Half an hour later Egremont had been led away.
TWENTY-THREE
At Aunt Millie’s later, Fenwick said, “Egremont makes a great suspect. I vote for him for killer.”
Turner ate some glop. “We have a whole panoply of possibilities.”
“You keep talking like that, Millie’s going to throw you out.”
“Maybe you aren’t the only one with poetic aspirations.” Turner put his silverware down. He ticked off the suspects on his fingers. “We’ve got Findley, the first, or one of the first lovers who claims to still share secrets with Cullom. We’ve got Kindel, the in-town lover. We’ve got Deidrich Groucher, the out-of-town lover, who is tough to make a suspect because of logistics.”
“One of the out-of-town lovers. Who knows how many more might come out of the woodwork?”
“I like that—lovers in the woodwork. That has got to be a title for a teenage slasher movie.”
“Nah, the sex life of termites.”
Turner ticked off another finger. “We’ve got Egremont the disappointed lover.”
“Why didn’t Furyk say yes to him? Why reject Egremont? Furyk kept saying yes to half a dozen other people. What made Egremont so rejectable?”
“Furyk was picky?”
“Hardly.”
Turner held up his thumb. “Fifth, we’ve got the stud muffin of the moment from the party, Bitner.” He started on the other hand. “We’ve got the sexually ambiguous television star Eliot Norwyn. We have two owners of one company, Heyling and Veleshki, who were busy double-dealing. We’ve got Munsen, the owner of the rival company, angry and double-dealing, which makes six, seven, eight and nine.”
“Throw in the fashion magazine people.”
“Why?”
“For the hell of it. Bokaru is in. How about Spitzer, O’Dowd, Oldinport and Battle?”
“Same old logistics problem. They weren’t at the party. Besides, I’m out of fingers.”
“You forgot McBride.”
“Okay, she’s in without a finger.”
“I like lots of suspects,” Fenwick said. “Gives me lots to choose from. I like choices.”
“The only thing everybody agrees on is that Cullom used his looks and charm to keep many men on lots of strings.”
“Isn’t it odd that so many people had different concepts of him?” Fenwick asked.
“Maybe he never opened himself up completely to anyone. We do know he was a rich, lonely sexual predator with a big smile.”
Fenwick said, “Predator sounds more like someone out hunting for sex. His just came to him. What kind of problems can he really have had?”
“Enough that it got him killed.”
“You know,” Fenwick said, “of all these people, men and women who Furyk had sex with, not a one of them claimed Furyk said I love you. What kind of life is it to be pursued with such intensity and not reciprocate?”
“We keep trying to find out more information about him. Some depth, something beyond the surface. You might be onto something. Maybe he had a vast surface life and that’s all there was. Maybe there wasn’t any depth to him. For Furyk, getting to know the real inner you probably wasn’t a problem. There was no real inner him. What was on the surface was who he was.”
“Yeah,” Fenwick said, “the book of his life would barely make a pamphlet.” Fenwick finished his meal and wiped his hands on a paper napkin. “Why isn’t Egremont the killer?”
“I don’t know.”
“We on our way to see Munsen?”
“He’s the next logical person, but I want to stop at Egremont’s condo first.”
As they paid their bills, Fenwick said, “You handled Egremont really well out there.”
“Thanks.”
Egremont had been taken to the Near North Psychiatric Hospital for observation and testing. Before they’d taken him away, they’d asked Egremont for permission to examine Furyk’s things at his condominium.
Egremont lived in Dearborn Park just south of the Loop and a few blocks from Aunt Millie’s. The condo was airy and comfortable. It consisted of one immense room. The wall around the bathroom and closet did not extend to the ceiling. A king-sized bed was to their left. A large couch and one chair were the only furniture in the living room on their right. The kitchen had two tables and chairs of unfinished wood. They found Furyk’s suitcase where Egremont said it would be. The luggage was little more than a carry-on bag. They found a paperback Barb D’Amato novel. There were two gray T-shirts, two pairs of boxer shorts, one pair of black socks, one pair of white socks, a purple knit shirt, a pair of black jeans and a small overnight bag with a razor, a toothbrush, dental floss and deodorant.
