Sex and Murder.com Page 3

  Fenwick waved his hand at the assembled tapes. “Having this many is a little unusual. Maybe he was just rich and could afford to indulge his tastes. We’ll have to ask around to see if there is any significance. Adding a highly sexual element to a gritty murder always perks me right up.”

  “I thought we disposed of the problem of you being perky and up earlier today.”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Ouch.”

  Just off a second floor bedroom they found another large walk-in closet. They checked each dresser drawer. All the boxer shorts were silk. All the shirts were hand-tailored. A receipt was attached to several of them, each with the address of a dry cleaner two blocks away. Lenzati had a line of suits unlike any Turner had ever seen on racks in a store. They found another large closet tending to jeans and T-shirts. Turner counted the pairs of athletic shoes and then asked, “Who needs thirty pairs of gym shoes?”

  “One for each day of the month?” Fenwick offered.

  Lenzati also had warm-up outfits and athletic clothes, titanium tennis rackets and titanium golf clubs. When he saw the clubs, Turner said, “If we didn’t have those tapes, I could still tell he was straight.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He played golf. No gay men play golf.”

  “There must be some who do.”

  “Nope. In the gay gene there is no golf strand.”

  “I thought there wasn’t a gay gene.”

  “No one knows for sure, but if there is, trust me, it does not include playing golf. It’s just one of those little oddities of the universe. Gay men play in all sports except golf.”

  “Even hockey?” Fenwick asked.

  “I hope they play hockey, and I want to meet them.”

  “Good for you,” Fenwick said. “Next question. Did he live with someone? I see lots of expensive clothes, but I don’t see evidence of two sets of clothes, or any feminine apparel. I don’t see personal items that would indicate cohabitation. There was only one toothbrush in the john, one stick of deodorant, a razor, and shaving cream. My guess is he was single. Unless he kept wives and mistresses in mansions throughout the world.”

  “Speaking of mistresses,” Turner said, “where’s the hired help? He must have had servants of some kind, but we haven’t seen any. I wonder why not?”

  “How many guesses do I get?” Fenwick asked.

  “Not enough.”

  Fenwick said, “Girote claimed Lenzati dated, but it doesn’t look like anyone was sharing this place at the moment.”

  “A safe enough conclusion.”

  The king size bed in the master bedroom was covered with a quilt made of alternating red and black squares. The abstract paintings on the walls continued the red and black color scheme. On the top of glass cube endtables, they found several arrangements of toy rubber ducks and pink flamingoes in sexual congress with each other.

  Fenwick said, “If we were looking for sexual perversity, I think we found it.”

  “My definition of sexual perversity is a little raunchier than this. More colorful too.”

  “Care to tell me about it?” Fenwick asked.

  “Not in this life time,” Turner said. They checked all the dresser drawers. “I don’t see evidence of someone else. No underwear of a different size.”

  “Either two males of exactly the same size lived here, or he was living alone. Or, he was dating a woman who wore the exact same clothes as he did.”

  “I’m voting for alone,” Turner said.

  They went back downstairs. Fenwick grumbled, “Where the fuck is the murder weapon?”

  “It’s Carruthers’ fault,” Turner said. “He’s talked to all the potential murderers in town and warned them not to help you in the slightest way.” Randy Carruthers was the most maligned officer on the Area Ten detective squad.

  “Why is the world all of a sudden paying so much attention to Carruthers?” Fenwick asked.

  “If you can’t trust someone who is dangerously stupid, who can you trust?” Turner asked.

  The front door swung open. Tommy Quiroz said, “I’ve got a guy out here who says he has to talk to whoever is in charge. Says his name is Brooks Werberg. Claims he was the corpse’s business partner.”

  4

  I like it when famous people show up. I love publicity and outrage and upset. I like it when they have news conferences over. something I’ve done. It’s best when some reporter asks why a killer would be doing such a thing. Everybody always wants to know why Well, sometimes there isn’t a why. Sometimes people are just mean sons of bitches.

