Drop Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Where his partner had turned, he found stairs leading down. He stepped slowly. At the bottom of the stairs he crouched behind a tall stack of lumber. This floor looked far more complete than the one above. He saw a large shadow detach itself from the wall on the left about twenty feet down the hall. He assumed it was Fenwick.

  “Gotcha, you son of a bitch,” Fenwick bellowed. This was immediately followed by a loud squawk and a string of curses from Fenwick. Turner rushed forward. He saw Fenwick chasing a vague figure. Fenwick rounded a corner. Seconds later there was a loud yelp and a startled bellow. Turner stopped at the juncture and peered around. Neither Fenwick nor the one he was pursuing was in evidence. Five feet in front of him was an unfinished ramp. The light from the party was more evident here. He peered over the edge down the incline. He saw Fenwick grasping his ankle. Mixed with louder sounds from the party, he heard retreating footsteps. There was a camera flash and a second set of running footsteps. Turner carefully strode down the ramp. Fenwick tottered to his feet. He gingerly placed his right foot on the ground. Fenwick gritted his teeth.

  “Is it broken?” Turner asked.

  “I doubt it. I didn’t recognize the creep I was chasing. If I see someone with a camera, I’m going to strangle them.”

  “Half the reporters down below have cameras.”

  “Gonna be a lot of dead people.”

  Fenwick tried walking on his foot. After several minutes he could do so without limping. When they found the elevator on this floor, there was a small crowd clustered at the doors. When the well-dressed group spotted them they stopped chatting. Two of them had cameras.

  Turner asked, “Have all of you been standing here together?”

  “Who wants to know?” one of them asked.

  Turner held out his identification. “Have you seen anyone go by in the past few minutes?” Turner asked.

  They all shook their heads. The detectives gave it up and took the elevator down.

  “Was that the killer or a paparazzi?” Turner asked.

  “I don’t care which it was, but when I find them, they will experience more pain than I will.”

  Turner and Fenwick found Jeff and Brian eating food in the middle of the ground-floor concourse. They were two feet from a mound of sand next to the buffet tables surrounding the stage.

  “Where’s Battle?” Fenwick asked.

  Brian said, “He took Mrs. Fenwick off to meet some people. We decided to get some food.”

  “You just ate dinner,” Paul said. He still marveled at the ability of his sons to put away immense quantities of comestibles.

  “Any problems?” Fenwick asked.

  “Mrs. Fenwick got offered a job,” Jeff said, “and some old guy propositioned Brian.”

  “Some guy offered me a modeling job,” Brian said, “in the nude for a hundred bucks an hour.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” Jeff asked.

  “What’d you tell him?” Turner asked.

  “Brian said the ‘f’ word,” Jeff said.

  Paul leaned down to his son’s wheelchair. He ignored the thousands of people around them. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and looked into his son’s brown eyes. “Are you supposed to be tattling on your brother?”

  “He thumped me on the head again,” Jeff protested. “He’s not supposed to do that either.”

  “Is this a contest?” Paul asked. “Do we keep score in our house on who misbehaves most? You’re supposed to behave as best you can. So is he. Have I asked you for help in disciplining Brian before?”

  “No.”

  “Nor will I be asking in the future.” Paul put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I need your help with lots of things. You’re very important to me, and I’m glad I brought you along. I want you to stop tattling.”

  “Okay.”

  Paul hugged the boy and turned to his older son. “You refused vigorously. I’ve got that part. Anything else?”

  “He didn’t believe my no, so I told him I had to ask permission from my dad, who was a Chicago police detective doing an investigation here. For some reason he left in a big hurry.”

  “You see him again, point him out to me,” Paul said. “I’d like to talk with him detective to photographer.”

  “Are you going to hit him, Dad?” Jeff asked.

  “If he won’t, I will,” Fenwick said, then inquired, “Was Madge asked to pose in the nude? If she was, I’m afraid she’d say yes.”

