Sex and Murder.com

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  “How’d you wind up in bed with him?”

  “Is nothing private anymore?” The younger child gazed placidly at the adults. The three-year-old ignored them.

  “They were murdered,” Fenwick said. “We need to know all the connections in their lives if we’re going to piece together what happened to them.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “Look,” Fenwick said. “We know they paid you and your wife to have sex with them. We don’t want to arrest you unless you killed them, but we need information. Let’s skip to the details that are going to help us catch the murderer and forget this macho posturing crap.”

  Zengre sighed. “This is crazy.” The cops waited. The kids were quiet. Finally, Zengre began, “I was dating my wife at the time. I needed some money. It’s not like I’d never …”

  While Zengre was lifting the three-year-old out of the tub, the child began to splash and stomp. The man reached for a towel with one hand, and steadied the kid with the other. The one-year-old put out his hands toward the action, and the basin he sat in began to tip. Turner squatted down and held the child upright while the father finished with his brother.

  “If we’re going to get into this, I need to finish with the kids first.” He proceeded to change, dress, and set the little ones on the floor back in the living room.

  With the children playing quietly on the floor, Zengre sat on a hassock and explained, “Here’s what happened. I was working for a furniture delivery company. We were at this big mansion. At one point, my buddies left to get more furniture. I stayed to begin setting up the frame for a specially designed bed, a heart-shaped thing. Werberg watched for a few seconds then said, “I’m gay. I think you’re hot. I’ll pay you a lot of money to spend the night with me.”

  “He was that bold?” Fenwick asked.

  “Yeah. I said no way, I said I had a girlfriend, and we were getting married. He said I could bring her along, then the guys came back with more furniture. We had to put more things together, which took a while. The guy was rich, and it seemed like he was refurnishing half his house. The next time I was alone in a room, he reappeared. He asked if I wanted to know how much he was willing to pay. Okay, I hadn’t lived a sheltered life. I fooled around once or twice with guys. I let one blow me once when I was sixteen and horny. He wasn’t very good. Werberg offered me a thousand dollars if I would agree to spend the night, ten thousand if it included my girlfriend.

  “We were young, planning to get married in a couple of weeks. We each had minimum wage jobs, and we had wedding bills, a house to buy or rent. We had no furniture. Nothing. He said, you don’t have to do anything, just lay there, although the more you do, the more you’ll make. I told him I’d ask my girlfriend. I only said that to shut him up. He said it didn’t have to be a package deal. I never mentioned it to Conchetta. Nothing happened for a couple of days, then one night I get home from work and Werberg is sitting in my living room.”

  “How’d he find you?” Turner asked.

  “I’m not sure. I guess it wouldn’t be hard for him to find out who was on the delivery crew. When he first propositioned me, I asked the head of the crew who he was. The name didn’t mean anything to me. As far as I knew, he was another rich guy who wanted to get his rocks off. That night he seemed to know an awful lot of stuff about us: credit card numbers, the name of our caterer for the wedding, how much money we made, how much was in our bank accounts—which wasn’t much.”

  “Was it blackmail?” Turner asked.

  “He’d already convinced my girlfriend. She wasn’t upset or anything. With my fiancée in his corner, I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.”

  “Why not?”

  “Conchetta was no virgin when we met. She was a party girl.”

  “She a prostitute?” Fenwick asked.

  “Hey, don’t get personal,” Zengre said. “She wanted nice things. She wanted money. For one night she said she didn’t care. She’d got him up to twenty thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money for two people with minimum wage jobs. Conchetta said yes, so I didn’t give a big shit. I was kind of dazed that night. It wasn’t like a big moral dilemma. Werberg insisted it had to happen that night. He had a limousine outside, and we picked up this Lenzati guy. The four of us had dinner at some fancy restaurant. Then Conchetta went to Lenzati’s, and I went to Werberg’s.