  Turner remembered Werberg’s name from what the mayor’s press secretary had told them. They let him in. Brooks Werberg was in his mid-thirties. He wore a Prada suit that Turner knew to cost several thousand dollars. Turner recognized its sleek, lean lines, three buttons, and notched collar. He knew what it was because his older son Brian had been campaigning to buy one for the prom in the spring. Turner had told his son he could buy it with money from his job at the neighborhood deli. Any money, that is, that was not earmarked for college.

  Turner thought Werberg might attend a gym for several hours every day of the week. He was about five foot eight with enormous shoulders, a thick neck, a very narrow waist, and muscles that the suit highlighted perfectly. His hair was evenly brush-cut all around. Turner noticed his red-rimmed eyes and believed that they indicated bouts of recent tears.

  “What’s happened to Craig?” Werberg asked. “I was called from the mayor’s office. They said Craig was dead, but I didn’t believe them.” He began to walk farther into the house. “Where is he?”

  Turner stood in his way. “This is a crime scene, Mr. Werberg. We need to talk. We can’t let you farther into the house at this time.”

  “Is Craig here? Is the body here?”

  “No,” Turner said.

  Werberg began to cry. After several minutes he took out a hanky, blew his nose, and wiped his tears. He whispered, “He can’t be dead. I saw him just last night. We had dinner. We’ve been best friends forever. My god, he can’t be dead.” His suit might be expensive, but his tie was askew and his shirt collar was crumpled on the left side. Werberg’s unshaven blue beard-shadow showed starkly against his pale skin. Turner guessed that he hadn’t shaved that morning.

  Turner said, “We’re very sorry for your loss. We know this is a difficult time, but it would help us if we could ask you a few questions. The early hours in a murder investigation are the most valuable in trying to catch the killer.”

  Werberg snuffled. “I can try.”

  Fenwick said, “We understand that you were his business partner.”

  “Yes, for many years. We—”

  Turner interrupted, “Mr. Werberg, when you found the body, why didn’t you call the police? Why did you call the mayor’s office?”

  Werberg’s face went from pale to ashen to greenish. “It wasn’t me!” he gasped.

  “We’re going down to the mayor’s office,” Turner said. “Even he cannot conceal evidence in a murder investigation. If necessary, we’ll subpoena phone records. My guess is the call came in either from this house or from a cell phone registered to your name.”

  “With computers you can erase records,” Werberg said.

  “I have no doubt you have that ability,” Turner said. “Did you take the time to do it already? It can’t be done that quickly, can it? I doubt it. Did you?”

  Werberg hunkered down on an eighteenth century settee, which was far too small to be a real couch, but too large to be a comfy chair. Turner always wondered if people actually sat in such things when they were first built centuries ago. In his ultra-modern suit, Werberg looked out of place on the maroon antique.

  Werberg began to sob, great wracking gusts of emotion that went on and on.

  Fenwick pulled up a straight back chair. Turner sat next to Werberg. He said, “Mr. Werberg, you need to tell us what happened.” He had a fleeting thought of having someone confess to a murder within seconds of bein
g questioned. His sense of reality and knowledge of human nature prevented that thought from becoming more than a passing fancy.

  Finally, Werberg drew a deep breath. He used his now sodden linen hanky and said, “We were supposed to meet at seven for breakfast and then go to work at our offices on the west side. I called earlier to confirm a few things he needed to bring along to a business meeting, but no one answered. I have the private number that bypasses the caller ID locks and the privacy manager. When he didn’t answer, I became concerned.”

  “Why?” Turner asked.

  “He was always at home very early in the morning.”

  “Maybe he ran to the grocery store.”

  “He was rich. He didn’t need to run to the store. In all the years I’d known him he’d never been late for an appointment. If he was supposed to be here, he would be here.

