“No,” Hurley says, but with no anger or rancor in his voice. He reaches up with one hand and tucks a stray strand of my hair behind one ear. “I want you to promise me that you’ll tell me what you’re going to do before you do it.”
I start to protest, knowing from past experience that Hurley will likely shoot down many of my ideas and proposed excursions, but he senses it and uses the thumb of his free hand to shush me by tracing it over my lips. “And in return,” he goes on, his breath warm on my face, “I promise not to put an automatic kibosh on whatever it is you want to do. Okay?”
Our eyes lock, and at that moment, we are as intimate as two people can be. My heart swells at the sight of those dark blue eyes gazing so lovingly into mine, the erotic touch of his thumb on my lips, and the sweet chocolaty taste of his mouth still lingering on mine. “Agreed,” I tell him. “Can we go to bed now?”
We do just that and Hurley wraps me in his arms and falls asleep almost the instant his head hits the pillow. It feels as if everything is right with the world, at least for the moment, and I, too, fall into a sound sleep, curled up inside the safety, warmth, and love of my husband’s arms.
* * *
Morning dawns bright and sparkly, the sun glinting off the snow diamonds left behind by the storm. It’s the sort of deceptive beauty Wisconsin winters are known for. It looks lovely and magical until you step outside and realize it’s so cold it hurts to breathe and your nostrils freeze shut.
I’m reluctant to leave the warmth and security of Hurley and our bed, but I hear the sound of Matthew’s pattering feet from down the hall. As I rouse myself up, I realize those little feet are moving fast and coming toward me. In the next instant, Matthew flings himself onto the bed, scrambles up, and then flops down between us, making Hurley awaken with a loud oomph and a flailing of covers.
“Mammy, Maff-you make a snowman!” my son says with obvious glee.
“A snowman?” Hurley says, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Yes. Me made a snowman,” Matthew says. Then he repeats the last word several times in a singsong voice. “Snowman, snowman, snowman, snowman. Wanna see it?”
“You bet I do,” Hurley says. “Let’s fly to it, shall we?” He grabs Matthew around his waist and holds him aloft, swinging and swaying that little body to simulate flying. Matthew, excited to be enjoying one of his favorite playtime things with Daddy, flings his arms out like wings and starts making motor noises with his mouth. Hurley moves him faster, and soon all Matthew can do is laugh. When Hurley finally lowers Matthew, bringing him in for a landing on his chest, Matthew is giggling and squirming hysterically, flushed with enjoyment. Hurley adds to the mayhem with a few well-placed tickles before finally giving Matthew some time to breathe.
Matthew takes a few seconds to get himself under control, his tummy on Hurley’s chest, his head near Hurley’s chin. With a look of utter adoration on his face, Matthew looks up at Hurley and says, “I wuv you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too, my little man,” Hurley says. He kisses Matthew on top of his head. Then in a bad imitation of a cowboy voice, he says, “What do you say we go downstairs and rustle up some breakfast, partner?”
Matthew answers by scrambling off his father’s chest and hopping off the bed. He makes a mad dash down the hall, and Hurley rolls over, gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and then tosses off the covers. A moment later, I am alone, basking in the display of love I just witnessed, happy that I have this family of mine.
An hour and several text messages later, Hurley is dressed and ready to head for work, and Emily is up and ready for school. It’s another day off for me, technically, but there are things happening today that I don’t want to miss, so I plan to go in.
“The roads are still slick in spots,” Hurley says to his daughter, getting up from the table. “You be careful, okay?”
“I will,” she says.
Hurley kisses both kids on top of their heads, says “Love you” to each, and then heads for the front closet to don his winter gear.
I spend half an hour in the garage, cleaning the mess in the hearse the best I can. After that, I shower and dress, and then see Emily off to school. It takes me an additional half hour to get Matthew dressed and ready to go, and another twenty minutes after that to drive us to Izzy and Dom’s house, listening to Matthew complain about the stink in the car the entire way.
When I carry Matthew inside, I find Dom seated at his dining-room table, giving Juliana breakfast. The wonderful smells of cinnamon and butter are a welcome reprieve to my assaulted sense of smell.
“Good morning,” Dom says. “I made French toast this morning, Matthew. Would you like some?”
Matthew nods eagerly and positions himself in a seat next to Juliana. Dom gets up from his seat and the two of us venture out into the kitchen, where we can talk somewhat privately and still see the kids.
“Did Izzy call you about Roger’s autopsy?” Dom asks in a low voice as he turns on the burner beneath a frying pan.
“He did,” I say. “I’m headed for the police station now to sit in on an interview with Rebecca Haugen, assuming she shows.”
Dom mops a piece of bread in an egg mixture he has in a bowl beside the stove, and then drops it into the frying pan. “Darn shame,” he says. “I imagine this is going to set the theater group back for a while. It might even be the death of us.” He realizes what he has just said and claps a hand over his mouth, his blue eyes wide above it. “Oh, geez, I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Nobody appreciates a good death pun more than I do.”
The smell of the French toast as he flips the slice of bread over with a spatula is tantalizing, and I must be eyeing it longingly because Dom offers to make me some.
