Couldn't Cheat Death

by A. P. Eisen

  “Hmm, yeah. You’re right. And that was pretty brutal.” Rob pulled up a file on his computer screen. “Okay, here’s Jerry’s calendar from his phone. Like Jade Kennedy said, he worked every Wednesday through Sunday night. During the week, he had regular training appointments at the gym that took up most of his day.”

  Jerry had no life insurance policy, no will, no money that would go to anyone upon his death. So there went that theory. Jade lost her lover, Amy Parsons lost her son’s helper, and Troy lost his boyfriend.

  Cui bono?

  Paul had no fucking clue.

  “Our Jerry was a busy, busy man,” Paul said. “I don’t know when he found time to work.”

  “I’m guessing he mixed business with pleasure.”

  “Until it turned deadly.” Paul booted up his computer. “Speaking of business and pleasure, from the notes Jerry made about his pickups, he seemed to have a standard hookup with one guy, Dean Ulrich. A personal training client at Flex. Do we have an appointment to speak with him yet?”

  “I was waiting for you to come in before scheduling. I didn’t know if you were showing up here today or going back to the hotel.”

  There wasn’t any real urgency to return to the hotel, except Paul wanted to talk to Jade Kennedy and Dana Dickerson again. He found people tended to talk more freely when they were in their natural environment than when they were being questioned at the police station. And he wasn’t about to kid himself. He did want to see Cliff again.

  “I’ll probably go over later, around lunchtime or so.”

  “So let’s call Mr. Ulrich and see if he’ll talk to us this morning.”

  Rob placed the call, and Paul listened in on the shared line.

  “Is this Dean Ulrich?”

  “Yes, who’s this?” asked a deep, well-modulated voice.

  “This is Detective Rob Gormley with the Thornwood Park Police Department. We’re investigating the murder of Jerry Gregoria and would like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Am I a suspect?” More curious than fearful, Paul noted. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “We’re in the preliminary stages, and your name came up in Mr. Gregoria’s calendar as someone he frequently trains with and also might have a personal relationship with.”

  “I see.” A few seconds ticked by before Ulrich responded in the same calm and unhurried voice. “I think I can make some time today. What time would you like me to come down?”

  “It’s nine thirty now. When is good for you?”

  “I could be there by ten thirty.”

  “We appreciate it, Mr. Ulrich.”

  “See you then.” He clicked off.

  “What do you think?” Paul entered their conversation in a witness form, as did Rob, and he finished his coffee.

  “Sounded pretty confident.”

  “Let’s see how he feels after we talk to him.”

  The hour passed quickly as he and Rob consolidated their notes. The messenger from the lab came by to pick up the evidence bag containing the sand, and Paul stressed the need for speed in getting the result.

  “Yeah, yeah. We know. You guys say the same thing every time.” The man filled out the receipt and handed it to Paul, who stowed it away in the file.

  “Then you know.”

  A tall, well-built man escorted by a patrol officer entered the bullpen. “Detectives Monroe, Gormley? This man says he has an appointment.”

  “Mr. Ulrich?” They stood, and the man approached them. He was in his early fifties, with a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair, dark-brown eyes, and a deep tan. Paul held out his hand.

  “I’m Detective Paul Monroe, and this is Detective Robert Gormley.”

  “Dr. Dean Ulrich.”

  “Please follow us.” Paul led the way with Ulrich between him and Rob, to the back where the interrogation rooms were located. They took a seat behind the desk and faced Ulrich, who sat with a slight smile on his lips.

  “I must say when I woke up this morning I had no idea I’d be involved in an episode of Law and Order.”

  “You’ll find that this is nothing like television, Dr. Ulrich,” Paul said, sighing inwardly. That show was the bane of his and many cops’ and lawyers’ existences. If only things were wrapped up as quickly in real life.

  Ulrich had dressed to impress in a three-piece suit, crisp white shirt, and heavy silk repp tie in crimson and navy stripes. His nails were manicured, he sported a gold wedding band, and the gleam of a gold watch peeked through his cuff.

