Dead Calm

by Annelise Ryan

  “Look at his desk. Specifically, look at his mouse.”

  Hurley does so, and for a moment he looks befuddled. Then his face assumes a faraway expression, and I know he’s recalling the motel room scene the way I did a few moments ago. After a few seconds, he purses his lips and rakes a hand through his hair. “His mouse is to the left of his keyboard,” he says. I nod. “And the only reason it would be is because he was left-handed.” I nod again. “And the gun in the motel room was by his right hand,” Hurley concludes, and I can’t resist looking a little smug.

  “Damn,” he says, punching in the number for the police station. “So much for quick and easy.”

  CHAPTER 7

  After a quick discussion about how to proceed, I go out front to keep Pamela company and watch for our help to arrive, while Hurley remains in the back-office area. Pamela is on her cell phone, pacing back and forth in front of the reception desk, talking to someone in a tone that is half hysteria, half disbelief.

  “They said he was having an affair with this woman,” she says into the phone. “How could I have not known that?”

  She listens to whatever the person on the other end is saying and then says, “I believed him when he told me he was meeting clients for lunch and dinner. And I know some of them were legit; I know they were.” I wonder who she’s trying to convince, herself or the person she’s talking to. “Clearly, he had me duped,” she concludes. “I just can’t believe he would do this to me. I thought things between us were good.”

  I walk over and stand by the door, keeping an eye out for whoever is coming to help us out. Pamela doesn’t say anything for a minute or so, then she says, “Yeah, I guess. It’s a hell of a mess. What do I do now?”

  As she listens again, I see Bob Richmond’s car pull up out front, followed by a patrol car with a uniformed officer named Grant Culpeper behind the wheel. Richmond is a detective who was semiretired at one time, primarily due to his health. A couple of years ago, he was grossly overweight and sedentary, a heart attack waiting to happen. But a stray bullet in the gut and a new outlook on life got him to the gym and on a better diet, leading to a weight loss of nearly two hundred pounds. He also returned to work full-time and is in charge of a cornucopia of investigatory categories, including robberies, burglaries, fraud, auto thefts, and missing persons. Even with all these under his hat, he typically has time to assist Hurley whenever there’s a homicide investigation. Culpeper is relatively new to the force, having come on board two years ago. So far, he’s earned a reputation for being quite the ladies’ man, as well as a natty dresser.

  I throw the dead bolt on the door as they approach and let them both inside.

  “Would you?” Pamela says behind me. “I’d really appreciate it. I’m at a loss here.” As I greet Richmond and Culpeper, Pamela concludes her call with, “Thanks. I love you, too.”

  Pamela disconnects her call and stands there staring at the new arrivals.

  “Pamela Knowlton, this is Detective Bob Richmond and Officer Grant Culpeper.” Everyone nods. “They’re going to help us with our evidence collection,” I explain to her.

  “Junior and Laura are coming, too,” Richmond explains.

  Junior Feller used to be an officer with the Sorenson PD, but he was promoted to detective two years ago. His primary focus is vice, but he helps out with homicides when needed. It goes both ways. This sort of cross coverage is common in small departments.

  I briefly explain to Pamela who the other arrivals will be. “Detective Hurley and I will follow you back to your house so we can look at the rest of Craig’s stuff,” I tell Pamela. “The others will stay here and collect what we need from the office.”

  Pamela eyes Richmond and Culpeper. “Just how much are you planning on taking?” she asks, clearly upset. “You’re not going to take all our paper files, are you?”

  “We’ll take the ones that seem pertinent,” I say vaguely. “We’ll record everything we take so you’ll know what’s gone, we’ll keep it all secure, and once we are done with our investigation, we will return any items we can.”

  This seems to placate her, which is fortunate for me since I’ve left out the fact that we have come to suspect that Craig’s death is a homicide, and this means she might not get anything back anytime soon.

  “You should have someone with you,” I say to her, hoping to distract her before she has too much time to think things through.

  She nods. “My sister is coming by. She said she was going to meet me at my house.” She gives me a questioning look.

