She turned and left.
“Michael’s giving a press conference in five minutes.”
Reece Porter stopped lacing his high-top Nikes and looked up at his coach. “What are you talking about?”
Coach Richie Crenshaw crossed the locker room, stepping over strewn sneakers, jockstraps, and long legs. The Knicks were in Seattle’s Kingdome, preparing to play a preseason scrimmage against the Supersonics. “Just what I said. Michael is making a statement at the start of
“What kind of statement?” Reece asked.
“Hell if I know.”
Jerome Holloway exchanged a confused glance with Reece. “And it’s being covered on national television?”
“That’s right,” Coach Crenshaw replied.
“I don’t get it,” Reece said. “What the hell could Mikey have to say that a primetime news show would want to cover live?”
“Something about his hepatitis, I guess.”
Reece shook his head. “SportsChannel or ESPN might be interested in covering something like that but not CBS.”
“Besides,” Jerome added, “the press already knows about his hepatitis.”
Coach Crenshaw shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. Turn on the TV, Jerome, and we’ll find out.”
The rookie walked over to the set and flicked the switch. Michael’s teammates and coaches stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to the screen. Most of their faces displayed a sense of relaxed curiosity. But not Reece’s. Something didn’t make sense to him. An athlete, no matter how popular, does not make a live statement on a news show unless it is big news. Really big news. Something that transcended sports.
As Reece Porter watched Michael and Sara walk toward the podium, an awful feeling of dread flooded his chest.
George was in the middle of doing his third set of one hundred push-ups, his muscles bunching and swelling with each repetition, when he heard the advertising teaser:
“Stay tuned for a very special episode of
George froze. Michael Silverman, husband of Sara Lowell, son-in-law of John Lowell. Silverman had been at the charity ball on the night that George killed Bradley Jenkins. Now he was going to make a surprise statement on live television.
George wanted to hear what he had to say. He wanted to hear very much.
Of course, an announcement by someone like Michael Silverman was hardly reason for concern, but what else had the TV blurb said? Something about a connection to the Gay Slasher. Well, that should be interesting. And then there was the last thing that voice on the TV had said — the story of the year on the AIDS epidemic. George shook his head. It was too much of a coincidence. Michael Silverman, the Gay Slasher, the AIDS epidemic.
Someone had tied a few loose ends together.
The real question for George concerned Michael Silverman’s announcement. The police already knew about the connection between the murder victims and the AIDS clinic, so it had only been a matter of time before it leaked to the press. But what did it have to do with Sara Lowell’s husband? Was Michael Silverman connected with the murders? And if so, how?
True, but a man had to watch his back. George was being forced to take greater risks than normal. The Gay Slasher had become high-profile stuff. Now that the scrutiny was intensifying, logic dictated that he should learn more about the “why” of these killings in order to protect himself.
Damn it, why hadn’t he checked this whole thing out beforehand?
George sprang up off the floor as the commercial ended. He sat on the edge of the large bed and watched as Michael and Sara walked toward the podium. Sara Lowell was very beautiful. Incredible looking. Turning his gaze to Michael, George felt a sharp pang of envy.
That lucky son of a bitch slept with Sara Lowell every night.
George shook his head. Sometimes life was just not fair.
“I’m home,” Max Bernstein called out.
“I’m in the bedroom,” Lenny replied. “Did you pick up some milk?”
“Yep. And a six-pack of Diet Coke.”
Lenny walked into the den and kissed Max lightly on the lips. “Tired?”
“Exhausted. How about you?”
Lenny nodded, taking the bundle from Max’s arm. “I spent seven hours in court for a case that was never called.”
“What happened?”
“My client didn’t show.”
“Skipped his bail?”
“Seems so.”
Bernstein shrugged. “We cops catch them. You lawyers let them go.”
“Yeah, but without us you’d be out of a job. By the way, I ordered a pizza. I figured you wouldn’t want to go out.”
“You figured right.”
Lenny carried the bag to the kitchen. “Are you going to be working this weekend?”
“Huh?”
“Stop biting your nails for two seconds and listen. Are you going to be working this weekend?”
“Probably, why?”
“It’s my weekend with Melissa.”
Melissa was Lenny’s twelve-year-old daughter. “I’ll try to be around.”
“I’d appreciate it. Oh, I rented that movie you wanted to see.”
Max picked up the phone and dialed. “Can’t watch it tonight.
“I almost forgot.” Lenny came out of the kitchen. “Max?”
“What?”
“Get your fingers out of your mouth before I shove them down your throat.”
“Sorry.”
“And who are you calling?”
“My apartment.”
“Such a waste.”
“Lenny, don’t start.”
“Why have you kept that empty apartment for six years? All you have in there is a telephone and an answering machine.”
“You know why.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re afraid someone is going to find out you live with — gasp-oh-gasp! — a man. That you’re an honest-to-God screaming faggot.”
“Lenny…”
“So you keep your swinging bachelor pad on Eighty-seventh Street for show — no, because you’re paranoid. Wouldn’t it be cheaper just to tell everyone that we’re two single, homo studs who happen to live together? Something like in
“What are you babbling about?”