  “No,” Brian said. “The woman who talked to her sounded real sincere, but I think Mrs. Fenwick thought it was funny. She had this big grin on her face, but she was real nice to the woman who asked her.”

  Battle and Madge walked up to them with a third person in tow. She wore a gold lame evening dress draped in purple chiffon. Madge said, “This is Sibilla Manetti.” She introduced the group. Brian’s mouth gaped.

  Jeff said to the famed model, “My brother thinks you’re real pretty.”

  Her voice was surprisingly low and husky as she asked, “And what about you?”

  “I’m still a kid in a wheelchair.”

  She leaned over, kissed him on the forehead, and ruffled his hair. “If you’re still available in ten years, I’ll marry you.”

  A clutch of photographers hurried over. They took a number of pictures of Sibilla with her hand on Jeff’s shoulder. Moments after that she and Battle were whisked away.

  “Cool,” Jeff said.

  “How’d you do that?” Brian asked Jeff.

  “Being in a wheelchair doesn’t mean I’m handicapped. You look funny with your mouth open.”

  Brian shook his head.

  “Did you really get offered a modeling job?” Paul asked Madge.

  She laughed. “Yes, but I told them I only worked as a husband-and-wife team. For some reason they didn’t want Buck.”

  “Too handsome,” Fenwick said. “They’d get jealous, and I’d break the camera.”

  Madge laughed some more. “And, Paul, two people asked if you were available for modeling.”

  “With or without clothes?” Fenwick asked.

  “What difference does it make?” Brian asked.

  “Without clothes I razz him more,” Fenwick replied.

  “I am not available clad or unclad,” Turner said.

  Brian asked, “Mrs. Fenwick, how’d you get Sibilla Manetti to come over here?”

  “I was being introduced to her with a lot of other people. I pointed out Jeff, and she came over immediately.”

  “Did you guys learn anything?” Brian asked.

  “Yeah,” Turner said, “never go to a fashion fund-raiser on a school night.”

  Just before they left, the loudspeaker system came on. The voice of Franklin Munsen welcomed everyone. He then spoke briefly about the death of Cullom Furyk and asked for a moment of silence. Turner watched the mass of exquisitely coiffed, expensively dressed, glittering people bow their heads.

  In the car Brian said, “Can we go over again the reasons why I can’t go camping?”

  “Sure. The middle of January is too cold and the possibility of bad storms too great. No parent is going with you. It’s too far. It’s coed.”

  “I have good arguments against those reasons.”

  “You asked for reasons; I, however, did not offer a debate.”

  “Dad!”

  “Son?”

  “You could be a chaperone.”

  “You really want me around on an event with all your buddies from school, including possible girlfriends?”

  “I wouldn’t mind, not too much, I guess.”

  “I think I would mind. I would feel awkward.”

  “Is there anything I can say that will convince you to change your mind?”

  “Brian, I really think this is a bad idea. I’d love it if we could drop the topic. Is this really so important that we need to argue about it?”

  “Could I at least whine for a while? That way my teenage ego could be salved, yet my struggle with my parental unit would
continue so that I develop my independent personality unfettered.”

  Paul was reasonably happy that Brian had switched from lobbying for a tattoo, as he had last month, but he was still opposed to this new scheme. “Whine, no. Unfetter as much as you like, just not this late on a school night.”

  At home Ben was still not in. Brian agreed to help his brother get ready for bed so Paul could walk over to see how late Ben would be. He could have called but it was only a short stroll, and he wanted to see his lover, not just talk to him.

  Paul used his key to unlock the back door of the service station. Ben Vargas’s father had started the business. They serviced mostly expensive imported cars. The light was on in Ben’s office in the back. “It’s me,” Paul called so as not to startle him. Paul found Ben staring at the computer screen. His lover had one hand under his chin, another idly tapping the mouse. Ben shifted his eyes in Paul’s direction for only a second then returned his concentration to the screen.

  Paul walked up behind him and put his arms around Ben’s shoulders.

