Drop Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “We were told you did have sex with him,” Turner stated.

  “There are all kinds of rumors about who famous people have or have not slept with. It is best not to believe most of those rumors. The truth is always much less than what rumors make it out to be. He was a rich, handsome, genuinely kind and giving man. That brings out envy and jealousy. His reputation did exceed his prowess; nevertheless, he did have more partners than most. Cullom often said he’d never need Prozac as long as he had sex. He found it relaxing when he was tense.”

  “We were told he had lovers all over the world.”

  “I doubt that. He has one in Paris that I’ve actually met. He spoke about a man in Rome, but I thought he broke that off several years ago. He had very few real friends. I warned him several times about being so superficial.” She shrugged. “He didn’t listen so I stopped bringing up the subject. I think he used casual sex to feel close to people, and yet I was closer to him than anyone despite the fact that we never had sex. I know he became lonely at times. No matter where I was in the world, I would get phone calls late at night from him. Most often he’d be crying.”

  “Why?” Turner asked.

  “He’d want to talk about how miserably unhappy he was. People have an odd idea about models. The world looks on the women as these emaciated, cold, automatons who wear ridiculous clothes. The men are supposed to look like pure sexual beings. They think we are all wealthy beyond their wildest imaginations and that our lives are filled with glamour and parties and the rich life. A few of us are very, very rich. Most are not. All of us work very hard to get where we are. I think Cullom was overwhelmed by the life.”

  “How did the causes he was involved in affect his life?” Turner asked.

  “The pressure to do more is always intense. You can never do enough and once you help one, they all want you.”

  “We were told he made light of those causes.”

  “He cared very deeply. Sometimes you have to make a joke or you end up only crying.”

  “I understand,” Turner said.

  Sibilla continued, “Some people handle fame and sudden riches better than others. I started out in a tiny town in Ohio fifteen years ago in a silly little beauty contest. I was fortunate. I had sensible parents and an excellent agent. Cullom had no one.”

  “He has an agent,” Turner said, “and I thought Franklin Munsen and the people at GUINEVERE took care of him.”

  “His agent is a horse’s ass. Wealth unimaginable at an early age can get you all kinds of very pleasant attention. Having your emotional needs met is another thing entirely. You have pressures on your job, as do we all. Cullom had his. Are some of your colleagues better at handling the pressure of being a detective and some worse? I imagine so. It is the same in my world. It doesn’t really make much difference what profession we are in or how much money we make. Some people panic at little bits of pressure and some are serene in the face of an avalanche. Cullom was very vulnerable. He was afraid his whole world would come collapsing down on him.”

  “Why? Did he spend all the money he earned?”

  “No. I believe he was reasonably prudent. The burdens were psychological. Those who have made their way to the top often fear losing it.”

  “Did he fear losing out in his personal relationships?”

  “Part of Cullom wanted to fall in love with a man and settle down. Another part wanted to play and play.”

  “Was he in love with Sean Kindel?” Turner asked.

  “I have never heard Cullom mention that name.”

  “Had he broken up with anyone recently?”

  “Not that I am aware of.”

  “Did he talk about anybody else he might be close to, especially here in Chicago?”

  “He’d told me he was coming to Chicago to have some things settled by the time the showings were done.”

  “Did he mean personal or professional?”

  “I thought more professional.”

  “So he was planning to switch companies?”

  “We had breakfast early yesterday morning around six. We both had early photo shoots. At the time he told me he was switching companies.”

  “Did Cullom hate Munsen?”

  “Many in the fashion world hate Munsen. Cullom didn’t. I don’t. Munsen’s done more good for me than bad. All the same, I wouldn’t want to cross him.”

  “But Cullom was unhappy at GUINEVERE?”

  “He felt they were holding him back. He wanted to model for all the big fashion houses. Being the exclusive spokesperson for a company can be wonderful, especially when you are young. Most models cannot or would not sneer at a steady paycheck as they rise in the profession. What happened to him is a great way to start and become a star without a lot of risks. In the past couple of years he’d branched out with other kinds of companies, but GUINEVERE, Incorporated had a firm contract with him that he would only model GUINEVERE clothes and their related products. They didn’t care if he endorsed things like running shoes as long as it wasn’t connected to any fashion house or anything GUINEVERE manufactured.”

  “Were the people at GUINEVERE furious with him for wanting to switch?”

  “He was going to tell Munsen after his photo shoot but before the brunch.”

  “No one reported any animosity between the two of them at the brunch,” Turner said. “Maybe he didn’t tell him.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Did he say that Heyling and Veleshki had made him a firm offer?”

  “No, just that they’d been having positive discussions.”

  “He referred to both of them?”

  She thought a moment. “He said ‘they,’ I’m sure of that.”

  “Do you know if he told anyone besides yourself?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. He may have. You might check with his agent. I presume he should know. Someone would have to be negotiating contracts or new bookings. He would be the logical person.”

  “About that brunch in general,” Turner asked, “how could Heyling and Veleshki be having a peace meeting if they were planning to steal away the other company’s major spokesperson?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I know what Cullom told me, and I know he was happy about it, ecstatically happy.”

