“How’d you come up with the name Rebecca Taylor?”
“There is a database of licensed PIs in the state that anyone can check so I wanted to give you a name that would pass muster if someone gets curious. Turns out there is an R. Taylor registered and Taylor happens to be the last name of one of my all-time favorite Victoria’s Secret models: Niki Taylor. I chose Rebecca because it’s the first name of my other favorite Victoria’s Secret model: Rebecca Romijn.”
I’m not sure if I should be worried or flattered—worried because I’m coming to realize Hurley’s standards in women are frighteningly high, or flattered because he thought of those women while trying to come up with a name for me. I suspect it’s only the former given that one of my thighs is probably bigger around than the waist on either of the models. But we do share a couple of traits: they are tall like me and all of us are blondes, so who knows? It’s definite fodder for later analysis, not to mention a nudge for me to consider another underwear upgrade.
“What about this cell phone?” I ask him, proffering the one he handed me.
Hurley leans over and opens up the glove box—giving me a peek at the very sexy nape of his neck and a whiff of that wonderful spicy scent he always seems to have—and pulls out a small manila envelope and a charger for the phone.
“It’s a throwaway phone,” he says, opening the envelope. “I already charged it up but you can recharge it with this.” He hands me the cord and I stuff it in my purse. “The number for it is on these.” He removes a handful of business cards from the envelope and hands them to me. “Give these out to anyone you talk to so they can reach you again later, in case they think of something more. Plus, it makes you look more legit.”
As I tuck the cards, phone, and billfold into my purse, Hurley says, “Lift up your sweater for me.”
“Say what?”
“Lift up your sweater.”
“Why?”
He tips the envelope up and slides the remaining contents out into his hand. Then he shows me what he’s holding—some pulloff sticky tabs, some wires, and a small round device. “I’m going to give you a wire,” he explains.
“You want me to wear a wire? What do you think this is, a Mafia bust?”
“It’s for my ears only. I want to be able to hear exactly what everyone says and, more important, how they say it.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, slickly avoiding an answer. “It won’t be used for anything official.”
I hold my hand out. “Give it to me and I’ll put it on myself.”
“You don’t know how.”
“Well, can’t you tell me?” I shoot back, exasperated. For some reason, the thought of Hurley touching my bare skin there makes me extremely nervous.
He gives me a wicked smile. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “You haven’t developed a strong sense of modesty all of a sudden, have you? Because I’ve seen it all before, remember. You’ve been photographed half naked in the oddest places several times recently.”
This is true, but there were extenuating circumstances. What’s more, Hurley wasn’t touching me either time. “Fine,” I say, resigned. I yank my sweater up, close my eyes, and try to imagine something as disgusting and unsexy as I can. The first thing that pops to mind is an image of Lucien.
Hurley puts the peel-and-sticks on me, connects the wires, and then threads the small circular device up under my bra. His fingers graze the insides of my breasts, making me gasp as my nipples stand up and say hello. “You better take it from here,” he says pulling his hand away. “I need you to stick the mike just under the cup of your bra.”
I open my eyes and we gaze at one another for a moment, one of those long, innuendo-laden stares that says nothing and everything. He starts to close the gap between us and my heart steps up a notch in anticipation of a kiss. But when he’s only inches away, a shadow descends over his face. He pulls back and turns away to stare out his side window instead.
I realize I’m holding my breath and slowly release it, giving myself a few seconds to come back to my senses. With fumbling fingers I position the mike the way he told me and then I stare at the back of his head, wanting to ask him a million questions but afraid to ask a single one. Finally I say, “Okay, the mike is in place.”
He turns back from the window, but doesn’t look at me right away. Instead he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out what appears to be a recording device with a pair of earplugs. He turns the device on, places one of the plugs in his left ear, and says, “Say something.”
“What the hell just happened here?” I blurt out.
