before, Rawlins knew this could be instant information--data the
computer could retrieve in seconds--or something that could take ten
minutes or more to access.  In the meantime, they couldn't lose him,
and Rawlins didn't waste a moment speeding after the Saab, which had
already disappeared around one of the undulating bends of Mount Curve.
He passed a towering, castle like house on his left, a redbrick mansion
with a slate roof on his right, then came around a slope and saw
nothing, only a quiet street lined with huge homes and the last of the
century's majestic elms.

"Shit," muttered Rawlins.

With the microphone in hand, Foster calmly pointed ahead, saying, "I
bet he turned left just up there."

It was, actually, the only possibility, and Rawlins raced toward the
next street, braking at the last moment, then swooping around the
corner much too fast.  And there was the white Saab, accelerating with
each moment and shooting down the perfectly straight block, which was
lined with tall clapboard houses with Midwesternly front porches.

Noting how fast the Saab was shooting along, Rawlins, pressing the gas
pedal to the floor, said, "Obviously you were right--he made us as soon
as he came out the gates."

"So he's worried enough to be on the lookout, which means things are
getting curiouser and curiouser."

"Yeah."  As the Saab approached the intersection ahead, Rawlins asked,
"So what do we do, pull him over?"

"He's speeding, that's for sure.  We could ticket him for that and
reckless endangerment.  You got a kojack with you?"

"It's right here," replied Rawlins, reaching under his seat and pulling
out a small red bubble of a light.

Into the microphone, Foster said, "Car 1110."

"Go ahead, Car 1110."

"Any information on that plate check?"

The voice over the radio speaker replied, "Still checking."

Their computer was linked to the NCIC, which in turn would check the
California Department of Transportation's records in Sacramento.  So
they should be able to get a name on this guy, but then they'd have to
call down to Criminal History, which was part of the court services
division, to see if he had any record.

Tossing the end of the kojack light at Foster, Rawlins said, "Get this
thing plugged in, would you?"

As he grabbed the end and crammed it into the cigarette lighter, Foster
said, "This guy's scared shitless, there's no doubt about it.  Think we
should call for a marked squad?"

"Yeah."

Up ahead a long yellow school bus rumbled through the intersection. 
The Saab's brake lights flashed red, and then the bald man turned left,
following after the bus, his tires squealing as he barely made the
turn.  In an instant he disappeared around a white house with a tall
stand of lilacs.

As they neared the cross street, Foster placed one hand on the dash.
"How's this thing corner?"

"We'll find out," replied Rawlins.

Rawlins rolled down his window and was about to reach out and slap the
kojack light and its magnetic base on the roof, but there wasn't enough
time.  Instead, he clutched the steering wheel with both hands and
swerved as far right as he could.  Like a race driver approaching a
difficult turn, Rawlins didn't brake but only let up on the gas.  Then
swooping to the left in as wide a turn as possible, his tires screamed
and the car dipped deeply to the opposite side.  It suddenly became
clear that he was going too fast, that he might not be able to control
the car, and Rawlins was tempted to tap the brakes but didn't for fear
of rolling.  All he could do was clutch the wheel, hold it steady, and
as he did so, he checked the streets feeding into the intersection,
relieved at least that no one was approaching.  But he couldn't do it,
couldn't quite control the car, and the lighter rear end of the vehicle
started fishtailing out to the side.  He punched the brakes once, then
let up.

"Damn it!"  cursed Rawlins.

With a large scream of burning rubber, they skidded sideways into the
intersection.  Rawlins leaned hard against the steering wheel, his
powerful arms battling the force.  He glanced over, realized that they
were sliding toward a red fire hydrant standing firmly on the corner.
He had no choice but to trounce on the brake.  They swirled around a
hundred and eighty degrees, then in one noisy second came to a jerk of
a halt.

His eyes wide, Foster looked straight at Rawlins, and said, "Well,
don't stop now!"

Rawlins took a deep breath, pressed down on the gas, then spun the
steering wheel in the opposite direction.  In a moment they were
whipping around, once again in pursuit of the white Saab, which had
just soared past the yellow school bus like a hawk swooping past a
hare.

The radio cracked, and the dispatcher called, "Car 1110?"

Lifting the microphone to his mouth, Foster said, "1110."

"That California plate comes back clear.  A white 1998 two-door
convertible Saab, registered to Victor Michael Radzinsky, DOB August
23, 1959, of Santa Monica, California."

"Copy."  Foster glanced at Rawlins, saying, "That's got to be him.  Do
we need a driver's license check?"

Rawlins nodded, wanting it all--height, weight, eye color--and said,
"Yeah, let's get as good a physical description as possible."

"Car 1110," said Foster into the microphone.

"Go ahead, 1110."

"DL check Victor Michael Radzinsky."

"Copy."

As they quickly gained on the bus, Rawlins leaned slightly to the left
and peered around the side of the bus.  There was no doubt about it,
the Saab was racing faster than ever down the street.

"He's getting away--call it in!"

Foster said, "Car 1110."

"Go ahead, 1110."

"We're in pursuit of a possible homicide suspect and need marked
assistance."

As Foster gave them the approximate location, Rawlins reached into his
lap and grabbed the kojack light.  Lifting it out the window, he
realized the cord was tangled, and so he glanced out, tried to
ascertain how he could get it up and on the roof.

Foster shouted, "Jesus!"

Rawlins's heart shot up the back of his throat.  The reason he'd been
gaining so quickly on the school bus was because it was stopped now
only a matter of feet before him.  He swerved to the left to bypass it,
but then the bus driver extended the red stop sign on the side of the
bus.  The next instant a young girl with glasses and a ponytail stepped
out from in front of the bus.  Using both feet, Rawlins plunged down on
the brake, and the car immediately bucked and started screeching.  But
there wasn't enough space, Rawlins could see that right away, knew it
as soon as the girl turned toward him, eyes and mouth wide open, her
small body frozen in fear.  He twisted the wheel to the left, the car
veered across the lane, then shot over the curb with a horrendous thud
and flew a foot or two in the air.

And then came to an awkward halt on the sidewalk.

Rawlins took a deep breath, leaned forward, bowing his head onto the
steering wheel.  A moment later he reached down and turned off the
ignition.

"Hail Mary," mumbled Foster.  "Just let me live until the day I
retire."

"Oh, my God," said Rawlins, shaking his head.  "I usually do a little
better than that."

"Sure you do."

He looked down the street, saw the Saab now a block or more away and
growing more distant by the moment.  No, there was no stopping him now,
even if a marked squad was in the immediate area.  But now at least
they had a name to go with the face, and a plate number to go with the
car.

Out of nowhere a woman came screaming onto the sidewalk, her eyes
spitting hate at Rawlins as she ran past the car.  She charged into the
street, lunging for the little girl, who still stood quite paralyzed on
the pavement and who, upon seeing her mother, broke into a siren of
tears.  Rawlins let out a deep sigh.  No, this hadn't ended in total
disaster.  And thank God for that.

Suddenly the inside of the Taurus was filled with a ringing.  Rawlins
felt his jacket, found nothing, then searched the seat next to him.  He
found the telephone on the floor beneath his left foot.

"Watch," he said as he stretched to pick it up, "it'll be my mother."
Flipping open his cell phone, he said, "Yeah, this is Rawlins."

"Hey, it's me," said Kathy Lewis, the investigator.  "Actually there
was a police call to that address--just last week, as a matter of
fact."

All he could muster was a banal, "Really?"

"Yeah, but here's the interesting part--you know who lives there?"

"Suzanne Buttons is listed as the owner."

"Well, maybe, but right now it's leased out to some huge Hollywood star
who's in town making a movie."

Knowing but wanting confirmation, Rawlins said, "Some huge Hollywood
star like who?"

"Grab this: Tim Chase."

"No shit.  So what about the complaint?  Was it made by him?"

"No, the call was made by Maggie Eastman, who called about a
photographer who was--"

"About who?"

"A photographer.  Apparently some guy with a camera was lurking around
the property,"

"No kidding."

"Yeah, but by the time two police officers arrived the guy was long
gone."  Sergeant Lewis added, "Sounds like it was one of those
paparazzi guys, you know, trying to get a picture of Tim Chase or
something."

"You know what," replied Rawlins, as things were becoming clearer, "I
think you're exactly right."

The Minnesota State Fair--the "Great Minnesota Get-Together"-was
supposedly the largest twelve-day fair in the country, with an
attendance of nearly two million people.  It was also one of the most
tacky events on the face of the earth, featuring combines and tractors,
chickens, rabbits, gargantuan swine, pop stars from Bonnie Raitt to
Wynonna Judd, fireworks, roller coasters, and a riot of food from deep
fried cheese curds to corn dogs and fried ice cream on a stick, not to
mention a semi-truck of all-you-can-drink milk.  Todd had gone nearly
every year since he'd moved to Minnesota and oddly, like so many gay
men, always ended up at the Dairy Pavilion with its butter sculptures
of Princess Kay of the Milky Way and her smiling attendants.  Which, he
thought, said a lot about gay stereotypes.

Turning off of Snelling Avenue, Todd drove through the green and-blue
entry gates that only three or four weeks ago were swarming with
pedestrians pushing to get in.  He headed directly up one of the main
boulevards, finding not a mass of people but a huge, deserted street
lined on either side with food shacks now boarded up for the year.
Where recently upward of two hundred thousand people had strolled each
day, there was now virtually no one, a ghost town of fun.  It was
weird, Todd had never seen the place abandoned, per se, let alone
driven right through the four hundred acre site.

He passed the grandstand where horses raced and where rock and
country-western stars performed, then veered off to the left.  On one
side stood a Quonset hut topped by a steeple, which promised the

best church breakfast ever, followed by a dark green shack in the
shape of a bell pepper, which advertised its fare, deep-fried of
course.  Then came the Root Beer Hut and a foot-long chili dog place.
Todd took a right at Tiny Tim Donuts and headed straight down toward a
sea of pavement, now completely empty but which had so recently boasted
the Mighty Midway, an extravaganza of amusement rides and arcade
games.

Human beings, of course, weren't the only fair guests.  Todd had
recently read that something like ten thousand animals also attended,
exhibiting and competing for the biggest, the tallest, the fattest, and
the fastest of breed, and Todd now entered their territory.  Large
buildings appeared, marked simply SHEEP, POULTRY, SWINE BARN, CATTLE
BARN, and finally HORSES.

Glancing down the street, Todd saw that it was totally empty except for
one pile of horse manure and an empty black pickup truck.  Obviously,
he thought as he parked, John Lyman was waiting inside.  Not at all
pleased with how deserted the area was, Todd grabbed his cellular phone
and climbed out.

The horse barn was, according to the sign, a WPA building built in 1937
of thick concrete and decorated here and there with small friezes of
horses.  An odd greenish-beige color with high windows, the building's
large main doors were pulled down and it appeared totally closed for
the year.  Approaching the structure, however, Todd saw a small door
set in an alcove.  He pulled open the screen door, tested the wooden
door, and found it unlocked.  Stepping inside with his phone in hand,
he turned a corner and found himself in a huge empty space.  Gone were
the quarter horses and draft horses, the 4-H exhibits, the breeders,
the farm kids, and the straw strewn everywhere.

"John?"  called Todd, peering through the dim, dirty light.  "John
Lyman?"

Taking several steps across the cold concrete, Todd realized he
shouldn't have agreed to meet here.  Not in a place so void of
activity.  No, he should have been more heads-up, should have insisted
they meet in a place full of people.  Glancing around the dank
building,

Todd wondered why John Lyman wanted to meet and just how angry he
might be.

"Hello?"

A gust of wind shot into the building, the door slammed shut, and Todd
jumped.  From overhead came a deep flurry--a sparrow, perhaps locked in
here since the end of the fair and somehow not yet starved to death.
And then finally he heard the soft but distinct shuffle of leather
across concrete.

Todd turned to a line of wooden stalls along one side of the barn, and
called, "John?"

After a long moment came more shuffling, and then, "Yeah, down here."

Perhaps Todd was a fool, perhaps he should have just turned and headed
out of there, but he didn't really think he had much choice.  Andrew
Lyman was dead, and the boy's father wanted to talk to him.  Either he
had news for Todd about his son's death--an overlooked fact,
perchance--or he was going to lash out at Todd for his coverage.  Or
maybe, just maybe John Lyman had sought out Todd for an entirely
different reason.  Could it be possible that he knew something about
his son's involvement with Rawlins?

The stalls were made of thick, heavy wood with huge sliding doors and
heavy metal bars at the top, perfect for containing the most malcontent
of stallions.  Approaching the sixth or seventh stall, Todd heard
movement from within and cautiously approached the opening.  Looking in
he saw the back of a large man standing there as he wiped down
something.  As Todd's eyes adjusted to the faint light, he saw what
John Lyman was attending to.

"This isn't the greatest saddle, not by any means," Lyman said, his
voice low and pained, "but I won it during my very first cutting
competition something like twenty, maybe twenty-three years ago.  It's
brought me and my cutting horses good luck all this time ... up until
now.  I didn't just lose during the competition this year, I was the
laughing stock of the whole fucking State Fair rodeo.  I mean, I've
just up and lost the knack."

"I'm sorry."

"These are hard times for me.  Real hard.  Farming sure as hell ain't
getting any easier.  My family has gone and fallen apart.  And now my
only boy's dead, murdered because .. . because .. ."

He wore cowboy boots and jeans and a khaki jacket that was obviously
too small, something that had perhaps once fit around him but would
never again.  He was a big man, not just tall, but overweight.  And
between the top of his blue check shirt and his green cap the skin of
his neck was red and aged from years in the field.

What could Todd say?  How, wondered Todd, clutching his phone in his
sweaty hand, could he comfort this stranger?

Breaking the silence, John said, "The night I found out my boy was gay
was the night I nearly beat him to death.  And I would've, too, if my
wife hadn't stopped me.  I was so angry at him.  I was so upset.  I
mean, I failed that boy.  I wanted him to be happy and healthy.  I
wanted him to have a good, decent life.  I wanted--"

"I met him, you know.  And he was a good boy.  He was happy and healthy
too.  And decent."  In all his infinite wisdom, Todd couldn't keep his
mouth shut.  "He was all of that, plus gay."

"Maybe.  Maybe he was.  But, oh, Lord Jesus, I tried.  I just didn't
want that for him, that life.  It's not good, not right.  I saw it
coming of course.  I knew he was a homo.  Knew it years ago, but--"

"It's not your fault.  It's no one's fault.  It's just a matter of fact
that your son was gay.  There's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Shit..  . You know why I beat my boy that night?  You know why?" 
asked John Lyman, turning around for the first time.

Todd saw a face that was worn and fallen.  And eyes that were red and
glistening.  How much, wondered Todd, had he had to drink?  Or wait,
was he not drunk?  Were his eyes red with tears?

"No," replied Todd.  "Why?"

"I beat my boy because I was trying to beat out of him what I hated
most about myself, that's why."

It took Todd a half-second to comprehend what he was saying, for

he'd never heard someone place their sexuality in so awful a context.
But he was saying that, wasn't he?

"Can you be a little more specific?"

"Well, I'm married, but .. ."  He closed his eyes, shook his head.
"Let's just say I haven't been faithful to my wife."

Todd understood perfectly now.  Understood that John Lyman would sooner
kill himself than say he was gay.  There was obviously no way in hell
he was going to say he was homosexual, queer, a fairy, a pansy, a fudge
packer, a corn holer, or whatever the kids these days said so easily
but that not so very long ago all but equaled death, and in fact
sometimes still did.  John Lyman had lived an isolated life in rural
Minnesota, obviously terrified of his personal truth, and that he had
said as much as he had to Todd was amazing.  Then again, it had taken
the death of his son to pry open his closet this much.

Still, Todd knew of the profound difference between the unspoken and
the spoken truth, and so he asked it in as non-threatening a manner as
he could, saying, "You mean you've been having a same-sex affair?"

Nodding as he stared at the floor of the stall, John Lyman said, "I
been seeing the same guy ever since high school."

"Really?"

"Not all that much, not really.  Maybe three or four times a year.
Sometimes more."

So, like father, like son.  Incredible.

