“Doesn’t anyone in this business ever eat?” I mutter under my breath, though Sheila hears me.
She looks up at me with a patient, patronizing smile and eyes me from head to toe. “We can’t all afford the luxury of daily indulgence,” she says.
“Trust me, I don’t indulge daily,” I tell her. And it’s true. I manage to miss a few days here and there. “If I did, I’d be huge.”
The exaggeratedly embarrassed look she gives me suggests that I’ve already reached that plateau and just don’t know it yet. “Our viewing public demands the very best when it comes to beauty and fitness,” she says. “We try to maintain the highest of standards. Plus, those cameras do add a few pounds, you know.”
Based on the pictures I’ve seen of myself recently, I’m hoping it’s more than a few.
Sheila nods toward the skinny anchorwoman and says, “That’s Tasha Lansing, Callie’s replacement. She probably knew Callie as well as anyone since she worked both as her assistant and her relief anchor.”
“Was there any competition between them?” I ask, scribbling notes in my pad.
Sheila doesn’t answer right away. Instead she narrows her eyes at Tasha while brandishing a tight, thin smile. “I suppose there was a little,” she says finally. “Tasha has always been a very ambitious person. But it wasn’t cutthroat or anything like that. Everyone here knew that Callie was Ackerman’s pet project.”
“Ackerman,” I repeat. “He’s the executive producer, right?”
Sheila nods.
“Is he here?”
“I think he’s in his office,” she says. She is still watching Tasha but I notice a subtle shift in both her expression and her tone with the mention of Ackerman.
“Do you know what story Callie was working on when she was killed?”
Sheila finally tears her gaze away from Tasha and stares at me instead, looking as if she is surprised by the question. “I have no idea,” she says. “No one here does. I’ve asked. In fact, I’m not even sure she was working on a story. For all I know she was traveling up north for personal reasons.”
“Did she ever pursue stories on her own?”
Sheila shrugs. “Sometimes she would research things and then bring them to us, but Mike and I always have the final say on what does or doesn’t get aired. The only stories we’ve had her working on recently was an investigation into a local daycare center that had some abuse complaints filed against it, and a follow-up with some of the survivors from that train accident last year.”
“Did either of those stories have any connections in Wisconsin?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Great, a dead end. Sensing that I’m not going to get anything more out of Sheila, I shift my focus. “I’d like to talk to Tasha for a couple of minutes if that’s okay. Is she getting ready to go on the air?”
Sheila glances at her watch. “We have a segment we’re about to tape but I can give you five minutes.”
“That should be fine.”
Sheila walks up to the desk and speaks to Tasha, who glances at me over Sheila’s shoulder. Though I can’t hear what’s being said, Tasha nods, says something to Sheila, and then approaches me.
“Hi, I’m Tasha Lansing,” she says, extending a hand and wearing her on-the-air, two-hundred-watt smile. “Sheila said you are looking into Callie’s murder.”
“I am, yes. Do you have any idea why Callie was up in Wisconsin?”
“No,” she says, her eyes huge with innocence. “Frankly, it’s pretty rare for her to go anywhere without Jake.”
“Her son, you mean?”
She nods. “That boy is the love of her life.”
I note that Tasha is referring to Callie in the present tense and wonder if it’s significant. “So who did she leave him with when she headed up north?” I ask her, thinking perhaps this person might know more about Callie’s plans.
She shrugs. “Family I suppose.”
“By family do you mean a boyfriend, or husband? Was she living with anyone?”
“No, it’s always been just her and Jake. She does have a sister in the area, and her mom, though I gather their relationship is strained at times.”
“Is Jake’s father in the picture at all?”
Tasha shakes her head but her gaze slips away and I get a strong sense that what she’s about to say next will be something short of the truth. “Nobody knows who Jake’s father is,” she says. “Callie never talked about it.”
I recall the dynamic duo at the front desk telling me Jake is less than a year old, so I do a quick calculation in my head. Hurley said he and Callie split up a year and a half ago, which would have been right around the time she found out she was pregnant. Was that why she broke it off? Did Hurley know she had a kid? And could he be the father? Misty did say the kid had huge blue eyes.
Hoping to appeal to Tasha’s ego, I lean in close and whisper, “I’ve been told you worked very closely with Callie, that you were her protégée and main confidante.”
She shrugs dismissively and says, “I guess.” I can tell she is wary of my praise but also flattered by it so I pile it on a little more.
“I can see why they picked you to take over the main anchor role. You’ve got the beauty and the brains, and you seem to be a very keen observer. I’m guessing nothing much gets by you, does it?”
“I think I’m pretty perceptive,” she says.
“So help me out. Who do you think Jake’s father is?”
She starts to say something but then her gaze shifts over my shoulder and the high-wattage smile turns on. “Mr. Ackerman,” she says, practically cooing. “Have you met, um . . .” She hesitates and looks at me. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”
“M—” I catch myself just as I’m about to blurt out my real name. I cough to give myself a moment to recover and then, as I’m turning around to greet the wise and powerful Mr. Ackerman, I say, “Ms. Taylor.”
