Dead Calm

by Annelise Ryan

He looks at us, thinks for a moment, and then shakes his head. “My family is all back East. We’ve only been out here for a year.”

  “What made you move?” I ask.

  “Her family,” he says with a pained look. “They all live around here, and she was homesick.” He pauses, wincing. “Oh God, how am I going to tell them about this? I’m not exactly their favorite person, and they’ll blame me. I know they will.”

  “Blame you?” I say. “Why?”

  “Oh, pick a reason,” Lansing says churlishly. Then he switches to a mimicking, whiny tone. “Because I wasn’t a good husband. Because I didn’t support my wife the way I was supposed to. Because I’m a freeloader.” He pauses and sighs. “Like I said, pick your complaint.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I feel for the guy.

  He leans forward and buries his face in his hands, rocking back and forth. We let him rock, giving him time to process. After a time, he leans back, his eyes wet. “So what happens now?” he asks. “Do I have to find a funeral home and all that?”

  “Because your wife was the victim of a homicide, the medical examiner’s office will need to perform an autopsy,” Hurley explains. “At some point, her body will be released to the next of kin, and that would be you. So, yes, you will need to make some arrangements. The ME’s office can help you with that, if you like.”

  He nods slowly, and I can tell he’s back in shellshock mode. Hurley and I exchange a look, and then Hurley gets up and hands John one of his cards. “I’m sorry to have to deliver such shocking news to you this way,” he says. “Please don’t hesitate to call me if you have any questions.”

  I get up and do the same. “I work at the ME’s office,” I tell him. “We’ll be in touch with you when our work is done. And I’ll be happy to help you with the arrangements when that time comes. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  John nods. He is leaning back in his seat, staring at our cards, looking lost and forlorn. I hate leaving him this way. “Mr. Lansing, are you sure there isn’t someone we can call for you?”

  He looks up at me with sad, wounded eyes. “I’ll be fine,” he insists. “I just need some time to digest all of this.” He sighs heavily. “Thank you for . . . well . . . thank you.” His voice falls off, seeming to realize that there really isn’t anything to thank us for.

  We take our leave, shutting the apartment door quietly behind us. Once we are back in the car, I say to Hurley, “Man, I feel sorry for him. This is bound to be one of the worst days of his life.”

  Hurley nods and starts the car up. “And now we get to go ruin someone else’s day,” he says grimly. “Some days I really hate this job.”

  CHAPTER 6

  We hit up a drive-through after leaving the Lansings’ apartment and grab a quick breakfast with more coffee before heading to the Knowlton house. Hurley drives slowly, eating his breakfast sandwich as we go. We don’t say anything along the way. Neither of us is looking forward to our next visit.

  We manage to scarf up our food and wash it down with a few swallows of coffee by the time we pull up in front of the Knowlton house. It’s an attractive, two-story Craftsman with a stone façade on the front wall and tapered columns on either side of the steps going up to the front porch. The front yard is sloped down toward the street, and the climb up the sidewalk combined with my dread over what’s to come makes me feel like I’m lugging a huge weight behind me.

  This time there is a working doorbell, and when Hurley pushes the button, we hear a rich, four-note chime emanate from inside. Once again we wait, and once again no one comes to the door. Hurley gives the bell a second ring and then knocks as well, for good measure. After another minute passes, I’m about to go over and peer through the garage door windows to see if there is a car in there. Then we hear a man’s voice from off to our right.

  “If you’re looking for the Knowltons, they aren’t home.” This comes from what I presume is the Knowltons’ neighbor, a balding, elderly man who is holding his morning newspaper, fetched from his lawn. “They go into the office real early in the mornings,” he says. “Something about the time of the overseas markets, or some such.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Hurley says. We turn to head back to the car, but Hurley pauses and asks the neighbor a question. “Do they usually go into the office together?”

  “Couldn’t tell ya,” he says. “I’m not usually up at that hour. But I’ve seen them come home in separate cars, so I’m guessing no.”

  Hurley thanks him again, and we get back in the car. “Let’s hit up their office,” Hurley says.

  It takes about five minutes to make the drive. Carrier Investments is located in an office a block from downtown and the main drag. There is no traffic to speak of at this hour, and we have no problem finding a parking spot right in front of the office entrance. There is another car parked in front of ours, a beige Beemer.

  “The Knowltons seem to be doing well for themselves,” I say. “I think John Lansing might have been right about what attracted his wife to Craig. The lure of a well-to-do man must have been hard to resist.”

  Hurley shoots me an amused look.

  “What?” I say.

  “Was that part of what attracted you to David? His money?”