  “That should be fine,” I tell her. I direct Richmond and Culpeper to the back-office area and then head for the front door when I see Laura’s face peering in through the glass.

  Pamela is back on her cell phone, so this time I forgo the introductions and point Laura toward the back room, eager to pass her off onto the crew there. Laura is a talker, and a fast one at that. I don’t want to play interference to her infamous verbosity. Hurley once clocked her at over 100 words a minute, and on that occasion, she was relatively laid-back. If she only spoke for a minute, this wouldn’t be too awful, but the woman talks nonstop. Fortunately, she’s also a crackerjack researcher, a competent evidence tech, and smart.

  Junior shows up as I hear Pamela leave a voice message for someone to call her back immediately. I send him into the back to join the others, and a few moments later, Hurley comes out.

  Pamela looks at us with a lost, forlorn expression. “So how does this work?” she asks. “Do I have to ride with you to my house?”

  “No,” Hurley says. “We’ll follow you. But can you give me a key to the office here so my people can lock up when they’re done?”

  She nods, takes a set of keys from her purse, and goes about removing one. “Will I be able to get back in here once they’re finished?” she asks, handing him the key. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.” She seems to realize the inappropriateness of this comment, and she bursts into tears. “What am I going to tell Craig’s clients?”

  Hurley and I both give her a sympathetic look, but we don’t give her an answer, at least not to the last question. Hurley says, “We’ll give you access to your office as soon as we can.” He is holding what appears to be one of the many manila folders Craig Knowlton had in his desk drawers. “Mrs. Knowlton, is this your husband’s handwriting?” he says, opening the folder and showing a page to her.

  She looks at it and nods. “Why are you asking that? I thought you said his note was printed from a computer.”

  “I’m just establishing some facts,” Hurley says vaguely. “Why don’t you lead the way to your house, and we’ll follow you in our car.”

  Pamela nods absent-mindedly and heads for the door. We follow, and once we’re in our car and she is in hers, I ask Hurley why he questioned her about the file. He hands it to me.

  “Look at the writing and tell me what you see.”

  I open the folder. The sheet inside has a name at the top that matches the name on the folder. There is other identifying information: an address, phone number, e-mail address, Social Security number, and birth date. Below that are boxes filled with letters that look like stock ticker symbols and, beside each group of letters, a series of numbers. All of it is written in black ink, and it doesn’t take me long to see what Hurley is referring to.

  “The ink is smeared on the left side of the page in places,” I say. “Typical for someone who is left-handed. As their hand moves over the stuff they’ve already written, the areas where the ink is still wet tends to smudge.”

  Hurley gives me an approving look and smiles. “I’ve married myself one hell of an investigator,” he says.

  We follow Pamela Knowlton back to her house, and once there we park in the street as she pulls into the driveway. She doesn’t put her car in the garage, but parks on the drive instead and gets out. Hurley grabs his video camera from the trunk, while I retrieve my scene kit from the backseat.

  Pamela is utterly silent as we follow her to the
front door. As we wait for her to unlock it, I see a curtain flutter at the window of the house next door where the neighbor we had talked to earlier lives. I wonder if he’s always nosy, or if we aroused his curiosity when we showed up this morning.

  We enter into a large foyer that leads into a great room with a high, cathedral ceiling. The décor is what I expected given the neighborhood and the house’s exterior. The furnishings are plush and made of high-end materials: buttery-soft leather couch and chairs, mahogany dining table with heavy matching chairs, a kitchen with granite surfaces, stainless steel appliances, and travertine stone flooring. The other floors are a dark-stained wood that I think is bamboo, and there are thick, wool area rugs of the same muted colors that are on the walls. The overall effect is one of comfort—both aesthetically and financially.

  Pamela directs us to the leather seating, but Hurley begs off with an apologetic look. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go straight to your husband’s office area.”

  Pamela looks nonplussed by this request, but she nods and points to a closed door off the foyer. “We share the space,” she says. Then she stands there.

