“Very serious,” I say. “I mean, this goes way beyond your typical payback.”
“I’ve been a cop for a long time. I’ve made a few enemies.”
“Any idea which one this might be?”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “The only one I can think of who hates me that much is Quinton Dilles, the asshole who cost me my job in Chicago. His wife was murdered and when I caught the case, I fingered him for it early on. But my efforts to prove it pissed him off and the guy is very rich and very well connected. He complained to some very important people about the way I was harassing him and the next thing I know, I’m given the option of taking a position investigating computer crimes, or quitting. So I quit and a month or so later, the new detective on the case dug up some very incriminating evidence and Dilles was arrested. His trial ended last month.”
“What was the outcome?”
“Dilles was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison. He’s in the Stateville Correctional Center down by Joliet.”
“So you weren’t the one who actually arrested him?”
“No, but Dilles has made it clear that he blames me for shining the spotlight on him in the first place. To be honest, I think the guy believed he was going to be acquitted. He’s always had a privileged, I’m-special-and-nothing-can-touch-me attitude because of his wealth and position in the community. So I’m sure his conviction and sentence came as something of a surprise to him.”
“Were you there? At the trial, I mean?”
“Not the whole thing, but I was there for the verdict and I have to admit it felt redeeming to see that bastard put behind bars.”
“I’m sure it did. But if Dilles is in prison, he can’t be the one out there trying to frame you.”
“No, not him directly anyway. But the man does have some powerful resources and money at his disposal. It wouldn’t be that hard for him to hire someone on the outside to do his dirty work.”
“It might be worth looking into.”
“It’s a long shot, but yes, I suppose it would. Listen, I’m going to take a few personal days from work. I’ll tell them I need to have some medical tests done. Richmond can take up the slack and that will free me up to do some investigating on my own. There are some people I want to see but I’d like you to function as my front man and do most of the actual talking. It will seem less official that way and besides, you have a knack for getting things out of people. For some reason they open up to you.”
“Hey, what can I say? I’m charming.”
“Hmm, yes, you are,” he says.
The subtle shift in his tone makes something in my nether regions shift. A montage of mildly X-rated images flits through my mind with me and Hurley as the stars.
“Can you get off call tomorrow?” Hurley asks. “I’d like you to go down to Chicago with me to talk to Callie’s family and coworkers, to see what we can find out.”
Mention of the stunningly beautiful woman Hurley used to date quashes my mental pornado. “I’ll have to talk to Izzy,” I tell him. “But I don’t think it will be a problem given the hours I’ve put in this weekend.”
“Good. Let’s plan to meet at the Milwaukee airport tomorrow morning at nine.”
“We’re flying to Chicago?” I say, thinking maybe Hurley killed those people after all because clearly he’s lost his mind.
“No, but we’re not driving down there in that hearse of yours either. I’ll meet you at the airport. You can park the hearse there and we’ll go the rest of the way in my car.”
“Look, I know you don’t want to be seen in the hearse and that’s fine, but why don’t we just drive your car from here?”
“Because I don’t want us to be seen together.” I’m about to take offense at that when he adds, “At least not yet. Until I can figure out what’s going on I don’t want to compromise you any more than I already have.”
I can think of any number of ways I’d like Hurley to compromise me, but I refrain from saying so.
“So here’s what we’re going to do,” he says, and then I listen as he outlines a series of steps that make me feel like the starring role in a spy movie. It all seems rather exciting and Mata Hari-ish until he finishes with a warning.
“Watch your back, Mattie. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but there are just too many coincidences happening here. And until I know exactly what’s going on and who’s behind it all, anyone involved with me or the investigation might be in danger.”
I disconnect the call and head for Izzy’s office again. This time he’s there, bent over his desk reading reports, a stack of papers and charts on either side of him.
I knock lightly on the doorframe. “Can I ask a favor?”
“Shoot,” he says without looking up.
“Any chance I can be off call tomorrow? I’d like to make a trip down to Chicago to do some early Christmas shopping.”
He looks up at me, clearly amused, probably because he knows I love shopping about as much as I would love having someone rip out my toenails. “Sure, go for it. I think a little retail therapy will do you some good.”
Shopping might be therapeutic for some women, but it only aggravates me most of the time. I grocery shop out of necessity, but I try to get in and out as quickly as possible. Even that becomes frustrating at times because the local grocer likes to rearrange the store just when I’ve memorized where everything is. And don’t even get me started on the nightmare that is clothes shopping. Until someone opens up a Sasquatch boutique for women like me with long legs, baboon arms, and ample bosoms, who wear shoes big enough to house not only the Old Woman and all her kids but five other families, clothes shopping will always be a task I loathe.
Since Izzy knows all this, I have to wonder why he’s smiling. Is he simply amused by the idea of me shopping? Or does he suspect that I’m lying to him for some reason? I again consider telling him about Hurley, but something holds me back. One more day, I promise myself. Just enough time to gather a few more tidbits of information.
Chapter 13
I find Bob Richmond in the break room of the police station finishing off the remains of a sub sandwich. Apparently he’s changed his shirt because the stained white one has been replaced with a light blue one that looks a bit worn but is at least clean.