But why was he telling Todd this?  Because Todd was openly gay? 
Because he had perhaps witnessed Todd's own outing live on TV? 
Perhaps. Perhaps even though Todd was a complete stranger he saw him as
an isle of safety, even compassion.  After all, didn't we all just want
to be understood?

"This is obviously a very difficult time for you," said Todd.  "Is
there anything I can do?  Anyway I can help?"

John Lyman nodded, closed his eyes, and said nothing.

"How?"  asked Todd.

"Shit, I wondered if it was really going to come to this, if I could
actually go through with it."

He sighed deeply, reached into the right pocket of his khaki jacket,
and pulled out something small and metal.  At first in the faint light
Todd could only make out a mellow glint of metal.  Then he saw
something round and long.  A barrel.

"Hey, wait a minute," said Todd, taking a half-step back.

This, of course, was what he feared.  Something exactly like this.  He
glanced around, saw nothing, realized that the only thing he had to
defend himself with was the stupid phone.

"We can talk this out," insisted Todd.

"You don't understand, there's nothing to talk about."

"You don't have to do it, John.  I know these are bad times, but you
don't have to hurt anyone.  There are other ways."

Raising the gun, he said, "No, I'm afraid there aren't.  I been
thinking and thinking, and I got no choice."

"John, wait.  Please."

Todd was worse than a sitting duck.  He could make a break for it.  He
could tear for the door, and perhaps he'd make it.  Then again, thought
Todd, his heart taking off at a gallop, he probably wouldn't.  John
Lyman was sure to be a good shot.

"Why?"  demanded Todd.

"Because I can't face it, the truth."

"But--"

"And if it ever comes up I want you to go see my wife."

"Do what?"

"Go see my wife, Martha."

Suddenly this wasn't making any sense.  Was this perhaps not headed in
the very direction that Todd feared?  "What do you mean?"

Raising the gun higher, Lyman said, "I want you to tell her how much I
loved her.  Tell her in my heart I was true to her."

As Todd watched Lyman's elbow bend he suddenly understood.  Oh, God.
He'd called Todd here for a kind of last confession.

"John, don't."

"There's no other way.  I got no other choice."

"Your son's dead, don't make things worse."

Lyman lifted the handgun to his right temple and slowly let his eyes
drift shut.  "It's all my fault too.  Somehow I made that boy a homo.
And .. . and I definitely drove him away from his home.  He's .  he's
dead because of me."

Tears started rolling from his eyes, big, fat drops that traveled down
his large cheeks.  No, he didn't want this.  He really didn't.  And
Todd knew what he had to do, just keep him talking.

"No," said Todd, "he's dead because some insane person killed him." 
"If I hadn't drove him away he'd still be alive.  He shoulda been home
with us.  He woulda been safe there.  None of this woulda happened."

The other man's trigger finger started to flinch, and Todd knew he'd
lost, that there was no way of stopping this, that Andrew Lyman's death
was going to be like a chain accident, one death piled upon another.
And all for nothing.

The phone.

There was nothing else Todd could do.  No other course, none that he
could see.  And so, as John Lyman stood there with the pistol to his
right temple, Todd slowly brought back his arm.  This was perhaps the
stupidest thing, but he was determined to do something, anything, to
change the course of the next few seconds.  Wasting not a moment, Todd
tossed the small black phone at the other man.

"It's for you, John!"

John's eyes popped open in surprise and instinctively he reached out to
catch the little plastic phone hurtling his way.  And catch it he did,
the small phone clattering against the barrel of the gun.

Desperate, Todd blurted, "If you shoot yourself, you know what I'm
going to do?  I'm going to do a story on television about you and your
son.  I'm going to say that Andrew was an incest victim.  I'm going to
say that you had sex with him."

"That's not true!"

"Of course it's not, but that's what I'm going to say.  And that's what
the world will think because you'll be dead and you'll have no way of
defending yourself."

"No!"

"I'll do it.  If you kill yourself, that's what I'm going to do."  Oh,
Christ, what was Todd about to unleash?  "But if you don't hurt
yourself, if you push through all of this, then all I'll do is tell the
truth, that you loved your--"

"You bastard!"

Lyman threw Todd's cellular phone to the floor, smashing it in a
half-dozen pieces, and then charged forward, a bull of a man
overflowing with rage and self-hatred.  Todd, seeing the gun aimed at
him, leapt to the side, and an instant later a bullet blasted deep into
the thick wood of the stall.  But rather than running for the door,
Todd twisted around and used his foot to trip Lyman just as he came
rushing out.  Lyman fell forward, landing on the hard concrete floor
with a deep groan, and the gun flew from his hand and went sailing
through the air.  Racing after it, Todd bent down, grabbed the butt of
the gun, and scooped it up.

"You asshole!"  roared Lyman as he scrambled across the floor.  "I'm
gonna kill you!"

Just then a hand locked onto Todd's left ankle and pulled with the
force of a draft horse.  Before Todd knew it, he went flying forward
and the gun went hurtling out of his hand.  He landed smack on his
stomach and all the air exploded out of him.  He knew he had to move,
to get out of there, but he couldn't breathe, couldn't even manage to
push himself onto his hands and knees.  And the next moment Lyman was
pulling him back.  Todd managed to twist over, to cover his face, as
Lyman lunged at him, striking Todd on the chin once, twice.  Todd tried
to curl into a ball to protect himself, but it was too late.  Before he
even had time to think, his head exploded with a blast of pain and
everything plunged into quiet darkness.

Rawlins was the first one to crack.

All afternoon as he'd been going about his work he'd been wondering if
Todd would call and perhaps chat awhile, maybe even apologize or
simply, without admitting guilt, voice his regret for their argument
last night.  Actually, Rawlins half expected Todd would phone and
insist they get together if not sometime this afternoon, then certainly
for dinner.  But now, checking his watch as he sat in his cubicle at
CID, it was after six o'clock and of course Todd hadn't called, which
really didn't come as any great surprise to Rawlins.  Todd was that
stubborn.  That resolute.  Or more to the point, that determined to be
in control.

Well, screw the bastard.

Rawlins had caved not quite an hour ago.  He didn't know what he was
going to say, he didn't actually know what he wanted to happen, but he
couldn't stand this separation, this odd quiet between them.  Over the
course of their young relationship they hadn't argued that much, but
they'd certainly never run into a stupid brick wall like this one.  And
it was this silence that scared Rawlins, because for the first time
there didn't seem any desire on Todd's part to work through their
differences.  What was going on?  Could Todd really have gone on a date
last night?  Might he be sneaking out of their relationship?  Yes, it
was certainly possible.

From his desk on the second floor of City Hall, Rawlins had first tried
Todd about forty-five minutes ago, calling him at WLAK.  When he'd been
dumped into voice mail, Rawlins hadn't left a message but

simply hung up.  He'd then tried Todd's condo, where he'd reached an
answering machine and likewise left no message.  Finally he'd called
Todd's cell phone, which just rang and rang until some recorded message
came on stating in much too bright a voice that, thank you very much,
the phone was either turned off or out of range.  The frustration
brewing, Rawlins went for a cup of coffee, then returned to his desk
some twenty minutes later and tried all the numbers again, yet again
had no luck.  It wasn't that unusual, Rawlins supposed.  He could
almost always get Todd on the phone, particularly if he called him on
his cellular, but there were those times when Todd was doing an
interview, when he was in an editorial meeting, or when he was in the
studio doing some taping.

Frustrated, Rawlins compulsively tried the numbers a third time.  When
he still had no success, Rawlins began to wonder if Todd was doing this
on purpose.  Could he be avoiding Rawlins?  Perhaps, even probably.  He
had caller ID on his cell phone--who knew, maybe even on his phone at
work as well--and it would be just like the son of a bitch to take note
that it was Rawlins calling and not pick up.

Damn him.

That bit of paranoia--the distinct possibility that Todd was avoiding
him--started twirling in Rawlins's mind until it reached tornadic
confusion.  He got up and started pacing up and down CID, from Homicide
all the way down to Juvenile.  And he kept at it for a good ten minutes
until he came up with an idea.  Calling the front desk at WLAK, he
asked for Nan, the six o'clock producer whom he'd met on several
occasions.

"I'm sorry," replied the receptionist, "but she's busy with the evening
news right now."

Rawlins glanced at his watch, saw that it was not quite six-thirty. Oh,
shit, was it that simple?  Was that why Todd had been unreachable, he'd
been busy with the evening news?

"Well, tell her Steve Rawlins called.  And tell her it's an emergency.
Here's my number," he said, determined to figure this out.  "Okay, you
got it?  Just make sure she calls me right away."

He sat there, rubbing his face and wondering what the hell he was

going to do next, when just a few minutes later his desk phone rang,
and he grabbed it, saying, "Homicide, this is Sergeant Rawlins."

"Where the hell is he?"

"Nan?"

"Yeah, it's me.  Where the hell's Todd?"  she ranted.  "He was supposed
to be on at six and he just blew us off.  I mean, blew us off
completely.  Unbelievable.  Let me tell you he's got a lot of people
really pissed at him.  You just can't do that.  Do you know how hard it
was to fill his slot just minutes before we were supposed to go on?  Do
you?  I mean, what the hell was he thinking?  What the hell
happened?"

"Actually, Nan, I don't know.  I don't have any idea," replied Rawlins,
his tone a bit sheepish.  "That's why I called--I was hoping you could
tell me.  I haven't been able to find him either."

"But..  . but..  ."  As if seizing on a novel idea, she said, "God, I
hope he's okay, I hope nothing happened."

"Me too," replied Rawlins, his anger quickly dissipating, only to be
replaced by a deep current of worry.

They agreed to keep in touch and then hung up.  Rawlins immediately
picked the phone back up and dialed all of Todd's numbers yet one more
time, this time leaving a message at home and work.

"Todd, it's me, Rawlins.  Where are you?  I'm kind of worried.  I've
got my cell phone with me--call me as soon as you can."

There was, thought Rawlins, shrugging as he hung up, nothing more he
could do, at least not before his seven o'clock meeting.

It was the concrete that woke Todd.

Cool and smooth against his left cheek, it was as refreshing as a cold,
damp washcloth on a hot summer day.  And just as invigorating.  His
eyes fluttered, then popped open.  Lying on his side, he didn't move,
just gazed around at the huge empty space and saw a small bird, a
sparrow, flutter toward a window and bang its body over and over
against the glass.

Where the hell was he?

The stale odor of horse manure and straw sparked the memory that his
eyes could not.  He was at the State Fair in the horse barn.  And his
head hurt like hell.  Right, he'd come here to meet John Lyman, and
then .. . then .. .

Using both hands, he pushed himself up and then sat there, looking
around, sure that John Lyman's body would be lying just a few feet
away, bloody and lifeless.  Instead there was no one and nothing.  Todd
turned toward the horse stall against the far wall, wondered if he'd
done it in there, gone back to the small space and blown his brains
out.  Groaning and rubbing his head, Todd got up and started moving
slowly, not at all eager to discover someone's remains.

"John?"  he called rather feebly.

As he approached the stall he expected to see the large man laid out
within the four heavy wooden walls of the stall.  Instead, except for
Todd's cell phone, which lay smashed in pieces, it was perfectly
empty.

There was no sign of John Lyman, nor for that matter the saddle he had
so lovingly tended.

Leaning against the stall, Todd touched the side of his head and felt
the epicenter of the pain, which, like a hangover, was thick and
nauseating and rippled from his head to his stomach.  At least Lyman
wasn't dead.  At least Todd had prevented that--although perhaps only
temporarily.  And that, Todd thought, was a good point, for if Lyman
hadn't killed himself in here, then perhaps he'd gone off and done the
deed elsewhere.  Perhaps he'd stormed out and done it in the front seat
of his truck.  Pretty.

As his senses regrouped he realized he had to get to the station.  He
had a broadcast to do.  Checking his watch, he stared at the small face
and thin hands.  Oh, shit.  It was a quarter past six.  He hadn't lain
on the concrete for five or ten minutes, but almost an hour.

Panicking, he bent down and started grabbing at the pieces of his cell
phone, the main body right in front of him, the battery over on one
side of the stall, and then a couple of small pieces scattered like
marbles.  His hands shaking, Todd tried cramming the battery in, but it
wouldn't stay.  He jammed something into something, but the plastic
body was entirely cracked.  It was beyond hopeless.

Clearly, he'd missed his spot.  There was going to be hell to pay for
this, but what could he do?  It was, he thought as his head throbbed,
already too late to simply warn them.

Turning, he started for the door, moving none too fast.  As he stepped
out into the evening light, he saw his Cherokee sitting right where he
had left it.  John Lyman's pickup, however, was gone, which meant, of
course, that he'd been alive when he'd left.  Thank God for small
miracles.

Todd rubbed his brow, went around and unlocked his truck.  He tossed
the broken pieces of his cell phone on the passenger seat and climbed
in.  What he needed now was a long, hot shower.  And then?  Something
about seven-thirty.  Right, he was supposed to do something.  Be
somewhere.  Meet someone.

Of course.  He had a date with Tim Chase.

Slipping his cell phone into the pocket of his jacket, Rawlins headed
across the rough, potholed parking lot.  His first major worry of the
night was Todd and if he was alright.  His second was this guy, the
witness, and if he was actually going to show.

Jam's was a freestanding building, a green box of a place with black
glass windows on one side and a pair of red neon cowboy boots on the
roof.  Known for its country music DJ, its tiny dance floor, and its
half-dozen pool tables, it was a popular pickup bar, and Rawlins wasn't
at all surprised that the witness had suggested it.

So who the hell was this guy?  Was he not a closet queen but a
photographer who regularly sold his pictures to the tabloids?  Was the
answer that simple?

As he approached the door, Rawlins casually glanced around the
crumbling parking lot.  He should have, he realized, done this a bit
differently.  He should have sat in his car for a few minutes and
jotted down as many license plates as he could have.  Instead he took
quick note of the fifteen or so cars scattered about--a couple of Ford
Explorers, three pickup trucks, a Honda Accord, and a few other
sedans.

Pulling open the door, Rawlins entered a small lobby with a couple of
pay phones hanging on the wall to his left.  It was two minutes to
seven.  He proceeded to a broad, open doorway and gazed into the main
room, which was dark and faintly smoky.  Glancing to his right, Rawlins
saw two of the pool tables in use.  He then peered to the left, saw
some

tables and chairs, the bar, and off in the dark distance the quiet
dance floor.  Here and there were couples, men and women drinking and
gabbing, and a few men who'd obviously met after work for a beer.  All
in all it was fairly quiet; the real action wouldn't begin for several
more hours.  Rawlins stood for a long moment, surveying the scene and
noting that there wasn't any lone person here by himself.  And that
unto itself, Rawlins knew from experience, didn't bode well.  A tipster
like this was either here exactly on time or not at all.

Scanning the dark room, Rawlins made his way to the bar, where he sat
on a tall stool.

"What can I get you?"  asked the bartender, a trim, handsome woman with
long brown hair and a quick Minnesota smile.

"A Leinie."

"You bet."

As she pulled him a draught Leinenkugel's, Rawlins turned on the stool,
again looking casually over the room and toward the doorway.  No one
was looking his way, nor even paying him the slightest bit of
attention.

"You want to run a tab?"  asked the bartender, sliding the tall glass
of beer to him.

"Yeah."  Rawlins took it, then asked, "I'm supposed to meet someone
here, you haven't by chance--"

"Male or female?"

"A guy."

"What's he look like?"

"Actually, I don't know.  We've never met before."

"Well, there hasn't been anyone waiting around, least not as far as I
can tell.  You late or something?  What time were you supposed to
meet?"

"Seven."

She glanced at her wristwatch, then looked up at him and winked. "Drink
up, hon.  The night's young."

"Whatever."

Sitting sideways with his right arm on the bar, Rawlins kept his

attention on the door and sipped his beer.  With this few people in
the place the bartender surely wouldn't have missed a single man
sitting around, which meant the guy had yet to come.  So how long would
Rawlins give him?  A half-hour?  If he was going to show, which Rawlins
already doubted, he'd certainly make it by seven-thirty.

