“By the way,” I say, “Hoover here is part Lab. Did you know that Labs have such an exquisite sense of smell they can actually sniff out cancer in its earliest stages? Or predict when someone is going to have a seizure?”
Mom’s eyebrows arch at this. “Really?” she says with newfound curiosity. Hoover thumps his tail and grins at her, as if he understands she’s softening toward him. A shadow materializes behind Mom and Hoover’s tail thumps even faster as the shadow morphs into William-not-Bill.
“Hi, William,” I say with genuine warmth. Even though my date with him was an unmitigated disaster, deep down he seems to be a nice, decent guy. I like him and, more important, Mom seems to like him, though given her track record with men, I’m not sure this is a point in his favor.
“Hi, Mattie,” William says, his eyes focused on Hoover. “Who have you got here?”
“This is Hoover,” I say, and then I stiffen, recalling that William is deathly allergic to cats—one of the things that contributed to our first date disaster—and wondering if he might have a problem with dogs, too. I’m ready to pull Hoover back when William squeezes past my mother, squats down, and gives Hoover a little scratch beneath his chin.
“Hey, boy,” he says. “You’re a cutie, aren’t you?”
Hoover inches closer. Seconds later his nose is nestled in William’s crotch and he’s so happy his whole butt is wagging—Hoover’s that is, though William looks pretty content, too.
“Is he yours?” William asks me.
“He is,” I tell him. “I found him by a gar—” I catch myself before letting it slip that I found the dog next to a Dumpster. To my mother and William, that would be akin to saying the dog had rolled in toxic nuclear waste. “I found him behind a grocery store, begging for food,” I say. “I ran an ad in the lost-and-founds but no one answered. So I guess he’s mine for now.”
“He’s very cute,” William says.
Mother is frowning at the two of us as if we’re plotting against her. “Mattie wants to leave that creature here with us tomorrow,” she says, practically spitting the words out. “But I don’t need some dirty mongrel shedding and drooling all over my house.”
“I’ll bathe him tonight to make sure he’s extra clean,” I tell her. “And he’s quite healthy.”
“Come on, Jane,” William says, staring at Hoover with a smitten look. “It’s only for one day.”
Mother’s frown deepens. “Is he housebroken?”
“Absolutely,” I assure her. “He’ll let you know if he has to go and I promise I’ll poop-scoop anything he leaves in your yard when I pick him up tomorrow.”
“Fine, but just this once,” Mom says, acquiescing at last. William claps his hands together like a little kid.
“Thanks, Mom.” I lean over and give her a kiss on the cheek, which she promptly wipes off with the cuff of her blouse. Though she looks guilty for making the gesture, I know she can’t help herself. Sometimes I wonder how she ever managed to conceive Desi and me. Sex is about as messy an activity as there is between two humans, and when one of them can’t stand the thought of having someone else’s spittle on her cheek, it’s hard to imagine how any of her four husbands ever managed to score a home run. Despite my efforts to stop it, my brain makes the leap to wondering if William and Mom are doing it, and if so, how these two germaphobes deal with all the wonderful messiness that is sex. An image of the two of them outfitted in giant head-to-toe condoms that have a few strategic openings makes me smile. Then the ick factor of thinking about my mother and sex in any form hits me, and I quickly shift gears.
After leaving Mom’s house, I head back home and haul Hoover into the bathroom. Half an hour later he is thoroughly sudsed, scrubbed, and rinsed within an inch of his life. Hoping to further enhance his foo-fooiness, I work a bunch of hair conditioner into his fur and let it sit for a bit before rinsing that out, too. Rubbish sits on the side of the bathroom sink watching the entire affair with an air of disdain, though he briefly gets into the flow of things by licking his paw a few times and smoothing down his facial hair.
