“Go home and get some sleep.”
“Will do.”
“And thank you for helping out with this. I might need to use you two again down the road if I get another chance to talk to Danny.”
“Happy to help.” Another yawn threatens and I manage to strike this one down. But I can hear my bed calling to me, and I hurry toward its siren song.
Chapter 9
As soon as Roscoe and I are in my car, I realize I’ll need to go to the grocery store sometime before this evening to get the necessary ingredients for the sausage sandwiches. Knowing how unmotivated I typically am when I first wake up, I make the decision to do my shopping now and get it out of the way. Plus, the forecast is calling for rain later in the day, so better to get it done before the clouds move in.
I tell Roscoe to stay in the car and I crack the windows for him. With the temperature in the fifties, he should be fine. The grocery store isn’t very busy, and the shelves appear fully stocked, making me realize that this is an ideal time to shop. I grab a hand basket and head for each of the items I need based on the mental list in my head. I’m too tired to dawdle and impulse shop, which is probably a good thing since that’s when I typically buy the fattening stuff.
It takes me all of ten minutes to gather everything I need, and I’m headed for the checkout area when I hear someone say, “Hildy!”
I recognize the voice, but it takes me a moment to find the face that goes with it. After a quick scan, I spot Miranda Knopf in a checkout line two registers over. Miranda is a new evening and night weekend dispatcher at the police station. She moved here a couple of months ago from Seattle. I’ve chatted with her a couple of times and we get along easily and well. She, like me, isn’t very tall, though she has me by an inch or two, but aside from that her physique couldn’t be more different from mine. Whereas I tend to be soft and round, she is hard and wiry, with an athletic, boyish build. We do both have blond hair, though hers is cut very short and I wear mine in a longer pageboy style.
Miranda motions toward the front of the store, indicating she’ll chat with me once we both get through checkout, and I nod my understanding. She takes longer to get there than I do since she has a cart of groceries and I have only a few items.
“Thanks for waiting,” she says. “I wanted to ask how it went with your first couple of shifts on the job.”
“It’s been interesting,” I say. “And last night was a doozy.” There are too many people around for me to tell her much of what happened, so I simply say, “I’m sure you’ll be hearing about it later today when you get to work.”
“Ooh... sounds intriguing. You go out again tonight, right?”
“I do. I’m on my way home now to get some sleep. Bob Richmond asked me to stick around this morning for a suspect interview, so my shift ran a little long.”
“Well then, you best get home and get some sleep so you’re ready for tonight.” She smiles broadly and does a gleeful lift of her shoulders. “It will be our first shift working together,” she says. “How fun! I’ll see you then.” She practically skips away, pushing her cart before her, a cart that I notice has a lot of frozen meals in it. Miranda also volunteers with the local EMS group, running on the ambulance during the week when she’s not working dispatch. And she’s going to college, working toward becoming a physician’s assistant. With a schedule like that, it’s a good thing she has all that youthful energy.
I do not have that level of energy, however. I’m not sure of Miranda’s age, though I’m willing to bet I have at least a decade on her, maybe more. It might be easier if I was in better physical shape, a reminder of my two-week commitment to Bob Richmond to go to the gym with him in the mornings. While I stuck to my original promise, with mixed results, now that I have the second job in place, I don’t see it happening often.
I carry my groceries home, eager to climb into the softness of my bed, and I’m in the middle of putting the food away when Roscoe thumps his tail and makes a sudden mad dash to the front door. I know this means P.J. is about to descend upon me and I sigh wearily.
P.J. is my neighbor’s eleven-year-old daughter, a red-headed, freckle-faced dynamo of a kid who’s socially awkward, highly inquisitive, and a huge help to me most of the time. Her parents, who were surprised when P.J. came along since their only other child was a fifteen-year-old boy and they didn’t think they could have any more kids, are busy and involved in their respective careers. Her mother is a highly successful real estate broker, and her father is the manager of the largest grocery store in town. They don’t neglect P.J., but they don’t spend a lot of time with her either, and P.J.’s brother has been out on his own for years now.
