Adam's Witness Page 5

  Handbag tucked under her arm, she approached the mirror with trepidation. Tired eyes looked back at her, with black half-circles underneath. She looked pale, too, but that wasn’t really unusual for an overworked redhead. Blessed with beautiful if untamed curls, Grace’s hair was holding up, but she patted a little concealer under her eyes, added a bit of lipstick, swept on some mascara and felt a bit better.

  Walking out of the newsroom and waving to John, Grace felt quite vindicated to be leaving in the middle of the evening instead of at two in the morning, as she had three nights before. That being said, she was going to talk to a potential suspect and certainly a good contact, so the workday wasn’t really over yet.

  Grace drove the few blocks over to Divas and lucked into a spot on the street not far from the club’s entrance, which was located down a fairly dark and forbidding alley. At this time of night, not a lot of people were headed for the club — it was much too early for the serious clubbers — but a few were walking down the alley, laughing, chatting and teasing, coming down for an early drink.

  Grace had been in plenty of forbidding places in her reporting life and experienced little fear, but heading into the dark was a little different the night after finding a body. She was glad for the other club-goers.

  She was a little earlier than she expected to be, so the music was not yet deafening and the conversation was still a thrum instead of a full-out bellow. Coloured lights were swirling and flashing, and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. She looked around for Bruce, wondering if he had arrived yet.

  “Good evening, Grace,” said a voice on her left. She turned to see a tall man with his thumb and forefinger extending his lapel, which indeed bore a lush, red rose. His entire face smiled at her, eyes twinkling, as he executed a slight bow.

  “Hello, Bruce,” said Grace, extending her hand and feeling a wide grin spread across her face. “Beautiful rose.”

  “Thank you. I did have to dress up a little, in order to actually wear the rose. A little upscale, perhaps, for this scene.”

  “I appreciate the effort,” said Grace, taking in the man’s appearance.

  “It wern’t nothin’, ma’am,” said Bruce, in his best John Wayne accent. “Let’s grab one of those tables at the back. It should be quiet back there.”

  He was wearing a blue silk jacket, complete with a rose hole, over a white shirt and dark blue jeans. Gentlemen with dark brown hair and navy eyes looked very nice in blue, noted Grace, who had noticed that several times over the last few days. Much like Adam Davis, she realized, Bruce was very attractive, very at home in his body, and she could see the humour in his face. Meeting him, she understood why she liked him so much on the phone.

  Divas was a gay club, but no one looked twice at Bruce leading Grace to a table. The crowd at Divas was accepting of any and all combinations of couples or groups.

  Bruce carried an imported beer, and after asking her what she wanted, ordered a dry white wine. Grace felt a twang of guilt over having a drink while working, but thought, what the hell. She could use a little lubrication after the last twenty-four hours. And she wanted to fit into this environment as much as possible.

  They made small talk as they settled into a booth. Then Grace started to turn the conversation to the topic at hand.

  “Have you rescheduled your concert?” she asked.

  “Not yet. It seems — well, unseemly,” said Bruce. “The bishop dies in the church where our concert was supposed to be, but we got kicked out. Then we rebook in another venue down the street. I don’t know; it feels insensitive, somehow.

  “The other thing is that I wonder how we’d be received right now. We could get lots of support, but maybe not. I’m just not sure. Alan thinks we should wait a bit, and I agree.”

  “Point taken. I hadn’t thought of it that way,” said Grace. “Have you talked to any chorus members? How are they feeling about the bishop’s death? I mean, it’s likely you’re all suspects, as we said on the phone.”

  “A couple of them are a bit scared,” said Bruce. “There are always the more-sensitive types, and those who are more relaxed about things. The sensitive ones are a bit jumpy. I don’t think anyone likes police interviews. That being said, as far as I know, the police haven’t contacted any of us yet aside from Alan and the soloists.”

  “Tell me a bit more about the chorus. How long has it been around? Have you had any other issues?”

