“As I think about what could have happened, I get more scared. I would have died if you hadn’t acted so quickly.” Ben shivered. Paul put his arm around him.
They sipped their drinks for several moments in silence. Finally, Ben asked, “Are you okay?”
“Almost every day I listen to Fenwick describe various things he’d like to do to suspects. He can be pretty sarcastic, and he pressures them pretty hard. He might talk about abusing suspects and witnesses, but he’s actually pretty gentle with them. He’s never done something that would make a headline if it was taped and shown on the ten o’clock news. I’ve done even less. Hell, I’ve never hit Jeff or Brian. It’s been enough talking, reasoning, nagging and outthinking them.”
Ben took Paul’s hand. He asked, “What would you do if someone attacked either of your sons?”
“I would defend them with every ounce of strength I had. I’d sacrifice myself for them.”
“And if someone hurt them, physically caused them pain, and you found out about it later, what would you do?”
“I believe injustice, not revenge,” Paul said.
“I’m not asking about belief. I’m talking about a father and his sons.”
“I’d want to hurt them, but I hope I would stop before I would.”
“Why?”
Paul sat back in his chair. He looked around at the familiar surroundings of the kitchen. The ugly plastic barometer Jeff had made and given him for his birthday last year. The pile of Brian’s school books that he never seemed to be able to move from the telephone table. The pad of paper with dragons on it that they took phone messages on. The dinosaur magnets on the refrigerator that he used to display the boys’ work.
“I know I’m a good cop,” Paul said. “Part of that is knowing how to control my emotions. I don’t beat people up.”
“No, you don’t,” Ben agreed.
“The kid was a shit.”
“Yes, and a possible killer.”
“Then why do I feel lousy for roughing him up?”
“Because you’re a good person who was put in circumstances none of us ever hope to be in. And you reacted as best you could at a difficult moment. I think I would react the same way you did.”
“I feel guilty.”
“Catholic guilt, generic guilt, or bawling-your-eyes-out guilt?”
Paul smiled. “None of the above.”
They each heard the stairs creak. Moments later Brian appeared in the kitchen doorway. He wore only white athletic socks, white briefs and a baggy gray T-shirt from Banana Republic. “You guys still up?” he asked.
“Ben is,” Paul said, “but I’ve been asleep for ten minutes.”
Brian yawned. “Figures.”
“What are you doing up?” Paul asked.
“Thirsty.” Brian opened the refrigerator and took out a pint of bottled water. The teenager lifted the bottle to his lips and guzzled nearly a third of it. Paul didn’t tell him to use a glass. Everyone else in the house preferred the Lake Michigan water from the tap. Brian’s most recent health kick was bottled water.
Brian finished, muttered, “’Night,” and padded back upstairs.
Paul and Ben cleaned their cups and walked upstairs. From the closet Ben pulled out white flannel sheets. “Do you mind tonight?” he asked.
Usually the flannel was too warm for Paul. He nodded acquiescence. A few moments later and the sheets were changed. The warmth and coziness of the flannel seemed perfect. Ben hugged him fiercely under the covers and murmured, “Thanks for saving me. I never want to feel that cold again.”
Paul rolled half on top of his lover and pulled him underneath. He returned the tight embrace.
“This is the best way to warm up,” Ben said.
“How much warmer would you like to be?” Paul asked.
“I’d say, ‘Let’s see how hot it can get,’ but that sounds a little too Mae West.”
Their lovemaking quickly escalated to fierce passion.
TWENTY
Paul insisted that the family get together every morning for an unrushed breakfast. With the variety of their four schedules, it was one of the few times guaranteed to have all of them present. This was Paul’s week to cook and he rose early and made French toast.
As they finished eating, Ben said, “I’m going to defeat the computer today, or it is going to die trying.”
“Death to the machines,” Brian said. “Power to the humans.”
Ben said, “I’d give a great deal just to have a manual with a set of instructions that made sense.”
