by A. P. Eisen
“I called the gym, and they said he’s at work today. We should pay him a little visit. What do you say?” Rob consulted his notebook. “He starts work at ten.”
“That’s good. And we should check in with Lanie so we have the exact time and cause of death.”
“Let’s do it.”
The Medical Examiner’s office was down the street from the precinct. It was a squat, nondescript red-brick building, two stories high. Lanie’s office was on the main floor, down the hall from the reception area.
“Morning, Paul, Rob. Gorgeous weather out there.” Patty Carmichael greeted them. “My favorite time of year.”
“Mine as well,” Paul said. “Lanie in yet?”
She arched a skeptical brow. “Really?”
“Okay. Stupid question.”
Rob chuckled. “If the name wasn’t already taken, she could also be called Bulldog.”
“Everyone’s a comedian. Let’s go. Can you tell her we’re coming, Patty?”
“Of course. Shame about Dr. Ulrich. He fixed up my Claude’s broken leg really good. Terrible about the lawsuit against him, although now I guess it doesn’t matter.”
His interest piqued, Paul exchanged glances with Rob. “What lawsuit?”
“Oh, it’s all over the hospital. My son Jefferson is a nurse there. One of Dr. Ulrich’s residents set Billie Radcliffe’s arm in a cast, but it was too tight and the boy lost almost all the use of it.”
“Billie Radcliffe…” Paul rubbed his chin. “Where have I heard that name before?”
Rob filled him in. “He’s the star pitcher of the Thornwood Park High School baseball team. They went to the State Division Championship. He was recruited by several Division One colleges and had his pick of schools. Now with a permanent injury like that?” Rob shook his head. “He’s probably got nothing. No scholarship, no college, no baseball career.”
“Damn. That’s rough.”
“Oh, yes.” Eager to add her voice, Patty jumped in. “And his father, Brick Radcliffe—he’s the owner of Flex, the gym?—he’s livid. When he found out, he went crazy in the hospital. Had a screaming match with Dr. Ulrich and threatened him.”
A tingle traveled up Paul’s spine. “He did? Do you know what was said?”
“No, but I can ask Jeff.”
“We’ll have to talk to him, Patty. Can you give us his number?”
Eyes wide, Patty nodded, her gray curls bouncing wildly. “Oh, my. Okay. Here’s his cell phone. He’s not working today.” She scribbled on the pad in front of her and ripped the page off.
Rob took the piece of paper from Patty and tucked it into his suit jacket pocket. “Thanks.”
“We appreciate your help,” Paul said. “You can tell Jefferson we’ll be in touch.”
“I will.”
They left Patty scrambling for the phone and walked to Lanie’s office. Paul rapped on the frosted-glass-paned door.
“Come on in, guys.”
Paul entered first, and Rob shut the door behind him. The office was typical government standard, with an old metal desk, beige walls that had started out white when they were painted ten years earlier, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases stuffed with medical books, binders, and spiral notebooks.
“Pick up a pile and have a seat,” Lanie said. “Just to confirm, we ran prints on the victim and even though you both visually ID’d him, it’s Ulrich for certain.”
Rob lifted a bunch of files and balanced them on top of others on Lanie’s desk, and Paul removed several magazines and set them on the floor.
“Now about the official report on Dr. Ulrich.” She turned to her computer screen. “I have everything right here, all printed out.” She handed the file over. Paul took it and read through the report twice before speaking.
“So. The smash on the head didn’t kill him, though it might’ve because it fractured his skull.”
Rob winced and rubbed the back of his head. “Damn. Yeah. That would’ve been bad enough, but that fall was brutal.”
“It was his unlucky position. The hit on his head propelled him forward, and his forehead crashed into the raised knob of the root. It smashed into his brain. To put it in layman’s terms, the killer knocked his brains out.” Her red-tipped hands shuffled files to put them together in a neat fashion, but Paul caught the slight tremble. It had to be hell seeing this type of cruelty over and over.
“Terrible way to die.”