It’s all I can manage to get out because I am dumbstruck by the sight before me. Mike Ackerman is as stunning an example of the male species as I’ve seen in a long time: tall, broad shouldered, square jawed, and gorgeous. His eyes are the color of an October sky and rimmed with thick, dark lashes; his hair is a rich chestnut brown with gold highlights. There is an adorable cleft in his chin, a deep dimple in each cheek, and a pair of sexy, biteme lips turned up into an inscrutable smile. It’s a combination I imagine could easily melt the pants off most women.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Taylor,” he says. His voice is mellifluous and sexy, but there is a hint of humor in his tone when he repeats my name, suggesting that he is amused by my formality. His attire is casual: khaki slacks and a plain, white shirt unbuttoned at the collar with the sleeves rolled up. As he extends his hand toward me for a shake, I can’t help but notice the tanned and muscular forearm it’s attached to.
“Likewise,” I manage. I take his hand and feel an electric volt of sexual energy race up my arm.
“I understand you’re investigating Callie Dunkirk’s death,” he says, releasing me.
“Yes.” I don’t offer any more, thinking it’s probably best to say as little as possible lest I start blabbering.
“Her death has been a terrible shock and loss for us all,” Ackerman says, looking appropriately saddened, though something about it strikes me as false. “Not only was she a kind and very likable person, she was a rising star in the TV news world. Her death is a senseless, horrible thing.”
“I’m sure it’s been difficult for all of you,” I say, noticing that both Sheila and Tasha are gaping at Ackerman, looking as starstruck as I feel. Clearly the man has some powerful charisma. “Any thoughts on who might have wanted her dead, or what she was doing in Wisconsin?”
Ackerman rubs his chin in thought for a moment and I notice that he’s wearing a wedding band. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but as I’ve already told the police, I have no idea.”
I sense he is about to dismiss me so I blurt out one l
ast question, hoping to keep his attention a little longer. “Any thoughts about who the father of Callie’s son might be?”
The change in Ackerman’s expression is subtle—there and gone in a blink—but it is echoed in the nervous movements of Sheila and Tasha, who both look away suddenly, as if they can’t bear to watch. “Why would I know something like that?” Ackerman asks.
“I thought Callie might have talked about her private life.”
“Not with me,” Ackerman says. He turns and looks at the two women. Despite being unable to tear their gazes away from him a moment ago, they are now busy looking at everything but him. “Has she ever said anything to either of you?” he asks.
Sheila finally engages him and for a brief second she looks angry and bitter. But then she shifts her gaze to me, smiles, and shakes her head. “Callie kept to herself for the most part,” she says.
Tasha, who is now studying her feet with heightened intensity, says, “That’s true. She keeps—kept her professional and personal lives separate.”
Ackerman glances at his watch and says, “I’m sorry, Ms. Taylor, but that’s about all I have time for today. We have a deadline to meet and we all need to get back to work.”
Sheila takes the cue and gently nudges me toward the door with the flat of her hand on my arm. “Let me show you out.”
I want to object but sense I’m not likely to get much more information out of anyone today anyway, so I let her steer me away. As we step out into the hallway she says, “So tell me something. Are you thinking Jake’s father is someone in Washington?”
“I can’t really say,” I answer vaguely, knowing she’ll be exploring that angle the minute I’m gone.
“But you think the identity of Jake’s father might have something to do with Callie’s murder.” She isn’t asking me; she’s stating an opinion, no doubt hoping I’ll confirm it. I decide to let her draw her own conclusions.
“I’m exploring every possibility at the moment,” I tell her. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”
Judging from the storm clouds I see on Hurley’s face as I get in the car, I can tell that what he overheard isn’t sitting well with him. As soon as I close the door, he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, white-knuckling the steering wheel. I tolerate his stony silence for several blocks before caving in.
“Did you know Callie had a son?”
The muscles in his arms bulge with tension and his cheek twitches wildly. It’s several seconds before he answers me. “No,” he says through his teeth. “And I don’t want to discuss it.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, peeling off my wire.
He turns and glares at me, looking like he wants to toss me out of the car. Suddenly it’s not hard to imagine him as a killer. “Not fair?” he says. “I’ll tell you what’s not fair. Lying to someone you profess to love, that’s not fair. Keeping secrets from someone you should be able to trust, that’s not fair.” His voice rises in an angry crescendo and I pray that his ire is directed at someone other than me. “And manipulating other people’s lives is definitely not fucking fair!” he yells.
His driving is getting erratic and too fast for the suburban streets we’re on. “Maybe you should pull over and let me drive,” I suggest as gently as I can.
“Yeah, maybe I should,” he snaps irritably. With that he whips the steering wheel hard to the right and slams on the brakes as he hits the curb. Once the car is at a full stop, he jams the gearshift lever into park, leans back in his seat, and closes his eyes. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, shaking his head. “How could she do that to me?”
It’s becoming clear to me that Hurley didn’t know Callie had a child until now, and it’s equally obvious the knowledge has hurt him deeply. The pain is etched on his face, but is it the simple fact that Callie withheld the information from him, or has he made the other leap by figuring out the timing and all the possible ramifications that go with it?