  “Still going at it?”

  “Five minutes ago I erased half of my data.”

  Paul gazed at the nearly empty screen. “Try the undo function,” he suggested.

  “Of course.” Ben pressed two buttons. The screen shifted and columns of data appeared. “Save. Gotta save it.”

  “Don’t forget a back-up disc.”

  “I hate computers.” Ben performed all the save functions then leaned back in his chair. Paul leaned down and kissed Ben then sat on the desk. He touched the five-o’-clock shadow on his lover’s face. “Some of the guys tonight used makeup to get that effect on their chins.”

  Ben rubbed his stubble. “Did you find out what you needed to know?”

  “It was mildly helpful and kind of interesting. I wish you could have gone. If nothing else, so we could talk about all the different people and what they wore.”

  “Weird?”

  “Some. It was people trying to look their most impressive, which was pretty outrageous sometimes.”

  Ben rubbed his hands over his eyes.

  “You okay?” Paul asked.

  “Tired. I want this computer to go away.”

  “If you’re done, let’s go home.”

  “I certainly won’t get finished tonight.”

  The temperature was above thirty and the wind was completely calm as they eased themselves home. Paul found Brian in Jeff’s room. The lamp next to Jeff’s bed was on. Jeff was in bed sound asleep. He was wearing his “Friends of Freddy” T-shirt, which he had worn every night since he’d gotten it for Christmas. Brian had fallen asleep while sitting up in the rocking chair. One of Jeff’s books, Freddy and the Popinjay, was open on his lap. Paul kissed Jeff, then gently woke Brian. “Time for bed, son,” he whispered. Brian nodded sleepily and padded upstairs to his own room. Paul made sure all the doors were locked then joined an exhausted Ben. They fell asleep quickly.

  ELEVEN

  When Turner and Fenwick walked into the station the next morning, Jason O’Leary, the cop on duty at the downstairs desk, said, “Couple of uniforms brought somebody in for you guys about an hour ago. He’s in one of the interrogation rooms.”

  “Thanks,” Turner said. “Could you send someone to pick up all the latest fashion magazines? Make sure they charge it to the department.”

  “I’ll get on it.”

  As they walked up the stairs, Fenwick said, “I have been given a very specific instruction by my daughters. I mentioned Eliot Norwyn’s name at breakfast. I was told that if I see him again, I am to procure his autograph.”

  “Even if he’s a murderer?”

  “I don’t think they care if he kicks cute puppies and eats live babies. If I do not have this vital document in hand, I can kiss domestic bliss and tranquillity good-bye until they leave for college and I change the locks.”

  “We could arrest him so you could get it over with.”

  “It may come to that.”

  Commander Molton carried a copy of a tabloid newspaper. “Why,” he asked, “do I have a picture of one of my detectives in this?”

  Turner and Fenwick looked at the paper. Covering half the front page was a photograph of Fenwick taken from the rear as he sprawled on the floor in the Midwest Trade Center the night before. The most prominent feature of the photograph was Fenwick’s prodigious butt.

  “At least they got my good side,” Fenwick commented.

  They explained what had happened. Molton shook his head at their description of the chase. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Don’t know,” Fenwick said. “Can I have the photograph?”

  “What are you going to do with it?” Turner asked.

  “Have it framed and put on my desk.”

  “So it was just some reporter and nothing more sinister than that?”

  “We can’t be sure,” Turner said. “A spy, a killer, a photographer in a fortuitous spot. I think it might have been two people.”

  “Working together?” Molton asked.

  “No way to tell at this point,” Turner said.

  Larry Bitner was in the interrogation room. “We found him about six this morning,” a beat cop told them. “He says he was just getting home from an all-night party.”

  They thanked him.

  Bitner wore a black T-shirt and blue jeans faded nearly to white. His fur-lined black leather jacket lay on the table in front of him. He was in his early twenties, slender, with large shoulders, and buzz-cut hair. His skin was so flawlessly clear Turner thought for a moment he must have makeup on. Bitner gave the impression of the friendly fraternity brother who quarterbacked all the touch football games and would always know the correct corsage to bring his date.

