Drop Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “I have even more special needs,” Fenwick stated. “No matter how rich or poor, they’re out of luck today. They will need to be interviewed.”

  “Some may have been planning to check out. They could conceivably have international plane connections to make or perhaps business meetings with important LaSalle Street bankers.”

  “I’m sorry if we inconvenience them,” Turner said, “but they have to be interviewed. We’ll take those who need to leave first, but whatever their time schedule, they will have to wait.”

  “Was it murder?” Weeland asked.

  “All unexplained deaths are investigated as if they were homicides until it is proven otherwise,” Turner explained.

  Fenwick said, “We’ll have uniformed officers start speaking with guests on all the floors below the penthouse. The two of us will start in the penthouse itself.”

  “Let me arrange with the staff to assemble whomever you need. At the same time I’ll get you the maps and the printout of who is staying in the penthouse.” He left the room.

  Fenwick said, “I feel like pissing on the carpet.”

  “I’m not sure the class of people who stay at the Archange perform normal bodily functions.”

  “I could show them how.”

  “All that would happen is that some poor flunky in a minimum wage job would have to clean it.”

  “I wish I still smoked,” Fenwick said. “I’d inhale a pack so I could drop a ton of ashes on the carpet.”

  “Aren’t you being a little anal retentive?” Turner asked.

  “Since when do you talk that shit?” Fenwick said. He looked pleased at his clever choice of words. “Besides, what you mean is anally fixated.”

  “It is?”

  “Trust me. I took a mail-order abnormal psychology class last fall.”

  “News to me.”

  “Ha! I don’t tell you everything. Madge insisted. She said I wasn’t sensitive enough.”

  “And now you are?”

  “More sensitive? To the rest of you, hell, no. To Madge, I have no choice.”

  The manager returned with more computer printouts in his hand. “I have a list of guests in the penthouse. I also ran off the names of all those who checked out of the hotel this morning, as well as those who need to leave, and those who are not yet scheduled to depart. It will take a few more minutes for us to get you copies of the schematic drawings of the penthouse.” He held the sheets of paper out to the detectives. “Thank you for accommodating those who need to leave.”

  Turner thanked him for his help. They called in several of the beat cops to begin the canvass of the guests.

  “Anything slightly suspicious,” Fenwick said, “make them wait for us. I don’t care how rich they are or how angry they get. Be sure to ask if they are connected to the fashion industry. Anybody who is automatically gets interviewed by us.”

  One cop asked, “What if they won’t cooperate?”

  “Throw another one off the balcony,” Fenwick said, “and see if the rest aren’t a little more forthcoming.”

  The beat cops looked at him blankly.

  Fenwick shook his head. “Five, ten years ago that would have gotten a laugh or scared the piss out of some uniform. I’ve got to get better material.”

  “Maybe not everything’s a joke,” said a solemn-faced beat cop.

  Fenwick scowled at him.

  “Skip it,” said Turner. “Let’s get up to the penthouse. You five start the interviews down here.”

  Fenwick muttered as they waited for the elevator and on the swift trip to the top of the hotel. “It was funny. I know it was funny. Tell me my comment was funny.”

  “It was funny,” Turner said.

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “I could sing it.”

  “Am I losing my touch?”

  “As the world’s worst cop humorist? Not a chance. I’d say your crack expressed who you are quite well.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That you weren’t funny.”

  The elevator door opened.

  THREE

  They entered a crowded reception room with a uniformed cop standing guard. From leering granite gargoyles to rough-hewn stone walls, the decor shrieked of gothic.

  At a Louis XVI table five feet from the elevators, two men and a woman were conferring. Ten feet behind them were a group of eleven or twelve people. Everyone turned to look at Turner and Fenwick. From the small group closest to them, a man with snow-white hair spoke to the detectives. “Now what?” he demanded.

  “Let’s shoot that one,” Fenwick mumbled.

  Turner and Fenwick strode forward, introduced themselves, and showed their identification.

  The white-haired man said, “I’m Franklin Munsen, president of GUINEVERE, Incorporated. What’s happened? Why are we being held? The police who are here won’t tell us anything. One of us, Cullom Furyk, was here for brunch and is now missing. What has happened to Cullom Furyk?”

  Turner said, “He’s dead, Mr. Munsen.”

  Everyone fell silent. Several shook their heads. Someone gasped. Munsen whispered, “I don’t believe it.”

  “We need to speak with all of you,” Turner said.

  Munsen pointed to the man standing next to him. “This is Evan Abarak, my assistant. He will be happy to set up appointments for you. All of us need to leave. This is the most important time of the year for us. We have vital engagements and meetings to attend.”

  Under his breath Fenwick said, “And miles to go before you sleep.”

  Turner ignored Fenwick. The few in the crowd who heard him gave Fenwick an odd look.

  “We need to talk to all of you now,” Turner said. “We believe that the dead person fell from this level.”

  “We all knew Cullom Furyk,” Munsen said. “He was close to many of us. No one can believe he’d commit suicide.”

  Fenwick said, “We have reason to believe he was murdered.”

  A few of the people looked at each other. Some gaped. Nobody rushed up to confess.