“You need to give me your cell number,” I tell him. He does so, rattling the number off between bites. After I enter it into my cell phone, I say, “You ready to go?”
He nods, shoves the last of his sandwich in his mouth, and groans as he pushes himself away from the table and out of his chair. He moves like a man in his eighties.
“You know, if you keep eating like that you’re going to keel over of a heart attack before you hit fifty,” I tell him.
He swallows what he has in his mouth and shoots me a dirty look. I brace myself for what’s coming, cursing my inability to turn off the nurse in me, but to my surprise, Richmond’s expression softens.
“For your information, I’m fifty-three,” he says. Then he shakes his head woefully. “Look, I know my weight is unhealthy and I know the only way to control it is by not eating, but damned if I can help myself. No matter how much I eat, I never feel full. I’ve been fat my entire life and I’m too old to change now.”
“You’re never too old to change,” I say, feeling a sudden and unexpected empathy for him. I know exactly how he feels. “You just need someone to help you come up with a rigidly controlled diet and a regular exercise program.” I say this with great authority, knowing I don’t practice what I preach. As far as I’m concerned, the basic four food groups are ice cream, chocolate, fried foods, and sweets. And when it comes to any type of regular exercise program, forget it. I get all ambitious when I gain a pound or twenty and start dieting and exercising with total devotion. But it never lasts. As soon as I shed the weight, or at least most of it—I seem to regain a few pounds every year and my weight has been slowly but steadily creeping upward—I go right back to my slothful, fattening habits. And the older I get,
the harder it is to shed those extra pounds. I used to be able to do it with a couple of weeks of serious dieting and exercise. Now it takes a couple of months of near starvation and exercise, and frankly, I often don’t have the stick-to-itiveness to get through it.
Bob says, “I joined that exercise place over on Houghton Street last month but I only went once. Everyone in there is all fit and skinny and shit. I hate it.”
“You just need a buddy to go with you, someone else who isn’t perfect, so you don’t feel alone.”
He considers this, eyes me up and down, and says, “Would you go with me?”
“Me?” I squeak, both appalled and a bit offended at the idea that I’m the first person he would think of for an imperfect partner.
“I’d pay for your membership.”
“Thanks, Bob, but I don’t think so.”
“See, you’re embarrassed to be seen with me. Admit it.”
“No, that’s not it at all,” I say, wondering if it’s true. “I’m just not very good at keeping a regular schedule.”
Richmond shrugs. “I’m basically retired so I’m pretty flexible. We can fit the workouts into your schedule.”
I open my mouth to protest but hesitate because I’m not sure what other excuses I have. Plus, I don’t want to alienate Richmond too much right now because I need him to share his findings with me.
Richmond gives me a look of disgust. “So all that crap you just handed me about being healthy and eating healthy . . . that was just talk?” He shakes his head, looking disappointed. “I had you pegged as a stand-up person, someone with integrity. Clearly I was wrong. You’re as judgmental as the rest of them.”
“I’m not judging you; I’m just giving you my opinion as a nurse.”
“Bull. You’re just like everyone else. Admit it. The only reason you won’t go with me is because you’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”
“I am not.”
He gives me a disbelieving look. “Okay, you just keep telling yourself that.”
“Fine,” I snap. “I’ll go with you to the stupid gym for a while. But you’re paying for my membership.”
“I already told you I would.” He smiles and I think I see a hint of smugness there. I suspect I’ve just been played and played well, and I mentally kick myself. “We can talk about it some more later on,” he adds. “Let’s get this other nasty business out of the way first.”
He heads for the parking lot and I follow, listening to him whistle. Smug bastard. When we get to his car, I go around to the passenger side and open the door. That’s when I remember that Richmond has the contents of a small garbage Dumpster on the floor of his front seat.
“Oh, sorry about that,” he says. “Hold on a sec and I’ll clean it out.” He comes around and starts grabbing handfuls of empty fast-food containers, but with no trash bags or garbage cans anywhere close by, he has nowhere to put them. So he tosses them into the backseat.
“If we’re seriously going to do this gym thing, that shit’s going to stop right now,” I say, nodding toward the empty containers. “No more of that greasy fast-food stuff.”
For a second Richmond gives me a woeful expression, as if he just lost a very close friend.
“I mean it, Bob. If you’re going to keep eating like that, there’s no point to all of this.”
“Fine,” he says with a resigned sigh. He finishes tossing the trash into the back and brushes a few crumbs off the front seat before gesturing for me to get in.
The inside of the car smells like a mall food court and my stomach growls hungrily. I momentarily fantasize about eating a Sbarro’s pepperoni and cheese Stromboli followed by a Cinnabon classic bun smothered with extra cream cheese frosting. I can practically taste the food and it’s all I can do not to tell Richmond we should head for the nearest mall and go crazy one last time. But I contain myself, force the images away, and focus on the task at hand.
I decide to take advantage of our recent bonding by pumping Richmond for information along the way to Patricia Nottingham’s house. But I have to be quick since Nottingham’s house is only a couple of minutes away.
“Anything new on the Callie Dunkirk case?” I ask as soon as we’re under way.
