Lucky Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  Hurley grins.

  I start to bristle. Though I try to contain myself, I can’t. “I’m not here to be your friend, Catherine,” I say. “And when you lie to us about your past, try to dupe us with your fake accent, and try to impress us with your expensive manicures and fancy clothes, it makes me suspicious.”

  “You’re just jealous,” Catherine fires back. “I can see why—what, with those chewed, ragged things you call nails. And I’ll bet you don’t have a single designer piece in your wardrobe, do you? Of course, you don’t, because they don’t make them in your size. And if you want to make that stuff you are wearing work better, take a little hint from me, honey. One word: Spanx.”

  I know that saying nothing at this point will be taking the high road. However, Catherine has managed to hit one of my most sensitive buttons, so I go crawling in the mud, instead. “Your designer duds won’t do you much good in prison,” I snap. “There everyone wears the same thing, an orange jumpsuit. It’s a color that’s really going to clash with that ‘trailer park’ eye shadow you’re wearing.”

  Catherine looks at Hurley and sighs heavily. “I really, really don’t like her.”

  “She does have a way of getting under your skin, doesn’t she?” he says. And then, since Catherine’s patience is clearly wearing dangerously thin, Hurley tries to placate her. “I apologize for my partner’s impolite questioning. I’m sure she meant no offense.”

  The hell I didn’t!

  “And if you don’t mind, I just need to ask you a few more questions about Jack’s money.”

  “Like what?” Catherine huffs with impatience.

  “Like where it is,” Hurley says. “We know he won a large chunk of change at the casino a few months ago. But if he has any of it left, we can’t find it. There’s no money in his house, and the only bank account we can find has about twenty grand in it.”

  Catherine’s expression of annoyance is replaced with one of confusion. “His money is gone?” she says. Her voice quavers.

  Hurley nods grimly. “Gone, as in ‘missing’ rather than ‘spent’—at least as far as we can tell.”

  Catherine looks genuinely stricken for the first time during our interview. She grabs her gloves up from the table and starts pulling at the fingers, as if she’s trying to milk them. After several long seconds of this figurative and literal hand-wringing, she fixes on Hurley and says, “I think I’m done here.” She stands, dons the gloves, and asks, “Am I free to go?”

  Hurley sighs and nods.

  “If you have any other questions for me, you can direct them to my lawyer.” With that, she struts from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Hurley and I sit there in silence for a moment before I say, “Interesting reaction.”

  “Yes, it certainly was.”

  “Sorry if I pissed you off by jumping in.”

  He smiles. “I’m not pissed, not at all. In fact, I’m rather pleased. You played a perfect round of good cop/bad cop. And it was fun watching the two of you go at it. Nice job on the London thing, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” I bask for a couple of seconds and then say, “She looked genuinely shocked by the knowledge that Jack’s money is missing.”

  “Or angry.”

  “Because we suspect she might have taken it?”

  “Maybe,” Hurley says, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Or she’s angry because someone else beat her to it.”

  Chapter 6

  Next up on our list of interviews is Jack’s housekeeper, Serena Vasquez. But thanks to Catherine’s abrupt departure, we have some time to kill since it’s just past eight-thirty and we don’t need to be at Serena’s until eleven. I call Izzy, and after filling him in on our aborted interview with Catherine, I ask if he needs me at the office. He informs me the morgue is thankfully empty of fresh bodies.

  “I’m waiting on a few things from Arnie and catching up on some paperwork,” Izzy says. “You can come into the office and spend time studying, or you can stay there at the station and hang with Hurley if you want, watch what they do with their investigations.”

  I’ve had plenty of opportunities to study lately. The office library has tons of tomes detailing the many ways people can die, and all the scientific ways we have of figuring it out. It’s intriguing stuff and I’ve learned a lot, but there’s only so much of it I can take. So the choice of being cooped up in the library or spending time with Hurley is a no-brainer.

  “I think I’ll hang here for now,” I tell him. “I have that seminar coming up in a few days. I don’t want to OD.”

