Boissec considered for a moment. “Definitely maybe. Even if I said yes, it would be only an opinion. I hate him.”
“Would you kill one of these guys?”
“I wasn’t at the concert. I would not have been allowed backstage. I haven’t seen any of them since I was fired.”
“Anyone among the entourage who might have a grudge?” Fenwick asked.
“I knew some of them. This was four years ago, just as Boys4u was getting big. A lot of these people would turn on each other pretty damn fast if they thought it would advance their careers. Hinkmeyer’s a hack, been around since day one in those silly hats. Eudace, the agent, comes in second to Zawicki in the evil incarnate competition. On the other hand, Pastern really cares for those kids. I sometimes wonder if he wasn’t a little closer than just a guard.”
“What do you mean?” Turner asked.
“Maybe he was getting a little on the side himself. I have no proof of that. He always seemed like a straight guy. Just a twitch I guess. Murial Arane, the choreographer, was a wild woman. She fought with everybody, but she was the very best. She had those guys doing moves they never thought they could. She was incredibly talented. I think Roger resented how good she was. He thought he was pretty hot shit. They had a brief fling just after the band signed their first contract with Riveting Records. I don’t think they were actively hostile to each other until that Haupmin woman came around. All of sudden, Roger wanted Murial fired.”
“You’re sure?” Turner asked.
“It’s what I heard. I may be dead in Hollywood, but I still know a few people. And I hear rumors. I put two and two together. Sometimes I get the right answer. Sometimes not. And my news could be way out of date. I don’t have a hot line into Zawicki’s office.”
“Anybody else who you think is suspicious?”
“Nobody struck me as a murderer when I was there. A few I wouldn’t have minded if bad things happened to, but that’s normal in any job.”
“Would any of the three living band members have killed the other two?” Turner asked. Turner knew the remaining members were under guard, and it would have been difficult for them to have killed Jason Devane. Still, slip-ups could happen. It was unlikely, but he couldn’t completely discount the possibility.
Boissec thought for a moment. “I doubt it. Danny has a big ego, but then they all do. I guess I mean he’s more brash about his ego. He thinks he’s funny. I’d laugh to build his ego. Ivan struck me as a sincere kid, mature, sensible. Dexter is not tightly wrapped, very needy. I heard he had a hell of a family. I never met them.”
Boissec knew no more. They left.
In the car Turner said, “We need to talk to the choreographer now.”
“Heading for the Hotel Chicago as we speak.”
“I’ve been thinking about our last question,” Turner said. “Could one of the three that are left have killed the others?”
“Sure it’s possible. We just have to figure out why, come up with evidence and a confession.”
“Buck, Buck, Buck. That’s so like you. Evidence and confessions. You probably want DNA, too.”
“You know me.”
While they drove, Turner tried not to think about how tired he was and how much sleep he needed. Celebrities did get treated differently. The poor schlubs who had to deal with them in any capacity never got enough sleep.
They found Murial Arane in her room. She said, “I can’t believe that Zawicki is trying to shut us up. I think we need to help the police.”
“We appreciate your being willing to talk to us,” Turner said. “We’ve heard some odd things.”
“I’ll answer anything I can. I want to help.”
Fenwick said, “We were told you had an affair with Roger Stendar.”
“I had sex with Roger, yes. I had sex with all of them at one time or another over the past several years.”
“Oh,” Fenwick said.
“It was kind of exciting, but it wasn’t a big deal.”
“To them or to you?” Fenwick asked.
“Both.”
“At the time did the others know you were doing it with the others?” Fenwick said.
“I don’t know what they discussed. They were really not very good in bed, not very experienced. Danny orgasmed in less than a minute. They’re little more than boys after all. They all had fragile little egos. I had to teach Dexter so many things. He was the best of them actually. He listened and learned. He wanted to do right. He wanted to be a great lover. He had the most potential. He gave his all.”
“This didn’t cause dissension?” Fenwick asked.
