Chapter 7

 

 

THOMAS HEADED into the Senate office building after brunch to prepare for an upcoming negotiation and was surprised when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but it was a DC area code, so he connected anyway.

“Mr. Scarborough, this is Detective Torres from the Metropolitan Police Department. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“Of course, Detective. I thought I had answered your questions, though…?”

“You did answer the questions I asked,” Torres said drily. “You told me that Brian Gallagher was a one-night stand, you had never spoken with him previously, he came into Mata Hari asking for another date, and you turned him down. Three people confirmed seeing you at the bar until eleven.”

“Then to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” Thomas asked.

“You neglected to mention Charles Rumson during our interview.”

His gut clenched in reaction to the name, and Torres probably heard the sharp intake of breath. He collected himself and then said in what he hoped was a calm voice, “I can’t imagine the relevance, Detective. If you know about Rumson, then you also know he’s dead.”

“Suicide. Yes, I found that. There were quite a few news stories about his death with pictures of you featured prominently. I guess you made for better tabloid covers. I didn’t expect you to look like a model, by the way. But it’s an odd coincidence, don’t you think?” Torres asked.

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“The restraining order Jason Scarborough took out on Charles Rumson over two years ago in Seattle recited that you had a one-night stand with him, but he then became obsessed with you to the point of breaking into your home. Now, three years later, Thomas Scarborough has a one-night stand with a man who is murdered, for no apparent reason, after he threw a drink in your face, by someone who broke into his apartment. Whoever did that took nothing, which tends to rule out robbery or even a random or drug-related break-in.

“My captain expects immediate answers every time a white boy is murdered, so I have to get creative. Maybe bark up a few wrong trees if necessary. Follow me now?” she asked sarcastically, and Thomas sighed.

“Yes, I understand. What do you want to know?”

“Can we meet today? I’d rather go over this in person,” Torres said.

“It’s Sunday. Don’t you have a life?” Thomas responded, annoyed. Then he realized he was better off getting it out of the way before Torres started to interfere with his work life. That was not something the chairwoman of his Senate committee would appreciate. “Fine. I have to be at Mata Hari this afternoon to go over some financial matters with Mr. Vaughan. Can we meet there?”

“Three o’clock?”

“I’ll see you then.”

 

 

THOMAS PULLED his blue Maserati into the parking lot between Mata Hari and Pyramid. On a Sunday afternoon, it was typically empty except for a few people who parked illegally before heading up P Street for brunch somewhere. He was itchy and irritated at the thought of having to relive the story of Charles Rumson, both for what it had done to derail Thomas’s life and because the Secret Service investigation at the time meant Detective Torres was probably wasting everybody’s time. Images flashed through his memory—tabloid covers with his face staring out, the wreckage of Rumson’s car at the bottom of a cliff, Rumson’s parents being herded into the cemetery. He drummed his fingers angrily on his steering wheel as he stared out at the parking lot and was briefly tempted to call a tow truck on the parked cars.

“Don’t be an asshole, Scarborough,” he said aloud. Then he got out, locked his car, and let himself in to Mata Hari. Randy had the house lights on, and a barback named Malcolm was setting new kegs of beer in place for the evening. Thomas pocketed his sunglasses as he called out a greeting.

“Hey, Mr. Scarborough. Randy’s in his office,” Malcolm said and pointed with his head because his hands were busy.

“Thanks, Mal. Hey, if you’re still around in about thirty minutes, a woman is coming to see me. Can you let us know when she gets here?”

“No problem,” Malcolm said and then grunted, “C’mon, you motherfucker,” as he tried to get a keg set.

Thomas made his way back to the office where Randy was working at his computer. He glanced up as Thomas entered and nodded toward a hard copy of a financial statement sitting on his desk.

“Figured it would be easier to have you read paper than look over my shoulder,” Randy said. Then he noticed the look on Thomas’s face. “Who pissed in your Wheaties?” he asked.

“That detective, Torres. She’s coming by at three. She wants to know about Rumson.”

Randy’s eyes went wide. “What? That piece of shit is two years in the ground. How did his name come up?”

Thomas replayed his short conversation with Torres, and Randy shook his head. “She must be desperate for a lead. I ran that investigation on you myself when Grace brought you on board. Ten witnesses saw him drive off the cliff. The car was in Rumson’s name, and his family ID’d the body right away. It isn’t like there were any loose ends.”

“I know. Believe me.” The burning in Thomas’s gut had turned to worry, and he was nauseated. “Randy, you don’t think it could happen again, do you? Could I have picked up another stalker?”