  “Oh yes, plenty of problems. The chorus has been together about fifteen years, I think; I joined a few years ago. We’ve had heckling, and in the early days, we had to really hunt for venues. But the last three or four years have been great, very smooth, and no problems with venues until we got booted from St. Eligius. That’s not to say some of our members don’t get harassed; but as a choir, we are doing really well, generally speaking.”

  “Do your concerts make money?”

  “Not much. Enough to keep us in black pants, white shirts and sheet music. We’re strictly a community choir; there is no profit motive.”

  “Profit motive,” repeated Grace. “What exactly do you do for a living?”

  “I’m an investment banker,” said Bruce, laughing.

  “Ah,” said Grace. “I hate to ask this, but do you think there is any serious animosity among the choir members toward the church?”

  “Of course. They are . . . ” Bruce hesitated. “They’re angry. It’s so offensive. The chorus is a professional group — I mean, most of us are professionals. We don’t show up for concerts dressed in drag, for Christ’s sake. Although if we did, that should still be our prerogative. And the Pride Chorus is not an activist organization, either. We do it for the fun, the art, and the social connection.” He stopped, and swallowed. “Sorry. I think I’m preaching.”

  “No, you’re fine. I asked, remember.” Grace realized she was raising her voice. The music was getting louder. “What would you think of a story about a few of the members? Who they are, what they do for a living, a few personal details? We could add some information about the chorus itself, its history and so on. I think, especially considering recent events, that people would find it very interesting.”

  Bruce thought for a moment, contemplating Grace across the table.

  “Can I give it some thought? I’m not entirely against the idea. It might be good for us; it might have some nasty side effects. This is still not the most open-minded community on Earth. We just got kicked out of a church, after all, bizarre as it is. It is getting better, though.”

  “Of course you can think about it. I realize it’s a big question.” Grace handed over her card. “You can always reach me at these numbers.”

  “Thanks, Grace. I do appreciate the opportunity, you know. I just have to make sure I think it’s the right thing to do.”

  Bruce glanced to his right, and Grace, following his eyes, landed her own on a familiar figure.

  Approaching them was the police constable, James Weatherall, looking very much unlike a policeman apart from his official haircut. Grace tried to hide her astonishment, but when James hugged Bruce and gave him a light kiss, she gave up.

  “Hi, Ms. Rampling,” said James. “You look surprised to see me.”

  “Hi, Constable Weatherall,” said Grace. “I suppose I am. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry about my uncontrollable face. I think I’m more surprised that you know each other.”

  “Grace, James. James, Grace. Can we do first names at the club, or is that a breach of protocol?” asked Bruce, who knew from James that Grace had been at the police station giving a statement.

  “I don’t know,” said Grace. “I was definitely Ms. Rampling at the police station.”

  “I think it’s okay,” said the constable. “Grace.”

  “James,” said Grace, inclining her head in a nod along with the new greeting. Now what? she asked herself. Should she determine if Bruce and James were a couple, or just dating, or what? Was it her business anyway? Should she just leave?

  “I
know what you’re thinking,” said Bruce, clearly reading her mind. “And yes. We’re a couple. It was going to become apparent sooner or later, and besides, what is there to hide, really? Except that my spouse is a cop investigating a murder in which I am probably the prime suspect. No problem,” he added, bitterly. “What could go wrong?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Grace. “That must be tough.”

  “It is,” admitted James. “It has only been — what, about three days since you found the bishop? And we’ve really had to be extra nice to each other. It’s pretty weird. We’ll get through it. I’m going to have to figure out a way not to be there when they call Bruce in for an interview, for sure. I may have to remove myself from the investigation. That would suck.”

  “I think we should dance,” Bruce shouted. “It’s really getting too loud to talk much.”

  “When you say, ‘we?’” Grace asked, at the top of her voice.

  “All three of us. Let’s dance.”

  Grace loved to dance, and couldn’t resist. It was really a riot, dancing at a club with two of the handsomest men in the room.