“This is it?” Fenwick asked.
“He was staying for only a week, and he must have expected to be wearing GUINEVERE fashions.”
“I guess.”
Turner held up the sheer, short-cut black boxers. “I’d like to see Ben in a pair of these.”
“They wouldn’t hide much,” Fenwick said.
“Just enough to dangle a little promise.”
“I thought you said Ben dangled a lot.”
“When I mentioned that before, I thought it was another one of those ‘more information than I want to know’ moments of ours.”
“You brought it up that time, too.”
“Which I believe is the ultimate goal.” Turner tossed the clothes back into the bag.
In a side compartment they found a return airline ticket to France and over seven hundred dollars in cash.
Turner held out the bills. “No traveler’s checks. Heck of a lot of walking-around money.”
Fenwick said, “Despite the cash, add this to what was at Kindel’s, and this still isn’t very much stuff.”
Turner agreed.
They drove out to GUINEVERE, Incorporated’s offices. They called ahead and were told that Munsen was rehearsing the models for a new commercial. The wind blew fiercely, buffeting some of the large semis on the highway. The temperature had begun to drop. Nothing yet fell out of the uniformly gray sky.
As he parked the car, Fenwick said, “I am not in the mood for putting up with crap from these people.”
“While I agree with that apt and succinct sentiment, the problem is with the key question I asked Egremont.”
“Yeah, he didn’t see Munsen push Cullom.”
“Precisely. We’re stuck with nice until we have something definite.”
“I’ll go as far as sort of nice.”
“Deal.”
Inside the GUINEVERE complex McBride told them, “You gentlemen will have to wait until Mr. Munsen is free. We had to reshoot a scene for a major ad campaign.” Her voice could have turned oceans into icebergs instantly.
“Ms. McBride,” Fenwick began. His tone did not imply any kind of nice.
Turner interrupted. “Ms. McBride, we are sorry for the interruption, but we do need to speak with him. It is a murder investigation. I know you want to appear cooperative.”
She put her hand out as if to lift up the phone then pulled it back. She grabbed a pencil and tapped it rapidly on top of her desk. “I’ll need to call some lawyers.”
“If you feel that’s helpful, please do so. However, we are not here to arrest anyone. Where is he?”
“In the main hangar.” She pointed toward her right then stalked out a door on their left.
As they made their way to the rehearsal stage, they got lost once and had to ask directions. In the hangar, male and female models were taking orders from a host of people. Several models strolled haughtily down a runway between sets of folding chairs. Technicians scurried amid a myriad of lights, cameras, cables and equipment. Munsen and two others stood to one side of them making comments and offering criticisms and suggestions.
As they neared Munsen, they heard him say to one model, “This is high fashion, this is couture, you are no longer a streetwalker out trying to drum up business. That was last year. This year the message is elegance.”
/> Munsen noticed Turner and Fenwick.
“Get out,” he ordered. “McBride will be fired for permitting you back here.”
Turner heard Fenwick mutter, “Let’s put him in the third torture chamber on the left.”
Turner said, “We’ve had further information that we need to speak with you about. We appreciate how busy you are, but we need to talk to you. We will finish as quickly as possible.”
All the people in the room had gathered around them in a circle. Turner looked at them then back to Munsen. Turner said, “We can talk here or in your office.”
Munsen turned to a man in a black turtleneck and snapped his fingers. “Alfredo, keep these people practicing. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He stalked away. Turner and Fenwick followed.
When they arrived in his office, Munsen stood behind his desk. “Yes?” He gave the single syllable a combination hiss and snarl second to none.
“Egremont says you guys were cooking the books,” Fenwick said.
