So it isn’t with great glee that I receive the comments bestowed upon me by Dom and Izzy when I finally get home. I enter Izzy’s house through the garage, punching in the code for the door, and then giving a token knock. Dom and Izzy are in the living room watching TV and Matthew is asleep in a portable crib that’s set up near the end of the couch they’re sitting on. Izzy’s house has as much, maybe more baby stuff than mine does. Dom even did over one of the bedrooms as a nursery, complete with a crib, changing table, dressers, a mobile, decorative wall hangings, a toy box, and enough stuffed animals to fill a hundred fake zoos. At the time I thought he did all that because he was so excited about babysitting for Matthew, but after my discussion with him this morning, I’m beginning to think he had some ulterior motives in mind.
“Hey, you two,” I say as I enter the room. I walk over to the crib and bend down to get a good look at my son. He is on his back, sound asleep, his little lips sucking every few seconds. His face is the most precious thing I think I’ve ever seen, and as I look at it now, I am filled with an overwhelming urge to pick him up and hug him tight. I missed him, yes, but I also realize that I enjoyed getting out of the house and away from my mommy duties for the day. And that makes me feel a twinge of guilt.
“You changed your hair color,” Dom says in a decidedly neutral tone.
Uh-oh. I straighten up and stare at him. “Yeah, I thought I’d try something different.”
He hesitates for several seconds and then forces a smile. “It looks nice. The layers really give it definition.”
“You don’t like the color.”
“It looks fine,” Dom insists.
“It’s not you,” Izzy says. Izzy isn’t one to sugarcoat things. It’s one of the things I value most about our friendship, but at times it can annoy the hell out of me. This is one of those times. Then, just to prove he knows me better than I think he does, he says, “This color change doesn’t have anything to do with Charlie by any chance, does it?”
“No, I just wanted something different. I’m a mother now. It’s a new phase of my life and I thought I’d kick it off with a new look.”
“Well, I think it looks fabulous,” Dom says, finally recovering from his initial shock enough to remember his manners and fake some enthusiasm.
Izzy simply arches one eyebrow at me and says nothing.
“Okay, fine,” I say, shooting Izzy an annoyed look. “I’ve noticed that women with red hair always seem to get lots of male attention, Charlie in particular.”
“Charlie has other attributes besides red hair that garner that attention,” Izzy says.
“Yes, I know. Thanks for pointing out all the ways I can’t measure up.” With an exasperated sigh, I plop down on the arm of the couch and run a hand through my hair. “Does it look that bad?”
“It doesn’t look bad,” Izzy says. “But it doesn’t look like you. And if you’re doing this to attract or impress Hurley, it’s a wasted effort. You already have the man, Mattie.”
“Do I? Because some days it doesn’t feel that way.”
Izzy shakes his head and gives me a patient smile. “Steve Hurley loves you, Mattie. He may not say it all the time, and he may spare an appreciative glance at another beautiful woman like Charlie from time to time, but none of that takes away from the fact that he fell in love with the original, messy, screwed-up Mattie Winston that he met a year ago. If you could see the way he looks at you sometimes when you’re talking, or doing something and you don’t know he’s watching you . . . it’s obvious how that man feels about you.”
“You make it sound so simple and straightforward,” I say with a little harrumph.
“The feelings are simple and straightforward,” Izzy says. “But the circumstances that have befallen you two are anything but. I mean think about this for a moment. Hurley has gone through several huge changes in his life over the past year and a half. First he had to leave his job in Chicago and come here to what must seem like a Podunk town by comparison. Then he meets you and feels an instant attraction, but you’re married to someone else, someone who he is forced to investigate as the primary suspect in a murder. Not to mention that you were on that suspect list, too. He finally gets past that, and the two of you are working toward hooking up when he discovers that he’s not only still married to a woman he thought he divorced fifteen years ago, but he has a daughter he never knew about. And within a matter of months he ends up as his daughter’s sole parent as well as the father of a new baby with you. I don’t know what sort of life plan Hurley saw for himself when he came here, but I’m betting it was a far cry from the reality he’s had to deal with. Considering everything that’s happened, I’m amazed that Hurley is as calm and collected as he is, because on the scale of life stressors, he racked up a bazillion points this past year.”