Her deep brown eyes met his. “It is. Brutal and horribly painful, and whoever left him there needs to be caught.”
His lips tightened. This was why he became a cop. That need to right the wrongs of the world. There was so little he had control over—he couldn’t save his brother from dying in a terrible war thousands of miles away, and he had to be so careful with coming out to make sure he and Cliff remained safe. But this? The taking of an innocent life was anathema to him. Problems were meant to be worked out in a court of law or by talking. And if the person you were dealing with wasn’t a good person, then you figured out another way. Violence only begot more violence.
“We’re going to do our best. Thanks for the report.”
“I hope you get this one quickly, guys. I’m sure Forensics will have the rest of the info soon.”
On their way back to the precinct, he and Rob scanned the reports and talked as they walked.
“Time of death between four and eight a.m.” Paul thought for a moment. “Catherine Ulrich said he woke up around five, ate breakfast, and left.”
Rob grunted. “Stomach contents: granola and yogurt.” A disgusted sound escaped him. “Poor bastard. To have that as your last meal sucks.”
“Yeah, well, the Ulriches don’t seem like the bacon, eggs, and cheese sandwich type.” Paul made reference to Rob’s weakness for the sandwich shop breakfast he had delivered several times a week.
“They don’t know what they’re missing.”
Ignoring Rob’s culinary critique, Paul continued. “So he had breakfast and then left to go for a run—and meet someone?—only to get whacked in the head.”
They reentered the precinct, greeting the staff and officers they passed by on the way to their desks. Paul stopped to get them each a cup of coffee before taking a seat at his desk.
“Maybe,” Rob said. “But is there any indication that he went to the park to meet someone? There’s nothing on his calendar, no text on his phone.”
“Good point. We’ll need a record of all his calls: cell, home, and office. Plus I want to go through his effects.”
“Yeah. After we pay Mr. Callahan a visit, we can roll on over to the Manors and visit with Mrs. Ulrich again.” Rob picked up the phone. “I’ll call her.”
Already searching through the emails sent to them that morning, Paul agreed. “I bet she’ll try and push us off.”
“Let her try,” Rob said grimly. “I’m in no mood.”
Surprisingly, Catherine Ulrich agreed. “I won’t be home, Detectives, but Josie, my housekeeper, will let you in. Feel free to do whatever you need, even though the house is a bit of a mess from the renovation. I want my husband’s killer found as quickly as possible.”
“We’re doing our best, Mrs. Ulrich,” Rob said smoothly. “We’ll be there this afternoon.”
Before leaving for Flex, they coordinated their information. Shane Callahan was a thirty-three-year-old former college gymnastics star. He’d gone on tour with a national gymnastics group for a few years, then worked at gym camps until settling down in Thornwood Park six months ago, when he started working for Flex. From the driver’s license they pulled up, he was five-foot-seven, blond, and blue-eyed. A quick scan of the Internet showed him to also possess a cocky smile and one hundred fifty pounds of sculpted muscle.
All of which was on display when they walked into Flex and found him pressed up against the back of a huge body builder, holding on to the man’s massive shoulders as he performed a dead-weight squat lift.
“Damn, get a room, boys,” Paul muttered.
Rob snickered. “Don’t let Cliff catch you ogling. Annabel once thought I was staring at a woman at the beach, and she was not pleased.”
“Was that the night you slept on the couch? And for the record, I’m not interested.”
“Nights, Paulie. Two of them.”
“Was she right? You can be married or in a relationship, but that doesn’t mean you’re dead.”
“My thoughts exactly until she started pointing out guys with rock-hard abs or gorgeous smiles. I wasn’t amused.”
Yeah. Paul recalled last night, thinking about Cliff out with his friends, maybe meeting someone else and dancing with him. He could admit that he didn’t like it, but he didn’t feel he had the right to ask that of Cliff. Not yet, anyway. That would be taking what they had—whatever it was—to the next level. Always able to rely on his instincts to make snap decisions at work, Paul wasn’t used to this insecurity on a personal level.