  “And you worked for both companies?”

  “I’ve worked for each of them numerous times in the past. Depending on demand and your status in the fashion industry, you can be in numerous countries for a number of companies in less than a week.”

  “Do you know where he was staying?”

  “No.”

  Turner thanked her and they left. “You didn’t say a word,” Turner said as they took the elevator down.

  “I never expect to be in the presence of a more beautiful woman,” Fenwick said.

  “You met her last night.”

  “This was different. That was several thousand people and us. Here it was just her. She breathes beauty. She is beauty, and she doesn’t have to paint up to be flawless. She is just naturally perfect.”

  “You mean you were too turned on and distracted to concentrate on your work.”

  “It’s not as if you’re some saint. I’ve seen you get distracted when we talk to hot guys.”

  “I didn’t claim I was a saint. I wonder what happens when there are two people of the same sexual orientation working together on a case?”

  “They keep their mouths shut?”

  “We could try that,” Turner said.

  Fenwick sighed. “For her I would push a herd of intrusive reporters off the Sears Tower … . Who’s next?”

  “We need to talk to Munsen, and Heyling and Veleshki, and Cullom’s agent.”

  FOURTEEN

  The headquarters for GUINEVERE, Incorporated was on Mannheim Road just south of O’Hare Airport. Fenwick solved the problem of jammed traffic by riding the shoulder of the Kennedy Expressway most of the way out.

  The building housing the offices looked exactly as if someone had taken three
vast old airplane hangars and merged them together. The walls were corrugated tin. The floor was gray and black linoleum. The desks and chairs were all chrome and cracked leather. Giant swatches of gauzy, multihued cloth hung in great sweeps from the ceiling. Dinah McBride met them in the front reception area.

  McBride said, “Mr. Munsen is in a production design meeting on one of the soundstages.” She led them down several corridors and into a large, cool room. The ceiling stretched three stories above them. Flat black cloth covered all the walls. In the center was a desert scene against a blue backdrop. Two photographers were talking to three muscular men and three slender women all clad only in the briefest of bathing suits. Munsen was talking to a man with a light meter. McBride spoke in Munsen’s ear for a few moments. Munsen glared at the detectives, shrugged, and walked over. McBride stood twenty feet away.

  Munsen began with “I’m terribly busy.”

  “We’re all terribly busy,” Fenwick said.

  Munsen swallowed the rest of his impatience. He asked, “Have you found out what happened to Cullom?”

  “We heard he was leaving your company for your rival.”

  “That’s nonsense. Where did you hear such an absurd rumor?”

  “Cullom supposedly told people.”

  “Absolutely not true. He was happy here. Why would he want to leave? It was a lucrative and successful relationship for both sides.”

  “He said nothing to you about leaving?” Fenwick asked.

  “Absolutely nothing. If this is all the twaddle you have to tell me this morning, I have better things to do. You shouldn’t waste your time on what was undoubtedly an accident.”

  “Why wasn’t he staying at the penthouse with the other people you had in from out of town?” Fenwick asked.

  “Where he stayed was his business. I am not his parent.”

  “But you worked with him for over ten years,” Turner said.

  Munsen gazed at one of the black backdrops. His eyes misted over. He finally turned back to them. “I am well aware of how long he worked for me. Is there anything else?”

  “Could we get a tour of your facility?” Turner asked.

  “Ms. McBride has many duties, but I’m sure she can spare a few minutes.”

  McBride escorted them through the three gigantic buildings. They saw several more soundstages, one of which was in use. “That’s a product line being developed,” McBride said.

  “They’re all in their underwear,” Fenwick said.

  Three men wore the briefest and sheerest of cotton underwear.

  “Egyptian cotton briefs and boxers,” she said. “It is going to sweep the world. It is incredibly comfortable and light.”

  Turner nodded. What he knew of fabric was limited to cotton, denim, and whatever the clerk in the men’s department at Marshall Fields said looked good on him. Ian had once commented that perhaps there was a defect in Turner’s gay gene.

  Another immense space seemed to be a showroom with an expanse down a center aisle that could have been used for a modeling runway. A large part of one hangar had employees cutting and sewing fabric. Much of the furniture here had ripped cushions or frayed fabric at the corners. The hangar walls were rust stained. One room, which McBride only let them glance into, had all the outfits that were going to be used this week.

  “It’s very secret,” McBride said. “All the models have tried on everything and rehearsed. In a few hours this will be a total madhouse with last-minute preparations. This morning there is a slight lull.”

  One of the hangars also contained a mass of cubicles. They saw Egremont, the accountant. He lifted a hand toward them for a second, then went back to inspecting columns of numbers. Before they left they got the name, number, and address for Cullom’s agent.

  As they walked to the car, Turner said, “If this is a multimillion-dollar operation, I’d hate to see what the folks in the poor-rent district live like.”

  “Why did we go on a tour of the company?”

