Millstone - Novel 01

Hanging the Chimney Hook

All Rights Reserved © 2020, Rick Haydn Horst

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter Nine

We had yet to eat lunch, and I knew the police wouldn't allow us to leave the home of Douglas Chadwell for some time, so Max ordered delivery, and not long after the cops arrived, so did our food. To avoid soy sauce on the upholstery, we had our own little tailgate party, chowing down on chicken and steamed vegetables from the

Peking Palace

, as we observed the investigation from a distance.

Edgerton worked at the midtown precinct, and while 793 Oakwood Lane sat in the middle of the north district, the threats against us, and physical evidence inside the house, gave Chadwell's death a connection to the Tommy Haines case, so he took over.

"Since you're eating," he said, "I'll refrain from asking you to identify the body directly."--the detective held up Chadwell's driver's license--"Is this the guy who threatened you?"

"Yeah, that's him. What's it look like in there?"

"If it helps with an image, the guy was a typical slob. Once forensics completes their sweep and they've taken the body away, I'll let you have a look. I asked them to check the windows first, so we could open them. The house has no air conditioning, and all the windows have remained shut, and the stench is unbearable. I've got officers losing their lunch out the back. Sorry, Max."

"No problem," he said. "I'm a registered nurse; I'm not squeamish."

"Okay then, I'll give you some more. The body hung from a well-anchored hook for a swag lamp in the ceiling, a knocked-over chair lay on the floor, and his hands were bound behind him with a white Chinese finger trap on both his ring and index fingers. There were a few other traps lying nearby. He had a note pinned to him that read. 'I'm sorry I didn't want to.' They'll make a comparison to other handwriting samples from the house, but I don't think it matters if he wrote it, it looks to me like someone had torn it from a larger message, so I'm not buying it. Rigor has already passed, so he's been there a couple of days. The pathologist will have to give us a more accurate time of death. You did good, Millstone. I'm pleased."

"So, this doesn't solve Tommy's case," said Max.

I shook my head. "No. It gives us a few answers, but also makes more questions."

"Chadwell might have murdered Tommy," said Edgerton, "but we don't have a motive yet, and someone else murdered Chadwell, but we have no motive for that either. Or alternatively, whoever murdered Tommy did them both. The finger traps prove their deaths have a connection; it looks as though the killer wants us to think that Chadwell murdered Tommy.

"What about our sadist friend, James Malor?" asked Max.

"He had no alibi for Tommy's murder," said Edgerton, "but until we have a more accurate time of death for Chadwell, we can't question anyone."

"He told us he knew Chadwell," I said. "They apparently both had worked removals together at Alliance, and so had Tommy."

"Interesting connection," he said. "So, you don't think this is a love triangle or anything like that."

"Maybe, but it's too early to assume anything."

"So, Alliance Construction might be involved."

"Maybe. If so, I hope that Bo Pecker isn't. I really like that guy, and he doesn't strike me as the nefarious type." I turned to Max, who just closed the cardboard container of his lunch. "What did you think of Bo?"

"I liked him too, and he sounds genuine, but beyond my opinion of him, he had to pass a background check to become a club member, so that's something."

"That's true," said Edgerton, "and I happen to know that Henry's more thorough than people might think. Before he decided to move to Franklin to go into business for himself, he worked as a police officer in Los Angeles, so he has connections."

"Aah," said Max, "that's why he gives all those discounts. Nice."

"That, and he has a penchant for cop cock; to him, Franklin's a smorgasbord."

"Building the Minotaur's facility would not have been cheap; how could he afford to start the business on a cop's salary?"

"Oh, that's easy," said Edgerton, "Winter helped him."

"Winter... What is it about her that I don't yet know?"

"The phrase 'more money than god' seems to fit her description," he said, "but there's a lot to know about Winter. She comes from a unique class of human being. I guarantee you will not find another one like her anywhere, and we are damn lucky to have her. I would go so far as to say that Winter is the light that shines on this city, and I'm one of the few people who knows just how brightly."

"You checked on her, haven't you?" I asked.

He nodded. "Somehow, she found out about it too."

"Was she angry with you?" asked Max.

"No, quite the contrary, it pleased her."

"Why?"

