Hurley does the introductions and then says, “We’d like to talk with you about your neighbor. May we come in?”
“Of course.” She steps aside and waves us in, her gaze pinned on Hurley.
I follow him in, noting that Tonya’s apartment is a mirror image of Lisa’s in the general layout. Beyond that, it couldn’t be more different. The place is clean, neat, and tastefully decorated.
“May I get you something to drink?” she asks. “I can make coffee or, if you prefer, a bottled water?”
“No, thank you,” Hurley says. I shake my head, but it hardly seems necessary. Tonya and Hurley have an obvious connection and it’s as if the two of them are the only people in the room. We settle in on the leather couch Tonya indicates, and she perches on the edge of a matching chair across from us. Her legs, which are encased in snug skinny jeans, are demurely slanted to one side; and her top, a cowl-necked mohair sweater in shades of purple and blue, sets off her eyes beautifully. “What do you need to know, Detective?” she asks.
I’m annoyed by the way she is ignoring me, so I jump in and say, “Why is it you’re fully dressed at this time of night?”
Her eyes drift slowly my way. I suspect I’ve managed to make a tiny dent in that perfect façade, based on the way she narrows her eyes at me, but her smile remains firmly in place. “I just got home from work,” she says coolly. “I’m a bartender at the End Zone.”
The End Zone is the requisite sports bar in town, done up in Packer green and gold. I swear every town in Wisconsin has one. They do a thriving business year-round, but they’re particularly busy during football season. The typical customer tends to have more than his fair share of testosterone, and I’m betting Tonya does very well there, raking in the tips.
“How well did you know Lisa Warden?”
Tonya shrugs. “Not real well. We exchanged the usual pleasantries when we saw one another, but we weren’t friends or anything.” She turns toward Hurley, dismissing me. “I saw that syringe in her arm. I had no idea she was a drug user,” she says, pouting prettily. “She was a nurse or something like that, wasn’t she?”
“Something like that, yes,” Hurley says. “We have reason to believe she may have had some cash in her apartment, a lot of it. Did you see anything like that when you went in there?”
“No, not at all,” she says, her brow gently furrowed with concern. She claps a hand to her chest and I note her French manicure. “Do you think she was robbed?”
“Possibly,” Hurley says. “Did she have any regular visitors, or a boyfriend of any kind?”
“There was one guy that came by from time to time, but I don’t know his name.”
“What did he look like?”
“Dark hair, average height . . . I never got a very good look at him. Do you think he took this money?”
“We don’t know, but we’ll look into it. In the meantime, since you had access to Lisa’s apartment before any officials arrived, we’d like to do a search of your premises and your car to make sure the money isn’t here. We aren’t implying or accusing you of anything, just tidying up the loose ends. It’s an unfortunate but necessary step so we can rule you out.”
“Of course.” She gives him a dismissive wave of her hand. “You can look at anything I have, Detective,” she says flirtatiously. “Where would you like to start?”
The woman is a master of innuendo. Before she can snag Hurley and drag him into her lair, I speak up. “I’ll start with your bedroom,” I say. “Why don’t you show me the way?”
She turns and looks at me again with that narrowed-eye expression. “I’d be happy to,” she says in away that suggests otherwise. She looks back at Hurley and gives him a dazzling smile. “Would you care to join us, Detective?”
Like someone under a spell, Hurley smiles back at her, all glazy-eyed, and says, “Sure.”
Tonya gets up; and when her back is to Hurley, she flashes me a smug look. “Right this way,” she says, and we follow her into her bedroom.
Like the main room, the bedroom is neat and perfectly organized. Unlike my own bedroom, there isn’t an article of clothing out of place; the bed is neatly made and absent of pet hairs; the air is scented with the subtle smell of just-laundered sheets. Since I’m not about to let Hurley go through her drawers and handle her underwear, which I’m betting comes from the hooker section of Victoria’s Secret, I make a beeline for the dresser. My suspicions are confirmed with the first drawer I open, and I sift through the lacy, skimpy underthings, feeling both annoyed and envious. The second drawer reveals neatly folded nightwear: slinky, skimpy gowns, lustrous loungewear, and a pair of long underwear made out of satin. I flash on my own collection of flannel nighties and cotton tights and make a mental note to do a wardrobe upgrade as soon as possible.
