The Bottle Ghosts Read online

  When they saw us come in, Nowell just nodded what I assume was a greeting, and went back to what he was doing. The other guy smiled and extended his hand as we came over.

  “Hello. I’m Andy.” Obviously, he was one half of the couple who hadn’t made it the week before.

  Jonathan and I introduced ourselves and shook hands as Nowell finished his business and went back into the reception room. As he passed us, I made note of two things: he was taller than I’d remembered—which was okay—and that he had more than once glanced at Jonathan out of the corner of his eye, which was not okay.

  Beware, my lord, of jealousy, my mind recited with Elizabethan flourish: ’Tis the green eyed monster that doth mock…

  Yeah, I get it, I mentally replied. I wasn’t being jealous. Just observant.

  Uh huh.

  Andy announced that his other half, John, had had to work late and might be a few minutes late getting to the meeting. As he was talking, Keith and Victor arrived, followed by a cute younger guy probably just a little older than Jonathan—John, I gathered, and was confirmed in the exchange of greetings with Keith and Victor. I noticed that when Andy greeted him warmly and gave him a hug, John seemed to break it off rather quickly and back away. He did not seem very happy. More introductions and handshakes and idle small-talk until Brian Oaks entered with Paul and Frank and after everyone had gotten their coffee, we took our seats. Once again, Carl and Jay came in late.

  The fireworks started about ten minutes into the session, when John was talking about an Al-Anon meeting he’d attended. (I had automatically assumed that since John was the younger of the two, he was the alcoholic. Wrong again.) Carl jumped in with both feet, once again lambasting Al-Anon as a complete waste of time, and saying that if alcoholics spent more energy in trying to stay sober, there’d be no need for Al-Anon. He was so upset I could actually see the veins standing out on his forehead, and nearly everyone else in the group of course took the other side. I could see what Bradshaw meant when he said the meetings could get a little heated from time to time. Brian kept control, but it was a real effort, and I wondered for a moment why Carl had ever wanted to get into the group at all, or why Brian didn’t kick him out. But then I realized Carl and Jay were probably the one couple in the group who needed it most. Eventually things calmed down and the meeting continued.

  I kept noticing that through it all, Andy seemed to be paying an inordinate amount of attention to John, putting his hand on John’s leg, trying to get him to smile with no success. John was obviously very pissed. Brian noticed it too, and asked John if anything were wrong.

  “Andy drove to the meeting tonight,” John said, turning to look directly at Andy. “His license has been suspended and if the police had stopped him for something, he’d have gone to jail.”

  “I just didn’t want us to have to take the bus home,” Andy said, unconvincingly. “I told you I’d bring the car…”

  “Why didn’t you drive, John?” Brian asked.

  John sighed, looking away from Andy for the first time. “Parking’s next to impossible where I work, so I never drive to work: I take the bus.” He shot a quick look at Andy, then continued. “On meeting nights, I take the bus home and then drive us to the meeting. But tonight I had to work late, so I called Andy to let him know. He said he’d bring the car to the meeting so we wouldn’t have to try to catch a bus home, and I told him definitely not to, but when I got off the bus and walked past the parking lot, there was the car.”

  “That was really dumb, Andy,” Keith said, rather surprising me, since Keith almost never said anything. “I don’t even have a license. Never got one.”

  “I’m like Keith,” Paul said, “only I never even learned how to drive. Where I grew up, in New York City, nobody had a car. But I know what can happen when somebody drives drunk.”

  “I wasn’t driving drunk!” Andy said, defensively.

  “Not this time, maybe,” John said.

