Drop Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “No. I just assumed they were his people. Handlers, you know. Entourage. Hangers-on.”

  Turner took out the photos of the people in the penthouse. “You recognize any of these?”

  She glanced at them carefully. She pointed to Kindel and Veleshki. “Both of those for sure. And there was one man in a baseball hat and sunglasses at the very end. You know how some celebrities use that to disguise themselves. It’s quite simple but very effective. I wonder if it was … well … I’m not sure … it could have been this one.” She held out the picture of Eliot Norwyn.

  “Do you know the names of any of the people in the pictures you picked out?” Turner asked.

  “No. I don’t believe they were members, although we have so many that I don’t know everybody by sight. Of course, if they’re members and famous, I would. It’s a little trick I have to give them the service they deserve and to keep the club one of the best.”

  “That last one you picked is a television star,” Fenwick said.

  She peered at the face carefully. “I prefer the Robert Redford type. This is just a kid. What kind of show is he on?”

  “Some teen thing,” Fenwick said.

  “Then I wouldn’t know him.”

  In the car Fenwick placed his hand over his forehead, closed his eyes, and said, “I sense the investigation focusing on Kindel, Veleshki, and Norwyn.”

  “‘Fenwick the psychic’ doesn’t have much of a ring to it. If you’re so great in the foretelling business, how come the last lottery numbers you gave out were a bust?”

  “You were paying attention? I was talking to Wilson and Roosevelt. I didn’t know you played the lottery.”

  “Only when it’s over twenty million.”

  “Is that supposed to increase your odds?”

  “It increases my fantasies, which, as far as I can tell is the only point in buying lottery tickets.”

  “Sounds good enough to me. We’re bringing these three down to the station,” Fenwick said. “I don’t like it when people don’t give me complete information. We should add Heyling, too. It’s time to start shaking up some of these people a little.”

  “I’ll call headquarters and have them send people out to pick them up. On our way back we can stop and show our pictures to Spitzer.”

  Before arriving at Spitzer’s, the detectives followed up on the caterers who had been out the first time they stopped. Everyone was in, but no one knew anything helpful.

  They found Spitzer wearing a gold-colored terry-cloth bathrobe and white athletic socks. He carried a towel and his hair was wet from a recent shower. O’Dowd was nowhere in sight.

  “Your lawyer is not here?” Fenwick asked.

  “Pardon?” He looked puzzled.

  Turner knew no Russian. “Ms. O’Dowd?”

  Spitzer smiled. “Not here.”

  He gestured for them to enter the penthouse. Turner made a circling motion with his hands then pointed into the penthouse. “Tour?”

  The three of them strode through the penthouse. On a balcony facing directly east they found eight different weight machines.

  “I thought O’Dowd said these were a few simple amenities,” Fenwick said. “He’s got half a gym out here. This looks more than few and simple.”

  “Depends on your definition of few and simple.” Turner sat on each of the machines. On five of them his view of the terrace diagonally across from him was unimpeded. Because of the distance, it would be difficult to make out a face even if you weren’t vigorously exercising.

  “You work?” Spitzer said. He placed a hand on Turner’s left bicep. “Good muscle.”

  They stepped back into the penthouse. Turner took out the pictures. “Do you recognize any of these faces?” he asked.

  Spitzer stared at him blankly. Turner spread out the pictures on a table and pointed to them. Spitzer looked at each one carefully. When he bent over, his robe opened. Turner noted that the fashion icon was not wearing underwear.

  Spitzer picked out Egremont, the accountant’s picture.

  “Did he push him?” Turner asked.

  Blank look. Turner pantomimed pushing someone off a balcony then pointed at the picture.

  Spitzer shook his head.

  “Then why’d you pick him out?” Fenwick muttered.

  Spitzer said, “Earlier. Before.”

  “You mean he was talking to him before?”

  Another blank look.

  “We’ll have to come back when O’Dowd is around,” Fenwick said.

  Turner pointed to the other photos. Again Spitzer examined them. He shook his head. They left.