Glancing down the bar he saw the bartender casually leaning against the
back counter.  Holding a cigarette to her mouth, she took a long drag,
sucking on her vice as if it offered much more than a mere puff of
smoke.  Not only was the night, as she said, young, it was also slow,
and she looked at Rawlins with a generous grin that could be read in
the most generous of ways.  Rawlins briefly returned the smallest of
smiles and immediately averted his eyes.  He took a sip of beer and
then turned back to the entry.

Come on, buddy.  Don't crap out on me.

Rawlins glanced at his watch.  At the most two minutes had passed.  So
where was this guy?  And where the hell, of course, was Todd?

Suddenly there was a ringing right against his side, which caused him
to jump.  His phone.  As a few heads turned his way, he put down his
beer and snatched the small device out of the pocket of his jacket.
Please let it be Todd, he thought.  Please let him be okay.

Covering his left ear with one hand, he held the receiver to his right,
and said, "This is Sergeant Rawlins."

"Hi."

Rawlins immediately knew it wasn't Todd.  His voice was remarkably
clear and clean with plenty of resonance, while this one was softer,
even timid.  It was him, the witness.  Damn.  From experience Rawlins
guessed this guy wasn't calling to say, sorry, I'm going to be a couple
of minutes late, just sit tight.  He was calling because he wasn't
going to show.  Shit, thought Rawlins, realizing he was going to have
to start tap-dancing real quick before he lost the guy altogether.

"Is this my friend?"  asked Rawlins.

"Yeah, it's me."

"I'm here, I'm at Jam's, just waiting for you.  Everything okay?"

"Listen, I'm .. . I'm sorry, but I'm not going to make it."

"Really?"  said Rawlins, feigning surprise and at the same time shaking
his head in frustration.  "You know, I can wait if you need a little
more time.  That's absolutely no problem."

"No .. . no, it's not that.  I just can't get any more involved than I
already am."

"I only wanted to meet for a drink, that's all, nothing more."

"Yeah, but..  ."

"Trust me," said Rawlins as he glanced over at the bartender, who
looked at him and smiled back, "there's nothing to worry about."

"I don't know.  I ..."

With the receiver pressed hard against his ear, Rawlins heard voices--a
couple of men laughing--and what sounded like a door slamming shut.  So
this witness, wherever he was, was again calling from some anonymous
phone.  Rawlins had to give him that, he was consistent.

Fearing that he'd lose him completely if he kept pushing, Rawlins
forced himself to take the conciliatory path, saying, "I just wanted to
meet for a quick drink, but if you're uncomfortable with that then
let's not.  You've been amazingly helpful, and it's absolutely your
choice if you want to limit your involvement to the tips you've already
given us.  I mean, it's more than we could have hoped for.  Not
everyone's willing to do as much as you've done, that's for sure."

"Thank you," he said, the relief clearly audible.  "Thank you very
much.  I've been working on something, you see, and it's very
complicated."

"I don't doubt that."

"I mean, I just don't want to screw things up."

I see.

Rawlins had to curb his tongue, had to keep himself from asking if the
guy was really a professional photographer or if perhaps he was a
closet queen who had an obsession with Tim Chase.  Yes, thought

Rawlins, if the guy was something like the latter--a stalker
perhaps-that would of course explain why he'd secretly spied so much
going on at the Chase residence.  And it would also explain why he was
so reticent to meet with Rawlins.

He glanced across the room and saw a couple of guys laughing and
talking as they sat down, then asked, "Is there anything else that you
can remember?  Anything else that comes to mind that might be helpful
to us?"

"Urn, no, not really.  Not that I can think of, anyway.  But I'll call
right away if I do think of anything else."

"Good, we'd appreciate that."  Fearful that losing him now would mean
losing him forever, Rawlins, trying not to seem desperate, asked, "Is
there any way I can contact you if I have any questions?"

"Well, not really."

"Not even a number I could call, say, just to leave a message?"

"No.  Like I said, I just can't get involved."

"Sure, I understand."

Okay, Rawlins told himself.  Think.  And think fast.  Remember what
Foster told you a few months back, that story of an informant in a drug
ring and how Foster had arranged to contact him anonymously?

"Listen, I have an idea."  Through the receiver Rawlins could hear the
wail of an ambulance, and he raised his voice, and said, "I want to
think of some way that I can send a signal to you, some kind of signal
that would tell you I need to talk to you.  I'm probably going to have
some questions after all."

"Like what?  What were you thinking of?"

"How about a cop car?  If I want you to call me I'll park an empty
squad car down by Lake Harriet.  I'll park it right where you saw that
Saab.  Can you check there, say, every day around twelve-thirty for the
next couple of weeks?"

"Sure.  Sure, I can do that.  I can go down there and check.  And if I
see it there, then I'll give you a call as soon as I can."

"Exactly."

"Cool."  As the siren ambulance grew closer and louder, the witness
said, "Just a minute--I can hardly hear you."

The wail rose and contracted over and over, screaming as the ambulance
tore to some emergency.  Or was it a fire engine?  Whatever type of
emergency vehicle it was, it was awfully close, and as Rawlins pressed
his small cellular phone to his ear it seemed as if he could hear the
siren in both ears.  Actually he could, couldn't he?  The next instant
he held the phone away from his head and realized he could hear the
siren just as loudly, which meant it wasn't far away, not by any
means.

Dear God.

He looked at the two men who'd just sat down and in one stupid second
understood that they'd walked right past the very phone the witness had
been using.  It was them Rawlins had overheard.  Which meant only one
thing: the witness had been willing to come only so close.

Over the cry of the siren, Rawlins desperately said, "Hang on one
second.  I've got one more thing to ask you."

With the phone pressed to his ear, Rawlins was off the bar stool and
hurrying across the room.  And then he was running.  There was no reply
from the other end, only the sound of the wail, which was now growing
weaker.  Rawlins tore toward the entry, dashing around the corner.  But
there was no one standing there at the pay phones, only one of the
receivers, gently swinging to and fro by its long cord.  Rawlins
glanced at the door, saw it easing shut.  Charging forward, he hurled
open the door and ran right into the parking lot.

There was no one.

He glanced at each and every car, half-expecting to see one racing off,
its tires peeling.  All he needed was a license plate number, nothing
more.  Instead the lot was perfectly quiet.  Spinning around, Rawlins
looked across Excelsior Boulevard, sure to see someone racing across on
foot.  Instead the broad concrete road was deserted, virtually so.

Turning from side to side, Rawlins folded up his phone and slipped it
back into the pocket of his jacket.  The witness had been

that close, only a matter of a few yards away, but his paranoia must
have made those last few feet seem like a million miles.

"Hey, pal," called a voice.

Rawlins turned, saw the bartender hanging out the half-open door, a
smile on her face, her long hair hanging off her right shoulder.

She said, "I hope you're coming back in to pay for that beer.  You are,
aren't ya?  Right?"

Acting the perfect Minnesotan and not belying his frustration, Rawlins
replied, "You bet."

On his way back to his condo, Todd stopped at a gas station and bought
two glass bottles of mineral water.  One he drank down immediately. 
The other he pressed against his temple, the chilled, sweaty glass
sending a rush of relief through his aching head.  He took Interstate
94, crossing the Mississippi, which acted something like a Berlin Wall,
dividing one metropolitan area into two capriciously distinct cities
that, unlike Berlin, had never possessed any desire to be united.  No,
old and proud St.  Paul wanted nothing to do with its flighty neighbor,
and Minneapolis, feeling itself far more dynamic and hip, all but
ignored its stodgy sister.

It was approaching seven by the time Todd parked his car and rode the
elevator up to his apartment.  He let himself in, finally uncapped the
second bottle of mineral water, and, sitting on his leather couch,
drank it down.  A few minutes later he was roused by Girlfriend, who
leapt on his lap, purring and rubbing against him as if he were the
greatest of gods.  Immediately Todd understood that, no, she wasn't all
full of sympathy and love.  The slut was hungry.

Going into the kitchen, Todd opened a can of cat food and fed
Girlfriend, who was swirling about his feet in a Pavlovian frenzy.  He
then glanced across the kitchen counter and saw the blinking red light
of his answering machine.  There were two messages.  As he could have
guessed, the first was from the sk o'clock producer, Nan.

"Todd, where the hell are you?  It's almost six!  You better get your
butt in here in the next two seconds or ... or ..."

He knew there was going to be hell to pay, he just didn't want to hear
about it now, and he fast-forwarded it to the second message.  Which
was from Rawlins, as he also could have guessed.  Of course Todd needed
to call him back, he thought as he glanced at the clock on his stove
and saw that it was a couple of minutes after seven.  Picking up the
phone, he started to dial, but then stopped.  He put his hand to his
forehead, but the number that was always there had, apparently, been
beaten out of him.  He quickly pulled open a drawer and pulled out his
phone list, which was scribbled on a yellow legal pad, and saw the
number he thought he'd never forget.  When he dialed it, though, it
rang busy. He waited no more than five seconds and tried again.  Damn,
he thought. He was never going to make it to Chase's by seven-thirty. 
Frustrated, Todd glanced again at the list, saw Rawlins's number down
at CID, and called there.

Reaching Rawlins's voice mail, Todd stumbled over his thoughts as he
said, "Hey, Rawlins, it's me, Todd.  I'm okay ... I think.  It's a long
story--I'll tell you later--but obviously we have a lot of things to
talk about.  Listen, I've got to meet someone in a few minutes.  I'll
call you back later."

Shaking his head as he hung up, Todd realized he was in no shape to
talk on the phone, let alone go to Tim Chase's.  Hoping a shower would
help, he went straight to his bedroom, where he stripped, then headed
for the bathroom.  Taking two aspirin, he chased the pills down with
water from the tap, and next turned on the shower full blast and
climbed in.  Thank God, he thought as the water pounded and massaged
his head and body, for the seemingly unlimited amount of hot water this
building could produce.

A half-hour later he was driving along Mount Curve Avenue, and if he
wasn't completely revived, then he was at least coherent.  Looking as
good as he could on this particular night, he wore black jeans, a blue
shirt, and his leather coat, but who was he hoping to impress?  And
what exactly was he hoping would happen tonight?  Recalling the strong
embrace and the gentle kisses from the night before, Todd knew damn
well.

As he rounded a bend and approached the house, he saw that the street
was lined with cars, expensive ones too, from Mercedes to Cadillacs to
Range Rovers.  Could Tim Chase and Gwen Owens be having a party?  Might
this not be the intimate evening that Todd had envisioned?  Taking the
first space, Todd pulled over and parked.  Up ahead on the right he saw
well-heeled people streaming into a massive Tudor house; one of Tim
Chase's neighbors was evidently having quite the bash.

But, no, Todd told himself as he climbed out of his truck, a roll in
the hay with Tim Chase wasn't impossible, it was outrageously
impossible.  Tim Chase wasn't simply one of the most famous actors in
the world, he was also gorgeous.  And rich.  If in fact he was
gay--after all, he could have been playing with Todd last night,
rehearsing as he said--he could have the most beautiful of queer men.
So why in the world would he want Todd, who was not only in his forties
and eight or nine years older than him, but also not a stunning,
drop-dead Calvin Klein beauty?  There was no way.  Perhaps Todd was
soon going to learn the secrets of Tim Chase's personal life, but, he
realized, there was no way in hell they were going to have sex.  It
just wasn't going to happen.

Besides, there was Rawlins.

Or was there?  It seemed quite obvious that Rawlins was not only unable
to maintain a monogamous relationship, but that he had also broken
their compromise agreement of pledging to tell the truth.  So now what?
There was nothing else--least of all, no other laws or
ceremonies-binding them, so if Todd couldn't count on Rawlins for the
simple truth, then did he really want him at all?  As he was buzzed
through the gate and started up the front walk, Todd realized once
again that what he wanted was not a lover whom he could trust in some
suburban sense, but someone who couldn't help but be totally honest.
Exactly.  In a restless world like this one Todd wanted something
stable, a rock, someone he could count on.  The sad thing was that now
it was going to be so very very tough to get back to the beginning, to
what they had before.  Love, lust, passion--that was one side of a
relationship.  The other was trust, honesty, and respect--the

three of which operated in a delicate, mysterious balance and that
were, once violated, all but impossible to reset.  Perhaps time could
both repair and restart what Todd and Rawlins had so recently had,
but..  ..

As he approached the huge front door, Todd checked his watch, saw that
he was almost fifteen minutes overdue.  Perhaps that was nothing by the
standards of the coasts, but in the Midwest, particularly Minnesota,
that was significant.  Well, thought Todd, he was just glad to be
here.

As he climbed the first of three steps, the door swung open, and there
she stood in tight, worn blue jeans and a baggy white T-shirt, Mrs. Tim
Chase, better known throughout the world, of course, as Gwen Owens. She
wore her beauty as she wore her clothes, with casual ease, and she
looked right into Todd's eyes and smiled at him as if they were old
friends.

"Hi, Todd, come on in."

"Hi," he said, still feeling nothing short of sheepish for last night's
escapades with her husband.  "Sorry I'm a few minutes late."

"Don't be silly, you're not at all late.  Tim's in the living
room--he's been on the phone with his attorney for the last forty
minutes.  I think he spends half his time either filing a lawsuit or
defending himself against one."

"Really?"  replied Todd as he passed through the vestibule and into the
huge entry hall.

"Yeah," continued Gwen, her walk and manner entirely easy, "now I think
he's trying to take some photographer to court, some guy who actually
blocked Tim as he was pulling out of a parking space.  You know,
trapped him so he couldn't move, which really pissed him off.
Apparently the photographer was going after a picture of Tim and some
guy."

Todd's reporter ears perked up.  Some guy?  Some guy like who?

"Anyway, you can just go in.  He'll be off in a minute."  Gwen shut the
inner door, then turned and started for the huge staircase at the far
end of the entry hall.  "Nice to see you.  Take care."

"You're not joining us?"  he asked with feigned innocence.

"Me?  No," she replied with a coy smile as if to say, Who are you
trying to kid?  "Maggie and I are going out for a while."

What the hell, wondered Todd, did that mean?

From the wood-paneled entry hall, which in itself was as big as a
ballroom, Todd headed left into the living room.  Tim Chase sat on the
large couch facing the fireplace, a telephone to his ear.  Glancing
over, he raised one hand in a big, familiar hello.

"Okay, Art, that's cool.  Yeah, you do that.  Get it all written up and
Fed-Ex it out.  I'll take a look at it right away, just as soon as it
gets here.  Listen, I gotta go.  A friend just stopped by for
dinner."

Standing there on the edge of the room, still wearing his black leather
coat, Todd couldn't help but take note.  A friend?  He didn't much feel
like one.  In fact, for some reason he felt almost uncomfortable and,
he realized, certainly more nervous than he had yesterday.

Chase paused as his attorney obviously said something, then added,
"Yeah, you too.  And say hi to Leslie."

He hung up, dropping the receiver into the base, then puffed up his
cheeks and exhaled all at once.  A half-second later he turned to Todd,
flashing that grin that could light up a city.

"My life is so fucking complicated I can't believe it."  As he placed
the phone to a side table, he said, "I can't use a cordless phone or
even a cellular, at least not for anything serious.  I've had people
try to listen into my conversations.  I mean, they did it to Prince
Charles, listened while he supposedly told Camille what's-her-face that
he wanted to come back as a Tampax for her use."

"Doesn't sound very appealing to me."

"Straight people--what can I say?"  Shaking his head and laughing,
Chase pushed himself to his feet.  "Hey, where are my manners?  Let me
take your coat."

Like his wife's, Tim Chase's good looks were by no means forced or
contrived, but rather natural, even casual, in an all-American, boyish
kind of way.  He too wore jeans that were somehow perfectly worn and
that fit him like a leather glove.  Again, tonight he sported no

shoes, only white socks.  And a simple shirt, off-white with a light
plaid pattern of black threads.  His hair was rich and brown and glossy
and perfectly cut.  And that smile, that unbelievable smile that seemed
so genuine, that seemed to say he was glad Todd was here.  Could it be
true?

As Todd started to lift off his coat, a shot of pain zipped through
him, and he flinched and grimaced.  He closed his eyes for a moment,
realized that he shouldn't have come.