“I’ve got a project due Monday,” Jeff announced. “They’re making me be in the science fair. Do I have to?”
“Yes,” Paul said.
“Why?”
“Why not?” Paul said.
“I don’t want to.”
“Which is not yet enshrined in the list of acceptable excuses in this house,” Paul said. “Isn’t this kind of late to get started?”
“A little,” his son conceded.
Paul asked, “What are you going to do it on, and do you want help?”
“Maybe. If I could find something I can research on the computer, that would be terrific. I’d like to do it on something gross so my teacher learns a lesson.”
“How about pyin?” Brian suggested.
“What’s that” Jeff asked.
“A protein in pus,” Brian said.
“Cool,” Jeff said.
Along with food, the boys’ interest never seemed to wane in that which had to do with bodily functions and secretions—the more disgusting and gross the better.
“How do you know the word pyin?” Ben asked.
“The computer used it against me when I was playing Scrabble.”
“Mrs. Talucci’s back,” Jeff announced.
“I’ll try to see her tonight,” Paul said.
Paul had missed the much loved next-door neighbor.
Jeff pointed out the window. “I think she’s on her way over.”
Paul looked. Mrs. Talucci was leading a man by the ear down the sidewalk toward their house. Behind Mrs. Talucci was her niece, Arrabella, hefting a shotgun. Next to Arrabella was another niece, Constanza, carrying several cameras.
Paul, Ben and the two boys met them at the door.
Despite her diminutive stature, Mrs. Talucci was able to yank the man inside.
“Who’s your friend?” Ben asked.
“Found him snooping around between our houses a few minutes ago.”
“I was just trying to—”
Mrs. Talucci cuffed him on the ear.
“Ouch! Cut that out!” He lifted his hand as if to strike back. Arrabella nudged his elbow with the shotgun, and he subsided.
“You speak when spoken to,” Mrs. Talucci ordered. “I will not have the privacy of this neighborhood invaded. This is not going to become a circus playground. I heard about your case, Paul. I’ll keep any reporters out of your hair around here. Elsewhere, you’re on your own.” Mrs. Talucci’s ability to make things happen in the neighborhood was legendary. No one questioned her ability or her connections.
Mrs. Talucci rounded on the reporter. “You set foot on this street again, you will get far worse than me or this shotgun. You leave this neighborhood in peace or in pieces.” She pulled a wallet out of her coat pocket and waved it in front of the man. “This is yours. I know who you are. I know where you live. Don’t make me sorry for something I want to do.”
“She’s threatening me. She attacked me.” The reporter looked at each of them and saw no sympathy. “I’ll call the police.”
“I am the police,” Paul said.
Mrs. Talucci said, “I’ll buy you some film to replace what I confiscated. You won’t have pictures of this family. Give him his cameras back, Constanza. If you come back peacefully and without your cameras, I’ll make you a nice dinner.”
The reporter gave her an odd look.
“Leave,” Mrs. Talucci ordered. He scuttled out the door.
; Then Rose Talucci smiled at them.
After hugs were exchanged Paul asked, “How was your trip?”
“About average,” Rose said. She patted Paul on the arm. “You’ve got to get to work. We can talk later. I just wanted to make an example of this creep in hopes he warns the rest of his kind to keep out. If they get the message, maybe none of them will come around. I don’t hold out much hope.” After they left, Paul, Ben and the boys talked of schedules and logistics for a few minutes. Brian attempted to wheedle the car for a date on Saturday night.
Outside the wind was up and the sky was gray. A storm was approaching on a cold front. Depending on the direction the storm took, they could be in for a blizzard, heavy rain, light snow or a simple turn to much colder temperatures. The weather forecaster apologized profusely for not being able to control the weather.
Turner marched through the mass of reporters outside the station. A good cold snap might diminish the crowd. He wondered if Mrs. Talucci and her nieces hired out. Moments after Turner settled at his desk, Fenwick boomed in. “Who did what to you last night?”
“Not me. Ben.”