“It didn’t cause murder. It was more casual. Roger was the first. This was just after they were officially a band. One night we stayed late working together. We were sweaty. He was hot looking in his skimpy little shorts. So we did it. I wasn’t like Zawicki, forcing them to have sex. Believe me, they wanted it.”
“You knew about Zawicki?” Fenwick asked.
“Nobody told me, but I’m not blind.”
“Were they trophies for you?” Fenwick asked.
She gave him a sour look. “I suppose you could look at it that way. I haven’t had sex with everyone I’ve choreographed, but yes, I’ve had sex with lots of them. Yes, women, too. Does that bother you?”
Turner said, “Only if it has something to do with the murder. Does it?”
“No. It couldn’t possibly. It was just sex. None of the guys got jealous. There was no reason to be jealous.”
Fenwick said, “Maybe they wanted Roger out of the way so they could be closer to you.”
She snorted. “That’s absurd. Roger was nearly five years ago. I don’t even know how many of the others knew about him. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“Maybe one of them thought it was a big deal,” Turner said.
“If they did, they never said so to me.”
Fenwick asked, “Did Ms. Haupmin want you out of the way?”
“That no-talent bitch. All she had to do was move a little, shimmy, shake, tap her foot, anything. I told her whatever she did, I could get the backup boys to follow along. I finally had to choreograph them separately. She’s an incompetent moron. She could barely walk and chew gum at the same time. She was stupider than half the bimbos in Hollywood, and believe me, I’ve met a lot of stupid bimbos in Hollywood.”
“Would she have any reason to kill Roger or Jason?” Fenwick asked.
“Roger was her meal ticket. Not a chance. Jason was an amiable cipher. Why bother?”
“Were these guys friends?” Turner asked. “Were there fights?”
“They got along, mostly. I suppose Dexter would get annoyed at being teased once in a while, but nothing ever got out of hand.”
“How good of a security guard was Mr. Pastern?” Turner asked.
“With a band this popular, there are always stalker problems. The guys were taught what to do and what not to do. Every threat was reported no matter how small. Nobody ever got close to these guys. Pastern was tough, but he was never mean. He never had to punch anybody. He had a way about him.”
Fenwick asked, “Was he exploiting them the way Zawicki was?”
She considered him carefully. “I can’t imagine it. He cared for these boys. So did I. I would do anything that I could to help you find the killer.”
Fenwick said, “We heard there were plans to fire Mr. Pastern before the deaths.”
“Maybe if they had gotten rid of him the boys would still be alive.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes, then resumed, “After every rumor, he got a raise. I never believed they’d fire him.”
She claimed not to have talked to Devane or Stendar since before the concert began. Turner and Fenwick left.
In the lobby of the Hotel Chicago they saw the older couple who had stood next to Dexter Clendenen at the press conference. Turner tapped Fenwick and pointed. “Dexter’s parents.” They strolled over, introduced themselves, and showed ID. The four of them sat in a small alcove in a corner of the lobb
y.
Mr. and Mrs. Clendenen were in their late forties or early fifties. Mr. Clendenen wore a maroon sweater, jeans, and heavy work boots. Tall and lean, his ponytail matched his wife’s. Only the mustache part of his goatee matched her facial hair. She wore a beige sweater, jeans too tight on her slightly bulging frame, and walking shoes.
“We’re afraid of the reporters,” Mrs. Clendenen said. “They don’t seem to want to let us alone.”
“Where are they?” Fenwick asked.
“Mr. Zawicki is having a luncheon press conference.” Smart, Turner thought. Feed their stomachs and feed their appetite for salacious news at the same time. What could be better?
“Where’s Dexter?” Turner asked.
“We’re so worried about him,” Mrs. Clendenen said. “Mr. Zawicki insisted he attend the press conference. I don’t think Dex is in any shape to go anywhere. He should be resting.”
“He’s not some pansy,” Mr. Clendenen said. “Let the boy be for once.”
Turner said, “He was at my home for a while yesterday morning. He was sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth, and banging his head against a wall.”
“What did you do to him that made him do that?” Mr. Clendenen asked.
