Sex and Murder.com: A Paul Turner Mystery (20 page)

“A hacker who walked out on their business,” Turner said. “We need to find and talk to him.”

“I still have a lot of files to go through in the security section,” Micetic said. “I’ll get a little sleep and then get back to it.” He left.

“We need to talk to Werberg’s lawyer and accountant,” Fenwick said. “They must have records of what they owned and where it was. They must have had to pay taxes on any property. We’ll visit every site if we have to. If there really is a secret location, we’ve got to find it.”

“For now let’s concentrate on the sex list,” Turner suggested. “We need to talk to as many of these people as we can.”

“How are we going to find them?”

“Simple,” Turner said. “We start with the ones Micetic put a red dot next to. They’re the most likely ones.”

Fenwick asked, “Because their names are listed as having sex in Chicago, does that mean they lived in the area, or simply that the sexual act was successfully completed in Chicago?”

“For now let’s assume if it says Chicago, they lived somewhere in the metropolitan area.”

Fenwick checked Micetic’s materials. “We don’t have full names for a lot of these.”

“Be grateful for that. We go to all of them in Chicago, and then we start in the suburbs. If this case is such a priority, we should be able to squeeze some help out of the commander.”

They strode to Molton’s office and explained their plan. He readily agreed. After they left his office, Fenwick said, “That was easy. Not like a gang shooting, is it?”

“Would you like it to be?”

“No pressure, no hype, and a dead body for an inane reason,” Fenwick said. “Sounds like a winner to me.”

Turner and Fenwick went over the printout and matched it to local directories. They came up with a list of ten leads to follow up. They decided the most common names would probably be the least productive. There would be too many possible duplicates in the six county area. Starting with the odd names would be more likely to get them a match to the correct sexual partner. They knew that if they didn’t find out what they needed from those, they’d have to try the common names. They could at least start the beat cops on those.

Turner did not relish talking to all the Smiths in a fifty-mile radius.

They organized a detail and gave them instructions. Before they left, they set up a meeting with the accountant and the lawyer for later in the day and checked the phone company and driver’s license records for Eddie Homan. They found nothing. Further searching for him would have to wait until their interviews were done.

17

Finding unique gifts in each city is a nuisance. Figuring out different delivery methods can be tricky. If they aren’t frightened before they get the gifts, they are soon afterwards.

Turner and Fenwick started with the As. Malcolm Ashburton lived in Presidential Towers on the near west side. Late on a Sunday morning they found him watching NFL pre-game coverage on television. He was in his mid-twenties. He wore unadorned gray sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt with an East Chapel High School logo on it.

They introduced themselves and asked to come in.

“No. My place is too messy.”

They conducted the interview in the hallway. “Mr. Ashburton, your name appeared on a list in Craig Lenzati’s computer.”

“The rich guy who’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

They waited. He waited.

Ashburton finally said, “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

“Did you know Mr. Lenzati?” Fenwick asked.

“Nope. I saw him on the news once in a while. He was filthy rich. Why was I in his computer?”

“We don’t know.”

“You sure it was me?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

They showed him the picture of Lenzati. He shook his head. “I never met the guy. I kind of recognize him from television.” They showed him Werberg’s picture. “Nope, not him either.”

Fenwick asked, “Do you know what you were doing August twenty-ninth five years ago?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That date was next to your name.”

“Five years ago? You gotta be kidding.”

“Try to remember.”

“What day of the week was it?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m probably not going to remember anyway. That’s a hell of a long time ago.” When he couldn’t remember what he was doing, they left.

As Fenwick drove, Turner asked, “What were you doing five years ago August twenty-ninth?”

“Beats the shit out of me,” Fenwick said.

“We should find out what day of the week these were.”

“They’re never going to remember what they were doing. It would be nice if they were doing something memorably criminal and were willing to confess it to their kindly and wise neighborhood police detective.”

Turner said, “We could get you a smiley face badge. Unfortunately, you keep using them for target practice on the pistol range. We should try talking to the names next to the most recent dates. That’s the last page and there are more of them.”