  “At his house he had some clothes for me to wear. He gave me a pair of size twenty-eight pre-faded jeans and white jockey shorts a size too small. He had several sizes of clean white T-shirts and clean white socks. The only thing I wore of my own was my running shoes. At his place he had me shower and change. The whole night was strange.”

  “How so?” Fenwick asked.

  “We watched television for a couple of hours, like we were just a couple spending the night at home. Once in a while he would ask me if I wanted a little snack or a soft drink. During that time he only wanted to snuggle together but not continuously, just once in a while. Finally, he had me lay on the couch with my clothes on. He spent over an hour touching me and caressing me all over with only his fingertips. He barely got near me after that.”

  “Over an hour?” Fenwick asked.

  “Closer to two hours,” Zengre averred. “The craziest thing came when we were getting ready for bed.”

  “You spent the night?”

  “It was part of the deal. The craziest thing was when he wanted to watch me take a piss. I had to be fully dressed with my dick hanging out of my fly. Before I left, he paid me to piss on everything I’d worn. When we got to bed, he had me take all my clothes off except my shorts, then had me turn around a few times before I got into bed. I think he stayed awake all night. I slept off and on. Whenever I woke up, there was a little night light on. He was either reading or watching me.”

  The door opened and a startlingly beautiful woman walked in. Turner and Fenwick rose. Zengre introduced them.

  “We’re here,” Turner began, “to talk about your involvement with Craig Lenzati and Brooks Werberg.”

  Conchetta Zengre glared at her husband. “We don’t know any such people.”

  “I told them—” Zengre began.

  “You did what?” The three words rose in volume, ending in a shriek. The one-year-old began to cry. Zengre looked stunned and helpless. Conchetta thrust her purse onto a chair and picked up the wailing child. When the baby was finally cooing quietly, she whispered savagely, “How could you be so stupid?”

  Turner intervened. “We already knew. How else would we have known to be here?”

  “How did you find out?”

  “They kept track of their conquests.” Turner briefly explained the computer printout, and breaking the code.

  “We did nothing illegal,” she insisted. The whisper was still harsh.

  “Actually, you did,” Fenwick said. “A bunch of stuff. With your husband’s admission and with the computer files, we’ve got plenty of broken laws.”

  “But we’re not interested in arresting you for prostitution,” Turner said. She visibly relaxed. “We just need information about Mr. Lenzati. You know he died?”

  “I saw it on television.”

  Turner asked, “Where were you Thursday night and early Friday morning?”

  “Here. Asleep next to my husband.”

  “You have any other witnesses?” Fenwick asked.

  “No.”

  “And yesterday afternoon?”

  “I was working. Al was looking for work.”

  Turner asked, “Did you ever try to contact Werberg and Lenzati after that evening?”

  “What for?” Zengre asked.

  “Blackmail,” Fenwick said.

  “Is that what this is about?” Conchetta asked. “You think we tried to threaten them and get money from them?”

  “Did you?” Fenwick asked.

  “No.”

  “What did Mr. Lenzati want you to do that night?” Fenwick asked.

  “He wanted to fuck me and
party. He had two other women there that night.”

  “Did you know their names?”

  “I think one was Bambi, the other might have been Jennifer or Candi. I don’t remember.”

  “Were they prostitutes?”

  “Weren’t we all?”

  “You’ve got some nice things here,” Fenwick said. “Twenty thousand can buy a lot, but everything looks about five years old.”

  “So we got some good stuff,” she said. “Then we saved a little.”

  “Having sex with strangers didn’t put a strain on your relationship?” Fenwick asked.

  “Some,” Alberto Zengre admitted. “The more I thought about it afterward, the more I didn’t like it.”

  Conchetta said, “We haven’t gone into couples prostitution, if that’s what you mean. We don’t hire out at sicko parties. We did this one thing this one time for a lot of money. What’s the big deal?”

  “Lenzati didn’t try to get you to do anything kinky or illegal?” Fenwick asked. “Maybe passing out a few drugs to lubricate the evening?”