By the time I’m done, Hoover smells divine, feels soft and fluffy, and looks utterly humiliated. I’m pretty pleased with the results until he goes to the door and whines to be let out. As soon as the door’s open, he runs off to a patch of dead leaves, melted snow, and mud, flops onto his back, and starts doing the doggie version of the Macarena. By the time he’s done, he bears a strong resemblance to Swamp Thing but he looks much, much happier.
I decide to let him have his dignity for tonight, knowing that come morning I’ll have to bathe and humiliate him all over again. But I make him spend the night on the floor on a towel rather than in bed with me.
“Might as well get used to it,” I tell him as he tries to soften me up with his big, soulful, woeful, puppy-dog eyes. “If I ever get lucky again, this bed won’t be big enough for all of us.”
Chapter 15
Bright and early the following morning I let Hoover out before I throw him back into the tub. One wash and blow-dry later, I drive him over to Mom’s and drop him off, leaving a bag of food and his bowls since I know Mom would never let an animal drink or eat out of any dish she owns. I’m amused to see William’s car is still there, and given the hour, I suspect he spent the night, especially since I don’t see any sign of him inside the main part of the house.
I stay long enough to set up Hoover’s food and water in the kitchen, where the surfaces and floor are cleaner than the operating rooms I used to work in. Out the window I can see that Mom’s backyard is a slushy, muddy mess and I grimace, knowing that Hoover will be tracking it in anytime he’s let out. Before Mom has a chance to realize the same thing, I thank her and hurry off.
After nearly an hour and a half on the road, I arrive at the airport ten minutes before the appointed time and pull into the long-term parking lot. I’m not sure why Hurley wanted me to park here rather than in the short-term area, but he was pretty specific about it. As I drive up and down the aisles looking for a spot, I catch several people staring at me and realize Hurley was right; my car is not the most inconspicuous one in the world. I can’t help but wonder what’s going through these people’s minds as they watch a hearse cruise up and down the long-term parking lot.
I finally find an empty space, pull in, and shut the engine off. Per Hurley’s instructions, I get out, lock the car, and head for the Southwest Airlines terminal. Before I can cross the road where everyone is loading and unloading, Hurley’s car glides up in front of me and his window slides down. “Get in,” he says.
I run around the front of the car and settle in on the passenger side. As we pull away, I buckle my seat belt and glance over at Hurley’s chest, then at his lap.
When he catches my gaze, he flashes me a salacious grin and cocks one eyebrow.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I tell him. “I was checking to make sure you had your seat belt on.”
“I do.”
“Well, sort of. I don’t think having the chest strap behind you like that works very well.”
“I’m sorry. Did I miss something?” he says, his voice rife with sarcasm. “Did someone promote you to seat belt compliance officer and forget to tell me?”
“Ha-ha, very funny, smartass. I’m a nurse, remember? And I’ve seen what happens to people who are too stupid to wear their seat belts. Besides, it’s the law, you know.”
Hurley pulls aside his jacket to show me that he’s wearing his gun in a shoulder holster. “The shoulder strap interferes with this,” he says, gesturing toward the gun with his chin. “Okay?”
I shrug. “Whatever.”
As we leave the main part of the airport, I notice video cameras mounted on the roof of the overhang fronting the terminal. “This place has cameras everywhere,” I tell Hurley. “It wouldn’t be that hard for someone to verify that we met here.”
“True, but hopefully they won’t have any reason to suspect that we met up at all. And if they do, the airport isn’t exactly the most l
ogical place to look.” He shrugs. “I know it’s not perfect, but it was the best I could come up with for now.”
“So where are we headed exactly?”
“Did you bring the items I told you to?”
I fish in my purse and pull out a steno notebook and pen. “Okay?” I say, and he nods. “Good. Now would you please answer my question?”
“The first place we’re going is the TV station where Callie worked. I want you to talk to her coworkers there and see if you can find out what it was she was doing up in our neck of the woods. See if anyone knows what story she was working on.”
“Okay, but Richmond said he already did that and no one knows anything.”