Hurley and Tonya are at the closet, and I pause between drawers to look over and check out the contents. The closet is like everything else here: organized, neat, and chic. On the floor are a couple of dozen pairs of shoes, everything from fashionable pumps and high-heeled, sling-backed sandals, to designer running shoes and stylish flats. This display makes me even more envious. With my size-12 feet and my six-foot height, I not only shy away from heels, my choices are often limited to shoes that require license plates.
I turn back to the dresser and go through the rest of the drawers, where I find stacks of neatly folded sweaters, jeans, and T-shirts. When I’m done, I head for the bedside stands. The first one contains socks in one drawer, and a collection of notepads, books, pens, and magazines in the other. The second stand is a shocker. When I open the first drawer, I find a collection of sex items: a vibrator, bottles of various lotions, several packages of condoms, and a pair of fur-lined pink handcuffs. I shut it quickly and glance over my shoulder toward the closet. Tonya is watching me with an enigmatic smile on her face. Fortunately, Hurley is distracted elsewhere, searching through some boxes on the closet’s upper shelf.
I’m afraid to open the second drawer, wondering what it will contain. It’s a bit tamer, but not much. It contains several packages of sheer stockings, a garter belt, a couple of teddies, and a sleep mask, which I’m betting has never been used for sleep.
Shutting the second drawer on the sex supply cabinet, I drop down to my hands and knees and peek under Tonya’s bed. The only thing I find is a large box. I pull it out and open it up, half-expecting to find a collection of porn videos. But, instead, it’s filled with memorabilia: loose photos, yearbooks, picture albums, and some miscellaneous items that I’m guessing have some emotional significance for Tonya.
Hurley finishes with the closet just as I’m pushing the box back under the bed, and we head out to the main room, with Tonya following. I make quick work of the bathroom and a small second bedroom Tonya uses as an office, while Hurley and Tonya search the kitchen and dinette area.
We finish up in the living room, where Tonya hands a set of keys to Hurley and says, “My car is the blue Ford Escape parked out front. That other key is to my apartment.” She pauses and gives him a sly wink before adding, “You can make a copy, if you like.”
Chapter 34
Our search of Tonya’s car comes up empty, too, and I manage to get the keys from Hurley and return them to Tonya myself. She is clearly disappointed when she opens the door and sees me standing there. However, she takes it in stride, wishes me good night, and shuts her door.
Izzy offers to take Lisa’s body back to the morgue and do the preliminary intake, and Hurley agrees to drive me home. He has someone at the station run a DMV profile on Lisa and we find her car, unlocked, parked in the lot. Our search of it doesn’t turn up anything of interest, and Hurley calls to have someone come pick it up and drive it to the impound lot. But when the driver shows up, we can’t find a key to the car. Our search of Lisa’s body, purse, and apartment turns up a single key chain, with two house-type keys on it, one of which proves to be for the apartment door. But it’s one of those double-sided, detachable rings, and half of it—presum
ably the half with the car key attached—is missing. Hurley has the car towed, instead. After another hour or so of bagging and tagging evidence, we are ready to head out. Hurley is about to lock the door and seal it with crime scene tape when I remember Tux.
“What about the cat?” I ask him.
“What about it?”
“We can’t just leave him here.”
“Put down some food and water for him. He’ll be fine. I’ll call animal control later today and they can come and pick him up.”
“But they’ll just take him to a pound.”
Hurley shrugs. “Probably.”
“Let me take him. If he goes to the pound, he’ll probably end up dead. Let me keep him until we can figure out if Lisa has any family who want him.”
Hurley shrugs. “It’s your funeral.”
I head back into Lisa’s bedroom, where I find Tux curled up on the bed. I walk over and sit next to him, petting him until he starts to purr. I scoop him up and carry him out to the living room. “Okay, I’m ready,” I say. I stroke Tux, who is propped on my shoulder like a baby being burped.
