Greeting people in ankle irons and handcuffs should be a humbling experience, but judging from the smirk on Quinton Dilles’s face, he wouldn’t agree. There is a definite air of smarmy smugness about the man, one that befits someone who is used to the deference and privilege money can buy. Apparently prison hasn’t been able to erase that from him yet, if it ever will. He strikes me as the type who will always have a sense of entitlement about him.
There are two seats on our side of the Plexiglas window. Dilles settles into his chair across from us and leans toward the speaker located in the center of the window. So far Dilles’s eyes have been fixed on Hurley but as soon as Hurley and I settle into our chairs, Dilles shifts his gaze to me.
“So this is your . . . what did Corning call her . . . assistant?” Dilles says. “You do have a knack for attracting lovely women, Hurley.” His eyes shift to my chest. “And I must say, you’re good at picking ones with generous endowments.”
“Knock it off, Dilles,” Hurley snaps.
“But that reporter gal you were screwing had fake ones, didn’t she?” Dilles says with a taunting smile. “How’s she doing, by the way?” He looks back at Hurley, his eyes crinkling with amusement. He has admitted to knowing about Callie and that’s a bit damning, but I can’t tell if his inquiry about her is a casual taunt or a knowing one.
“She’s dead,” Hurley says.
I watch Dilles closely for a reaction, for any physical tell to let me know if this information is something new to him, but there is nothing. The two men stare at one another for what seems like forever until Hurley says, “Tell me, Quinton, how are they treating you here at Stateville? Are the accommodations up to your standards?”
A twitch starts up in Dilles’s lower eyelid, the only indication that Hurley might have struck a nerve.
“I’m making do,” he says with a wry smile. He turns his attention back to me. “Though I have to admit, I miss not having a nice piece of ass like her around whenever I want it.”
Hurley starts to rise from his chair but before he can, I stop him with a hand to his leg. I get a sense that Dilles is used to being able to insult and boss around the women in his life so I decide to rattle his cage a little.
“Have you become anyone’s piece of ass yet, Dilles?” I ask, smiling sweetly. “ ’Cause I’m thinking they’ll like a spoiled softie like you. Come on, tell us,” I goad. “Don’t keep us in suspense. Has anyone made you their bitch yet?”
Dilles’ arrogant façade shows its first real crack as his smile turns down a notch and his hands close into fists. “You may think you’re in control because you’re on that side of this wall,” he seethes, “but my reach is far greater than you’ll ever know. You better watch your back.”
Though I’m trying to maintain a calm, unaffected front, Dilles’s threat frightens me. My hands start to tremble and I shove them down between my thighs to hide them. Like prey to a predator, I know that showing any sign of weakness to Dilles will only make him strengthen his attack.
“Why do you harbor so much venom toward Detective Hurley?” I ask Dilles. “I heard it was another cop who put you behind bars.”
“Only because Hurley fabricated evidence against me,” Dilles shoots back. “The other cops were just too stupid to see that.”
“Are you saying you didn’t kill your wife?” I ask him.
He smiles at me in a way that makes me want to get up and run. “I’m not sad the stupid bitch is dead,” he says, avoiding a direct answer. “She was a smart-assed know-it-all, kind of like you.” His gaze takes on an intensity that makes it easy for me to imagine him wishing me as dead as his wife.
“That’s enough,” Hurley says. “Come on.” He grabs my arm and pulls me up out of my chair. “We’re out of here.”
The sound of Dilles’s maniacal cackle behind us sends chills down my spine. As we head back to Corning’s office, I can’t resist the urge to keep looking over my shoulder, fearful the man has somehow breached the walls between us.
When we arrive in Corning’s office the man’s expression is grim. “I have a feeling you aren’t going to like what I have to tell you, Steve,” he says, handing him a fax. “From what the guys up in Cook County Jail told me, Dilles has been disowned by his family. It looks like the only visitor he had there was his lawyer, same as here.”
Hurley takes the fax and scans it, sighing heavily when he’s done.
“Sorry,” Corning says. “How did the visit with Dilles go?”
“About how I expected,” Hurley says. “It looks like this lead is a dead end but thanks for your help.”
“No problem,” Corning says. And then much to my relief, he escorts us out of the building.
Chapter 21
“I’m sorry that didn’t pan out,” I tell Hurley when we’re back in the car and leaving the prison grounds.
He shrugs. “I’m sorry I put you through it. Dilles is a total scumbag.”
“I keep thinking back to this Ackerman guy. There was something about him that struck me as slimy.”
“Slimy? You were practically drooling over him.”
“He is quite good-looking. But looks aren’t everything.”
“I don’t think this lover’s revenge theory of yours makes sense.” Hurley’s tone borders on the irritable but since I’m pretty sure it isn’t directed at me, I let it slide.
“You’re right. It is kind of flimsy,” I admit. “So try this one on for size. What if he’s the father of Callie’s child? And what if she was asking him for more than he was willing to give? It sounds like his money is all from his wife so a divorce based on his infidelities would likely result in him getting cut off from the purse strings. That gives him motive to kill Callie.”
