The Ninth Man by Dorien Grey

the desk. Leaning forward, his elbows on the edge of the desk, his hands folded as if in prayer, he stared at me for a full ten seconds before speaking.
    “I’m really not sure why you’re here, Mr. Hardesty, or how I can help you—or even if I should be talking with you at all. As I mentioned to you on the phone, I have no idea how Arthur could have anything to do with whatever it is you are engaged in. Arthur’s private life is not a matter for public airing.”
    “I know Mr. Granger was gay, if that’s what’s worrying you,” I said. “My client is gay, I’m gay—it’s all strictly a family affair. It’s just that I think there might have been some link between the case and Mr. Granger. What it is, I haven’t any idea; that’s what I’d like to find out. I’d very much appreciate any help you can give me. And I promise I’m not out to cause any trouble for you, for Mr. Granger, or for anyone else.”
    Running the tip of his tongue quickly over the inner rim of his lower lip, Bell pushed away from the edge of his desk to settle back in his chair.
    “What is it you’d like to know?”
    I allowed myself to relax a little, too, being careful as I crossed my legs not to kick the desk in the process.
    “I don’t know what your relationship was with Mr. Granger—” I began.
    “Friends,” he interrupted, again giving me that fleeting smile. “Friends.”
    “…or how close your friendship may have been. But would you know if Mr. Granger knew a man named Bobby McDermott?”
    Bell pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling for a moment.
    “No,” he said finally, “I’m not aware that Arthur knew anyone by that name. At least, I never met him or heard Arthur mention his name.”
    “How about Clete Barker? Gene Harriman? Arnold Klein? Alan Rogers?”
    Bell looked at me strangely.
    “Why, that’s peculiar,” he said. “The police also asked me if Arthur knew an Alan Rogers or a Gene Harriman. I told them no. They didn’t mention the other two, though.”
    That, I thought, wasn’t surprising—Granger was the third victim; Barker and Klein were still alive when the police talked to Bell. Apparently, they hadn’t thought it worth checking with him again.
    “Do you know if Mr. Granger knew Clete Barker or Arnold Klein, then?”
    Bell hadn’t taken his eyes off me.
    “I don’t believe so. Perhaps you could tell me why you and the police are asking about the same people?”
    A good question. I hoped I could come up with a good answer.
    “It’s rather complicated,” I said, “and my client has asked me not to go into detail, but the police are apparently investigating a related case involving some of the same individuals.”
    Bell stiffened.
    “Are you implying that Arthur was involved in some sort of illegal activity?”
    “Not at all,” I hastened to reassure him. “I have no indication whatever that Mr. Granger did anything illegal. I’m merely trying to establish any sort of link among the four men I’ve mentioned, and believe Mr. Granger might have been aware of what that link may be.”
    Bell relaxed again, and I thought it best to change the subject.
    “Do you happen to know the cause of Mr. Granger’s death?”
    Bell’s eyes were still riveted to mine, and I could see water gathering in the folds of his lower lids. When he blinked, a tear began to move down one of the crevices in his face. He didn’t even appear to notice it at first.
    “Arthur was only forty years old, but heart problems ran in his family,” he said. “His father died at thirty-eight, his grandfather at fifty.”
    “And that’s what the police told you…a heart attack?”
    “The police told me nothing,” he said with a sigh.
    Taking a deep breath, Bell sat up straight and made an almost unconscious swiping gesture along his mouth line with one index finger, catching the tear just before it reached his chin.
    “Did they mention the possibility of suicide?”
    Bell stiffened as though I’d slapped