Hurley looks at me, kind of buggy-eyed. “Don’t you have a cage or something to put him in?”
“I didn’t see one anywhere, did you?” It’s a rhetorical question; we’ve searched the place from top to bottom and we both know there is no carrier here.
“You plan to let that thing loose in my car?”
“No, I’m going to hold him, just like I’m doing now.”
Hurley bites his lip; and he looks so sexy doing it, it makes me want to bite it, too. I can tell he wants to say no to me; but after a few seconds of indecisiveness, he relents. “Okay, but make sure you have a tight hold on him.”
We head out to the car and I climb in. Tux is happy to be where he is, getting petted, and he purrs loudly. Then Hurley gets in and starts the car and all hell breaks loose. Tux flexes every muscle in his body, digs his claws into my shoulder, and bolts for the backseat.
“Shit!” Hurley yells. He scrambles out of the car and stands there with his door open, looking panicked. “I knew this was a bad idea,” he says.
Fortunately, the thickness of my clothes and jacket has kept Tux’s claws from doing any serious damage. I turn around in my seat and find him sitting in the back window, his eyes as wide as Hurley’s.
“Tux, kitty, come here,” I coo. “It’s okay.”
Tux stares back at me, clearly frightened, and then his sides start to heave.
“Oh, hell, what’s he doing?” Hurley asks, backing up a step. “He looks like he’s going to blow or something.”
And blow he does. After a few more heaves, Tux barfs up a giant ball of hair and slime that slides down the backseat.
“Great,” Hurley says, rolling his eyes. “That’s just great.”
“Aw, he’s just scared. That’s all,” I say, reaching over and turning off the engine. “Close your door before he runs out.”
Hurley reluctantly does as I ask. I pull the keys from the ignition, get out of the car, and shut my door behind me. “Let me go back inside the apartment and I’ll get something to clean it up,” I say.
“And leave him in there unattended?” Hurley asks. “What if he shreds my seats, or craps in there or something?”
“He won’t,” I say, hoping I’m right.
Together, we head back into the apartment and I round up some paper towels, a garbage bag, and some cleaning spray, which I find under the kitchen sink. Then a thought hits me and I hand the cleaning supplies to Hurley. “Hold these. I’m going to get his litter box from the bedroom and bring that along, just in case. Okay?”
Hurley looks ill at the idea, but he takes the stuff I hand him and waits while I get the litter box. Then we head back to the car after resealing the apartment door. It takes me a few minutes to clean up the hair ball, but Tux appears settled now and he sits quietly in the rear window while I work. When I’m done, I hand the garbage bag to Hurley, who walks over and tosses it into a nearby Dumpster. I set the litter box on the backseat and Tux eyes it a moment, but he stays put. I close the back door, open up the driver’s-side door, and get in. Then I start the engine. Tux flinches a hair, but he refrains from any more theatrics. I get out and climb into the backseat, leaving the engine running. I pet Tux and talk softly to him for another minute or so, and then I take him off the window ledge and hold him again, stroking his fur.
“He’s fine now,” I tell Hurley. “Let’s go.”
Hurley looks skeptical, but he slowly gets into the car, keeping an eye on Tux and me the entire time. Five minutes later we pull up in front of my cottage. I hand Hurley my keys and say, “Go unlock the door and let Hoover out. I’m not sure how comfortable Tux will be around a dog, and I don’t want to spook him again.”
Hurley is more than happy to get away from the cat; and when I see the joyful way Hoover greets him, it makes me rethink the reincarnation thing. Maybe I should come back as a dog. Their lives are so simple and uncomplicated.
As soon as Hurley and Hoover are a ways away from the house, I get out and carry Tux inside. I plop him down in the middle of the living room and go in search of Rubbish. I find him curled up, asleep, on my bed. I decide to let sleeping cats lie and go back out to the living room and watch Tux warily explore his new surroundings. Eventually he finds Rubbish’s food dish, which is empty—Hoover never leaves any food around for long—and starts sniffing. I open up a can of tuna-flavored food and scoop it into the dish for him. He starts to purr immediately and digs in, but either the sound or the smell has aroused Rubbish and he comes scampering into the kitchen.