“I’m sorry you’re hurting, Hurley.” He grunts but says nothing. I let him stew for another minute or two before tossing caution aside and plunging headlong into dangerous waters by asking him, “Do you think Jake could be your son?”
Chapter 18
Hurley opens his eyes and stares out the windshield. “I’m sure you did the math, the same as I did,” he says. He looks over at me. “But I can’t bring myself to believe that Callie wouldn’t have told me if she thought I was the father.”
“Maybe she had her reasons.”
“What reasons?” he shoots back, clearly irritated.
“I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t want to tie you down. Maybe she didn’t know she was pregnant until after you two split up and she had already moved on to someone else.”
He winces at that, and while it gives me pause, I know I have to push onward. One thing I’ve learned in my nursing career is that pain is sometimes a necessary part of healing.
“And maybe she didn’t say anything because it had nothing to do with you,” I suggest, offering a temporary balm. “If she broke up with you because she met someone else, maybe that someone else is the father.”
A weighted silence fills the air and just when I think I can’t stand it any longer, Hurley shifts the car into drive, looks over his shoulder to check for traffic, and pulls out onto the road.
“Change of plans,” he says. “I need to get inside Callie’s apartment.”
The look of determination on his face worries me, but his driving is reasonably sane for now so I sit quietly and wait. I have no idea where Callie lived, but it’s obvious Hurley does as he heads straight for downtown. Chicago is well-known for its traffic backups and bottlenecks, but at the moment traffic is relatively light so we manage to make pretty good time. Fifteen minutes later Hurley turns into a parking garage, grabs a ticket stub, and parks.
He undoes his seat belt and reaches for his door handle. “Stay here.”
“Unh-unh, I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.” I open my door and get out of the car before he can object again.
He gives me a perturbed look, gets out on his side, and scans the surrounding area. Then he leans on the roof of the car, looks me straight in the eye, and says, “I’m about to break the law and I don’t want you involved. I need you to wait in the car. I don’t have time to argue about it.”
“Then don’t. Besides, it’s a little late to be worrying about legalities and principles, don’t you think? You dragged me into this and I’ve got a lot on the line at this point, so I’m coming along whether you like it or not.” I fold my arms over my chest and set my jaw to show him I mean what I say.
He stares at me a moment, no doubt gauging the depth of my conviction. Apparently he decides I’m serious because he reaches into the car, pops the trunk, and then slams his door closed. “Christ, you are a stubborn woman,” he mutters. He stomps around and opens the trunk, rummages inside it, and slips something into his jacket pocket. Then he hands me two pairs of latex gloves. “Stick these in your purse,” he tells me. “We’ll need them once we’re inside but I don’t want to put them on yet because it might attract attention.”
I do as instructed and, once he has closed the trunk, follow him out onto the street. We walk several blocks until we reach one with a large four-storied brick apartment building. I follow Hurley up the stairs to the central door, which is locked. There is a number pad built into the wall next to it and after looking up and down the street, presumably to see if anyone is watching, Hurley says, “Give me one of the gloves.”
I fish one out of my purse and hand it to him. He wraps it around one finger, palming the rest of it in his hand. Then he punches in a four-digit number. The door lock releases with a little click and, still using the glove, Hurley pulls it open.
“How do you know Callie still lives here?” I ask him as we step inside.
He doesn’t answer me right away. Instead he walks over to a bank of mailboxes and scans the n
ames on each one. “I didn’t, but I do now,” he says, pointing to a label bearing the name Dunkirk. Beneath the label is the number 401.
When Hurley turns away from the mailboxes I fall into step beside him, heading for the elevator. I pull one of the gloves out of my purse and palm it the way Hurley did in preparation for pushing the button but Hurley stops me with a hand on my shoulder and says, “No. We take the stairs.”
“Why?”
“We’re less likely to run into anyone.”
He heads for the stairs and takes them two at a time, bounding up the first flight with ease. I follow along and do the same, determined to show him I can keep up. But midway up the second flight my thighs start burning like a grease fire and my heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. I switch to taking the steps one at a time, wondering if this is Hurley’s way of punishing me for insisting he bring me along.
By the time I reach the fourth floor, I’m sweating, red-faced, and puffing like a steam engine. Hurley, on the other hand, looks cool, calm, and utterly relaxed.
Apartments 401 and 402 are on one side of the stairwell, 403 and 404 are on the other. None of the doors appear to have peepholes, a lucky break for us. Another thing in our favor is the lack of police tape on Callie’s apartment door. Though there is no way to know for sure if any police have been inside the place yet, I’m betting they have.
Hurley removes the item he had slipped into his pocket earlier, which I now see is a set of small tools. Their intended purpose becomes obvious when he slips two of the tools into the lock on Callie’s door and starts jiggling them around. I expect him to get the door open inside of a few seconds, the way it always seems to go on TV. But he fiddles and cusses under his breath for a long time before we finally hear the faint click of success.
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