“Princess?” Willie said and laughed outright, or giggled outright, or both. “That’s what we called him.”
“Not very butch,” Walt said.
“Do you think he jumped?” I said.
Walt said, “No.”
Willie shook his head. His hair was so blond I assumed he colored it.
“Then you think he was, ah, defenestrated?”
Walt said, “Yes.”
Willie nodded. The nod shook loose some hair above his right ear and he tucked it back in place with a practiced pat.
“You have any idea who?”
Walt said, “No.”
Willie shook his head. His hand went automatically to his head to see that the hair hadn’t shaken down again.
“Or why?”
“No.”
Shake. Pat the hair in place.
“Was he having an affair with Robinson Nevins?”
“Oh, gawd no,” Willie said. “That square little prig. Don’t be silly.”
I looked at Walt.
“No.”
“So you know Professor Nevins.”
“He’s a damned Tom,” Willie said.
“Easy for you to say.”
“Yeah, well maybe I’m not black but I know about oppression.”
“Most of us have,” I said.
“Oh, really? Well, who has oppressed you, Mister Straight White Male?”
“Guy shot me last year,” I said.
“That’s kind of oppressive,” Walt said.
“Well, Robinson Nevins is a traitor to his people,” Willie said.
“Who are?”
“Every person of color,” Willie said.
“Heavy burden,” I said. “He out?”
“Out?”
Walt and Willie said it at the same time.
“Nevins isn’t gay,” Walt said. “He hasn’t got the soul to be gay.”
“He’s the straightest priss I ever saw,” Willie said. “He hire you?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“Then who are you working for?”
“Friend of his father’s,” I said. “Why are you so sure that Prentice didn’t kill himself?”
“He had no reason to,” Walt said. “I saw him the morning before it happened. He wasn’t depressed. He’d, ah, he’d met somebody the night before and was excited about it.”
“A lover?”
“Potentially.”
“You know who?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“No.”
“He out any people who might have resented it?”
“Lot of people who are outed resent it, but it has to be done.”
“For the greater good,” I said.
“Absolutely,” Willie said.
“Anyone that might have been really mad?”
“Not to throw Prentice out a window,” Walt said.
“Any to-be-outed that might have wanted to forestall him?”
“Oh, come on,” Walt said. “This isn’t some cops and robbers movie.”
“How’d he find the names of people to out?”
“You go to the gay bars, you hear talk at parties, you talk to your friends, see some big contributors to gay-type charities, you sort of nose around, see what you can find out.”
“Investigative reporting,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“You have a file?”
“A file?”
“Of people you suspect that you may out if you can compile enough gossip?”
Willie’s eyes went to the desk and flicked away. I’m not sure he was even aware that they’d moved.
“That’s not fair,” Walt said. “It’s more than gossip.”
“You have a file?”
“No.”
I went to the desk and opened the center drawer.
“Hey,” Walt said. “You got no right to be looking in there.”
I paid no attention. And neither Walt nor Willie pressed the issue. I found nothing in the center drawer. The side drawer was locked.
“Open it,” I said.
“I have no key,” Walt said.
I nodded and went to the window. I leaned on it hard and after a struggle got it closed.
“Prentice about your size?” I said to Willie.
“Un huh.”
“Open the window,” I said.
“You just closed it.”
“Humor me,” I said. “Open it.”
Willie shrugged expressively and went to the window and pushed. It didn’t move. He strained until his small face was red. The window didn’t move. Walt watched frowning.
“Let me try,” he said.
He was bigger and looked like he worked out some. He couldn’t budge it either.
“So what’s that prove,” Willie said. “That you’re macho man?”
Walt shook his head.
“Prentice couldn’t have opened that window,” Walt said.
“So if he jumped he either got someone to open it for him,” I said, “or he waited around until it was open.”
“My gawd,” Willie said, “he really didn’t jump.”
“Probably not,” I said. “You got a key to that drawer?”
“Sure,” Walt said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The drawer contained a long list of names of people being considered for outing. I took it with me and back issues of OUTrageous. It wasn’t like Belson to have missed the window. It was probably open when he arrived and he never tried it. I took the stuff back to my office and put it on my desk in a neat pile and looked at the pile. Maybe tomorrow.
I pulled the phone over and called Hall, Peary.
“Louis Vincent, please.”
I got switched to his secretary who told me that Mr. Vincent was in a meeting and could he call me back. I said no and hung up. I looked at the pile of material on my desk. I got up and made coffee and drank some. I looked at the pile. I finished my coffee and got up and walked downtown to State Street to see if Louis Vincent was out of his meeting.
He was. But he was on the phone to Tokyo and really couldn’t see anybody today without an appointment. His secretary was maybe twenty-three, the kind of athletic-looking young woman who walks to work in her running shoes and sweat socks, carrying her heels in a Coach bag. I tried out one of my specialty smiles – paternal, yet seductive, which is usually very effective with athletic young women. She smiled back. Though she might have been responding to the paternal, and ignoring the seductive. Takes all kinds.
“I can wait,” I said.
“Certainly,” she said, “though I really can’t encourage you.”
“That’s okay.”
I took out one of my business cards, and wrote on the back of it, KC Roth. I handed it to the secretary.
“If you’ll just give him this, perhaps he’ll be able to squeeze me in.”
“Worth a try, sir,” she said and took my card.
As she went into Vincent’s office I noticed that she must have done a lot of work on the StairMaster. I noticed also that she didn’t look at the card. In shape and discreet was a good combination. She was in there maybe two minutes and when she came out she smiled at me.
“He’ll see you in just a moment,” she said.
“It’s the business card,” I said. “It pays to get a quality print job.”
She smiled again.
“I’m sure it does,” she said.
The office door opened and a man stood in the doorway in full upwardly mobile regalia. He was a tall man who looked like he’d be good at racquet sports. He wore a blue striped shirt with a white collar and a pink bow tie, wide pink suspenders, and the trousers of a dark blue pinstripe suit. His blond hair was longish and combed straight back like Pat Riley’s, and his skin had the ruddy look of health and maybe Retin A.
“Spenser? Come on in.”
I went in. He must have been churning a lot of accounts. It was a corner office, filled with pictures of family and horses and famous clients, trophies from tennis tournaments, and ribbons from horse shows. His children looked like the kids you see in cereal commercials. His wife looked like a model. The jacket of his blue suit hung on a coat hanger on a coatrack behind the door. There was a pink silk pocket square showing. He gestured me to a seat in front of his desk. The diamonds in his heavy gold cuff links glinted in the understated light from his green shaded desk lamp. He glanced at his watch. A Rolex, how surprising.