She wasn't
sure if her thoughts should surprise or disgust her.
Whenever she stared down into the drawer, with the pistol
and the printouts from the Internet café and the neatly folded costume
and everything else she so carefully prepared, she expected to feel something.
Nervousness, fear, pride, it didn't matter what, but SOMETHING.
Instead, a numbness came over
her, with a distant sullen weariness; why couldn't she just shoot the son-of-a-bitch
now and get it over with? It
wasn't a murder she was planning, it was a chore.
She wasn't sure how to feel about that, either.
She shook her head to clear the cobwebs (not entirely succeeding) and slammed
the drawer shut once more, locking it tight with one firm twist of her wrist.
In the end, there was one simple truth that stood above all
else: it was either him or her.
And it was obvious which she had to choose.
***
The annual awards ceremony of the San Francisco Society of Friends would
never draw any sort of media attention, despite the glittering jewels and
famous faces that filled the hotel ballroom.
Though the cream of the crop and the heights of stardom attended
each affair, the topics were just too boring for the evening news.
Historic preservation, feeding the poor, reading to the children...
It was all just too mundane for the flashy, five-second violence,
sound bite world of the average American attention span.
But the average San Franciscan would have been astonished to learn how
many wheels had turned, laws built, and plans put into motion in each meeting.
Though the state halls in
Sacramento
certainly held power, the meetings of the San Francisco Society of Friends
arguably wielded even more.
"And now, the presentation of Citizen of the Year."
Society Chairman and millionaire Nicholas Van Orton smiled
as he gripped the shining gold-plated trophy.
It had been a fine evening: the Society's most prominent
members had all attended, and all opened their purses and wallets to contribute
to the lately ailing general fund.
Even the minor unpleasantness that sprang up with one of
the members' guests, a nervous little man with curly black hair and a stammer,
failed to dampen the flush of success.
"At the tender age of 22, he began one of
San Francisco
's most prominent small businesses, now flourishing into a national force.
He has been a champion of individual and civil rights for
years, highlighted in his speech at the 2000 Democratic National Convention.
The time, money, and voice he has given to issues ranging
from the environment to his focus, homosexual rights, has been an unrecognized
credit to this Society for too long.
This year, we correct that error, and give this man the spotlight,
and the thanks, he deserves.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you 2003's Citizen of the Year, founder,
owner, and CEO of Wise Men Publishing, Curtis Marshak
."
He stepped aside as the room erupted in applause and one or two wolf whistles.
The handsome young man with the close cropped, spiked blonde
hair and neatly trimmed beard and moustache that rose hardly looked the
role of business owner and political activist; he seemed more at home on
a beach in the Rivera, or a bodybuilding magazine.
He certainly didn't look his 35 years.
Most of all, his humble smile and almost shy wave didn't
speak of a man who realized, or cared, about any of that.
He took Van Orton's place behind the oak podium, adjusting
the mike and straightening the lapels of his bright white tuxedo.
"Thanks, Nick...
Thank you all.
Umm, well, I have to say I'm kind of speechless.
Which is pretty ironic for those of you
who know me. Sure, I'm
articulate when I have to talk about laws and rights and other people, but
when it comes to me, well, that's another story."
Light laughter.
"I'm honored. That's all I'm
really feeling right now. It's
so hard sometimes to keep going.
You look at all the opposition we're facing, the politicians and the power
we're up against, and I have to admit that even I wonder sometimes whether
it's worth it, whether any of us really makes a difference."
He gripped the trophy in his hands.
"I like to take this as a sign.
To keep fighting.
You've all given me the strength to do that much.
"But I'm not the only one whose name should be on this trophy.
There's everyone at the National Freedom Foundation, at Wise
Men, my friends... They all
deserve credit for helping me accomplish what little I have, and what more
I will in the future. But most
of all, I have to thank the person who made all this possible.
Kat, would you stand up?