“There isn’t enough psychological ill health I could inflict on anyone in the short time I had with your son to cause him to do that. His actions are the result of years of abuse. You know Mr. Zawicki required sexual favors of him?”
“Dex says that’s not true,” Mrs. Clendenen said.
“Dex isn’t some fag,” Mr. Clendenen said. “Even if he did get picked on when he was a kid and called names and wouldn’t fight back. I know he’s not a fag.”
“Gay,” Turner said. “The word is gay.”
“You a fag?” Clendenen asked. “You don’t look like one.”
Fenwick asked, “How often did you force yourself on your son?”
Mrs. Clendenen gasped. Mr. Clendenen stood up. “You son of a bitch. Are you saying we abused him?”
The detectives rose as well.
“Just asking,” Fenwick said.
Turner said, “I’m saying something is wrong when a young man sits against a wall, rocks back and forth, and bangs his head repeatedly against the plaster.”
“It’s not our fault,” Mr. Clendenen said.
“Whose would it be?” Fenwick asked.
Mr. Clendenen turned very red and began breathing heavily. He put his nose three inches from Fenwick’s. To do this he had to stand on tiptoe. Turner stifled a grin at the odd sight. Fenwick neither flinched nor blinked. He had at least six inches and nearly one hundred pounds on his nemesis.
Mr. Clendenen said, “If you didn’t have that badge, you wouldn’t be so tough.”
Without removing his gaze from Clendenen, Fenwick unclipped his badge and handed it to Turner.
Mr. Clendenen took a step back. His eyes shifted between Turner and Fenwick. “There’s two of you,” he muttered.
Turner knew it helped cowards to have an excuse not to try and back up their own bluffs.
Mrs. Clendenen stood next to her husband and said, “Clem, stop it.” Her husband took another step back. She continued, “We never did anything to Dex. He’s a normal boy.”
Turner said, “The attack seemed to be triggered when he touched a condom.”
“You have condoms in your home?” Mr. Clendenen asked.
Turner said, “We need to focus on your son’s breakdown. What led up to him having a reaction to the condom is the problem, not the condom itself.”
Mrs. Clendenen said, “I have no idea why he would react that way.”
“Zawicki told us not to talk to you,” Mr. Clendenen said. “He told us you’d make all kinds of accusations.”
“We’re trying to find out who killed Roger Stendar and Jason Devane,” Turner said.
“So why did you need to ask about our private lives?” Mrs. Clendenen asked.
“Something in these boys’ pasts might have triggered the killings. We don’t know what that could be unless we ask.”
Mr. Clendenen said, “This has nothing to do with our son. I never touched him. That’s an insult. Just because I don’t wear some suit like that Zawicki doesn’t mean I’m a child molester. I didn’t kill nobody. I wasn’t in town. I’ve never been to one of these concerts. I don’t want to go.”
“Have you been?” Turner asked Mrs. Clendenen.
Mrs. Clendenen said, “Oh, yes. They had a mother-son event at a concert one time in Los Angeles. It was so nice. Everybody was so kind. When we got the news about Dexter, we decided to fly right out. Mr. Zawicki paid for our fare.”
Mr. Clendenen said, “Is our son in danger? We don’t really want a policeman hanging around outside his door.”
“Can you ensure his safety?” Fenwick asked.
“No one’s been able to,” Mr. Clendenen said. “These people are going to get their asses sued when this is all over. They were supposed to protect the kid.”
“He didn’t die,” Turner pointed out. “If he did die, how would suing help?”
“Someone’s got to be responsible,” Mr. Clendenen said. “They’re the ones who’ve been putting all this pressure on him.”
Fenwick said, “It must’ve been great when Dexter helped you guys out financially after the band made it big.”
“He was a good boy,” Mrs. Clendenen said. “I always wanted a nice house.”
Mr. Clendenen said, “Zawicki says you guys don’t know shit.”
Fenwick said, “I’m more interested in what you can tell me. Dexter told us he came back to his hometown and they had a parade for him.”
