by A. P. Eisen
“Right on time.” Paul grunted as he turned his head quickly to buckle his seat belt. His jaw still throbbed. “Got any aspirin for this?”
“Yeah. Check out the glove compartment. I heard about what happened. How bad does it hurt?”
“Not too bad. It’ll fade.”
Rob swung around the circular drive and pulled out onto the street. He drove several blocks, then took the ramp to the interstate and merged onto the highway. “I checked the traffic, and it’s clear, so we should be at the Ulriches’ right on time.”
“Great. Find out anything at the gym?”
“Plenty of the guys were willing to talk once I flashed my badge.”
Paul snorted. “As they do.”
“And they all confirmed Troy was on steroids, and they’d hear Jerry lecture him on how stupid he was to take them and how he wanted nothing to do with a ’roid head.”
“Interesting. I’ll tell you what I found out.” He relayed what he heard from Jade Kennedy.
Rob shifted his gaze momentarily from the road to meet Paul’s. “What do you think? Is Troy our man?”
“Definitely top of the list. He had motive, means, and opportunity.”
“I know you. Something’s not sitting right.”
“It’s a feeling. Maybe I’m wrong, but it all came together too easily. The knife doesn’t fit. I keep thinking we’re missing something right in front of us.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. And I know what you mean. See, what I learned at the gym about ’roid rage is that it’s usually very violent. Punches thrown, screaming, cursing. The argument we saw on the video was pretty tame. And then a knife in the neck. So I agree. The knife doesn’t fit.”
“Exactly. Troy’s rage today was indicative of the type of behavior associated with steroid abuse—spurts of extreme, uncontrollable violence. Those stabs to the neck were deliberate and well-placed.”
“So, back to square one? Or do you think Ms. Kennedy is lying?”
“I don’t get that sense from her. I think we’ll know more after we talk to Mrs. Ulrich.”
The navigation system announced they were to take the next exit, and both he and Rob stayed quiet to listen to the directions. Rob steered the car into the wide drive and cut the engine, then whistled.
“Damn. My mother was right. I should’ve become a doctor. This looks more like a museum than a house.”
Paul snickered. “Hell, yeah.”
The three-story, stone, multi-gabled house sat back on an expanse of lush green lawn. As Rob said, it was museum-like, with towering columns and sparkling bay windows. Hundreds of flowers edged the well-tended beds, curving from the front path around the side and disappearing to the rear of the house. Paul discerned the next house in the development—barely visible past a towering copse of trees—had to be almost an acre away.
They exited the car and ascended the wide, curved stairs. The highly polished wooden door gleamed in the afternoon sun. Rob banged on the door, and as if someone waited right on the other side, it swung open immediately, revealing a tall, lean woman with dark eyes and gray hair held off her face by a headband.
“Good afternoon,” Rob said pleasantly. “I’m Detective Gormley, and this is Detective Monroe. We have an appointment to speak with Mrs. Ulrich.” They both showed their badges and identification.
“Please follow me.”
They walked into the kind of home Paul had only seen in magazines. They passed by one room with impressive artwork on the walls, and a huge piano, while another room boasted floor-to-ceiling paneled bookcases and rich leather sofas and chairs. The housekeeper stopped before a sun-washed room with comfortable looking beige and cream furniture and a brightly colored rug. A fireplace took up one side of the room, while the opposite wall, made of glass, overlooked the sweeping lawn. Paul noticed the blue sparkle of a swimming pool, and farther in the distance, a tennis court.
“Here you are. Mrs. Ulrich will be with you shortly. Please have a seat. Can I bring either of you anything? Coffee, tea, water?”
“No, we’re fine,” Paul said reassuringly. “Thank you.”
Rob took a seat on the sofa and nodded as he gazed around the room. “This is nice. I could get used to this. Jerry was no fool.”
Quick footsteps tapped, and Mrs. Ulrich entered the room. Her silvery blonde hair was swept back in a twist, and though she was casually dressed in a button-down white shirt tucked into narrow dark jeans, Paul could pay his mortgage for a year on the worth of her gold-and-diamond necklace, while the diamond ring stretching from knuckle to knuckle would solve all his retirement problems. Diamonds also glittered in her ears. Her makeup was minimal, and her nails a pale, neutral color. She looked cool and untouchable.