“I’m sure my legal experts will have a great deal to say about Mr. Egremont.”
Fenwick said, “I expect the stockholders are going to be pissed about this whole sordid affair.”
“I run a highly profitable and well-respected company. I have nothing to fear from the stockholders.”
“Mr. Egremont says you tried to kill him.”
“I was far too busy trying to run a fashion show last night to engage in ridiculous behavior.”
“With all the models and hangers-on rushing about backstage, who would have noticed if you stepped out?”
“And just happened to run into a convenient person who I could ask to shove someone off the pier? Get real.”
Turner knew what was coming. Fenwick felt his left arm with his right arm. “I feel real to me,” Fenwick said.
“Your moronic humor has no place here.”
“How did you find out about someone being pushed?” Fenwick asked.
“It was a secret? Half the audience knew as they were leaving. Did you think all those rotating cop-car lights wouldn’t draw at least a few curious questions?”
“Maybe you were planning to push him yourself,” Fenwick said, “and you happened to find an incompetent runaway to do it for you.”
“I’d be willing to stand in a lineup to be identified by whoever it was that tried to kill Egremont. I wished they’d killed him before he tried to defraud the company. I didn’t leave the backstage area. Interview everyone in the show, they’ll vouch for me.”
“You guys really going broke?” Fenwick asked.
“Hardly.”
“Egremont says you are, and he’s the one who does the books.”
“He’s going to jail. He’d say anything. Perhaps he murdered Furyk and is trying to lay the blame on me.”
“Your books will be examined.”
“Yes.”
“I wish you sounded more worried when I said that,” Fenwick said.
“I’m not. I am a great designer and a good businessman. The inferior and the inadequate hate that. I am not bothered in the least by their opinions. This business has had tough times and good times. We can certainly survive you.”
“Were you or were you not going to dump Furyk?” Turner asked.
“Isn’t that point moot now?”
“No. It could have been the reason for a murder.”
“What difference would it make if I did drop him? I have half a dozen professional baseball players, two television and one movie star ready to take his place.”
“You hated Heyling and Veleshki and were trying to double-cross them.”
“I don’t need to do murder to do that. I’ve got plans for this week that will stun them. Quite a surprise for tonight, in fact. They think we’ve worked out all of our problems. They will be surprised when my fashions sweep the pages of all the important magazines and theirs are ignored.”
“How is that going to happen?”
“Planning on my part, naivete on their part. I’d toyed with dumping Furyk. Obviously Sibilla told you that. She’s the only one I had confided that in. I must speak with her. I’d also toyed with keeping Furyk. In our last conversation he begged me to keep him. I told him I’d consider it.”
“Why would he want you to keep him?” Turner asked.
“Because I could give him the better deal.”
“How’s that?”
“A possible movie contract. He wanted that desperately. Known to very few people is the fact that he made a film in France many years ago. As an actor he was awful. Fortunately for him it was never released in this country, and it was a bomb elsewhere around the world. Despite that, because of my contacts, I could get him a movie contract.”
“With whom?” Turner asked.
“It wasn’t going to be Sony Pictures, but a good small, independent company.”
Turner said, “Egremont told us you were angry with Furyk the day of the murder.”
“He’d say anything at this point, wouldn’t he? I don’t hear you saying that he had a witness to this supposed conversation.”
“Seems kind of convenient to me,” Fenwick said. “Furyk dies, and the eyes of the world turn to Chicago during the one week you could use the publicity. Sales will soar.”
“That’s disgusting,” Munsen said. “You had some suspicions from an employee who was having serious troubles. I think you should take those suspicions out of here and leave.”
“Did you kill Cullom Furyk?” Fenwick asked.
“No.”
Turner looked at Fenwick. “I’m out of questions.”
The two detectives left and drove back to the city.
“We missed something there,” Fenwick said.
“Yeah, but what?”
“Dunno.”