“I talked with Dunkirk’s mother and sister over the phone to deliver the bad news but they didn’t have much insight to offer. I may have some guys down in Chicago take another run at them in a day or two, after they’ve had a little more time to grieve. I also talked to some of her coworkers at the TV station to see if she was working on anything that might have been dangerous, but I got nothing there, either. Apparently our Miss Dunkirk wasn’t a very sharing person. She liked to keep things to herself.
“So at this point we got nothing. We don’t know where she was killed, we don’t know why she was up here or where her car is, and we don’t have so much as a guess as to who killed her, or why.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I hate investigations like this.”
Hearing the frustration in his voice, I can’t help but wonder how angry he would be if he knew what I was keeping from him, and how quickly he’d be on Hurley as a result. Though I typically revel in being the keeper of secrets, at the moment I’m not relishing my position at all. It makes me feel like I’m walking on glass shards, gingerly taking a step at a time, knowing that a single misstep might lead to painful, irreparable damage.
As we pull onto Patricia Nottingham’s street, it’s obvious she is not only expecting us, but anxious for our arrival because she has the front door open when Richmond parks at the curb. She watches us closely as we get out of the car, no doubt searching for clues.
I smile at her as we climb the porch stairs. “Hi, Patricia. This is Detective Bob Richmond.” She acknowledges the introduction with a nod. “Here is your key back,” I say, handing it to her. “Thank you for letting me borrow it.”
She takes it and stuffs it inside her pants pocket. “Did you do the autopsy?”
“Let’s go inside and talk,” Richmond says.
Patricia waves us through the door and points to the left toward the living room. Richmond eyes the two delicate, antique chairs in the room and wisely takes a seat on the couch. I settle into one of the chairs, and Patricia takes the other one.
“You found something, didn’t you?” she asks, leaning forward eagerly, her eyes bouncing back and forth between me and Richmond before they finally settle on me.
“We did,” I say. I glance over at Richmond, unsure how much he wants me to reveal this soon, and he gives me a subtle nod. “It appears your father may have been poisoned.”
Patricia rears back, looking confused. “Poisoned? You mean like food poisoning?”
“Not exactly, no,” I say, shooting another glance Richmond’s way. He is studying Patricia intently and when he does nothing to interrupt or stop me, I continue. “It appears he was poisoned with cyanide.”
“Cyanide? How on earth could that happen?”
“Most likely someone slipped it into his food or drink,” Richmond says.
Patricia turns and looks at him, her expression horrified and even more befuddled. If she is in any way involved with this, she’s putting on a damned good show. “Why would anyone want to poison him?” she asks.
Richmond says, “You tell me.”
Patricia narrows her eyes at him. “Are you suggesting that I poisoned him?” The fierce look on her face makes that seem more possible than it did a moment ago. “I loved my father,” she says, her eyes welling with tears. “Yes, he was a cantankerous old coot at times, and yes, he could be as stubborn as a mule, but he is . . . was my father. He’s the only family I have left. And now he’s gone.”
She squeezes her eyes closed and tears course down her face. Richmond and I exchange looks and he shrugs.
“What sort of financial situation was your father in?” Richmond asks. I can tell Patricia is rankled by the question even though Richmond’s tone is less accusatory than before. “Did he have life insurance? A retirement plan? And who
is his beneficiary?”
I wince, knowing this line of questioning is only going to incense Patricia even more. There is a spark in her eye, and I brace myself for the storm to come. But her next words are surprisingly calm and measured.
“Yes, I am my father’s sole beneficiary. As I just told you, I’m his only surviving family member. He has—had a small pension. I’m not sure how much it is, but it’s been enough for him to live on because his house is paid off. He was hardly wealthy and as far as life insurance goes, he had one policy that I know of, a small one for twenty-five thousand dollars that he said he got to cover his burial expenses.”
She pauses, gets up and grabs a tissue from a box on an end table, and blows her nose. Then she looks at Richmond and says, “I am a widow. My husband died a little over five years ago but when he was younger he developed a software company that he sold for a very tidy sum. I am quite well off, thank you, and have no need for my father’s money, or anyone else’s. Anything else you’d like to know?”
The question comes out with an underlying tone of bitterness. She and Richmond engage in a twenty second stare-off before Richmond says, “Yes, there is. Can you think of anyone who had a grudge or problem with your father? Anyone who would benefit from his death? Anyone who might want revenge for some reason?”
She thinks a moment, starts to shake her head, and then stops. “Well, there was one thing but it was kind of silly really,” she says, looking sheepish. “My father had a property dispute going on with one of his neighbors and was planning to take him to court.”
I hold my breath and utter a silent prayer that she won’t continue, but she does.
“And since this neighbor is a cop, Dad was convinced the guy would get special treatment because he’d have an in with the courts. Dad kept ranting on about how he’d never get a fair trial, how it was all part of some bigger conspiracy to stomp on the little guys, and how the city’s bourgeois government was just some secret cabal determined to screw him over.” She pauses, shrugs, and gives us an embarrassed smile. “Dad could be pretty blunt and vocal at times. I know he and this neighbor were involved in a couple of shouting matches, so who knows?”
Frozen Stiff Page 9