C'mon, let the good people of
San Francisco
see you!" Reluctantly, a tall,
lithe young woman with long blonde hair rose from one of the front tables.
"They say behind every great man is a great woman, and I
guess that's true even for us queers.
Without her, Wise Men would never have existed, and I would
never have been able to spread my voice all the way to
Washington
. Oh, and by the way, fellows,
she's single and straight."
The woman tried to smile at the light laughter.
"Give a hand to my second-in-command, and one of the greatest
forces behind my success, Kathryn Foster."
Applause all around once more.
The woman, now as red as her sparkling evening gown, gave
one small wave before she sat back down.
***
"Did you really have to do that, Curt?
God, I'm still blushing."
Kathryn Foster drummed her elegantly painted nails on the cover
of the binder in her lap.
"Yes, I did," Curt replied, patting her knee in a gesture that failed to
be either patronizing or sexual.
"I meant what I said last night.
I still do."
She snorted. "If you really
thought that highly of my business acumen, you would have changed your mind
by now."
Curt sighed. "I keep telling
you, Kat, it has nothing to do with you or your opinion."
"Then why won't you let this happen?
Are you really that blind to..."
The secretary's soft cough interrupted them.
"Sir Harry will see you now."
Curt Marshak rose, brushing a stray speck of
lint off his suit jacket. "I'm
not blind, Kat, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't question my decisions
in front of Sir Harry this time, all right?
We have to present a united front.
Even if we don't really have it."
She didn't get a chance to reply before they were both herded
into the office.
"My boy, you're stubborn. I
do like that, no matter what you may think."
Sir Harry Matthews leaned back in his stuffed leather
chair and chuckled, every inch the bluff, likeable Englishman.
"I know that without that quality, you wouldn't be where
you are today. But really, I
do have to try to not take offense at what I gather to be a distinct lack
of trust on your part."
"It's no offense to you, Sir Harry," Curt replied calmly.
"It's just a matter of life.
Your media conglomerate is one of the largest in the world.
It reaches practically every major international market,
including those in countries and cultures that have a history of frowning
on... people like myself."
"And I reassure you again that should you agree to this merger," (Kathryn
noticed his astute avoidance of the word "buyout,") "Wise Men will retain
its name and full autonomy under your personal direction, just as it is
now. All I would provide is
opportunity, to publish a wider range of material, to access my worldwide
distribution resources, to put the Wise Men logo in every major bookstore
in the world. Think about it,
lad! Think of the people
you can reach! And if you should
ever want to turn the reins over to Miss Foster and advance in my organization,
which I can assure you that you are more than talented enough to do, imagine
the good you could do with my sort of reach at your fingertips!"
"I have, Sir Harry. I've thought
about it a lot since you approached us.
But for all your assurances otherwise, in the end, you have to
put the stockholders first.
And don't think I don't understand that - you run a business, not a charity.
Considering what I do, and who I am, and what I believe in,
it's inevitable that I'll cause controversy.
While you may not want to step in, your
stockholders or your board certainly will want to protect their position."
"Oh, hang them!" Sir Harry rumbled, standing up and pacing about his office.
"I came to
California
because I saw your work, I looked over your business, and I admire your
knack for business and your passion.
You fill a gap in my little empire that I have
been wanting to fill for quite a long time.
They have nothing to do with this.
They listen to me, Mr. Marshak
, not the other way around."
"I'm sorry, but you know my priorities. "
Curt rose. "I
don't think we have anything more to discuss."
"Well, I'm sorry, then," Sir Harry replied, shaking
Curt's hand. "I'll be
in
California
for another week, so even if you don't change your mind, perhaps we could
discuss other matters. Future
publication rights, perhaps?"
"I don't see why not. It's
good to see you again, Sir Harry.
I'm sorry you made the trip for nothing."
"It's quite all right. I'm
hardly here for nothing.
Speaking of which, if I could borrow your Ms. Foster for a moment, I want
to discuss a few things about the
San Diego
meetings before she goes."