Hence, P.J. has adopted me as something of a surrogate family member, the exact nature of our relationship something that is fluid and not always definable. The relationship between P.J. and Roscoe, however, is easily defined. It’s a mutual admiration society. Those two adore one another, at least as much as P.J. is capable of experiencing an emotion like adoration. I suspect the child fits somewhere on the autism spectrum, albeit at the high-functioning end. My unproven diagnosis is Asperger’s, but I’m not an expert. All I know is that the kid is whip-smart and has no filters; her words often bite like the crack of a whip.
P.J. has been walking Roscoe for me ever since the day I first brought him home, which wasn’t long after I moved in. Roscoe was a fifteen-week-old puppy then, the lone survivor in a car accident that killed his owner. I ended up adopting Roscoe during my first month on the job at the hospital, and when I brought him home, P.J. happened to be outside her house trying to fix her bicycle. Prior to this day, P.J. had watched me, though stared might be a better word choice, but hadn’t otherwise acknowledged me in any way. The minute Roscoe descended from the seat of my car and waggled his furry little butt in my driveway, P.J. was hooked. She got up immediately, abandoning her bicycle project, and hurried over to Roscoe, who just as quickly abandoned his attentiveness to me, transferring it to P.J. The two of them have been practically inseparable since.
My friendship with P.J. took a bit longer, but eventually she started talking to me more. When I asked her if she’d be willing to walk Roscoe regularly if I paid her and gave her a key to my house, it was the beginning of a comfortable if still occasionally awkward relationship.
My arrangement with P.J. requires her to knock before using the key in the mornings but this morning she doesn’t do this since she most likely just saw me enter the house with the groceries and knows I’m up and about.
“You’re late,” I hear behind me. This is typical P.J.: no greeting, no subtle segue into the topic, just the facts, ma’am. “Did the cops shoot anyone?”
“Good morning, P.J.,” I say, smiling at her as I put the sausages in the fridge.
“Oh, right,” she says with a frown, recalling my previous attempts to teach her some basic social standards. “Good morning, Hildy. How did your shift go?”
“It went well. And yes, I’m later than expected. Things came up.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m very tired,” I reply. I start to say something more but P.J. can’t stand it any longer.
“Did the cops shoot anyone?” she asks again.
I can’t help but chuckle. “No, they didn’t shoot anyone.”
“What did they do?”
“Well, the cop I was with got a call to check on someone that hadn’t been seen for a while and when we did that, we discovered that the man was dead.”
P.J.’s eyes grow wide with interest. “You saw a dead person?” she says.
I nod.
P.J. cocks her head to one side and assumes a thoughtful expression. “I’ve never seen a dead person. I’ve seen dead animals. There was a squirrel that someone ran over in the street, and I found a dead baby bird in my backyard once.” She says this in a dispassionate, clinical way. “Do dead people look like dead animals?”
Not your typical question, and one that isn’t all that easy to field.
“It depends,” I say. “There are a lot of ways to die. I’m guessing the squirrel you saw in the road looked a lot different from the baby bird.”
“Oh, sure,” she says. “The squirrel was squashed and its insides were on the outside.”
“Yes, well,” I say, swallowing as I try to wipe that image from my mind, “people die in different ways, too.”
“Have you ever seen a squashed person?” P.J. asks, her eyes wide with... curiosity, awe, fear? I’m not sure.
“No, and I hope I never do,” I answer honestly. “Sometimes people die a peaceful death and sometimes they die a violent death.”
“How did the person last night die?”
I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable with P.J.’s level of morbid fascination on this topic, and despite my belief that it’s best to answer questions as honestly as one can with kids, I decide to take a detour on this one. “I can’t tell you that, P.J. I’ve explained to you that I can’t talk about the people I take care of at the hospital because I have to protect their privacy, right?”