  *

  John and Andy were not at our third session, and Carl grudgingly apologized for his performance at the previous meeting. While I really wasn’t finding out all that much that I could apply to Jerry Shea’s or Benicio Martinez’s (or anyone else’s) disappearance, the group itself was growing on me, and I could see its value to the members. I was particularly interested, during our third session—which focused on what it was that had drawn the various partners together in the first place—when Jonathan volunteered the story of his relationship to his brother Samuel, and how he had found in me some of what he considered Samuel’s stronger qualities, and Jonathan’s subsequent attraction to men somewhat older than himself. And I, when it was my turn, said—and perhaps really realized for the first time—that I’d always been attracted to guys I felt I could help and protect. Jonathan and I had never really talked about these things between ourselves, so I found it really something of a revelation.

  *

  As I was making a pot of coffee at the office Friday morning, I was mulling over just how long I should spend on this particular trail, and whether it might ever produce anything that I could use to find what had happened to the missing men. That issue was pretty well resolved for me when the phone rang and I answered to hear Marty Gresham’s voice.

  “Hi, Marty. What’s up?”

  “Another Category Twelve just came in,” he said. “A guy named Andy Phillips. Sound familiar?”

  Andy. Of Qualicare’s John and Andy!

  Chapter 7

  Gresham, at my request, patched me through to Lieutenant Richman.

  “Hello, Dick.” Richman’s voice told me he was expecting my call.

  “I gather you’ve already spoken with Officer Gresham?”

  “Yes, he called me as soon as he saw the report. It seems we have a definite problem on our hands. The question now is what, exactly, to do about it.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’ve got a couple ideas on that score, if you’d be willing to hear them.”

  Richman sighed. “Sure. Do you want to come down here, or meet me at Sandler’s for lunch?”

  I still felt uncomfortable about being seen too often at police headquarters.

  “Sandler’s would be fine,” I said. “Noon?”

  “Make it twelve-fifteen. I’ll see you there.”

  *

  My mind slipped into its “tumble dry” mode, and I sat there, figuratively watching as ideas rolled around in my brain, appearing only long enough to catch a glimpse of before being replaced by another, then reappearing and vanishing again.

  What was clear from all of it was that things were accelerating. But why? Was whoever was behind it just getting cocky? Andy Phillip’s disappearance removed any doubt whatsoever that the Qualicare group was directly involved. But could whoever was responsible really be that stupid? Surely he had to know somebody would catch on eventually.

  Well, my mind voice pointed out, nobody had so far. And if it weren’t for Marty Gresham, there was the outside chance no one might ever have.

  And my mind kept returning to the same frustrating question: And if they are dead, why haven’t any of the bodies been found?

  The group’s very set-up provided pretty good cover for the guy: the membership had a relatively high turnover—couples joined and left regularly. Members didn’t know each others’ last names and were encouraged not to socialize outside the meetings. Still…

  I definitely would be contacting John Bradshaw and Ted Kemper again. Now that I’d been to a couple meetings, I was getting a better feel for the dynamics of the group and the people involved, and I had a better idea of what questions to ask.

  *

  “So,” Richman asked as the waiter left with our order, “what exactly did you have in mind?”

  I took a long sip of coffee before answering. “Well,” I put my cup back on its saucer, “first let me ask you what options the police have, given the overall circumstances?”

  Richman echoed my coffee-sipping, then said: “We’re in a very grey area, her
e…as it seems we so often are when you’re involved in the situation. I wonder why that is?” He gave a small smile, then continued. “All we have is circumstantial evidence. Gresham told me about Charles Whitaker, by the way, though whether or not his disappearance is tied in to the rest of this is a little iffy in my opinion. So we have five…six?…missing men, five of whom have definite links to Qualicare’s alcohol counseling program. That’s justification enough to launch a full investigation, I think. Though exactly what we’d be able to prove without a single body or a shred of evidence that any crime has been committed is moot. I gather you’ve found out nothing concrete on your own?”

  I shook my head, and Richman shrugged.

  “Anybody you consider a likely candidate?”

  It was my turn to shrug.