“He makes an awfully good suspect.”
“Yep.”
“No physical evidence. Let’s go be depressed at the office.”
TWENTY-FOUR
A flood of photographers surged toward their car as they pulled onto Wells Street a block from headquarters. Fenwick gunned the engine and aimed for the heart of the crowd. Cameras flashed, and the aggregation hesitated briefly before the ones in front and then the entire herd stampeded out of the way. Ten feet from where the crowd originally stood, Fenwick turned a sharp left up the alley. The car flew unmolested past the scattered mass of reporters. The detectives strode unhindered into the building.
Inside Turner stopped at the holding cells on the second floor to see Tyler Madison. When the kid saw Turner, he hurried to the bars.
“Hey, how long am I going to be in here?”
“How are you doing?”
“Man, I’ve been mugged and I’ve been arrested. All in all I’d rather be mugged.”
“Why?”
“Being mugged didn’t take as much time, the people were friendlier and they let me keep my shoelaces.”
Turner almost smiled. “Processing takes time.”
“I haven’t seen a lawyer. You still pissed at me? Is that why it’s taking so long?”
“I’m not as pissed. I’m sorry I roughed you up.”
“You apologized. A cop apologizing. Just because you apologized doesn’t mean I’m not going to sue.”
Turner laughed. “I need you to look at some photos of people.”
“If I recognize somebody, will I get out sooner?”
“If you recognize somebody, and you aren’t making it up, and it helps our case, then maybe I’ll talk to a few people for you.” Turner showed him the photos of the people at the brunch. After several minutes’ perusal, Madison said, “None of the guys look familiar, but this nose does.” He held out the picture of Dinah McBride. “I thought whoever hired me was a guy, but I don’t know … the cheekbones and this nose. It could be this one.”
“Did this person tell you to kill Egremont?”
“No, whoever it was just said to push him into the lake. Nobody said anything about killing.”
“You’re lucky n
obody did die.”
On the third floor Turner filled in Fenwick and Molton.
“McBride ordering somebody hurt,” Fenwick mused. “Munsen would have had to have given her the order. Not as far-fetched as I once might have thought. In fact, I kind of like the sound of it. I could be convinced.”
“Doesn’t seem to have much to do with your likes and dislikes,” Molton said.
“Yeah, but I like to pretend it does,” Fenwick responded.
“Absolutely had to be Munsen and his crew hiring these people to trail us. We can find out easily enough if any of them has a rusty Chevy.”
“Why follow us?” Fenwick asked. “Was he petrified about being a murder suspect or worried about his company going broke? And how does following us around help with either of those? The hell with these questions. Let’s send somebody out to get McBride in here.”
“Madison’s description of her wasn’t very definite,” Turner said.
“I wouldn’t mind harassing her on general principles.”
While they waited they sat at their desks and slogged through paperwork.
Rodriguez slumped into the room. In a doleful voice he announced, “Carruthers is dead.”
“If that was true,” Turner said, “you’d be twirling noisemakers and dancing in the streets.”
“Even if he got slightly hurt, I’d be dancing in the streets. What’s worse is, I’ve got to ask him questions about the case we’re working on. He may have found a useful witness. It would be the first time in all these years that he’s come up with something on his own.”
Fenwick said, “I wouldn’t ask Carruthers a question until some time after eternity.”
“A day with Carruthers gives meaning to the term eternity.” Rodriguez trudged away.
An hour’s worth of paperwork later, Turner looked up. “We going to be out of here before eight tonight?”
Fenwick looked at his watch and then the mound of papers on his desk. “No.”
Turner sighed. He was tired of writing. He shuffled through the reports from the medical examiner. He found the pictures of the crime scene and of the autopsy. He took them to the cork board on the wall and tacked them up. He examined them carefully for the third time. One from the street in front of the Archange caught his eye. He peered at it closely. The photo showed Furyk’s torso in bright light.
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