Randy stood up and came around the desk to grip Thomas’s shoulders in his huge hands. “No fuckin’ way. That shit is like lightning. It doesn’t strike twice. I get that you fucked Gallagher, but I’d seen him around. He was no Boy Scout. The odds of it having any connection to you are minimal.”

Thomas nodded, heartened by Randy’s assessment. “You’re probably right. Look. Since Torres dug up Rumson, she may want to know shit your Secret Service team found. Can we talk to her together, so maybe this whole thing gets put to rest at once?”

Randy said, “Sure, buddy. Let’s knock out the cash flow report until she gets here.”

 

 

DETECTIVE TORRES settled into a chair in Randy’s office and crossed her legs as she quirked her head at the bartender. “Do you have something to add to this discussion, Mr. Vaughan?”

“I might,” Randy said. “Do you know how I met Thomas?” She shook her head, and Randy said, “Let’s get that out of the way first. I used to be the head of the Secret Service detail for Senator Grace Gilbert.”

Torres looked puzzled. “I wasn’t aware that senators got Service protection.”

“They normally don’t,” Randy agreed, “but since she was also the Senate majority leader at the time, she rated coverage. She decided to hire Thomas for her office, so my team did the background check. This was about a month after Rumson’s death, and there obviously had been a lot of publicity. The Senator asked me to be thorough. I was.”

Torres scribbled notes. “And…?” she prompted.

“I told Senator Gilbert that Scarborough was the victim, Rumson was dead, and I saw no reason to expect that her hiring him would cause any issues. It was over.”

Torres didn’t look up from her notebook as she said, “I’m not doubting your investigation, Mr. Vaughan. Just doing my job.” She pushed her ponytail back out of the way as she looked up again and then said, “All right, Mr. Scarborough, can you tell me what happened?”

Thomas frowned. “If you agree with Randy, then why do I have to go through this again?”

“Just humor me, please. I’ve read the Seattle PD file, but I’d like to hear the story from you directly.”

Thomas sighed and sat back in his chair. “Fine. Where do you want me to start?”

“How did you meet Charles Rumson?”

“We actually knew each other in a vague way since we were young. His family was rich—richer than mine—and our fathers had done some real estate deal together. Our mothers did some charity committee work too. Anyway, we’d see each other at functions now and again growing up, but I never really thought of him as a friend.”

“Then how did the stalking begin?”

“I ran into him one night at a bar. It was completely random. I was looking for sex, and he was there. Charles was just attractive enough to draw my attention that evening, so I took him home. Worst mistake of my life.”

“What happened?”

“Well, it went badly pretty fast. He said he’d fantasized about me for years, and the fact that we had these family connections made him think we meant something more to each other than casual friends. It turned out to be his first time with a man—ever. The sex was actually terrible, so as soon as I got us both off, I tried to push him out the door. But he was sort of shy and needy, and I foolishly took pity on him. Maybe because I knew him a bit, I felt bad about kicking him out. So I let him stay.”

“Do you frequently let strangers stay the night?” Torres tilted her head at him.

“Not usually.” No one but Zach in I don’t know how long. “Look. With Charles I knew he had money, so it wasn’t like I worried about him robbing me,” Thomas explained and leaned forward in his chair. “That would actually have been so much better, to just get robbed.” He sighed and looked down at the floor.

“In the morning Charles had been through my kitchen cabinets and made me breakfast. He’d laid out my toothbrush, razor, and shaving cream in the bathroom. It was a bit creepy, but I still wrote it off as him trying too hard. He wasn’t the first man I’d brought home who’d never been with a guy before. They tended to be a bit starry-eyed afterward, which is why I usually tried to get them to leave.”

“Yeah. You’re a real class act. I can tell,” she commented, her eyes on her notebook as her pen scratched over the paper.

Randy grunted, and Thomas flushed angrily. “I’ve never led anyone on, Detective. I always made clear it was just about sex.”

“So Rumson, what, missed the memo?” she asked.

“I suppose so. I finally hustled him out the door, and then twenty minutes later, a bouquet of flowers showed up. When I got home from work that night, he had left a package with the doorman that had groceries in it to replace what he had used at breakfast. In the box was a note asking to see me again that night and including his phone number.”

“What an ogre.”

“Detective, I’m trying to get this over with quickly. If you feel the childish need to make a running commentary, you can save us both a lot of trouble and just go with the file you already have,” Thomas said, and heat crept up his neck to his ears.

Randy started to say something, but Torres flashed him a look and he kept his mouth shut. Torres prompted, “So did you call him? Rumson?”