  “I need to get a handle on who these people are. See them in their own element. I have no basis for forming judgments about them.”

  The headquarters for Heyling and Veleshki was in a brand-new office tower on Clark Street just south of Howard Street. The fifty-story edifice had been built with a great deal of bronze, masonry, and glass.

  The Heyling and Veleshki offices had plush gold carpeting, sleek modern office furniture, and silver-studded star mobiles. People walked busily back and forth. From the entryway on the tenth floor they could see rows and rows of cubicles.

  The receptionist whisked them back to a corner office. Through the windows, they could see the row of skyscrapers stretching south along the lakefront to the Loop. Clouds had rolled in, but the temperature remained in the forties.

  Heyling and Veleshki greeted them. Heyling wore a brown-checked polyester shirt, Java satin jeans, and dark orange cowboy boots. Veleshki had on a brown suede shirt, brown plaid stretch-cotton cargo jeans, dark brown cowboy boots, and a black cowboy hat. Both wore bolo ties and large silver belt buckles emblazoned with bronze bucking broncos.

  Each sat behind a desk equidistant from the door, windows, and each other. Veleshki’s desk was covered with newspapers and clippings. Heyling’s had numerous drawings of outfits.

  Turner and Fenwick sat in unmatched deep-cushioned chairs. Veleshki and Heyling each leaned back in their leather swivel chairs.

  “What can we do for you, gentlemen?” Veleshki asked.

  “We have a few more questions,” Turner said. “We have reason to believe that Cullom Furyk was leaving GUINEVERE, Incorporated to work for you.”

  The two men looked briefly at each other. A conspiratorial nod, or two lovers making eye contact at a significant moment, or what? Turner wasn’t sure.

  Veleshki said, “Our company has no exclusive models. You have to understand how the fashion industry works. Models are rarely under contract to only one company. There usually isn’t enough work. They travel around.”

  “So we heard,” Fenwick said. “Even if he wasn’t going to be yours exclusively, was he planning to do any modeling for your company?”

  “There was no agreement,” Veleshki said. “We’d had some informal talks with him, but we’d had talks with him before. My understanding is that many companies did. He was much in demand.”

  “Did you talk to him about it this week?”

  “Neither of us met with him,” Veleshki said.

  Fenwick pointed at Heyling. “That true?”

  Heyling nodded.

  “No contact at all?” Turner asked.

  “No.” Veleshki continued to give the answers.

  “You only saw him at the brunch.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you talk to him there?”

  “Only to say hello.”

  “We understand that your company is experiencing financial difficulties,” Fenwick said.

  “That lie has been printed in the tabloid papers numerous times. It’s spread mostly by the press agents at GUINEVERE. Someone should examine their books. We are branching out with many new products and subsidiary lines—sheets, towels, furniture, fragrances, hundreds of things. They have only begun taking timid steps beyond couture collections and a minimal representation of ready-to-wear clothes. We are a much more secure and broad-based company.”

  “We heard you were desperate for next week’s lottery check.”

  “Those rumors drive me nuts,” Veleshki said. “We have shown record profits for the past two years.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to Cullom?” Turner asked.

  “Prior to yesterday, not for months,” Veleshki said.

  “How about you, Mr. Heyling?” Turner asked.

  “I’ve had no contact,” Heyling said.

  Turner and Fenwick looked at each other.

  “Is that all you wanted to know?” Veleshki asked.

  “How many floors of this building do you rent?” Turner asked.

  “Ten.
This one and nine above it.”

  Again they requested and were taken on a tour. Veleshki himself escorted them. There seemed to be many more photo studios in use than at GUINEVERE. One stage had two women in business outfits, briefcases in hand, behind them desks crowded with paperwork. Each woman looked sleekly professional. A photographer was urging each of them to act competent. On another stage male models in skimpy briefs were lounging in chairs. “Signature underwear,” Veleshki said. “One of our new products. These won’t be available until next week. We’re having a huge ad campaign, big promotion, the whole works.” Paul thought they might look sensational on Ben. “We’re also shooting some ads this week for a line of fragrances.” Turner noticed that the models were not padding the underwear in front nor did they have any need to.

  Veleshki showed them the set where the print ad was being shot for their perfume. The setting was made to look as if it were a construction site. Sitting on the stage was a lone man in a construction hat, a flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off, cut-off jeans, and tan work boots with white socks peeking above the edges. His muscles rippled as he brought his sandwich to his mouth and took a bite out of it. Several people stood ten feet from him, discussing camera angles and background lighting. One entire floor was strewn with outfits, models, hairdressers, designers, and others chasing about.

  “We have a lot of preparations still to do for our show this week,” Veleshki said. “If we’re through with the tour, I must join this happy throng.” The detectives nodded. Veleski strode away.

  Turner and Fenwick sat in the car without moving.

  “They’re both lying,” Fenwick said.

  Turner nodded. “How about Munsen?”

  “He’s lying.”

  “Anybody telling us the truth?”

  “Sibilla.”

  “You only believe her because she sets your testosterone in motion.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “Yeah.”