Political Poison by Mark Richard Zubro

Author:Mark Richard Zubro
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2011-09-28T04:00:00+00:00

The next morning Brian stumbled into the kitchen, took one look at Paul and said, “You look like hell, Dad.”

Jeff swung in on his crutches, plopped himself at his place, and opened his math book. He wanted help with some homework.

“Why didn’t you ask your brother last night?” Paul asked.

“I tried to help him,” Brian said.

“You explain it better, Dad” Jeff said. “And I missed you. I wanted you to be home.”

This was familiar territory to most cops. Their high divorce rate was a testimony to how the time demanded by their jobs affected them. Paul soothed and cuddled his younger son for an extra fifteen minutes and slipped into the squad room late for roll call.

When they finished, Turner organized the team for the day. Background checks needed to be finished. Fingerprint reports needed to be gone over. Turner held out little hope for either task being of real help. Paperwork on people interviewed needed to be completed. Plus they had more interviews to conduct.

“We need to investigate the poison and the vegetable juice,” Turner said.

“Taste probably disguised the poison,” Fenwick said. “Don’t know how anybody can drink that shit.”

“We can try to find out where he bought the stuff,” Turner said. “Might give us a clue.”

Turner called Laura Giles to see if she knew where her husband bought his juice and ingredients. She sounded groggy. Turner gave her a few minutes to wake up. When he asked his question again she said, “I have no idea. I told you I knew he was into health foods. I don’t know anything else.”

Turner called Ian at nine. His friend picked up the phone on the seventh ring and said, “This better be fucking important.”

“I have the scoop of the century for you,” Turner said.

“I don’t care. I was up late trying to seduce a twenty-one-year-old college student. The sniveling little creep strung me along for three hours, then claimed he had to go to his parents’ home and study for an exam today.”

“I’m sure you were talking to him in the name of doing vital research,” Turner said.

“Goddamn wrong. Kid was bright, articulate, witty, and cute.”

“I’d be happy to discuss your love life,” Turner said, “but I’m trying to catch a murderer.”

“I almost murdered the little creep last night,” Ian said.

“I need to talk about reform organizations and who’s got what power in the city. I need to talk to Mary Ann Eliot again. I thought we might set it up for the same time.”

Ian grumbled, but Turner told him he could sit in this time as long as the whole thing remained off the record. They agreed to meet for lunch.

Fenwick came up to Turner’s desk and said, “I’ve got the address of Jack Stimpson, the media consultant. That fucker was lying last night. He knew more than he told. I want to put some pressure on him.”

They drove to the north side address. Jack Stimpson and his wife lived in one of the trendiest and most expensive sections of Lincoln Park, on Fullerton Avenue just west of Clark.

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