They both rose. “Mrs. Ulrich?” Rob asked. “I’m Detective Gormley, and this is Detective Monroe.”
“Hello, please sit down.” She closed the door behind her, then lowered herself into a straight-backed chair, sitting with her ankles crossed and hands clasped over her knees. “How may I help you?”
“As we said on the phone, we’re investigating the murder of Jerry Gregoria.” Being a private person himself, this was the part Paul hated—getting into the intimate and often embarrassing details of other people’s lives—but it had to be done. “We’ve already spoken to your husband, and he informed us that there might’ve been a relationship between all three of you?”
“No need to sugarcoat it, Detective. My husband, Jerry, and I would meet at the Starrywood Hotel every week to have sex. My husband and I were having some marital problems, and he thought maybe bringing another person in would add some spice.”
“And did it work?”
Her eyes flashed. “It did.”
And now they had to burst her magic bubble. “Were you aware that your husband met with Jerry Gregoria and they had a sexual relationship separate from your weekly meetings?”
“I was.”
Now that was a surprise. He and Rob exchanged glances; then Paul continued. “Can you tell us how you felt about that? How did you find out?”
A pulse beat in her throat, but her voice remained steady. “Detectives. When your spouse suddenly comes to you with the idea of bringing in a third party to spice up your sex life and already has someone in mind, it isn’t difficult to take the next step. When Dean mentioned Jerry to me, I hired a private investigator and discovered that he and Jerry were having an affair.”
“And yet you agreed to the arrangement?”
“I still love my husband, and I know he loves me.” A crack showed in her armor, exposing her vulnerability for a moment. “Marriage is about making compromises for the ones you love. Dean and I had problems, and Jerry helped solve them.”
“Did you and Jerry have a separate physical relationship as well?”
Unfazed, Mrs. Ulrich met his and Rob’s eyes steadily. “Yes. And Dean was aware.”
Rob cleared his throat. “When was the last time you saw Jerry? Either with your husband or separately?”
“Let me think…” She tapped a long, pale-tipped finger against her jaw. “Together, probably two weeks ago. He said things were getting busy at work and he couldn’t do evenings, and that posed a problem for Dean, who is unable to take off work during the day. Separately, only last week. He came here and spent the afternoon.”
Paul had no doubt she told the truth. She spoke about it so matter-of-factly, like it was simply another thing to check off on her daily calendar. Perhaps it was. He had no clue how the super rich lived.
“Have you any idea why someone would’ve wanted to murder Jerry? Did he ever mention if he argued with anyone or if he was afraid? Something that might’ve seemed inconsequential at the time could now be a clue and help solve his murder.” Paul was glad Rob had asked, as he was still processing what Mrs. Ulrich had told them.
“I have no idea. Jerry was a funny, sweet man. He wasn’t too complicated, if you know what I mean.”
“Were you aware he wasn’t par
ticularly discreet?”
For the first time, a glimmer of a smile touched her lips. “Gentlemen, I understand what you’re trying to say, but you don’t have to tiptoe around me. I wasn’t in love with him, nor he with me. We had fun. Now it’s over, and my husband and I will move on. Together.”
Mrs. Ulrich’s attitude was in direct contrast to her husband’s, which gave Paul pause, but he waited until he and Rob left the house to speak.
“She wasn’t too broken up about him being dead. In fact, I got the sense she might’ve been a bit relieved.”
“Yeah.” Rob switched lanes. It was rush hour, but they were heading back to the city, against the flow of traffic. “No more competition. If you noticed, Dr. Ulrich was much more upset when we told him about Jerry’s murder. Catherine Ulrich took it in stride.”
“I noticed. So the question is, was she telling us the truth? Did she know her husband was getting it on with Jerry and didn’t care as long as the status quo remained, or was she secretly angry that her husband was having an affair, and offed the competition?”