  “Several ‘maybe’s, but not enough to point to one more than the others. What I might suggest is that we send whoever is responsible a message that maybe he’s been pushing his luck, and he should think twice about doing whatever it is he’s been doing. If there could be just enough of a police intervention to let everyone associated with the group know that they’re looking into Phillips’ disappearance, without giving any indication that they’re aware of the others, that might shake the…what to call him?…technically we can’t call him ‘the killer’ without definite proof anybody’s actually dead…. Anyway, I’d like to shake his tree without spooking him completely. With luck, that will buy us more time to find out exactly what’s going on.”

  The waiter brought our lunch, and we ate in silence for several minutes until Richman said: “Let me work on it. Even though we don’t have proof of homicide at the moment, I definitely should talk with Captain Offermann to get his okay as head of the Homicide Division.”

  While Richman concentrated on his lunch and his thoughts, I had an idea.

  “Is there any chance at all of bringing Marty Gresham into this? I know he’s not officially a detective, but he hopes to be one day, and he knows as much about this case as anybody. He might even be willing to do it on his off-duty hours. That would save the department money and manpower.”

  Richman paused in his eating, his fork halfway between plate and mouth. He stared at me a moment, then shook his head, lowering the fork to the plate. “I don’t know. That might be a bit of a stretch. Still, he is pretty sharp—and pretty gung-ho. Let me run it by Offermann.”

  “All we really need is for him to do is to call each of the group’s members—and I’d include Oaks, of course, and even Oaks’ receptionist, Nowell, since he’s always there—and tell them that he’s looking into a missing persons report on one of the group’s members, Andy Phillips, and wants to know if they might have any information at all that might be helpful. And who knows, they just might. I know I couldn’t call them, not if I want to keep my cover and stay in the group.”

  Richman, concentrating again on his food, paused a moment without looking up at me and sighed. He finally raised his eyes to mine.

  “You know, I spend so much time working on your cases, why don’t you just join the force?”

  “Great idea! The force is hiring open gays, now?”

  I swear he flushed for a nanosecond, then said: “Touché.”

  “Or you could always quit the force and become a P.I.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, my wife would love that. She could always go out and get a paper route and sell the kids to a sweatshop to help pay the bills. You’re lucky you’re gay.”

  I returned the grin. “I couldn’t agree with you more!”

  *

  As soon as I got back to the office, I put in a call to John Bradshaw, who was not home. I noted he still had the answering machine, but had changed the message he’d originally put on should Jerry Shea call. Obviously, Shea never had called and I was rock-solid sure he never would. I was careful, in my message, to emphasize I had nothing specific to report, but that I did want to talk with him.

  I then called Ted Kemper. There was no answer, and no machine picked up, so I decided to call him from home.

  Just as I was getting ready to leave for the day, the phone rang, and I answered to hear Marty Gresham’s “Hi, Dick!” He sounded very chipper. “Did you hear from Lieutenant Richman yet?”

  “Uh, not since lunch.”

  “Sorry. Maybe I’m jumping the gun. He said he was going to call you, and I thought he had. He probably got tied up. But I wanted to call and say thanks for suggesting that I might be able to help you on this missing persons thing. It’ll look great on my record when I go for detective.”

  “Well, I couldn’t think of anybody better suited for the job. I gather Captain Offermann went for it?”

  “I guess. Lieutenant Richman didn’t go into detail, but when he asked if I’d be willing to do it even on my off-duty time I jumped at it. I’m meeting with him Monday morning before I start my shift.”

  His enthusiasm reminded me a lot of Jonathan. “That’s great, Marty. And thanks again for wanting to help.”

  “No problem!” There was only a slight pause before: “I guess I’d better get off the line so the Lieutenant can get through to you. Uh, and would you mind maybe not mentioning that I called? I don’t want him to think I was stepping out of line.”

  “Our secret.”

  Sure enough, I’d no sooner hung up from Gresham than the phone rang again.

  “Hardesty Investigations.”