Curt nodded.
"Of course. Kat, I'll
see you back at the office, okay?"
"Sure." She waited for the
office door to close behind him before turning towards Sir Harry.
"I'm sorry. I
tried..."
"Oh, don't worry about it, Ms. Foster.
This isn't a matter of life and death, you know."
Sir Harry returned to his seat, rolling a cigar around in
his hands. "But having Wise Men
Publishing under my aegis would do so much good, for him and for me.
My company's public image took a minor blow with that Bachelor's
World unpleasantness, and I've been told that thanks to you and your Mr.
Marshak, the markets and contacts that you
could help us access could be invaluable."
He smiled.
"A big deal, yes, but hardly the end of the world."
"But, er, about your offer..."
"What offer? Oh, that!
Yes, yes, it's still open, of course, but I'm afraid that
if you didn't join my company as part of Wise Man Publishing, I really couldn't
give you a very high position.
I'm sure you'd rather stay with Mr. Marshak
anyway."
"Yes, of course," Kathryn replied through gritted teeth.
Sir Harry sucked on his now-lit cigar, sending plumes of smoke through
his nose. "Of course, while
I'd appreciate any help you could give me, I'll understand if you don't
want to put any undue influence on Mr. Marshak
. He is your friend, after
all."
"A friend. Yes.
Right."
Her faraway tone of voice did not escape Sir Harry, and he
frowned. But any thought that
came into his mind quickly dissipated as Kathryn rose.
"I really should get back to work.
I'm sorry."
"Oh, not at all, my dear.
We can discuss business in
San Diego
. I look forward to seeing
you at the conference."
She gave the media mogul a light smile.
"Likewise.
Thank you."
***
When Kathryn Foster walked into her boss's office, he was already at his
desk, reading a letter and shaking his head.
The afternoon sun streamed through the bay windows, affording
both an expansive view of historic downtown and a temperature increase of
a good few degrees. Kathryn
loosened her collar, already feeling a bead of perspiration (as the ads
stubbornly called it on women, instead of the more manly "sweat") snaking
its way down her hairline. "Anything
interesting?" she asked, barely managing to sound sincere.
"Well, let's see." He held
up one of the small pile in front of him.
"Hate mail, hate mail, unsolicited manuscript, hate mail,
excuse from writer who needs to get his butt in gear and get us his book
by next Monday, hate mail, letter from Ryan, hate mail.
Pretty much the usual."
Her ears perked near the end.
"Your brother wrote to you?
What did he say?"
"Nothing I'd be interested in reading."
He began shoving letters into his desk drawers, as if angry at
them personally.
"You should be happy he wants to have anything to do with you."
Curt's head snapped up sharply.
"Projecting, are you?
Just because I happen to care about something other than getting ahead..."
"That's not fair!" she snapped.
"I care a lot about this company!
What Sir Harry's offering is some of the most generous terms
I've ever seen! It'd be good
for us..."
"Good for you, you mean. It'll
give you an automatic leg-up on Sir Harry's corporate ladder.
I thought you knew what this company meant to me.
What my goals mean to me."
"I do!"
He shook his head. "Sometimes
I wonder." He sighed and rubbed
the bridge of his nose. "It
just seems like so much has changed since we went national.
I mean, we used to talk, actually talk,
not just share a couple of stories over a quick cocktail before
racing back to the office to meet a new deadline.
Hell, we don't even do Friday night pizza the way we used
to."
"But it's for a good cause.
Look what we've done!"
"Now that's hard to do. I'm
on the road half the time screaming in the ears of bigots.
And you spend more time working on this company than I do.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised.
I could always see your ambition.
That's why I brought you on board in the first place."
"Don't forget my ready cash."
"How can I? You remind me every
chance you get. I'm not one
of our investors. Remember,
you answer to me."
Kathryn forced a smile. "Of
course I know that, Curt. But
you've trusted me before, why not now?
I think I'm being a little more clear-headed about this than
you are."