Everything Izzy has said is true, and I realize then that I’ve been kind of selfish in dealing with all this stuff. Granted, I’ve been through some pretty major stresses and changes over the past year, too, but when compared to what Hurley’s had dished out to him, I’ve only hit the halfway mark on the Stress-O-Meter, whereas he’s well into the red zone. And then my mind takes a bizarre detour as I wonder whether or not one can order a Stress-O-Meter from Amazon.
“You’re right,” I say to Izzy. “I need to be more patient and understanding with Hurley. And I will, just as soon as this crap with Emily gets sorted out.”
“Did she turn up?” Izzy asks.
I shake my head. “Hurley promised he’d call me if she did and I haven’t heard a word.”
“That’s worrisome,” Izzy says with a frown.
“Yes, it is,” I agree.
Dom, who knows that my primary coping mechanism is to soothe my troubled soul with food, says, “Would some hot apple crisp topped with hard sauce make you feel a little better?”
“I do believe it would,” I tell him with a smile. And it does.
An hour later, I have Matthew home and tucked into his crib, my boobs are drained and tucked into my sleep bra, and my dog, Hoover, and my two cats, Rubbish and Tux, are all tucked into my bed. I should be sleeping—my body is bone tired—but my mind is whirring along at a hundred miles an hour. I’m wide awake, worrying about Hurley and Emily. After tossing and turning for half an hour, I sit up, turn on the light, and call Hurley on my cell.
“Feeding time?” Hurley says when he answers.
“No, Matthew’s asleep. I should be, but I can’t stop worrying about Emily. No news at all?”
“Nothing. There’s no sign of her anywhere here in town. Johnny said something when I talked to him earlier about how Emily has been talking about Chicago a lot lately. So that got me to wondering if she might have tried to go back. I don’t remember the names of any of her friends there, other than a couple of first names, but I have some guys checking to see if she might have bought a bus ticket.”
“Did she have enough money to do that?”
“Yeah, she did. The cash stash I had in my closet is gone.”
“You had a cash stash?”
“Of course. Doesn’t everyone? You never know when you might need to take off in a hurry, and if you want to stay off the grid, you can’t use credit or bank cards.”
I’m about to ask him why he thinks he might need to go into hiding when I remember that we had to do just that last fall when his ex-girlfriend turned up murdered and Hurley was framed for it. So instead I ask him how much he had in his stash.
“A little over a thousand bucks.”
I whistle at that. “She could have gone a long way on a thousand bucks.”
“I know. I just hope that if she did take off, she was smart enough to use the money and buy a ticket rather than hitchhike.”
“This is horrible, Hurley. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to assume she left town somehow and headed back to Chicago. I’m thinking I should head down there to see if I can figure out who she might have hooked up with.”
“Mayb
e it’s time to do an Amber Alert.”
“Did it an hour ago. Much as I hate to even give play to the idea, I can’t rule out the possibility that she was abducted by some pervert.”
“Oh, God, I hope not,” I say. The horror of such a scenario is almost too much for me to consider. Something is nagging at my mind, some other question I want to ask, but I can’t quite pull it out. I struggle for a few seconds, but it’s no good. My brain has reached overload.
“I’m going to try to get some sleep,” I tell Hurley. “But promise me you’ll call the instant you know anything, okay? I’ll be up a couple of times during the night anyway to feed Matthew.”
“I promise,” he says, sounding a little irritated, and I remind myself that on the stress scale he’s walking a tightrope over a tank full of hungry sharks. “Give my boy a kiss and a hug for me.”
“I will. Good night, Hurley.”