They consumed an hour in fruitless pursuit around the city. Of the next five people, one was out. The four who were in responded as Ashburton had.

As they drove to their next interview, Fenwick said, “The people on that list could be from anywhere on the planet.”

“We’ve got to try as many as we can. Maybe other people on the team are having better luck.”

The sixth person was Blaine Dworkin. His wife directed them to the garage behind the Dworkins’ bungalow just south of Archer Avenue on Kolin Street. The January sunshine wasn’t warm, but there was no wind so the cold was less piercing than the twenty-five degree temperature might indicate. Dworkin had the garage door open but a space heater was on. He was maybe five feet six inches tall, and was lucky if he weighed one hundred twenty pounds. He wore a gray sweatshirt over a black T-shirt, which covered a white, long sleeved thermal shirt. His black jeans clung to his narrow hips. He might have been in his early twenties.

Dworkin’s fingers were grimy, and Turner saw he’d been working on an electric snowblower. Turner also noted that Dworkin’s eyes lingered ever so briefly on his crotch. Turner didn’t really believe in “Gaydar”—the supposed ability of gay men to identify one of their own—but he noted the look.

They identified themselves and explained why they were asking questions.

Dworkin said, “The rich computer guy who died? I didn’t know him.”

“Do you have any idea of why your name might be in his computer?”

“Are you sure it was me?”

“You’re the only Blaine Dworkin we could find in the metropolitan area.”

“Yeah, can’t be a lot of me around. Does it have to be connected to someone in this metropolitan area?”

“We’re not sure,” Turner said. “You from here? Got family around here?”

“No, I’m from South Dakota. I worked in my dad’s gas station there while I was growing up. I’m supporting my wife and kid here by working in a garage on the north side fixing cars while I attend the Art Institute. I’ve got a scholarship, but it doesn’t cover everything.” He shook his head. “Maybe your guy just collected odd names.”

Turner asked, “You ever met a Brooks Werberg?”

Dworkin hesitated briefly before saying, “Wasn’t he the guy’s partner in the computer business? Wasn’t it on the radio that he died yesterday?”

“Yeah.” All Turner knew that would cause even a hint of suspicion to grow in his mind was the briefest of hesitations in this answer and the earlier glance that had lingered on his crotch.

Turner checked the printout. “Next to your name, we found the date October first last year. Do you remember what you were doing on that day?”

“I’d have to look at an old calendar.”

“Would you?”

“I guess.”

They trooped into the house. Dworkin’s wife asked, “What’s going on?”

“Some crazy computer guy had me on a list in his computer.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Dworkin said.

In the living room, Dworkin produced a calendar from the bottom drawer of a desk. “I saved this because I wrote some phone numbers and directions on it. I was going to copy them over.” He flipped several pages. “It was a weekday. I must have been at work.”

“You remember anything significant about that day?”

“No.”

Later, in the car Turner said, “Something odd there.”

“I caught the hesitation in his answer.”

“He looked at my crotch a bit longer than is usual in a supposedly straight man.”

“And that means?”

“I don’t know.”

The seventh person on the list lived in an apartment house in Evergreen Park just south of Ninety-ninth Street. Larry Switzel was five feet four inches tall and, like Dworkin, very thin. He had heavy, unshaven Sunday afternoon beard stubble. He wore work boots, tight faded blue jeans, and a blue and white checked flannel shirt. A toddler played with a dump truck on the floor in the living room as he talked to them. Switzel sat with his legs spread wide, his elbows on his knees, and his hands hanging loosely between his legs.

“How old is your child?” Turner asked.

“Fourteen months. I’ve got custody.”

“Looks like a nice kid,” Turner said.

“Thanks. What is it you guys needed?”

“We found your name on Craig Lenzati’s computer.”

“Who?”

“The computer genius who died Friday morning.”

“I never heard of him.”

“You’ve heard of Bill Gates.”

“I guess. He’s so rich and all. He’s always on television. Is this Lenzati guy famous?”

They showed him the photo of Lenzati. Switzel frowned. “I don’t know this guy. I’m sure I’ve never met him. Are you sure it was me on his computer? Did it have a description?”

