With Paul pushing Jeff’s wheelchair, they entered a vast concourse that stretched forward for longer than a football field and up ten stories. The owners had wanted a building to rival both the Merchandise Mart and the Apparel Center. There were immense skylights overhead and each floor had a balcony around its perimeter. The floors and walls were all gray marble. The interior had been converted to a tropical setting with real palm trees in large buckets, tiki torches, and an ocean of sand. A multitude was crammed into this ground-floor space and Turner could see people lining the balconies for at least four stories. At the entrance they were offered hard hats. Jeff and Madge accepted them.
As they walked in, Demi Moore and her bodyguards swept by. All the caterers were wearing hard hats, tight jeans, work belts with tools in them, and flannel shirts with the sleeves ripped off. A stage had been set up in the middle of the concourse.
“Where is our contact?” Fenwick asked.
“Is that Sibilla Manetti?” Madge asked.
“Where?” Brian asked.
Madge pointed.
“I think it is,” Brian said. “Wow.”
A man over six feet tall with a huge belly walked over to them. He was wearing a white tuxedo, a black shirt, and a pink bow tie. He might have been in his early fifties. With him was a slender man in his mid-twenties who was wearing a navy wool-silk suit, a cotton honeycomb-weave French-cuffed shirt, a paisley silk tie, and Hush Puppies. “Mr. Turner?” the older man inquired. “I’m Arthur Oldinport, Ian’s friend. This is my assistant, Battle.”
Turner introduced them all. “Where can we talk?” Turner asked.
“I’ve secured a place. My assistant will see to it that your guests are comfortable.”
They left Madge and the two boys to the party and the assistant, Battle. Turner, Fenwick, and Oldinport took an elevator up to the partially finished seventh floor. Scattered about were two-by-fours, sawdust, and construction tools. Exposed electrical wires hung from undone outlets. They stood at the balcony railing.
“Ian asked if I would give you some background information on the fashion industry,” Oldinport said.
“Yeah,” Fenwick said. “The whole thing is foreign to me.”
“I know,” Oldinport said. He glanced at their outfits. He did everything but sniff.
“You know all these folks?” Fenwick asked.
“If not all, most.”
“They all as snotty as you?”
“If not all, most.”
Fenwick laughed. “I don’t think I like you.”
Oldinport gave him a thin smile. “How lucky for me. If you’d like a good overview of the industry, why don’t you pick up the latest issues of the major fashion magazines? That might give you a start.”
“We’ll give that a try,” Turner said. “We need to know as much background as you can tell us on these two companies and on Cullom Furyk in particular. Any insights you can give into the people who were at the brunch today at the Archange would be helpful.”
“The rumor is rife throughout the crowd that somebody pushed the young man, and that it had to be one of the people at the party. All the gossip papers are going to be printing it. If your identities as detectives became known to the crowd here, you could be swamped by some of the lowest and most aggressive journalists in the country. More likely they’d try and get you off by yourselves to get an exclusive. These are the kind of people who sneak in to take pictures of the corpse at funerals of famous people.”
“Maybe that’s what I could do when I retire,” Fenwick said. “Find the people taking pictures at funerals. They could be used as traffic-safety bumps near busy expressway exits.”
“Did you know Furyk?” Turner asked.
“Everyone among the elite of the fashion world knows everyone else to some degree. I had met the young man. He was very attractive and very shallow, two helpful commodities in a model.”
“I understand why it helps to be good-looking,” Turner said, “but why shallow?”
“You don’t want them asking too many questions. The models are there to wear your clothes and make you and your product look good. A lot of brains can easily lead to a lot of attitude.”
“We heard he was a sexual athlete.”
“Hardly a secret. You’ve got to understand that all those gossip columns, magazines, and cable television shows depicting models partying the days and nights away are somewhat true.”
“Haven’t caught the shows,” Fenwick said. “Don’t read the columns or the magazines. Didn’t care before now. Don’t know how much I care now. Unless it has something to do with catching a murderer.”