  The hotter elements of the Divas experience would come later. Some nights, hetero men who found a gay male audience erotic and exhilarating would hit the stage to strip. Men in flamboyant drag would do the same. Sometimes, confused and lost members of the public would wander in, experience shock, and either stay for the fun or leave appalled. And sometimes, a lunatic homophobe would appear. The security guards were therefore very, very large — even bigger than Adam Davis.

  It wasn’t Grace’s first time at the club, but it was her first time as a patron. Soon, it dawned on her that the fun should really be over; she should be keeping some personal distance from Constable Questioner and Prime Suspect.

  A bit breathlessly, Grace yelled in Bruce’s ear, “I really should get going. Have to work tomorrow.”

  “Too bad, Grace. Are you sure?” he yelled back.

  She nodded. “I’ve been here too long as it is. But thank you. It was great meeting you, and don’t forget about my request.”

  “I won’t. I do appreciate the offer, as I said,” Bruce said in her ear. “I’ll walk you to the door, so we don’t have to yell.”

  Grace waved goodbye to James, gathered her stuff, and headed for the door. She shook Bruce’s hand.

  “Thanks again.”

  “Should I walk you to your car? It’s dark and can be a bit intense out there. How far are you?”

  “I’m just half a block up on Third Avenue.” Grace thought about his offer. Who was safer out there? A female reporter or a gay man just leaving Divas? But there were always people coming and going in the alley.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, finally. “We’ll talk in a couple of days?”

  “Absolutely. Cheers, Grace. Take care.”

  Grace ventured into the alley, looking both ways first. She started walking quickly down the cobblestoned, garbage-strewn, stinking corridor. The shadows surrounding the massive garbage cans were great places to lurk, thought Grace. She was only a few feet from the main street, and started to relax.

  “You fucking fag-loving bitch,” came a growl from the shadows. “You fucking fag lover.”

  Grace didn’t have to think about it. She ran. The voice’s owner was in hot pursuit. With a sickening mental lurch, she realized instantly that this person was unbalanced. How did he know she was at Divas? Why did he care?

  Grace had been trained not to confront and attempt to reason with crazed people in solitary situations — she was a journalist, not a cop — so she said nothing and kept running, tripping and sliding on the greasy stones. He was gaining on her and spewing filth as he came.

  Then he was right behind her. Grace screamed as she felt his presence, smelled his stink over the reeking alley, not a foot away. A whoosh of air behind her told her he had a weapon.

  “Grace!” someone shouted, just before a blow landed on the side of her head, and glanced down on her shoulder.

  She felt consuming, intense pain, as the cobblestones seemed to rise up, meeting her hip and knee and face. All she could see was her own blood running into her eyes. Then nothing.

  *******

  Bruce Stephens lingered at the doorway. It was quieter and cool, and he kept an eye on the reporter, who perhaps didn’t really need to walk down the alley alone.

  He watched Grace as she became enveloped by darkness near the end of the alley. She was almost at her car. Just as he turned to rejoin James inside, he heard a voice. Then he heard her scream.

  “Grace!” he yelled. “Grace!” No response came. “Answer me!”

  But there was silence, apart from a brief scuffling sound. Bruce started running, calling over his shoulder for the security guard to get James and then get his ass down the alley.

  It was slippery and dark, but Bruce was moving. He found Grace less than a minute later. He crouched over her, saw the blood flowing from her wound, then cradled her head against himself, away from the hard cobblestones. In seconds, his blue jacket was as red as his rose.

  *******

  Adam was sort of enjoying the reasonably quiet, relatively crime-free night. It made for a long shift, but if he had to be in the office, it was a good time to read over the details of the Halkitt murder.

  “Hey, Charlotte,” he said to one of the constables, who was reading the same information. Charlotte Warkentin had a fantastic mind for details, and for crime scene visualization; Adam was always glad to have her working on his cases, especially for testing theories. He was very, very fond of the older constable.