  “I found that unsatisfying,” Fenwick said.

  “In addition to sensitivity training, you’ll be signing up for courses in Russian next.”

  “Oui, oui.” Fenwick pronounced it ooowie, ooowie. A cartoon character he’d seen once mispronounced it so. Turner knew the joke. He did not respond.

  Fenwick continued, “We already knew Egremont was out there talking to him.”

  “At least we have our first confirmed bit of truth in this case. Everything else, we’ve had to take people’s words for.”

  “If Spitzer understood you correctly. You must be great at charades.”

  “Better than adequate. Back to headquarters, O wise psychic.”

  SIXTEEN

  Outside the station a mass of photographers and reporters surged toward them. Camera lights flicked on. Flashbulbs flashed.

  “We could try the back way,” Turner suggested.

  “Nah. I haven’t stomped on a photographer in weeks.”

  As they exited the car the uniforms were unable to hold back the tide of paparazzi. Shouted questions mingled with yelps and curses as the swirl of humanity nearly engulfed them. Fenwick never hesitated. He marched straight toward the heart of the crowd. The drove of reporters halted momentarily, thinking perhaps that he planned to address them. Fenwick, however, did not pause. He sailed through them as an ocean liner through a swimming pool. Turner followed in his massive partner’s wake. As he passed, Turner felt hands grab at him. He smiled benignly and kept his mouth shut.

  Commander Molton met them on the first floor. He said, “I need a cure for tabloid reporters.”

  “Shoot them,” Fenwick said.

  “People might get the right idea,” Molton said.

  “Open season on tabloid reporters,” Fenwick mused. “I don’t see anything wrong with that picture.”

  “Morons will be always with us,” Molton said.

  “Wise sayings of Commander Molton?” Turner asked.

  “What’s the latest on this Furyk mess?” Molton asked.

  When they finished filling him in, Molton said, “Cullom Furyk is getting more ink than Cunanan ever did, and we don’t have a suspect.”

  Fenwick said, “You know, Smythe and Devonshire were in earlier asking to be put on more high-profile cases. They can have this one.”

  Molton said, “You’ll like this next bit. The tabloid papers are supposedly going to hit hard on a police cover-up of a suicide on this. That the murder investigation is a smoke screen for what really happened.”

  “I like it,” Fenwick said. “It appeals to my sense of what is loony in the world.”

  Molton said, “Probably if we’d have reported it as a suicide, they’d have said we were covering up a murder.”

  “The triumph of paranoia,” Turner said.

  “I’m for it,” Fenwick added, “as long as everybody thinks it’s me who’s out to get them.”

  “Are these reporters going to get to your witnesses?” Molton asked.

  “Not through us,” Turner said, “but it isn’t a big secret who was at the luncheon.”

  “We could lock everybody up connected to the case,” Fenwick suggested.

  Turner said, “At least we’d have a lot of convicts with a sense of color and fabric.”

  Jason O’Leary appeared at the top of the stairs. He was leading Eliot Norwyn. O’Leary said, “This guy got cau
ght lurking around the squad cars in back. He says he needs to talk to you.”

  Norwyn thanked the cop and nodded at the detectives. “Is there someplace not so public where we can talk?” Norwyn was wearing walnut piqué-polyester jeans, a brown stretch-jersey asymmetrical-zip polo shirt, and black running shoes. His hips seemed to have been poured into the jeans. He held a red baseball hat in his left hand.

  “Did somebody contact you?” Turner asked.

  “When I got back to the hotel, the concierge told me the police had been in looking for me. I thought of calling to arrange a secret meeting. I wanted to avoid any chance of being caught in public. I need to talk. Quietly. I’m a goddamn teenage idol, and if the people at the show found out about this, I would lose the show and my fans. I’m supposed to be a role model. I’ve been on the damn program for seven years. I’m twenty-seven and I’m supposed to be this perpetual perfect adolescent.”

  They took him up to a fourth-floor conference room.