"Hey, are you alright?"  asked Chase, coming over.

"Well..  . it's been kind of a long day."

Chase's smile vanished and a look of concern washed over him.  He
reached for Todd's coat, then peered at the side of Todd's head.

"Man, what did you do, fall off a horse?"

"Something like that, anyway."

"You got a pretty good bruise going on up there."  Not hesitating,
Chase reached up, gingerly touching Todd's head.

As Chase's fingertips skimmed across his skin, Todd grabbed him by the
wrist, and said, "Ouch."

"Sorry.  Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, I think so, but maybe I shouldn't have come.  Maybe I ... I
..."

"What the hell happened?"

Todd wondered if he should get into it, but found himself saying, "I've
been covering this murder story, the one about the gay kid who was
murdered."

His face went blank.  "Yeah?"

"Well, I got a call from that kid's father, and--"

"You're kidding?"

"No, and he asked me to meet him and .. . and we kind of got into a
scuffle."

"Jesus, you should have called the police."

"I tried.  His line was busy."

Tim looked at Todd with a grin.  "What?"

"Nothing."

 Helping Todd off with his coat, he said, "Let me guess, you didn't
win."

"That obvious?"

"Yep.  Now, come on, follow me.  I know just what will make you feel
better."

Without hesitation Chase wrapped his fingers around Todd's wrist and
led him toward a dry bar on the side of the room.  As they walked Todd
looked down, saw that the cuff of Tim's shirt was rolled back a couple
of times, exposing a meaty forearm covered with a fine grove of dark
hair.  In his gut Todd felt something smolder and spark.

The bar was a gilded wooden chest with a green marble top, and on it
sat a silver ice bucket cradling a bottle of white wine.  Next to that
was a plate of artfully arranged food.

"Do you like shellfish?"  asked Chase.

"You're belying your Midwestern roots--I've never heard that question
anywhere but here."

"Right, this is the land of the tuna fish casserole."

"Up here we don't use such fancy words--we call it a hot dish."

"Ah, Minnesota--call it like it is."  Chase laughed.  "God, I get so
sick of the bullshit in California.  This place may be a little
naive--"

"The land of the bland, you mean."

"Maybe, but at the same time it's pretty straightforward.  I miss that.
I'm so sick of people sucking up to me.  I'm so sick of people
pretending to be my friends.  It's just so fake, so unreal, that
sometimes, well, I forget who I am."

Todd couldn't resist.  "So who are you?"

Looking straight at him, Chase said, "What an odd sense I get from
you."

"Don't forget, I'm a reporter, and reporters always have ulterior
motives."

"Ah, yes.  A good point.  So, let me remind you, all of this is still
off the record.  Agreed?"

"Agreed," replied Todd, knowing that unless he wanted to be shown to
the door he had no choice.

"So what we have here is a plate of mussels, first grilled outside,
then doused with garlic butter and chopped tomatoes."  Tim picked up
the plate in one hand, two wineglasses in the other.  "Now, grab that
bucket of wine and follow me."

"Where are we going?"

"To ease your wounds."

They made a small train, the two of them, Todd following Tim Chase out
of the extravagant living room and then down the enormous entry hall
toward the back of the house.  Todd presumed they were going to a back
porch of some sort, yet Todd couldn't help but be suspect.

He asked, "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Being nice to me."

"Because I like you."

No, Todd wasn't going to take this, being baited, and he said, "What
the hell does that mean?"

"It means that you're sincere and honest.  It means that you don't say
pate or terrine or flan or even casserole.  You say hot dish.  And it
means that this wonderful kingdom of fame and fortune in which I live
is nothing more than a gilded prison."

"What are you implying, that you're lonely?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact I am.  I'm lonely for intelligent company
instead of an army of bimbo wannabes."  Throwing a curve, Chase added,
"And I want to hang out with a gay man."

"Are you taunting me?"

Glancing over his shoulder with a smirk, he said, "No, I'm playing a
gay man from the Midwest and I need to do some homework."

"Oh, so I'm still research?"

"As I am to you."

"Touche."

At the rear of the hall they headed not out the rear door, not up the
curving staircase to the right, but down the stairs to the left, which
descended in a wide curve.  Carrying the frosted wine in the silver

bucket, Todd silently followed after the leading man, taking the low,
even steps around and down to the basement.  Reaching for a brass plate
mounted on a wall of mahogany paneling, Tim hit a bank of light
switches, the old-fashioned push-button kind, which he poked one after
another.  Brass sconces came to life, lighting up a room that was
filled with the latest gym equipment, from stair machines to racks of
free weights.  Todd looked around until he saw a wall of French doors
and beyond them a swimming pool, the one he'd heard about.  Yes, not
only did it obviously exist, it was beautiful.  And it was no concrete
tub, not by any means.  Tim led the way over, pulled open two of the
glass doors, and exposed a robber baron's swimming pool, none too
large, but completely lined with small pearly-white tiles, from the
bottom of the pool, up and around the deck, up the walls, and across
the ceiling.  Four large brass fixtures mounted on the walls lit the
chamber.

"Amazing," said Todd.

"Isn't it great?  It was built when the house was--1901--but this,"
said Chase, leaning around to a panel and flicking more switches, "was
added a few years ago."

In an instant he brought to life the bubbling power of a hot tub, which
sat off the far end of the pool and in front of four French doors that
led outside.

"Come on.  It'll make you feel great."

Todd glanced over at the swirling mass of water, not sure that any of
this was really happening.  Biting his trepidation and holding his
tongue, he continued after Chase, who made his way along the narrow
tile deck.  When he reached the far end of the pool, Chase put the
plate down on a small metal table, then grabbed a couple of mussels and
sucked them down.  He groaned with pleasure, put down the wineglasses,
then turned and took the wine from Todd.

Pouring them each a glass, he handed one to Todd, then held his up.
"Cheers, man."

"To your health."

Taking a sip, Todd eyed Tim Chase as he took a long, luxuriant drink.
Then Todd watched as the other started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Don't just stand there," said Chase, pulling his shirt out of his
pants.  "Come on."

"We're really doing this?"

"Of course."

"But I don't have a suit."

Chase looked at Todd as if he were crazy.  "Well, neither do I."  He
stopped still, snapped his fingers, and said, "Which reminds me."

Moving quickly, Chase went to the four French doors that looked outside
and shut the miniblinds that covered them.

"You never know," said Chase.  "The yard falls away in the rear of the
house and these windows look out over a patio and the backyard.  And
you never know when some photographer is going to be lurking out there.
The last thing I want is my naked ass all over the Internet."

"It's kind of like you're being spied on all the time, isn't it?"

"That's the story of my life."

As Todd watched, the star continued to strip, unbuttoning his shirt,
then unzipping his jeans.  So?  So Todd started to disrobe too.  He put
down his glass of wine, pulled out his shirttails, and thought how no
one was going to believe this.  No one.  A little smirk crossed his
mouth.  He was getting naked in that tub of boiling water with Tim
Chase?  Good fucking grief.

Feeling like a naughty schoolboy, Todd stole a glance out of the corner
of his eye, and saw an incredible body, the best that Hollywood could
buy.  Surely sculpted by a personal trainer, Tim Chase's body was as
muscular as it was lean, with every muscle on his arms defined and
bulging, a beefy and taut smooth chest, and a six-pack of muscles on
his abdomen.  More than a box-office body, it was a muscle queen's, and
Todd, who was in no shabby shape, paled in comparison.

"The truth of it," said Chase as he peeled away his faded jeans, "is
that it's like being in Russia or China or North Korea, with everyone
spying on my every move, wanting to report this or that."

Todd reached for the top button of his pants, then started to unzip.
"It sounds awful."

"You know what--it is."

 Chase was naked in a second, and Todd tried not to stare.
Nevertheless, his eyes went right to the target, and he saw a bush of
brown pubic hair surrounding what appeared to be not a box-office,
larger-than-life organ, but a mere normal-sized penis.  Right, thought
Todd.  He's just a guy.  Yet Todd couldn't help watching as the clothes
less Chase placed the plate of mussels by the whirlpool, grabbed his
glass of wine, then slowly descended into the hot water.

Todd dropped his pants and underwear, sucked in his waist, then naked,
casually took his glass of wine.  As he approached the mass of bubbling
water he realized Tim wasn't even looking at him.  No, he was sitting
deep in the water with his head leaned back against the edge and his
eyes closed.  So either Todd did nothing to elicit his fantasies, he
was playing it very, very cool, or ... or Tim Chase was in fact
straight.

Either way, Todd instinctively understood he was about to find out.

After he paid for his beer at Jam's, Rawlins returned to his car,
climbed in, and wondered what in the hell he should do next.  He jabbed
his car key into the ignition and was about to fire up the engine, but
then instead pulled his phone from the pocket of his jacket.  Yet again
he tried Todd's cell phone and yet again he tried the condo, failing to
get an answer at either number.  Rawlins then called his voice mail
down at CID, finding to his surprise that Todd had in fact called.
Pressing the small phone to his ear, Rawlins listened both carefully
and nervously.

"Hey, Rawlins, it's me, Todd.  I'm okay ... I think.  It's a long
story--I'll tell you later--but obviously we have a lot of things to
talk about.  Listen, I've got to meet someone in a few minutes.  I'll
call you back later."

More than stunned, Rawlins played the message a second and a third
time.  What the hell was going on?  Unsure, Rawlins flicked off the
phone, dropped the slim plastic device onto his lap, then just sat
there in the parking lot, as angry as he was fearful that one of the
greatest things in his life had already started to unravel.  Where the
hell was Todd?  What was he doing?  And what did any of this mean?

His phone began to chirp, which shocked Rawlins out of any kind of funk
that he'd been about to tumble into.  Praying that it was Todd, he
snatched up the receiver.

"Yeah?"

"Hey, it's me, Foster."

"Oh, right, hi."

"Did your guy show yet?  Is he with you?"

"What?  Ah, no."  Grabbing and tugging at his hair with his right hand,
Rawlins glanced around the parking lot.  "The whole deal kind of fell
apart.  I'll tell you about it later."

"Well, then, let's do it."

"Do what?"

"Let's do like we talked about.  Let's see what we can learn about
Victor Michael Radzinsky."

Right, thought Rawlins, now recalling.  That was their plan, to go
right up to that place.  That was what they had discussed.  Just a few
questions, that was all, namely what connection did Radzinsky have to
that house and where was he the night Andrew Lyman was murdered?

"Okay," said Rawlins.  "I'll come pick you up.  Where are you?  Down at
City Hall?"

"No, I'm at Christo's getting something to eat.  You wanna bite?  You
had dinner yet?"

"No, I haven't."  Rawlins tried to clear his head.  "Why don't you
order me something?  I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Got ya."

Rawlins hung up, dropped the phone on the seat next to him, then
started up his car and headed off.  A quick bite, then a visit to a
house supposedly leased by Tim Chase.  At least that would be
interesting.  Who knew, perhaps he'd even get a chance to meet the star
himself.

About an hour later, taking Foster's big brown Crown Victoria, they
turned up the gently arching Mount Curve Avenue and found it lined with
cars.

"Must be a wedding or something going on," commented Foster as he
pulled over and parked.

"Yeah," mumbled Rawlins, scanning the street for either a white Saab
or, for that matter, Todd's Jeep Grand Cherokee.  "So how are we going
to do this?"

"Let's just ask for Victor Radzinsky and take it from there."

"That's not much of a plan."

"You got a better one?"

"No."

When they reached the front iron gate, Rawlins turned the handle and
found it, of course, locked.  Wondering if this was as far as they were
going to get, he then pressed the button on the intercom box.

A moment later a man's deep voice called, "May I help you?"

Rawlins nodded to Foster, who stepped up to the small box and said,
"We'd like to speak with Victor Radzinsky.  Is he there?"

There was a distinct pause before the voice replied, saying, "Who is
this?"

"I'm Sergeant Neal Foster and I'm here with Sergeant Steve Rawlins.
We're from the Minneapolis Police Department, and we'd like to ask Mr.
Radzinsky a few questions.  Can we come in?"

"Ah, just a minute.  I'll see."

It was a long minute, three or four actually.  Either there was a
little conference going on or they'd been blown off, and Rawlins was
about to lean on the intercom button again when he heard something up
at the house and saw the front door pulled open.  And there he was,
their guy, Victor Michael Radzinsky, stepping outside.  Rawlins
recognized him in an instant.

"That's him," said Rawlins quietly, peering through the thick iron bars
at the shaved-headed man.

"Well, well, well."  He was a fairly large guy, there was no doubt
about that, with a thick neck and broad shoulders.  As if he'd been
pumping a lot of iron, he walked stiffly, and his dark clothes looked
expensive.

Keeping his voice low, Foster said, "Looks like a friendly guy, eh?"

Radzinsky took his own time, stopping just a couple of feet short of
the gate.  He looked at them in the fading light, cocked his head to
the side.

"How may I help you?"

"Are you Victor Michael Radzinsky?"  asked Rawlins.

"So?"

"Is that you?"

"Yes, but of what interest is that to you?"

Rawlins pulled out his badge and held it up.  "I'm Sergeant Steve
Rawlins with the Minneapolis Police Department, and this is my partner,
Sergeant Neal Foster."

"Nice to meet you, I'm sure.  What can I do for you?"

"For starters," began Foster, "there's speeding and reckless driving.
There's also endangerment.  Plus there's the fact that you were evading
two police officers."

"What?"  he asked, cracking a small, nervous smile.  "I'm afraid I
don't understand."

"That was us behind you this afternoon," said Rawlins.  "We were in
that silver car, you were in the white Saab."

"That was you chasing me?"

"Yeah, no shit, that was us."

He smiled.  He smiled a naughty grin, looked down at the ground, and
ran one hand over the moonlike dome of his head.

"I'm very sorry.  We've been having some problems and I thought you
were someone else."  "Like who?"  asked Rawlins.

"A photographer--the so-called paparazzi.  Unfortunately, we get them
all the time, chasing us in cars, hanging from trees, dressing up like
mailmen and coming up to the house.  You see, I work for someone very
important, someone who's quite--"

"We know, Tim Chase."

"Right.  Exactly right.  I'm in charge of his security, and I thought
you were trying to take pictures of me or something."

Clearly not amused, Foster said, "You nearly sideswiped a school bus.
Someone could've been badly hurt."

"Yes, well..  ."

"Mr.  Radzinsky," said Rawlins, cutting in, "where were you on the
night of September twenty-second?"

"When?"

"That's three nights ago.  Where were you at approximately ten thirty
that evening?"

"I don't know.  Here, I suppose."

"A witness saw a white Saab with California plates down at Lake
Harriet.  That car is registered to you, and the witness saw someone
who matches your description throw a knife into the water.  We've since
recovered that knife, and our forensics lab is now testing it to see if
that was the weapon used to kill a teenager by the name of Andrew Lyman
earlier that--"

"Please, gentlemen," pleaded Radzinsky, smiling nervously and holding
up both hands.  "You've got the wrong guy."

"I'm not so sure we do."

Foster stepped right up to the gate and grabbed onto one of the bars.
"Listen, we need some nice, simple answers."

"And we could," added Rawlins, "arrest you right now for that little
escapade this afternoon.  Reckless endangerment and evading an officer
are two charges that come to mind."

"Is that what you'd like?  Shall we take you downtown, where we can
have a nice, long, serious talk?"

"Please, let's not be too hasty," replied Radzinsky, reaching up and
unlocking the gate.  "Perhaps you'd like to come in and speak to my
employer, Mr.  Chase?"

It wasn't easy for Todd to relax.  In fact, sitting naked in a hot tub
with such a famous person made Todd, if anything, more tense.  After
all, where was this headed and why were they even in here at all?

Placing his wineglass on the edge of the tub, he sank into the hot
water all the way up to his neck, paused, then slipped down until it
was up to his chin.  Directly across from him sat Tim Chase, his head
tilted back against a cushion, the water churning and whirling up and
around him.

"God, isn't this the greatest?"  groaned Chase, his eyes closed and a
contented grin on his face.  "Did you find the jets?"

Todd reached behind his back, felt a shot of water, and slid over.
"Yeah."

