“Come look at this,” he called to his partner.
Fenwick strolled over to the rows of pictures and stood next to Turner. He peered at the picture Turner pointed to. “It’s one of the brighter-lit pictures. So?”
“Look at his underwear.”
“I’m not into guys’ underwear. I just wear what Madge puts in the drawer. What am I looking for?”
“You don’t buy your own underwear?”
“We are not going to discuss that.”
“Shy?”
“What did you find?”
“Look closely. I think the type and pattern of his underwear in this picture doesn’t match what we found in his luggage at Egremont’s or Kindel’s.”
“So, he had different kinds of underwear.”
“Maybe. I just want to be sure.”
“You’re not being kinky?”
“You don’t discuss buying underwear, I don’t discuss my fetishes.”
Turner and Fenwick pored over all the pictures of the crime scene. Turner found another one that showed a bit more of the underwear. He held it up and inspected it minutely. “We found ordinary, slightly used white briefs at Kindel’s. The underwear we found at Egremont’s were boxers, one hundred percent cotton, with solid black trim around the top.”
“You remember that?”
“Ben’s birthday is in a couple weeks. I thought he might look good in them.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Now look carefully at the picture in the street. These are bikini-sized briefs. They’re kind of tattered, probably from the fall, but I’m certain of the style, and I’m sure those are thin gray stripes around the top. We saw those same kind of briefs on the tour at Heyling and Veleshki. Remember that model in the photo shoot we saw out there?”
“Not really.”
“I’m sure of it. That model wore this same kind. They were very tight, and very sheer, and very revealing. Veleshki told us they were going to be unveiling a whole new line of men’s underwear this week. Ad campaigns and everything. He said they aren’t for sale yet.”
“So how did Furyk get a pair?”
“They don’t exist anywhere else. He has them because he was already modeling for Heyling and Veleshki.”
Quick calls to half a dozen major department stores confirmed that they did not have any of the underwear in stock. Two of the stores expected their first shipments in about a week. One specialty store in Oak Brook was holding the underwear in reserve for the big announcement. They had been forbidden by the company to place it on the shelves until the day the ad campaign began.
“If he was already modeling for Heyling and Veleshki,” Turner said, “then Furyk was double-crossing Munsen. So were Heyling and Veleshki. Or maybe he got it as a present from one of them.”
“That sounds less suspicious,” Fenwick said, “but either way they lied to us. I hate being lied to.”
Fenwick and Turner grabbed their overcoats. They called the offices of Heyling and Veleshki and got an answering machine. They tried Oldinport, but he was not in.
“All the fashion people and the gossip people must be at an event like last night’s, but where the hell is it?”
Jason O’Leary walked in leading Dinah McBride. She marched up to their desks. She stood with her hands on her hips, her legs spread wide and her fur coat open and thrust off her shoulders. “What?” she snarled.
They took her to an interrogation room.
Before either detective could ask a question she said, “My lawyer is on his way.”
“Great, a party,” Fenwick said.
“We understand you’re Munsen’s enforcer.”
She smiled.
“You hire people to hurt people.”
The smile became a grin.
“You hired Tyler Madison to push Daniel Egremont into the lake.”
Now she laughed. “I don’t see my lawyer.”
Turner took a shot in the dark. “Why did you hire someone to mug Sean Kindel?”
McBride lost her smile for a second. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Tyler Madison picked out your photo.” Turner didn’t say he only recognized her cheekbones and nose.
“Quite impossible.”
“What is the point of hiring thugs?” Fenwick asked.
“Where’s my lawyer?”
Turner and Fenwick gave it up. They needed to find Heyling and Veleshki. They stopped at their desks, but several more calls proved useless.
“We could ask the enforcer,” Fenwick said. They trooped back upstairs and asked McBride if she knew where they were.
McBride hesitated before she gave an answer, then snapped, “In McCormick Place South.”
They hurried over. On the way, three drops of rain fell on their windshield.
“That’s the big storm?” Fenwick asked.
“I’m sure the weather is doing its best to come up to your expectations,” Turner replied.
They took Roosevelt Road to its new connection to Columbus Drive and then swooped onto Lake Shore Drive. Fenwick roared onto the ramp leading to the massive edifices on the lake that make up McCormick Place.
Traffic was light, but the foyer of the south building was jammed. The show had not started yet. Their police identification got them backstage. Models were in various stages of undress. Some were having finishing touches put on their hair or makeup.
They ran into Sean Kindel.
“Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?” Turner asked.
“It’s the new health care. Patch them up and get them out. I have to be at these fashion shows. There’s news to be reported.”
The detectives took him into a nearby seminar room on the ground floor. “We don’t think your mugging was a random act,” Turner said. “Why would anybody hire someone to hurt you?”
Kindel rubbed the abrasion on his forehead. His hand trembled as he did so. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“We have the person who was hired to harm Daniel Egremont,” Turner said. “In less than twenty-four hours, two people connected with a murder get attacked. We’re going on the assumption that the two incidents are connected.”
“I can’t imagine why Munsen would have it in for me.”
