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  “How about Mr. Werberg here?” Fenwick asked. “Is he in the will?”

  “My client had no need for anything from Mr. Lenzati. He had nothing to gain from his death.”

  Turner said, “If the money goes back into the company, as co-owner he stands to gain a great deal.”

  “I did not kill him,” Werberg insisted.

  “How about any enemies?” Turner asked. “Do you know of any?”

  Vinkers said, “I’m not aware of any enemies. He was a great man with a successful business.”

  Werberg added, “Our dreams all came true. Why would he be dead?” He wiped more tears from his eyes.

  After Werberg composed himself, Turner said, “We’d like you to come down to the station to sign a statement.”

  “Now?” Werberg asked.

  “That would be best for us,” Turner said. He didn’t want to risk arresting the guy. They’d never get away with an accusation based on what they had so far. With any suspect, rich or poor, he didn’t want to try to get away with anything. He wanted solid forensic evidence tying a very good suspect to the crime.

  A beat cop led the lawyer and Werberg away.

  “How did you know he was the one who called?” Fenwick asked.

  “I didn’t, but it seemed logical. First, he was close to the victim. Second, to get someone to call the mayor and then the superintendent, and to get him to go outside channels means someone with lots of clout, which means bunches of money. Werberg has money. He shows up at the crime scene, a habit some killers have. He hadn’t shaved today. His shirt and tie were a mess. If he’s busy discovering a body, or upset about the body, would he have time to shave? None of that makes him a murderer, but taken together they add up to a bit more than an insight, but less than an arrest.”

  “Maybe he was up all night, or he never shaves on Fridays?”

  “I realize there’s all kind of possibilities, but why wouldn’t he be the one? It was worth a shot, and it got us information and frankly, I think a very good suspect.”

  “He should be watched,” Fenwick said. “Their company apparently benefits in a big way from Lenzati’s death. We’ll have to dig into the company’s finances.”

  Turner said, “There’s something odd about his movements this morning. There’s more there.”

  “I agree,” Fenwick said. “The part I like the best is him being able to get in. We get a fingerprint or two of him in all that blood, and we’re in great shape.”

  “He already admitted being in there,” Turner pointed out. “I don’t see how proving the accuracy of his own statement is going to help us much.”

  “I also like Girote as a suspect,” Fenwick said.

  Turner said, “I don’t think he did it.”

  “Why not?”

  “He struck me as the kind of guy who would be confessing loudly and often.”

  “The loudly part I can believe. I’m not ruling him out.”

  Turner said, “We need to find people who knew Lenzati. Let’s try the neighbors and then his office.”

  The mid-morning was cool and crisp as they began the canvass of the neighborhood. Turner knew their best hope was to find the neighborhood gossip or a shut-in.

  Judy Wilson and Joe Roosevelt, two other detectives from the squad, joined them. Roosevelt was red-nosed and short, with brush-cut gray hair and bad teeth. Judy was a fiercely competitive African-American woman. They had a well-deserved reputation as one of the most successful pairs of detectives on the force. When Turner and Fenwick met them on the sidewalk, the other two detectives were arguing over what was the proper way to hang the toilet paper roll in a bathroom.

  Turner had heard Roosevelt and Wilson raising their voices to each other about everything from the most appropriate caliber of gun a cop should keep in reserve, to the politics in the Streets and Sanitation Department in the city, to the proper method for sharpening a pencil. He figured they must take delight in disagreeing. Over the years neither had ever requested a transfer. Turner forestalled a resumption in this latest round of debates between them by diverting their attention to the case at hand.

  Turner knew the appearance of extra detectives to help with the canvass was a sure sign that the case was of major concern to the higher-ups in the city bureaucracy. A detective was lucky to have a partner to do the canvass with him, much less extra help. Pressure on the case would only continue to build with each hour they didn’t make an arrest.

  “What have you guys got so far?” Roosevelt asked.

  “A lot of blood,” Fenwick said.

  “We heard you got a no brainer late yesterday,” Wilson said.

  Turner said, “A killer confessing to everything except the Lindbergh kidnapping and taking a shot at JFK.”

  Fenwick said, “I could have kissed her.”

  Roosevelt chanted, “Fenwick and a suspect sitting in a tree, k-i-s—”

  “Cop humor,” Turner interrupted. “Some of the finest and most sophisticated wit on the planet.”

  “Let’s get this done,” Fenwick said.

  bust the neighbors on either side of the house north and south were not at home. At a mansion across the street they found three housekeepers who had seen nothing. At the fourth house, catty-corner from Lenzati’s, they had better luck. A decidedly pregnant woman in her mid-twenties answered the door. She held a child of about three. The detectives introduced themselves and showed their identification.

  “I’m Amanda Veldon. Is it true that Craig Lenzati is …” She glanced at the child in her arms. “Is he?”

  Turner said, “We’d like to ask you a few questions, about your neighbor.”

  “I didn’t really know him.”

  “Any little bit would be helpful.”

  She led them into the house. She placed the child on the floor amid a scattering of toys. She and the detectives sat in comfortable chairs a few feet away.