  “I came over. I have a key.” He ran his hanky across his forehead. Turner didn’t know if he should tell him he just smeared snot on his eyebrow. The detective touched his own forehead, nodded toward Werberg, and said, “You might want to wipe that again.”

  Finished with hygiene, Werberg resumed. “I opened the door. It was nearly seven. The house was very quiet. He always listens to jazz music when he’s home. Always. He claimed he owned every jazz CD ever manufactured. He’d even hired a woman who did nothing but hunt for obscure jazz CDs.”

  The perks of being rich, Turner thought.

  “Since there was no music, I figured he might be out. I thought I’d go up to his office, and see if he’d left a message on the computer. Sometimes he did that.”

  “I thought you said he was never late.”

  “I’m talking about a habit of leaving messages, not his ability to be on time.”

  Turner said, “If he was thinking of going out, why not just e-mail you on your computer at home and save you the trip?”

  “Well, he didn’t and normally he would have. It was kind of odd, but I wasn’t really, really worried. I certainly didn’t imagine anything horrible had happened. I began to walk through the house. The lack of noise seemed unnatural. I saw the blood in the hallway. I stopped to listen. I began to get scared. I don’t know how long I stood still. Not long, I don’t think. I don’t know why I didn’t just run away. I don’t know why I didn’t call the cops. Anyway, I looked in the bathroom, then followed the trail of blood.” Tears began to flow again, but he retained enough composure to continue his narrative. He whispered. “I called his name and approached his body. He wasn’t breathing. I touched his finger tip. He felt so still. I’d never been in the presence of a dead body. I didn’t know what to do. Finally, I just ran.”

  “Why didn’t you call nine-one-one?” Fenwick asked.

  “I didn’t, okay? I know that was wrong. I didn’t kill him; I ran. I called a friend.”

  “Who?” Turner asked.

  “A friend who suggested I call someone official and not report it directly to the police myself. It didn’t matter. I came down here anyway. I couldn’t stay away.”

  Turner stated, “You have no witnesses that you were home at the time of the murder.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  Although lack of an alibi didn’t prove guilt, Werberg was high on Turner’s suspect list. The man had made one mistake in not directly phoning the cops, but that didn’t qualify him for handcuffs yet.

  “Did he have any enemies?” Turner asked.

  “When you are rich and successful, there is always someone coming out of the woodwork to cause you trouble, but there was no one who was a personal, get even, you’re-an-evil-bastard enemy.”

  “How about your company?” Turner asked. “We heard you sold one and started another? Any problems there?”

  “Years ago we started with an Apple IIe computer. For a work table we had a door propped up by two filing cabinets. Less than ten years later, we sold that business for a billion dollars. We made a staggering profit. Who could be unhappy?”

  “Your competitors?” Fenwick said. “People who were envious of you or who felt you stepped on them on your way to the top?”

  “We were creators and engineers first, businessmen second. We were totally honest. It took imagination, drive, and hard work to get where we are. You can’t steal imagination.”

  “What about your new company?” Turner inquired. “Any rivals there?”

  “We were on the cutting edge of technology. Everyone is trying to share information and create new things. Of course, there is rivalry, but no one kills over computer software.”

  Fenwick said, “We had a woman last week who killed her husband because he watched too much ESPN. Murder for millions or billions makes a strong motive.”

  “Oh.”

  “What kind of guy was Mr. Lenzati?” Turner asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he have a lot of friends? Was he quiet and reserved, or outgoing and boisterous?”

  “Sometimes a little of each, but mostly quiet. We grew up together on the north side of Chicago. We were in all the bright and accelerated programs in every grade, attended magnet schools. Neither one of us dated much. We went to Northwestern on full scholarships. During college we worked on our computer business in a little garage we rented just outside downtown Evanston. We managed to create some desirable software and Internet connectors. It grew from there to something international and vastly profitable.”

  “What was his routine every day?”