  Rob started the questioning. “What sort of doctor are you, Dr. Ulrich?”

  “I’m an orthopedic surgeon.”

  “I see. Are you married, have any children?”

  “I’m married and have one child, a son. Chase is nineteen and attends Thornwood Prep.”

  Wanting to rattle Ulrich’s cool demeanor, Paul decided to jump right in. “Mr. Ulrich, the reason we called you here is that Jerry Gregoria was found murdered in the garage of the Starrywood Hotel. As Detective Gormley stated on the phone, your name appeared in his address book as someone he had a personal relationship with.” He paused to register the effect of his words. Ulrich shifted slightly in his chair, but his facial expression remained unchanged, almost stoic.

  “We’re speaking with everyone, and your name was the first we chose.”

  “Lucky me,” Ulrich said lightly, drumming his fingers on the table. “I’d heard about it on the news. Let me enlighten you, detectives. I was a client of Jerry’s at Flex. We trained for about three years. He helped me regain strength and muscle after I tore my rotator cuff playing tennis. After about a year or so, we made our professional relationship personal.”

  “I see,” Paul said. “And where would you go to meet?”

  “The Starrywood Hotel. I’d rent a room for the night but rarely stayed, unless my wife decided to join us.”

  That declaration stopped both him and Rob. “Your wife was aware of your relationship?”

  He arched a well-groomed silver brow. “Of course. We both agreed that after twenty years of marriage we needed a little something to spice up our intimate life. After I’d been seeing Jerry for a year, I decided to broach the idea with Catherine, and she agreed.”

  “Did she know that you and Jerry had been seeing each other before you brought her into the picture?” Rob stared at Ulrich hard. “I can’t imagine she knew you’d been with another man for more than a year and was fine with it.”

  At that, Ulrich flushed a deep red, and his forehead glistened with a sheen of sweat. “N-no. I didn’t want to hurt her. But I thought this was the perfect solution, and it was. Our marriage had ground to a halt, and having these…interludes brought it back to life.”

  Even though Paul believed he knew the answer, he had to ask. “Dr. Ulrich, did you also continue to see Jerry on your own, without your wife?” At his quick nod, Paul continued. “And did your wife know this?”

  “No,” he whispered. “I didn’t kill Jerry. I-I cared for him. I love my wife, but what Jerry and I had was different. I’d never felt like that before.” He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his forehead. Paul noted his trembling fingers.

  “How often did you rent a room at Starrywood?”

  “I had one every week.”

  Paul nodded. That coincided with what they saw on the calendar.

  “Thank you for being so candid with us, Dr. Ulrich. We will have to speak with your wife as well. You understand.”

  Ulrich sagged in the chair, his face slack and grayish under his deep tan. “Why? It’ll destroy her.”

  “Dr. Ulrich,” Paul said gently, “Jerry was brutally murdered. He was stabbed and then left to die with a knife in his neck. I’m sure you want his murderer caught. We have to investigate every angle. You must understand that your personal relationship is very important to the investigation.”

  Horror had filled Ulrich’s eyes as Paul vividly described Jerry’s murder, and watching his facial reactions, Paul believed he wasn
’t personally involved, but his wife? Catherine Ulrich might know more than her husband thought.

  “I…I know. Am I free to go now? I have appointments at the hospital.”

  “Yes. If we need you, we’ll call again.”

  Without answering, Ulrich scrambled out of his chair and wrenched open the door, almost tripping in his haste to leave. When the door slammed back on its hinges and closed, Rob tossed his pen on the table and turned to him with laughter in his eyes.

  “All I have to say is, holy fuck. Who knew our little town was a hotbed of sex?”

  Paul snorted. “Less now, with Jerry dead. He was a one-man sex machine.”

  “Truth. Shall we set up an appointment to talk to Mrs. Ulrich?”

  “Might as well. I’ll look up the Ulriches’ home number.” It took less than a minute to find the unlisted number through their computer, and Paul placed the call.

  “Good morning. Ulrich residence.”