“They did,” Mrs. Clendenen said. “They had a band and the local fire department put on a display. He even sang a song at the Elks Club.” She spoke with genuine pride. Tears welled in her eyes. Her little boy made it big. Turner felt a little sorry for her.
“Did any of the band members show up with him?” Fenwick asked.
“Oh, no, they each go their separate ways,” she said.
“He didn’t hang around with them when they weren’t on tour?” Fenwick asked.
“He hung around with girls,” Mr. Clendenen said. “Living in that house with those guys was enough.”
“How did he get along with the others?” Fenwick asked.
“He was always excited when he called home,” Mrs. Clendenen said. “Even when they were overseas, Dexter called every Sunday night. He always told me about the crowds, and the fun they were having together. He didn’t have a lot of friends growing up.”
Mr. Clendenen said, “Band and chorus and singing lessons. Nobody I ever knew had singing lessons.”
Mrs. Clendenen said, “It paid off, didn’t it?” The first evidence of defiance in standing up to her husband. “But now he had friends. With the band he was doing things with people. He’d talk about the exotic restaurants they’d go to together, the sights they’d see. As they got more famous, he’d send things. Now we live in the nicest place in town.”
“Yeah,” Clendenen said, “those uppity snobs and their country club, they don’t try and take advantage no more. Dexter could buy and sell their country club.”
Turner’s guess was that those who sucked up to money didn’t change from small towns to large. Money substituting for ego strength. Not unusual, Turner thought. Cash allowing them to feel superior, cash necessary for them to feel superior.
“We’d like to talk to Dexter,” Turner said.
Mrs. Clendenen said, “Mr. Zawicki keeps saying Dexter has to have a lawyer with him when he talks to the police. Why is that, if he didn’t do anything wrong? You don’t think Dexter did these things?”
“We’re hoping he can give us information,” Fenwick said.
“Well, I don’t know,” Mrs. Clendenen said.
Mr. Clendenen said, “All this fancy talk with lawyers and executives. I think they’re all fairies.” He glanced at Turner, said, “Sorry,” in his most unapologetic tone, and continued
. “They’re just using our kid. We’d take him home, but he refuses to leave.”
“I’m worried about him,” Mrs. Clendenen said.
“I have a psychologist friend,” Turner said. “He came to my house and helped Dexter. We got him to the hospital. Maybe I could ask him to come by.”
Mrs. Clendenen looked uncertain. Mr. Clendenen said, “We don’t need more people to talk to. We don’t need no psychologist interfering. We got too many people talking. We don’t need no more talk. We need to get out of here with Dexter. He needs to be away from all this shit. I’m going to talk to Zawicki again. To hell with his lawyers.”
19
Back in the car the dispatcher called. Turner answered. “Detective Turner is supposed to call a Mrs. Talucci.”
Turner used his cell phone. Mrs. Talucci said, “It would be good if you could come over now. Bring Fenwick with you. I’ve got another one of your band members here.”
Turner was exhausted. He wished he was going to the neighborhood and his home to go to bed. He doubted if that would be for a while yet.
They took Lake Shore Drive to Roosevelt Road, west to Halsted then over to Taylor Street.
Mrs. Talucci answered the door. “This one kept banging on your door. I brought him over.” There was very little in the neighborhood that got past Mrs. Talucci. She led the detectives into the kitchen. “They don’t feed any of these kids.” It was Ivan Pappas. He was hunched over a bowl of meatballs and Italian sausage smothered in Mrs. Talucci’s special red sauce and topped with more Parmesan cheese than a herd of cows could make in a year. A small television was turned to the local news station. It too had all-dead-Boys4u all the time.
“Dexter told me where he went,” Pappas said. “I had to get away. I wanted to see you. He told me about the neighbor lady.” He pointed to the television. “I don’t think they’ve missed me yet. It hasn’t been reported. Or they haven’t told the press, just like they held back the news on Jason.”
The detectives sat down. Mrs. Talucci stood with her back to the sink. Turner didn’t ask her to leave. If the members of the band were using her house as a refuge, he wasn’t about to tell her to get out.
Dead Egotistical Morons Page 18