"This should make you feel better in no time.  Is it hot enough for
you?  I can turn up the temperature."

"Actually, it's perfect."

"Good."

Todd stared right at him.  Or rather he stared right at Chase's body,
but the churning bubbles were so thick his eyes couldn't see beneath
the surface.

He asked, "Have you been using this thing much?"

"No.  This is something like only the second time."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but I have a scene like this in the movie we're shooting.  My

character, Rich, goes to visit an old friend, who's now married, and
they have this sort of awkward encounter in a hot tub."

"Oh, so that's what this is all about," said Todd.  "The two of us-you
a married man, me gay--in a hot tub.  Is that why you suggested
this?"

"Well, you did get yourself a little beat-up, but like I've said, I do
need to do some more research."

"Ah, the ulterior motive."

"Something like that, anyway."  Tim opened his eyes and gazed over at
Todd.  "Hey, I should ask if you've ever slept with a married man."

Todd thought for a moment, then replied.  "I really haven't had that
many sexual partners, but I have done it once with a married guy. 
Well, kind of, that is."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Well, how was it?"

"In a word, humiliating."

And that it most certainly was.  Todd recalled the cheesy motel room
they rented, the awkward attempt at intimacy, the dirty aftertaste.

"Why was that?"  asked Chase.

"Well, it wasn't my idea.  Sure, I was attracted to him.  He was an old
friend in Chicago, Mike, and we got together and went to a Cubs game.
Somehow it came up.  Somehow he said he was afraid that he might be
gay.  I told him I had the same worries.  Actually, this was when I was
married too.  I didn't really want to try it, but one thing led to
another.  I don't know, he really pushed for it.  He was quite
aggressive."

"So what happened?"

"Of course I had to pay for the motel room because Mike didn't have
enough cash and he was afraid his wife would see his credit card bill.
Anyway, we went to this dump and .. . and nothing much happened.  In
the end we both got an answer, each of them different."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, lo and behold, he literally couldn't get it up for another
guy."

"But you could?"

"Exactly, which left me kind of excited and exposed in front of a guy
who realized he was, after all, straight.  It was embarrassing for me,
to say the least, and we never spoke again.  Last I heard he was still
married, but I got divorced soon thereafter."

Todd sat up a bit and twisted around.  He grabbed hold of one of the
jets and tried to turn it, but the thing wouldn't budge.

"What's the matter?"  asked Tim.

"I was just trying to aim this thing but it's stuck."

"Yeah, they can be a little tough.  Here, let me help you."

Before Todd knew it, Tim Chase had floated over and the two of them
were side by side, their wet arms sliding up against each other as they
worked at the jet.  In a second the device twisted in one direction.

"There, that's great," said Todd as his heart broke from a walk to a
trot.

Todd pulled back, sitting right where he had before.  Tim didn't return
to the other side, but instead sat down so that his shoulder butted up
against Todd's.  Todd looked over, saw the other man smiling back, and
then, unseen beneath the churning water, felt a hand on his thigh.
Against Todd's will, a rush of desire stormed through him and his heart
proceeded from trot to gallop.

"Tim," said Todd, his voice low and unsteady, "what are you doing?"

"Research, remember?"

"But--"

"Shh.  The trouble with reporters is that they don't know how to
listen."

Oh, yes, Todd was aroused, very much so.  But he wasn't going to be so
exposed and left so stupidly vulnerable like that time so many years
ago after the Cubs game.  No, and he wasn't going to be used, and he
slid his hands down over his crotch.  Besides, what did he himself
really want and what was he tempting by simply being here?

But then .. .

Then he glanced over at gorgeous Tim Chase and his last defenses
vanished.  Yes, he could fall real hard for this guy, and a hot little
voice in his head cooed: why shouldn't you?  After all, Rawlins had had
his fun, so why shouldn't he?

The next moment Todd felt Tim lean over and start kissing him on the
neck, the ear.  Todd closed his eyes and tumbled into it, into him.
Yes, he could fall real, real hard.

"Tim, I--"

"If I were a gay man seducing someone else in a hot tub, is this how
I'd do it?"

"Well .. ."

"Well?"

"Yes, I'd say you were doing pretty .. ."  Todd felt a hand slither
across his stomach and slide up his chest.  "..  . Pretty damn well."

But was this just a game?  Was he just being used?

"Tim, maybe I'm too much of a Midwesterner to understand, but you just
gotta tell me if this is what people in Hollywood call research or ..."
said Todd, trying to throw up a last line of defense.  "No, you just
gotta tell me--are you or aren't you gay?"

"Fuck labels."

Right, thought Todd.  Screw 'em.  And he turned into Tim, embraced him,
clutched him in a desperate, almost hungry way.  The other man hugged
back, and Todd couldn't believe it, couldn't believe he was in this
mass of swirling water, his heart and his body pounding with want and
lust for him, for Tim Chase, and that Chase was actually returning the
passion.

Or was he?  Couldn't it all be simply .. . acting?

Determined not to be duped, Todd's hand drifted down the other man's
side and to his waist, groping for that so-called thermometer,
determined to know how it would read, knowing that a man's mind and
mouth could lie buckets, but the ever-honest penis could not.  And
sensing Chase's taut, rippled stomach in the water, Todd lowered his
hand, but Chase, realizing the destination of Todd's wayward grope,
scooted back.

Looking suddenly, even oddly, worried, Chase said, "Just take it easy
there, champ."

"But .. ."

"Not too fast, okay?"

Now it was Todd's turn to pull back, and Todd, not without a bit of
anger in his voice, softly demanded, "Tim, quit screwing with my head.
What's going on here?"

"Off the record?"

"Of course."

"You just never know.  I mean, I've just gotten kind of gun-shy, you
know?  And you--here I am sitting naked with a reporter of a people.  I
mean, my publicist and my lawyers would have a fit."

"You have nothing to worry about from me.  I swear to that."

"I'm sorry, but you don't know what it's like.  I've just gotten burned
a few too many times."

The way he said it, the way his brow wrinkled and those beautiful
eyebrows pinched together--well, Todd didn't doubt him.  Not for an
instant.  Of all the things to feel at this particular moment, the last
and the least Todd expected was a flood of pity.

"Really, it's okay.  You have my word."

"Thank you," said Chase.  "Thank you very much.  I have very few safe
harbors, very, very few."

Tim reached into the water and pulled up first Todd's right hand and
then his left, both of which he clutched between his.  Then softly yet
firmly he placed his lips on Todd's hands and kissed them, his eyes all
the while staring deep into the molten well of Todd's desire.
Something, he didn't know what, shot through Todd, and he just sat
there, not even flinching, for he found himself transfixed as much by
the intensity of the moment as by its lack of pretense.  Yes, there sat
the two men in that pool of hot water, naked in every sense of the
word.  Finally, after what almost became a painful length of silence,
Tim kissed Todd's hands once again, and then his lips moved, started to
explain, to divulge the hidden truth of Tim Chase, Inc.  At that very

instant, however, every bit of him seized up as a herd of footsteps
entered the far end of the pool room.

A deep voice from across the pool gasped, "Oh, shit."

Todd knew that butch, sonorous voice, and as if this were some sort of
pathetic soap opera, he spun around, saw not one but three men standing
there on the far side of the pool.  And one of them, of course, was his
erstwhile lover.  The next moment, practically flailing in the water,
both Todd and Chase were pushing away from each other.

"Rawlins, what .. ."  gasped Todd in a panic.  "What the hell are you
doing here?"

Rawlins stood there, his face frozen in shock.  He went to say
something, then stopped.  He stared at Todd, shook his head, and then
turned and stormed out.  As the water churned around him, Todd started
to get up, but then sank down beneath the churning water, for not only
was he nude, his arousal had yet to deflate.

Furious, Chase practically leapt out, shouting, "Vie, what the fuck are
you doing barging in?"

"Sorry, but ah ... we have a situation here."

"No, Vie, we don't have a situation--you do!"

If there'd been lust in Todd's gut, now there was simply a terribly
potent stew of guilt and shame and regret that Todd, in an instant, had
been forced to consume in its entirety and that had left him feeling
nothing short of sick, sick, sick.

He could barely pull himself out of the whirlpool, let alone stand and
pull on his clothes.  But he had no choice.  The strength of his
remorse pushed him onward, and, dripping wet, he pulled on his pants,
shirt, socks, and shoes, and then went hurrying around the edge of the
robber baron's pool.

Grabbing Todd by the arm at the far end, Foster, in that gruff voice of
his, said, "Let him go."

"No."

Not for an instant.  Glaring at Rawlins's work partner, he pulled
himself free, then hurried out of the pool room, through the exercise
room, up that big staircase, and through that enormous hall of the tres
riche.  As if it were some cheap screen door, Todd hurled open the
oversized front door with its precious stained glass and dashed out
into the cool night.  Rawlins stood at the far end of the walk, his
head bowed as he hung on to the thick black iron bars of the gate.  As
Todd approached, his pace began to slow and his heart began to shake.

"Rawlins, I'm .. . I'm sorry."

Without looking up, Rawlins said, "An appointment, an interview or a
date?  What the hell was that, Todd?"

"Nothing, that's what it was."

"Oh, really?  Is that what you call doing tub tricks?"

"Listen, Rawlins, I wasn't looking for it.  And besides, it's not like
anything really happened."

"At least not yet, right?  Gee, that makes me feel so much better."

"Do you know who that is?  That's Tim Chase, for God's sake, and
he--"

"So you couldn't pass up the opportunity, right?"

"No, but--"

"You're just a star fucker, aren't you?  That's all you are, a media
whore desperately climbing some ladder."

Todd stared right at him and said it as deeply and thoughtfully as he
could: "Fuck you, Rawlins."

"Yeah, well, fuck you too, you asshole!"

The remorse was gone, vanished.  Todd turned to the side, looked across
the gazillion-dollar lawn.  The oaks, dark and massive, loomed overhead
in judgment.  No, he wasn't going to take this.  No way in hell.  And
so he pulled out his own vial of poisoned knowledge.

"You know what, Rawlins, I'll tell you every little detail about Tim
Chase.  Everything.  I'll be completely honest with you because, after
all, that was our agreement, right?  That was the ground rule of our
relationship, correct?"

Rawlins turned to him, his eyes smoldering with hate.

"I'll tell you all about what happened between me and Tim Chase ... if
you tell me all about you and Andrew Lyman.  Deal?"

"What?  How the hell do you--"

"I know everything.  Jordy told me.  Remember him?  Jordy, Andrew's
previous boyfriend?  He was really upset by you stealing Andrew.  I
know that Andrew was in love with you, that you two were quite
intimate, and that--"

"You don't know shit!"

"What don't I know?  That Andrew Lyman was a minor?  That you could be
charged with criminal sexual conduct?  Or what?  That you didn't mean
for it to happen?  What did you do, suck him?  Fuck him?

 Just what in the hell were you thinking?  For Christ's sake, he was
only seventeen!"

"Stop it!"  Rawlins covered his eyes with his left hand and turned back
to the gate, shaking his head and saying, "Oh, God."  He took a deep
breath and exhaled.  "It's just so complicated."

"No shit."

"Todd, you've got to believe me, you don't know what this has been
like, what .. ."  His back to Todd, he leaned on the gate with both
hands.  "I went to his apartment that afternoon, just a few hours
before he was killed.  And something did happen, but not what you
think.  I wanted to tell you too, but when?  I mean, I went over there
about one-thirty, then I went on duty at three, and then .. . then he
was killed and I was assigned to the case.  There just hasn't been the
right time for us to sit down and talk!"

Sensing that the truth, whatever it was, had indeed been torturing him,
Todd said, "Rawlins, if something's hurting you, it's hurting me more.
We're not going to last, we're not going to make it, if we have to
choose when to hold back and when to give.  Those are supposed to be
automatic."

And now it was just that, automatic.  Rawlins couldn't keep it bottled
up, not a moment longer, that much was obvious.

"So ... so I went over there, over to his apartment.  Andrew was really
upset.  Someone had been over there--I'm still not sure who-and Andrew
was crying.  I mean, just bawling.  So what was I supposed to do, just
turn around and walk out on him like every other adult in his life had
done?  No, I couldn't.  I just took him in my arms and held him and
told him everything would be okay."

Todd kept his attention focused on the bull's-eye, asking, "Nothing
sexual had happened before this?"

"God, no.  Nothing.  Nothing at all--and that afternoon it was the last
thing on my mind.  I was just trying to help him.  I was just trying to
be a good role model to him, that's all."  His back still to Todd, he
took a deep breath.  "But it wasn't quite like that for him.  I mean, I
had

crushes on older guys when I was a kid too.  I wanted to sleep with my
gym teacher in the worst way, so I should have seen it coming.  I
should have seen it in his eyes."  Rawlins reached into his coat pocket
and pulled out a small red spiral notebook.  "It's all in here."

"What's that?"

"Andrew's diary--I stole it from his apartment after he was killed.  He
was writing in it just before I came over.  He was writing how much he
loved me and that he had seen it in my eyes, the lust.  I mean, maybe I
had looked at him admiringly."  He paused.  "What do I mean, maybe?  Of
course I did.  How could any gay man not?  Andrew was perfect.  But I
never wanted to seduce him and .. . and I never wanted him to fall in
love with me."  Rawlins sighed.  "But..  . but he did, and that's what
he last wrote in his diary.  That he was in love with me, that I was
coming over in just a few minutes, and that he was sure we were finally
going to do it, have sex."

Todd stuffed his hands into his pockets and stood there staring at
Rawlins.  "So what happened?"

"I held him and then .. . then he started rubbing me, caressing my
back.  I mean, I knew in a second what was going on and .. ."

"Andrew, / ... I..."

"God, you're so sexy."

"Don't," said Rawlins, pushing him hack.  "We can't do that.  I'm your
mentor and I'm your friend."

"Oh, come on.  I won't tell."

"You're a great kid, hut I'm much older than you.  And nothing can
happen between us."

"I want you," grinned Andrew, flashing his white teeth as he reached
out with his right hand.  "I want to touch your hairy arms.  I want to
touch your hairy chest.  Do you know how much you turn me on?"

"Andrew, don't," said Rawlins, gently pulling away.

"What's the matter, don't you like me?"

"Of course I do--that's not the point."

Confused, Andrew stared into Rawlins's eyes, not at all sure what to
do.  The next moment he reached down and grabbed hold of his T-shirt,

yanked it over his head, and whipped it off.  Stunned, Rawlins stared
at the most beautiful young man he'd ever seen, his shoulders thick and
broad, his chest firm and ripe, and that stomach so lean and flat.
Everything in Rawlins's mind screamed no, hut everything in his crotch
stirred and shouted yes.

"I'm not so bad, am I?"  begged Andrew.

"No .. . no, you're beautiful."

His eyes bugging with excitement and want, Andrew then grabbed at the
top of his jeans, unbuttoned them, and shoved them halfway down his
thighs.  Surrounded by glowing light brown pubic hair, his cock,
already thick and strong and hard, sprang out.

Laughing, Andrew said, "Well, I'm ready."

A movie flashed through Rawlins's head.  He saw himself pulling Andrew
into his embrace, kissing him, rubbing his hands all over that Adonis
of lust.  Did it get any better?  And so Rawlins did in fact reach out.
He put his hand flat on Andrew's most perfect of chests.

But then he swallowed deep and pushed Andrew gently back, saying, "No,
Andrew, we can't.  It's not right.  I've got to go."

"But!"

"I'll call you later.  You're a wonderful kid and you're as sexy as
hell, but we can't."

"No, don't go!"  Andrew pleaded.

"Bye..  ."

"I was going to tell you right away," said Rawlins now, "but then I
went on middle watch and then .. . then he was killed."

Todd stood there, staring down at the dark blades of grass as he tried
to digest Rawlins's story.  Did he believe him?  He heard the pain and
the earnestness seeping out of Rawlins, but..  . but he'd seen it so
clearly the other way.  Was Rawlins really that strong, could he
actually have touched such naked temptation and turned away from it?

Footsteps coming from the house broke Todd's thoughts.  He turned, saw
Neal Foster, his gait stiff and awkward, coming their way.  Both Todd
and Rawlins fell into a kind of silence that was instinctual to any gay
man when talking about sex and the exploits thereof.

