Chapter 5

ON MONDAY morning Thomas fingered the scrap of paper with the number Randy had read to him over the phone. He felt reluctant to call the police for any reason after the treatment he was subjected to during the Rumson mess. But Brian Gallagher was dead, and if Thomas could help bring his killer to justice, he would talk to the detective.

He pressed his intercom. “Anne, can you free up twenty minutes or so this afternoon on my schedule? I need to handle something personal.”

“Yes, sir,” his secretary responded. After a few moments, she called him back to say she had moved a meeting, so he was free at one thirty.

At the designated time, Thomas finished eating a chicken salad sandwich at his desk, threw away the wrapper, and closed his office door. He dialed the number Randy had given him and waited.

“Torres,” he heard a woman say in clipped tones.

“Detective, my name is Thomas Scarborough. Randy Vaughan at Mata Hari said you want to talk to me about Brian Gallagher.”

He heard a chair squeak as Torres apparently sat down. “Thank you for calling, Mr. Scarborough. I understand you were in Tokyo?” Her tone was polite and friendly.

Ah, we’re going to start with pleasantries.

“That’s right. I spoke at a conference there. I just got back late last night.”

“I appreciate you calling me quickly, then. So as I’m sure Mr. Vaughan told you, I’m investigating the murder on the thirteenth. How well did you know Mr. Gallagher?” she asked.

“Well, I don’t really know him. Didn’t know…. I mean, I met him at the bar, we hooked up one time, and that was it.”

“Is that a common practice for you, to hook up with someone you don’t really know?”

Thomas bristled. “I don’t see how that’s relevant, but yes, I normally keep my sex life separate from my friends.”

“No boyfriend?” Torres asked.

Thomas snapped, “Oh, come on. I didn’t know I was calling in to a morals lecture.”

“Mr. Scarborough, I couldn’t care less what you do in bed as long as it had nothing to do with Brian Gallagher’s death. But let me rephrase my question. Do you have a boyfriend who might get jealous about your hookups?”

Thomas gritted his teeth. “No. No boyfriend. No lover, husband, wife, significant other, any of that.”

“Thank you for that thorough answer.” Thomas could hear a pen scratching as she apparently took notes of their conversation. “Now help me with the timeline, please. When exactly did you meet Gallagher?”

“It must have been on the sixth, because I think it was exactly a week before I saw him again. We met at Mata Hari that evening, talked for an hour or so, and then I took him home. He left a few hours later, and the next time I talked to him was on the thirteenth.”

“What did you talk about the night you met?”

“Jesus, I don’t know. It was bar talk,” Thomas said. “He was flirting with me, and I was in the mood. We just exchanged the usual banter until we decided to leave together.”

“Did he say anything to indicate he was worried? Maybe he had a boyfriend he was cheating on?”

“No, he didn’t tell me anything like that. He seemed fairly relaxed, and I didn’t get the sense he was nervous or hiding.”

“Okay. Where did you go when you left the bar?”

“My apartment.”

“And…?” Torres prompted.

“And.” Thomas was exasperated. “We had sex. Is that what you want to know? We had sex. Then he left.”

“How many times did you have sex?”

What the fuck?

“How can that be relevant?”

“Humor me, Mr. Scarborough. This is a murder investigation, not a talk show. I’m not asking the details of your life for shits and grins.”

Thomas ran a hand back through his hair and snorted. “Two times. We had sex twice. Then I showed him out about one in the morning.”

“Impressive. My boyfriend hasn’t managed twice in the same night for about two years.”

Thomas said drily, “I feel sorry for you, Detective.”

She chuckled mirthlessly and continued her questions. “Did you exchange phone numbers or addresses with Gallagher?”

“No. He asked for my number, in fact, and I said that wasn’t a good idea.”

“Why wasn’t it a good idea?”

“I don’t hook up with men more than once,” Thomas said. “I don’t like complications.”

“No boyfriend. No repeats. Interesting.”

Thomas could hear more scratching of her pen, and it began to bug the shit out of him. He barked into the phone, “Detective Torres, I only have twenty minutes. Is there anything you’d like to ask me about Brian Gallagher, or are you just going to armchair psychoanalyze me?”