  “The only lubrication was KY jelly. He mostly wanted ordinary guy on top, woman on the bottom sex. It was five or six hours that were mostly boring, standing or laying around watching him with them, or putting up with him being with me.”

  After going through everything again, they got no further insights into the murder from the Zengres.

  In the car Fenwick asked, “No blackmail? It’s a perfect setup for it.”

  “How would they prove it?” Turner asked. “Who would believe them?”

  “Every sleazy reporter on the planet. Somebody had to have been blackmailing these guys.”

  Turner said, “Even if I agreed with that, the wrong people are dead. It’s more traditional to kill the one who is blackmailing, rather than the other way around.”

  “I hate it when you’re logical. I still think blackmail has got to be part of this, but I’m still back on our earlier question.”

  “What’s that?” Turner asked.

  “Why did these guys pay for sex? They weren’t bad looking. Why not expend the little extra effort and save themselves some cash? There’s got to be plenty of women and men who would be willing to be their friends, simply because they’re rich.”

  “I’m not sure it’s ever going to make sense,” Turner responded. “Maybe it was just easier, or they were lazy. I’m okay with the concept that they did it for the thrill. Before they die, we’ll have to ask.”

  “Like we do all our victims. Who’s next?”

  “We’ve got some guy in Rogers Park.”

  Their next person was Shawn Groshmeister. He lived on Albion, east of Sheridan Road in the last apartment house before the beach. They had to wait quite a while for their buzz at the downstairs door to be answered.

  When Groshmeister opened his apartment door, he was wearing only a pair of navy blue boxer shorts. He held a towel in his left hand and his hair was damp. He smiled at them. Groshmeister had a flat stomach, broad shoulders, and well-defined muscles. The brush-cut hair on top of his head was dyed blond, and the sandy brown sides were cut short. His ears were pierced with earrings the size of nickels. Looking at the outsized jewelry, Turner thanked himself that his oldest son had yet to propose ear-piercing to this extent.

  “You guys really cops?” he asked. He toweled his hair as they talked.

  They showed their IDs.

  “Gosh, real cops. What’s up? I don’t play the stereo loud since Mrs. Reilly complained. She’s really kind of nice, and I hate to bug her. I didn’t think she’d call the cops on me.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Oh.”

  He tossed the towel on the top of a dark blue horsehair sofa. “You guys want to sit down? You want something to drink?”

  They declined. It was a studio apartment, and besides the couch and a recliner there were only two plastic chairs and a tiny kitchen table. There were no dirty dishes in the sink, and the floors looked like they were vacuumed regularly. Paul figured the bed was a hide-a-way. On the walls were posters from two rock groups Paul had heard of only in passing from his son Brian.

  “What can I do for you guys?” Groshmeister asked. He pulled on a pair of faded jeans.

  “We’re wondering if you knew Craig Lenzati or Brooks Werberg,” Turner said.

  “Who?”

  Turner held out the pictures.

  Groshmeister gazed at them for a second. “Oh, yeah. I knew him.” He pointed to Werberg.

  “How did you know him?” Turner asked.

  “We had a one-night stand about six months ago.”

  “Did he pay you?”

  “Well—”

  “You’re on a printout,” Turner said. “He kept records of who he messed around with.”

  “That’s kind of creepy.”

  Turner said, “The records says he paid you a hundred bucks.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t give a shit. I’d have done it for free, but he mentioned money. I didn’t care. What difference did it make? I spent time with the guy, and it made him happy. He wasn’t real ugly or nothin’, so I figured what the hell?”

  “Did you know who Werberg was?”

  “Some guy with money?”

  “He was a billionaire. You could have made lots of money.”

  “Yeah?”

  “How’d you happen to spend the night with him?”

  “I was in a bar last summer, the Pleasure Palace, over on Sheridan Road just north of the Loyola El station. He came in and stared at me. I figured he was gay. Lots of gay guys stare at me.” He grinned. “I’m used to being hit on by guys and girls. It doesn’t bother me. I go with whoever I want. He propositioned me while I was away from my friends. I had nothing else to do that night, so I figured, why not?”