  After they were seated, Turner asked, “Why did you want to see us?”

  “I wasn’t completely honest with you yesterday. I’ve been feeling bad about that.”

  “What did you need to tell us?” Turner said.

  “I was afraid you might find out I talked to him earlier.”

  “We did find out,” Fenwick said. “That’s why we sent people to bring you in.”

  “They probably didn’t find me because I canceled my afternoon interview. I’ve been brooding down by the lakefront most of the afternoon.”

  “What did you and Furyk talk about?” Turner asked.

  “I have to do some explaining. I’ve got to be very honest. First, those days at the beach house weren’t the only time I’ve been to bed with Cullom. Last May we met in the market on Place des Lices on Saint-Tropez. I was on vacation after the television season. Both of us had gone there early to avoid the madness of late summer. I had no idea he’d be there. I know you think it’s hypocritical or impossible, but I’m not attracted to guys. I really am not. It’s just Cullom is so, was so, exactly perfect for me at that moment. Being with him was just different, special.”

  “How long did you two stay together that time?”

  “Just for the week I was there. He had another five days, but I left. He never called me, and I had to be careful about calling him. We certainly couldn’t be seen together here in the States. We were very careful in Saint-Tropez.”

  “But you wanted more?” Turner asked.

  “Yes. I knew he was going to be in town here. I knew he was going to be at the brunch. I got an invitation to that, but I didn’t know if I’d have a real chance to talk to him. I heard about his photo shoot, and I went there. We talked briefly. He agreed to meet me late that evening.”

  “Were you in love?” Turner asked.

  “No. It was more like an addiction, a compulsion that I couldn’t control. I never went with other guys. I’ve dated lots of women. I’ve had sex with lots of women. I prefer sex with women.”

  “Cullom had this hold over you?” Fenwick asked.

  “No, it wasn’t like that at all. Mostly he seemed pretty indifferent to me. He was friendly enough when we were together, kind of passive in bed, but that was okay with me. If he’d gone wild with the gay sex stuff, I might have been turned off. Look, I’m being honest with you guys. I’m trying to avoid being a suspect. I know it looks bad. I guess I’m hoping that honesty will get you on my side.” He gazed at each of them in turn.

  “So you were supposed to meet later,” Turner said.

  “But at the brunch he told me he had to cancel. He had to meet with someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “He didn’t say. I didn’t ask. He said we could meet today.”

  “At the brunch, where did you talk?”

  “On the terrace. After brunch.”

  Turner and Fenwick gazed at him carefully.

  “See, I’m being honest. Plus, I figured somebody would tell you I was out there. I think at least one other person saw me.”

  “Who?”

  “I couldn’t tell who it was. Someone rushed from one of the bedrooms when I walked in from the terrace.”

  “Do you think that person was watching the two of you?”

  “Maybe. Probably.”

  “Did Cullom get on top of the wall while you were there?”

  “No, I swear. Most of the time he was staring over the side. Some of the time he’d wave or hold his hands as if he were on a balcony, like Evita. I had a hard time getting him to listen to me. He was like that a lot. He was kind of a space cadet. If information didn’t interest him, it had no hold on his mind.”

  “But when did he tell you he couldn’t meet?”

  “He saw me a couple minutes after I got there. Nobody else heard us. Jolanda Bokaru walked in at that moment so I couldn’t pursue the issue. I’d gone out to the balcony to arrange another meeting, the one for today.”

  “Did he seem bothered at all, upset?”

  “No. He was his usual self. Kind of loose, kind of goofy.”

  “Did you want a relationship with him?” Turner asked. “Something that would last?”

  Norwyn whispered. “I don’t know.”

  “Did you push him off the edge?” Turner asked.

  “No, I swear to God, I did not. He was fine when I left. A few minutes later, I didn’t see who it was, but I heard him out there arguing with someone. That wasn’t like Cullom at all. He always had this cool persona in public.”

  “How was he in private?”