  “Dick; Mark Richman. I got an okay from Captain Offermann, and Officer Gresham has agreed to help on his off-duty hours. Actually, I’m going to speak to his lieutenant to see if I can have a couple hours of his regular shift time—as long as it might take for him to contact everyone. It’s not fair to ask him to do everything on his own time. Anyway, I’m meeting with him Monday morning before he starts his regular shift. I don’t want his enthusiasm to carry him away on this investigation thing, so I’ll stress that all we want to do is let everyone in the Qualicare group know that we’re investigating Phillips’ disappearance. Period. No mention of the others. As you said, if anyone might have any information on Phillips that could help, that would be icing on the cake. If they don’t, I’ll tell him to give them his extension at headquarters to call if they think of anything.”

  “Great! I really appreciate your doing this.”

  “Well, we’re of course not being totally altruistic in this: Captain Offermann agrees that something very fishy is going on, but that right now, and until and unless a body shows up somewhere, there isn’t sufficient evidence of any crime for the police to devote the time and effort a full-fledged investigation would require. So if we can get to the bottom of what’s going on here through you, it’s a win-win situation.”

  *

  All the way home and after dinner while Jonathan was studying, I kept thinking about just where this case was going—or, so far, not going—and what I should or could do about it. Tipping off whoever was responsible that he’d better watch his step from now on was all well and good and would (please, God!) keep him from doing whatever it was he was doing. But perhaps I should rethink my “infiltration” strategy. Maybe if I’d just gone right in from the beginning as a P.I. and let everybody know that I knew something was going on, Andy Phillips might still be alive. Maybe. Maybe not.

  We’d been to only three meetings so far, but they had given me some idea of the dynamics of the group and the individuals in it. The only member to stand out as a potential suspect was Carl. He definitely had some very serious issues with alcoholics. But maybe he was too obvious.

  The fact was that it was just too soon to start making a suspects list. I’d give it a couple more weeks and keep my fingers crossed.

  When I’d not heard from John Bradshaw by nine o’clock, I called and left another message on his machine. Then I tried Ted Kemper’s number. No answer. Well, it had been that sort of day.

  *

  Luckily, the weekend gave me a little time to just kick back. Every time the case would rise to the surface of my consciousness, like
a gas bubble breaking the surface of a tar pit, I’d just ignore it. It worked for the most part.

  Jonathan was up before I was on Saturday morning, and I walked into the living room to find him counting the new leaves on the ficus, which was beginning the slow transition from a tumbleweed to a recognizably living plant.

  “Thirty-six!” he announced happily when he’d finished, and I secretly looked forward to the time when there would be too many for him to keep a running count. Well, it made him happy, so that was okay with me.

  Saturday routines seem to be pretty much the same whether you’re single or with someone: dishes, bed-changing, laundry, vacuuming, dusting, grocery shopping, bill paying, phone calls to friends. The only variation on this particular Saturday was a call from Jared Martinson, the former beer delivery truck driver now a real life professor of Russian Literature at a small college about an hour north of town. Jared said his idyllic life in the forests of academe was driving him crazy and that he was planning a trip to town to spend a night at the Male Call, his favorite leather bar. I told him, as usual, that he was welcome to use our spare bedroom, but knew it was just a token gesture: Jared never had a problem finding some friendly (and usually incredibly hot) stranger who would invite him to spend the night.

  We did arrange to have brunch with him on Sunday before he headed back.

  As Chris and I had when we were together, Jonathan and I had developed a Saturday-night-to-dinner, Sunday-to-brunch routine; sometimes with friends but often just the two of us. It was one of the nicest parts of being in a relationship, I realized.

  I’d noticed, in Jonathan, a definite change from the puppy-dog hustler I’d met at Hughie’s. He still kept his wonder and enthusiasm and innocence, but by the same token he was growing and maturing in the best sense of the word. Ever since the subject had come up at the meeting that night, I had became increasingly aware of the fact that it was somehow important to me to play the role of big-brother/protector, and that while Jonathan really needed protecting less and less, he was happy to let me think he did.