“That’s because Richmond’s a cop and TV people are funny when it comes to cops. They tend to get tight-lipped around us because we have a history of ruining their stories. They might tell you things they wouldn’t tell a cop, especially more personal stuff, like whether or not Callie was dating anyone.”
His tone as he utters this last bit sounds irritated and I look over at him, studying his expression. The muscles in his cheek are twitching and his brows are drawn down into a frown.
“How long were the two of you together?” I ask. Part of me shudders at the thought of having to listen to him talk about a woman he once cared for and presumably slept with. But another twisted, masochistic part of me wants to know every gory, painful detail.
“About a year,” he says, staring straight ahead.
I wait, hoping he’ll offer more but his reticence outlasts my curiosity. “Why did you break up?”
He hesitates, taking one hand from the wheel and running it through his hair. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “She was the one who ended it, and to be honest, I never saw it coming. One day she just called up out of the blue, said the relationship wasn’t working for her anymore, and she wanted to part ways.” His hand goes back to the steering wheel and his knuckles turn white with his grip. “I tried to get her to talk to me about it but she refused. She kept saying it would be best if we cut things off quickly and fully. That way we wouldn’t stain all our good memories with the petty and hurtful detritus”—he lets go of the wheel long enough to make little finger quotes in the air—“that so often accompanies a breakup.”
The hand gesture, along with the sarcastic, singsongy tone in his voice suggests he is quoting this last line from memory, and not a happy one.
“Detritus?” I echo. “She actually said detritus?”
“Yeah,” he says with a laugh, though it sounds bitter. “She loved words—the bigger and fancier, the better.”
Clearly Callie’s cavalier dismissal of him and their relationship pissed him off, a slight I’m beginning to think he never got over. The thought of him still aching and pining for Callie triggers a little stab of pain to my heart, but masochistic Mattie can’t resist one more question and I brace myself for the answer. “Were you in love with her?”
He hesitates a few seconds and then shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe,” he admits. “But it happened a long time ago and it’s all in the past now. Besides, it hardly matters anymore, does it?”
It matters to me more than I like and I sense Hurley knows it. So I say nothing, gazing out my side window at the passing scenery instead. We ride that way for several minutes, the awkward silence a wobbly rope bridge gapping the rift between us. When Hurley speaks again it’s on a new subject.
“So our first stop today is the TV station where they film Behind the Scenes. I want you to talk to Callie’s coworkers to see what you can dig up,” he says again.
“Except that degree of investigation is a bit outside my job description,” I say. “All that interviewing and investigative stuff falls more into your territory or, in this case, Bob Richmond’s. And he’s already spoken to them. What happens if Richmond talks to them again and they mention the fact that I’ve been there? Isn’t that going to look a bit . . . fishy?”
“It will,” he concedes, “which is why you’re going to use a fake ID and say that you’re a private investigator hired to look into Callie’s murder.”
I shoot him a look of incredulity. “You want me to lie to them?”
“Yeah.”
I continue staring at him, slack-jawed and disbelieving.
“What?” he asks.
“I can’t believe you want me to lie to a team of investigative journalists. Sniffing out the truth is what they do best.”
He dismisses my concerns with a little pfft. “You’ll do fine,” he says.
“Yeah, right.” I punctuate my skepticism with a roll of my eyes.
“Trust me, Mattie. You can do this. Based on my past experience, I have every confidence that you can lie quite convincingly.”
He’s referring to the first case we ever worked together, one that involved the murder of my husband’s paramour. When I realized David and I were both at the top of the suspect list, I withheld certain information until I could sort things out on my own. When Hurley figured it out, he was rather ticked.
“I never out-and-out lied to you, Hurley. I simply didn’t tell you everything right away.”
“Sorry, but I fail to see the distinction.”
“You’re just angry that I didn’t share everything with you immediately.”
“And you’re doing it again.”
“What do you mean?”
“This thing you did, sneaking one of my hairs out of my house so you could compare it.”