Fenwick banged his hand down on top of his desk. He dangled the coffee cup in his other hand carefully so his emphatic slam did not cause a drop to spill. “Downstairs they said Ben was pushed into the lake. Is that true? Wish I’d have been there.”
Turner filled him in on the activities of the night before.
“How come you get to have all the fun with Sibilla?” Fenwick asked.
“I’ll send her over to you if I can have the bodyguards.”
“Cheating on Ben?”
“Married men can have fantasies. I may conveniently forget to return his sweatshirt.”
“The one who paid this guy could have been one of the people who was in the penthouse.”
“We’ll have to ask them. We also need to talk to Munsen about what Sibilla said about him firing Furyk.”
“It makes no sense to presume you or Ben were the target,” Fenwick said. “Nobody expected either of you to be out there. Egremont is the most logical person. If it was him, why? And does he know who?”
“If he knows why, he knows who.”
Fenwick perked up considerably. “Is this the start of a comedy skit?”
“I sure as hell hope not,” Turner replied.
“What’s wrong?” Fenwick asked.
“Pardon?”
“You’ve got that distracted look you get when something’s bothering you.”
“I do not look distracted when something’s bothering me.”
“Trust me. I’m Mr. Sensitive, or at least I’ve known you long enough. What’s up?”
Turner told him about how he’d banged around Tyler Madison.
“So?” Fenwick said.
“I don’t bang people around.”
“No, you don’t.” Fenwick eyed him carefully. “If someone attacked Madge or one of the girls, I would not be responsible for what I did.”
Turner said, “Ordinarily, we’re not called on to defend our loved ones. How do you know how you’d react?”
“If I was there, I’d do everything I could to save them. If I learned that they’d been attacked, I’d make every attempt to bring the attacker to justice.”
“And you’d beat them up if you were questioning them?”
“Paul, what do you want from yourself? You want to feel bad about what you did? You want to analyze the situation until it comes out different? You want forgiveness?”
“I want to know I’m not going to do that again.”
“I can’t help you there. I can say that you’re a good person, a good cop, a loving father, a man whose instincts I trust. The guy who I want backing me up. The guy who I’d want interrogating a suspect if I was ever attacked. You’re not a different person from who you were yesterday. You’ve seen another side of yourself that makes you uncomfortable. Let yourself get used to what you did. Analyze it more after the emotion has eased. Going around and around on it now isn’t likely to help. And don’t make any cracks about how sensitive what I just said was. I know I’m a wonder.”
Commander Molton strode over to their desks. “I’ve got press conferences up the wazoo. I’m meeting with the mayor, and I’ve got phone calls piling up from around the world.”
“Are we going to the press conferences?” Fenwick asked. “I’d rather take a bath with a school of live piranha.”
“No. You will be out busily solving this case so I can get back to having normal pains in my wazoo.”
Turner filled him in on the latest, then said, “We’re going to Furyk’s wake this morning. We need to talk to the parents. We’re also hoping that several of Furyk’s lovers are in from overseas.”
“The mysterious boyfriends in foreign ports?” Molton asked.
“Yeah.”
“Must be nice,” Molton said.
“I sure as hell hope so,” Fenwick said. “If it isn’t, it’s a hell of a lot of trouble to go through to be miserable.”
“Any word on Egremont?” Turner asked.
“I haven’t heard. Check with downstairs.”
“We’ve also got paperwork up our wazoos,” Turner said.
“A wazoo epidemic,” Fenwick said.
“Whoever finds a cure is going to be rich,” Molton said. He strolled off.
After ascertaining that Egremont had not appeared at home, Turner shuffled through the papers on his desk. O’Leary had done as he was asked. Turner now had the latest issues of all the fashion magazines. He tossed several to Fenwick. They paged through them. Turner saw lots of party pictures, scraps of gossip and snippets of information. The articles all seemed to talk in a unique fashion vocabulary that made little sense. The constant use of extreme, exotic and overblown adjectives struck him as amusing. He noted that in all the pictures of gala fashion events, there were none of two men together. He wondered if it was an oddity of the issues he happened to be looking at or a subtle homophobia. Certainly, the magazines themselves mentioned gay people.