"Because she said she wouldn't want anyone to hold her above reproach, she said that knowing she isn't, keeps her grounded and honest. I discovered that Winter gives away more money to help the City of Franklin and the citizens who live here than you can possibly imagine. And unlike most super-wealthy, she doesn't funnel her charitable giving into places that allow her to claim to do good while doing nothing but benefiting herself. All her money is clean, and she uses all of it in Franklin. I've never seen anyone with a bigger heart than she has, but you haven't heard any of that from me."--he turned to go--"It shouldn't take too long, fellas." He returned to the crime scene.

"I have a question," said Max. "Do you think Winter bought this car for us?"

"She said we could use it until she asked for it back, or we found one that we prefer more, whichever comes first."

"She has no intention of asking for it back, has she?"

"I think that was her way of helping us while giving us an option to not feel obliged to take it."

I could tell by his sniffing and eye blinking that he tried not to tear up. I put my arm around him, and he tilted his head onto my shoulder.

We continued to watch the comings and goings inside the house, and Max asked me, "Is this sort of case common for you, having to deal with dead bodies and such?"

"I've had a few, but this one seems more perplexing than the others. Can you handle this?"

"I've learned to disconnect from these things. I've seen a few dead bodies over my time in the medical field, but I saw them in a relatively clean environment and not at a crime scene. So, we'll just have to see how I do. But I want you to know that I like this, and I love every moment that I spend with you."

As we waited, a reporter from the Herald arrived. The attractive nude Latino guy in his late twenties had a slender, hairless body and a nice build. With a sling bag over his shoulder, and his credentials hanging from his neck, he tried to interview Edgerton, but of course, he gave him nothing. The instant his eyes fell upon us, he walked our direction.

"Ooh, here we go," I said to Max. Every experience I have had with a reporter, they either took the things I said out of context, or they misquoted me. I wanted to avoid that, if possible.

"I think he might be the guy known as the Naked Reporter."

That idea made me laugh. "Visual shtick for print news...that's weird."

"I agree, but then I could never understand the appeal of phone sex."

"Good day, gentlemen," he said. "I'm Sebastian Santiago from the Franklin Herald. You're Howard Millstone and Max Roche, aren't you? You're Franklin's new private detectives."

"You're well informed," I said.

"It comes with the job. So, what's your relation to the scene here?"

"We're just spectators."

"Is death a spectator's sport for you?"

"Only when we have no client."

"Oh, so no one has hired you," he said. "May I know why you're here?"

"It's a hobby."

"Okay, look," he said, "I'm just trying to do my job."

"I'm sorry, but if you want information, it must come from the police, and if Detective Edgerton says nothing to you, then we should follow his lead out of professional courtesy."

He surprised me when he simply said, "I understand," and shoved his pad into his bag, and his tone changed completely. "Well, let me take off my reporter hat for a moment and welcome you to Franklin. I wondered how long it would take before another detective came along."

"Thank you, that's much appreciated," I said.

"Have you hung up your shingle?"

"Not yet," said Max, "that's slow going. Do you know where Mr. Nevil had his?"

"He had it on 17th Street, south of Highland, but I had a friend who had a store nearby. The rent is cheap there, but I would avoid that area; it has too many bad-luck-buildings. However, I know of a place that might work for you. I did a fluff piece the other day on a guy whose childhood crush moved to another state, but twenty years later, they happened to meet again on a blind date here in Franklin. They've been together for over a year now. Anyway, the interview took place at their office on the 12th floor of the Lancashire Building, and three doors down, they have space available; I noticed it on the way out. That's a successful office building in a nice neighborhood, but not too nice, if you know what I mean."

"Thank you for that. That's kind of you. Finding a location is hard without some inside knowledge."

"Hey, no problem," he said. "And in the future, if you're on a case that you can talk about, please think of me. It would help me out a lot."

"I think we can do that," I said, and we shook on it.

The instant the body bag came out the front door, he returned his non-existent reporter hat to his head, excused himself, and proceeded to hound the detective.

Once they carted the body away, the open windows helped with the odor. Before Edgerton invited us inside, he offered some vanilla peppermint salve for our noses to help overpower the scent. It worked well enough, but I could still detect it.

