Nerds Who Kill: A Paul Turner Mystery Read Free Page B

people, several in outlandish costumes. Turner saw X-Men and Star Wars characters. He spotted at least three Hulk imitators. None of them fit the size or shape he imagined the creator of the character had envisioned. He knew his sons were somewhere in the throng. All of the revelers he saw seemed content and happy.
    Fenwick pointed at the crowd. “Nobody seems out of sorts.”
    Turner said, “They must not know. I doubt if they’re the kind of people who hear awful news and decide to party. Most people aren’t.”
    Fenwick said, “Maybe these are revels without a cause.”
    Turner said, “You want the corpse count to double before we even get to the elevator?”
    “You’re jealous because you didn’t think of it.”
    “I’m picturing the story of ‘Fenwick and the Fatal Pun.’” Fenwick said, “It would sell millions.”
    “Unfortunately, probably.”
    Fenwick leaned closer. “Most of these costumes are pretty ugly.”
    Turner scanned the crowd. “They look okay.”
    “Look closer.” He pointed discreetly. “That guy is only going to win a contest if there’s a category for the largest gut in a Tarzan costume. The woman next to him should not be wearing a gauzy fairy piece of chiffon; better she be covered by a canvas tent.”
    “You’re being prejudiced about the person, not the costume.”
    “Just aesthetic judgments.”
    Turner said, “No cop has ever said the word ‘aesthetic’ before.”
    “I still get bonus points from my eighth grade teacher when I use words such as those. She was hot. I’d have done anything for her. Did I ever tell you about the outfits she wore?”
    “Several million times. I’d prefer to examine a dead body than listen to the intricate details of your sexual awakening or another one of your puns. And no, I don’t want to hear about punishment.”
    Fenwick said, “You heard the old joke about the real aliens who happened to come to Earth and land in the middle of a Star Trek convention.”
    “Do I want to?” Turner asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Maybe later.”
    David Sanchez, a beat cop they had worked with before, met them at the main elevator bank. They were not about to cause an uproar by a chance remark. They ascended to the twenty-seventh floor in silence. As they exited, Fenwick said, “We’re moving up in the world.” Sanchez and Fenwick ignored him.
    Once they were alone, Sanchez said, “We got a call at ten forty-six from the hotel. They said there was a body. When we got here, hotel security was on the scene. We moved them out and took over.”
    Outside the elevator, the corridor was empty. Sanchez led them out of the small elevator hall and down a long corridor that branched at the end. They turned left. At the farthest end of this second long corridor they saw a uniformed Chicago cop standing in front of an open door. Two people huddled around him.
    A matronly woman in the group said, “Please, I’m with the convention. I must know what is going on. Muriam is scheduled to give the keynote address to the convention in a few hours. Right now we are supposed to go to a luncheon tea reception.”
    The beat cop nodded at Turner and Fenwick and said, “You need to talk to these two. They’re in charge.”
    “I’m Oona Murkle. I’m in charge of the speakers for the luncheon and tonight’s banquet and I’m a good friend of Muriam’s. They won’t let me into her room. She was supposed to join us over an hour ago. Can you please tell me what is going on? While the tea isn’t that important, she really does need to give the speech tonight.”
    Turner said, “Ms. Murkle, we’ll get information to you as soon as we can.” She subsided. The woman equaled at least two thirds of Fenwick’s bulk. She had gray hair and wore a navy blue pantsuit that shimmered and sparkled when she moved.
    Fenwick asked, “Who’s with hotel security?”
    A man about six foot two stepped forward. He wore a wellcut light brown suit. He had brush-cut hair. “Brandon Macer.”