“Of course not,” Thomas barked. “I ignored the note. I figured he’d get the hint. At two in the morning, though, my cell phone got a text from him. Now I definitely did not give him my phone number. I always made a point of not giving my number to anyone unless I decided I wanted a repeat visit.” Thomas flicked a glance at Randy and said to him, “That used to happen in those days, though never anything serious.”

He returned his attention to Torres and continued his story. “Anyway, the text said something like, ‘I waited at the bar until it closed. Can I come over?’ I wrote back something like, ‘Sorry, not a good idea,’ and shut my phone off. By morning there were fifteen texts and two voice messages from him.”

Torres looked up from her notebook. “From the file I gather things escalated after that,” she said, and Thomas nodded.

“Texts, e-mails, letters mailed to my apartment or left with the doorman. Charles contacted me everywhere. I left instructions with my building’s management that he was not a friend, no matter what he might say, and to tell him nothing about me and never to let him in.”

“Smart of you, but I’m guessing he didn’t take the hint?”

Thomas shook his head. “He showed up at the law firm one day and insisted we had a date for lunch. The receptionist called me. I tried to have him sent away, but it got so bad the firm’s managing partner called me in for an explanation.”

He cringed internally as he relived the embarrassment and dread of August Drake dragging him onto the carpet and then actually calling his father to complain that Thomas was becoming a problem for the law firm.

Focus. Thomas shook his hands in an attempt to release his building tension.

“I changed my phone number and got a new cell, which helped for a bit. But then I’d find love notes tucked under the windshield wiper on my car. I finally tried to talk to Charles. I agreed to meet him for coffee in a very public place, and he brought me an Omega watch.”

He felt his pits get damp as he pictured that overcast day and the outdoor café he had picked because it was popular and would be crowded. He remembered the glow in Charles’s brown eyes when he presented the watch and the flash of something bad when Thomas rejected the gift. He remembered thinking that Rumson might not be just overeager, but dangerous.

“I refused to take the watch, and I told him that there was nothing between us, that it was just a one-time thing, all of that. I remember he got angry for a second, but then it was gone. After that he just had this oddly patient look on his face, and he finally said, ‘I understand, Jason. I know you’re testing me, and I want you to know I am worthy of these tests and I will prove my love to you.’ Christ.” Thomas ran his clammy hands through his hair in frustration. “I didn’t know what to do. I just couldn’t get through to him.

“A week later I came home from the office late. I walked into my bedroom, and Charles was kneeling on the bed, naked, with all these sex toys spread out. He begged me to show him what he was doing wrong so he could give me what I needed. He, umm…. This is sick.”

Torres said with an edge in her voice, “I’m sure I’ve heard and seen worse than anything you’re about to tell me. Please don’t protect my delicate ears.”

Thomas scrubbed a hand over his face and took a long moment to fight down a tide of nausea. When he was ready, he nodded and said, “Okay. When I brought him home that one time, the night we met in the gay bar, he begged me to fuck him. He acted like he knew what he was doing, so I let him set the pace.” Thomas swallowed hard at a memory—Charles rolling to his hands and knees, thin white scars visible on his buttocks and back. “He rolled over and, shit, he asked me to rape him. Those were his words—‘Rape me.’

“I hoped he was kidding, but in any case, I wasn’t going to fuck him after that. I basically just jerked us both off. So here he was, weeks later, on my bed with some huge dildos lying there. He wanted me to use them on him. He said he’d take them for me to prove how much he loved me.” Thomas shivered as he recalled the fear he’d experienced that night as Charles smiled beatifically at him while surrounded by monstrous toys.

“Well, I turned around, and I ran straight to the front desk and begged the doorman to call the cops. I never saw Charles leave, but when the police finally showed up and went into the condo, there was no sign of him. I described him to the doorman, and he didn’t recall a man who looked like that coming into the building. He swore he hadn’t let anyone into my place. That’s when I went down to the police station. I filled out a report and got the restraining order.”

Thomas’s cheeks burned as he recalled the derision from the duty officer when he filed his complaint. He thought for a while they’d actually refuse to help him, and he heard some officers chuckling to each other about the fag and his boyfriend having a spat.

He brought himself back to the present and focused on Torres. “Anyway, I had all the locks replaced on my condo. I even changed my phone and cell numbers again.”

“Did that work?” she asked.

Thomas sighed. “I thought so at first because things seemed to calm down after that. About two weeks later, though, I came home from a bar with a guy I’d met.” At the look in Torres’s eye, Thomas turned red again. “Stop judging me. I was still scared, and I needed a distraction.

