As I glanced around the room, my first impression was that the place was both small and crowded. It was as though a whole houseful of furniture had been summarily jammed into one or two rooms. Chairs and tables and bookshelves had been crammed together with very little organization or planning.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” said Riley apologetically. “I had hoped to get rid of my extra stuff after I moved here, but I haven’t had time.”
The piano, a small, beautifully finished spinet, stood just inside the door. On it sat a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a highball glass. It looked to me like Tom Riley was seriously nipping at the hard stuff. Early. It was still well before noon.
“Want a drink?” he offered.
“No thanks. Too early for me.”
He picked up the bottle and poured himself a generous drink. Motioning me toward a couch in the middle of the crowded room, Riley sank into a swivel-based rocking chair and placed the half-empty liquor bottle on a glass-topped table between us.
“So talk,” he said, downing his drink in a single swallow.
“Drowning your troubles?” I asked mildly.
Riley held up his empty glass and stared pensively through it toward the sliding glass door. The door framed a classic picture of a placid, dazzlingly blue Elliott Bay with the upper end of downtown Seattle gleaming in the background. The Space Needle hovered there like a flying saucer, its supportive tower almost invisible in the flawless sunlight.
“Maybe,” he said at last.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.”
“Mr. Riley, I get the feeling there was far more than a simple nurse-patient relationship between you and Jonathan Thomas.”
Raising his head, he looked at me intently, one eyebrow slightly arched. “Do you?”
Riley wasn’t making it easy for me. In trying to sort out what had gone on among the three of them, I was already well outside my comfort zone. I had to take better control of the situation, put things on firmer ground.
Without explanation, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small leather holder that contained both my badge and my ID. It also held the plastic-coated card with the standard Miranda warning printed on it.
Clearing my throat, I began to read: “‘You have the right to remain silent…’”
Instead of appearing upset, Riley simply poured himself another drink as he listened. Watching me intently, he settled back into his chair as though the words I was reading aloud had nothing whatsoever to do with him. His air was one of total nonchalance.
“So you think I’m the killer?” he asked when I finished. The booze gave his voice a hint of arrogance, a hard edge, that had been absent in our previous encounters.
“The thought crossed my mind,” I replied evenly. “Where did you go when you got off from work last night?”
“I came home.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“No.”
“Was there anyone here?”
“I live alone.”
“What about your landlord?”
“My landlord, as you put it, is a widow lady who’s blitzed out of her mind by six o’clock every night.”
“From what you said earlier, I take it you had a pretty low opinion of Richard Morris.”
“That seriously understates the case.”
“Why?”
“Because he was a leech and a liar and a miserable excuse for a human being.”
“How long had he and Jonathan…” I paused, groping uncomfortably for the right word.
“How long had they been lovers?” Riley supplied.
I nodded.
“I don’t know. A long time, I guess. If you ask me, Rick Morris saw a likely-looking meal ticket and hung on for dear life.”
“Jonathan Thomas had money?”
“His parents are loaded.”
“I thought you said they disowned him.”
“Jon’s grandmother left him some money separately, a trust fund, and the house.”
“So the house belonged to him?”
Riley nodded. “Free and clear.” He poured himself another drink. “Sure you don’t want one?”
“Positive,” I told him. This time he didn’t down the liquor all at once. Instead, he took a small sip and set the glass down on the table beside the bottle. I had to give him credit. Gay or not, Tom Riley could definitely hold his liquor.
“And Jonathan’s parents never came to see him during the time you worked there?”
“Never. From what he told me, that’s no surprise. His father’s one of those Bible-thumping bigots who claims that being gay is a one-way ticket to hellfire and damnation. And as far as his mother is concerned, what his father says goes.”