Curt played with a pen as he fixed her with a stare that made her want
to jump back. "Actually, I think
I'm starting to see things a lot more clearly than I ever have."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I'm sure you don't."
She sprang to her feet, her expression of hurt only half-genuine.
"I'm sorry if I've upset you.
Maybe we both need a little while to calm down.
If you'll excuse me, I have work
to do."
"You always do. At least I
get out of the office sometimes.
You should slow down, Kat, you really should.
You can't force the world work the way you want it to."
"Like hell I can't," she muttered under her breath as she stormed out.
***
Kathryn Foster drummed her fingers on her desk, simmering in her outrage.
The fact that Curt had mostly spoken the truth tempered her
emotional boil, but not by much.
That feeling in the pit of her stomach, as though her pelvis had become
a black hole, and her intestines were slowly dripping into the void.
She first got that feeling when she tried to convince Curt
to acquire In Scene, an extremely popular teen magazine whose independent
publishers were looking to sell out.
The name recognition, the demographic, the nationwide audience,
the profit just waiting to be grabbed...
It was all just so perfect that it made Kathryn smile just thinking
about it, even four years later.
They could've gotten it, if they'd really pushed, even with the bigger
media companies angling for the bait.
But no.
Curt refused to "dilute the message of the company" by printing
such an empty teen rag. Wise
Men had to have a meaning, had to support his vision.
Publishing In Scene would be the
first step to turning the company into just another uncaring, faceless corporate
monolith. It wasn't that it
wasn't a good deal. It was the
principle.
Principle. Kathryn's
mouth soured at the mere thought of the word.
Curt was all wide-eyed principle.
She could feel him in the room now, holding both her arms
in a bitingly painful grasp.
Keeping her in her place.
Curt Marshak and his precious politics, which
were just as niche as the glossy magazines with the glossy shirtless men
that he chose to publish, as prominent as the early morning political programs
he never tired of appearing on, as exciting as his amicus brief to the Supreme
Court on Lawrence vs. Texas.
*Idealists,* she thought. *May
they all rot in hell.*
The special drawer opened once more.
She let out a breath, startled to realize that she'd been holding
it all this time. She supposed
that it would have been safer and smarter to keep her "tools" at home, but
somehow she did all her best thinking at the office.
If Curt had known that, he would have chuckled, possibly
making some smart comment. He
might not have chuckled at the odd soothing quality the materials within
the drawer gave their owner.
First out were the three letters, neatly typed and folded, nestled in a
plastic bag.
Then the brass key, a copy made at a small store somewhere
in Sacramento during a business trip three months previous, the original "borrowed"
without apparent suspicion.
The pistol, of course, with the silencer.
Then the soft bundle, wrapped
in tissue paper and kept in an old Macy's clothing box.
Two pairs of rubber gloves followed.
Finally, a single condom, Trojan, flipped onto the stack
as if an afterthought. But nothing
in that stack was an afterthought.
The first pair of rubber gloves and the letters would never leave the building;
the former would be worn while placing the latter into the mess Curt called
his filing system. The rest
would be placed into Kathryn's gym bag, then to a suitcase, to drive with
her down
Pacific Coast Highway
, to
San Diego
, and their final use.
***
"Good crowd."
Curt Marshak grunted as he waited for the milling
throng to start to settle. It
was a colorful assortment of people, as usual.
About half were dressed in everyday street clothes, indistinguishable
from the curious passers-by who occasionally walked through
Griffith
Park
on their Friday evening constitutionals and came across this unusual assortment.
The other half, though, were the only ones who made the evening
news, to Curt's annoyance: the
leathermen, the drag queens, the club costumed, the
doms, the subs, the fashionable flamers, the
ones who lent the rather shocking color to the whole display.
"You okay, Curt?" He turned
towards the questioner in annoyance.
Luis Alvarez cocked a questioning eyebrow as the crowd finally
began to quiet, and the rally chairman, a representative from the local chapter
of the ACLU, stepped towards the podium.