  “Mr. Lenzati is dead,” Turner spoke softly so the child would not hear the news.

  “How awful. What happened?”

  “We’re trying to build a profile of the victim,” Turner said. “That often helps in solving these cases. What can you tell us?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. We just moved in a month ago. My husband was transferred here from Puerto Rico.”

  “Does he work in the computer business?” Fenwick asked.

  “No. He’s in sales for a satellite dish company. He might make vice president in just three years.”

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

  “We knew of him. We’d never actually met. This is a pretty quiet neighborhood and pretty exclusive. You don’t expect neighbors to bring pies across the street.”

  “Did you see him coming and going?”

  “Every once in a while. I take Todd”—she pointed at the child—“out for strolls quite often. He likes to get out and see things and explore.”

  “Anyone in particular show up, or one particular car that you noticed?”

  “No one, really. Except that famous partner of his in that computer business. They made all that money.”

  “Anything at all unusual that you ever noticed?”

  “Well, I’m not sure, but with this pregnancy, I’ve been up late a lot. Mike, my husband, has been so sweet …”

  Turner let her ramble for several moments before bringing her back. “You were talking about late nights?”

  “Yes. It was odd. A few times he had late visitors around two, three, even four in the morning.”

  “Did you see anyone last night?” Turner asked.

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m just grateful when I do sleep through the night.”

  “Any regulars?” Turner asked. “Anyone you recognized, or would recognize again?”

  “His partner. I think I saw him once. I didn’t recognize anyone else.”

  “Were these men or women?”

  “Women. Usually young women who seemed happy.”

  “Happy?” Turner asked.

  �
�Well, that kind of giggly drunk, that so often sounds more like fake happiness.”

  “Were these individuals or groups?” Turner asked.

  “Once it was a group. The other times, just one.”

  She knew no more. They left.

  “He had intimate little parties,” Fenwick said. “Not a big motive for murder.”

  Turner said, “I thought not being invited to parties was the big problem.”

  “Maybe the rich are different. We’ll have to ask Werberg about parties.”

  Continuing along the block, they found two more not-at-homes for which they would have to return. At three homes farther down the block no one had noticed anything. Apparently in this wealthy enclave you often drove through your security gate and then ignored the rest of the world. Turner and Fenwick rendezvoused with Roosevelt and Wilson, who hadn’t learned anything helpful either. They returned to their car.

  5

  Technology makes it so much easier to find and kill victims. I love gathering information about people I don’t know. I love knowing that which they think is secret about their lives. Computers are wonderful in the way they let anybody intrude, and I am more “anybody” than anyone they are ever going to have to deal with.

  “Let’s try his company,” Turner said.

  “A secret computer cabal,” Fenwick said, “doing mystical things with machines that Bill Gates hasn’t even dreamed about. I like that as background and even more if it lends us a motive.”

  “I still think Bill is innocent. I doubt if he came to town and committed murder, and he probably wouldn’t like you mentioning his name.”

  “When he talked to me last night, he said I should tell you hello.”

  “Don’t applaud, just send money,” Turner said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “That what you’re telling me is a crock, but I’m too polite to mention it. Or that you’ve told that type of joke so many times that it’s too stale to trigger an intelligent response.”

  “You ask me if I’ve got problems, and here you are disparaging my jokes.”

  “I always disparage your jokes. You’re just depressed enough today to notice.”

  Fenwick thought about that a moment. “Oh.”

  As they waited for the light at Balbo and Lake Shore Drive, Turner said, “You were kind of touchy about that reporter’s article. I thought you said you were going to ignore it.”

  “It was crap. I hate useless speculation. A cop serial killer? Bullshit.”

  Turner said, “Seven killings? That’s an awful long string to simply be a set of coincidences. He seemed to have a lot of data. Is it that you don’t believe it’s possible, or you don’t want it to be possible?”

  “How much choice do I really have?” Fenwick replied.

  “He drew some logical conclusions.”

  “Then how come no cop anywhere has noticed?” Fenwick asked. “They can’t all be that stupid.”

  “We didn’t notice it,” Turner said.

  “We don’t live in those cities.”

  “Neither did they, before there was a killing in one,” Turner pointed out. “I think I know why they didn’t notice. The reason is simple. How many cops in this country die in the line of duty every year?”

  “An average of one hundred fifty-nine in the last five years, and half of those because of high-speed chases or being hit by cars, stuff like that.”

  “Where do you get those statistics?” Turner asked.

  “I like to know my odds.”

  Turner said, “We only read about the deaths here. I only know a few cops in other cities. No. one we know has died. Even if we did, we’d know about deaths in one city and not the others. Relating them from city to city and presuming they are a connected string is probably a stretch of the imagination. The operative word is probably.”

  “I know that. I just didn’t want to be reminded about it.”

  Turner and Fenwick dined on take-out burgers from the Area Ten cops’ new favorite take-out burger place, Beef on the Hoof, just south of Roosevelt Road on Canal Street. The burgers were three quarters of a pound and mounded with cholesterol-infested extras. Fenwick claimed the fried onion rings were the best in the city. Certainly they gave a larger glop of them than any Turner had ever seen.