Hurley flinches slightly and bows his head. The muscles in his cheek twitch. Silence wraps around us like a dense fog. Finally he says, “Seems to be working fine. You’re good to go.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, clamp my jaws together, and shake my head. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.” I yank up on the door handle and just as I’m about to get out of the car, Hurley reaches over and gives my arm a little squeeze.
“You’ll be fine,” he says. “Just focus on the facts and take notes even if you don’t think you need to. Dig in as far as you can and see what you turn up. I don’t anticipate any problems, but if you need me for any reason, I’ll be right here.”
The idea of Hurley being there, waiting for me, calms me. As I get out of the car and cross the street I try to take on the persona of a private investigator, but I’ve never known a real one so I dig through my memory banks and come up with the only one I can remember: Jim Rockford.
I walk through the front door of the station with a cocky swagger and find myself in a wide lobby area. To my right is a staircase and located on either side of me just past the stairs are doors that I’m guessing open onto hallways that run the length of the building. Straight ahead is a reception desk positioned against the back wall, and the TV station logo is emblazoned across the wall above it.
There is a young woman seated behind the reception desk talking—or judging from all the eyelash batting, hair twirling, and coy looks—flirting with a young man in a security uniform. As I approach, they reluctantly tear their attention away from one another and turn it on me, both of them looking quite annoyed by the interruption.
“May I help you?” the girl asks with a weight-of-the-world sigh designed, no doubt, to let me know what a royal pain in the ass I am to her.
“Yes, my name is Rebecca Taylor and I’m an investigator for the state of Illinois,” I say, snapping one of the business cards down on the desk and trying to sound as officious as possible. The duo looks unimpressed. “I’m looking into the murder of Callie Dunkirk and I’d like to talk to some of the people she worked with.”
The mention of murder seems to earn me a bit of respect judging from the suddenly heightened expressions of interest.
“I heard about that,” the girl says, her eyes wide. “Do they have any idea yet who did it?”
The security guard, who I’m guessing is in his mid-twenties, puffs his chest out and looks all serious. “It had to have been someone she knew, Misty,” he says with a level of authority and conviction that make me peg him as a police academy dropout. “I heard she was stabbed in the heart, and a crime like that generally indicates intimacy and passion.”
“Do you really think so?” Misty says, looking up at him with big doe eyes. He nods and puffs his chest out a little more until Misty shifts her focus to me. “Is that true?” she asks.
Security Boy’s chest collapses a bit and he shoots me a quick side glance, like he’s afraid I’ll contradict him and make him look bad. I’m tempted, but I’m not here to crush blooming romances or make enemies. Besides, what the kid said is right.
“Yes, that’s true,” I say, and Security Boy’s chest puffs back up into pigeon mode. “Did you guys know Callie very well?”
Misty shakes her head. “I saw her when she came into work every day and she always said hi, but we never really talked or a
nything. She was one of the reporters.” Judging from Misty’s tone of awe, I gather that being a reporter is akin to being king, or in this case, queen.
“She was a real nice lady,” Security Boy says. “Real pretty, too,” he adds, making Misty pout.
“Was there anyone special in her life that you know of?”
Security Boy shakes his head. “Nah, she didn’t date much. Between work and her kid, I don’t think she had the time.”
For a moment I’m dumbstruck. Then I blurt out, “Callie had a kid?”
Misty smiles and says, “Yep. His name is Jake. What a cutie-pie! He’s like nine or ten months old and he’s got these huge blue eyes and the most adorable little face.” She smiles wistfully for a second before her expression turns suddenly grim. “Poor little Jakey. Losing his mom like that. It’s not fair.”
Security Boy proves he’s not a total incompetent when he narrows his eyes at me and says, “As a cop, I would have thought you knew that Callie had a kid.”