  “No problem. I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

  I’m about to hang up when I remember something. “Oh, wait. I forgot to tell you something we learned from Catherine that might help. She confirmed that Jack ordered a pizza from Pesto Change-o the night before his death.”

  “Hmm,” Izzy says. In my mind, I can see his eyebrows drawing together the way they do when he’s puzzling out things. “What time did they eat?”

  “We didn’t pin that down, but it shouldn’t be difficult to find out when the pizza was delivered. Catherine said she left Jack’s place around ten that night, after they watched an after-dinner movie. So if we can believe her statement, my guess would be that they ate somewhere around seven or eight.”

  “Based on the condition of the food we found in Jack’s stomach, he couldn’t have died much more than an hour after he ate—two at the outside.”

  “Are you saying he was lying dead inside that house for twelve hours or more before the fire started?”

  “No. If the food had been in his stomach that long, it would have been more fermented. Plus I have the results of the potassium level in his vitreous fluid, and that indicates his time of death was close to the time of the fire.”

  “Then how is it he still had food in his stomach from dinner the night before?”

  “I don’t think he did. The more likely scenario is that there was pizza left over and he heated it up and ate it not long before he was killed.”

  I slap myself on the forehead. “Of course,” I say, feeling stupid. I look over at Hurley, who is watching me curiously and obviously listening in. I quickly replay the conversation in my mind, trying to discern if he can figure out my lapse based on my side of the conversation alone. If he can, I’ll either have to admit to being dumber than a box of rocks, or admit that the idea of leftovers never occurred to me because whenever I order a pizza, I always eat the whole thing.

  I thank Izzy for his insight, hang up, and then fill Hurley in on the highlights of our discussion, leaving out the part about how I’m a big fat pig when it comes to pizza.

  I then watch over Hurley’s shoulder as he does a computer search for Jack’s nephew, Brian Denver, but I’m less focused on the computer than I am on the fresh, clean smell coming off Hurley’s shirt. A man who not only does laundry but does it well is a very sexy thing. I find myself distracted. My mind keeps conjuring up mini porn flicks featuring me, Hurley, and a washing machine on the spin cycle.

  A search of the DMV database offers up the apartment address where we know Brian is no longer living, and the make and model of his car, along with the tag numbers. There is also a picture of him—the one from his driver’s license—showing a young man with longish black hair and a pimply face. A search on CCAP, the Consolidated Court Automation Programs, aka “the state circuit court site,” and NCIC, the National Crime Information Center, turns up the same address and a prior conviction two months ago for cocaine possession. As we’re reading the details of Brian’s drug case, Junior Feller walks in.

  “Hey, Hurley,” he says. “Do you still have an ATL out for Allen’s nephew?”

  Hurley nods and then says to me, “An ATL is an ‘attempt to locate.’ It’s basically the same as a BOLO.”

  I nod my understanding and Junior says, “Well, one of the county guys said he thinks the kid might be hanging with a group of squatters in an old abandoned farmhouse out on County Road
P. He offered to meet us out there, if you want.”

  “I do.” Hurley looks over at me. “Do you want to wait here or go back to your office?”

  “Neither,” I say, taking a nanosecond to weigh which option might bore me to death first. “I’m going with you.”

  “No, you’re not. This isn’t a social call, or a routine inquiry. There’s no way of knowing what we’ll find if the house is filled with squatters. It could be a drug house, for all we know.”

  “I’m not afraid of drug users,” I insist. “I used to take care of them, all the time, when I worked in the ER.”

  Hurley gives me an impatient look. “I don’t think you understand. This could get dangerous. There might be gunfire involved.”

  “Then give me a vest to wear.”

  Hurley’s eyes rove down toward my chest, and the corners of his mouth turn up just a hitch. “I don’t think we have one that will adequately cover your . . . assets,” he says with a sigh.

