If It Made Sense, It Wouldn't Be a Mystery, Would It?
Chapter 27
POV: BRIAN
Justin puts a plate of gunk in front of me and hands me a fork. He's already cut up the meat for his hapless companion, I notice. It smells fantastic, but it looks disgusting.
"This looks disgusting."
Justin frowns. "Fuck you. It does not. Just try it."
I shrug and stab a piece of chicken with my fork and push it around the plate a little. Ew. It looks like a goulash made from blood and guts.
"Jesus, Brian, just try it." He says again, his mouth full.
I sigh and take a bite. He looks at me as I chew, waiting for my reaction. And it's not bad, actually. "It's not bad." I say simply. "Must be because I measured the wine." I add.
He grins. "So. Have you thought about it?"
Huh? "What?"
"What Gary said earlier."
God. With all the fucking high drama around here I completely forgot about that shit. "No. When would I have had time to do that, what with dealing with a fucking drama princess living and ranting in my loft?" Justin rolls his eyes but says nothing. I pause and take a swig of beer. "But I'm thinking we might want to tell Horvath about it."
"Who's Gina, by the way?"
"Gina is homophobic Stockwell's homophobic wife. She's fucking weird. Like June Cleaver gone psycho."
He snorts.
"After it came out that I was gay, she treated me like I was Satan incarnate. Which, while I may BE Satan incarnate, I didn't let on. I was nothing but Mr. Manners around the Stockwell family. And even before she knew I was gay, there was just something about her that set me on edge. She seemed repressed or something. Everything in their house was 'just so'- she was like a housewife out of the '50's but wearing slacks. I tried to stay out of her way, to be honest."
"Do you want to go see her? Or talk to Stockwell about it?"
I look at him like he's insane. "Are you nuts? What if she's the murderer? I don't really feel like being killed. At the moment, anyway."
"Why would she be the murderer? What does she have against Rita, or us, or Hunter? Or Jason and Reikert, for that matter?"
Hell, I don't know. "Maybe she... maybe she knew that Kemp was blackmailing Stockwell. Maybe she took matters into her own hands. And maybe Reikert found out about it. That it was her. And us and Hunter- well, fuck, I'm sure she knew I was fired from the firm for undermining her husband's campaign. With you. Even if she doesn't know I was responsible for that ad, she knew I worked towards her husband losing the election. And Hunter was simply in the car with us. Or who knows- maybe Kemp let on something about Hunter when he was blackmailing Stockwell. Or fuck, maybe Hunter tried to blackmail Stockwell himself. Plus, it was obvious they were pretty close friends and I'm sure Gina was at all those stupid police functions. Like the picnic. Fuck knows. It's just a thought."
"What about Rita?"
Yeah. Rita. That just doesn't fit, does it? "I dunno. But accidents DO happen. And fuck me if it's like Freaky Friday in gay old Pittsburgh right now. The coincidences we've encountered in the last few days are a little staggering, don'tcha think?" Justin rolls his eyes in agreement, taking a sip of beer. "Ha, or maybe she was having an affair with Stockwell." I snicker. But I know I'm stretching. About that, anyway. Stockwell's so fucking uptight and Christian I highly doubt he'd stray off the straight (very straight) and narrow. Breeders. Fuck'em all, as Emmett would say.
"What about Stockwell? Could he have done it?"
"Sure. But it would be pretty risky. He's the fucking Chief of Police- covering up the murder of a nameless gay dumpster boy is one thing. Murder is another. And I know him. He's not a psycho. He's a jerk. He's an ass. He's a homophobe. But ultimately, he's just a fucking politician."
"Well, Bush is a politician and he's psycho." Justin points out. Huh. Good point.
"Plus, as we've all pointed out- the timing of Reikert's murder made no sense as far as Stockwell's campaign was concerned. Reikert was going down anyway."
We continue to eat in silence for awhile, thinking. Really, now that I think of it, of all the people we've considered, Gina seems the most likely one. I mean, I'm pretty sure it was a woman who was following us on the way to get Hunter- if we were being followed I mean. Oh, hey. "Hey, Justin. You wrote down that license number, didn't you? From the car parked at that dump of a rest stop?"
"Fuck, yeah! I totally forgot about that! I think it's in my coat." He swallows, tosses his napkin on the counter and goes to get his jacket. He comes back, fishing around in his pockets. "I can't find it."