"You've been quiet all day.
This is supposed to be a pride rally, not a funeral."
"I'm fine.
Just... thinking."
"You've been doing a lot of that lately.
You should stop that."
There was no laugh in response, not even a wisp of a smile.
This wiped Luis' smile off his face, replaced with a frown
almost equal to Curt's.
"You wanna talk about it, man?"
"No. Especially
not now." His shoes scuffed
the stage floor as the chairman droned on, about the latest news from
Washington
, about the upcoming speakers, and about the huge party that night.
Luis nodded. "But he's still
your brother."
Curt shot his friend and fellow agitator a venomous look.
"You keep saying that.
I don't think it means what you think it means."
"I'm serious. C'mon, he can't
mean that little to you. He's
the only family you've got left."
"I don't need him, if that's what you mean."
A note of sullenness crept into his voice, one he took deliberate
care to suppress before continuing.
"As long as he believes the way he does, we have nothing to say
to each other. What would be
the point?"
"He writes you letters..."
"He's just trying to convert me," Curt spat.
"Back to the old ways, when my dad would preach at the dinner
table and Mom would have to drag us into church
to get us confirmed. No thanks."
Luis regarded his friend for a moment, rolling his words on his tongue
before speaking. "You're not
being fair."
"Me? Being fair?
He's the one who wants to change me.
He's the one who's got a problem with me being gay."
"Sometimes I think you're the one with the problem, not your brother."
Curt swung towards him, a growl on his lips and a clench on his fists.
The rally chairman chose that moment to announce Curt.
Like the consummate pro he was, the anger fell away from
Curt's face like water.
By the time he took the podium, he was all smiles and waves.
Though they saw each other three more times that day, Curt
and his brother never came up again, not even at the party.
Luis Alvarez would regret not broaching the subject again for the rest
of his life.
***
It was about
8:30
in the evening by the time the last of the symposiums and dinners had
let out. San Diego was, of course,
"pleased to host" the 2003 International Publisher's Conference, and had
taken out stops they'd never taken out before to greet the participants,
all of whom were either well-known or well-connected.
Kathryn made sure to sit at Sir Harry's table for most of the evening.
She laughed at his jokes, sat fascinated at his stories (most
of the time genuinely, even), and indulged in a couple of glasses of wine.
No more, though.
She would need her wits more than ever.
When Sir Harry's limo took them and a small group of fellow publishing
industry professionals back to the hotel, she took pains to point out her
own car in the parking lot to the assemblage.
The vintage '58 Plymouth Fury, all perfectly polished with
its Christine ambiance, drew the expected oohs
and interested questions. It
never failed to draw attention wherever it went.
That quality was once a mild annoyance, but now, Kathryn
counted on it.
It took only fifteen minutes for her to extricate herself from the group,
but it was five minutes more than she'd planned on.
The second the hotel room door shut behind her, she was already
stripping out of her business casual attire,
and into her dress for the evening: sequined pink gown, silk scarf, and
full-length white gloves. The
wig and shoes she stuffed into a white leather purse she'd stowed in her
suitcase; it was deceptively roomy, and both fit easily, even over the gun.
Shrugging on her long trench coat, she peeked tentatively
out into the hallway. Fortunately,
it was quiet. It was little
trouble to slip into the back stairs and into the parking lot.
Once she stepped out into the cool
California
night, she crossed the parking lot in only a few easy strides.
Kathryn smiled as she navigated the trees that separated
the hotel lot from the one neighboring.
She doubted she would have been able to use her plan had it not
been for this neat little coincidence.
It took two hours for the battered tan Ford Escort to make its way from
San Diego
into the heart of downtown
Los Angeles
. Her only stop along the way
was in the back of a nearly deserted rest stop to pin up her hair and apply
the make up: heavy eyeshadow and false eyelashes,
thick lipstick, rouge that seemed overly heavy, but carefully applied to
highlight and heighten her cheekbones, to make them look more severe.