  Bitner yawned when he saw them. “Hey, when can I go home? I’ve been up all night.”

  “Where were you since the brunch yesterday?” Turner asked.

  “Hey, I didn’t kill this guy.”

  “Where were you?” Fenwick let the question include a threatening rumble underneath.

  “I changed at my place then stopped at a friend’s house. We hung out. Last night we went to the circuit party at the Aragon Ballroom. The tickets cost a lot so we stayed late to get our money’s worth.”

  Fenwick did the questioning. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Tony Valdotti.”

  “You spent all day and night with him?”

  “Is that odd?”

  “You had sex with Cullom Furyk.”

  “Is that a crime?”

  “Just before he died? It’s suspicious.”

  “Why?”

  Turner asked, “Did you know him before the brunch yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “How’d you wind up having sex?” Turner asked.

  “It kind of just happened. I served him his salad, and he caught my eye, and I didn’t look away and neither did he. When I brought him his soup, I brushed against him. He let the contact linger. When I brought him the main course, he rubbed my leg and squeezed my ass.”

  “Did you know who he was?” Fenwick asked.

  “Sure. Him and Eliot Norwyn. I made it with Norwyn a little later.”

  “You had sex with both of them?”

  “Yeah. I still don’t see what is criminal about all this.”

  “How’d you wind up having sex with Norwyn?”

  “Pretty much the same way that I did with Furyk. Except Norwyn copped a feel of my crotch while I served him dessert. He found me while we were cleaning up.”

  “Didn’t anyone notice all of this?” Turner asked.

  “If they did, no one mentioned it.”

  “What happened with Furyk?”

  “We kissed a little, and I gave him a blow job. Can I say ‘blow job’ to a pair of cops?”

  “We’ve heard of it,” Fenwick said.

  “He came pretty quick, which is a good thing because I had to get back to work. Norwyn at least reciprocated a little, although I didn’t hav
e much time. I had to help pack up to leave.”

  “Furyk say anything to you?” Fenwick asked.

  “I remember every syllable.” Bitner shut his eyes. “Furyk said, and I quote, ‘Back this way, that feels great, oooh, aaaah,’ end quote. Not a lot of heavy breathing from him.”

  “And then you just left?” Fenwick asked.

  “He came. He zipped up. He left. He didn’t seem interested in me. Was I supposed to complain to the sex police?”

  “That’s all he said?” Fenwick asked.

  “Don’t need to say much.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Southeast corner of the penthouse. There was kind of a little sitting area that was part of a bedroom. He faced toward the view of the city outside. I concentrated on the view inside.”

  “Did you kill him?” Turner asked.

  “No. Why would I? Doing him and Eliot Norwyn on the same day could make me famous on the circuit for years. My reputation is made.”

  Bitner looked exactly like what he was—an extremely handsome, slightly hungover, friendly goof who’d given perfectly sensible replies. Turner didn’t figure he was lying.

  After he left, Turner and Fenwick returned to the chart they’d been working on yesterday.

  “You ever been to one of these circuit parties?” Fenwick asked.

  “I’ve heard of them. Never been. Never wanted to go. Don’t want to go. Supposed to be the drugged-up and the bulked-up enjoying each other in kind of an endless revel.”

  “And that’s bad?” Fenwick asked.

  “Reveling with Ben is plenty for me. Chasing after my kids is enough exercise.”

  Fenwick asked, “Bitner was that good-looking to be able to get two superstars in bed in less than half an hour?”

  “He isn’t my type, but he’s got that collegiate stud-puppy look down perfectly. There’s no accounting for taste.”

  On the chart Fenwick marked in the times and movements that Bitner had just given them. “He must have been the one Jolanda Bokaru saw making out with Furyk,” Fenwick commented. Turner agreed.