“Tempting,” I say, “but I’m going to pass. Thanks, though.” I kiss him on his cheek and add, “Not sure how late I’ll be. Are you okay to keep Matthew for the day if need be?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Couldn’t if I wanted to. Izzy has my car.”
“I noticed neither car was in the garage when I came in.”
“They came and towed Izzy’s car into the shop,” Dom says. “Hopefully, it won’t be anything too major, but with these old cars, you just never know.” Izzy’s car is a restored 1960s-era Impala, a project he lovingly worked on for several years.
“If you need anything, or want to go anywhere, call me,” I say. “I’ll be happy to come and get you.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
I leave, second-guessing my refusal of the French toast, and arrive at the police station a little before ten. Rebecca Haugen is due at ten, and I find both Hurley and Junior in the interrogation room—a term used jokingly, since it also serves as a general meeting and conference room—seated at the large table, chatting. At one time, suspect or witness interviews were conducted in smaller rooms that were later commandeered to serve as office space as the department grew and the building didn’t. The conference room was outfitted with audio- and video-recording equipment, and it has been used as the primary interview space for the past six years or so. The décor is hideous, but definitely not stark, and it often throws people off when they enter the room. They come in expecting to be questioned in some tiny, bare room with one overhead light, a desk, and a couple of chairs. Instead, they find themselves seated in a section of corporate America. It works, oddly enough, because the setting often relaxes people. They let their guard down, and the police are experts at using that vulnerability to move in for the kill.
I greet Junior, and a moment later, Heidi, the dispatcher, comes back to inform us that Ms. Haugen has arrived.
“Send her back,” Junior says after Hurley gives him a nod.
The two men are seated on the side of the table near the entrance to the room by the controls that turn on the recording equipment.
“Where should I sit?” I ask.
“Here,” Hurley says, patting the empty seat to his left.
I settle in, and when Heidi returns with Rebecca Haugen in tow, Junior gets up to greet her. He directs her to take a seat and waves a hand toward the other side of the table. There is a chair located at the head of the table, but almost no one takes it when seating choices are given. Too close to the interrogators, I imagine. There have been exceptions—typically, people who are overly confident and feel superior. So it doesn’t surprise me when Rebecca opts to take the head-of-the-table seat, and Hurley’s leg nudges mine beneath the table in an unspoken communication.
Junior starts off the interview by stating the date, the time, the case it relates to, and the names of all who are present. He then informs Rebecca that he is going to read her the Miranda warning as a matter of routine protocol. He does so, reciting it from memory. When he’s done, he informs Rebecca that the session is being recorded.
“That’s fine,” she says.
I’ve never seen Junior handle a suspect interview before, and I’m curious to see what he does. Hurley typically starts out with mundane chatter designed to put the person at ease. Junior, however, opts to go straight to the meat of the matter.
“Ms. Haugen, I’ve reviewed the statement you made on the day of Roger Dalrymple’s death, and I know that you lied to us. So today we are here to get to the truth.”
Rebecca looks askance at Hurley and me. “I didn’t lie to anyone.”
“Yes, you did,” Junior insists. “You told Detective Hurley here that you weren’t up on the catwalk the day of Mr. Dalrymple’s death, and yet we found evidence on that catwalk that suggests you were.”
“Really?” she says, folding her arms over her chest and leaning back in her seat, an amused look on her face. “What evidence was that?”
“We found a smear of theater makeup on the railing near where Mr. Dalrymple went over and it was still fresh. So we know it was left there less than an hour from when we found it. And when our lab tech did an analysis of that makeup, he found some interesting items in it.”
Rebecca says nothing, but shrugs to let us know she isn’t worried.
“We found a tiny piece of tobacco in the makeup,” Junior says. “And you were smoking that day in the theater. You had a pack of cigarettes that you were carrying around with you.”
“So? Anyone else could have picked up a bit of tobacco from me.”
“Maybe,” Junior says, “but we also found a very fine, blue-colored mohair fiber stuck in that smear of makeup, which matches the sweater you were wearing.”
While the bit about the tobacco is true, this last bit isn’t. But the police are allowed to lie under these circumstances, and ramping up the pressure will often get suspects to break.
“Again,” Rebecca says dismissively, “a transfer that could have occurred between me and anyone else.”
“Okay,” Junior says, looking thoughtful as though he’s actually considering this scenario. “Then how do you explain us finding your DNA in the makeup?” he asks.
This, too, is a lie. It would take days, maybe weeks, to test the makeup for DNA, but we’re hoping that Rebecca, theater buff that she is, has watched enough TV crime shows to think that it can be done in a matter of hours.
With this last question, Rebecca’s composed expression falters for a brief second, but she quickly recovers. She is an actress, after all.
Then Junior delivers his coup de grace with one final lie. “And we found your DNA in some makeup smears that were on Mr. Dalrymple’s shirt,” he says. “We know the makeup was yours because it was a different compound than what Mickey Parker uses on the others. He said you always insist on doing your own makeup. Care to explain that?”
Rebecca frowns and drops her arms to her sides, no longer trying to hide her worry. Her eyes dart from Junior to Hurley, and back to Junior again. And then I see a look of resignation on her face that tells me she has realized the jig is up.