“Maybe,” Hurley says with a shrug. “But we never actually met or spent any time together. What I know of the man I know from hearing and reading about him in the news.”
“He works with a bunch of investigative reporters so it wouldn’t be that hard for him to research you. And you’re the perfect patsy when it comes to Callie’s murder since you’re the ex-boyfriend. By framing you for her murder as well as Minniver’s, it deflects suspicion away from both Ackerman and his motive.”
“I don’t know. It seems kind of far-fetched,” Hurley says thoughtfully. “And how the hell could we prove it even if it was true?”
“Maybe one of his coworkers knows something,” I suggest, but even as I say it I wonder if it will help. I suspect all the women Ackerman works with are too starstruck by his natural charisma and good looks to think anything bad about him, and even if they did, I’m not sure they’d roll on him. “Or maybe his wife,” I toss out, thinking it might be the better angle.
“Let me think on it,” Hurley says, and with that our discussion ends.
The remainder of our ride back to the Milwaukee airport is quiet but not awkward. I sense Hurley is deep in thought and struggling with his own emotions, so I keep mine to myself and let him be, grateful we have reached a level of comfort with one another that allows for long periods of silence without a compulsion to fill the void. I spend the rest of the ride gazing out my window and thinking. I make a mental note to do some research on Ackerman’s wife and to try to meet and speak with her.
By the time we arrive in front of the Southwest Airlines terminal it’s after three o’clock. I’m starving and briefly consider asking Hurley if we can stop somewhere for lunch, but I sense his need to be alone with his thoughts.
He pulls up to the curb, shifts the car into park, and turns to look at me. His eyes have darkened into deep blue pools of angst and I resist an urge to lean across the seat and hug him. “You okay to drive back home?” he asks.
“I’m fine. What about you?”
“I’ll survive.”
“Are you headed straight home?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve got some things I want to do first and I’m thinking I’ll need to make myself scarce in case Richmond comes looking for me. I’ll give you
a call later.”
I nod and open my door to get out, but before I can, Hurley reaches over and grabs my arm. “Thanks for helping me, Mattie,” he says.
“You’re welcome.”
“I mean it. It means a lot to me.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I simply smile.
“I’ll be in touch,” he says, and I take that as my cue to get out of the car. As I shut the door and watch him pull away, I have a strong premonition that neither of our lives will ever be the same again.
Since it’s still early in the day, I decide to head to a nearby mall and do some shopping in order to justify my cover story. But before heading in to the stores, I park, take Callie’s diary out of my purse, and start reading it. Unlike what I would expect to find in most diaries—thoughts, feelings, and long flowing passages of information on daily life—Callie’s diary is all about her work. The entries are short and highly abbreviated, and the latest one, which is dated four days ago—two days before her death—sends chills down my spine.
Anon call, male, truth behind SH & why he left—police corruption? graft?
The initials, I’m certain, stand for Steve Hurley. That would explain what Callie was doing in our neck of the woods when she was killed. I quickly flip through some of the other entries and find similar notes for leads, tips, and story ideas. Others appear to be abandoned ideas or partially fleshed-out thoughts.
I’m curious to see what sorts of entries Callie might have made around the time she found out she was pregnant. Based on what I’ve seen so far, I doubt the book will contain any information about her personal life, but I still want to look. I don’t want to do it here, though, not only because I want privacy when I read it, but because my stomach is rumbling a protest. So I slide the diary and the cell phone that Hurley gave me beneath my seat and head inside the mall.
My first stop is the food court, where I opt for a cheeseburger with all the trimmings and a side of fries. Sated and on a saturated fat high, I then cruise the mall, hitting up a handful of stores and finding several gifts: a pair of silver skull earrings for Erika, who loves all things dark and related to death; a nifty tome on the life cycles of insects for Ethan, who collects creepy-crawlies and has recently been asking me about forensic entomology; cookbooks for both my sister, Desi, and Izzy’s partner, Dom, since they are both killer cooks; and a HEPA-rated air filter for my mother.
Feeling pretty proud of the fact that I survived several hours of shopping without having a mental breakdown and came out of it with actual gifts rather than gift cards, I drive home feeling rather chipper.
As soon as I’m back in Sorenson, I head straight to my mother’s house. I half expect her to greet me at the door in an apoplectic state from her efforts to keep things clean while doggie sitting, but it’s William who answers my knock, and when I come inside Mother is nowhere in sight.
“What did you tell your mother about dogs and cancer?” William asks me.
“That some dogs have the ability to sniff it out,” I say warily, wondering where this is going.
“Ah, that explains it then,” William says. “She has taken to her deathbed, convinced she has cervical cancer because Hoover stuck his nose in her crotch.”
I look down at Hoover, who appears to be grinning. “Sorry, William,” I say, grimacing. “I thought telling her that would help convince her to watch him for me. I should have realized she’d overreact.”
“She wants me to ask you to join us for Thanksgiving dinner,” William says. “Given that it will be her last one and all.”
“I see.” I can’t help but smile. Mother has had several final holidays over the years and I long ago figured out it was her way of ensuring that her family would be there.
