Drop Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

On their desks they found a full set of photos of everyone who’d been at the penthouse brunch, and copies of the preliminary ME’s report. Fenwick leafed through the information from the ME for a few seconds then tossed it down. “He’s still dead,” Fenwick announced.

  “Lot of that going around these days,” Turner said. He flipped through several pages. “Won’t get results on drug tests for a while. No evident signs of addiction. I don’t see anything significant here.” He picked up the pictures. “I want to show these to Spitzer as soon as possible.” He called the Archange. Even though he identified himself as a detective, he was forced to go through Bert Weeland before he could be connected to Spitzer’s room.

  Weeland apologized for the inconvenience. “I’m sure you understand, Detective Turner. We have literally thousands of people who telephone here trying to be connected to the rooms of famous people. We are very protective. The operator did the right thing by not connecting you. We’ve had people claim they were calling from the White House.”

  Betty O’Dowd answered the phone in Spitzer’s room. She told him, “Mickey is out running along the lakeshore. He should be back in an hour or so. He has to go immediately to a preshow reception. Then he has a luncheon with some designers who are in from out of town. This afternoon he is making an appearance at Water Tower Place.”

  Turner said, “This is a murder investigation, Ms. O’Dowd. Your client needs to make himself available to us.”

  “My client is one of the most highly paid models in the world.”

  Turner let the silence on the line build past comfortable. Fenwick would have blustered. Turner waited.

  Finally O’Dowd said, “He is a busy man, but, of course, he is most willing to cooperate. Can we meet this afternoon? I promise to have him here in his room.”

  Turner agreed. As soon as he hung up, the phone rang. It was Oldinport. He said, “I heard a strange rumor late last night. I thought I’d best give you the information. According to what I heard, Cullom Furyk was planning to leave GUINEVERE, Incorporated and be a spokesperson for Heyling and Veleshki? They were going to steal Munsen’s corporate spokesperson.”

  “I thought they just made peace. Wasn’t that what the brunch was supposed to be about?”

  “Rumors in the fashion industry can get out of hand, but it is what I heard.”

  “Do fashion models get stolen often?”

  “No. In fact they are seldom under exclusive contracts. Most models go to most shows. Normally, they can easily be replaced. Fighting for designers is much more common. Usually it’s the creative, thinking people who are important and in demand.”

  “How reliable is this information?” Turner asked. “We’ll need to speak to your source.”

  “Sibilla Manetti is supposedly the original source although she did not speak directly to me.”

  “How would she know?” Turner asked.

  “You’ll have to ask her, Detective. I picked up a strange rumor about her and Franklin Munsen having an affair. I don’t believe it, but today the gossip networks are jammed with salacious drivel about people in the fashion industry. Rumors on the Internet are out of control.”

  “Aren’t they always,” Turner observed.

  “Never like this, at least with regard to the fashion industry. You should be able to contact her through the offices of either company. She’s modeling for both this week.”

  Turner thanked him. After he hung up, he told Fenwick the information. “We’ll have to talk to Munsen about Furyk possibly switching.”

  “We need to find Sibilla. We also need to check Kindel’s place. He claimed Cullom was staying with him. We need to examine Cullom’s stuff. And we need to find the guy with Bitner’s alibi. Tony something.”

  “I wonder how Kindel is going to react to finding out his supposed lover was having sex with a stranger?”

  Harold Rodriguez slumped by. “Watch out for Carruthers today.”

  “I watch out for him every day,” Fenwick said.

  “He’s trying to organize a Valentine’s party.”

  “I may start being nasty to him again,” Turner said.

  “I told you you’d be sorry if you were nice to him,” Rodriguez said. “If you’re polite to him, he thinks you’re his friend. He just depresses me.”

  “That’s what this group needs more of,” Fenwick said. “We don’t have enough depressed, suicidal, alcoholic cops. We need more of that burnt-out, world-weary effect that people want to see in their police detectives.”