"Rawlins, I hate to break up this little scene of domestic bliss,"
Foster said in his usual dry manner, "but you need to come inside.  You
gotta hear all this."

"Sure.  I'll be right there."

Todd and Rawlins stood shrouded in silence as Foster made his way back
to the house and disappeared inside.

Finally, Todd said, "I think my head's going to explode."

"Todd, you have to believe me--that's the truth.  I didn't screw
Andrew."

"But .. . but I'm not sure if..  ."

"Don't you see, don't you get it?  That's my point exactly--if even
you, the person I love more than anything else in this world, is having
trouble believing me, what about everyone else?  What about the police
force?  What about the media?  If this ever got out there'd be a witch
hunt.  At the very least I'd be suspended and put under investigation,
and then it'd come out somehow, some way, that I'm HIV positive and
then I'd be fired, I'm sure of it.  And why?  Because no one would
believe my story.  No one would believe that the gay cop wasn't a
pervert--after all, everyone knows all gays are perverts, right?--and
that he didn't screw the beautiful young farmboy.  And they probably
wouldn't even believe that I didn't murder him just to keep the truth
from coming out."

"Yeah, maybe," agreed Todd, knowing the hysteria would feed precisely
along those lines.

"Not maybe, definitely.  You know damn well that's how it would go.
Every fucking macho cop would want to shoot me on the spot, and every
hungry person in the media would be trying to hang me.  The charges
alone would ruin my life."

Yes, they most surely would.  There was, Todd pondered, no question
about that.

Foster leaned out the front door of the house and called: "Rawlins, get
your butt in here!"

"I'm coming!"  he shouted back.

"Rawlins, I don't know what to think.  I don't know if I need to

apologize for that," Todd said, waving the back of his hand at the
house and wondering just how big a fool he'd been.  "Or ... or ... I
mean, I thought you'd slept with Andrew, so that meant I could .. .
well, you know .. ."

"We'll talk."

"Sure, but I gotta get some rest.  And God only knows how late you'll
be working tonight.  So don't come over and don't call, not tonight.
Let's just cool off and we'll talk tomorrow.  Okay?"

"Sure."

Todd then simply stood there, watching as the broad-shouldered Rawlins
slowly lumbered back to the huge house.  Was this, Todd wondered,
something from which they could ever recover ... or was this simply the
beginning of the end?

And which did he truly want, or rather who, the movie star or the
cop?

Seated on the big couch in the expansive living room, Rawlins stared
at Tim Chase and saw no hero, not by any means.  Instead, he saw some
rich guy not only trying to save his own neck, but a bastard who'd done
his best to shatter Rawlins's world.

"I can bring my lawyer into this if you like," said Chase, his tone
calm and cool as he paced slowly in front of them, "but frankly I'd
just as soon not.  I'm afraid that would blow everything out of
proportion, and obviously I'd like to avoid any and all publicity
regarding this."

"I can understand and appreciate that," said Foster, who was seated
next to Rawlins.  "There is the matter, however, of a knife believed to
be the weapon used to kill Andrew Lyman.  That weapon has been linked
to Victor Radzinsky whom you employ."

"My bodyguard."

"Yes, your bodyguard."

Omitting the fact that it was an anonymous tip, Rawlins said, "We have
a witness who saw Radzinsky throw the knife into Lake Harriet.  Our
witness also can identify Radzinsky's car, a white Saab."

Rawlins kept his eyes on Chase as the actor walked to the fireplace and
leaned against the mantel.  He stood there in thought for a few long
moments, turned, and glanced to the hallway, perhaps wondering if
Radzinsky, whom he'd told to wait in the kitchen, was doing just
that.

"I'm going to tell you what you'll probably find out anyway," began

Chase after a careful moment of thought.  "I'm just going to save you
some time."

"We appreciate that," said Foster, sounding about as sincere as a
burned-out cop could.  "I'm almost positive the knife you found is
mine."

Rawlins, trying to conceal his surprise at so easy an admission, said,
"You own a fishing knife?"

"That's right.  And I have a rod and a reel.  A brown plastic tackle
box too.  I bought them all here in town just last week because we've
been shooting out at Lake Minnetonka.  In between scenes I've been
fishing a bit--anyone on the set can verify that."

"When did you last use the knife?"

"Actually, I never did.  It was brand-new."

Foster asked, "Do you know when you last saw it?"

"Sure, exactly three nights ago."

Which was, Rawlins knew, the night Andrew was killed, and he pressed,
"Where was it?"

"In the back of my Land Rover."  Chase shook his head.  "A little
before ten that night I thought I heard something in back of the house.
You see, Gwen has had troubles on and off with a stalker, some real
twisted guy, and I was worried that maybe he'd shown up here in
Minneapolis.  So I went out back.  I couldn't see anyone, but the side
door leading from the patio to the garage was open, so I went in and
looked around.  Everything looked fine at first.  It's a three-car
garage, rather big, but at a glance nothing looked wrong.  Just to be
sure I looked in my car, wondering if someone had broken in and stolen
my CD player.  It was there, undisturbed.  I checked in the back as
well and saw my fishing pole and tackle box too.  But then I saw
something that I hadn't seen before, a plastic bag."

Foster cut in.  "What color was it?"

"Dark green."

"Was your vehicle unlocked?"  questioned Rawlins.

"Yes, completely.  I mean, I never lock it in the garage.  Why
bother?"

"So what did you do?  Where was the bag?"

"The bag was in the back by the rod.  It looked like a shoe bag or
something, and I wondered if I'd left something back there.  So I
opened up the rear hatch, reached for the bag, and looked inside.  And
there was my fishing knife, which I had never used, covered with
blood."

"Were you worried?"  asked Foster.  "Concerned at all?"

"Very worried."

"Why?"

"Because I thought he was back, the guy stalking Gwen."

Rawlins studied him, and said, "What do you mean?"

"We still don't know who he is, but this guy is sick, real sick.  Once
he left a skinned rabbit on our doorstep in L.A."  another time he
butchered a cat and sent it in the mail to her.  It's all true--you can
ask the cops in L.A."  they've been right on top of it.  And then the
last time, he wrote Gwen a love note in human blood.  I mean, it was
real human blood--the cops analyzed and tested the whole thing.  So I
saw the knife and assumed it was him again."

Sure this guy was an actor, but no one, thought Rawlins, could make up
anything this quick.  Or, for that matter, that disgustingly real.
Rawlins would have to check with the cops in L.A."  but he had no doubt
they'd verify Chase's story, at least what they'd heard thus far.

"So what did you do?"  Rawlins asked.

"Well, I didn't want to tell Gwen.  She'd just gotten here and I didn't
want to freak her out.  She seemed so relaxed, so calm, so glad to be
away from Hollywood, and here I thought this guy had already followed
her all the way out here.  Maybe that was dumb, maybe it was stupid.  I
don't know .. ."  He shrugged, looked at the floor, and shook his head.
"And then .. ."

"Then?"

"I went and talked to Gwen for a few minutes.  And then I went and
found Vie."

"What did you tell him?"

 Storming into Vies room, Chase said, "That fucking freak has followed
us out here!"

"What do you mean?"  said Vie, using the remote to flick off his TV.

"My fishing knife is covered with blood, that's what I mean.  It's in a
plastic hag in the hack of my car.  Shit, that asshole was in the
garage!  He was inside the house, Vie!  Inside!"

Vie leapt to his feet.  "I'll get him this time."

"Forget it, he's long gone, and we both know it."

"But..  ."

"Just get rid of the knife.  I don't want Gwen to see it--it'll scare
the hell out of her.  I'm going to have to tell her soon enough, hut
just get rid of it."

"Certainly."

"Just throw it in one of these fucking lakes, I don't care.  Just get
it out of here."

"So that's what he did," continued Chase, looking right at Foster and
Rawlins.  "He went down and got the knife, then drove out to one of the
lakes and threw the knife in the water.  End of story."

No, thought Rawlins.  Not quite.  Whether all or even part of what
Chase had just said was true or not remained to be proven.  It did,
however, open a host of other questions.  Rawlins glanced at Foster and
knew he was thinking exactly the same thing.

Foster said, "When did you last use your Land Rover that afternoon?"

"I don't know, five or six."

"And was the green bag back there then?"

"No, I'm positive it wasn't.  I returned from the set with an extra set
of clothes in the back and I would have noticed the bag if it had been
there."

"How about the knife?"

"I don't know.  The tackle box I had it stored in was back there, but I
didn't look inside it."

"Did anyone use your vehicle after that?"

Tim Chase hesitated, then said, "Actually, Vie did.  Sometimes he

uses my car just to lead the photographers away from the house, and he
went somewhere around seven."

"What about Andrew Lyman?"  pressed Rawlins.  "Did you ever meet or
encounter in any way a young man, age seventeen, by the name of Andrew
Lyman?"

Chase stared right at Rawlins, and said, "Please, all I'd like to say
is that my private life is confidential.  I can assure you, however,
that I didn't kill anyone."

"Did you meet him or not?"

"Did I ever meet this kid, this Andrew Lyman?  Well," he said, looking
across the large room, "I wouldn't be surprised if I had."

"What's that mean?"

"It means I believe I met him once.  If I'm not mistaken, he wanted my
autograph, that's all."

Studying the face he'd seen and admired so many times on the silver
screen, Rawlins wasn't sure at all what to believe.  Did he, he
wondered, dare trust this man who'd garnered so much fame and fortune
by pretending to be other people, in other words, through his ability
to lie and to do so beautifully?

On the other hand, Chase might lie but other things definitely
wouldn't.

Rawlins said, "Mr.  Chase, I just want to let you know that we've
recovered a number of foreign hairs and semen samples from both
Andrew's body as well as from his apartment.  Those samples are now
undergoing DNA testing, which I can assure you will tell us a great
deal about who Andrew was with just prior to his death."  Seeing the
cloud of concern sweep across Chase's face, Rawlins added, "So, if we
think it necessary, we'll get a search warrant for this house .. . and
perhaps for a body search as well."

"What the hell's that mean?"

"It means you could be required to provide us with--"

"What?  Hey, now wait a minute, wait just a single fucking minute."

"Oh, I'm very serious.  A judge could require you not only to give

 us a blood sample, but to provide us with a number of cut, combed,
and plucked pubic hairs.  And I do mean plucked, so that we're sure to
get the follicles."  Pleased to see him squirm, Rawlins tossed in, "So,
is there anything else you'd like to tell us?"

"Ah .. ."  began Chase, clearing his throat.  "No, not without my
lawyer present."

The following morning Todd realized what he'd known all along, that
not only was it a gift to find someone to love, but that a relationship
was an extraordinarily fragile thing.

He sat in his office at WLAK, the blinds turned shut and the glass door
not only closed but locked.  And now it was pushing ten o'clock and
Rawlins and he still hadn't spoken since their confrontation outside
Chase's mansion last night.  Todd wanted to pick up the phone, he
wanted nothing more than to call Rawlins, but what in the hell would he
say?  He simply didn't know, for he was, after all, even more confused
than he had been last night.  And the reason for that was simple: Tim
Chase had called an hour ago not simply to say hi, but to ask Todd to
stop by the house again tonight.

Holy shit, why?  Why did mega star Tim Chase want to spend a third
evening with Todd?  And where the hell was this thing going?  Todd had
no idea, just as he had no idea where he wanted it to go.

Suddenly the phone on his desk started screaming, and Todd all but
jumped.  Hoping it wasn't a tip caller, he cleared his throat and
picked up the receiver.

"WLAK, this is Todd Mills."

"Hey, it's me."

Todd could recognize that deep, easy voice anywhere, anytime.  What he
didn't recognize, however, was Rawlins's tone, which was all but
despondent.

"I just wanted to call and .. . and .. . ," stumbled Rawlins.

"I'm glad you did.  I was sitting here, wanting to call you but not
knowing what to say."

"So where do we go from here?"

"I don't know."

Bluntly, Rawlins asked, "Are we over?"

"Oh, God," said Todd, pressing the phone flat against his ear and
feeling that, perhaps, his heart just might break.  "I hope not."

"Me too.  I don't want that either."

"But..  ."

"But what?"

"I don't know .. . I'm sorry.  Rawlins, I've just got to say that: I'm
sorry.  You're a wonderful person, the best thing that's ever happened
to me, but..  . but suddenly I'm just so confused."

"Why?  You don't have to be, you know.  You really don't.  Things just
got a little muddy, but we can go on.  We can just sort of learn from
this, you know, and move on ... can't we?"

"Rawlins," ventured Todd, determined to be honest and straightforward,
"Tim invited me over again.  He wants me to come by tonight.  I don't
know if he's really doing research or ... or--"

"Oh, shit."

"Well, I really don't know if he is in fact gay."

"Come on, Todd, you can't be that stupid."

"Maybe I am."  Todd hesitated, then added, "On the other hand, maybe I
just need to find out something.  Maybe I need to be sure."

"Sure of what?"

Sure that there really wasn't such a thing as the one and only, that
special person, the person, that prince on a horse, and that Tim Chase
wasn't the man Todd was meant to be with for the rest of his life.
Shit, all that Todd did know was that he couldn't wash Tim Chase from
his mind and that, yes, a huge wave of infatuation had knocked Todd
over and was not only on the verge of sweeping him away, but tugging
him from the coast of Rawlins.  Shouldn't he, didn't he need to, find
out if Tim Chase was the one with whom he was supposed to live happily
ever after?

Finally Todd, albeit weakly, replied, "Listen, Rawlins, I just don't
want to have any regrets, that's all."

"Great, I don't want you to end up with me as your second prize
either."

"Wait, I didn't mean that to sound so--"

"You realize, don't you, that we're about two inches from putting Chase
under close investigation for the murder of Andrew Lyman?  What do you
think of that?"

"Rawlins, come on, cut it out.  You know he didn't kill anyone."

"Right, and neither did a certain other celebrity kill--"

Out of nowhere, someone started pounding on his door.  Todd rubbed his
head with the heel of his hand, but couldn't think, didn't know what to
do.  The heavy knocking on his door went on, but instead of ignoring
it, which he easily could have, Todd seized the opportunity.

"Rawlins, someone's here.  I gotta go."

A voice outside his office called, "Todd, you got a Federal Express
package!"

"Listen," pleaded Todd into the telephone receiver, "I'll call you
back."

"When?"

"In an hour."

"Maybe I won't be here."

"Please, Rawlins.  Let's just both calm down and clear our heads.  I'll
call you back in an hour and then well figure this out, okay?"

"Sure," replied Rawlins, who then slammed down the phone.

Todd lowered the receiver back into its cradle, and then just sat
there.  Could things be any muckier?  No, not at all.  He just didn't
know what to do, what to think.  Why in the hell would he even be
tempted to jeopardize his relationship with Rawlins?  On the other
hand, why did he feel so deeply touched by Tim Chase?  And how had
Chase done that, gotten to Todd so easily, so quickly?  And why?

A few moments later Todd rolled his chair over and cracked the door.  A
large express envelope fell halfway in, and Todd grabbed it, then shut
the door again.  At first it didn't make any sense, he wasn't

expecting anything.  Or was he?  He glanced at the label, saw that it
had been sent from New York.  Looking more closely, he realized that
Suzanne Levine at The National Times had fulfilled her promise. 
Ripping open the envelope, a note and a back issue of the weekly rag
tumbled out.

Dear Todd,

Fun talking with you today--hope life is great out there in
Minnie-zohta.  Here's the back issue.  All best, Suzanne Levine

Todd picked up the old issue of The National Times and the headline in
big bold print jumped right out at him: "Mean Queen Chase Denies 7 Year
Gay Romance & Buries Boyfriend in Poverty."  Right beneath that was
nothing less than the studliest photograph Todd had ever seen of Tim
Chase, his hair whisked back, the eyes warm and dark and seductive, the
smile flashing.  Everything about him said cute, adorable, hunky, sexy,
charming, friendly, disarming, engaging.  And all of it, Todd knew in
his heart of hearts, was absolutely true, and then some.  He'd held Tim
Chase against him, groped that gorgeous body, and bathed in his charm.
He wondered what it would have been like, doing the act with Chase, and
then he found himself wanting to do nothing more than just that.  Chase
had to be gay, didn't he?  After all, Todd had felt the passion, seen
it, heard it, right?

