Munsen gazed sternly at Fenwick. The elderly magnate said, “You must be joking.”
“Alas, this one time, I am not.”
“You can’t prove anything,” Munsen said.
“Why’d you have us followed?” Turner asked.
“I didn’t have you followed.”
“You own a gray Chevy, big rust spot?”
“Where’s my lawyer?” Munsen asked.
“Is your lawyer the same as McBride’s?” Turner asked.
“She’s here?” His confidence seemed slightly less certain.
Fenwick said, “What Egremont told us must be true, otherwise, why would you want him shoved off the pier? You order any murders prior to this?”
Munsen looked into the two-way mirror and tried to ignore the cops.
Fenwick got in his face. “I don’t like being chased around town and I hate being shoved down stairs. Sometimes my likes and dislikes get in the way of my charming personality. Your whole idiotic scheme is going to unravel. I’m surprised you didn’t kill Cullom Furyk to get publicity for your silly company.”
“Who did kill him?” Munsen asked.
They left him wondering.
As he was settling into the chair at his desk, Turner spotted Carruthers and Rodriguez stomping into the squad room. Even though Carruthers was trying to hide his head more than the most embarrassed criminal, Turner could tell his cheeks were bright red. Rodriguez looked ready to eat nails. Then Turner caught sight of their handcuffed wrists.
When they arrived at Carruthers’ desk, Rodriguez snarled, “Just find the damn keys.” The younger detective rooted frantically through the drawers. Rodriguez glared around at the other detectives. He drew a deep breath and said, “There’s good news and good news. First, my moronic twit of a partner solved a case on his own.” He held up their shackled together wrists and continued, “The other good news is he may be dead before morning.”
Fenwick had the rare grace to say nothing. Turner knew it was better to save razzing Rodriguez for a less volatile moment. He stifled a smile and reached for some paperwork and handed a sheaf of forms to Fenwick.
ER was just finishing as Paul walked in his front door. Ben had a tear in his eye. “You missed a good episode,” Ben said.
“Did you tape it?”
“Yeah.”
Paul found Jeff working on his science fair project in his room.
“You still doing it on pus?” Paul asked.
“I need to find some samples.”
“You should get ready for bed.”
“Okay. There was a news bulletin that you solved the case.”
Brian bustled into his brother’s room.
“No schemes tonight,” Paul told his older son. “I’m not chaperoning anything.”
“Just innocently looking for the dictionary.” Brian pulled it out from under Jeff’s bed. He thumbed through it for a moment while Paul read over what Jeff had written on the computer screen.
“You still need to do a spell check,” Paul told him.
Jeff hit the requisite keys.
“Uh, Dad,” Brian said.
“Uh, Son,” Paul said.
“This isn’t a scheme, just information for you. I’ve decided to shave my head, join a cult, worship Satan, and become addicted to illegal drugs.”
Without looking up from the computer screen, Paul said, “Do I still have to pay for half of your car insurance?”
Brian said, “I think they have a benefits package that includes health insurance and reduced rates for teenagers on their automobile coverage.”
Ben appeared in the doorway. “You get the news on the cult?”
“Just now.”
“I told him I’d help him pack,” Ben said.
“He is not leaving,” Jeff said.
Paul glanced at his older son. “I’m not worried. No one could afford to keep him in all the food he eats.” He patted Brian on the shoulder. “You know, I think this means we need to do more father-son things together, go more places together as a family.”
Brian said, “I was working on the concept that you’d see my need for independence and give me more freedom.”
Paul took a shrewd guess. “You want the car for a date next weekend.”
“How do you know these things?” Brian asked.
“It’s in the parent contract we sign when you’re born.”
Brian said, “I want to see this contract.”
“Impossible. That’s one of the secrets of the contract. No teenager has ever seen a copy. If any parent ever allows that to happen, they are automatically cursed with three more children. Why didn’t you just ask for the car?”
“It was kind of more fun this way, and you said you didn’t want any schemes tonight.”
Paul said, “You may borrow the car if you have money for gas.”
“Got it covered.”
“And I need to know where you’re going and with whom.”
“Just hanging out with alien invaders from the planet Zardoz.”
“Again?” Paul said. “And why do you need a car for that?”
For a few minutes they discussed the requisite logistics until Paul was satisfied. Reasonably pleased, Brian thumped back upstairs. Paul helped Jeff call it a night.
Later in their room, Ben and Paul got undressed for bed. Paul began loosening his tie and then unbuttoning his shirt.
Ben said, “I beat the computer today. I feel like I could lick the world.”
“We’ll have to celebrate.”
Ben said, “I feel so good, I think I could match wits with a herd of teenagers. You’re good at that.”
“Just lots of practice and some trial and error. I’m sorry you had to watch the boys tonight.”
“I was home with the kids, and I enjoy that.”
“You’re great with them,” Paul said. He stopped undressing. “I’d like it if you moved in permanently.”
“Do I have to share space with beings from the planet Zardoz?” Ben asked.
Paul threw his shirt in the dirty clothes pile and walked over to Ben and took him in his arms. He enjoyed the warmth of their closeness, Ben’s smell of machine shop mingled with aftershave, and the feeling of belonging right where he was. They’d talked about Ben moving in before.
“You’re here all the time now,” Paul said. “I know it’d be mostly symbolic if you got rid of your place, but I’m ready for it if you are.”
Ben’s arms pulled Paul close. They kissed, then rested their heads against each other. “This is perfect,” Ben murmured. “I love you. Let’s do it.”
By Mark Richard Zubro
The “Paul Turner” Mysteries
Sorry Now?
Political Poison
Another Dead Teenager
The Truth Can Get You Killed
Drop Dead
The “Tom and Scott” Mysteries
A Simple Suburban Murder
Why Isn’t Becky Twitchell Dead?
The Only Good Priest
The Principal Cause of Death
An Echo of Death
Rust on the Razor
Are You Nuts?
DROP DEAD. Copyright © 1999 by Mark Richard Zubro. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
eISBN 9781466805644
First eBook Edition : November 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Zubro, Mark Richard.
Drop dead / Mark Richard Zubro.—1st ed.
p. cm.
I. Title.
PS3576.U225D76 1999
813’.54—dc21
99-21852
CIP
First Edition: June 1999
p;
Drop Dead Page 22