“I didn’t mention Munsen,” Turner said.
“Who else would you be talking about?”
Fenwick snorted. “Give it a rest. You know exactly why you were attacked. Somebody went to a lot of trouble and risk to shut you up. What is it you needed to be shut up about?”
“I don’t—”
“You were mugged once,” Turner said. “What makes you think whoever did this is going to stop at that? Or may have stopped only because a witness suddenly appeared in the alley?”
Kindel sat in a gray metal chair. He rubbed his hands against his black sport coat.
“What do you know?” Fenwick asked.
Kindel said, “Cullom told me everything about the threats from Munsen and the meetings with Heyling and Veleshki. I talked to Munsen at the brunch. I pretended I knew more than I did. I wanted to get a big scoop for the paper. I was tired of the Gay Tribune and me being ignored. If I got an exclusive, I could really make a name for myself.”
“You got yourself mugged. It could have been worse.”
“I was bluffing with Munsen. He misunderstood. I’m not sure precisely what I was on to. I suspect it had to do with his company’s finances. I struck out blindly and hit the mark, I think. He got very angry. I was supposed to meet him today to talk it over. Then I was mugged.” He hung his head. “I thought I could talk to him again. I thought I might be able to figure out who committed the murder. I knew I was in danger—the muggers told me to back off. But I wanted to put the paper on the map and I wanted to be a star, a real reporter. I wanted to find out who killed the kindest and gentlest person on earth and I definitely wanted it to be Munsen. Who else would warn me to back off?”
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Fenwick said. He called the station and
asked them to send someone to pick up Munsen for questioning.
They found Veleshki on a small stage. He was talking on a cell phone. Heyling was a few feet away speaking with Jolanda Bokaru.
Turner and Fenwick hurried up to them. Veleshki bellowed into the phone, “Where the hell are those clothes? Where are the damn guards we hired? Didn’t anybody check these outfits in? That was supposed to have been done this morning. Where is Louis O’Bannion? He’s in charge of all this.”
Veleshki flipped his phone shut and caught sight of the detectives. “I have no time for you,” Veleshki snapped. “I’ve got a disaster on my hands.”
“I told you we should have checked the outfits over ourselves,” Heyling said.
“I-told-you-so is not going to help the situation,” Veleshki said. “Only a third of the correct ones are here. I always suspected O’Bannion was a spy for Munsen. You’re the one who wanted to hire him and trust him.”
“Now who’s trying to lay blame?” Heyling asked.
Veleshki ignored his comment. “If we must, we’ll do the show with just what we have.”
Bokaru got closer. “What’s wrong?”
Turner wasn’t sure whether she was asking the police or the owners.
Turner said, “We need to talk to both of you now.”
“Impossible!”
Bokaru signaled to a photographer. Veleshki saw the movement.
“We truly do not have time for this,” Heyling said.
“You need to take the time,” Turner said. “We can do this in public or more privately, but we’re going to do it now.”
The four of them could see Bokaru on one side of them and a group of photographers closing in from the other direction.
They shut the door of a nearby bathroom in the faces of Jolanda Bokaru and her phalanx of reporters. After the only patron finished and left, Fenwick propped his bulk up against the door.
“What!” Veleshki barked.
“I don’t think your clothes are going to arrive,” Turner said.
“Why not? What have you done?”
“Unless there is a miracle, I believe the majority of your clothes have been hijacked by Franklin Munsen. He told us earlier that he had surprises in store for you and that you were naive for believing he was making peace.”
“We’ll sue his ass,” Veleshki said. “He can’t get away with this. He’s gone too far.”
“Would he dare to be so bold?” Heyling asked.
“Why wouldn’t he?” Fenwick asked.
“I guess … I suppose … well, why would anyone do such a … we’re business rivals … oh.”
“You were always so naive,” Veleshki said to his lover. He turned to the detectives. “If this is true, I’ve got to get back on the phone. They’ve got to be somewhere. We can start with what we’ve got. We can delay for a while. We’ve got other outfits in the offices. We’ll get more clothes in here if I have to run back out to the North Side and drag them here myself.” He took two steps toward the door. “You can’t keep us prisoners in here.”
“Why was Cullom Furyk wearing your signature underwear?” Turner asked.
“Uh?” Heyling said.
“He was what?” Veleshki asked.
“When he died,” Turner said, “he was wearing underwear from your new line, underwear that was unavailable anywhere else. Our understanding is some of the time he got to keep the clothes he modeled. My guess is, either he got them from a secret photo shoot or maybe a private session with one of you two. He could not have purchased them or come by them accidentally. They would be perfect for the photo shoot he had that morning because he had to wear clinging athletic shorts cut high on the leg, which would have looked odd with his boxers hanging out. How did he get them?”
“I guess we did have a photo shoot,” Veleshki said.
“You told us he was going to model for you in the future,” Turner said. “You didn’t tell us he’d already been modeling for you.”
“I forgot.”
“You son of a bitch,” Heyling said. “You gave him a pair after you screwed him.”
Veleshki spat, “Shut the fuck up, you stupid fool.”