  “Or more people in trouble with or fighting with superiors,” Turner said. “Or somebody involved in a convoluted FBI sting that no one understands.”

  “I shot an FBI guy once,” Rodriguez said.

  “For which we are eternally grateful,” Fenwick said, “even though it was accidental.”

  “I’m just depressed,” Rodriguez said. “Who wouldn’t be with the most relentlessly cheerful moron as a partner?”

  “Why does he bother with these stupid parties?” Fenwick asked.

  “Maybe his girlfriend doesn’t put out,” Rodriguez said.

  “That’s demeaning and sexist,” Fenwick said.

  “And probably true,” Turner added.

  Rodriguez asked Fenwick, “How come you’re so politically correct all of a sudden?”

  “I’m always a sensitive guy,” Fenwick said.

  “Your wife put out last night,” Rodriguez stated.

  “Can we get out of here?” Turner asked.

  “Ben did or did not put out?” Rodriguez asked.

  “You’ve been divorced too long,” Fenwick said.

  “You’re starting to think with your prick,” Turner added.

  “I’ve been taking lessons from Carruthers,” Rodriguez said. He wandered off.

  Turner grabbed the photos of the denizens of the penthouse and jammed them into his notebook. They took one of the unmarked cars and drove to the address they had for Kindel. He lived on Margate Terrace, which was just off Lake Shore Drive north of Lawrence. The weather remained pleasantly warm with the temperature in the low forties.

  TWELVE

  “It’s gotta be the large house,” Fenwick said, nodding toward a three-story Victorian that stretched over two city lots.

  Turner said, “They must be paying stringers a lot more than they used to.”

  “Maybe it’s broken up into apartments,” Fenwick said.

  At the entrance there was only one doorbell. Fenwick pushed the button. They heard distant chimes.

  Kindel answered the door. He wore a silk bathrobe over silk pajamas and carried a large cup of steaming coffee.

  “Officers?” he asked.

  “We need to look over Mr. Furyk’s things.”

  “Of course.” He led them into the house.

  “Nice place,” Fenwick said.

  “Thank you.”

  “You can afford this on a stringer’s salary?” Fenwick asked.

  “I do as best I can.”

  Kindel brought a small suitcase and an overnight bag to a library filled with leather-bound books. Turner and Fenwick laid out Furyk’s belongings on an antique mahogany table.

  “This is it?” Fenwick asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he have his own room?”

  “No. He slept with me.”

  “Did you know he had sex with one of the caterers yesterday?” Turner said.

  “I don’t believe you. Which one was it?”

  “Belief is not the issue,” Turner said.

  “He promised to be faithful.”

  “Maybe you found out about him having sex,” Fenwick said. “Maybe you got pissed off about it. Boyfriend cheating on you.”

  “And killed him? Don’t be absurd. I had no knowledge of an indiscretion.”

  “Did he brag to you about past sexual activity?” Turner asked.

  “I knew he’d had a checkered past, but I never asked for details. It’s not as if I’m totally innocent.”

  “How do yo
u afford this place?” Fenwick asked.

  “I worked hard and saved money. Is the American dream a crime?”

  “How come you’re a stringer at the paper?” Turner asked.

  “I like doing it.”

  “Did you know Cullom was planning to leave GUINEVERE and switch to Heyling and Veleshki?”

  “That’s ridiculous. He would have told me. Who told you that?”

  “We have our sources.”

  As they’d been talking, the detectives had riffled through four pairs of underwear, two pairs of jeans, three snowy-white T-shirts, four pairs of socks. The overnight bag had toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, and other small personal items.

  “This is it?” Fenwick asked.

  “Yes. He traveled light.”

  Turner knew Fenwick was thinking the same thing: Furyk’s personal effects had to amount to more than this. A search warrant might be in order but they didn’t have enough for probable cause yet.

  “Where else could he have been staying in town?” Turner asked.