  “Is everyone else who was at the brunch still here?” Fenwick asked.

  “Yes,” Munsen replied. “I organized the brunch here today. Really, these people, including me, need to leave.”

  “We are all far too upset to be talking to the police,” Abarak added.

  Fenwick burst out laughing. “I don’t know what silly soap opera you may have been watching, but witnesses and suspects don’t get to declare when they are willing or able to talk to the police.”

  “There’s no need to take that tone,” Munsen said.

  “Nor am I about to let you decide what tone I can or cannot take. This is a murder investigation.”

  “Why do you think it was murder?” Munsen asked.

  Turner said, “We have a witness who says they saw him pushed from this floor.”

  “Impossible,” Munsen said.

  “Why is that impossible?” Fenwick asked.

  “Well, it just is,” Munsen said. “Nobody here is a killer.”

  “Certainly not,” his assistant added. “Maybe what the witness saw was someone trying to save him.”

  Fenwick asked, “Has someone up here mentioned to anyone else that they were out on the balcony, saw him starting to fall, and tried to rescue him?”

  All shook their heads no.

  Fenwick said, “Then that person is incredibly shy, has remarkable self-control, or that person is the killer. Is an innocent person going to be able to keep that kind of experience to themselves? It’s never happened in my years on the force.”

  “Maybe they’re afraid they’d be accused of murder,” Abarak said.

  “We’ll question everyone,” Fenwick stated flatly.

  “First we need to secure the area of the penthouse from which he fell,” Turner said. “Then, Mr. Munsen, we might as well start with you. What would be the most convenient place for us to talk?”

  Munsen made no further protests. Turner showed him the copy of t
he guest list they’d gotten from Weeland. Munsen confirmed its accuracy and completeness. He wrote down the names of the people who were at the brunch but not staying in the penthouse.

  They turned to the uniformed officer stationed at the elevator. Turner said to her, “Get some more uniforms up here with the maps of the place. Check with Weeland, the manager. He said he’d get copies for us. Tell them to find out where everybody was or claims they were. Get their movements from the moment they entered the penthouse to the time we showed up. Write down which rooms they were in and at what times and make a sketch for each different person.”

  One of the cops on guard when they arrived gave them a brief tour so they could get a sense of the layout of the penthouse. Two wide and spacious corridors bisected the entire floor from north to south and east to west. Tall, severe statues of religious figures blessing the viewer stood in niches every twenty feet. Where the halls crossed in the center was a large oval room. From here, the inhabitants had a spectacular view. The dome in the center of the room rose two stories, culminating in a vast stained-glass window where thousands of tiny shards of glass formed an immense red rose surrounded by swirling waves of green and blue. It was in this room that the brunch had been held. The only remnants of the meal were two large coffee urns—one gold and the other silver—with trays of white porcelain cups next to each.

  All four of the hallways ended in gothic towers. Walls of chiseled stone cut them off from the adjoining balconies. Each tower had a two-story panel of clear glass from which to view the scenery. Flanking these were stained-glass windows of brilliant ruby red and dark, saturated blue. For those who wished a more lofty perch, in each tower a black wrought-iron spiral staircase led up and outdoors to a farther balcony.

  Leaving their guide behind, the two detectives climbed the black metallic staircase in the west-facing tower. A six-inch-thick wooden door led onto a twelve foot by twelve foot platform. The wind was cool, the sun was warm, the view was extravagant. The balcony they stood on had three pieces of white wrought-iron furniture—graveyard furniture.

  As they gazed at the wintry sunshine glinting off the skyscrapers Turner said, “Whatever else happens, never again quote poetry in front of possible witnesses or suspects.”

  “You don’t like poetry?”

  “I’m not opposed to it, but think about it, Buck. A poetry-quoting cop? Besides the fact that it is totally out of character for you, nobody would believe it about any cop anywhere.”

  “There’s got to be poetry-reciting, even poetry-writing cops. Somewhere.”

  “Probably. That’s not my main problem, though.”

  “What’s your main problem?”

  “The worst is, I might bust out laughing.”

  Fenwick grumbled, “I think I’m going to be miffed.”

  “Keep reciting poetry and you might end up miffing in action.”

  Fenwick glowered at his partner. “Comments like that are grounds for divorce.”

  “Do I get custody of the chocolate?”

  “Just remember, I’m the one in this relationship that does the witty cop humor.”

  “I’ve been taking lessons from you. Besides, that wasn’t humor. It was only a ghastly pun, which you walked right into.”

  Turner and Fenwick climbed back down and proceeded to the southwest side of the penthouse and entered the terrace. All the outside walls had immense sliding glass doors alternating with traceried rectangular panels. The tower walls of windowless stone made cold, blank, imposing barriers sixteen feet high. Each balcony made a right angle around the corner of the building. The parapets that formed the barriers between the terraces and space eternal were crenellated slabs of granite over six feet high. Two-foot gaps allowed those on the balcony to peer onto the passing scene below. In olden times, the defenders could shoot arrows, drop rocks, or pour boiling oil from these machicolations. The only decoration on the terrace was one piece of white wrought-iron furniture.