  “Maybe he had some dreadful social disease,” Fenwick said.

  “Yeah, ya gotta be careful, but he didn’t want to do much, really. He was kinda boring, although he did ask me if he could take a few pictures. I didn’t care. He wanted to know if I had a girlfriend, and if he could watch the two of us have sex, but I don’t know any girls who are into that.”

  “But he took the pictures?”

  “Sure.”

  “You weren’t worried about blackmail?”

  “Why should I be? I’m not some politician. I’m never going to be. I’m not too bright, but I’m kind of good looking. I wouldn’t mind posing nude for some magazine, but I’ve never connected with anybody. I guess I haven’t tried real hard either.”

  “Where did you go with him?”

  “I’m not sure. We got driven in a limo. I never saw the driver. We drove into a garage with a couple other cars in it. Then we went straight to a room that didn’t have any windows.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was into this cuddly thing. He turned the lights down low and turned the television on. I figured he was playing out some domestic bliss scene. That was okay with me. I didn’t have to do anything much. He didn’t even want me to take my clothes off. Pretty soon, he began to touch me all over and that was kind of it. He spent a lot of time on my ears. I guess my earrings fascinated him.

  “The oddest thing was that he wanted to watch me piss. When I kind of hesitated, he offered me more money. I guess I could have held out for a lot more.” He shrugged. “I didn’t. Later he asked me if I’d piss in my pants and let him keep them. I told him I didn’t have an extra pair. He told me he’d give me some he kept on hand. He showed me this dresser. He had more clothes than a department store, in all kinds of sizes. He even had underwear, briefs and boxers, in sizes from twenty-six to thirty-two. Different colors, styles. He offered to let me have my pick if I pissed in mine.” He shrugged. “So I did.”

  “And he never took his clothes off?”

  “Nope.”

  “Never mentioned Craig Lenzati?”

  “Nope.”

  The cops left.

  In the car Fenwick said, “That has got to be the most amiable
man on the planet.”

  “He’s just a friendly goof without a lot of cares.”

  “I guess.”

  21

  I like to fantasize that all those slasher movies are documentaries. That all the irresponsible, thoughtless, and promiscuous good-looking people are punished for their behavior. They shouldn’t be allowed to break the rules.

  “Let’s go visit Vinnie Girote,” Turner said.

  They called Molton and got him to find Girote’s home address.

  “Why didn’t reporters pick up on this sexual harassment?” Fenwick asked.

  “Hard to tell. It all does sound a little far-fetched. We want to believe it, and we’ve got the hard copy of their sexual history to prove it. Now, if we released that to reporters, think how popular we would be—popular and fired.”

  Fenwick said, “I don’t care enough about any of these people to lose my job over them, but I do care enough to use their sexual history to find the murderer. Lenzati must have clout beyond imagining to make life such a hell for the Korleskis.”

  “This is Chicago. Hard to tell what wouldn’t be possible.”

  Fenwick asked, “You think the mayor was behind it?”

  “Let’s start with Girote. I’m not ready to take on the mayor yet.”

  Vinnie Girote lived in Lake Point Towers which stood at the entrance to the renovated Navy Pier. They parked in the garage and entered. Girote’s apartment had a view south and west toward the distant Adler Planetarium and the Loop. His wife answered the door; Girote wasn’t home. She informed them that he was at a political dinner at the British Consulate.

  Turner and Fenwick looked out of place on the periphery of the party. Everyone who passed them in the entryway was in elegant evening dress. The white-gloved gentleman at the door asked if they wouldn’t mind waiting in a room off the lobby while he brought Mr. Girote to them.

  Fenwick said, “Yes, I mind. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation. We need to talk to this guy. We don’t want him walking out a back door while we’re waiting out front.”

  “We have diplomatic immunity,” the gentleman said.