  “Good morning. This is Detective Paul Monroe with the Thornwood Park Police Department. May I speak to Mrs. Ulrich?”

  “Oh, uh…Mrs. Ulrich isn’t home,” a female voice replied, then grew frightened. “Is something wrong? Is someone hurt? Is it Chase?”

  “No, no. Everyone is fine. I’m calling to ask her a few questions.”

  “Oh. Thank God.” He could hear her draw in a shaky breath. “She’s not home. She’s out for the day.”

  “Please. Tell her to call me at 555-5600 as soon as possible.”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  He hung up, and Rob checked his watch. “Two minutes or three?”

  Paul chuckled. “I’ll say one.”

  “Winner buys a beer.”

  “Got it.”

  The minute ticked by before the phone rang. Rob checked his watch. “A minute thirty. Damn, we were both off.”

  Biting his lip, Paul picked up the phone. “Monroe.”

  A highly disturbed voice greeted him. “This is Catherine Ulrich. You called my home and scared my housekeeper to death.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ulrich, but we need to speak with you. What time is convenient?”

  “I have appointments all day I can’t cancel. How’s five o’clock? Or are you finished with work?”

  “We’re never off duty when we’re investigating a murder, ma’am.”

  “Murder? But Chase is okay, you said.”

  He noticed she didn’t mention her husband. “Yes, he’s fine. I just spoke to your husband, and I need to talk to you. It’s about the murder of Jerry Gregoria.”

  The silence thickened between them. “Mrs. Ulrich? Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  Paul imagined it must be horribly embarrassing for her to speak to him, knowing he had details of her private life. “I’ll see you at five o’clock? We have your address.”

  “Yes.”

  He heard a click. He hung up and faced Rob. “I feel sorry for her.”

  “Yeah. She must be freaking out. So five o’clock?”

  “Yeah. I think I’m going to go over to the Starrywood and see if they have the video from the garage for my car. Plus, I’d like to wander around a bit and see if I can pick up any gossip from the staff.”

  “Good idea. I’m going to go over to the gym and mosey around.”

  “Okay. Come get me at the hotel at four thirty? It’s a drive out to the suburbs where the Ulriches live.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Come on, I’ll drop you off on my way to Flex.”

  They walked out of the precinct, and Paul slid his shades on, his pulse thrumming. He loved this part—gathering information, tying loose ends, all the intricate, necessary steps in putting together the puzzle of Jerry’s death.

  Twenty minutes later, he sat with Cliff in his office, watching the video captured by the garage cameras. On the screen, a figure approached.

  “Is it…?” Cliff whispered.

  “Could be. Let’s keep watching.” Paul’s hands gripped the edge of the desk as the person, careful to keep their face averted, stepped around the rear of the car so their back was to the camera. The angle of the lens was wider now than previously, and Paul could see the person’s sneakers were solid black. They wore dark pants and that same black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over their head, obscuring any potential identifying feature.

  “Look. Look at their hand.” Paul motioned to Cliff. “Do you see it?”

  Cliff rolled his chair closer until his head almost touched Paul’s. “Where? Oh. Is that a key or a small knife?”

  “Looks like a knife. But it’s not the fact that it’s a knife. They didn’t put on gloves. So now we can look more carefully at their right hand and see if this person is male or female.”

  Paul felt pretty good about his observation and squinted to see if he could discern on his own. A white hand with no jewelry or identifying marks. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t see their fingernails to check if they were polished or plain, long or short, and he let out a disgusted sound.

  Cliff nudged him. “What’s wrong?”

  When he repeated his annoyance, Cliff chuckled, and Paul scowled. “What’s so funny? It’s important. It could narrow the field down to whether it’s a male or female we’re looking for.”

  “You do realize that some men wear nail polish. If you remember Preston, the young man at the front desk you met the first day? He wears different colors on different nails.”

  “Oh.” Deflated, he rested his chin in his hand. “Okay. Point taken. But at least we might’ve had a clue from the color.”