  After grabbing the burgers and eating on the run, they headed for Lenzati and Werberg’s company.

  Fenwick said, “I can’t stay that late today. I’ve got places to be.”

  “Any place special?”

  “Places.”

  Turner let it go. Fenwick would tell him whatever it was eventually.

  Turner used his cell phone to call the local police district and arrange for officers to help with some of the interviews. The address they had for the offices of Lenzati and Werberg, Incorporated was on Austin Avenue just inside the city limits from Oak Park. A gargantuan Victorian mansion, housing the executive offices, was linked to an immense array of ultra-modern buildings constructed with vast quantities of glass and gray steel. Carved wooden beams made a canopy over the entrance to the mansion. A red and yellow, hand-painted sign on the solid oak door read,

  THE BELL WORKS, BUT EVERYBODY’S WORKING REAL HARD AND WON’T HEAR YOU, SO COME ON IN ANYWAY.

  Fenwick pointed to the sign. “Not a very prosy bunch.”

  “Trying to be down home, realistic, and fanciful at the same time. It just doesn’t ring or scan.”

  “You a poetry critic?” Fenwick asked.

  “Nope, just a cop.”

  The interior looked more like a frat house inhabited by a herd of particularly messy buffaloes than the entrance to a multi-million or billion dollar company. From out-sized sheets to piles of confetti, paper was strewn over everything. Numerous computers flashed dazzling screen-saver graphics. Against the walls from floor to ceiling was more chaos—stacks of printouts, stacks of paper, shelves filled with office supplies in original packets, mostly unopened cardboard boxes, and enough wiring scattered about to run a cable to Europe and back. Occasional breaks in the mess revealed floors of solid oak, walls of burnished walnut, and paintings that Turner thought might be authentic Picassos. He wondered at the nerve or stupidity of having such valuable artwork in an area where anyone could walk off with it. What kind of security did they have?

  No one sat at what could be assumed to be a reception desk. They heard a murmur of voices emanating from down a wainscoted hallway.

  Turner and Fenwick followed the sound. In a room thirty feet down the hall, four men and two women were gathered around a computer screen. They were arguing. The detectives stopped to listen.

  “Just pick up the phone and call.” It was a woman’s voice.

  “Call who?” a male voice.

  “We can find all we need to know on the Internet,” another male voice.

  “All we’re getting is nutty rumors. Each one crazier than the last. The Internet is bullshit.”

  “They all agree he’s dead.”

  This silenced them for several moments until another one asked, “Where is Brooks? Is he okay?”

  “The reports are mixed.”

  “Our stock is plummeting.”

  “How can you think of a thing like that at a time like this?”

  “I’m not dead.”

  “How dare you?”

  “Excuse me,” Turner said.

  They all turned from the computer screen. Turner said, “I’m Detective Paul Turner. This is my partner, Buck Fenwick.” They held out their identification. Several of those in the room moved closer to inspect the IDs. Turner said, “We need to talk to whoever’s in charge.”

  The crowd looked at a skinny guy in glasses. He stepped forward. “I’m Terry Waldron, the CEO. What’s happened?” He wore faded blue jeans that fit poorly on his lanky frame. His rumpled flannel shirt was frayed at the elbows; and the buttons at the end of the. sleeves were unbuttoned. He wore heavy work boots, a narrow black tie, and a grim smile.

  Turner said, “Mr. Lenz
ati is dead. Mr. Werberg is fine. We need to speak with everyone who worked directly with Mr. Lenzati. We’ll need a list.”

  Stunned silence enveloped the assemblage. Turner saw pale faces, several fighting back tears, several more not bothering to fight them back.

  Interviewing strangers was one of the oddest parts of the job of a cop. Often you were talking to people at one of the most emotionally critical moments of their lives. The ability to talk to people was an unmentioned but stunningly vital part of a detective’s job. Most of the time you had to speak with frightened or hostile people before you got to a killer. Empathizing with the emotionally overwrought was difficult. Knowing how to handle all of them in any kind of situation was tricky at best, dangerous at worst. You never knew which of the emotionally charged might turn on you. A bad cop presumed he knew how to handle all such situations. A good cop knew you never stopped learning.

  The very oddest part of the job to Turner was still the viewing of the dead bodies. Turner assumed it would always affect him. He hoped he’d realize when it didn’t and quit.

  “Hold on, now, hold on,” a woman in her early twenties said. There were only two women in the group. This one wore a faded denim skirt, a white blouse, and white walking shoes. “We knew and worked with Craig Lenzati. You come barging in here uninvited and now you’re demanding information. We’re all grieving. We’re all …” She drew several deep breaths. “We were all close to him. We cared about him. This is impossible. This is …” She stopped.

  “We know it’s tough,” Turner said.

  “He was murdered?” Waldron asked.

  “Yes,” Turner said.

  The woman who spoke said, “How could we possibly know anything about murder?”

  Turner said, “Statistics prove that a person is most likely to be killed by someone they knew. When we interview everyone, we begin to get a sense of his life, who he knew, who didn’t like him, who might have wanted to kill him.”