“Perhaps it will. Let me give you some background on a model’s lifestyle. The men might be perceived to be gay, but their persona, especially on the runway, has to be hyper-masculine. Same in the print ads. They have to look butch. Swish and drag are totally out. Also, the men tend to look hot on or off the runway. While the women are usually gorgeous on stage, they’re kind of ratty-looking off. In this world there’s a lot to turn a naive boy’s or girl’s head. The model’s life is the epitome of the fast lane. Yet, much of the time they are struggling to just get by. Mostly they are young and foolish.”
“Which is the best time for that combination,” Fenwick said.
“Cullom was as sensible and as foolish as any other model. He didn’t stand out as outrageous or not outrageous. As for his sexual contacts, which everyone focuses on, yes, he had lots. I know he went to bed with all the male stars of the three top-grossing movies several years ago.”
“You know?” Fenwick asked.
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been to bed with people who’ve been to bed with people who know people who know.”
“Just as good as being there,” Fenwick said.
Turner forbore asking for specifics. If it turned out to be important, he could ask later.
Oldinport continued, “At the Academy Awards one year, Cullom was smitten with one of the dancers in one of those interminable show numbers. By dawn Cullom was in bed with him. Perhaps more relevant to your investigation, he also had an affair with Gerald Veleshki.”
“We thought that was a big secret,” Fenwick said.
“Not in this town. He also had sex with women. Sibilla Manetti for sure. Jolanda Bokaru had a brief fling with him.”
“But he was gay?”
“As far as I know.”
“That didn’t hold him back?”
“The fashion industry itself is not terribly homophobic,” Oldinport said, “but it’s the old story. The advertisers. A model can pick up millions in endorsements, but many advertisers still have huge problems with any kind of identification with something or someone gay.”
Fenwick said, “Furyk was supposed to be rich and had lots of endorsements. How would anyone know he was gay?”
“Tabloid journalism, of course.”
“I knew that,” Fenwick said.
“So everyone knew he was gay?” Turner asked.
“Yes and no. Cullom was lucky that he had an exclusive deal with GUINEVERE. Franklin Munsen didn’t particularly care about Cullom’s sexuality. Cullom was a household name and image long before anything came out about who he went to bed with. All that was required was a well-publicized public appearance with Sibilla and rumors were quashed.”
Turner asked, “He would willingly agree to public deception about his sexual orientation?”
“Perhaps it is more accurate to say that he was complicitly silent. You let the public assume what it wishes without comment.”
“How about him and Mickey Spitzer?”
“I don’t care for the Russian peasant very much. He and Ms. O’Dowd are an item. In spite of Mr. Spitzer being caught in a compromising position with Mr. Furyk, Ms. O’Dowd was quite forgiving.”
“Spitzer is gay?”
“I have no idea. That Spitzer and Furyk had sex does not mean they liked each other or even knew each other that wel
l. That they did not continue to have sex does not mean they disliked each other. Ms. O’Dowd was not Furyk’s agent. She was and remains Spitzer’s. You’d have to ask them the inner workings of their relationship to find out if hatreds existed, and if they were deep enough to cause murder.”
“Neither of them was at the brunch,” Turner observed.
“What kind of guy is Daniel Egremont?” Fenwick asked.
“An honest accountant. Hardly the kind of person to commit murder.”
“Eliot Norwyn?” Fenwick asked.
“A severely closeted young man. He would like everyone to believe he is straight. Sometimes I believe he even convinces himself. His affair with Mr. Furyk was the talk of the modeling world for quite a while.”
“Casual sex and lots of gossip,” Fenwick observed. “Almost as good as hot chocolate poured over raw cookie dough. What’s not to like? Although I imagine people could get sick of it pretty quick.”
“All the males in the fashion industry are not whores,” Oldinport said. “Nor can they snap their fingers and have sex with anyone they want.”