The wig slipped onto her head easily.
Once downtown, fortune smiled once again: a parking space just half a block
from the club. The doffed trench
coat went into the trunk, and Kathryn Foster strode confidently towards
the buzzing crowd milling in front of the nightclub.
***
Luis Alvarez, as usual, called Curt's reluctance
to attend the post-rally party "shy, but sweet."
He practically had to drag his friend along, but Curt finally
acquiesced (as certain parties predicted he would).
Dressed in a short-sleeved silk shirt and jeans, Curt would
have blended completely into the crowd had every passing partygoer not been
able to recognize his face on sight.
Many of the partiers were toting camcorders, focusing on Curt
as much as the go-go dancers on the stages that dotted the club floor.
He took this with more amiability than Luis expected, nodding
his head absently to the booms of the dance music and sipping at his whiskey.
"Aren't you gonna dance?" Luis managed to shout
over the bumping beat. The glare
shot back at him said, "stupid question."
"Okay, fine.
But all you do at these things is stand there and let guys stare at you."
Curt shrugged. "Let '
em." He gulped the rest
of his drink and motioned to the bartender for another.
"Tease." The word was
lighthearted, but failed to crack even a smile as Curt began nursing his third
drink. Luis' eyes skimmed over
the crowd, blurred until he focused on one face with serious intent.
He lightly punched his friend's shoulder.
"Hey, check it out.
There's someone who looks seriously interested.
Not looking too bad, either."
Curt looked up to see a tall drag queen walking towards them, his eyes
focused on Curt. The flashing
lights played over his pink gown, and turned his long white gloves and purse
into a mess of color. His hair
was a short black bob, and though his long, angular-looking face was a sign
of his masculinity, Curt was actually impressed at how much like a woman
he looked. He ignored the nagging,
vague feeling of familiarity in the back of his head.
The drag queen stood beside him and ordered a shot of tequila in a low,
throaty voice. He snapped back
his head and downed the drink in one gulp, brushing against
Curt's side as he vanished into the crowd.
"Huh," Luis said, "I could've sworn he was gonna
at least talk to you."
Curt jammed his hands into his pockets.
"So did I..."
He stopped short as his right fingers found the piece of
paper that wasn't in his pocket a moment before.
He fished it out and opened the slip.
"Have info on Sen. Carson.
Meet in bathroom."
Curt raised an eyebrow.
"Curt?
Anything the matter?"
He quickly stuffed the slip back into his pocket.
"What? Oh, no,
no. Nothing."
*Just the most interesting thing at this damn party,* he
thought.
***
Kathryn was so lost in her thoughts that she laid hand on the women's bathroom
door before catching herself and turning around towards the men's room.
She knew Curt, and when she looked back at him through the
crowd after passing him the note, she could see the glint in his eye even
from halfway across the room.
She knew that name would hook him.
She tried not to give the barest glance to the milling men
around her, pretending to adjust her makeup as she kept her eyes glued to
the reflection of the bathroom door.
The seconds stretched into years before the door creaked open,
and Curt walked in. His eyes
flickered over faces before settling on hers.
Casually, he gently shoved his way to the sink next to her.
He held up the note.
"This you?"
"Yes," she replied in a low whisper, still not sure of her ability to disguise
her voice.
"You wanted to talk?"
"Not here. Follow me out to
the back alley." Pursing her lips
together to smooth her lipstick, she turned, not seeing Curt crumple up the
note and toss it towards the garbage can; it missed, bouncing off the rim
and rolling to the floor. She
sauntered out of the room and back onto the dance floor, the air humid with
sweat. Curt appeared a few seconds
later. She could almost feel
his eyes on her neck as she made her way to the back of the club, past the
bar and stairs to the second level, pushing open a door covered in flyers
and leaflets.
She stepped out into the alley, the cool breeze a blessed relief.