“Good night, Mattie.”
After I disconnect the call, I grab my laptop and navigate my way to Amazon. I type something in the search box and hit enter. Then I shake my head and chuckle. Turns out you can buy a Stress-O-Meter from Amazon and one click later it’s sitting in my shopping cart.
Chapter 18
As luck would have it, I’m not only able to turn my brain off well enough to go to sleep, but I also manage to remain in zombie mode during the one time I have to get up to feed Matthew. In the morning I feel reenergized and giddy with excitement when I realize that I only had to do one feeding over a period of eight hours. This is a new record for Matthew, and I’m psyched over the idea of getting four whole hours of sleep in a row. Surely an entire night of sleep can’t be too far behind. I should have started adding cereal into his diet sooner.
I check my cell phone for messages or voice mail, hoping that maybe I slept so well I didn’t hear the phone ring or ding, but there’s nothing. I make a mental note to call Hurley when I get to the police station if he isn’t there and I haven’t heard from him by then. Then, even though I’m not a religious person, I mutter a little prayer toward the ceiling, asking any mighty powers up in the heavens to keep Emily safe. I figure it can’t hurt to cover all the bases, and the thought of her being abducted scares the crap out of me.
It’s a shock when I glance at myself in the mirror. I’m so used to seeing the pale blond version of me and this new redder me is one I’m not sure I like.
Dom shows up right on time, as usual, and I make it into the office by eight. I check in with Izzy to see if there are any autopsies pending and fill him in on Richmond’s plans for the day.
“There’s nothing pending at the moment,” he tells me. “Go ahead and work with Richmond and I’ll call you if anything comes in that I need help with. Any news on Emily?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t hear anything from Hurley during the night so I’m assuming she’s still gone. It’s kind of scary. She’s never been gone overnight before. Now he’s thinking she might have gone back to Chicago.” I don’t mention the other, scarier possibility Hurley shared with me, fearing that saying it aloud will somehow give it life.
“How’s Hurley holding up?”
“About like you’d expect. Angry one minute, worried the next, berating himself every hour.”
“Look, if you need some personal time for this business with Emily, just let me know. We can make it work.”
I thank him and head to my office, which is in the library. Since I have a little time before I have to meet Richmond at the station, I place a call to Dr. Maggie Baldwin.
“Hey, Maggie, it’s Mattie Winston.”
“Hello there. How’s motherhood treating you?”
“I’m not going to lie. It’s exhausting, but it’s totally worth it. I can’t believe how much I love this little guy.”
“That’s great.”
“I’m calling you about Emily. Has Hurley spoken with you since yesterday?”
“About her disappearance?”
“Yes.”
“He did. In fact I spoke to him just a little while ago. He called last night and left a message for me but I didn’t get it and return the call until this morning. He told me nobody has seen her since yesterday morning, and that she hasn’t run off with her new boyfriend. In fact, Hurley said the boyfriend seems as worried as anyone.”
“And do you think we’re right to be worried?”
“It’s definitely concerning.”
“Do you think this is another one of her attention-getting stunts? Can you shed any light on where she might be? Hurley thought she might have left town and gone back to Chicago to hook up with some old friends there. Did she ever say anything to you about anyone there she was close to?”
“Mattie, you know I can’t provide you with any details regarding my sessions with Emily. If you were her parent or legal guardian, it might be different. But you’re not.”
I curse under my breath.
“Besides, Emily didn’t share that much with me. We’ve only had a few sessions. If I think of something that might help, I’ll give Hurley a call.”
“Okay, thanks anyway.”
“Sorry I can’t be of more help. Unfortunately girls that age tend to be very secretive. Getting them to open up isn’t easy.”
“Tell me about it.”
I disconnect the call and walk over to the police station. It’s a bitter day, cloudy with a gusty wind that snakes its way up my sleeves and down my neck. The warmth of the station is a welcome respite, but I can’t help but think about Emily. Is she warm wherever she is? Is she safe from the elements? Is she with some sick and twisted pervert? And the thought that scares me most—is she alive?