Fenwick said, “I thought the whole point of the operation was that they were supposed to look sexy so people buy the clothes they wear.”
Oldinport raised an eyebrow. “Looking sexy equals sexual promiscuity?”
“All the world thinks it does,” Fenwick said.
“The world can think whatever it wishes. There is as much or as little heartache and passion in the fashion industry as there is in the rest of the world. The models are able to handle it as well or as poorly as any other celebrity.”
“Was Furyk able to handle it?”
“I can’t say. I didn’t know him personally.”
“You suggested we read fashion magazines,” Turner said. “How much accurate information will we really find there?”
Oldinport shrugged. “For all its gossip and silliness, the fashion world is basically a business world. For example, gay or straight, after a celebrity appearance in a major city, rumors abound the next day about them appearing hither and thither with or without some young lovely who they may or may not be married to. How true are the rumors? Who knows?”
“What background can you give us about the two companies?”
“Both started out in Chicago. They have been fierce competitors for years. They would do anything to cut the throat of the other. Sabotage. Bald-face lying. Stealing designs or designers. Putting out false press releases, putting out inaccurate information about each other’s companies.”
“We heard one of them was going broke,” Turner said.
“Yes, that rumor would be about Heyling and Veleshki. The two of them started with Mr. Heyling’s winnings from the Illinois lottery. He won a million a year for twenty years. He discovered that it wasn’t enough to keep them going.”
“They weren’t earning profits?”
“Some years both companies did, some neither.”
“Will Heyling and Veleshki go broke?” Turner asked.
“Heyling’s due another check next week. It won’t be enough unless he gets another source of funding.”
“And GUINEVERE is in good shape?”
“They have to put on a good face because it is a publicly held company. My sources say their financial picture is probably not as rosy as they would like everyone to believe.”
“What kind of money are we talking about here?” Turner asked.
“There are companies in the industry with revenues of over a billion dollars. Some earn over a hundred million before taxes. As with any company you can have record revenue, but if you have record expenses, you’re in trouble whether you sell couture fashions or used briefs. If you invest in their stocks, some go up, some down. It can be a volatile business.”
“These guys in Chicago have revenues of over a billion?” Fenwick asked.
“I certainly doubt it, but over a hundred million at least. I do not have access to their books. Do you really need that to solve the murder?”
“I hope not,” Fenwick said, “math gives me a headache.”
“What can you tell us about Jolanda Bokaru and Gorgeous magazine?” Turner asked.
“A great deal. As I am sure Ian told you, I work for her. I am not happy doing so. I love the job, but I hate the boss. Jolanda thinks she’s important. In this town, she probably is. She is not anywhere else. She is generally ignored by the rest of the fashion world and this annoys her a great deal. Jolanda is excellent at self-promotion. She gets more ink for less substance than anyone I know. Where she got her money to start the magazine is kind of murky. She is rumored to have had a torrid affair with a famous drug dealer many years ago.”
“What about this heroin look?” Fenwick asked. “How prevalent are drugs in this industry?”
“The hysteria of the so-called heroin look is equivalent to the set-to about the models in some of those jeans ads a few years ago. Some congressmen made a huge stink and grabbed a lot of headlines about the fashion industry using underage kids to be sexual or to encourage sexuality, or whatever puritanical balderdash they were trying to peddle. You had to look closely months later to see the tiny headlines on the articles saying that all the models were of age. That kind of hysteria makes the religious zealots and their congressional lackeys feel superior.
“You’ve got public pressure in being a police officer. Are there alcoholics and drug addicts in your line of work? Of course. Are there in this line of work? Of course. Is it an epidemic? No. Are the people you are concerned with involved in some kind of drug cabal? I certainly have heard of no such thing. The Chicago fashion industry is a group of terrifically hardworking wannabes. They have no time for drugs.”
“No drugs?” Fenwick summed up.