  I hear Junior snort back a laugh. I give him the evil eye as I say, “Then I’ll just wait in the car while you do your police stuff and secure the place.” Junior slinks off, muttering that he’ll meet us out in the parking lot. I shift my attention back to Hurley. “Besides, I know you let civilians spend time with you guys on ride-alongs, so just pretend that’s what I am, a ride-along.”

  I can tell from Hurley’s expression that I’ve won, so I wait, knowing he’ll want to save some face by not capitulating too quickly. Eventually he says, “Fine, but all ride-alongs are required to sign a waiver that absolves the department in case anything goes wrong.”

  “No problem. I’ll sign whatever you want.”

  He rolls his eyes, walks over to a computer, searches for and finds the form, and then prints it. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. “Sign where indicated and leave it on my desk. I need to hit the head before we go. I’ll meet you out by my car.”

  Once I’ve watched Hurley long enough to make sure he really is going to the bathroom as opposed to sneaking out the door and ditching me, I shift my attention to the waiver. It’s a frightening bit of work that says I run the risk of being maimed, raped, pillaged, plundered, or killed if I opt to ride along; and that in the course of said ride-along, I might encounter bullets, knives, riots, assaults, explosions, gas, electrocution, or the escape of radioactive substances. I find this last bit puzzling, since I’m not aware of any radioactive substances in Sorenson, but then I figure it’s probably a reference to the biological issuances that might occur if the ride-along is stuck in a car with a cop who ate at the Peking Palace. Since Hurley is hitting the john before we head out, I hope I’m safe from this one.

  The next paragraph of the waiver eliminates any and all liability for the police department, its officers, employees, board members, volunteers, commission members, and all other “respective sureties,” which I suppose means anyone in the state of Wisconsin, or perhaps on the planet Earth.

  I hear the faint sounds of a toilet flushing, so I scribble my name on the signature line and leave the form on Hurley’s desk as instructed. I grab my coat and follow a silent Hurley out to the parking lot. Junior is waiting in his patrol car; and as soon as we’re settled in Hurley’s car, we follow him out into the country.

  Hurley remains quiet for the entire trip, and I do the same. Through my side window, I watch the scenery roll by. There is no suburban sprawl here. Sorenson is surrounded by farmland; strip malls often back up to cornfields. If you blink long enough driving down Main Street, the GMCs and Hondas turn into Guernseys and Holsteins.

  The house Junior takes us to is well outside the Sorenson city limits. Normally, it would fall upon the county sheriff’s department to cover the area. But because of the small size of the police departments in this part of the state and the large size of the territories they cover, there is often a lot of overlap and mutual assistance.

  The house looks long abandoned and there is no evidence of Christmas cheer here. Half of the windows are shattered, and the once-white wooden sideboards are rotted through in places and peppered with peeling paint, which makes the place look like it has leprosy. It’s a fairly large structure built in a boxy Colonial style, and at one time I imagine it provided a cozy home to whoever owned the farm. Years of neglect have stripped it of any glory, however. Now it looks decrepit, old, and very unwelcoming . . . unless you happen to be homeless, a druggie, or both. Bedding down inside an abandoned wreck of a house is better than sleeping in a cardboard box in a store doorway downtown somewhere, and the social misfits in the area often do so, squatting until someone makes them leave.

  Hurley pulls in behind Junior’s patrol car, which has stopped behind the sheriff’s car. We are about thirty yards from the house, alongside a grove of trees that protects us from view. Up ahead, I see two other cars parked near the house. One is a dented, primer-colored, run-down–looking Volkswagen Beetle. The second car—a black Hyundai with a few dings and dents, but in much better shape overall than the Beetle—is parked half on the lawn. A quick comparison of the plates on the Hyundai to the info on the ATL sheet confirms that the car is Denver’s.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll reconsider and let me come with you?” I ask.

  Hurley shakes his head. “Stay here in the car until we can scope the place out. There’s no telling what these idiots might do, and you don’t have a weapon.”

  “You could give me a gun.”

  Hurley snorts a laugh. “Hell no,” he says. “I’ve seen the way you shoot.”

