My mind is a whirlwind of questions and worries, wondering what the hell I should do now that Hurley is in custody. I push the Lexus’s gas supply to its limits by going another ten miles down the road before I exit. Once I have the tank filled and my bladder emptied, I get back on the road and start filling my own tank with my just purchased items: a package of shortbread cookies and a cup of coffee that tastes like it’s been on the burner for a month, making me wonder if the person who made it got the coffee mixed up with the cleaning products.
I turn on the radio and scan the frequencies for local stations, hoping to hear some news about Hurley’s arrest. After suffering through half an hour of a country station and being forced to listen to twangy male singers whine about the women that done them wrong, my head feels like it’s going to explode.
I consider altering my plans and heading back home to Sorenson, but quickly discard the idea. I have a feeling it will be difficult to explain away my recent car theft, not to mention my aiding and abetting of a suspected murderer. Feeling trapped and frustrated, I eventually decide to stick to the original plan and continue on toward Smith’s office, hoping it will lead to something.
It’s nearing seven o’clock at night when I finally arrive in Chicago. I find the nearest parking garage I can to Smith’s office, but it’s still nearly seven blocks away. After a moment of debate, I leave the gun stashed under the seat before taking to the streets on foot. I’m not a fan of the early darkness that comes with Wisconsin winters—after a few weeks of it I start to feel like I’m living in a postapocalyptic world—but I’m grateful for it now for two reasons. One, it makes me feel less conspicuous as I skulk along the sidewalks. And two, it makes the people inside lighted buildings very easy to see.
Smith’s building is a four-story office complex, and since his address includes a suite number of 101, I assume his office is on the first floor. This is confirmed when I see Smith—recognizable from the picture I printed—through one of the first-floor windows. He and a heavyset black woman are seated in an office facing one another, Smith talking, the woman writing on a legal pad. I head inside and discover that Smith’s firm—which consists of three other lawyers—shares the floor with a dental office, which looks dark and deserted.
The outer door to Smith’s office is closed and locked but it and the surrounding walls are made of glass and I can see that several lights are on. There is a receptionist’s desk near the entrance but it’s empty. Behind the desk are a half-dozen doors, most of which are closed. But two of them—an empty office straight ahead and the one I saw from outside—are open with the lights on.
I knock as loud as I can, first on the door, then on the window. After several attempts, the woman I saw from outside finally comes out and stares at me through the glass.
“I need to speak to Connor Smith,” I yell through the glass when it becomes obvious she isn’t going to just open the door. “It’s urgent.”
The woman turns around and heads back to the office. Thinking she is ignoring me, I pound on the glass again and she reappears a second later with Smith on her heels. This time he approaches and when he sees me, I get the distinct impression based on his expression that he is both wary and surprised by my appearance, though I can’t be sure why. Then I realize that a strange woman pounding on your locked office door late on Thanksgiving Eve is reason enough, especially when you’re in the business of defending criminals.
Smith, who I note disappointedly is nearly as tall as I am, making him as unlikely a suspect as Hurley, stares at me for a few seconds and then unlocks the door.
“Can I help you?” he asks with a slick, practiced smile that reminds me of Lucien.
“I need to speak with you about a very important matter,” I say vaguely.
“I’m sorry, but the office is closed for the holiday,” he says. “If you like, my assistant, Trina, can schedule an appointment for you.”
“I don’t need an appointment,” I tell him. “I need to speak with you.”
He gives me a quizzical look and then says, “May I ask what this is in reference to?”
“Quinton Dilles.”
If I’m hoping for some kind of reaction from Smith, I’m disappointed. Trina, however, shoots Smith a nervous look and starts chewing on the side of her thumb.
Smith issues forth an irritated sigh and says, “Very well, I’ll give you five minutes but that’s all I have time for. I’m prepping for a big case I’m working on.”
Score one for Smith for communicating his importance to me and letting me know he considers me a peon barely worthy of his time and trouble.
He directs me into the reception area and points toward his office. “Go in and have a seat. I’ll be right there.” Then he turns to Trina and says, “Pull up the case law I’ve given you so far and leave it on your desk. You can go home once you’re done.”
Trina nods and goes into the other lit office, where she settles in behind a desk and starts working on a computer.
I make my way into Smith’s office, which is as pretentious as his behavior and utterly lacking in any personal items. I’m surprised there aren’t any family pictures—Smith is a reasonably attractive man with golden blond hair, a tall but otherwise average build, and handsome, well-proportioned features. I can’t help but wonder if the lack of pictures is simply his way of distancing his business life from his personal one—a logical thing to do given his clientele—or if he’s just a perpetual bachelor and player.
I settle into a leather chair—the same one Trina was in—while Smith closes his office door and settles into his desk chair.
“If you’ll excuse me one minute,” he says, “I need to send a quick text message.”
He picks up the cell phone on his desk and starts tapping in his note. When he’s done, he sets the phone down and says, “There we go.” He steeples his fingers and taps them against his lips, eying me closely. “So what is it you want to talk about?” he asks.