“Charles must have been watching or something, because he walked up to us at a streetlight less than a block from my condo building. He said he was so disappointed, how could our love mean so little to me that I would bring home another man, all kinds of bullshit like that. Of course the man I pulled gave up about ten seconds into this crap and left. I just started yelling at Charles that he had to leave me alone and that I felt nothing for him. I was so angry I had to clench my fists to keep from hitting him, but honest to God, I was terrified of him, and I thought that would make it worse. I thought he might actually like it and take it as encouragement. The doorman saw the confrontation and called the police. Charles was still there, begging me to love him, when they showed up a few minutes later. They arrested him for violating the restraining order.”

Thomas swallowed hard and said in a low voice, “It turned out he had a hunting knife on him. God knows what would have happened if the police hadn’t come.

“The papers picked up the story, of course. Since Rumson is a big name in Seattle, it got a lot of attention. The law firm let me know that this kind of publicity was very bad for business, and I should move on. I had trouble being alone in my condo, and I tried to go home, but my father was concerned about how that would look. He had plans to do more deals with Rumson Senior, and I had apparently put that at risk by being stupid enough to get involved with Charles. It didn’t help that it was just once. Everyone I knew seemed to assume it was my fault, that I had somehow invited this insanity into my life. Maybe they were right. You clearly think so,” he threw at Detective Torres.

Randy rocked forward in his chair and interjected, “Stop it, Thomas. This wasn’t your fault. I get how much you blame yourself, even now, but you were an asshat at worst, nothing more. You didn’t lead him on or encourage him. You don’t deserve what Rumson did to your life.”

Thomas grimaced. “Randy, I wish I believed that.”

“So the records all show Rumson is dead,” Torres said. “How did he die?”

Randy stood up to pace and groaned slightly when his knees creaked. He moved around the office as he answered Torres. “How did he die? Spectacularly. Thomas, tell me if I get this wrong, but about two weeks after the arrest, Rumson was out on bail. He hadn’t actually threatened Jason, I mean Thomas, and so his lawyer convinced a judge that he didn’t pose a present threat. Jason was notified, of course. Charles didn’t go after him again, but a few weeks later, he seemed to crack up entirely.

“He had this red Porsche Targa with vanity plates—sweet ride, from the pictures I saw—and one day he started showing up all over Seattle. I don’t know if you know the town, but he hit the big landmarks—first in Pike Place, then at the Needle, then at the zoo. He’d get out of his car and give these rambling declarations of love. People being people, of course, they filmed him on their camera phones. We collected several samples. Then he drove to Discovery Park, up where Fort Lawton was, if that means anything to you. He drove his Porsche off the road at Magnolia Bluff and plummeted down the side of a cliff.”

Randy finally sat back down as he said, “The coroner retrieved his body. Rumson’s mother identified it at the morgue that day, and it was officially declared a suicide.”

Thomas said quietly, “I didn’t know it was his mother. I can’t imagine what that must have done to Nan.”

Torres clicked her pen and sat back. “Okay. Those details are all consistent with the report I read, but I do appreciate your help, Mr. Scarborough. How did you come to live in Washington as Thomas instead of Jason?”

“Well, it was clear my legal career in Seattle was going to be a problem, and my father had no desire to take me into the family business. I knew Grace Gilbert through family connections. We had supported her three Senate campaigns and had thrown big fundraisers for her over the years. Grace and I had always gotten along well. I reached out to her about any staff positions she might have available, and she happened to need someone with real estate and environmental experience. Well, environmental law was my specialty at the firm, and I had been surrounded by the real estate development business all my life. Like Randy said, he did the background check for Grace, and I came on board and relocated to DC.

“My new position would be somewhat in the public eye, at least with lobbyists and politicos, but I loved my grandfather and I wasn’t willing to abandon my family name, so I decided to go by Thomas instead of Jason. Thomas is my middle name. I filed a bunch of paperwork to change the name under which I practice law. I worked for Grace for about thirteen months, until I got my current position with the Senate committee.”

“Does Senator Gilbert know that you’re business partners with Mr. Vaughan now?” Torres asked.

Randy’s chair creaked under his weight as he leaned forward. His forearms came to rest on the desk as he looked her in the eye. “I don’t care for the insinuation you’re making, Detective,” Randy said. Thomas looked confused, and Randy explained to him, “She’s wondering if I covered up something during the investigation and that’s why you invested in Mata Hari.”