As she expected, it was empty; only a single dumpster and
the odd cardboard box interrupted her view from the brick wall to her left
to the opening out into the street on her right.
She saw no one.
Kathryn walked towards the dumpster, opening her purse.
It was only half a minute later that she heard the door behind
her creak open, then gently click shut again.
"You know how many people claim to have dirt on
Carson
?" his voice rang. She did
not reply, except with her gloved hand around the handle of the pistol.
"Most of them don't pan out.
Some of 'em are even just attempts
to get into my pants. You'd
better not be wasting my time."
"I'm not," she replied in her own clear voice.
She heard him step towards her.
"Wait a minute..."
Kathryn spun around, leveling the pistol at his chest.
Curt stopped short, his eyes widening.
She almost laughed at his expression as she pulled the trigger.
Within two minutes, she was out of the alley and climbing back into the
Escort. An hour later, she tossed
a garbage bag into a roadside dumpster near
San Clemente
. An hour after that, she slipped
into a peaceful sleep.
***
The milling crowd at the mouth of the alley was held back only by a couple
of rather bewildered looking patrolmen as the crime scene investigators
went about their grim business.
Many of the onlookers were partygoers who were being asked, informally,
to stay for questioning. But
many more were media, and the patrolmen were constantly dazzled by flashbulbs
and TV camera lights.
Murder is always hot news, murder and politics, more so.
Murder, politics, and sex make for some of the best news
of all.
A single figure managed to make his way through the crowd, a shuffling,
grey-headed, ruffled figure in a battered tan coat obviously slapped on in
half a stupor. He clenched the
cigar in his teeth as though it were the only thing keeping his eyes open.
Sergeant Kramer waved Lieutenant Columbo over; the latter
looked over his shoulder back at the crowd as he approached.
"Hey, Sergeant. Did
you see that group back there?"
"Sure did."
"There are some VERY interesting people there."
Kramer sighed. "I guess you
could call 'em that."
"I mean, the things some of '
em are wearing?
Very revealing. Lucky
it's not too cold. And the women!
I haven't seen outfits like that in a LONG time, not since
the days when Mrs. Columbo and I used to go out dancin
', and..."
"Uh, Lieutenant..."
"There was this one lady who was dressed up just like Marilyn Monroe, except
that..."
"Lieutenant!" Kramer interrupted, a little more sharply than he'd
intended. "I
dunno how to tell you this, but it's a little important in this
case." He swallowed.
"Those..."
Columbo leaned forward, interested.
"Yes?"
"Aren't women."
"Whaddya mean, those aren't...?"
He paused, and looked behind him again.
He turned back with a new dawn in his
eyes "
Oooooohhhh. I get it.
Y'know, they're really quite
good - you can hardly tell.
Amazing what you can do with makeup these days."
"The victim's name is Curtis Marshak," the
sergeant replied, forcing the topic along.
He nodded towards the corpse at his feet; a young man with
spiked blonde hair lay spread-eagled on the ground, a flower of blood staining
his shirt over his heart. "He's
sort of the big spokesman for gays.
One of his, uh, friends got worried when he disappeared for
a while and went looking for him.
Found him out here sometime around
11:15
."
Columbo kneeled next to the body, his eyes already flickering left and
right. "Anyone touch anything?"
"Well, the friend said he felt for a pulse, but otherwise, no.
You wanna talk to him?"
"Not yet." Columbo rubbed his
chin. "Hey,
Sarge, you notice that his pants are undone?"
"Yeah, and the condom in his hand."
Columbo nodded as he examined the condom, a latex Trojan
according to the torn open wrapper, resting in the victim's right hand.
"Looks like he came out here to mess
around with someone, and got shot for his troubles.
Seemed the guy only wanted some easy
money." Kramer's foot
jerked in the direction of a slim leather wallet lying in the street near
the body.
Columbo pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and picked it up.
"No cash, no credit cards.
ID is still here, and..."
He stopped. "Huh."