  “I didn’t mean to make light of it. It’s something you should be aware of. Gender roles are being abandoned at a much greater rate now. Even in a small city like Thornwood Park, people are becoming more accepting.”

  “Maybe.” Paul wasn’t so sure but kept his opinions to himself.

  Cliff’s phone rang.

  “Duty calls. Excuse me.” He stood and circled around the desk to the front so as not to reach over Paul. “Cliff Baxter.”

  An agitated voice reached Paul’s ears, and he raised his brows questioningly at Cliff, who nodded and held his gaze. “Okay, okay. Have you called security? I’m coming out. We’ll be there in a minute.” He hung up the phone, and Paul, having already gotten out of his chair, followed Cliff to the door.

  “There’s a fight outside the restaurant. A man and a woman. That’s all the info I have.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Adrenaline pumped through Paul as he and Cliff raced to the restaurant. A crowd milled about, and he heard shrill screaming from a woman and the snarling, rage-filled voice of a man.

  “You bitch. You couldn’t keep your hands off him, could you?” A red-faced Troy stood screaming at Dana Dickerson who, to Paul’s surprise, didn’t back down but came at Troy.

  “Get over yourself, pretty boy. That boyfriend of yours was screwing anything that moved.”

  “He loved me. You knew we were dating. I told you, and you still went after him.”

  “He loved himself. He was using you, and you were too dumb to see it.” With that pronouncement, she turned away from him to walk away.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  At least twenty feet separated him and Troy, so there was no way for Paul to stop Troy when he lunged at Dana, knocking her to the ground. Her terrified screams, along with the horrified cries of the onlookers, echoed through the hotel.

  “Police, move.” Leaving courtesy by the wayside, Paul pushed past the people standing in front of him. Troy, feet planted wide and hands balled into fists, painted a menacing picture. Gone were his pretty boy looks.

  “Troy, put your hands up.”

  “Fuck you,” he spat out, his lips curled in an ugly sneer.

  Paul had no desire to get into an altercation, but Troy’s anger endangered the public.

  “No, thanks. You’re not my type. Now be a good boy and—”

  Troy’s fist connected with his jaw and sent him sprawling to the flo
or. Incredulous that Troy had gotten the better of him, Paul touched his jaw gingerly, shook the stars out of his eyes, and then with a growl, came to his feet, wrenched Troy’s arm behind his back, kicked his ankles out from under him, and threw him to the floor.

  He’d underestimated the extent of Troy’s steroid-induced rage. The man rolled and kicked out, catching Paul in the stomach. He jumped up and stood weaving side to side, fists raised in front of his face. “Come at me, fucker.”

  “That’s it, Troy. You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer and resisting arrest.”

  “Asshole, piece of shit cop.”

  Enough with the name-calling. Paul laid a right hook to Troy’s face, sending him to his knees. Duffy appeared at his side, and Paul was grateful for the big man’s help. Together they subdued Troy, and Paul pulled out handcuffs and clipped Troy’s wrists in the bracelets. He held him by the scruff of his neck and shook him.

  “Duffy, take this jerk to a room and hold him until I get an officer here.” He spied Dana Dickerson picking up her purse from the floor and preparing to leave. He called out to her.

  “Ms. Dickerson, could you hold on a minute, please?”

  Her back stiffened, but she remained where she stood until he joined her. “Are you all right?”

  A bit pale but steadfast, she nodded.

  His jaw ached, but he managed a reassuring smile. “Come, let’s sit down in the restaurant.”

  Holding her by the elbow, Paul led her into the restaurant’s dining room and sat with her in one of the booths against the wall. A waitress came by and poured them some water. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Not for me,” Dickerson said.

  “Me either,” he said and gave her a perfunctory smile, hoping she’d go away. Dana Dickerson clasped her hands on top of the table and laced her shaking fingers together.

  “There’s a reason I rarely come to conventions. Too many people, too much drama. But sometimes I need to leave the house and talk to people. And I love my readers. So I thought this year would be a good time to start going to more conferences. I picked this convention because it’s small enough not to be too overwhelming. It’s my third this year, and now probably my last.”