The inside of the house had open containers and unwashed dishes, but the disarray to me appeared odd.

"This place looks a little unnatural," said Max.

"So, you're seeing it too," I said.

"What do you see?" asked Edgerton.

"For one thing, someone moved the couch recently," I said, taking a closer look. "The carpet has deep indentations, and only one leg remains inside them. Someone left the cushions a little crooked, but they perfectly straightened the pillows."

"Someone moved this trinket box," said Max, "it disturbed the dust on this table, and whoever moved it hadn't placed it back where it lay."

"I'm seeing little things like that all over the house."

"My people are good," said Edgerton, "no one's touched anything, and I noticed a few things too. So, you agree someone tore the house apart looking for something."

"Looks like...," I said, "then in too much of a rush, they tried to put everything back again."

"If they wanted to make it look like Chadwell killed himself in a fit of remorse," said Max, "they couldn't leave it."

I studied the trinket box that Max mentioned with my hands behind my back. "The interior of this box couldn't have more than two square inches inside; if the killer thought it might contain whatever he searched for, then he's looking for something pretty small. The exterior has a smooth finish; forensics should check it for prints. If they find none, the guy probably wore gloves."

"I'll get them on it," said the detective.

"So, you found a few extra finger traps," I said.

"Three of them," said Edgerton. "But we found no books on origami or any evidence of anything else. Tommy's apartment had no evidence of that too, and we searched various means for him to obtain such an item, but it turned up nothing. And Glenn Scarborough says he's never seen one before."

"And you found no extra traps at Tommy's place."

"No. And besides the smudged prints on that one, we only found a couple of partials belonging to Tommy. We'll check the extras here for Chadwell's prints."

"Have you searched Malor's place, looking for anything on origami?"

"Unfortunately, we asked Malor about the finger trap when we thought Tommy had killed himself, so if he had anything, he had plenty of time to destroy it. Once it became a question, we searched his place and found nothing."

"What would you like us to do, detective?"

"For now, you can go. I'll call you when I have news."

Max and I returned to the Minotaur and saw a rugged-looking guy we had yet to meet, standing shirtless behind the front desk. His name was Barry. He had incredible arms and shoulders, but his face had a bristly beard, deep-set, hooded eyes, and he wore his hair in a crew cut.

He smiled and wagged a finger at us. "I heard of you two just today."

"Has our reputations preceded us already?" asked Max.

"Around here, that's good if it has." He sniffed the air. "What's that I smell?"

Nose blind and horrified to realize we carried the scent of death upon us, we stepped backward in unison and glanced at one another. Unwilling to linger in the lobby for the lift, we made a few pathetic excuses and fled to the stairwell. We bounded the stairs, two steps at a time, to reach our quarters before anyone else noticed. Having reputations as the harbingers of death was the last thing we wanted.

We both stripped and brought our laundry to the ground floor, and after tossing it all into a large washer with a couple of detergent packs, we scrubbed our bodies in the shower room.

One thing I enjoyed about the Minotaur, we could shower together, and even with others around us, it turned shower time into an intimate experience. Touching in such a way continued our bonding process, and I felt deeply connected to Max even when not deeply inside him. Afterward, I hugged him, feeling the warm rivulets and his hard body pressing against mine. I felt that I could tell him, "I Love You," an infinite number of times, and it could never express how he made me feel. I know people like to hear it, but if Max only understood that I loved him from my saying that inadequate little four-letter-word, I would feel that I had failed him as his partner.

With deft fingers, I began jacking Max while we stood under the spray. He held my face, kissing me as I did, and his uneven breath told me he enjoyed it. As I bent down, taking Max's cock into my mouth, he held his hands above his head, grasping the shower column behind him as though I had tied him there. I squatted a little and gazed up at him, watching him stare into the hunger-filled eyes of those in the room as if he were our prisoner, and they all awaited their turn, intent on milking him for his precious cream. As if only he had what we needed, we would milk him again and again until he had run dry. He began to growl and groan, telling me that I had gotten him close, so I sped up and tried to take as much of him into my mouth as I could. When he came, I gladly savored his cum and swallowed it as I continued pleasuring him. When I stood and held Max, he laid his head on my shoulder, wrapping his muscular arms around me, and I think I began to understand what Max felt when I fed him. Before our fingers pruned too much, I led him from the shower. We dried ourselves, placed our washed clothing into the dryer, and returned to our quarters.