Her tone changed abruptly from friendly to serious. “Did you talk to Gallagher or see him between the time he left your apartment and the evening of the thirteenth?”

“No, as I already said. And I didn’t expect to see him on the thirteenth either. I was in Mata Hari having a drink, and he came up to me.”

“What did you talk about on the thirteenth?”

“He started rubbing my shoulder, and he whispered that he wanted me to, umm, have sex with him again.”

“I’m a cop. You can say ‘fuck.’ How did you respond?”

“I was talking to someone else, so I shook his hand off my shoulder, and I said that wasn’t going to happen.”

“By someone else do you mean another hookup?”

“Maybe if you got laid more, you wouldn’t be as judgmental about my sex life.”

“Maybe if you had talked to Gallagher, he’d still be alive.”

Thomas inhaled sharply. “I’m not appreciating the abuse, Detective. I’ve given you my time, and you chose to waste it on your own personal bullshit. If you have no further relevant questions to ask, then I’m going to hang up now.”

Torres ignored his fit of pique and continued to ask questions. “Who were you talking to when Gallagher approached you?”

“A friend. Terry Krasnopoler. We chatted at the bar for about an hour, I think, after Gallagher came and went.”

“Mr. Vaughan said he made a scene. Gallagher, I mean.”

“Yes. When I told him we weren’t going to get together again, he asked me to go out with him for dinner, and I said that wasn’t going to happen either. He said some unflattering things about the size and firmness of my penis, grabbed my glass from the bar, and threw what was left of my scotch in my face. Then he slammed down the glass and left.”

“And what did you do when he threw the drink in your face?”

“Try not to sound so amused, Detective. It’s unprofessional. Randy gave me a bar towel to dry off my face and shirt, and I kept talking to Terry and to Randy.”

“All right. When did you leave Mata Hari that night?”

“It was about eleven. I don’t know exactly, but I was home by eleven thirty because I noticed the clock when I walked in.”

“Who can confirm you were at the bar until eleven?”

“Well, Randy, of course. And Terry was there talking for a while, but he left before me. Oh, and Miss Ethel. That’s Ethel Johnson. She plays piano at Mata Hari Tuesday to Saturday. I bought her a drink and chatted with her between sets that evening. I left when she went back to play.”

“I’d like those names and their contact information to confirm your recollection of the time.”

“All right,” Thomas said and read to her Terry and Miss Ethel’s full names and phone numbers from the contact app on his phone. “Should I assume I’m a suspect, Detective?” he asked calmly.

“That’s a loaded word, Mr. Scarborough,” she answered. “You had a public altercation with a man who ended up dead a few hours later. Let’s leave it as person of interest for now.”

“Let’s,” Thomas agreed caustically. “I had nothing to do with Brian Gallagher’s death, and you’ll note that I didn’t ask for a lawyer to be on the line when we spoke. But I’ll leave you to your investigation.”

TORRES SAT back in her chair after Scarborough disconnected the call. He’d confirmed some of the details from her prior interview of Sandra Yu, including that Scarborough and Gallagher had sex two times, Scarborough didn’t give his phone number, and Gallagher approached him without making a prior date. She circled that item in her notes. It meant Scarborough probably didn’t know in advance where Gallagher would be that night.

She’d call the contacts he gave but felt little doubt they would also check out. On the other hand, Gallagher was likely killed between midnight and three a.m., so Scarborough’s timeline didn’t give him an alibi. Another moment’s thought, though, and she dismissed the point. Scarborough was clearly intelligent, and her quick research indicated he was a lawyer himself. If he were involved, he would likely have been more clever about his cover story.

She deliberately tried to rile him up with the personal questions, but his answers didn’t set off her bullshit detector. Revenge over a public scene? Unlikely. Scarborough held an important political job. He wouldn’t have that with a flaring temper. Still her instincts told her Gallagher making a scene at the bar and then getting killed a few hours later was not a coincidence. Somehow he drew the wrong attention.

She needed to do some more work on Thomas Scarborough.