  “Says here that Halkitt was five foot nine. Not a tall guy. That means pretty much half the adult population, or more, could have bashed him on the head. Plus it looks like he, or she, I suppose, was right-handed. If the killer was left-handed, he would have landed the weapon on the back of the head, not on the side of the head. Right?”

  By the way the body was lying in the aisle of the cathedral, it appeared that Halkitt had turned slightly before the attack.

  “Exactly right,” said Charlotte, who cared about exactitude. “That doesn’t exactly narrow down the possible murderers, does it? Anyone five-six or taller could have done it — although probably not someone very tall — and someone right-handed. I bet he or she had mousy brown hair and blue eyes, too,” she added, sighing.

  “How strong would someone have to be to raise the murder weapon, whatever the hell it is, and then bash this guy to death, do you think?”

  “Depends on the weapon, of course — how heavy it is, which we know is pretty heavy by the look of the wound, and how long. Anyway, it wouldn’t likely be someone slight or weak, but it wouldn’t have to be someone incredibly powerful, either. Again, it’s the universal suspect.”

  A quick knock at the door was immediately followed by a head poking in.

  “Sarge, got a 911 call. Weatherall says you need to be there,” said the police officer.

  “What the hell is he doing responding to a 911 call?” asked Adam. “He has the night off.”

  “He called it in, Sarge.”

  Adam was momentarily stunned into silence. That was really bizarre.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asked the constable.

  “Beats me, Sarge,” the constable answered, retreating.

  Adam’s cellphone started to ring, and James’s name appeared on the screen. He snatched the phone off the desk and answered it quickly.

  “James. What the hell is going on?” asked Adam, repetitively.

  “Adam, the reporter, you know, Grace — um, Ms. Rampling — has been attacked. The ambulance is just arriving,” he added, although that was obvious to Adam, who could hear the sirens approaching over the phone. “She’s bleeding like crazy and unconscious.”

  “What the — where the hell are you?”

  “In the alley behind Divas. They’re putting her in the bus now . . . she’s headed for . . . just a sec,” said James. Turning to a paramedic, he asked, “Where’
s she going?”

  A mumble in the background. “She’s going to RUH, right now,” James said, returning to Adam. Royal University Hospital was the closest open emergency room, and possibly less likely to be backed up than St. Paul’s at that hour.

  “I’ll meet you there. You can tell me what the hell is going on at the hospital.”

  “Right, Sarge,” said James, reverting to protocol as he heard Adam’s strong, loud and very cranky voice. “See you there in five to ten.”

  Hanging up, Adam grabbed his jacket, turned to Charlotte Warkentin and said, “I’m going to the Royal’s ER. The reporter, our only witness, was just attacked.”

  “Oh, no. How is she?”

  “Don’t know yet,” said Davis, snagging his mobile phone as he headed out the door.

  “Want me to come, Sarge?”

  “Yes. Okay. Good idea. Let’s go.”

  *******

  James was pacing around the dirty and much-too-small triage area at RUH, waiting for Adam. He wouldn’t be more than a minute or two behind.

  When the Divas security guard came flying into the bar and got right into James’s face, hollering at him to get out into the alley, James sprung to his feet. Someone had been bashed on the head – for the second time in just over a day?

  He pushed his way through the crowd and hit the alley at a dead run. James was spectacularly fit and could go from zero to twenty-five in less time than it took most people to get out of bed.

  He reached the scene in seconds and found Bruce with Grace, saw the blood flowing out of her head and all over Bruce. Instantly he grabbed his phone and called 911, not sure if the security guard had had the presence of mind to do so.

  Then he called the boss. A very, very cranky boss.

  James saw Adam coming rapidly through the emergency room door, Charlotte Warkentin a step behind. At least a full head shorter than the big sergeant, and several years older, she was doing well to keep up with his long stride.

  “What the hell is going on?” Adam boomed at James, turning the heads of all the medical staff and the patients in triage. “And where the hell is Grace?”