  “It varied, like today, but mostly, we both worked at home in the mornings. We’d usually meet early in the afternoon to go over whatever projects we were working on. Then we’d go to the office to meet with project managers. Who we met with depended on what people were working on or how close they were to completion, or if they were having particular problems. The company was fiscally sound; among the best. We hired the top computer management people in the country to work for us. We even created a computer program that helped manage our money, but we liked to have humans to consult with on the business end.”

  “What particular computer things was your company involved with?” Turner asked.

  “Almost anything from the simple to the vastly complex. We designed Web sites, or worked on operating systems for big and small corporations, experimented with new software or game systems. The last few years we’ve done a lot with computer security. We did just about anything some of the best computer geniuses in the country could think of. We are a research and development company of the highest order. No project is rejected because it isn’t possible now. Who knows what could be possible in the future?”

  Turner asked, “Any particular projects that someone might think you stole or a rival might be angry about? Maybe they were coming out with the same thing, and they didn’t like what you were doing or thought you were copying theirs?”

  “No. We created. We had no need to steal ideas from anyone.”

  “We’d like you to go over some of the items in his computer lab with us,” Turner said. “Maybe explain a few things. That would be after our computer expert has gone over the room. We’d want to have him there with us.”

  “There are business secrets that I can’t reveal to you.”

  Fenwick said, “This is a murder investigation. I’m afraid you don’t have much say in what we look at of Mr. Lenzati’s. This is a crime scene. We could get a warrant if we had to.”

  “We have no business secrets that someone would kill for.”

  “But we don’t know that, do we?” Fenwick said. “You guys deal with millions, even billions of dollars. That’s plenty of money for someone to want to get their hands on, even little bits of it. Plenty enough to kill for.”

  “We had no rivals. We were the smartest creators around.”

  Turner wondered at the man’s ego. Of course, someone somewhere was probably the smartest computer person in the world. He just had a hard time believing he was in the presence of the very best.

  Fenwick said, “Maybe whoever’s in second plac
e got jealous.”

  Werberg looked frustrated. “I don’t know how many more questions I can deal with. The man who has been my best friend for thirty years is dead.”

  “Just a few more,” Turner said. “Did you have business rivals? Problems with competitors?”

  “Bill Gates had nothing to fear from us. We’ve met with him numerous times and worked on a few projects with him. He has a lot of money, and we are very skilled.”

  Tommy Quiroz entered with a portly gentleman in a dark blue suit, Burberry overcoat, white shirt, and dark blue tie. He introduced himself, “I’m Claud Vinkers, one of Mr. Lenzati’s and Mr. Werberg’s lawyers. It’s on the newscasts that Mr. Lenzati is dead.”

  “Did Mr. Werberg call you before he came down here?” Fenwick asked.

  “That, of course, is privileged information. My client is willing to cooperate in any way possible in solving this awful crime.”

  Turner suspected they’d have to wait for another time to probe into Werberg’s exact movements that morning. Cops generally hated lawyers showing up, and this was a prime example. Turner guessed Werberg knew more than he was admitting, but he doubted if they’d find anything out with the lawyer hanging around.

  Turner asked, “Do you know who Mr. Lenzati’s next of kin are, and how we might get hold of them?”

  Werberg said, “His parents live in a castle Mr. Lenzati bought for them in the south of France. I know them, and I called them before I left. They are making plane reservations and coming to this country as quickly as possible.”

  “We’ll need a list of his friends and acquaintances.”

  Werberg said, “I can put something together and get it to you tomorrow.”

  “Did he have a maid, a cook, or hired help of any kind?”

  “He had a cleaning service in two days a week,” Vinkers said. “He hired a cook for any special occasions.”

  “Who inherits all his money?” Turner asked.

  The lawyer said, “He had no direct descendants. The will is quite complex. His parents will be more than comfortably well off. The bulk of his estate goes to a number of charities or back into his current company. There are a few specific beneficiaries. I can get you a list. None of those last is over a hundred thousand dollars.”