Since we lacked living room furniture, we sat at the dining table as Max searched on our newly acquired laptop for the specific property mentioned by Mr. Santiago. We found the Lancashire Building nine-tenths of a mile from the Minotaur, and the website for it had a link to the agent in charge of leasing. Max called them, and we made an appointment to see the space on Thursday.

At four o'clock that afternoon, Edgerton called with news. The pathologist hadn't finished her report but established a time of death between midnight and 6:00 a.m. on Sunday morning. However, a neighbor across the street saw Chadwell return home while taking his elderly labradoodle out at 2:30 that night, and all seemed quiet across the street at 5:00 when he took the dog out again, so the time of death had gotten narrowed to the hours between 2:30 and 5:00 early Sunday morning. The detective also told us that forensics found a couple of different fingerprints on two of the finger traps. They couldn't identify one, but the other belonged to James Malor. Edgerton was bringing him in for questioning, and curiously Malor requested our presence, so after bringing up our clean clothing, we left for the midtown precinct.

We met the detective in the conference room, and he seemed pleased to finally have some evidence to work with, but Malor would talk only to Max and me. Since all interrogation rooms have an observation room, Edgerton would wait there while we spoke to him. He gave us the evidence bag with the finger traps to take with us.

Malor knocked off work a little early and had gone home; that's where they found him. He wore a short-sleeve black polo shirt with a

Manchester United Football Club

logo. When we entered the room, he straightened himself in his seat and stared at the finger traps in the bag.

He sounded frantic, "You gotta believe me, guys. I haven't done anything; I think someone is setting me up."

"Calm down," I said as we took the remaining seats. "You need to establish an alibi. The time of Chadwell's death is Saturday night between 2:30 and 5:00 Sunday morning. Where were you?"

"In bed. I'm a morning person, not a night owl. I work a regular job; I go to bed no later than midnight, and I get up every morning at six o'clock."

"It was Saturday night; you had no one with you?" asked Max.

"No, I meant it when I said that I don't have many takers, and since I tend to leave

Kinks

--that's the S&M bar in town if you didn't know--no later than 11:15, I miss a lot of the action; but I'm just so tired by then."

I pushed the bag with the traps to the center of the table. "What do you know about these?"

"Okay, I lied to the police. They told me that Tommy had one on his fingers when he died, so I freaked. I mean, it's the police we're talking about!"

"Did you make these?" asked Max.

He shrugged. "It looks like my work, and if it has my fingerprints on it, it must be mine; I admit that. I made those when I lived in Seattle, but I stopped making them when I moved here. These things are four or five years old."

"Why did you make them?" asked Max.

He lowered his head and brows as his mouth flattened into a thin line. "I know this won't sound good, but I had a few guys in Seattle that wanted me to pound them on the regular. And as I get them from behind, I would keep their hands behind their back with one of those."

"You're right," said Max, "that's not good."

"I know, but that was then. I have not made one of those, had one of those, or used one of those since I've lived in Franklin."

"They're going to say, 'Why should we believe you? You lied once, and you're an admitted sadist who likes hurting people.'"

"I lied because I freaked out but lying at this point wouldn't help me because I haven't done anything. And yes, I'm a sadist who likes to hurt guys with my cock, but there are plenty of people out there who hurt others without telling them first. I have the integrity to be upfront about it, and I insist on consent. Hell, I even make them sign a waiver in front of two witnesses first! So, I'm cautious with whom I have sex, and they definitely want me to hurt them."

My mouth dropped open. "You do what?"

"Uncle Charles is a lawyer, so, as a matter of practicality--because of my size, he convinced me to make anyone who wants me to fuck them sign a liability and indemnity waiver while sober in front of witnesses. They ensure that the guy understands what he's signing. It tells them that having sex with anyone comes with risks and that by signing the waiver, they're agreeing to: 'take all personal, legal, and financial responsibilities for the repercussions of their own consent.' They get a carbon copy, and I keep the original to protect me."