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building. The second floor had a number of opaque windows, with another doorway opening onto a fire escape. It would be pretty hard to enter the building that way, even if the second-floor doorway leading to the fire escape could be opened from the outside. The suspended ladder was too high off the ground for anyone to reach, even by jumping at it; and if the killer had tried to leave that way, the ladder would have stayed down, and the police would certainly have seen it.
    Walking down the alley, I noted that the first door was slightly recessed and appeared to be more of a private entrance than an emergency exit, as the double door at the rear obviously was. Directly across from the first door was another “Private Parking” sign with no car under it.
    As I went to have a closer look at the first door, I glanced down at the ground and saw a key lying beside the stoop. Curious, I picked it up and, on a hunch, put it in the lock. It didn’t fit. Still, something told me this was a clue, so I put it in my pocket and resumed my circle tour. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I spotted another key about ten feet from where I’d found the first, at the edge of a small puddle in the center of the alley. A new key, like the kind you’d get with a nice, new car.
    I was definitely on to something but, as is so often the case, wasn’t sure exactly what that something was.
    I found nothing else of interest in the alley, and the rest of the block consisted of pretty standard commercial buildings with a number of gay-owned businesses—bookstore, vegetarian restaurant, clothing store, etc.
    Which brought me back to the entrance to Rage. I opened the door and entered the lobby. Sure enough, the blond Adonis was on duty, every perfectly shaped muscle on prominent display beneath the Rage T-shirt.
    As I approached the window, he stared at me then gave a nod toward the door, which buzzed to unlock as I reached for the handle. To the left was the door to Comstock’s office, which was blocked by a sill-to-floor “X” of yellow “Police: Do Not Cross” tape; to the right, an open door to the registration area, where the blond stood by the counter, unsmiling.
    “Hi,” I said, stepping inside the room. “I’m Dick Hardesty.”
    “Yeah, I remember,” he said, noticeably unimpressed.
    “And your name is…?” I asked, a little puzzled and mildly irked by his attitude.
    “Troy,” he said, his face impassive.
    “Well, Troy,” I said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions, and it looks like you’re not overly busy at the moment.”
    “I’ve got paperwork,” he said, sounding defensive.
    “I’m sure you do,” I said, trying to ignore what I was beginning to see as a blooming case of Major Attitude. “But I also assume you’ve been instructed to cooperate with me. Am I right?”
    He shrugged.
    “Good,” I said.
    I noticed a tall stool by the counter and pulled it to me, straddling it to sit down.
    “Let’s start with how long you’ve worked here.”
    Troy leaned against the counter on one nicely muscled arm and crossed one ankle over the other.
    “Since it opened,” he said.
    I had one of my hunches and decided to follow up on it.
    “How well did you know Barry Comstock?”
    A brief look of anxiety crossed his cover-model face.
    “He was my boss,” he said, but I got the definite feeling that wasn’t exactly all.
    “Just your boss, huh?”
    Troy’s face flushed, and he looked down at the floor.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “He was my boss. I told the police all this shit already.”
    “Well,” I said, “I’m not the police.” Then, sensing maybe I was being a little hard on the kid, I tried another tack. “Come on, Troy. Barry Comstock was murdered. I know you thought I was the one who killed him, but I didn’t have anything to do with it. He was gay, you’re gay, I’m gay—this is a family thing, here. Help me out.”
    He shifted his position slightly, uncrossing his