  “Hey, it was my shooting that saved your sorry ass not too long ago,” I remind him.

  “Yeah, thanks to a ricochet.”

  “How do you know I didn’t plan it that way? Maybe I’m better than you think and I used one of my trick shots to take him down, like Annie Oakley.”

  Hurley’s incredulous expression tells me what he thinks of that idea.

  “Fine,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Don’t give me a gun. How about your Taser? Can I carry that?”

  “Stay,” Hurley says firmly, like I’m his pet dog. This should probably offend me, but my mind briefly goes off track as I imagine what it would be like to have Hurley pet me. By the time I shake it off, Hurley is out of the car, and he and the other two cops are disappearing through the front door of the house.

  Time ticks by with all the speed of a snail, and I can’t see or hear anything going on. After several minutes of impatient waiting, I dig my new key ring out of my purse, remove the tiny canister of pepper spray, which came with it, and climb out of the car. I position myself on the side of the vehicle farthest from the house, figuring I can duck down behind it if things get messy. But after several more minutes of nothing, my curiosity gets the better of me. I head across the lawn and up the stairs of the porch, which looks like it’s trying to fall off the house.

  The guys have left the front door ajar—not difficult, given that it’s missing all its hardware except the hinges—and as I cross over the threshold into a small foyer, I pause, listening for any activity. There are stairs in front of me, and I can hear the sound of someone snoring loudly on the upper floor. Off to my right is an empty room, which I suspect was once the living room. There is another empty room to my left. Judging from the chair rail on the walls, I suspect it was once the dining room. I step into it and see another doorway on the far side leading into a room with cabinets. There is a faint hiss of whispers coming from this kitchen area and I tiptoe toward it, sliding the safety off my pepper spray canister and holding it in front of me at the ready.

  I’m mere feet from the kitchen doorway when a hand clamps down on my shoulder. I yelp, spin around, and let the pepper spray fly.

  Too late I realize that the person behind me is Hurley. As he starts bellowing like a cow about to drop a calf, I hear the pounding of footsteps overhead. Seconds later, Hurley and I are joined by Junior Feller and the sheriff, who come from the kitchen door behind me. In almost the same instant, several motley-looking characters charge down t
he stairs and out the open front door.

  “Damn it!” Hurley yells. In an instant, his eyes are red and streaming. He coughs so hard that he retches. Junior and the sheriff take off after the squatters, and I can just make out the shouts above the sounds of Hurley trying to gag up his toenails. Hurley shrugs out of his jacket, undoes his vest, and then pulls his shirttails out of his jeans, using them in an attempt to wipe the pepper spray from his eyes.

  “Don’t rub it,” I tell him. “It only makes it burn worse.” I run into the kitchen in search of some water, but when I turn on the faucet in the sink, all I get is a loud clanking noise from the bowels of the house. There is a plastic cup on the counter and I grab it and head outside to fill it with snow, a task made difficult by the warm temperature and the rapid melting.

  Over by the car that belongs to Jack’s nephew, I see Junior and the sheriff handcuffing a young man. Based on the black hair and pimply face, I’m pretty certain it’s Brian Denver. Two other young men—both of them filthy and unkempt—are lying on their backs on the ground, looking dazed. I dash back inside to Hurley.

  “Here,” I say, offering him the cup. “Use this snow to rinse out your eyes.”

  Hurley takes the cup and dumps some snow in his hand. He makes a fist to melt it for a second and then lets it dribble over his eyes. When the cup is empty, I run back out and refill it. Three trips later, Hurley appears to be a little more comfortable. Junior enters the house, pushing Brian Denver along in front of him.

  “Sorry,” I whisper to Hurley, “you startled me, and I didn’t know it was you.”

  “If you’d stayed in the damned car like I told you, it wouldn’t have mattered,” he grumbles. “We’ll discuss it later.”

  Junior wags a finger at me and then mimes a hanging, letting his eyes cross and his tongue loll.