“I’m a deputy coroner in Wisconsin and I’m investigating a series of murders there that I think your client, Dilles, may be involved with.”
Smith laughs dismissively. “I’m afraid you haven’t done your homework, Ms. . . .” He trails off, leaving me to fill in the blanks.
“It’s Winston. Mattie Winston.”
Smith picks up a pen—with his right hand I note—and scribbles my name on a notepad on his desk. “Well, Ms. Winston,” he says as he writes, “Quinton Dilles is behind bars, so I’m pretty sure he had nothing to do with your murders.”
“Does the name Leon Lindquist mean anything to you?”
“No,” he says with a shrug after a moment’s thought. “I’m afraid not. Why do you ask?”
I study Smith closely as he answers, hoping to get a sense for the truth of his response. If he’s lying, he hides it well. The only nervous tic I notice is the way he’s waggling the pen in his hand. “What about the name Steve Hurley?” I ask, ignoring his question.
His eyebrows arch and he shifts in his seat. “That name I do know,” he admits, setting down the pen. “If I remember correctly, he’s the detective who initially worked on Dilles’s case. Is that relevant somehow?”
“At the moment he’s being framed for these murders I’m investigating and Dilles seems like a likely culprit.”
He gives me another of his tolerant but dismissive laughs, as if he’s dealing with an ignorant child. “That seems a rather ambitious goal for a man who currently resides in a maximum security prison,” he says.
“Dilles is rich and that kind of money makes anything possible.”
My statement hovers between us for a moment while we stare one another down. Then Smith says, “Well, perhaps, but I’m not sure what you expect to get from me. Yes, Dilles was, and still is my client since we’re waging an appeal of his conviction. And because of that, I’m not really at liberty to discuss him with you or anyone else.”
Sensing that he’s about to dismiss me, I decide to toss out one last taunt
. “That’s a nice cop-out.”
Smith refuses to take the bait. “Call it what you want, Ms. Winston. I think we’re done here. I wish you the best of luck on figuring out your murders but I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He gets up and walks over to the door, opening it and standing there in a clear invitation for me to leave.
Frustrated but realizing I’ve got no options left, I get up. Smith manages to patronize me one last time by placing his hand on my shoulder and steering me out of his office toward the main door. As we walk, I see Trina inside the other office. She has donned her coat and appears to be shutting down the computer, though her eyes keep darting nervously in our direction. As Smith opens the door to the hallway and gestures for me to exit, I hesitate. I want one last stab at him, if for no other reason than because his smug attitude has irritated me.
“If you have anything to do with this, Mr. Smith, I will find out.”
He smiles to let me know my threat doesn’t faze him in the least. “You have yourself a nice holiday, Ms. Winston,” he says. “Good evening.”
I leave, mumbling curses at Smith, and head back out to the street, wondering what to do next. A couple of blocks into my walk, I become aware of hurried footsteps following close behind me. Resisting the urge to turn around and look, I speed up my pace a bit. The footsteps do the same. The streets, though fairly well lit, are relatively empty, most likely because of the holiday. Still, I feel reasonably safe until I get close to the garage. Realizing how dark and isolated it is, I make the decision to turn and confront my follower. But before I can, a hand clamps down on my shoulder, making me yell out with fright.
Chapter 41
My follower yelps as well, a distinctly feminine sound. When I whirl around I find myself face-to-face with Smith’s assistant.
“Trina,” I say, stating the obvious and breathing a small sigh of relief. Then I put my guard back up, wondering if she could be involved somehow.
She claps a hand to her chest. “Lord, you scared the crap out of me,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Likewise. Were you following me?”
She nods. “I’m sorry,” she says, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “But I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Connor and I wanted to talk to you.”
That she couldn’t help overhearing us seems a bit of a stretch, given that the door to Smith’s office was closed, but I let that slide.
“What about?” I ask her.
She reaches into a shoulder satchel she’s carrying and for a second I’m certain she’s going to pull out a knife or a gun. I flinch and prepare to run but all she pulls out is a sheaf of papers. “Here,” she says, thrusting them at me. “I’ve been planning on leaving Connor’s firm for some time now but it took me a while to find another job and I’m a single mom with two boys to support. I just got an offer from Stern and Hageman and I haven’t told Connor yet that I’m leaving. Your arrival tonight made me realize I can’t ignore what’s going on any longer.”
“What do you mean? And what are these papers?” I ask her, struggling to read them in the dim light of the streetlamps.
“They’re copies of e-mails between Connor and a private investigator he has used, and between Connor and a man named Mike Ackerman, who works—”
“I know who Mike Ackerman is,” I tell her, instantly intrigued. “What’s so important about the e-mails? And how did you get them?”
Trina grimaces and looks embarrassed. “I had some late-night work to do a while back and my regular babysitter was sick, so I brought my boys up to the office with me. They’re both big into online gaming stuff so I let my oldest boy use the computer in my office and set the youngest up on the reception desk computer. Then I went into Connor’s office and used his computer to get my work done. I discovered that Connor had minimized his e-mail account but hadn’t logged out of it. So I expanded it with the intention of closing it out, but my curiosity got the better of me. I started reading and that’s how I found those,” she says, gesturing toward the e-mails I’m holding.