P.J. nods, pouting because she can sense the disappointment coming.
“Well, police work uses the same rules. I have to follow the rules of confidentiality.”
P.J. looks crestfallen, but not for long.
“However,” I add, “if you listen to the news or read the paper, you’ll probably get an answer in the next day or so.”
Her expression brightens and she says, “Okay.” With that she turns and walks over to the coat tree by the front door and grabs Roscoe’s leash. “Come on, boy,” she says, and Roscoe dutifully hurries over to her, tail wagging.
“I’m going to bed,” I tell P.J. “I’m exhausted. Do you mind just letting Roscoe back in and locking the front door behind you when you go?”
“Okay.”
Five seconds later, she and Roscoe are out the door.
Five minutes after that, I’m in bed, sound asleep.
Chapter 10
It takes several attempts to get the bleariness out of my eyes when I awaken sometime later. I aim toward the clock on my bedside stand and blink hard, rub my eyes, and blink again until I can make out the numbers. It’s three-fifty-eight, two minutes before my alarm is set to go off. I probe the top of the clock, feeling for the button that will turn off the alarm, and manage to slide it into the off position. Then I sit up on the side of the bed and stare at the wall for a minute or two. The cobwebs in my head are thick and resilient. My mind doesn’t want to let go of its dream state, but eventually it caves.
I shuffle into the bathroom, look in the mirror, and wish my vision was all fuzzy again. Going to bed with makeup on is never a good thing. Priority one is a shower, and I turn the water on as hot as I can stand it.
Ten minutes later I step out of the shower feeling somewhat refreshed. I towel off, wrap my wet hair in another towel, and slip on my robe. Then I shuffle out to the kitchen and turn on the coffee pot. Roscoe is lying on the floor at one end of my kitchen island—he likes that spot for some reason—and he opens his eyes and thumps his tail a few times when he sees me. On top of the island I see one of my notepads and a pen, and peer closer at it. P.J. has left me a note stating that she will be back to walk Roscoe again around four-thirty. I grab my cell phone, which I left sitting on the island, and curse when I see that the battery charge is at five percent. I hope it is enough and make a quick phone call to Allie Hildebrand.
“Hello?”
“Allie, it’s Hildy. I was calling to see how you guys are doing. The battery in my phone is almost dead, so if we get cut off, I apologize. How’s Danny? And how are you?”
“We’ve been better,” she says, and her voice sounds as weary as I feel right now. “I think Danny is okay. He went out for a walk a little while ago. I wasn’t sure if I should let him, but he seemed okay at the time. He’s been gone for over an hour now. Do you think I should be worried?”
“Didn’t you say that Danny usually goes out for walks?”
“Yeah, in the evenings, but he also goes out a lot when he’s hearing his voices. And we all know how his last walk turned out.”
“Was he hearing voices before he left?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Does he have a cell phone?”
“He does, but he didn’t take it with him. He couldn’t find it.” She sighs again, and then says, “I’m going to go out and look....” She pauses, and then says, “Someone just came in. Oh, it’s Joel, home from work. He picked up part of an extra shift today.”
In the background I hear Joel ask Allie who she’s talking to. She tells him it’s me and then says she’s worried about Danny because he’s been gone so long.
Joel mutters something I can’t make out because Allie coughs a few times. Then she comes back on and says, “Joel is going to go look for him while I stay here in case he comes home.”
“While I have you, can you tell me if Danny worked his regular job yesterday?”
Allie hesitates for a moment. “Hildy, how closely are you working with the police? My lawyer said I needed to be careful around you because you were a way for the cops to sidestep justice and the proper processes.”
“If you tell me something that you don’t want me to share with the police, I won’t,” I tell her, thinking that I really need to get someone to clarify exactly what my obligations are and where my allegiances should lie. It could be tricky navigating this new landscape, particularly if I’m still working at the hospital.