“Not enough to cause murder,” Oldinport said.
For a few moments they scrutinized the crowd far below.
“Who are all these people?” Fenwick asked.
“The rich, the famous, the beautiful, the desperate, the ones who have nothing better to do with their lives. There are also hardworking designers, fashion consultants, agents, choreographers, pattern cutters, pattern makers. Some have dual roles. For instance, Franklin Munsen owns the business and is also one of the principle designers.”
“What about at Heyling and Veleshki?”
“Heyling does most of the designing there.”
“Why is it called GUINEVERE?” Turner asked.
“Munsen had a daughter who never left the hospital after she was born. He named the company after her and put it all in caps as a memorial.”
Turner nodded. He well knew the fears of losing a child, Jeff fortunately surviving his birth defect.
“He’s straight?” Turner asked.
“Munsen has been married to the same woman for many years. There are no rumors of philandering, straight or gay. He is also one of the most hated men in the fashion industry.”
“Why is that?”
“He comes from new money, which offends some of the haughtier European houses. He is a conniving, sniveling creep, which offends nearly everyone.”
Fenwick observed, “Would hatred for him cause someone to kill his signature model?”
“Munsen is the kind who would think of doing murder to enhance his own publicity. The eyes of the world are on Chicago because of this murder. Munsen benefits the most from the publicity.”
“You really think he’s capable of that?” Turner asked.
“That’s for you to decide, isn’t it?” Oldinport asked.
“Does he really keep spies and saboteurs on his payroll?” Fenwick asked.
“That is the rumor. I would tend to discount it although it is certainly possible. Dinah McBride is often named in the rumors as his ‘enforcer.’ Who knows what that really means? She is tough, immensely loyal, and just as ruthless as her boss.”
“Anything interesting in the groupings down below?” Turner asked.
Oldinport eyed the assemblage. “Not that I can see.”
/> “Thanks for your help,” Turner said. “We’ll call you if we have more questions.” Oldinport nodded to both of them and took the elevator down.
Fenwick turned to his partner and said, “You know we were followed to the elevator?”
“Yes. Twice I just missed seeing who it was.”
“A male?” Fenwick asked.
“The person wasn’t in a dress. With some of the outfits around here, who knows?”
“A reporter, an asshole, a spy, a suspect, the killer?” Fenwick asked.
“Or our overactive imaginations?”
“I’ve got no imagination. Ask Madge. What I really want to know,” Fenwick said, “is the story on Oldinport’s assistant, Battle. Is he a paid paramour, a lover, or a real assistant?”
“Yes,” Turner answered.
TEN
As they approached the elevator, Fenwick kicked a two-by-four out of the way. The wood made a double thunk against the wall.
“You kick two pieces of wood,” Turner asked, “or is someone else up here?”
“I kicked once.”
“Hush,” Turner whispered. He motioned with his left hand for Fenwick to explore to the left of the elevators. Turner moved to the right. After twenty feet he found a corridor leading deeper into the building. Bare bulbs lit the passageway every forty feet. He waited at its entrance in silence. The noise from the party below drifted up to him.
Turner was aware of Fenwick’s return. Together they peered down the same hallway. Fenwick whispered, “This is the first exit in this area except the elevator. I found escalators, but they aren’t complete up this far.”
With Turner leading the way, the two detectives strolled carefully forward. Unfinished doorways provided gaps in the walls. The interiors of the rooms were unlit.
“Half the party could be hiding up here,” Fenwick said.
A flutter of movement at the end of the hall caught Turner’s eye. “There’s no breeze up here,” he said.
Ahead they could see that another hallway intersected the one they were in. The lights winked out. They held still and let their eyes adjust to the lack of light. The glow from the party prevented total darkness, but the shadows had deepened. They split up and took separate corridors. Turner had gone about forty feet when he heard Fenwick shout. He turned around and saw the mass of his partner disappear around a corner. He rushed to follow.
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