"What is it, Lieutenant?"
"Condoms." He plucked
a pair out of one of the innermost pockets.
"Odd."
"What's so odd 'bout that?
With AIDS and everything, he'd be an idiot not to have '
em ."
"But they're not the same brand as the one in his hand."
Columbo scratched his head as he handed the wallet to a passing
CSI officer. "Why would he be
using a different brand as the one he had on hand?"
Kramer shrugged. "Maybe it
belonged to the perp."
"Maybe. But then why
would the victim be holding it?
Why would the killer hand it to him?"
"The victim wanted to put it on himself.
I dunno."
Columbo shook his head.
"Maybe."
"Look, Lieutenant, these people do things pretty differently from the rest
of us. You can't just assume..."
"What people do you mean, Sergeant?"
The question was perfectly calm; indeed, Columbo was still examining
the ground around the victim as he said it.
But a slight chill came over the air that even Kramer could
feel.
"You know who I mean... I mean...
Nothing, Lieutenant."
He cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"Don't you think it's strange," Columbo continued in his normal tone, as
if nothing had happened, "that someone who intended to rob this man would
put on a charade like this, especially if he was gonna
shoot him anyway? Why not
just demand the money? Why let
it get to the point where he got out a condom, and, uh, unzipped pants?"
"Lover's spat, maybe?"
"Maybe," Columbo said for the third time, with the same doubtful tone.
"You said the friend was still here?"
"Yeah. Mr. Alvarez?
Could you come here, please?"
He waved over a Hispanic man with a haunted look in his eyes.
"I'm very sorry about your friend, sir."
The other man nodded. "Thanks."
"I'm Lieutenant Columbo. I'm
with Homicide. I know this may
not be the best time, but it would really help if you could answer a few
questions."
He nodded. "I'll help any way
I can."
"Do you have any idea who could have done this?"
"No. Everyone in the community
loved Curt. He..."
"Community? You mean
here in
Los Angeles
?"
"What? Oh, no, no.
He was based in
San Francisco
. I meant the gay community,
Lieutenant."
"Ah. I'm sorry, please, continue."
Alvarez coughed. "Well, like
I told the Sergeant here, we were together at the party for most of the
evening."
"Were you two... uh..."
Columbo turned a little red.
"No, we weren't involved, Lieutenant.
Just friends.
We met in college."
"I see. Go on, please."
"Anyway, this was supposed to celebrate the pride rally that was held today.
Curt and I arrived around 10 or so.
We were mostly drinking and people-watching, really.
Then Curt excused himself, said he'd be back.
After a while, I got tired of waiting by myself, so I went
looking for him, but he wasn't anywhere in the building.
I thought he might've tried to go back to the hotel early,
so I decided to check to see if his car was still here.
It's parked near here, so I came through the back exit.
That's when I saw..."
A choke rose in his throat, and it took a couple of moments of
closed eyes and breathing to calm him.
Columbo waited patiently.
"I felt for a pulse, but there wasn't any.
I went inside and called the police, and that's about it
until you arrived." He shuddered.
Columbo easily and casually laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"It's all right.
Take your time. I know this
is a tough question to answer, but... Was Mr. Marshak
involved with anyone? Or could
he have met someone and come out here to...?"
Alvarez laughed bitterly. "Was
he one of those promiscuous queers you hear about all the time?
Was that what you meant?"
"No, no, not at all..."
He shook his head. "You wouldn't
be asking that question if you knew Curt.
You know, men are men, no matter who they like to sleep
with. Some of them are just
pigs. Curt was about the
furthest thing from a pig that you can imagine.
Hell, I might've been interested in dating him if he wasn't
so much like a brother to me.
But casual sex?
Never."
"Did you see or hear anything that you think might have something to do
with his murder?"
"Let me think. There was one
thing. This drag queen passed
by us not long before we separated..."
"Drag queen. That's
one of those fellas who
dresses up like a woman, right?"
