Scott Sherman: Third You Die

He looked like he had a lot to learn, and his partner seemed like the kind of veteran who could teach him.

O’Brien’s eyes scanned my apartment. His eyes landed on a copy of the British gay magazine Attitude that I’d left open to a particularly provocative underwear ad. He blushed furiously, as if scandalized by the display of rippling abs and padded crotch.

Yeah, he’d have to toughen up if he was going to make it in this city.

It was intimidating to have the law at my door like that, but the armor of my business suit and my immediate ability to imagine these two in the buddy-cop movie version of themselves helped me stay relatively relaxed. I invited them in and they accepted.

It didn’t take long before they told me why they were there: Was I available to ride over to the station with them to review some matters related to Brent’s case?

“Can’t we do it here?” I asked.

With convincing contriteness, they explained there was physical evidence they needed me to review. They made it hard to say no, answering my questions before I had a chance to ask them.

It wouldn’t take more than an hour or two of my time. They were sorry to have barged in on me like this, but they didn’t want to bother me at work. We could reschedule for a more convenient time, but they were trying to move the investigation along before people started fleeing town or covering their tracks. The sooner I could help them, the better chance there was for convictions.

I was torn. Was something fishy going on? Did I need a lawyer? On the other hand, if this small inconvenience meant I could do more to help bring Brent’s killers to justice, I didn’t want to delay.

As he had for the past ten minutes, O’Brien glanced at me surreptitiously, making me feel guilty of something, although I didn’t know what.

Good cop that he was, though, Officer Payne met my eyes steadily and understood my interior struggle.

“We promise,” he said, “no hidden agenda. Detective Rinaldi wanted us to give you his personal assurance this is on the up-and-up. He’d have come himself, but he couldn’t work tonight. Family thing. But he wanted us to let you know you have nothing to worry about, and he really could use your help.”

This unexpected request suddenly made sense. Tony had probably needed some information from me but couldn’t figure out a way to get it without our having to see each other. Whatever took him away tonight was the perfect opportunity to get my help without a chance of us crossing paths.

“This ‘family thing,’ ” I couldn’t help asking, “is everything okay? His son didn’t get hurt or anything, did he?”

Payne’s reassuring smile appeared genuine. “No, no, nothing like that. It was more of a family get-together he’d almost forgotten about. Nothing bad.”

A “family get-together.” For some reason, the first and only possibility that occurred to me was his wedding anniversary. Although he might have been divorced, I couldn’t shake my suspicion that after leaving me he would reunite with his ex. He was that desperate to have a “normal” life.

The more generous part of me allowed that some of his motivation might have been to spare Rafi the pain of divorced parents and, possibly, a dad who was in love with another guy.

I thought he was making a mistake. I didn’t believe that being raised in a tense home with parents who despised each other and a father who denied himself happiness was a recipe for a healthy childhood, either.

Plus, I’d have made a fabulous second dad.

But, as Tony had made clear, my opinions didn’t matter.

Funny. Until he left, I really thought they did. I thought Tony was on the same trip I was. Aware of the potholes on the road to our being together, but committed to reaching the same destination.

I was wrong. I thought we were heading for a happily ever after.

Who knew he’d been looking for the exit ramp?

Still, I trusted Tony wouldn’t want to see me hurt. Well, more hurt than I already was. If he gave his word through his officers, I believed him.

Even by proxy, I didn’t think he’d lie to me.

Turns out, I was wrong about that, too.

It was eight-thirty by the time the officers and I headed out to their unmarked car. On the way to the station, I asked what they needed to show me.

“It’s better we don’t say,” Payne responded. He took his eyes off the road for a second to give me another let-me-put-your-mind-at-ease smile. “We’re not trying to be mysterious. It’s just that anything we tell you may be prejudicial. If we ever have to put you on the stand-and I’m not saying we would-I wouldn’t want some smart-ass defense attorney claiming we’d influenced you before you saw the evidence.”

It made sense, but didn’t make me as comfortable as a more straightforward answer would have. I considered coming at it from a different angle, but Payne distracted me.

“Tell us about you,” he encouraged. “What’s your day gig?”

“No kidding,” O’Brien, the redheaded rookie, said when I’d finished. “ Sophie’s Voice? I love that show.”

I thought he was just being polite until he started recapping particular episodes and quoting some of my mother’s more outrageous remarks.

I can honestly say that the only thing flaming about O’Brien was his hair. He was as butch as they come, an obviously new but typically tough NYC police officer, displaying nothing that triggered the slightest flicker of my gaydar.

Still, once he’d confessed his fanboy enthusiasm for my mother’s program, I considered it a declaration of homosexuality second only to leading the New York City’s Gay Pride Parade.

I suppose there are straight men in the world who genuinely love Oprah. Who subscribe to Martha Stewart’s Living, and whose preference for watching Rachael Ray over a baseball game is simply an indicator of their varied and enlightened range of interests.

Yeah, right.

I remembered now how red O’Brien turned when he saw the provocative picture in my living room. I’d mistaken arousal for shock. Then, there was the way he kept sneaking sidelong glances at me. He was sizing me up, just not in the manner I’d thought.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Here was Tony dumping me because of what he thought his peers would think, while at least one would not only have approved but might have been interested in joining us for a three-way.

Maybe I’d have to get O’Brien’s number. Sleeping with one of Tony’s subordinates-insert evil cackle here. Not that I was spiteful or anything.

I was distracted enough that when Payne announced, “Here we are,” I got out of the car before I even realized we weren’t anywhere near the station.

In fact, we were parked in the “No Parking” space in front of the Park Grand, one of New York’s ritzier hotels. Payne took my arm while O’Brien flashed his badge and talked with one of the parking attendants.

“This isn’t the police sta-” I began.

“Not unless we’ve moved way up in class,” Payne interrupted, leading me forward. “No,” he continued, “the evidence you need to see is here.

“I just hope you’ll be able to see it for what it is.”

As a high-priced call boy, I’d visited clients in a lot of high-end hotels. The Park Grand was one of them.

But in my profession, the goal was to pass through the common areas as unobtrusively as possible. Don’t attract attention from hotel security, press, or an unsuspecting spouse. Head straight for the elevators and casually make your way to your client’s room.

So, although I’d passed through the Park Grand dozens of times, I never took notice of the lobby, the meeting rooms, or the restaurants. I kept my head down as if deep in thought and made a beeline for the residential floors.