“I don’t suppose it hurts to tell you that Danny went to work yesterday since other people will be able to vouch for him in that regard,” Allie says. “Joel told me he left in the morning around nine, and when I got home from my job at the funeral home at five-thirty, Danny had left a voice mail on the phone saying that he was working late on a special project.”
“When did you see him again?”
“He came home around eight or so. He seemed agitated. He gets that way when he’s tired, or if something happens at work. He said he wanted to go for a walk and left. I didn’t see him again until he came home from the Quik-E-Mart. That was right before I called the police.”
“So, as far as you know, he was gone all day?”
She hesitates, no doubt parsing the implications of my question and her answer to it. “Yes, at work. In fact, now that I think about it, that should give him an alibi for most of yesterday, right?”
If he really was at work. I have my doubts. “Yes, I suppose it would,” I say.
“I wish he would come home,” she says. “I’m worried about him.”
“If you want, I can put in a word at the police station and see if the patrol officers on duty can keep an eye out for him.”
“Oh God, no,” Allie whines. “No more police.”
“They won’t need to pick him up or anything, unless he acts out in a dangerous way. I’ll ask them to call me if they spot him but not approach him, and then I’ll pass the information on to you, okay?”
Allie sighs. “I suppose. Thanks, Hildy. Gotta go.” Before I can say anymore, the call is disconnected. I place another call to the police station and ask for Bob Richmond. I half expect to be told I need to leave a message, but the dispatcher puts me through without question.
“Detective Richmond.”
“Hi, Bob, it’s Hildy. Just checking in to see if we’re still on for tonight?”
“Tonight?” he says, sounding confused. “Oh, right. Dinner. Sorry. I was momentarily distracted. Yes, I believe we are on unless something else comes up at the last minute.”
“Great. Can you come by at six?”
“Should be able to. See you then.”
“Wait, I have one more thing I need to talk to you about. It’s regarding Danny Hildebrand.”
“What’s he done now?”
“Nothing, that I know of. But he’s taken off from his home and his sister is worried about him. Her fiancé has gone out to look for him. I was wondering if the cops who are
on duty might keep an eye out for him and let me know if they see him anywhere, so I can pass the information along to his sister.”
“I don’t see why not,” Bob says. “I’ll have the dispatcher put out a page.”
“Thanks. And I also got Allie to tell me that as far as she knows, Danny went to work yesterday, and he called at some point and left her a message saying that he was going to be working late. That gives you something to check for an alibi. Any word yet on the exact time of death?”
“No, last time I checked in with him, Doc Morton said he’s still looking into some things. And your information about Danny’s work hours yesterday is interesting because I already followed up with his employer to try and verify his whereabouts. Danny’s boss, a guy named Brett Kvalheim, said Danny has been edgy and off for the past few weeks and has been hit and miss with his shifts. Brett knows about his mental health problems and apparently this isn’t the first time Danny has had issues. Brett said he cuts Danny a lot of slack because he has a brother with similar issues.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah, I guess. But here’s the thing. Danny sometimes comes and goes when he pleases. He’s salaried and gets the same paycheck every week as long as he does his job, and Brett said that when he’s focused and functioning at his peak, he can crank stuff out like nobody’s business.”
“Okay,” I say, not seeing where this is going yet.
“Danny did go in to work yesterday,” Bob goes on. “But nobody saw him after lunch time.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” Bob says, no doubt thinking the same thing. “I’d love to ask the guy where he was, but Lucien Colter is keeping him strictly off limits. And Judge McCallister denied the search warrant.” He lets out a grunt of disgust and frustration. “I’d really like to get a look at the clothes he was wearing that night.”
“Well, I wasn’t looking for anything minute, but I can tell you there was no obvious blood spatter on his clothes when I saw him. You could ask the ER nurse who took care of him, and Dr. Finnegan, see if they noticed anything.”
Night Shift Page 9