“Look,” she says, leaning forward, forearms on the table, “it’s not what you think. It was an accident.”
“Tell me,” Junior says.
Rebecca hesitates, and I wonder if she’s trying to decide what spin to put on her words. “He attacked me,” she says finally. “He came back after lunch, all drunk and staggering like some fool. He went up on the catwalk, and I was worried about him, staggering like he was, afraid he might fall. So I went up there to convince him to come down. But instead, he tried to rape me.”
“Rape you?” Junior echoes with obvious skepticism.
“Yes,” Rebecca insists indignantly. “I was trying to talk to him, but he kept talking over me, or trying to anyway. He was so drunk, he just kept drooling and slobbering and slurring his words. And then he just lunged at me. All of his weight fell against me, like he was trying to push me down, and so I shoved him as hard as I could to get him off me.” She pauses, and gives us a pleading look. “I was only trying to get him off me. I didn’t know he’d go over the side.” Her expression shifts to one of determination. “It was self-defense,” she says.
Hurley’s phone buzzes, and when he takes it out to look at it, I lean over to read the text message he received. I look at him and smile.
Rebecca, watching us, says, “I suppose I need a lawyer. Are you going to arrest me?”
“No,” Junior says. “You’re free to go.”
Rebecca looks startled, her eyes darting from his face to Hurley’s and back again. “Really?” she says. “I’m not under arrest?”
“You are free to go,” Junior repeats. To prove his point, he gets out of his chair, opens the door to the room, and nods his head toward the hallway.
Rebecca gets out of her chair and walks slowly toward the door, her body tense and ready to spring like some animal on the hunt, or one being hunted. When she crosses the threshold without incident, her pace picks up and she all but runs away from us.
Junior returns to his seat and gives Hurley a reticent smile. “I would have preferred a bust, but thanks for letting me do this part of it at least,” he says.
“You did really well,” Hurley says. “You’ll get to solve a homicide someday. It just won’t be today.”
“We can’t even get her for involuntary manslaughter?” Junior tries, not willing to let go yet.
Hurley shakes his head. “The DA won’t go for it. Technically, our victim was dead before she pushed him over the side. The best we could hope for is abuse of a corpse.”
“Damn,” Junior says. He looks at me with one last glimmer of hope. “Izzy is sure about this?”
“He is,” I tell him. “Dalrymple’s alcohol level was zero and the tissue studies of the samples taken from his injuries showed little to no bleeding. That means his heart wasn’t beating when he fell. He was already dead. Brain bleeds like that can often make people act drunk the way Roger did. Most likely he died when he collapsed against Rebecca, even though she thought he was trying to make a move on her.”
Junior digests this info, but he still looks disappointed.
“If you want to get a glimpse of the lighter side of this job,” I say to him, “come with us.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Come on. You’ll see.”
We grab our coats and hats, and walk from the police station to my office. As we come in the front door, Cass smiles at us from behind the desk.
“Where is he?” I ask her.
“In the library. He’s alone. Christopher and Izzy had to go out on a call.”
* * *
I lead the others back there and find Kurt Paulsen seated at the table, staring off into space. “Mr. Paulsen,” I say, walking over to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s good to see you again.” Off in the distance, I hear the ding of the elevator arriving on our floor.
Paulsen looks up at me with dead eyes. “Wish I could say the same,” he says in a flat, monotone voice. “I take it you have information on my other daughter, Lily?”
“We do.” I can tell from his demeanor that he is expecting bad news. “We found her.”
&nbs
p; “Do I have to . . . look at her, the way I did with Liesel?” He swallows hard, no doubt reliving that awful moment.
I hear footsteps approaching out in the hall and tell Paulsen, “Yes, we do need you to look at her. But I think you’ll find it easier this time.”
Bob Richmond walks into the library then. Beside him is a scarily thin girl, pale, with dark circles under her eyes. She stops just inside the doorway and looks at Paulsen. He turns around to see who has entered the room and freezes.
For several long seconds, nothing happens. Then Paulsen, his voice hitching, says, “Is she . . . real?”
The girl bursts into tears and runs to Paulsen. “Daddy,” she sobs, wrapping her arms around his neck. She falls into his lap and buries her face in his shoulder, her sobs coming hard, wracking her thin body. Paulsen, still frozen, blinks several times very fast, and then wraps his arms around the girl. With his eyes closed, his face contorts into an agony of pain and relief, love and disbelief. Then he is sobbing as hard as his daughter.
“Lily girl,” he says between sobs, raising one hand up to caress her head. “Oh, my sweet Lily girl.”
I swipe at the tears running down my own face and glance at the other men in the room, seeing a glistening wetness in their eyes as well.
“We’ll leave you alone for a bit,” I say to Paulsen, though I’m not sure he hears me. “I think you two could use some privacy.”
At the sound of my words, Richmond, Hurley, and Junior all shake off their trances and look at one another. As if they rehearsed it, they each turn away from the other, wiping their eyes and making their way to the door.
I wait until they are out of the room, and then step into the hallway to join them, shutting the door behind me.
Dead of Winter Page 31
