Free The Ninth Man by Dorien Grey Page A

no idea—but then another one said something I couldn’t hear and that was the end of it.
    “The rest of the time was mostly small talk while we waited for the coroner.”
    “Do you remember any of that?”
    “Well, you have to realize I was really struggling not to fall apart in front of a bunch of cops. I wouldn’t be surprised if they knew we were gay, but they didn’t ask, and I wasn’t about to tell them that was my lover lying there. They just asked some general stuff—whether Gene or I knew some guy named Roger, stuff like that.”
    “Do you mean Rogers? Alan Rogers?”
    He looked at me even more strangely, and his eyes narrowed.
    “How did you know his first name? Is something going on that I should know about?”
    “Nothing. Nothing,” I assured him, lying through my teeth. “It’s just that there have been several…ah…unusual deaths recently. Alan Rogers was one of them. I suppose they thought Gene might be another one.”
    Sibalitch pursed his lips for a minute then said, “Yeah, that’s probably it. But he wasn’t, of course.”
    Before he could pursue that line of thought any further, I jumped in with a question.
    “Did you by any chance know Alan Rogers?”
    He shook his head. “I didn’t. It’s possible Gene might have, but I have no way of knowing.”
    Gene Harriman had been Victim #2. When they couldn’t develop a positive link between Harriman and Alan Rogers, the first victim, the police apparently evolved their random-death theory. Given their lack of any real interest in a bunch of dead “pre-verts,” it would have held up quite well in regard to the subsequent deaths.
    Sibalitch ground his second cigarette out in the ashtray.
    “Exactly what is it you’re investigating, Mr. Hardesty?”
    Since he obviously wanted to believe his lover had died of natural causes, I had no desire to destroy the illusion.
    “I have a client who is trying to locate certain people for reasons a little too complicated and boring to go into,” I lied. “I had reason to believe Gene might have known some of them.”
    “I know most of Gene’s friends,” Sibalitch said. “Maybe I can help you.”
    “I was hoping you might,” I said, truthfully this time. “Do any of these names mean anything to you: Arthur Granger…Clete Barker…Arnold Klein…Bobby McDermott?”
    Sibalitch pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow in thought, reminding me briefly of Phil.
    “Arnold Klein. Short guy, balding, glasses?”
    “I couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid,” I said, feeling a familiar wave of frustration. “I’ve never seen him.”
    “Gene did know a guy named Arnold Klein. He came to a party we gave right after we bought the house. I only met him that one time, and that’s been over two years now.”
    “Could you tell me anything about him?” I asked. “How well did he and Gene know one another?”
    Sibalitch thought for another moment or two then shook his head.
    “Sorry, I couldn’t tell you. I think they were more acquaintances than real friends—if they’d been friends, I’m sure I’d have seen him more than that once, or heard more about him from Gene.”
    That made sense.
    “Do you happen to know how or where they knew each other from?”
    Again the head shake.
    “No, I’m sorry. It was a big party, and I really didn’t have much time to spend with any of the guests individually. I only remember him at all because Gene commented after the party that he and Arnold had been through a lot together. I asked him what he meant, and he said, ‘Believe me, you don’t want to know.’ I didn’t press him on it. Gene and he spoke for quite some time, though, as I recall.”
    “Umm,” I said, taking mental notes. “And none of the other names—Granger, Barker, McDermott—strikes any kind of chord?”
    A long pause then, finally: “No. I’m afraid not.”
    “How long did you and Gene know each other before you became lovers?” I asked, following the ghost of a hunch.
    “A little