Oh, that. “Come on, Hurley. I have a right to be cautious. We’ve only known each other for a few weeks and given what you’re asking me to do, I think it’s smart of me to be careful. Besides, if I didn’t trust you, would I be sneaking around like this, leaving no trail of where I’ve gone and who I’m with? If you wanted to do me in, now would be the perfect time.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he grumbles.
I fold my arms over my chest and turn back to view the scenery, letting him sulk. After a long period of stony silence, Hurley says, “I’m sorry. I seem to be edgier than usual lately what with everything that’s happened.”
“Apology accepted.” I let my arms fall to my sides. “And I suppose it’s understandable, given the circumstances. I’m sure Callie’s death has hit you particularly hard.”
He nods but says nothing, and just as I’m starting to relax, thinking a détente has been reestablished, he blindsides me.
“So as long as we’re discussing exes, mind if I ask where things are with you and David?”
“They’re progressing,” I say vaguely.
“Progressing how?”
“I have a lawyer. She drew up separation papers and is prepping for the divorce filing.”
“Did David sign anything?”
“Not yet. But it doesn’t matter,” I say with more conviction than I feel. “I’m going ahead with things no matter what he does.”
Hurley nods slowly and I hope it means he’s ready to let the subject drop, but then he asks, “Is he still making overtures toward reconciliation?”
I start to squirm. David has been frustratingly reticent to move ahead with this divorce thing and I’ve been a bit ambivalent myself at times. “I don’t want to talk about David,” I say firmly, hoping to eliminate any doubt in his mind that I am done with the topic. “The way the two of you keep pressuring me makes me want to turn tail and run before one of you whips it out and pees on me to mark your territory.”
Hurley shoots me a glance and says, “Sorry. I didn’t realize I was hitting such a sensitive nerve.”
“Let’s focus on the task at hand, okay? I’m nervous about these upcoming interviews and since you’re the ace investigator, how about giving me some guidelines on what questions I should be asking?”
“There’s no need. I trust your instincts.” His compliment has me preening for a moment, but then he adjusts his sights and blows all my feathers off. “You seem to do very well when you stick your nose into things. So just do what you usually do. Be nosy and per
sistent.”
Chapter 16
The TV station where Callie Dunkirk worked is located in a rectangular brick building situated on the edges of a suburban neighborhood filled with small, older homes. There is a definite institutional look about the place and given that the word GYMNASIUM is stained into the brick above a door at one end, I’m guessing it was once a school. Its current use is equally as obvious, not only from the station logo emblazoned above the front entrance, but from the giant radio tower looming behind the building and the two satellite trucks in the front lot.
Hurley parks a ways down the street, shuts the engine off, and turns to face me. “Here,” he says, pulling a thin billfold and a cell phone from his jacket pocket and handing them to me. I flip open the billfold and find an Illinois private investigator’s license in one side pocket, and an Illinois driver’s license in the other. Though the driver’s license has my picture and stats on it, both it and the PI license bear the name Rebecca Taylor. “Just in case they ask you for some ID.”
“Who is Rebecca Taylor?” I ask. “And how did you get her PI license?”
“The license is mine,” Hurley explains. “When I left the Chicago police force I needed a way to make some quick money. So I got a PI license.”
“But this license has the name Rebecca Taylor on it,” I say. “Is there some big secret about your private plumbing you haven’t told me yet?”
“No, I haven’t had a sex change,” he assures me. “Rebecca Taylor is a name I made up for you. I didn’t use my PI license very long because I got hired by the Sorenson PD pretty quickly. So I figured we could use it now to give you an in with the folks down here. I just had it altered a bit.”
I peer down at both licenses, trying to discern the changes, but the documents look pristine. “Impressive work,” I say. “How is it you know how to do something like this?”
He flashes an enigmatic smile. “I was with the Chicago PD for fifteen years and met a lot of talented lawbreakers during that time.” He shrugs. “I still have a few connections.”
Frozen Stiff Page 11