Rawlins drifted out of Todd's mind, Chase surged in, and Todd imagined
seeing lots more of Tim Chase.  He pictured himself going back to that
big house, spending the night.  Spending many nights.  And then?  How
serious might it be?  Could it be?  But was that the life Todd wanted,
a life with one of the most famous men in the world?  Maybe not, but,
dear Lord, he was just so handsome, so nice, so ... so ... Who in the
world would be fool enough to turn him down?

Todd's eyes tore back through the article, reading yet one more time
about Tim Chase's romance with Rob Scott.  Yes, it had to be true,
didn't it?  Tim had to have been in a long-term relationship with

this guy, whom the journalist Maria Glore described as a beauty of a
blond.  And if so, Todd didn't doubt that Tim Chase had thrown him out,
either.  But had Scott really been beaten up and bruised?  Had Tim hit
him ... or could Rob Scott have been something like drunk or high?  In
which case, could he have fallen?  And if they'd been together, why had
they blown apart?  What had prompted the fury that had consumed the
relationship?  There was a story behind the story, but the one that had
surfaced and been served to the American public was by no means, Todd
knew, the truth.  No, America got what it wanted, a vindicated prince.
The court of laws had made sure that the real story remained buried.

Flipping into the inside of the issue and the rest of the piece, Todd
recalled the other articles he'd read on Lexis-Nexis, including of
course the one about the photograph of Chase in the arms of another
man.  Todd hadn't seen it, but he now realized that it might not have
been doctored, that it could in fact be real.  All the other post-trial
pieces about Chase winning those eight million bucks for slander could
easily have been crap as well, products of Hollywood studios and PR
firms.

The inside of the issue was a gallery of photographs of the world of
Tim Chase, including pictures of his gorgeous wife, Gwen Owens, their
son, Jack, their L.A. mansion, numerous photos of Tim and his horses,
Tim flying a jet, and even Vie, the loyal bodyguard.  Not to be missed,
of course, were the photos of Tim's alleged former boyfriend, Rob
Scott, and Todd's eyes caught there, on the face of the handsome blond.
And handsome he was, his chin small, his smile sweet.  The two must
have made quite the beautiful couple.

Todd ran his right hand over The National Times, pressing the pages
flat against his desk.  Staring blankly at the photographs of Tim Chase
and his world, Todd was wondering if a life with any star, particularly
one so closeted, could actually work, when suddenly he saw the answer
that had so far alluded not only Rawlins and him, but also the entire
police force.

Yes, studying one photograph in particular, it was all too clear who
had in fact slit young Andrew Lyman's throat.

Thirty minutes ago Rawlins had run a criminal background check on
their prime suspect, Victor Radzinsky.  Rather than turn to the Bureau
of Research, he'd simply headed over to the old, beat-up teletype
machine parked in one corner of Homicide and contacted the NCIC, the
National Crime Information Computer.  And what had come back was none
too surprising: Victor M. Radzinsky was a convicted felon who'd served
time in California for promoting prostitution.  Foster was now in the
process of contacting the Los Angeles authorities for the specifics,
yet both Rawlins and Foster were assuming that he had in fact been
pimping not women, but young boys.  Whether this was one of Radzinsky's
secondary duties for Tim Chase remained to be proven, but it was most
definitely a possibility.

And now .. .

Rawlins had spoken with Todd several more times, and instinctively he
knew that Todd, whether by chance or simply through good research, had
just discovered the key to Andrew Lyman's murder.  And while all
Rawlins wanted to do was sit there and obsess about Todd and their
rapidly cooling relationship, he had a job to do.  Right, this was no
time to slack off, particularly if Todd's information was going to lead
to an arrest, which it certainly might.

After Todd's first call, Rawlins had consulted with Foster and agreed
what must be done next.  Grabbing another officer, Rawlins had gone
down to Lake Harriet and, according to their arrangement, left a marked
unit.  Now it was almost one, and he'd returned to City

Hall and his corporate like cube in Homicide.  As he attempted to
uncover a turkey sandwich that had been sheathed in an overabundance of
plastic wrap, he saw how stupid he'd been and just how much it had cost
him.  Would that he could do it all over again--things would be
entirely different.

The phone on his desk began to ring, and he snatched it up.  "Homicide,
this is Sergeant Rawlins."

"Hello, Sergeant, this is Martha Lyman, Andrew's mother."

"Yes, hello," he said, wondering what might have come up.  "What can I
do for you?"

"I just wanted to let you know that I have a new phone number.  My
daughters and I are moving in with my sister for the next few
months."

"I see.  Has there been a--"

"I've left my husband.  We'll be divorcing."

Her bluntness surprised him, but didn't.  The harsh realities of
farming had surely dealt her a life of absolutes--drought, flood,
frost, debt--and taught her to deal with such things matter-of-factly,
even coldly.

"I'm sorry to hear that."  Trying to pry more out of her, Rawlins said,
"I didn't know you were having problems."

"Let's just say that I've learned that Andy wasn't so different from
his father after all."  She paused only briefly, then concluded,
"Here's my phone number in case you need to reach me.  John will be
staying on the farm, of course.  You can reach him there."

Rawlins wrote down the number, and then Martha quickly hung up.  She
had, he realized, just confirmed what Todd had earlier told him, and
Rawlins was just starting to take some notes when his phone rang a
second time.  Hoping this time it was him, he immediately picked it
back up.

"Homicide, this is Sergeant Rawlins."

"Hi."

Recognizing the voice, Rawlins was immediately pleased that this guy
had kept his promise.  "Hey there.  It's you, right, my witness?"

"Yep.  I saw the car.  I just swung by the lake over lunch and checked
and saw the empty cop car."

"Thanks.  And thanks for calling so promptly," said Rawlins, who, with
so much on his mind, was having trouble keeping everything straight. "I
just wanted to let you know that I think we have our guy."

"Really?  Wow, that's wonderful."

"Yeah, it is.  And it's all because of you, because of the tips you
provided."

"No kidding?"  replied the witness, his voice happy, even proud
sounding.  "What happened?"

"Well, all the information you gave us just sort of fell into place.
Particularly the identification of the car--that was very helpful.  I
can't say too much, but we're tying up all the loose ends now."

"Wow."

"So I just wanted to say thanks, and I wanted to ask if you'd check in
with me regularly.  You don't have to give me your name, we won't try
and identify you, but I'd like you to call me tomorrow and the next day
just in case we have some more questions.  Can you do that?  Can you
call me in the morning?"

"Sure.  How about ten?  Can I call about then?"

"Ten would be fine.  I'll make sure I'm here at my desk."  Rawlins
paused, then added, "There's something else I wanted to ask.  You
mentioned that you were a photographer and that you're working on a
project.  I'm not really interested in what you're actually
doing--that's your business, of course--but I would like to know if you
have any photographs of the man you saw down at the lake.  Any
chance?"

"Of... of who?"

"The bald man you spotted is our primary suspect, of course, and I'd
like to know if you have any pictures of him."

"Him?  Well..  . well, no.  At least I don't think so."

"Could you check?  We'd all really appreciate it."

"Sure .. ."

"Good, check and then call me at ten tomorrow, okay?  With any luck
we'll be making our arrest within the next twenty-four hours."

Rawlins hung up, then sat at his desk, staring down at the turkey
sandwich, which was finally uncovered and lying plainly in front of
him.  Was any of this really happening?  Better yet, would their plan
really work?

A few seconds later, Foster returned to their shared cubicle and saw
Rawlins sitting there, staring at his sandwich.

"What are you looking so glum about, pal?"  asked Foster.  "Didn't your
little witness fellow call?"

Rawlins shrugged.  "He did.  Everything's all set up."

"Excellent."

"I talked to Todd again too."

"Oh, so there's the problem."

"We talked everything through two or three times, and I really do think
his theory about the murder is right."  Rawlins could barely force
himself to admit this one additional thing, barely force himself to
say, "And Todd said he's going to go ahead and do it, 'he's going to go
back to Tim Chase's tonight."

"No, shit, you're really going to let him?"

"Like I could stop him?  It's his choice and he's determined."

Foster came over and squeezed him on the shoulder, and said, "Don't
worry, pal.  We're going to get the guy who killed that kid, and you're
going to get your fellow back, you'll see."

"I sure as hell hope so."

In any case, Rawlins was going to do everything he could to make sure
that was the case.  Absolutely, because from the moment Todd stepped
out of his condo and headed over to Tim Chase's tonight, Rawlins was
going to be there.  Yes, if Todd was determined to go fishing, then
Rawlins was going to tail him, shadow him, and spy on him every second
of every minute just to make sure, as they say, that Tim Chase didn't
bite.

Todd couldn't say that he wasn't glad to be back in the yellow brick
mansion, but he certainly hadn't expected to be back here so soon.

It was just after eight, they sat again on the couch in the huge living
room, and the thing that scared Todd about Tim Chase was how attentive
he was.  It was no wonder everyone fell in love with him, as Todd
sensed he himself was now doing.  And when Tim poured him a glass of
cabernet, Todd felt like the most important person on the planet.  But
how was that possible?  How could someone like Tim Chase give a rat's
ass about him, Todd Mills, an investigative television reporter from
fly-over land?  After all, this guy swooning over him was a
superstar.

"This is my favorite cab," said Tim as he put the bottle on the coffee
table and moved closer to Todd.

Todd glanced at the bottle and knew from the label that it had cost
over two hundred bucks.  Perhaps that was pocket change to Tim, but...
So how, Todd couldn't help but wonder, was this going to go tonight?
Would this be a simple continuation of last night's foray?  Or?

Tim Chase reached over and squeezed Todd's shoulder.  "You're a good
guy, Todd Mills."

Todd was melting right there on the couch, of course, but proving true
to his Midwestern roots, he held back, and simply asked, "Why do you
say that?"

Chase laughed.  "Because you're a nice guy, because--"

"You have people swarming over you all the time, surely some of them
are decent."

"Yeah, but none of them are genuine, none of them are real.  Actually,
most of them are fools."

"Can I take that as a compliment?"

"Absolutely."  Staring straight into Tim Chase's eyes, Todd saw it
again, that unbearable sense of loneliness.  Todd knew only too well
what it was like to be on display day after day, to be judged by your
image, and to have any number of people ready at any moment to proclaim
your fall.  But Tim Chase's life had to be a million times worse.  Todd
reached over and patted Tim on the knee, a gesture that made the star
smile almost sadly.

Tim ventured, "Like I said, I have very few safe harbors."

This was playing with fire, and it was right then that Todd knew he
shouldn't have come.  No, the cost was going to be too much, for his
soul would be paying for this for months if not years.

Only the sound of voices from the hall roused Tim from a near sense of
melancholy, and he said, "Come on."

Setting down their glasses of wine, they crossed the large living room
to the entry hall, where they found the three other members of Tim
Chase's small tribe.  Gwen Owens and Maggie, holding little Jack by
each hand, were just making their way to the front door.

"Daddy!"  shouted the boy.  "We're getting ice cream!"  "You are?"

"Yeah, and we're walking!"

"Well, you be good!"

Todd watched as Tim gave Gwen a light kiss on the cheek, then gently
roughed his son's hair.

Gwen, wearing a light brown suede coat, turned to Todd and said, "I
don't think Jack has actually walked anywhere before, certainly not
from our house in L.A."

"Well, have fun."

"And you too," she said with a smirk.

Maggie looked at Todd with a kind, welcoming smile, and said, "Nice to
see you again."

"Likewise."

Todd noticed that even though it was almost dark Gwen had a pair of
large sunglasses perched atop her head.  He presumed she never went
anywhere without them, her makeshift disguise.

Like a doting husband and father, Tim ushered the little trio out the
door, bid them well, then turned back to Todd, another huge grin on his
face.

"Alone at last."

Todd's stomach flinched.  "Really?"

"Yep.  The cook, the trainer, and obviously Vie--they're all gone.  Oh,
my God, it's unbelievable.  It's just us."

"Tim, what's that mean?  What do you want from me?"

"So many questions."

"But--"

"Shh," said Tim, coming over and placing his right forefinger on Todd's
lips.

The next moment Tim moved even closer, reaching out and pulling Todd
into his embrace.  Todd held back, determined not to fall, at least not
so quickly, so easily.

Todd asked, "Are you going to call this research again?"

"Like I said, so many questions."

Somewhat reluctantly, Todd let himself be pulled and enfolded into Tim
Chase's arms.  But was it lust, was it want on Tim's part, or just some
big game?  Todd reached out, embraced Tim too, hugging him, feeling
that powerful back.  As if in reply, Tim started trembling, a deep,
slow but steady vibration that came from a pained corner deep inside
him.

"Hey, are you okay?"  asked Todd, holding him tighter.

Tim's head, tucked against Todd's neck, went up and down.  "I'm gay-"

So there it was, the fog of deceit had lifted, exposing that very
vulnerable truth, and he replied, "Of course."

Todd rubbed Tim's back, tried to pass from his flesh through Tim's
some of the strength, some of the wisdom, and some of the pride that
Todd was still discovering day after day.  Yes, whatever label he chose
to wear, Tim Chase, America's hunk and idol, and one of the top
grossing actors in the world, was by no means straight, his lips having
just betrayed the secret that Hollywood moguls and public relations
firms had worked so hard to conceal.

His words all but a whisper into Tim's ear, Todd asked, "Does your wife
care?"

"Off the record?"

"Yes, you fool, of course."

Softly, easily, and without pretense, Tim said, "Gwen's gay too.
Maggie's her partner, not our nanny.  They've been together for nine
years, longer than we've been married."

"No shit?"

"Yeah."

Stripped of his image, Tim fell completely into Todd's arms, just an
ordinary person full of passion, desperate for touch, hungry for love.
Todd tilted his head back as the firm lips came up his neck, over his
chin, to his mouth.  Yes, Todd realized, he very well might leap off a
cliff for this guy.

"You know," whispered Tim in Todd's ear, "I've been looking for someone
like you."

Most definitely, Todd could tumble real hard, real fast.

So there it was, Tim and Gwen, America's leading husband and wife
actors, were nothing less than a queen and dyke.  They obviously loved
each other very much, just as they were devoted to their little boy.
Tim was also obviously quite fond of Maggie, and this whole situation
seemed to work quite well for all of them.  It was, quite simply, a
logical solution to a horribly complicated situation.

Unable to rein in his eternal curiosity, Todd asked, "What about your
son?  Are you his biological father?"

"Absolutely."

"So you've been to bed with her?"

"Gwen?"  he laughed.  "Oh, God no.  She wouldn't have me, and I
couldn't get it up for her.  We love each other, but we just don't work
like that.  That's a turkey baster baby."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course.  We had a doctor do it and everything, but..  ."  He then
took Todd's right hand and placed it on his own swollen crotch. 
"Enough of that stuff.  Now, come on, let's go finish our wine on the
patio and then .. . then see what happens."

Todd knew where this was going to lead, just as he knew there was no
turning back, not now, not tonight, and so he waited while the actor
fetched their glasses, then silently followed Tim through the grand
hall and down the staircase.  A few long and divinely tense moments
later they entered the tiled pool room.  Tonight Tim didn't turn on the
brass sconces surrounding the pool, but instead lit three fat candles
next to the whirlpool.  And tonight he didn't pull shut the blinds
covering the French doors that led outside, but rather threw open the
doors.  He next picked up his glass of wine, then turned to Todd and in
the faint light smiled simply and easily.  Taking three steps, he was
next to Todd, kissing him on the neck and taking him by the hand.

"Come on, let's go outside."

"But aren't you worried, aren't you .. ."

"Shh.  It's okay," said Tim kissing him one more time.  "I mean, it's
not okay, but I can only take it so much."

"On your scale it must be awful."

He shrugged.  "It's a decision I made, and now I'm pretty much used to
it, but every now and then I just got to get out and be myself.  Come
on."

When Todd felt Tim's lips nibbling his ear he realized that he could
easily follow him anywhere.  And do anything.