“Let’s go talk to Callahan,” was all he said. They walked across the gym floor, and Paul could see the interested stares from the men working out.
Callahan, having finished whatever it was he was doing with his client, watched them approach with a furrowed brow and a wary expression in his eyes.
“Shane Callahan?”
“Yeah.” He crossed muscular forearms. “What do you want?”
That attitude sure as hell wasn’t going to help him. He and Rob could be nice as pie, trying to get potentials to cough up information without even realizing it, but if you wanted to act like a prick, Paul was happy to give it back in spades.
He flipped open his badge, as did Rob. “I’m Detective Paul Monroe, and this is my partner, Detective Rob Gormley. We need to ask you some questions.”
“Listen, if it’s about that fight at the Light Bulb the other night, I’d already left.”
“Is there someplace we can sit and talk for a few minutes?”
Perhaps realizing that the other clients had stopped their workouts and were staring at them, Callahan jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “We can go in there.” Without waiting for their response, he walked away and through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.
A long, scratched metal table took up the center of the brightly lit room. Posters detailing nutrition, diet, and exercise tips covered one side, while vending machines selling water, sports drinks, energy bars, and packages of nuts and pretzels took up the other side. Shane stood at the head of the table, arms crossed in front of his chest, pugnacious jaw thrust out, as if ready to fight.
Deliberately unhurried, Paul removed his jacket and hung it on the chair, giving Shane a good view of his holstered gun. This was a murder investigation; they weren’t in a pissing contest to see whose dick was bigger.
He always won.
“Let’s sit down.”
Callahan’s wary gaze shifted from him to Rob. Then he shrugged, and they took seats, Rob and him across from Callahan. He sat with his hands on top of the table, fingers laced together, but Paul saw the top of his knee jiggling with nerves.
Paul began. “Your client, Dr. Dean Ulrich, was murdered yesterday.”
A flicker in those blue eyes, but not of grief, Paul noticed. More of awareness.
“Yeah, I heard. Terrible. I hope you catch who did it. He was a cool guy.”
“How long had you worked together?”
The emphasis didn’t go unnoticed. Callahan’s jaw tightened, and a muscle ticked in his smooth cheek. “I started training Dean about three months ago.”
“How long before you started sleeping with him?” Rob asked, and Paul watched Callahan’s knuckles turn white.
“Do I need a lawyer?” Sweat gleamed on his forehead.
“We’re just here to ask some questions. If you feel you need one, we can stop and you can come down to the precinct.” Rob lazed back in his chair. “Up to you.”
Callahan waited a moment. “I’ve got nothing to hide. I mean, yeah, so what? We started sleeping with each other. It was off-hours.”
“Mr. Callahan, you can sleep with whomever you want. We don’t care.” Paul set his pen down and captured Callahan’s gaze. “What we do care about is that a man was murdered, and we need to find out who did it. Now, you had a relationship with him. When did it start, and how often did you meet?”
Callahan, who’d gone pale as Paul spoke, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and licked his lips. “He came to me about three months ago and said he’d been training with Jerry. He, uh, needed someone to keep him motivated because he’d had a rotator cuff injury and didn’t want the shoulder to go stiff.”
He paused, but when neither Paul nor Rob asked anything, he raked a shaky hand through his hair and continued. “He had a regular session once a week, but he started coming by the gym like two or three times more, always asking if I was free, and if I wasn’t, he’d wait. I’m not dumb. I can tell when a guy’s coming on to me.”
“I’m sure you get that a lot.” Rob smiled encouragingly, and Paul noticed Callahan scoping out the wedding band. Guess Ulrich’s death didn’t devastate him too much if he was already checking out a possible replacement.
“Yeah, kind of. He told me he was married, but he and his wife had an arrangement. She went her way and he went his. They stayed together for the kid and because he’d have to pay her too much if they divorced.”
Interesting. No way had Catherine Ulrich agreed to that. Paul scribbled down Callahan’s words. “So you knew all about his personal life. How often did you two meet?”
He scratched his chin in thought. “It started out as once a week, but he kept asking me for more. I thought, what the hell. He was into me, bought me nice stuff, so why the hell not?”