  Kindel slumped into a chair. “I don’t know. I like to think of myself as a realist. Maybe he didn’t love me.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure where he would have stayed. He was from here. A lot of people he knew from the fashion industry were in town. I thought I was more than a convenient place for him to stay.” He gave them a forlorn look.

  Back in the car Fenwick said, “Something’s not right in there.”

  “If he didn’t have actual possession of that stuff, I’d doubt if it was Furyk’s.”

  “How do we know it was?” Fenwick asked. “They could have been anybody’s, even old clothes of his own. And we only have his word they were lovers.”

  “What would be the point in lying to us?” Turner asked. “To make himself feel better? It only makes him a suspect in a murder case. Why bother? I’m more interested in where the rest of Furyk’s stuff is. Who’s got it? According to what we know, Furyk wasn’t staying in the penthouse. Other than here, we have no other indication of where else he might have been.”

  “He could have been staying with half the men in the city,” Fenwick said. “From what we’ve heard, all he had to do was snap his fingers and sexual partners would come running. I’d be jealous, but I used to be able to do that.”

  “In which lifetime?” Turner asked.

  “I don’t understand that type,” Fenwick said. “The need to have all those conquests.”

  “That’s because Madge would cut off your nuts if you tried anything.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Constant need for affirmation?” Turner suggested. “Stud muffins can be lacking in ego strength and positive self-image just like anybody else?”

  “This your turn to be the sensitive type?”

  “I’m taking lessons from you,” Turner said. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never understood it either. I had sex with a few guys before Ben, but it wasn’t as if I was going nuts.”

  “We’re being followed,” Fenwick said. They were driving south on Clark Street just past Wrigley Field.

  “You mean the gray Chevy Cavalier, big rust stain just behind the left headlight, three cars back? Blew the red light at Irving Park?”

  Fenwick nodded.

  “I haven’t noticed.”

  Fenwick sighed. “You’re the token gay person in this relationship. I’m the humor guy.”

  “Hard to see myself as stuck in the role of the straight man.”

  Fenwick winced. “Let’s get a squad car to pull it over,” he said.

  THIRTEEN

  They continued south on Clark Street as Fenwick placed the call. The blue-and-white appeared behind them just past Wellington. The Chevy made a sudden right from Clark onto Orchard going the wrong way on a one-way street. Fenwick floored the car. There was the usual jam at the intersection of Clark, Diversey, and Broadway. When they finally turned west on Diversey, they saw the blue-and-white’s Mars lights rotating about a block ahead of them. They lost him when the Chevy abruptly pulled around a garbage truck just west of Sheffield. The police were a few seconds behind, but the oncoming traffic was quicker. In moments a line of cars filled the left side of the street while the garbage truck sat merrily on the right, ignoring the chaos it was causing. When another squad car appeared from the opposite direction, the car in the middle of the street next to the garbage truck simply stopped.

  By the time the traffic unknotted, the Chevy was gone. They talked to the uniformed officers from both cars. No one had seen the license number.

  “I thought it was one person,” Turner said.

  “I couldn’t tell,” Fenwick said. The uniformed officers were equally uncertain.

  Back in their car Fenwick said, “I wish I knew if this was simply nutty photographers or a killer chasing us around town.”

  “Why would a killer be chasing us?”

  “I dunno,” Fenwick said. “We could find out which of the suspects owns a gray Chevy, although I doubt if we’re going to find one registered to these wealthy people.”

  “And not one with that much rust.”

  “I know criminals are supposed to be dumb, but I’m not ready to believe the killer is tootling around town following us. It’s just a little obvious.”

  Tony Valdotti lived in an apartment on Diversey Avenue just west of Lincoln. He greeted them in red sweatpants and white athletic socks. They introduced themselves. Valdotti’s shoulders and torso muscles were so outsized, Turner guessed he used steroids. His disheveled hair and blurry eyes spoke of just awakening. They followed him as he padded into the kitchen. Valdotti turned on the electric coffeemaker.

  “What’s up?”

  “You were with Larry Bitner yesterday.”

  “Yeah. We went to a circuit party. Larry in trouble?”