  Hurley and I head for the office space, leaving Pamela behind but within our line of sight. We open the door to reveal a pleasant room with an antique partner’s desk that has computers and chairs on both sides. There is a built-in, wooden bookcase covering the wall opposite the door, and to our right is a window that looks out onto the tastefully landscaped front lawn. A healthy-looking, potted ficus tree stands in front of the window.

  Pamela has joined us at the threshold to the room, and she is staring at the desk with tear-filled eyes. “Craig had the side by the bookcase,” she says.

  As Hurley turns on his camera and does a quick pan of the room, Pamela turns and heads into the main area of the house.

  “Follow her,” Hurley says in a low voice. “And let’s swap cameras.” As we make the trade, he adds, “Try to get a look at the bedrooms, and whatever bathroom Craig used.”

  I nod and exit the office area. Pamela is in the kitchen, getting ready to make some sort of concoction from a coffee machine that looks like it came straight out of Starbucks.

  “Can I fix you something?” she says, looking over her shoulder at me. “An espresso? A latte? A cappuccino?”

  The smell of freshly ground coffee beans is tantalizing and tempting, but I shake my head. “Pamela, I wonder if you could show me your bedroom. I need to have a look at Craig’s personal spaces, like his bedside stand.”

  She winces at this, and I can’t say I blame her. I’m asking to poke around in the most intimate, private parts of her home and her life. “Is that really necessary?” she asks. “Isn’t it bad enough that Craig has done this awful thing? Do you have to go rooting through every aspect of his life?”

  I open my mouth to answer, to give her the usual spiel about thoroughness and the importance it all has to our investigation, but the doorbell rings before I can.

  “That’s probably my sister,” she says. And in the next moment, the front door opens without waiting for anyone to answer the bell. A woman rushes in, slamming the door behind her.

  “Oh, Pammy,” the woman says in an angst-ridden voice. “Are you okay?” She makes a beeline for Pamela and envelops her in a hug. The two of them stay like that for a moment, and I look away, wanting to give them at least the illusion of some privacy.

  When they finally pull apart, the woman steps back and holds Pamela by the shoulders. “I can’t believe Craig is dead,” she says. “Are they sure?” She seems to remember me then, and she lets go of Pamela and turns to me. “Are you sure Craig is dead?”

  I nod, giving her my best sympathetic expression. Now that I have some time to study her face, I can see the family resemblance. The newcomer is shorter, a tad stouter in build, and has thin, shoulder-length blond hair. But the large green eyes and the small pert nose are the same as Pamela’s.

  “Are you a cop?” the woman asks me. She eyes me up and down with a look of skepticism.

  “No,” Pamela says before I can answer. “She’s with the medical examiner’s office.” She shoots me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” she says with a shake of her head. “I don’t remember your name.”

  “It’s Mattie Winston,” I say.

  “Right,” Pamela says. “It’s Mattie. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. I shift my gaze to the sister. “And you are . . .”

  “Penny,” the woman says. “Penny Cook. I’m Pam’s sister. Is it true what Pam said? Was Craig having an affair?”

  “It appears that way,” I say, hedging a smidge.

  “And he killed the woman he was having the affair with?”

  Pamela turns her back to us and starts messing with her coffee machine again.

  I don’t want to answer this question, so I use one of Hurley’s tactics and come back with one of my own. “How well did you know Craig?”

  Penny seems startled by the question. She rears back, her eyes wide. “If you’re asking me if I knew or suspected he was having an affair, then the answer is no.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked,” I say, trying to soften the harshness of my words with my tone. “Did you know him well?”

  “I suppose,” she says with a shrug. “He and Pamela have been together for nearly ten years.”

  I dismiss her then and shift my attention back to her sister. “Pamela, I know this is a difficult time for you, and the sooner we can get done with what we need to do here, the sooner we can get out of your hair. Do you mind if I take a look at the rest of the house?”

  Penny ruffles at this. “Why do you need to go poking around Pammy’s house?”