"Check the jeans you were wearing."
He goes into the bedroom and comes back with a scrap of paper. "Sweet! Here it is."
"I wonder if Horvath has a friend on the force who would run the number?"
"Can't hurt to ask." Justin fishes around in his jacket again and pulls out the Fairy Gary/Kenny love letter stack and starts leafing through it for the number. He hands it to me and I pull out my cell and dial.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Carl. Detectives Kinney and Taylor here..." Justin rolls his eyes and picks up the plates, moving towards the sink.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
POV: JUSTIN
While Brian's busy talking to Horvath, I rinse off the plates and place them in the dishwasher. Gina Stockwell. Who would have thought? Brian seems to think she's the most likely one. Gina Stockwell. The bitch who probably was the one who almost killed Brian. Who put Hunter into a coma. Who, it would appear, is a fucking serial killer, targeting those of us in gay PA who had anything to do with undermining her husband's run for office. For fucking mayor. Of fucking Pittsburgh. Hardly high office.
Gives 'behind every successful man, there is a woman' a whole new meaning. Unsuccessful ones, too.
I head into the bathroom and start a shower.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I come out of the bathroom I go and get dressed and walk into the living room to join Brian. He's reading the paper at the counter. "Guess what?" He says, turning the page. "Gay as Blazes is going into syndication. Fucking stupidest show on the planet and they're re-running it."
"Whatever." I go and get a beer and sit down next to him. "Have you checked out the want ads?"
He shoots me a look. "Shut up, Justin. I'm not in the mood."
"Well, Brian, maybe you should start looking."
"I have been." He puts down the paper. "I know of an opening, actually. And I've been offered the job." He looks at me, apparently trying to gauge my reaction.
Wow! This is news! "That's fantastic, Brian! Fuck, why didn't you tell me? Where at?" Things are looking up!
"Farago Advertising."
"Farago? I've never heard of it."
"It's in New York."
I nearly spit out my beer. "New York? You mean..." Fuck, he's leaving. He's leaving. God, I remember the last time I almost lost him to New York and I groan. "Are... are you going to take it?" I ask hesitantly.
"Thinking about it." He says, still eyeing me.
"Isn't there...isn't there something in Pittsburgh?"
"My reputation for talent may be stellar - but my reputation for pulling the rug out from under a client pretty much fucks me over as far as getting a job at another agency in the Pitts."
I just stare at the bottle of beer in my grasp, peeling the label off the neck with my fingernail. "So, you're leaving." It's not a question. Out of the corner of my eye I can tell he's still looking at me closely.
"Maybe." Is all he says.
"Oh." Take me with you, I want to say. I desperately want to say. But I know I can't ask that of him. I mean, we've come a loooong way, but him dragging me to live with him in New York is a bit much. Still, though. "And what about..." us. What about US?
"About...?"
"Me."
Brian folds the paper on the counter in front of him and reaches over for my beer, taking it from my hand and drinking it down in one gulp. "What ABOUT you?" He asks.
"You know what I mean, Brian." I hate it when he acts thick-headed like this. He plays these stupid little games intended to make me spell shit out and I hate it. Partly because I try to play the same games on him and he refuses to bite.
"Well, you're about 5 foot nothing, 150 pounds, pale as a ghost, annoying, and a drama princess." He says. "OH- and you give head better than anybody." He adds.
"Stop being purposefully obtuse, asshole."
His expression becomes serious. "I haven't decided whether I'm going to take it, Justin. And if I do, you can visit- it's a relatively short train ride."
"I don't want to visit." He looks at me, caught a little off guard. "Visiting sucks. I'd rather go WITH you." There. Fine. I said it. I look at him. And. He looks a little surprised. He can be a complete idiot sometimes. But it would seem that the notion of my going with him had never entered his mind. Fuck.
"Why would you want to do that? All your friends and family are here."
"Fuck that, Brian, so are yours."
"My family is my mother and sister and I don't see them as it is, thank God. Or rarely. Fuck, last time I saw them they fucking believed I was a child molester," he snorts. "As you know. And I can stand to live away from the freak-show that is my alternate family. I guarantee you the 'girls' will plan a 'road trip' at least once or twice a month to crash at my place and go clubbing. But you," he says, "Justin, you have Molly and your mom here. And Daphne. And Deb would fucking die without you to cluck over."