“And an affair with a man at that,” Rob said. “That has to sting, finding out your husband is gay.”
“Well, probably bisexual if he’s with men and women.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Well, whatever. Was that enough to make her angry? Could she have killed Jerry?”
They approached the Thornwood Park ramp, and Rob signaled to exit. Main Street was crowded with vehicles.
“I appreciate the ride, since I know you have to turn right around and get on the highway to go home.” Paul checked his watch and saw it was close to six. Anticipation built within him at the evening ahead.
“Nah. I know a few side roads.” They stopped at a traffic light. “So overall, what was your impression of the Ulriches? Potentials?”
“I don’t think it’s the husband. He honestly cared about Jerry. The wife, I’m not too sure about. Getting rid of Jerry did remove the object of her husband’s affection.”
“True.” Rob glanced over at him. “I just don’t see her driving into the city and stabbing him in a parking lot. Too messy. But maybe she hired someone. That would be a more likely scenario for her. One step removed.”
“Good point. Although I still have the feeling it’s right under our noses and we’re missing something obvious.” Paul’s building came into view as Rob turned the corner. A no-standing zone took up the space in front, and Rob slid his car into it and shut off the engine.
“Yeah. Like we should be seeing it and we’re missing it.”
“Why don’t we meet tomorrow morning at the station and go over everything? It’s time we coordinated all the work we’ve done over the past few days.” He unbuckled his seat belt.
“Sounds like a plan. Speaking of plans, we’re having a barbecue next weekend, so come by. Bring a date if you want.”
Hand poised on the door handle, Paul stiffened. Given the number of times he’d blown Rob off lately, he knew he had to make the effort. “Okay, I’ll try. Thanks for the invitation.”
“Good. Annabel is looking forward to seeing you. And if you don’t have anyone to bring, you know my wife. She’s happy to help in that department.”
God help him. “I know. See you tomorrow.”
Once inside his apartment, Paul stripped, showered, then dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Unsure what would happen that evening, he packed a small bag with essentials: toothbrush, razor, underwear, and a fresh T-shirt and running shorts for the morning. His badge. He put his gun in its holster and clipped it to his belt. A package of condoms sat inside the medicine cabinet, and he contemplated bringing them but closed it instead. If it happened spontaneously, fine. He didn’t want to plan. He did, however, spray on a bit of cologne.
Forty-five minutes after he’d come home, Paul texted Cliff he was ready and received an immediate response.
Leaving now. Be there in less than fifteen.
I’ll meet you downstairs.
It made sense, as it would be near impossible for Cliff to find a spot. He glanced around the apartment to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. It had taken him almost forty years to get to the point where he felt comfortable enough to spend the night with another man. For some, it might not seem like a giant step, but for Paul it was like leaping from peak to peak across mountain ravines. He put on a lightweight jacket, closed the door behind him, and locked it.
Walking out of the building, Paul saw Cliff’s car pulling into the same no-standing zone Rob had used to drop him off earlier. He hurried over and opened the car door.
“Good timing.”
“Yeah, traffic was pretty light. All set?”
“Ready when you are.”
Cliff put the car in gear and waited for the traffic to clear, then drove away.
“Feel free to turn on music if you want. I listen to pretty much anything.”
Paul found the classic rock station he favored, and soon the mellow sounds of Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” filled the car. He eased back in the leather seat and sighed.
“Good choice.” Cliff gave him a quick glance. “How was the rest of your afternoon? If you can talk about it, that is.”
“I can. There’s no privilege in police investigations. So if you’re really interested…”
“I am.”
“We talked to the wife of a man having an affair with Jerry. Turns out not only did she know, but they were having a threesome at least once a week and she was carrying on her own separate affair with him.”
At the red light Cliff turned to him with wide, incredulous eyes. “You’re shitting me.” Paul shook his head, and Cliff snorted with laughter. “All I want to know is when did he sleep? Man. I wish I knew his secret. I’d sure as hell have a lot more fun.”