  “We are in the middle of an investigation,” I tell her in my best professional tone. “There are things we need to determine in order to understand exactly what happened to Craig.”

  Pamela looks over her shoulder at her sister. “Let it go, Penny,” she says. Then she cranes her neck farther to look at me. “Go ahead and do whatever you need to.”

  Penny is not going to be so easily placated, however. “If you need to investigate Craig’s death, why aren’t the cops here?”

  “They are,” I say. “Detective Hurley is in Craig’s office right now. You went past him when you came in.”

  Penny looks confused, then doubtful. Fortunately, Hurley chooses that moment to exit Craig’s office and head for us. The change in Penny’s expression when she sees him is a remarkable one. She sucks in a breath and arches one eyebrow. Her posture immediately slackens from her warrior stance to one that I can only describe as coquettish: chest out, one arm akimbo, head tilted down ever so slightly, a hint of a smile on her lips as she looks sideways at him. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her bat her eyelashes.

  I can’t say I blame her. Hurley is a fine-looking specimen. He’s tall and lanky, with a thick head of black hair and eyes as blue as an October sky. Thanks to our middle-of-the-night call, he’s currently sporting a five o’clock shadow. He looks sexy as hell as he strides toward us.

  Penny wastes no time. She glides toward him, meeting him halfway, one hand extended.

  “Hi. I’m Penny Cook, Pam’s sister.”

  Hurley takes her hand, locks her in with his blue eyes, and says, “I’m Detective Steve Hurley with the Sorenson Police Department. Sorry to have to meet you under these circumstances.”

  Penny doesn’t look sorry at all. “It’s a horrible thing,” she says with a dismayed expression. “Pammy said Craig not only killed himself, but someone else?”

  Penny is still clinging to Hurley’s hand, and he pulls it free. I’m curious to see how he’s going to answer this question. Turns out, he doesn’t.

  “We’re still investigating,” he says.

  “Can you tell me who this other woman is?” Penny asks.

  “Right now, I need to focus on gathering as much information as I can,” Hurley says, still dodging her inquiries, though since we’ve already given
the name to Pamela, I imagine Penny will be in the know soon enough. Hurley looks at me. “Have you been anywhere else yet?”

  I shake my head. “We were just discussing it when you walked up.”

  Hurley steps to the side, away from Penny.

  Penny looks a little put out that she’s been summarily dismissed. She pouts for a second, then brightens. “I’m sure Pammy has enough on her plate at the moment. I’d be happy to show you around.”

  The woman is persistent, I’ll give her that. And apparently either oblivious or indifferent to the wedding ring Hurley is wearing.

  “Hurley, I’m sure you have some more questions for Pamela. Why don’t you talk to her while Penny and I look around the rest of the place?”

  Hurley cocks one eyebrow at me. He hasn’t missed my manipulations, and he’s apparently amused by them. For a second, I think he’s going to mess with me and turn down my offer, disappearing into the bedrooms with Penny. But he doesn’t. I think she scares him a little.

  “That will work,” he says.

  Penny’s pout is back, and her eyes shoot daggers at me. I ignore them, smile pleasantly, and say, “Penny, can you show me where the master bedroom is, please?”

  Reluctantly, and with one, last, longing look at Hurley, she leads me to a hallway off the great room. I follow her to the master bedroom, which is at the end of the hallway.

  The room is huge—as big as the entire cottage I lived in before moving in with Hurley. There is a sitting area nearly as large as our current living room, furnished with a leather lounging chair and hassock, and a settee covered in a rich, embroidered gold material. There are tables beside each of the seating areas, and lamps on each of the tables. On the far wall, which would be the end wall of the house, is the king-sized bed, looking oddly dwarfed by the dimensions of the room. The ceiling above it is high and coffered, and there are windows above the bed covered with pleated blinds.

  Off to the right of the bed is a hallway of sorts through a huge walk-in closet. At the end of this is the master bath. A quick glimpse as we pass reveals an expanse of the same travertine floors that are in the kitchen, marble-topped vanities, and a spa tub that looks big enough for four people.