Uh huh. "But-"
"Justin, I couldn't take you away from all of that."
I look at him. "You're so fucking blind sometimes, Brian. 'All of that' is nothing compared to me wanting to be with you, don't you know that?" I sort of surprise myself that I dared to say that. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
He looks puzzled. And admittedly, that was quite the little declaration on my part. "What the fuck?"
"God, you are SUCH an idiot sometimes, Brian. I swear it." I say. "How could you possibly think I wouldn't go with you? Want to go with you? If you'd let me, I mean."
He just blinks and seems to think a moment. "Your mother would kill me, Justin. Fuck, Daphne would probably load the gun for her."
"Bullshit. I'm 20-"
"You're 19."
"Almost 20. Most people my age are away from home, going to college. Hell, a lot of my classmates went off to college in fucking California and Colorado. New York is at least on the east coast."
He nods slightly. "Still, I don't know, Justin." He sounds uncertain. "That's kind of a huge... I don't know. It's just kind of huge. You moving with me to New York City. We might fucking kill each other before the end of the first week."
"No, we won't. We live together now, don't we? In peace and harmony."
He scoffs. "Yeah. Uh huh. Peace and harmony my ass. We fight to the point of wanting to kill each other at least once a day."
"But we don't. And we make up. Get off. Have dinner. Solve mysteries. Learn that Gay as Blazes is going into re-runs. And all without bloodshed." He just smirks. "Just think about it, Brian. Besides, there are some fucking fantastic art schools in New York."
"Art schools that are fucking expensive, too. Parsons is like 15 grand a semester. The New York Academy of Art is like 20 grand. Brooks is a whopping 23 grand. And until I get on my feet there, I can't pay for your sorry ass."
Wait a minute here. Back up the truck. How the fuck does he know what art schools in New York cost? Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Heheh. I can't help a small smile.
He looks suddenly uncomfortable, realizing he revealed a bit too much. "What the fuck are YOU smiling at?" He snaps.
"You so care about me! You looooove me!" I sing song.
He hates it when I do that- which, quite frankly, is why I am. After this little scare he just gave me, I'm going to make him suffer.
"Shut the fuck up, Justin. I hate it when you do that shit."
"You've looked into art schools there! Now, hmmm. Why would you do that, I wonder?" I tap my chin with my index finger and look up at the ceiling with a puzzled look. Then I snap my fingers. "Ah ha! Got it!" I pause for effect. "You were fucking planning to take me with you all along if I really wanted to go! You jerk!"
"Fucker." But he doesn't deny it. "You can be a real ass, you know that, Taylor?"
"Uh huh." I grin.
"Horvath said he'd call us back once he gets some information on the car." He says suddenly. Changing the subject. A Kinney specialty. I guess I'll let him.
"Okay. Any news?"
"Just that the investigation into Rita's accident showed it to be just that. She hit a patch of ice and lost control of the car."
"Oh, wow. So Gina... Gina really is the one."
"Well, she's our best bet."
Just then, Brian's cell rings and he flips it open. "International House of Pancakes." Jesus. "Oh, hi Carl." I look at him as he listens. "Yeah..... oh, wow..... yeah. Okay. Keep us posted. Thanks for calling." He flips it closed and I look at him expectantly.
"Well?" I say impatiently.
"Yep."
"'Yep' what? It was her car?"
He nods. "Horvath said his friend on the force is going to go to Stockwell's house to ask her a few questions. But it seems we have a winner. Still, he's going to call us if there are 'any developments' as he put it. Sounded like a goddamned anchorman."
I let the news sink in. "That's fucking intense, Brian. We really did solve a murder!"
"Yeah. I feel so... 'Columbo.' 'Dragnet'."
"'Cagney and Lacey'." I add.
"Ew. Coupla dykes. No way. Deb loves that show though." He chuckles. "Wasn't just one murder, though- it was a series of them, actually. Psycho bitch killed or tried to kill what," he begins counting off names on his fingers, "Kemp, Reikert, you, me and Hunter."
"So, what would the sentence be on Law and Order?"
He laughs lightly. "Probably life in prison. Or death. I don't fucking know. I haven't seen an episode about a freak targeting fags. Maybe they'll make her honorary mayor instead. Celebrate the morality she oozes."
I just sigh. "Let's go to bed."
"YES."
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