“They contain a lot of information about this Steve Hurley guy you were asking about. Connor uses private investigators a lot and based on these e-mails, he hired someone to look into Hurley’s life. At first I thought it might be related to Dilles’s appeal since I knew Hurley was a detective here in Chicago not long ago and was involved in the murder investigation at one point. But the information Connor got on Hurley seemed too personal to be of any use in that regard, stuff about his love life and all. Your name is mentioned in there,” she says, pointing to the e-mails. “And stuff about his hobbies.”
I suppress a shiver at the thought of Connor Smith’s private investigator spying on me.
“I still might not have thought much about it if it wasn’t for the fact that Connor’s been acting kind of strange lately, all nervous and edgy.”
“Are you saying you think Connor might be responsible for these murders?”
She shakes her head and looks over her shoulder again. “Not directly. Connor wouldn’t get his hands dirty that way. He’d hire someone else to do it.”
“How does Ackerman figure into it?”
“My best guess is that there was something going on between Ackerman and that reporter woman named Callie Dunkirk who was killed. Ackerman never refers to her by name but if you read the e-mails, you’ll see references to a CD, and Ackerman claiming that this CD person is a problem.”
“Do you think Ackerman killed Callie Dunkirk?” As soon as I ask the question, I try to recall if Ackerman gave any indication to his handedness, but I can’t remember. However I do recall his height and overall size and that rules him out for driving Callie’s car, though I can’t be sure if he could have fit through the basement window. His lean runner’s build might have enabled him to slip through.
“I don’t know,” Trina says frowning. “But I’m pretty sure Connor is up to something and all of this seems a little too coincidental.”
She’s right, it does. And it makes sense. My gut has been pointing me toward Ackerman all along and the fact that Dilles’s lawyer is involved is likely nothing more than coincidence. But just as I’m convincing myself of that fact, Trina gives me one more startling tidbit of information.
“I know you were asking about Quinton Dilles, and even though he’s in prison, I can’t help but think that he may be involved somehow, too.”
“Why?”
“Because Connor was having an affair with Dilles’s wife right before she was killed.”
I stare at her, stunned. “Are you sure?” I ask finally.
“Oh, yeah,” she says. “I caught them kissing one evening when I came back to the office because I forgot something. At first I just thought it was some woman Connor was dating but when she turned up murdered a couple of months later and I saw her picture in the paper, I recognized her. Connor was kind of cagey about the whole thing, bringing the topic of her murder up in discussions with me all the time to see if I mentioned anything about recognizing her. But I played dumb because I thought for a while that he might have been the one who killed her. Then her husband was arrested for it and when I found out Connor was going to be defending him, I about had a stroke. That’s why I couldn’t resist taking a peek at his e-mails.”
“Do you think Dilles knew about the affair?”
“I do. I think that’s why he killed her. He wasn’t about to let her cheat on him and then give her half his money in a divorce. But I don’t think he knew Connor was involved.” She glances at her watch and then looks over her shoulder again. “Look, I need to get home to my kids. But if you want to talk with me some more, call me.” She hands me a business card for Connor Smith with her own name and number written on the back of it.
“Thanks, Trina. I appreciate this.”
We part company and I make my way to my car, or rather Carl Withers’s car. I climb in and take a moment to think about my next step. With Hurley arrested and most likely in jail, I feel the need to move quick
ly so I decide to try to call Bob Richmond. Then I remember that I don’t have a phone and curse for not remembering sooner. I could have borrowed Trina’s, assuming she had one. A pay phone is my next best option, so I head out of the garage, pay the man in the booth, and pull out onto a one-way street.
I creep along the street, looking for a pay phone, which in this day and age is like looking for a Sasquatch. I’ve only gone a few blocks when a white SUV a couple cars ahead of me suddenly revs up and veers sharply toward the sidewalk. In a split second I realize what’s about to happen and I’m helpless to do anything about it. The car jumps the curb and plows into a pedestrian, knocking the person several feet into the air before it veers into the street again and takes off.
As I pull up next to the crumpled body of the pedestrian lying on the sidewalk, I engage in a few seconds of mental debate. My first thought is to keep on going. No doubt there will be cops here soon and the presence of cops means I might be recognized. Then I reason that anyone who arrives on the scene will be too preoccupied with the injured person to care or notice. Besides, the nurse in me won’t let me go on.
I pull up past the pedestrian, park near the curb, and get out of the car.
A couple of other cars have stopped and two young men get out of one of them and hurry over to the victim. One of them, I’m relieved to see, is already on a cell phone, presumably calling 911. I hurriedly join them and do a quick assessment of the victim on the sidewalk.
That’s when my heart nearly stops. I recognize the coat first, then the face.
It’s Trina.
Frozen Stiff Page 28