I mutter a curse under my breath and think fast. “Cop? I’m not a cop,” I say with an incredulous smile, saying a silent prayer that I’m reading him right. I dig out my fake licenses and show them to him. “I’m a private investigator.” I emphasize the last two words as if they’re some sort of elite award. “Cops are so limited in what they can do what with all the restrictions the law puts on you, and I don’t have the patience for that crap. Besides, I like doing things my own way, you know?” Security Boy nods eagerly. “I mean, if you know your stuff and have the wits to do the investigative end of things, why settle for a job that makes you work with restrictive laws and pathetic pay?”
“Oh, man, that is so true,” Security Boy says. Judging from the distant, dreamy-eyed look he now has, I’m guessing I just steered him toward a new career path.
“Anyway,” I say, hoping to get things back on track, “I was hired by someone to look into Callie’s murder but I’m just starting my investigation. I’m afraid my new employer neglected to tell me that Callie had a child.”
Though it is within the purview of the ME’s office to notify the next of kin of someone’s death, it’s often doctors or the police who do it. In Callie’s case, it was Bob Richmond who did the deed. It’s easy enough to understand why Richmond wouldn’t have mentioned that the woman had a kid, but I can’t help but wonder why Hurley failed to share this bit of info. An ugly, dark suspicion starts to rise in my mind and apparently it’s affecting my expression because both Security Boy and Misty back up a step or two.
“Who hired you?” Security Boy asks.
This is a question I anticipated. I give him a tolerant smile and using my most officious voice say, “I’m sorry, I can’t reveal that. The PI Code of Ethics and all . . . you know.” I wink at Security Boy hoping he’ll see it as my acknowledgment of his inclusion in some mysterious inner circle.
Apparently it works because he says, “Oh, yeah, of course.”
“Suffice to say, it’s someone with a vested interest in the case.”
“I’ll bet it’s Mike Ackerman,” Misty says to Security Boy, her eyes growing big again.
“Who’s Mike Ackerman?” I ask, digging out the notebook and pen from my purse. As I scribble down the name, Misty fills in the blanks for me.
“He’s a big shot with the network, and everyone says he has a great eye for talent. He did discover both Carmen Soledad and Dayton Wynn,” she says pointedly, naming two young TV actresses whose recent surge in popularity has made them frequent fodder for the tabloids. “He’s the executive producer for Behind the Scenes and the person responsible for bringing Callie on board. Everyone thought she was destined to be his next big find.”
“Is this Mr. Ackerman here today?” I ask.
“Sure is,” Misty says. She picks up the phone but I stop her.
“Actually, I’d like to talk to some of the other people here first, if that’s okay. Anyone Callie worked with. Are her other coworkers here?”
“Sure are,” Misty says, all helpful again. “In fact, I’d say most of them are here today. Sundays are always busy because it’s the day our show airs.” She turns and looks at Security Boy. “Gary, why don’t you take Ms. Taylor back into the studio with you and see who might be free to talk with her.”
Gary frowns and looks doubtful. “I don’t know,” he says. “Shouldn’t we run it by Sheila first?”
“Who’s Sheila?” I ask.
“Sheila Rabinsky. She’s our station and production manager,” Misty explains.
“And she doesn’t care to have a lot of extra people hanging around,” Gary adds.
I’m beginning to think Sheila has the potential to become a huge wrench in my planned works so I think fast and come up with an idea. “Tell you what,” I say. “I don’t want to risk you guys getting into trouble or losing your jobs. So why don’t you let me talk to Sheila myself?”
The two of them look at one another, give simultaneous shrugs, and then Misty again picks up the phone. Many long minutes later, after I have paced the width of the lobby at least a dozen times pretending not to notice when Misty and Gary make surreptitious grabs and gropes at one another, Sheila appears. She is tall, tanned, and anorexically thin, with huge brown eyes, pinched lips, and a cute, chin-length bob in anthracite black. Her makeup is applied with exquisite precision and while her pantsuit and shoes are stylish, the height on her heels and the material in her clothing are both workaday practical. I can tell from the skepticism in her expression and the wary way she is eyeing me that it won’t be easy to pull a fast one on her.