It was cool outside.  And dark.  The dry fall leaves rustled overhead
in a gentle wind, and Todd peered up at the sky and saw a sprinkling of
stars emerging as the evening faded into night.  Standing on the

slate patio that was surrounded by a low stone wall, Todd sipped his
wine and looked out over the backyard, which fell away, cascading down
a hill that was covered with a jungle of bushes.

"I spend so much of my time inside and behind closed windows just so
people won't see me," said Tim in a giddy, almost nervous voice, "that
sometimes it... it makes me go absolutely nuts!"

Todd turned around to see him frantically going after the buttons of
his shirt and ripping them open.  Seconds later he yanked off his shirt
and threw it high overhead.  The next instant he grabbed at his belt
buckle and pulled it away, unfastened his pants and ripped down the
zipper.  He hopped around as he pulled off his pants and his socks,
then stood there in white boxer shorts.  Todd glanced across the yard,
wondered if anyone was lurking out there.

"Tim, aren't you a little worried that--"

"Anyone out there?"  he shouted with a whoop.  "This is your chance to
see Tim Chase buck naked!"

"But--"

"Don't worry," he said out of the corner of his mouth, "anybody snaps a
picture of me and I'll sue 'em!"

With that he grabbed at his underwear, yanked it down, and kicked it
away.  Standing straight up, he clenched his fists and stretched them
to the sky, then, as if he were running in place, did a little dance
and whooped yet again.  Stripped and exposed, the superstar then ran
over to the low stone wall, jumped up, and ran along the top of it,
laughing and yelping.

"Here I am, anyone wanna see?  Come and get it, fresh Chase, fresh Tim
Chase!"

Todd, holding his wineglass, stood there as Tim came charging along the
stone wall and all but threw himself against Todd.  With little choice,
Todd tossed his nearly full glass over the wall and into the grass and
grabbed Tim, who atop the wall stood a good foot and a half above him.
Unable to stop himself, Todd wrapped his arms around the top of Tim's
thighs and buried his face into the smooth, hard chest.  How was he
supposed to resist?  Better yet, wouldn't he be a fool if he did?

"I'm glad we met," said Tim, bending forward and kissing Todd on the
crown of his head.  "You seem very real to me."

Rubbing his face deep into Tim's chest and running a hand up his ass,
Todd mumbled, "Yeah, well, you don't."  Seemingly out of nowhere, Todd
asked, "Let me ask you this, what do you do for sex?  I mean, how does
someone so famous, so recognizable get..  . get..  ."

"Laid?"

"Well, yeah."

"That's Victor's department.  He always finds me the best."

"Like Andrew?"

"Well, aren't you the nosy one?"  He laughed, then lunged forward,
smashing his crotch against Todd's clothed chest.  "Enough of your
questions, alright?"

"Sure."

Todd kissed him on the stomach, then stood back up and kissed him on
one nipple, next the other.

"Come on," said Tim, pulling slightly away.  "Let's go inside and
finish what we started last night."

Thinking he heard something off in the bushes, Todd glanced around,
then replied, "Sure."

Todd didn't put up the least bit of resistance as Tim, naked and
taunting, took Todd by the hand and led him across the patio and
through the open French doors.  As they entered the candlelit pool
room, Todd's heart began to beat in nervous anticipation.  He reached
out for Tim and pulled him right against him, and they kissed, long and
hard and deep.  Firmly and slowly, Todd ran his hand up and down Tim's
muscular back, and Tim grabbed Todd's shirt, pulled at it, popping away
three buttons, and then reaching inside and desperately waving his hand
over the hair on Todd's chest.

"I want you," whispered Tim.  "And I hope you want me too."

"Absolutely."  Trying to express his last bit of hesitation, Todd said,
"It's just..  ."

"Shh.  You're with me now, so relax, just relax, and forget about that
other guy, okay?"

The next instant Tim spun away, trotting across the tile decking and
to a stack of towels.  In the dim light, Todd watched as he reached
into the subtle folds of terry cloth and pulled out something black.

Holding out a mask, Tim said, "Here, I want you to put this on."

"What?"

"Please?  Just put it on and let me do everything.  Let me undress you,
let me take you all the way..  .."

It wasn't a Halloween disguise, a black mask with slits cut for the
eyes.  No, it was a black blindfold with an elastic band.

"Are you sure?"  said Todd.

"Absolutely.  It'll heighten all your other senses, particularly your
sense of touch.  Here, let me do it."

"Well..  ."

Todd lowered his head slightly and let Tim slip it on, placing the mask
over his eyes and the band around the back of his head.  In an instant,
the soft light disappeared and Todd tumbled into a world of darkness.
Blindly reaching out, he groped for Tim's arm.

"Okay, now what?"

"Just let me do it all."

Vulnerable and helpless, Todd stood there as Tim started kissing his
neck as lightly as a manic butterfly.  An instant later he sensed one
of Chase's meaty hands painfully flutter across his crotch. Blindfolded
though he was, Todd saw it all in the darkness of his mind's eye, and
he rode that vibrant image, that wild ride of lust, seeing but not
seeing, witnessing but not, as Tim Chase, naked and stoked to the max,
hovered all over and around him.  It was more than Todd could bear, and
he naturally reached up, begging to stroke the body and the tool
lingering just inches before him.

Firmly pushing his hand away, Chase, his voice deep and dark, said,
"You can't do anything--I'm in charge."

As unbearable as it was, Todd simply stood there as Tim slowly peeled
the last of his shirt from his body, dropping it on the floor.  And
then he let himself be led along, followed deeper into this black
charade.

"Where are--"

"Sh.  Just do as I say--sit down."

Blindly complying, Todd let Tim lower him to the floor, where he sat on
a long cushion.  Tim then pushed him back, forcing him to lie, and
started fumbling with Todd's belt.  Todd reached down to help, to speed
up this painfully slow process.

Batting away Todd's hand, Tim shouted, "I'm in charge!"

In an instant Todd understood just how terrified Chase was of how
people would see him.  Hence the blindfold--I can see you, you can't
see me.  Hence the control--I'll say when and where and why.

Oh, God ... He thought about Rawlins, where they were headed.  Or
weren't.  Everything between them had been so perfect until a farm boy
and an actor had come into their lives and thrown everything askew. And
now this, his conscience pathetically moaned as his body beaded with
silky sweat.  What was he doing?  Why the hell had he agreed to come
here?

But then of course Tim rubbed that smooth, gorgeous face on the hair
around and above Todd's navel, and Todd was right back there, right
back in a whirlpool of lust.  And before Todd knew it, Tim was pinning
Todd's arms up and behind his head and mounting Todd.

Todd heard it first, the sound of footsteps on the patio.  He flinched,
struggled to get up, but Tim forced him down.

"I've got you!"

"But--"

"Don't move!"

And then a voice behind both of them loudly ordered, "That's right,
don't move!  Don't either one of you fucking move an inch!"

But Tim did just that, he rolled off Todd, grabbed a towel, clumsily
wrapping it around his waist.

"I mean it, Tim, just stay right there or I'll blow your fucking brains
out!"

Todd ripped off the blindfold and sat up.  A dark unseen figure stood
in the doorway, the gun in his hand perfectly obvious.  Todd

couldn't see the face, but of course it was him, of course he'd come
spying on them.

"This time you're not going to get away with it, Tim.  You're not going
to pin it on someone like Vie."

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"You're not going to get away with it because when you fucked Andrew
you left your sperm and your hair and your stupid fingerprints all over
him and everything else in that rat hole of an apartment.  I know how
you work, Tim.  I know very well."

art I |

ruck you!

"You can't bring boys to your own house because someone might see.  So
Vie finds them, blindfolds them, and then you screw 'em and walk
away."

Todd's eyes were trained on the figure as it moved into the pool room
and as the dim light began to glow on the handsome face of Tim Chase's
former lover, Rob Scott.  Yes, it was exactly as Todd had surmised
after seeing his picture in The National Times.

"I knew you'd do something like that, Tim, like screw Andrew Lyman,"
said Scott, amused by his own brilliance, "so I stole your knife and
then I waited .. . and followed you and did the terrible little deed
moments after you left."

"You bastard!"

"Actually, I thought it was kind of brilliant.  Unfortunately the
police are about to arrest the wrong guy, so I'm going to have to do it
again--I'm going to have to kill your little fuck buddy here.  Only
this time I'm going to do it a little differently--I'm not only going
to kill this guy you're about to screw, I'm going to kill you too. That
way there'll be no questions at all, it'll be perfectly clear to the
cops.  And eventually they'll blame you for that kid's death too. Isn't
that great?  In the end of ends, the world's going to learn exactly
what I learned--that their hero's not only a faggot, but a real son of
a bitch.  What do you think of that, hey?"

Todd didn't doubt him, not for an instant.  He could hear the
desperation in his voice, sense the determination in his stance.  Oh,
shit, why had he ever gotten involved with Tim Chase in the first
place?

Taking another step into the pool room, Rob Scott trained his gun on
Todd, and said, "You know, I'm going to like doing this.  It's always
been a fantasy of mine--granted a dark one--to walk in and find my
lover screwing someone else.  I always pictured myself going ballistic,
which is exactly what I'm going to do.  Ta-ta, Todd, you're first. It's
been nice knowing you, however brief."

Todd's body flash-flooded with panic.  No, this wasn't supposed to
happen, no way.  This wasn't part of the plan.  They'd talked it
through, worked out every detail, tried to anticipate how it might come
down, and things definitely weren't supposed to go this far.  Yet
apparently they'd misjudged, horribly so, and rolling on his side, Todd
curled into a ball.  And the very next second there was indeed a blast
of a gun, the sound of which exploded in the room.  Todd shouted out,
braced himself for the agonizing pain.

Instead, there was nothing.

As his pulse roared and sweat beaded on his forehead, Todd looked over
at Tim, who stood paralyzed, the towel tight now around his waist. Todd
then looked at the figure of Rob Scott, who stumbled back, grabbed for
one of the French doors, and finally fell to the tile floor and lay
there quite still.

Seeing two men rush from the patio into the room, Todd shouted, "Shit,
Rawlins, I thought you were going to let him really do it!"

While Foster, his gun still drawn, stopped at the body, Rawlins rushed
straight to Todd.

"You okay?"  demanded Rawlins.

Nodding as he climbed to his feet, Todd replied, "Yeah, but..  . but
that was hard, knowing that you were out there watching the whole
time."

Grabbing Todd's forearm and giving it a good solid squeeze, he said,
"Well, I have to tell you it wasn't easy watching.  I'll have to say
this much, you're not a bad actor."

Most of it was, of course, an act.  A good part of it wasn't.  But
Todd would tell Rawlins that later, just as he knew Rawlins would
understand.  And he would, wouldn't he?

Turning around, Todd saw the lifeless body of Tim Chase's former lover,
Rob Scott, sprawled on the floor.  Foster, who was kneeling and
pressing his hand against the man's neck, looked up and shook his
head.

"He's gone."

"Oh, God," moaned Tim, turning away.  "I didn't want it to end like
this, I really didn't."

"Of course not," said Todd.

Tim covered his eyes with his right hand, and Todd broke away from
Rawlins and went to the actor, putting his arms around him.

"I'm sorry."

"He ... he just went crazy," mumbled Tim through his grief.  "At first,
you know, we were good.  Really good.  There was Rob and me, and Maggie
and Gwen.  I thought we had everything, that we had it all figured out.
I don't know, I guess I was gone too much, spent too much time on the
sets.  I guess I was too involved in myself.  Rob got into a fast crowd
out there in L.A. He got into coke and then into some really hard
stuff.  I tried to help him ... I did what I could, I really did."

"I'm sure."

"But he just spent everything on drugs.  I told him he had to stop,
that he had to get into a treatment program but..  . but..  . finally I
had to throw him out.  I just had to cut him off."

Which was when, Tim had told Todd and Rawlins earlier today, Rob Scott
had gone to The National Times and sold his story.  Not only was he
desperate for money, he was desperate and determined to get revenge by
outing Tim Chase and ruining him completely.  And in a very real way,
Tim Chase was ruined, for if he was fearful before, he was
ultra-paranoid now, terrified of intimacy.

There'd been no witness, no paparazzi-style photographer who'd spied
Vie's comings and goings--there'd only been Rob Scott posing as

such and trying his best to manipulate the sequence of events.  Yes,
it was clear now that Rob Scott had stolen Tim's fishing knife, used it
to kill Andrew Lyman, and then returned the bloodied thing to Tim's
Land Rover.  Watching what Tim would do, how he would handle the
situation, Rob had then followed Vie down to Lake Harriet, where he'd
seen the bodyguard throw the weapon in the lake.  And then .. .

Holding Tim in his arms, Todd thought how it might very well have
worked too.  It most certainly would have if the WLAK camera hadn't
caught one particular person on the banks of the lake when the
sheriff's team had been diving for the knife.  Todd had studied the
videotape of that day, of course, and had searched the faces of the
onlookers, but he hadn't known who was who until he'd seen the
photograph of Rob Scott in the back issue of The National Times.
Realizing it was obviously more than a coincidence that Tim Chase's
lover from California would be in Minneapolis, let alone down at Lake
Harriet, Todd had called Rawlins.  Surmising that Andrew Lyman's murder
might very well be the work of a jealous man bent on destroying his
former lover--which he'd already tried to do by cooperating with The
National Times in the original story--Todd, Rawlins, Foster, and even
Tim Chase had formulated a plan.  Simply, they hoped to draw Rob Scott
out by enraging him with the belief that the police were about to
arrest Vie and not Tim Chase for the Lyman murder.  Scott had come to
Chase's mansion once to plant the knife, and they hoped he'd come back
again, which he certainly had, meeting with the direst of
consequences.

Tim broke away from Todd, wandering outside, where he sat on the low
stone wall and buried his face in his hands.  Was one of the most
adored stars, wondered Todd, destined to be trapped in a bubble of
loneliness, one from which he'd never be able to escape?  Quite
possibly.

Rawlins came up behind Todd and took him by the hand.  "I checked on
Jordy just a little while ago.  He's awake now and he's going to be
okay."

"What happened?"

"I got a statement this afternoon from the witness who tried to stop
him from jumping.  Evidently, Jordy thought the guy was chasing him."

"Oh, my God.  So it was nothing?  No one was after him?"

"Right."  Rawlins looked down, then raised his eyes.  "Are we okay,
Todd?"

None of this was going to be easy, not by any means, but he had to
trust in one simple thing, and he said, "I've always loved you .. . and
I always will."

"Then can we start over?"

"No, Rawlins, I don't want to start over.  I don't want to go back to
the beginning.  Besides, I don't think we can--we've learned too much.
Let's just keep on going from here and eventually we'll get wherever
we're supposed to.  Deal?"

"You bet."

From there the night of course proceeded the way these things were wont
to do.  Foster and Rawlins rolled the Lyman case into this one, and
they went about it all according to the book.  First came the team from
the Bureau of Investigation, who filmed and photographed, dusted and
collected.  And when they were done several hours later, the Medical
Examiner came and removed the body of Rob Scott, all of which was
caught on film by the throng of media folk smashed against the iron
fence of the Mount Curve mansion leased to movie star Tim Chase.

By virtue of his promise to Tim, Todd gave up the story completely.  In
spite of that, WEAK management and every other reporter in town tried
to get something out of Todd, some kind of inside scoop, some
infinitesimal tidbit, but Todd was mum, completely so.  In fact, he
took the following week off and hid at Rawlins's duplex apartment,
watching somewhat amusedly yet ultimately sadly as the truth was
blotted out by a variation on the real story--cooked up by Tim Chase's
publicity people of course--and spread across the country and around
the world.  Fearing a psychotic fan, the star's spokesperson claimed,
actor Tim Chase proved himself a real-life hero, slipping his wife
and

son and nanny out of the house, then offering himself as bait for a
police trap.  The only quasi-mention of Todd was one journal, which
stated that Chase had been warned of the danger by a local (and
unnamed) television reporter.

Yes, with headlines like "A Real-Life Action Hero, Chase Protects Wife,
Son, & Home From Psycho Stalker," the disinformation was gobbled up by
Tim Chase's legions of fans, leaving Todd to wonder who were the real
heroes and the real victims in this strange world.