“What do you do, Elvis?”

“I’m a sales rep for Old Plymouth Bay Candles.”

This helped explain the profusion of tall fat multi-colored candles around the otherwise simply furnished apartment, as well as the fruity aroma.

“When did you make your four o’clock date with Bryan? Earlier in the day?”

“I saw him in the morning when I was doing my laundry. He said he had somebody coming over at six, and they were meeting somebody else for dinner at seven, and could I come by at four o’clock? TV people are used to tight schedules and all that.”

“Right.”

“I said thanks, sounds good, and I did some stuff, and then I came home and showered and went upstairs right at four. Bryan didn’t answer, and I figured he went out for something or he was in the shower, so I went down and got my key and then went on in. And there he was on the floor by the coffee table in this incredible pool of blood. Oh God, I never saw anything like it. I mean, it’s not like in the movies. It’s like…I was in a butcher shop in Mexico one time, and it was like that. Gory and horrible and putrid, and right in the middle of it was Bryan, that nice, sweet, sexy guy.”

“You said he was expecting somebody to come by at six. Did he say who?”

“No. Just somebody he was going to dinner with.”

“And they were meeting somebody else at seven?”

“At the Westin, I think he said.”

So who was this that Kim was bringing along on our dinner date? He hadn’t said anything to me about a third party.

“Elvis, may I ask why you had a key to Bryan’s apartment? That’s pretty friendly in itself—I mean what with your relationship pretty much limited to cheesecake recipe exchanges.”

“I had a key because I used to look after Bryan’s cat when he was away overnight. The cat got cancer and died, but Bryan said to hang on to the key, since he might get another cat. He just never got around to it.”

“Did you know Bryan’s boyfriend Eddie Wenske?”

“Oh, sure. Eddie was a hunk. I even read his book about coming out in middle school. Bryan said he was…what? He disappeared or something?”

“He did. A couple of months ago.”

“Bryan was really upset. There was some bad stuff between them for a while, and they weren’t even seeing each other. Sometimes they’d stay at Eddie’s place and sometimes they’d stay here at Bryan’s, but for a long time Bryan never went over there at all.”

“You know a lot about Bryan’s life.”

“Well, we chatted about the men in our lives in the laundry room, and like that. Sure, we’d dish and commiserate.”

“And exchange recipes.”

Gummer gave me a look. “Can I just say something, Donald?”

“Sure.”

“I know you’re gay.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Because you are being very careful not to look at me below the neck. The strain is showing.”

“What if I told you that you are mistaken, Elvis? That back in Albany I have a wife and eleven children?”

He chortled. “Don’t worry. I won’t come on to you.”

“That’s just as well.”

“I dreamed last night that I was having sex with a guy who started bleeding and bleeding, and blood was coming out of his nose and mouth and ears and dick and ass, and even his navel ripped open and blood was pouring out. Right now, I can’t imagine ever having sex with a man again.”

I told Gummer I thought he’d get over that, and he said he was going to try.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Gummer didn’t want to go back into Bryan Kim’s apartment and he wasn’t sure the police would approve of my doing so, but reluctantly he lent me the key. Yellow crime-scene tape had been stretched across the door, but I unlocked it and shoved it open with my foot and ducked under the tape. Gummer’s mention of a certain type of Mexican meat market had been apt; Kim’s living room smelled like a slaughterhouse in a tropical country that made do without a lot of meddlesome government sanitary regulations. A throw rug was missing from the hardwood floor, apparently having been carried off by the forensics team. The stained floor next to where the rug had lain had been cleaned but only perfunctorily. I noted blood spatters on the nearby leather couch and even as far away as an end table with a lamp whose pretty silk shade was spotted. The scene suggested a great deal of violence.

Across the room were a good-sized plasma TV and an elaborate sound setup. The CDs next to it were current pop with some dance-club house music. On a shelf were framed photos of Kim in the company of what appeared to be a sober Korean-American family of five. Alongside the pictures was Kim’s local Emmy for “distinguished Boston news coverage.”

Among the books on a nearby shelf was Wenske’s Notes from the Bush. I checked the inscription, which read: “To Bryan—good reporter, hot number, beloved pal—Eddie.” I also noted that the book’s printed dedication was to My parents, Susan and Herb Wenske. There was also a copy of Weed Wars.

It was neither inscribed nor autographed. Its printed dedication was To Paul Delaney. Who was Paul Delaney? He had to be someone important in Wenske’s life, but his name hadn’t come up.

Kim’s bedroom had a king-sized bed, neatly made, with a handsome Japanese cotton coverlet. The bookmarked book on the bedside table was Mary Ann in Autumn, the final Tales of the City volume. Kim had made it to page 73. The closet was stuffed with what looked like a small fortune in well-crafted dark suits, a supposed occupational necessity—though an Albany news anchor had once confessed to me that for him it was the other way around: he needed to be on television so he’d have an excuse to own all those suits.

It looked as if somebody had already been through Kim’s desk. The police? The killer? The drawers were empty and their contents had been arranged in neat piles on top. It was basically just entertainment brochures and advertising. Anything more personal or potentially revealing—letters, bills, bank and credit card statements—had been taken away, I guessed. There was no computer, just—as with Wenske’s desk—a space where one must have sat. So who took that? The police or the killer?

Kim’s tidy bathroom contained a lot of toiletries but nothing that told me anything noteworthy about who Kim was. The only pharmaceuticals in his medicine cabinet were Tylenol, over-the-counter cold remedies and some prescription Cialis, a 30-tablet box of 5mg each, the daily dose.

I checked the kitchen to see if maybe a large knife was missing, suggesting that the killer had not planned on attacking Kim and had simply grabbed a knife in a rage. But I had no idea how many knives Kim owned to begin with, so I learned nothing. Anyway, the nearly empty fridge and the Thai and Korean boxed entrees in the freezer suggested that not a lot of cooking had gotten done in this kitchen. And not a lot of cheesecakes baked. I looked around for a recipe collection but found none.

§ § §

Marilyn Fogle had said she was in the midst of a fund drive at the NPR station where she was vice president for development, and would I mind if she picked up some salad and panini at Panera and we ate them in her kitchen? Her ex-husband had their two teenaged daughters for the weekend, so we would be able to talk without any distractions. I offered to pick up the food, but she said not to bother, she had to pass Panera anyway on the way home from the station.

The house didn’t look like the abode of the vice president of anything, just a cozy clapboard ranch with soon-to-burst-into-bloom tulips along the walk up to the front door. The car in the driveway was a Subaru wagon of non-recent vintage with carefully nonpartisan good-cause bumper stickers plastered across the hatch.

At her kitchen table, Fogle produced a Karlsberg for me and poured herself a glass of Chablis. “I do apologize for the store-bought fare, but it’s that time of year, as I hope you will have noticed.”