“We found your name. Did you know him?”

“No. I don’t know why I’d be on his computer. What kind of list was it?”

“A list of names and dates. Your name was listed next to February tenth last year.”

“That’s my soon-to-be-ex-wife’s and my anniversary. I worked that night. I’ve got a part time job busing tables at the Pit.”

“Maybe he was a customer,” Turner suggested.

Switzel shrugged. “When the rich come in to the restaurant, they’re made a fuss over in an understated way. The owner is very careful to make the well-off feel comfortable.”

“Where’s the restaurant?” Fenwick asked.

“On Dearborn, just north of Chicago Avenue. The Pit is a restaurant and bar, very hot and trendy.”

Turner pulled out Werberg’s picture.

Switzel blanched. “Him!” was all he said.

“There are two other names listed next to February tenth,” Turner said. “Alex Jones and Dave Jackson.” They had found too many A. Joneses and D. Jacksons in the metropolitan area to begin contacting them, yet. If they had to, they probably would see all of them. February tenth was one of the few multiple date listings.

“I work with A1 and Dave. That was the night …” He muttered, “Holy shit,” and then turned red.

“What do you remember?” Turner asked.

“I can’t tell you guys. It’s too embarrassing.”

Fenwick said, “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Switzel. You don’t want to withhold information that could lead us to a killer, no matter how embarrassing it might be.”

“What happened can’t be connected to any murder. It was as far away from that as possible.”

“How can you be sure?”

Switzel ran his hand over his beard stubble. He leaned over more closely to the detectives and began speaking in a low voice. His child continued to play contentedly, only ten feet away. Turner assumed the precaution was to ensure that the child did not hear them. Turner figured the kid was too young to understand what was being said, but there was no accounting for paranoia.

“My divorce isn’t final. She could use it against me, but this can’t be connected to Lenzati.” He stood up. “This is goofy.” He ran his fingers through his blue-black, slicked back hair.

The detectives let him pace for a few moments. Finally, Turner said, “You and the other busboys must have done something.”

“Got that right.”

“Unless it was blatantly illegal, we don’t care,” Turner said. “We’re only concerned about finding a killer.”

“It wasn’t illegal—at least, I don’t think it was. Maybe it was a little.”

“How little?” Fenwick asked.

Switzel grimaced. “I wish I knew.”

“We’ll talk to the other two,” Turner warned. “You don’t want this to get messy, being dragged down to the station. Someone’s going to open up eventually. You might as well get it over with now.”

Switzel sat back down. “You guys can’t tell my wife.”

Turner said, “There’s no point, no benefit to us in doing that.”

Switzel dithered for a few more minutes then finally heaved an enormous sigh. He said, “That night, this rich guy showed up alone at the restaurant. He got the royal treatment. He ordered the most expensive items on the menu, including a bottle of wine that cost more than three thousand dollars. The whole tab must have been over five thousand.”

Turner thought that was a hell of a lot to pay to be hot and trendy for an evening. Then again, a night out at a fast-food restaurant with his sons and Ben was as trendy as he got these days.

“Why was that so memorable?” Turner asked.

“We’ve got plenty of other guests who spend more,” Switzel said. “It’s what happened when I was cleaning up after dessert, while they were preparing him some exotic coffee. Supposedly it’s grown on only one patch of ground in a secret grove in Columbia, and sold only in our restaurant. In truth, it’s probably leftover Starbucks blend. Anyway, this guy beckons me over, and puts his hand on my arm. Then he says, very calmly and quietly, ‘I’ll give you ten thousand dollars, and each of the other busboys the same, if you come with me to have sex. It has to be all three or none of you.’”

This time Switzel’s hand rubbing through his hair left it in disarray.

“All three?” Fenwick asked.

“Yeah.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ But the guy didn’t smile or laugh. He just said he was very serious. He asked me if I was interested, and that if I was, could I talk to the other busboys? I’d been solicited before. What busboy hasn’t been at the Pit? We wear these tight black pants and white muscle T-shirts. We’re
supposed
to be alluring.”