  “We’re just checking on his whereabouts.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re investigating the murder of Cullom Furyk.”

  “Oh, yeah, he told me about that. He must have been the last guy to ever have sex with him.”

  “He told you about that?”

  “Me and anybody else who would listen. Told us he made it with that television guy too.”

  “He didn’t say anything last night about the killing?”

  “Only that it was weird to have had sex with the guy just before he died.” Tony flexed his shoulder muscles, rotated his neck. “I gotta get to my masseuse and then to the gym. You guys need anything else?”

  “Larry seem nervous or out of sorts last night?”

  “Nope. We went out and had a great time.”

  In the car Turner said, “I am living the wrong life.”

  “Oh, to be young, pretty, muscular, masculine, obsessed with yourself, and having sex whenever you want it with whoever you want.”

  “Got to be highly overrated,” Turner said.

  “Shallow.”

  “No real meaning.”

  “No commitment.”

  “No goals.”

  “No stability.”

  “No permanence.”

  Fenwick sighed. “Where do we sign up?”

  “I’ve got the forms in my desk at the station.”

  Turner used his cell phone to call the offices of GUINEVERE, Incorporated. Dinah McBride told them they could find Sibilla in her suite at the Ritz Carlton.

  Fenwick cruised off Lake Shore Drive onto Michigan Avenue. He parked the car at the entrance to the hotel. A uniformed doorman began walking in their direction. Fenwick held up his badge and told him, “We’ll leave the car right where it is.”

  Their identification got them past hotel security and gave them a room number. Sibilla met them at the door. She was flanked by two muscular men who looked in excellent enough shape to win a decathlon. They neither smiled nor spoke. Each wore a blue muscle shirt and black jeans. Sibilla wore a baggy old sweatshirt without a logo, faded and torn blue jeans without any identifying patch on them, and blue deck shoes.

  She held her hands
awkwardly. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m just finishing having my nails done.” She twirled her hands in a tight circle. “Please come in.” They walked into the living room of the suite. Two women sat at a table with jars and bowls and vials filled with viscous liquids. Sibilla thanked them and they packed up and left. Turner looked at her nails. The color seemed to be a muted flesh tone. She saw the look.

  Sibilla’s voice had the same melodic depth of the night before. “One of the rages these days among models is having their nails made into these fabulous confections. I still think it is the clothes that should make the difference. I want my nails understated but perfect.”

  The room had an oyster-white couch, off-white walls, a table and chair set painted white, and a snowy-white rug. Sibilla sat back on the couch, which was strewn with fluffy white pillows. Gossamer curtains hung behind her, letting in soft winter light that heightened the tone of her blond hair and soft pink skin.

  The two bodyguards discreetly walked to the foyer and took positions just inside the door. One took out a book to read. The other closed his eyes.

  “You are the police officers from last night,” she stated. “You were lucky your presence was undetected. I’m sure the tabloid reporters would not have been able to hold back. Even with your formidable reputation.” She smiled at Fenwick.

  Fenwick had the most fatuous grin on his face that Turner had ever seen.

  Sibilla asked, “Did you really once handcuff a reporter to the bumper of a squad car and begin to drive away?”

  Fenwick chuckled. Turner thought his bulky partner almost blushed.

  She smiled. “I have several paparazzi in mind for the next time you try it.” She turned to Turner. “And you are the father of the boy in the wheelchair.”

  “Yes, he has spina bifida. I have an older son as well.”

  “I try to do as much as I can to help children. It is never enough. What did you want to ask me?”

  “Was Cullom Furyk leaving as spokesperson for GUINEVERE, Incorporated to join Heyling and Veleshki?” Turner asked.

  “Let me tell you about Cullom first. You must understand how I come to know this information. We met many years ago, when we were both teenagers. He made a fumbling attempt to seduce me. He was a dear boy and I was a naive girl, but I knew I did not want to have sex unless I was in love. We became friends over the years, I think because we did not have sex.”