  “How many entrances from how many rooms are there to this thing?” Fenwick asked.

  They walked the length of the balcony. There were four sliding glass doors into four different rooms, two bedrooms—one of which looked occupied—and two studies, which looked unused. Two of the rooms faced south, two west.

  Next the detectives examined the floor and the wall of the balcony.

  After fifteen minutes of close inspection, Fenwick said, “Not a clue in sight.” He peered at the pavement far below. “I always wanted to be the one dropping boiling oil on the attackers.”

  “A childhood fantasy?”

  “Now would be perfectly okay. I can picture desperate criminals looking up and getting crushed by large jagged boulders. Or maybe judges and prosecuting attorneys running for their lives.”

  “You’ve been more irritable than usual since you got back from court today. You didn’t get enough chocolate this morning?”

  “Can you ever get enough chocolate?” Fenwick answered his own question. “I don’t think so. No, I’ve got two words: Judge Cabestainey.”

  Turner nodded in sympathy. “I understand.”

  Judge Cabestainey was a bane to detectives in his courtroom. Turner figured the judge must have had a nasty run-in with cops somewhere in his life. Cabestainey had even been warned by the judicial commission about his hostility toward the police.

  “That shit-face cost us the case,” Fenwick said.

  “That’s more than two words, and I thought he’d been warned to behave.”

  “Can’t prove it by me.”

  Before Fenwick could launch into a full tirade about the judicial system, Turner suggested questioning the assembled guests. One of the uniforms met them as they reentered the penthouse. He gave them a copy of a diagram of the top floor.

  FOUR

  They found Munsen, who led them to an opulent living room that faced south and east. Turner and Fenwick sat on a black horsehair couch with four-foot-high plaster statues of crouching lions at each end. Through the windows they could see the John Hancock Building and the tops of numerous other skyscrapers in the Loop. The balcony and wall they could see were exact duplicates of the one Furyk had been pushed from.

  Munsen sat across from them on a chair whose back rose three feet over his head. The arms ended in carved lions’ paws. It was more of a seat to hide in than sit on. Or perhaps a giant’s throne borrowed from the prop room of a sixteenth-century costume drama.

  Munsen wore a white-green cotton cricket sweater over a blue-white cotton T-shirt, madras-plaid cotton pants and sandals. Turner didn’t see this as an outfit for the president of a fashion company. He glanced down at his well-worn sport coat and slacks and decided to keep his fashion comments to himself.

  Munsen placed his right foot on his left knee and gazed from one to the other of them. He said, “I can’t believe Cullom is dead.”

  “Was he staying here?”

  “No. He’d arrived just before the brunch for a brief meeting with me.”

  “Who knew he was going to be here?”

  “My staff, certainly. It wasn’t a secret. A number of reporters probably knew.”

  “How well did you know him?” Turner asked.

  Munsen’s eyes misted over. “I was the one who discovered him. For a number of years he has been the spokesmodel for our line of men’s clothes.”

  “When was it that you discovered him?”

  “Ten years ago when we were just starting the company. He was sixteen then. He modeled for us. Teenage girls loved his look. When he was older, he branched out to many of our other products. When we launched our underwear line, his first ads nearly caused a stampede to the better department stores. He was good, extremely good, for sales.”

  “He’s from the area?”

  “Grew up in Evanston. I believe he still has some family up there, although he bought his parents a retirement home in Palm Beach several years ago. We had a huge talent search back then and it was one of our first big publicity gimmicks. It really helped
set us up in Chicago. We got headlines in all the papers, and after that the gossip columns in town really followed us. Cullom was a tremendous discovery. He could convey an innocence and warmth and masculinity that was magical, natural.”

  “We understand he worked with the Save the Orphans campaign.

  “That one and a number of others. He cared very much. Over time anyone with a cause called him, but he limited himself to a select few, mostly those having to do with children.”

  “Why were you having the brunch today?” Turner asked.

  “There are two major fashion companies in Chicago. We started about the same time. Veleshki and Heyling is the other. As you’ve probably heard, we’ve been rivals for years.”

  “Never heard of either of you,” Fenwick said.

  Munsen’s look mixed superiority with an ill-concealed sneer. “Each of us set out to rival the fashion houses in Paris, New York, London, and Milan. We both picked Chicago. I did because I was born here. I decided to use my inheritance to found a fashion company from scratch. It was not easy, and it cost a great deal of money. Each of our companies has succeeded to some extent. Today’s meeting was to finalize our agreement to cooperate instead of compete. We wanted lots of pictures and publicity for our first cooperative efforts this week.”

  “Was this a formal merger?” Fenwick asked. “Was either of you buying the other out?”

  “Despite vicious, unfounded rumors in the tabloids, this was definitely not a merger. No money was changing hands. The companies would most definitely be separate. It was an agreement to cooperate. It was my idea. For example, one year we had our runway shows on exactly the same day. It drove the press insane and ruined a lot of good publicity for both of us. Veleshki and Heyling are sensible. So am I. We worked it out. We had a very amicable meeting.”

  “Why was Cullom here?” Turner asked.

  “We met about several new ad campaigns.”

  “How has he been lately? Any problems, concerns, enemies?”