  “Kind of gentle but self-absorbed too, but I think most of us actors and models are like that. All the ones I’ve met are. It doesn’t mean we’re bad people. It’s just the way we are. The way we have to be.”

  Fenwick said, “Self-absorption raised to the level of one of the cardinal virtues. Have to think about that.”

  “Do cops always make fun of what witnesses say?” Eliot asked.

  “He didn’t get up on the ledge at all while you were there?” Turner asked.

  “No. I told you that.”

  Turner and Fenwick began going over every movement Norwyn claimed to have made. For an hour they kept at it. He didn’t change his story.

  They left him in the conference room. At their desks the two detectives considered.

  “He was out there at the scene of the crime,” Fenwick said. “I like that in a killer.”

  “We have no one to corroborate when he went out there or when he came back in. We have no idea whether or not Furyk was alive or dead before, during, or after Norwyn’s appearance on the balcony.”

  Fenwick said, “I don’t get that stuff about Norwyn’s sexual confusion.”

  Turner shrugged. “Norwyn certainly sounds gay to me. He obviously doesn’t want to sound gay to himself. Maybe they both just wanted to get their rocks off with another pretty guy. Was Eliot in love, and he didn’t want to accept that? I dated men while I was married to my wife. I didn’t want to acknowledge or accept my feelings.”

  “Gay or straight, did he kill him?” Fenwick asked.

  “He’s not a shabby suspect, but not a great one yet.”

  “I didn’t get his autograph,” Fenwick said. “You must swear on your life that you will never reveal to my daughters that this second interview took place.”

  “Won’t they understand this is a murder investigation?”

  “He’s a hunk, you should understand the appeal.”

  “I’m not the one who gets turned on while talking to a wit-” ness.

  “You mean, I’m the only one so far who’s admitted to it.”

  “What is it worth to you for me not to tell?”

  “Want me to tell your boys which Bears’ quarterback’s autograph you didn’t get?”

  “Deal.”

  Their next phone call was from Arthur Oldinport. “I have two tickets for tonight’s GUINEVERE, Incorporated fashion show. Everyone will be there. If you want an understanding of the fashion industry, you sh
ould go.”

  Turner agreed then asked, “Did you know Furyk had lovers in many cities?”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “I can try and find out.”

  Turner hung up and told Fenwick.

  “I can’t go,” Fenwick said. “I have promised to attend my daughters’ basketball game. I am likely to be late as it is. I will not be forgiven if I miss this one.”

  “You’re not being forgiven for a lot lately,” Turner said.

  “Oh, lordy, I have sinned mightily.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Maybe Ben would like to go.”

  Turner phoned his lover at the shop. Ben said, “I’m going to throw the computer through the plate-glass window. I could use a diversion.”

  “Computer not cured yet?”

  “I was going to work on the program at home tonight. This sounds better, and it might be fun. I know Brian plans to be home tonight.”

  The next person to be brought in was Gerald Veleshki. Immediately behind him was Roger Heyling. They were in the same outfits as earlier.

  “This tag-team shit is going to come to an end right now,” Fenwick said. He marched to where O’Leary was escorting them. “Put these two gentlemen in separate interrogation rooms.”

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Veleshki demanded.

  “Separate means not together. You go one way. He goes the other.”

  O’Leary already had Heyling by the elbow and was leading him to the fourth floor. Fenwick said to Veleshki, “You come with me.”

  Veleshki looked over his shoulder at Heyling. His partner walked with his head sunk nearly to his chest. Fenwick led Veleshki to the currently not in use squad room. Turner joined them. They sat in folding chairs in one of the corners of the room.

  “You visited Furyk at the Blue Diamond Health Club yesterday morning,” Fenwick said.

  “Yes. I confess I met him. I freely admit it. You may lock me up for this horrendous crime. Is that why you dragged me down here? If that’s all, I need to get back to my company. We have the most important days of the winter season tomorrow and the next.” He stood up.

  “Sit down,” Fenwick ordered. “You’re not going anywhere.”