Rubbish immediately comes to a halt, flattens his ears, and stares at the interloper, who is oblivious for the moment. I take a second dish out of the cabinet and scoop some cat food into it, setting it down about a foot away from Tux. This catches Tux’s attention; and when he turns toward the new bowl, he sees Rubbish.
The two cats face off, both of them with their ears flattened and their hackles raised, and they start circling. It’s like the standoff at the “Kitty-Cat Corral”; but after a few minutes of this macho posturing, Tux does the equivalent of a shrug. He turns his back to Rubbish and resumes eating.
Rubbish approaches warily and sniffs at Tux’s butt. When this action fails to get a rise, he heads for the other bowl. As soon as the two of them are eating, side by side, I head outside to find Hurley.
“So far, so good,” I tell him. “Let’s toss Hoover into the mix and see what happens.”
Hurley hands me the leash, and then he bends down to talk in Hoover’s ear. “Be strong, buddy. And whatever you do, don’t turn your back on it.” Then he looks at me. “Can I loan Hoover my Taser, just in case?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not kidding,” he says, looking all serious. “Facing down a pissed-off cat is like facing down a ninja armed with a dozen throwing stars. I’m afraid poor Hoover will end up with a three-dimensional bar code on his face.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out.”
I take Hoover inside and lead him over to the two cats, who are still focused on their food. Hoover gets excited the minute he sees Tux and lunges, yanking the leash out of my hand. Tux hears him coming, whips around, arches his back, and hisses. Hoover puts on the brakes and drops to the floor in front of Tux, exposing his underbelly in a classic doggy surrender.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Hoover,” Hurley grumbles. “Man up.”
“Look who’s talking,” I counter.
Tux turns sideways, his back still arched and his body rigid. Then he does a series of side hops toward Hoover. Hoover winces, as if preparing for the blow, but he maintains his position. Tux closes in and gives Hoover a little bitch slap on the nose with a front paw. This makes Hoover bark and roll back to a standing position, which sends Tux six feet straight up off the floor. When Tux comes back down, he takes off running, with Hoover hot on his tail.
We find them in the bedroom: Tux backed into a
corner, his tail twitching; Hoover with his shoulders to the floor and his butt up in the air, tail wagging. When he sees us standing there, Tux switches gears and becomes suddenly indifferent. He sits down, extends one hind leg, and starts to lick his crotch, completely ignoring the dog.
Hoover cocks his head to one side, whimpers, and then drops his butt down to the floor. He lays there watching the cat tend to his personal hygiene for a moment, and then gets up and goes over to offer some help. He sticks his nose into Tux’s crotch and sniffs hard a few times. Surprisingly, the cat tolerates it.
“See there?” I say to Hurley. “A couple of butt sniffs and suddenly they’re friends.”
Hurley looks over at me with a sly half smile. “Works for me,” he says.
We share an awkward moment, staring at one another, as the innuendo hangs between us like a curtain waiting to be pushed aside. But no one crosses the line.
“Okay, I’m out of here,” Hurley says finally, his gaze breaking off. “What time do you want to visit Charlotte Strommen?”
I glance at my watch and see that it’s after four in the morning already. “Izzy said he wanted to do the post on Lisa at noon. Do you want to visit Charlotte before or after? I can be ready to go by ten.”
“Ten it is. That will give me time to see about the search warrants. But let’s plan to get Charlotte out of the way first. Should I pick you up here or at the office?”
“Here.”
“Okay, see you then.” He sees himself out.
After shrugging out of my coat, I walk over to lock the door. Before I can, there’s a knock and my heart skips a beat. I am scared and excited, certain that Hurley has decided to push that curtain aside, after all. I decide I’m going to go for it, and will let whatever happens, happen. I whip open the door, and just as I expected, Hurley is standing on the threshold. I have a nanosecond to feel the thrill of impending adventure before I realize that he’s holding Tux’s litter box.
“You forgot your feline Porta-Potty,” he says, handing it to me.
Lucky Stiff Page 28