“Hi,” she says, extending a well-manicured hand. “I’m Sheila Rabinsky, the station manager. I understand you’re here about Callie Dunkirk?”
I shake her hand, which is cold, dry, and surprisingly lifeless. “Yes, I am,” I say, releasing my grip and handing her a business card. “I’ve been hired by a private party to investigate her death and was hoping I could talk with some of the people she worked with.”
Sheila’s eyes narrow as she scans the card. “You are a private investigator?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you have some other ID?”
“Sure.” I take out the billfold Hurley gave me and hand it to her. She studies it closer than I like before handing it back to me.
“This may not be the best time,” she says with a dismissive smile. “Sundays are very busy days for us.”
“I realize that,” I say, looking impatiently at my watch. “But it’s rather important that I do it today since I have to catch a flight to Washington, D.C. this afternoon to investigate the connections Callie had there.”
An expression of surprise flits across Sheila’s face, but then disappears so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. “You think Callie’s death is tied to someone in Washington?” she asks, feigning indifference.
I give her the same dismissive smile she gave me a moment ago and a mental kudos for cleverness since she asked about someone in Washington rather than something.
“I’m not at liberty to reveal that,” I tell her, and watch as her eyes take on the look of a hungry predator. “It’s a rather . . . delicate and potentially explosive situation. However, in exchange for your cooperation today I would be willing to promise you a preemptive exclusive on the story once we are ready to go public. Given the . . . um . . . stature of the people involved, I’m sure you can understand why things need to be kept very hush-hush for now, but I am certain my client won’t mind having the truth come out once we can turn over enough evidence to ensure a conviction.”
The corners of Sheila’s mouth twitch as she anticipates the coup I’m offering her. “An exclusive that lets us break the story?” she asks.
“Absolutely. From what I understand of Callie, I’m sure she would have wanted it that way.”
“Yes,” Sheila says, nodding. “Yes, she would have.” She proffers that dry, dead hand again and we shake on it, making me feel like I’ve just made a deal with the devil.
; Chapter 17
I hate cameras and not just because of the extra poundage they add, though that’s reason enough. I hate cameras because they hate me. Some people are very photogenic and even when they are caught with some goofy-assed expression on their face, or in some spastic pose, their pictures still manage to be captivating. My pictures are often captivating, too, but it’s usually because I look like the accompaniment to a Weekly World News headline, or lately, because I’m half naked.
So when Sheila escorts me into what used to be the school gymnasium but is now the studio for Behind the Scenes, I’m instantly on edge. It’s basically a large open room filled with cameras. I start to sweat, which makes the little stickies Hurley used for the wire itch like mad.
On the far side of the room, beyond the cameras and against the back wall, are the two sets used for the show. The one on the left is a basic conversation arrangement with three uncomfortable-looking, modern-design, molded plastic chairs in shades of plum and turquoise. Fronting them is a coffee table with slanting legs and a trapezoid shaped top, constructed with what appears to be the same plastic turquoise material. The wall behind all this is a geometric sculpture comprised of two gigantic triangular-shaped pieces of who-knows-what hanging at right angles to one another. One has been painted the same color as the coffee table; the other has been done in the plum.
The set on the right side of the room is a desk arrangement that looks like most TV broadcast newsrooms. There are modernistic touches here, too, in the angles and overall design, but its effect is less extreme than the conversational set. The real attention getter for the desk set is the giant blue screen on the wall behind it.
Clearly any design sense stops with the sets because the rest of the room is all business: towering ceilings, overhead catwalks, cords snaking every which way across the floor, klieg lights hanging and standing everywhere, and of course, the cameras.
About a dozen or so people are milling about the room, some wearing headphones, some carrying clipboards, some just standing around watching. At the news desk set there is a perfectly coiffed brunette who looks to be about a size zero getting some final makeup touches while she practices reading from a teleprompter. So far every woman I’ve met here is tiny, petite, and attractive. I’m starting to feel like an ostrich in the songbird cage at the zoo.
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