“She’s upset that Desi won’t be able to come but you should probably know that she’s also invited David.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh,” William says. “She wants to talk with him about her terminal condition.”
“Of course she does. Did David accept?”
“He did.”
“I don’t know, William. It promises to be a pretty awkward meal if I’m here, too.”
“It will be awkward whether you’re here or not. So please come. I’m going to need someone to help me run interference. And I’ll never hear the end of it if you’re not there.”
“What is she planning on making?” I ask. “The last time Mom made Thanksgiving dinner she served tofurkey that was microwaved into a brick to make sure it was germ free. I’m not a picky eater by any means, but that was disgusting.”
“I promise I’ll make a real turkey,” William says. “And I’m actually a pretty good cook.” He bends down to give Hoover a pat on the head, and his comb-over flops down over his face. “You can bring this little guy,” he adds. He tries to smooth his hair back with his free hand, but instead of lying flat, it sticks up along the middle of his head like a turkey comb. “Please?”
William looks so pathetically adorable that I can’t bring myself to deny him. Besides, I feel kind of guilty given that the whole cancer snafu is my fault. “Fine,” I say with resignation. “What do you want me to bring? Make it something I don’t have to cook because I’m not much better in the kitchen than Mom is.”
“Then why don’t you bring some ice cream?”
“Ice cream I can definitely do,” I tell him. Assuming I don’t eat it before I get here.
After agreeing on a time for the upcoming dinner, I grab a handful of baggies and clean up Hoover’s yard deposits. I try to be very thorough but despite my efforts, I suspect that my mother will slash and burn her entire lawn the first chance she gets.
Once I’m done and I’ve washed and alcohol-rubbed my hands into sterility, I reluctantly poke my head into Mother’s bedroom to say hi, but to my relief she is asleep. So after giving William another apology, I bid him good-bye, load Hoover into the car, and head for home.
I’m glad I made the effort to do some actual shopping while I was gone because Izzy is outside when I arrive home and the packages I have to cart inside provide proof of my cover story.
“Did you drum up any business while I was gone?” I ask him, hoping to forestall any questions he might ask about my day. I still feel guilty about lying to him.
“Nope, it was a good day for the living,” he says, petting Hoover, who has jumped out of the car and is now groveling at Izzy’s feet. “Want to join us for dinner? Dom has whipped up some eggplant Parmesan with crème brûlée for dessert. And I have some news to share with you.”
Dom’s cooking is exceptional and I rarely pass up an opportunity to indulge. Even Hoover seems to understand the importance of the invite because he has started whining and wagging his tail with great enthusiasm. Though I’m wary of spending too much time around Izzy until all this business with Hurley is resolved, I can’t resist the lure of Dom’s cooking and I’m curious about the news Izzy wants to share.
“You can bring this little guy along,” Izzy adds, giving Hoover a scratch behind his ear.
Hoover looks at me with big, begging eyes, as if he understands.
Realizing I’m outnumbered, I relent. “Okay, just let me take these packages in and we’ll be right over.”
Fifteen minutes later, Hoover and I enter good-smell heaven, lured in by the enticing scents of warm bread, garlic, and butter. I find Izzy at the dining room table, which is already set for the meal.
“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing toward an empty chair. “Dom said it will be another five minutes or so. Want some wine?”
I nod and let him pour me a glass of chardonnay from the open bottle on the table. I can hear Dom clanging and clinking out in the kitchen and my drool factor increases with anticipation.
“So what’s the news?” I ask.
Izzy chews his lower lip for a second and I sense that his answer is going to be something touchy. “I sent Arnie to a meeting in Madison yesterday,” he starts, “one of several they’ve had recently to di
scuss the state budget, which is looking rather grim. The primary purpose for yesterday’s meeting was to announce some cuts that will be coming down the line.”
My heart lurches as I realize this news may be far more serious than I thought. “Is my job at risk?”
“Not exactly,” Izzy says cryptically. “You still have your job, but I had to make some compromises in order to assure that.”
“Such as?”
“Your job description has been expanded. Basically it’s been combined with another one in order to make your position more efficient.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, taking a bracing drink of wine. “What’s the second job?”
“It’s a newly created position, one that will incorporate the investigative duties our office already handles with more extensive evidence collection and processing, stuff that the police department mostly handled until now. That’s why I sent Arnie. It seems there have been some recent problems, mostly in the Milwaukee area, with evidence disappearing, or not being labeled correctly, or not getting stored properly, as well as some hints of police misconduct.”
Mention of police misconduct makes me flash on Callie’s diary entry and my current situation with Hurley. I try hard not to look as guilty as I feel.
“As a result,” Izzy continues, “several recent homicide cases had to be dismissed, which is not only a huge miscarriage of justice but more important, at least in the eyes of the government, a huge waste of money.
“So the Department of Justice and the governor got together and came up with a way to address both issues. They’ve decided to create a joint oversight arrangement between the coroners’ offices and the police departments whenever a suspicious death occurs. Instead of being called a deputy coroner, you will now be known as a medicolegal death investigator. Along with the title are some education requirements—several of which you don’t have, but they are willing to train existing personnel who can meet the requirements within a specified time frame.”
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