He laughs. “Oh, come on! Are you always such an uptight stick in the mud?”
I’ve clearly lost control of this conversation. “Yes, I am. Can we please get back on track here? I have questions I need to ask you about Eric Townsend.”
Ian’s expression sobers at the mention of his deceased friend’s name, and he sinks down onto an upholstered armchair. “All right. Ask your questions.”
All of his bravado evaporated almost immediately, and I realize his cockiness is just a show.
Feeling like an ass, I take a seat on a chair across from him and pull out my notebook and pen. I ask him to go through his movements during the previous night. Where did he go? And at what time? When did he arrive at the marina? How often is he on his boat? Does he sleep there often? Does he know if Eric was seeing someone in particular?
“There were lights on below deck, and I heard music. I figured Eric was still up so I boarded and knocked on the galley door. When he didn’t answer, I knocked again, louder, and called his name. He should have heard me. The music wasn’t that loud. When there was still no answer, I let myself in.”
“The door wasn’t locked?”
“No.”
“Go on.”
“There’s not much else to say. I spotted him immediately, lying on the floor in a pool of blood. It was obvious someone had slit his throat.” Ian motions toward his own throat and shudders. “It was gaping.” He makes a hand gesture. “Open.”
“Did you happen to notice if he was still bleeding at the time?” I’m still waiting on a preliminary autopsy report for an estimated time of death, but knowing if he was still bleeding will help narrow down the timeframe.
Ian nods. “It was sluggish, but the blood was still coming out.”
Sluggish. Townsend must have nearly bled out by that time. “And you saw no one?”
“Not a soul. I went up on deck, called 911, and then I threw up over the side.”
“Tell me about your friend. What was his routine? Where did he typically hang out, and with whom?”
“Eric was all over the place… flitting from club to club late into the night. He was very outgoing… and very promiscuous. We used to go clubbing together a lot, and it wasn’t unusual for him to hook up with one or two guys in one night.”
“Used to?”
Ian shrugs. “Not so much lately. Eric had started doing some pretty hard partying, drugs included. That’s not my thing.”
“These are gay clubs you’re talking about, I presume?”
Ian smiles. “Yes, gay clubs, where gay men congregate and sometimes engage in gay sexual activity in the bathroom or back alley.”
Again, my face heats. I really wish he wouldn’t push me this way. I don’t know what he’s trying to accomplish by it, but it’s counterproductive. “Let’s just stick to the facts, okay? I’m not here to do any gay bashing.”
“Sorry.” He gives me a contrite half-smile.
“How do you feel about the police presence outside?” I ask him, redirecting my thoughts.
He shrugs. “Dad told me he was going to arrange it.”
“Your father, Judge Martin Alexander. He has a lot of pull with Chicago PD.” That’s not a question.
Ian sighs. “Dad usually gets his way. I’ve learned not to fight him on the small things.”
“And you consider your protection from a possible serial killer a small thing?”
“I’m not afraid, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says. “Life’s too short to live in fear. Carpe diem.”
He meets my gaze defiantly, and I find myself holding onto my breath. I’ve never known anyone like him. He’s a free spirit. He’s electrifying. “Seize the day. That’s the name of your boat.”
He nods.
I force myself back on track. “I need you to make a list of all the clubs Eric frequented. Can you do that?”
“Sure. You think his murder is connected to one of the clubs?”
“It’s possible. All of the victims frequented a number of gay clubs in the area. I’m investigating these murders as possible hate crimes, and sexual orientation is the obvious common denominator.”
Ian laughs harshly. “Three gay men strangled to death, nearly decapitated? Yes, I’d say these are hate crimes. People don’t go around strangling people they like. This killer hated his victims.”
“That’s why you need to be vigilant. Let the police do their jobs—let them protect you. Stay here in your townhouse for the foreseeable future and avoid the marina. In fact, I think it’s advisable for you to remain here, safely indoors, until the killer is apprehended.”
Ian’s expression darkens. “I won’t be locked up, Tyler.”
“It’s just for a little while.” My God, the thought of this vibrant young man becoming another statistic shakes me to the core. “Ian, please. It’s for your own safety.”
He relaxes, his posture losing its defensiveness. “I’ll think about it.”
I rise from my seat to hand him my notebook and pen. “How about that list of clubs, then?”
As he starts writing, he shakes his head. “Pen and paper? You do have a smartphone, don’t you? And a note app? You’re so old school. How old are you, anyway?”
There’s a hint of curiosity in his voice, but since my age is irrelevant, I ignore his question. When he hands me the notebook, I study the list. Four clubs, all located in Boystown. I meet his gaze. “Stay away from these clubs.”
For a moment, he looks like he’s going to refuse. But then he relaxes into a half-smile. “Whatever you say, Tyler.”
I know it’s pointless, but I correct him anyway. “Detective Jamison, please.”
He rolls his eyes, reminding me just how young he is. “Whatever you say, Detective.”
I leave Ian’s townhouse with an uneasy feeling, and I’m tempted to tell the officers on guard duty to watch him closely. I have zero confidence that he’ll heed my warning.
I suspect Ian Alexander does whatever the hell he wants. As a straight-laced stick-in-the-mud, I kind of admire that about him.
Chapter 4
Ian Alexander
It’s midnight, and I can’t sleep. I’m usually out at this time of night, hitting the clubs with friends. My phone is lit up with text messages from Chris and Trey asking me where the hell I am. I keep tossing and turning in bed, the covers a twisted wreck.
I’ve got a raging hard on, thanks to a certain someone I can’t stop fantasizing about. I’ve already rubbed one out tonight, with his face front and center in my mental spank bank. And now I’m ready for another go.
Damn, that man is hot. In spite of his old school, uptight, repressed manner, he makes me tingle. I can’t figure him out, though. I think that’s because he hasn’t figured himself out. My heart pounds every time I’m near him and he sears me with those mesmerizing blue-green eyes.
When I saw him the other night at Tank’s, my pulse kicked into overdrive. Damn! I was there with some straight friends that night, and when I pointed him out to the guys, they told me he was a regular. They said he showed up every Friday night at eight p.m., and he’d sit at the bar drinking alone until around ten, when he’d leave, almost always alone. They told me he was hit on frequently by both women and men and, occasionally, he’d leave with a woman.