Sex and Murder.com: A Paul Turner Mystery by Mark Richard Zubro Page A

dilemma not of his own making.
    Smythe apologized again. “I’m sorry. I screwed up a few minutes ago. I shouldn’t have asked you the way I did.”
    “No, you shouldn’t have.”
    “Will you?” Smythe pleaded and placed his hand on Turner’s arm.
    Paul allowed the contact for a moment, then gently pulled away and said, “I’ll think about it,” and strode carefully back down the stairs.
    Turner was furious with Smythe. Despite the apology, the position the young detective had put him in was a nasty one. The blue wall of silence was very real: if you saw something, you kept silent; if forced to speak, you supported your own. Smythe had known exactly what he was doing. Taking back the implied threat was useless. It hung there as soon as Turner was asked, and would be there until Smythe’s case was decided. And if Turner made the wrong decision, it could affect the rest of his career in the department. Being a gay cop was one thing. Being thought of as a traitor was another.
    As Turner resumed his seat, Mrs. Talucci asked, “Who was that? I thought it might be that Dwayne Smythe that’s being investigated.” Mrs. Talucci was addicted to television news shows, listening to interviews on NPR, reading three newspapers a day, and indulging in tawdry neighborhood gossip. She would recognize Dwayne from photos in the media. She knew details of current events, whether of revolutions in remotest Moldavia or the birth of a baby in the neighborhood. She knew the names of more foreign leaders than George W. Bush, which wasn’t all that difficult a trick.
    Paul knew he could avoid her question, and Mrs. Talucci would not pursue it, but he said, “Dwayne wants me to speak on his behalf, to be a character witness.”
    Mrs. Talucci nodded. “A tough position to put you in. Have you decided what to do?”
    “As little as possible,” he replied.
    Turner saw his reporter friend, Ian Hume, stride down the stairs. As always, Ian wore his slouch fedora. Ian was a reporter for the local gay newspaper, the Gay Tribune. He and Paul had attended the police academy together. For a short while after Paul’s wife had died, they had been lovers.
    Ian had claimed he wanted to go to the reading out of a perverse desire to watch cops attempt to be literary. Paul wasn’t sure about his motives, but was glad for the additional company.
    Ian pulled up a chair behind him and leaned close. “My sources say you are investigating the Lenzati murder.”
    “And who would those sources be?” Turner asked. It was a ritual with the two of them, the claiming of an unnamed source and the asking for the name.
    “I have information for you,” Ian said.
    “That’s a switch,” Paul said.
    “You are annoyed tonight.”
    “I don’t want to be here.”
    “I do. I found out this afternoon that there’s a young guy in the gay cop group who’s supposed to be really hot. Apparently, he’s not a very good poet, but he is reading tonight.”
    “I figured there was some stud at the bottom of your motivation.”
    “Isn’t there always? And what better motivation could there be to attend a poetry reading? You’re probably the only gay cop who isn’t a poet.”
    “For which I am grateful.”
    “You don’t like poetry?” Ian asked.
    “It’s nice, in its place. I just wish its place wasn’t where I was. I feel the same way about opera.”
    “I know. We’re worried about you. Not liking opera may cause us to confiscate your gay ID card.”
    “Will I have to give back the toaster?”
    “Probably. At least you aren’t a gay poet.”
    “What’s wrong with being a gay poet?” Turner asked.
    “I didn’t say anything about right or wrong. It’s just there are few people on the planet more pretentious than gay men who write poetry and take it seriously.”
    Turner said, “I don’t think I know any openly gay poets.”
    “It’s a quirk in their gay genetic code. You have to know how to look for it.”
    “I thought there wasn’t a gay