“When was this?” Turner asked.
“You son of a bitch,” Heyling bellowed. “I know when it was. Monday, when you had another one of your emergency meetings that never happened. I know. I called the contractor you were supposedly meeting with. You were already cheating with the little shit. I knew it. I knew you were. I should have pushed you off the balcony.”
TWENTY-FIVE
This announcement was followed by a general round of silence.
Heyling clutched both hands on either side of a washbasin. His breath came in short rasps.
Turner read him his Miranda rights.
Heyling gave no indication he heard him. He spoke to Veleshki’s reflection. “You don’t know how much I love you, Gerald. I couldn’t hurt you, but I was so angry. I went out on the balcony to plead with Furyk to leave you alone. To not bother our company and leave us alone. He just kind of laughed and was goofy. He said he didn’t care. I asked him if he didn’t care, then why did he want to ruin our relationship? He just teetered along the wall and kind of smiled. I was sick of it and I’m sick of you. I’m a fool for being in love with you. I didn’t mean to push him off. It was an accident. He struggled and lost his grip. I didn’t mean it.” He let go of the washbasin, turned to them and folded his arms across his chest. “I wish I’d never won that lottery money. All this would never have happened. We should have stayed poor nobodies in southern Illinois.”
“Do you understand your rights?” Turner asked.
“I heard you the first time,” Heyling said.
“How’d you plan to get away with it?” Turner asked.
“I didn’t plan it. What you don’t know is the two of us were out on the balcony talking to Furyk earlier. He told us he was coming to our company. He wanted to sign contracts right after lunch. I went back later to appeal to him to leave my lover alone.
“So many people were in so many places, no one could possibly remember where everyone was. I guess I did kind of look around to see if anybody was watching. I was just so angry, I’m not sure how much I cared if I was caught. I needed to hit out at somebody. It just happened.”
“I was not on the balcony,” Veleshki said. “Don’t try and draw me into this. I wasn’t there at any time.”
Heyling’s jaw dropped. “Yes, you were,” he whispered. “How can you lie?”
“It’s your word against mine. In fact, I know you were out there alone with him. You were right about that, but I saw you rush toward him and push him. There was no struggle. You deliberately killed him.”
“Traitor!” Heyling screamed. “Liar! You cheating whore!” Hands outstretched, Heyling rushed at his lover. The impact caused Veleshki’s body to ram into the wall. His head bonked hard against the tile. They began grappling with each other until the insertion of Fenwick’s bulk between them brought the fracas to a complete halt.
Finally, a couple of uniforms took Heyling away. They would get his statement in full at the station. The pop of the flash cameras greeted the opening of the door.
After Heyling was gone, and while they were still in the washroom, Veleshki said, “I didn’t do anything. I’m innocent. I’m free to go. I’ve got to find the rest of my clothing line.”
“I’m always happy to catch a murderer,” Turner said, “and I find arresting Heyling based on his confession reasonable. I found your testimony repugnant. You’re a shit. You had a loving man who cared for you very much yet you cheated and lied to him. Why?”
“Who are you to judge?”
“The man committed murder,” Turner said. “It was misguided love, but love all the same. Someone willing to commit murder, for me, is a sick concept, but at least he cared. I can’t imagine why. You aren’t worth it.”
“I should care what you think?”
“If you really saw him push Furyk and didn’
t report it, perhaps we could charge you as an accessory after the fact, maybe even a coconspirator.”
“If we were allowed to marry as husband and husband, they wouldn’t be able to make me testify against him.”
“Gay politics or a gay agenda aren’t going to save you,” Turner said. “Besides, you’re hardly a poster boy for any kind of marriage commitment, gay or straight. You’re no sweet, innocent thing.”
“I’m curious,” Fenwick said, “how did Furyk get the underwear?”
“We made love the night he came to town. I ripped the pair he was wearing. I gave him a pair of the new ones. I wanted him to remember the night as special. I’m not going to apologize for my behavior. I didn’t kill anyone. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s late, but I may be able to salvage something.”
Fenwick blocked the door.
“Let me pass,” Veleshki ordered.
Turner laughed. He walked to the door and motioned Fenwick to follow. The camera flashes lit the washroom doorway. Reporters fired questions. Turner said, “Mr. Veleshki has an important statement to make about the Cullom Furyk murders.” He and Fenwick stood aside and slipped through the crowd.
Veleshki found himself trapped by the herd of yammering reporters. Turner hoped the sensation and the reporters’ lust for news would prevent Veleshki from solving his problem any time soon. The detectives walked away.
“Very clever,” Fenwick said.
“Thank you. Let’s get to the station, get this guy booked, fill in Molton, do some paperwork and go home.”
“I like how you do a list like that in one breath.”
“I’m thinking of giving lessons.”
At the station Munsen was in a gray detention room. Fenwick walked up to the designer and business owner and clapped him on the back. “I enjoy bringing rotten news to people I truly don’t like. Kindel has told all. Egremont has told enough. In just a little bit you and your business are going to be inundated by cops and lawyers and prosecutors—oh, my.”
Drop Dead Page 21