“He bought you presents? Like what?”
“A new phone, a laptop, a set of expensive weights I’d had my eye on. Stuff like that.”
Callahan was no dope. He realized he’d found himself a real, live sugar daddy.
“You made the most of it,” Paul said, a bit disgusted, but he wasn’t sure if it was directed toward Ulrich or Callahan.
The man lifted his chin. “Yeah, so what? He was hot for me, and I didn’t care. I mean, it’s not my fault he had to keep it under wraps. I made sure I was getting the most out of it.” He shrugged. “Not like he couldn’t afford it.”
“Did you care for Dr. Ulrich?”
Callahan gave his first smile. “He was a nice guy. Not gonna lie, it was a good ego boost how much he wanted me, but it’s not like I was in love with him.”
“What about Ulrich? Did he feel the same?” Rob posed the question, and Paul took note of Callahan’s stiff body language.
“I don’t know.”
“Mr. Callahan, was Dr. Ulrich your only lover?”
“We weren’t exclusive. I saw other guys.”
There were many other questions Paul wanted to ask, but until they did a little more investigating, he wouldn’t know what to concentrate on. “Thank you for being so cooperative, Mr. Callahan. We appreciate your help in trying to solve Dr. Ulrich’s murder. We’ll be in touch.”
Maybe Callahan expected more questions or tougher ones, because he let out a nervous laugh and jumped up from the table like his feet were on fire. “Oh, uh, yeah, well, anytime, sure. I got another client in a few minutes, so okay, yeah, I’m gonna go.” He scrambled out the door.
Rob raised a brow at Paul. “What do you think? Seemed awfully jumpy when we stopped. Like he expected us to have more questions.”
“Yeah,” Paul said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “We need more information to ask those questions. Information we don’t have. Yet. We’ll need to go back to the Ulriches’ and poke around a bit, but let’s stop at the precinct first and see if they got anything off his computer.”
CHAPTER SIX
Taking advantage of a rare day off, Cliff got a haircut and had a leisurely early lunch, where he even managed to read a book. Afterward, he went so far as to see a movie and treat himself to ice cream. He couldn’t recall the last time h
e had a day to himself. He’d focused so much of his attention on work—and lately his relationship with Paul—he’d forgotten how nice it was to simply take time out and breathe.
Deciding to do a little window-shopping, Cliff strolled down Main Street. He stopped to peer in the window of The Tailored Gentleman and decided to go inside the store to pick up some new ties.
Donald, the salesman who usually assisted him, was busy with another customer, so he browsed for a while, selecting two new ties and several shirts. Spying the boxers, he found some in Paul’s size to give him as a fun gift. He brought the items to the register, where Donald had finished ringing up his customer.
“Sorry, Cliff. Did you find everything you needed?”
“Yep. No problem.”
Donald rang him up, and when he came to the boxers, he arched a brow. “These are a large. Did you want me to find them in a medium for you?”
“No, they’re for a friend, but thanks.”
A smile broke over Donald’s face. “Lucky you.”
Heat crept up Cliff’s neck, but he said nothing and handed over his credit card. His phone buzzed, but he was in the middle of signing the receipt and figured he’d get back to whomever it was once he was done. He hoped it was Paul but didn’t expect it would be.
“Thanks, Donald. See you soon.”
“Take care, Cliff.”
He left the shop and sat on one of the wrought-iron benches the Thornwood Park Improvement Committee had placed up and down Main Street, along with pretty, hanging streetlamps topped with flowering plants. He chose a bench in the shade of a maple tree and pulled out his phone. He stared at the screen for a moment, not believing the missed call notification.
Mom and Dad.
Fumbling, he finally got the phone unlocked, and a voice-mail indicator light popped up. He hit the screen and, for the first time in fifteen years, heard his father’s voice.
“Hello, Cliff. Please call back as soon as you can.” A pause. “It’s about your mother.”
The bottom dropped out of his stomach, and with his heart pounding, Cliff hit Return Call.