Thomas’s eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. “That’s ridiculous. Randy and I both worked with Senator Gilbert for over a year, and we became good friends during that time. When he decided to retire early from the Secret Service, I encouraged him to follow his dream of owning a bar. I made a loan to Randy to help with some of the start-up costs, plus I invested as a silent partner. This was all disclosed with multiple Congressional offices, and of course Senator Gilbert knows. In fact she was at the opening-night party.”

“Okay, okay. I’m just doing my job,” Torres said and put away her notebook.

Randy growled, “Any more questions, Detective? If not, we need to get back to our business.”

“I think that’s it. I appreciate your time, gentlemen.” As she started to go, Thomas stood up.

“Look, is there anything you can tell us about the investigation?” he asked. “It isn’t like we were friends, but Brian seemed like a nice guy. I still can’t believe he was murdered.”

Torres slid on her official face. “I’m sorry. I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.” He nodded and turned away, though Randy looked speculatively at Detective Torres.

Thomas said, “I’ll let you out.”

When he locked the front door to the bar behind Torres, he turned to find Randy at the counter, pouring them each a shot of whiskey.

“That was fun,” Randy murmured sarcastically. “You know she was trying to rile you up with her bitchery, right? To see if you’d say something inconsistent?”

Thomas took the glass and tossed it back. He grunted at the burn. “What’s there to be inconsistent about? I relive every minute of that nightmare when I hear the prick’s name.”

“Thomas, you really need to let this shit go and move on. Rumson was just plain fuckin’ crazy. You didn’t do anything to make him that way, and keeping everyone else in the world at arm’s length isn’t going to change that.”

Thomas slid his shot glass around on the bar top, his eyes down. “Don’t you get it, Randy?” he asked in a tight voice. “I am exactly the kind of douche bag that creates a monster like that. Charles was the worst, but there were other guys who tried to get close. I pushed them away, and they got hurt and angry. No one else went out-and-out stalker on me, but they could have. I lost my career, my home—even my parents, really. My whole life. I can’t put it all at risk again. I didn’t see Charles for what he was until it was too late, so why would I be any better at spotting the next one?”

I can’t take that risk with Zach.

I can’t subject Zach to me.

Randy tossed back his shot. “Buddy, I love ya like a brother. You deserve something more than all these hookups. I mean, good on you for all the ass you get, but I think you want more than that.”

Thomas sighed. “What I want and what I can have aren’t the same thing.”

 

 

THE MAN with the silver-framed glasses rewound his recordings to make sure but was convinced the woman who emerged from the offices of Mata Hari was the police detective who had questioned the owner previously. So MPD was still focused on the bar. He swore. Nothing could be permitted to sully the Beloved’s name. He would have to be extra careful. Or perhaps… leave a trail pointing elsewhere?

Hmm. Something to ponder.

He cued up some music to play as he studied his options. An old song by The Police came on at random, and the man had to smile. He muttered along, “Every move, every breath indeed.” It was almost like a love song from him to the Beloved. Perhaps one day soon they would listen to it together, and the Beloved would understand how much the man had done for him.

He considered various ideas to protect his grand plan as he sorted through his video recordings of the bar. Then he pulled up the tracking records for the Beloved’s Maserati to study the images created by overlaying the car’s journey on the streets of Washington as though interpreting runes cast by the gods. When inspiration failed to arise, he switched to the view from the cameras trained on the Beloved’s hallway, living room, and bedroom. At least those glimpses into the Beloved’s life brought solace as he planned and waited for his moment.

 

 

DETECTIVE TORRES briefed her captain on Monday morning. “I think the Rumson thing is a dead end, sir. Seattle PD and the Secret Service confirmed the perp is dead, identified by his own mother. Rumson never escalated from his declarations of love to violence, either against Scarborough or any of his sexual partners. Also Scarborough has been banging pretty boys for at least a year, according to the reports I gathered, and Gallagher is the only one we know of who has been harmed or killed.”

Captain Nelson pondered that and commented, “It still could be a stalker focused on Scarborough.”

“Agreed, sir. That’s possible. I’ll keep investigating him to look for a connection.”

Later one stray thought crossed Torres’s mind. She checked her notes from the conversation with Scarborough and Vaughan to confirm her recollection of the story of Rumson’s break-in. He’d had a variety of large dildos and begged Scarborough to use them. Forensics indicated Gallagher was violently sodomized with an object. It could have been a dildo, maybe, except it was covered in sharp protrusions that shredded Gallagher’s rectum. That internal mutilation was the likely cause of a terrible death, not the strangulation with his scarf.

It was a stretch, but she decided—notwithstanding what she had told her captain—a little more digging into Charles Rumson might be needed.