I find Richmond in his office clicking away on his computer.
“Good morning,” I say, shucking my coat. “Any updates for me?”
“A few,” he says, nodding, typing, and not taking his eyes off the screen. “We finally tracked down the surviving relative of Freda Herman, thanks to Laura. It isn’t a son, it’s a nephew. And his name is, or rather was Hartwig Beckenbauer, but he had it shortened and legally changed years ago to Hart Bauer. He’s a wannabe actor who tried to make it in L.A. and failed. Now he’s living in Milwaukee and performing in some revue show there that features female impersonators. He agreed to come here to talk to us because he has to drive to Madison today anyway. The plan is for him to get here around two.”
He points toward the computer screen and goes back to typing. “I’m filling out the search warrant request for our Mr. Olsen and his archery equipment now, but I’m going to hold off on the one for the Haas household and the footwear. If we go out there and find a matching boot, all it does is tell us what we already know, that George Haas was with Lars Sanderson’s body at one point. And if we happen to see anything else in the house that’s incriminating while we’re looking for other shoes, we can’t touch it because we’ll be limited to the footwear. Plus, if Haas did have something to do with it and had a partner, we have no idea if the partner is someone from that household. So I’m going to hold off until we can get a better grasp on some of these other suspects.”
“Makes sense, I suppose,” I say. “You might want to look into Axel Nilsson. He’s George’s best friend and he’s the one he was talking to at the Quik-E-Mart. It’s not likely he would have had the conversation he did with Axel if Axel was involved, but it’s worth looking into.”
“Got it. Laura also looked into the other legal cases involving Lars but nothing came up there. They’ve been settled.”
Richmond finishes filling out his form and then faxes the request straight from the computer. When he’s done he leans back in his chair, hands behind his head, and looks at me. “Whoa,” he says, suddenly straightening in his chair. “You changed your hair.”
“Yeah, I decided to switch it up a little to celebrate my new mommy status. What do you think?”
Richmond hesitates just long enough that he doesn’t have to answer; like an X-File, the truth is out there. But he makes a valiant effor
t anyway. “It looks nice,” he says, and he’s smart enough to follow it with a quick subject change. “Jonas finished processing Lars’s car but he didn’t find anything of interest other than some fingerprints. Kirsten Donaldson’s were in there, and so were Cynthia Parker’s, but since they were both dating him, that doesn’t mean anything. His office assistant’s prints were in the car, too, but when I called and talked to her, she said she sometimes took his car for him to get it washed or serviced. So that’s a dead end. I talked to some folks at the Nowhere Bar last night about the altercation between Lars and Reece Morton, and they said it was the same sort of argument they’ve witnessed between those two dozens of times before. Apparently they both frequent the place and their antagonistic history is a long one that tends to get vocal when the booze is flowing.
“I also went by Kirsten Donaldson’s neighborhood last night to talk to some of her neighbors. No one saw her, but two people remembered seeing her car parked in the driveway early in the morning yesterday. One guy saw it around five-thirty when he left for work and the woman across the street remembers seeing it at seven forty-five when she left to go to the grocery store. So it seems her alibi is holding up.”
“Wow, you were a busy guy last night,” I say.
Richmond shrugs. “Time is of the essence with these cases. I also sent some guys back out to Cooper’s Woods this morning to look for ATV tracks. They just called to say they found some, but only small tracks in the areas where there’s still some snow on the ground. The rest of the ground is too frozen. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the direction of the tracks and they didn’t find any close to the site where we found Lars’s body, but there wasn’t any snow nearby either. That’s not to say there wasn’t an ATV in the area; in fact, based on some disturbances they saw in leaves and such on the ground it looks like something might have been there, but we couldn’t find any tracks to prove it.”
Stiff Competition Page 19