After several minutes Fenwick said, “They must have special word-processing programs that automatically stuff their paragraphs with superlative adjectives for superfluous clothing.”
Turner raised an eyebrow at him. “I may have to reevaluate my opinion of your poetic abilities.”
Fenwick said, “I see lots of glitzy and pretty pictures, but I am none the wiser.”
“Maybe you could pick out another tux.”
“I do not wish to be teased about that.”
“Fat chance,” Turner said. “Fenwick in a tux. I want to put a picture on the bulletin board.”
“Should I mention the rumors going around about what you wore last night?”
“That can’t have gotten around this fast.”
“Au contraire, mon ami.”
“The French and that accent go the same place as the poetry,” Turner said.
“Truce?” Fenwick offered.
Turner nodded. He pulled out a stack of Daily Major Incident Logs and handed several to Fenwick. Half an hour into the paperwork, Wilson and Roosevelt strode in.
“You should see them downstairs,” Wilson said.
“Who?” Fenwick asked.
“Devonshire and Smythe,” Wilson said. “They’re trying to get a couple of reporters interested in a gang shooting early this morning.”
“They got another one?” Turner said.
“Yep,” Roosevelt said.
“Luck of the draw,” Fenwick said.
“Or somebody doesn’t like them,” Wilson said.
“Insufferable twits, what’s not to like?” Fenwick asked.
“They related to you?” Wilson asked.
“They need to take lessons from me,” Fenwick stated.
The watch commander walked over and handed Wilson a piece of paper. “Address on North State Street. Somebody tried to mug a priest. Pulled a gun. Killed a little girl walking with her mother half a block away. Better hustle.”
Wilson and Roosevelt hurried away.
Another fifteen minutes of paperwork and the phone rang. It was the hospital. Kindel had awakened.
Before they left, Paul phoned Ian.
His friend answered with the traditional response he gave to anyone who called before eleven in the morning; “Somebody better be dead.”
“It’s Paul. You find out anything on Kindel?”
Ian usually worked at the paper from early afternoon to past midnight at least six days a week. He seldom rose before noon. Paul heard a thump and a curse. He knew Ian had dropped the phone, put on his slouch fedora and was wishing he still smoked. After the usual ten or fifteen seconds, Ian said, “I’ve got to stop using that line to answer the phone. Every time you call, you do have a dead body. Nobody else does, just you.”
“You resent the fact that I have a leg up, so to speak.”
“I hope you are not taking lessons from Fenwick. The automatic coffeemaker has responded to my commands. I will be human soon. What can I do for you in the meantime?”
“You find out anything on Kindel?”
“Not until late last night. I found a guy who was his last lover. Kindel taught school for years in one of the wealthy North Shore suburban high school districts. Those places pay extremely well. All we heard at the paper was that he was a poor retired schoolteacher. This fella told me Kindel had invested his savings for years in micro-computer-soft-age-works-electronics-something stocks. He is supposed to be worth a small fortune.” Ian paused. Paul heard him slurp and gasp. Ian always gulped from the boiling hot coffee. He claimed he was used to it.
Ian continued. “He’s rich. He also owns the paper.”
“He what?”
“Owns the whole frigging place, building and all.”
“Why keep it a secret?”
“He’s an insane moron?”
“You heard he was mugged?”
“Yeah. Is that connected to the murder?”
“I don’t know yet. Why is Kindel into all this deception?”
“It sure is odd.”
“Fenwick and I are going to stop at the hospital on the way to the wake.”
“Good luck.”
As they drove to the hospital Turner said, “Thanks for what you said earlier. It helped.”
First, Fenwick misjudged his speed and distance and splashed a geyser of water from the curb toward a large herd of pedestrians at Congress Parkway and Wells Street. Then he said, “You’re welcome.”
Drop Dead Page 17