Joining in Cliff’s laughter, Paul let the weight of the murder investigation slide from his shoulders. At least for the night, he’d try to enjoy himself. And from the way he noticed all the little things about Cliff—his strong, capable hands gripping the steering wheel, the sharp edges of his cheekbones, the dark stubble dusting his jaw—there was a lot to enjoy. It wasn’t only about the physical. Aside from Rob, Cliff was the first person Paul had spent time with that he didn’t want to run away from. He enjoyed being with Cliff, looked forward to seeing him and talking with him.
“I can’t imagine you’ve had many complaints.”
The light turned green, and Cliff accelerated. “I don’t screw around. I mean, yeah, it gets lonely sometimes, but I couldn’t do what Jerry did.”
“I don’t know anyone who could. Man was a force unto his own.”
Cliff snickered, and they spent the remainder of the drive in silence until they pulled into Cliff’s driveway. Once again, Paul was struck by the peace he felt here.
Overhead, birds chirped in the tall maple trees as he and Cliff walked up the path to the front door, and he caught the scent of the roses growing riotously up the trellis.
“Pretty. My mother used to grow roses.”
“I remember.” Cliff unlocked the door, and they walked inside. The shades were drawn to keep out the heat, and Paul appreciated the cool stillness inside. The room was one wide-open space with the kitchen separated from the living area by the large center island. When he was here the other night, he hadn’t had the opportunity—or the interest—to appreciate the gleaming wooden floors, exposed beams, or stone fireplace. The tones were muted—brown and beige with flashes of copper, gold, and forest green.
The Ulriches’ mansion might’ve been ten times the size and worth millions of dollars more, but it didn’t have half the warmth of Cliff’s simple home.
“Want a beer? And what do you feel like eating? I have chicken, shrimp…” He stood in thought, chewing his bottom lip. “Or we can have pasta.”
“I’m good with the beer for now. We don’t have to rush dinner unless you’re starving.”
“No, I’m good. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Mind if I come with y
ou? I always liked hanging out in the kitchen.”
“Sure.”
He followed Cliff and sat on one of the cushioned chairs at the island, taking the cold bottle when Cliff offered. His sandwich at the hotel bar seemed ages ago, and his stomach let out an embarrassing growl.
Cliff’s eyes warmed with a humorous light. “So dinner sooner than later? Or”—he held up a finger—“wait, I have it. Hold on a sec.” He opened a cabinet and rummaged through it, finally pulling out a big bag of chips. “Sour cream and onion?”
Paul groaned. “I haven’t had them in years. They’re so bad, but so damn good.”
“Aren’t most of life’s pleasures?”
There was no mistaking the message in Cliff’s voice. “Yeah. You’re right.”
“So enjoy yourself a little tonight.”
He opened the bag and held it out, and Paul grabbed a handful of chips. The salty onion flavor was as delicious as he remembered from when he was a kid and tasted amazing, especially with the beer washing them down.
“Damn, that’s good,” he said, licking his lips of the crumbs. He had a flash of memory: when he and Harley were young and would watch movies, sharing a bowl of sour cream and onion potato chips between them. Pain seared through him, and he closed his eyes for a moment and breathed through it.
“How about sautéed shrimp and fresh pasta? Will that be enough? I have ice cream for dessert, or if you want a healthier option, then fruit.”
Considering his dinners were usually tasteless and eaten quickly while working, it sounded gourmet to him.
“You can make that?”
Cliff’s smile beamed bright. “When I worked in Paris, I took advantage of being in one of the greatest food cities of the world and enrolled in cooking classes. I’m pretty good.”
“I can’t wait to try it. Can I help?”
“Nope. I’m sure you can use the rest. But you can tell me more about your conversation with Mrs. Ulrich, if you want. I still can’t believe what you told me in the car.”
As he talked, Cliff took out a knife and a pan from beneath the island. Next, he removed a bottle of white wine, a package of shrimp, and the butter from the refrigerator. He heated the pan on the stovetop, cut off a generous amount of butter and let it melt before adding the shrimp. While that cooked, he chopped an onion and some garlic and threw it all into the pan along with salt and pepper.