  I frown at him and immediately dismiss the idea. “Of course not. I won’t deny that it was a nice benefit, but it wasn’t the reason I was attracted to him.”

  Hurley arches his brows at me.

  “I’m not a gold digger, Hurley,” I say, irritated.

  “Come on, the money must have played some part in it.” I start to deny it again but hesitate. Had it played a role? The idea of being a doctor’s wife had been appealing to me, and I couldn’t deny that I liked the idea of a financially secure future.

  “Okay,” I say petulantly. “Maybe it played a small part, but it was a very small part. I like attractive, successful men who are well put together, and David fit that mold. Did his money have something to do with it?” I shrug. “Maybe. But it wasn’t the main driving force.”

  “So are you saying you think I’m attractive, successful, and well put together?” Hurley teases.

  I wink at him. “I love the way your parts are put together,” I say in a low voice. “Particularly some parts.”

  We share a heated look for a few seconds, and then Hurley rolls his eyes at me. “Great! Now you’re in the mood for morning sex.”

  On that happy, if somewhat inappropriate note, we get out of the car and walk up to the entrance for Carrier Investments. The door is made of glass, and there is a CLOSED sign hanging inside. Beyond the door is a reception area with a long desk, and to one side of it is a doorway leading to a back room. The reception portion of the office is dark, but there is light emanating from the back area. Seconds after knocking, we see a woman appear in the lit doorway, looking out at us with a curious expression. Hurley takes out his badge and holds it up for her to see.

  The woman, an attractive, tall, slender brunette with a pixie haircut and huge, round, green eyes, walks over to the door, unlocks it, and cracks it a few inches. “Can I help you?” she asks.

  Hurley does a quick introduction and then asks, “Are you Pamela Knowlton?”

  “I am.”

  Hurley does a quick introduction, once again using only my first name, but this time including the fact that I’m from the medical examiner’s office. “We need to talk to you,” Hurley says. “It’s about your husband.”

  Pamela’s face takes on a worried look. She opens the door wide enough to let us in and then closes and locks it again as soon as we are inside. “I wondered why he wasn’t here,” she says. “I figured he was having an early breakfast with a client. Was he in an accident of some sort? Is he okay?”

  “Let’s sit down,” Hurley says, gesturing toward some chairs in the reception area.

  Pamela shakes her head impatiently. “I’m fine,” she says, holding up a hand to forestall any more of our delaying tactics. “Please just tell me what’s happened. Is Crai
g okay?”

  With a sigh of resignation, Hurley says, “No, he is not. I’m sorry to inform you that your husband is dead.”

  Pamela’s eyes grow wide and wet. She staggers back a step, but then seems to catch herself. There is a counter nearby, and she reaches out and grabs the edge of it, staring at Hurley. “He’s dead?” she says, and Hurley nods. “What happened? How? Was it a car accident?” Her eyes flood with tears, and despite her earlier reassurance that she’s fine, she makes her way over to a nearby chair and falls into it.

  Hurley settles into a chair beside her, and when she leans forward, putting her head in her hands, he leans forward also, arms on his legs. He hesitates a few seconds before delivering his next blow. “It wasn’t an accident,” he says. “It appears that your husband killed himself.”

  For a few seconds, Pamela doesn’t move, and the room is absolutely quiet. Then she rears back and gapes at Hurley. “Suicide? You’re telling me Craig committed suicide?”

  “I’m sorry, yes.”

  Pamela shakes her head vigorously. “No. No way,” she says adamantly, clearly unwilling to even consider the idea. “Craig wouldn’t do that. You’re lying. Is this some kind of sick practical joke?”

  “It’s no joke,” Hurley assures her. He pauses, giving her a little more time to digest the information before moving on to the next bit of bad news.

  “How?” Pamela asks after another brief period of silence.

  “He shot himself,” Hurley says.

  “Where?”

  I’m not sure if she’s asking where on his body he shot himself, or where he was when he did the deed.

  Hurley answers one of the questions. “He was found in a room at the Grizzly Motel located about twenty miles out of town.”

  Once again Pamela shakes her head, looking confused and seeming adamant in her denial. “That doesn’t sound like Craig,” she says. “He wouldn’t do that. He didn’t even own a gun. Are you sure it was suicide? Could someone else have shot him?”

  Hurley rakes his teeth over his lower lip and takes in a bracing breath. My heart speeds up a little in anticipation of what I know is coming next.

  “Do you know a woman by the name of Meredith Lansing?” he asks Pamela.

  She pulls her gaze away from his for a moment, staring off into space. “I don’t think so,” she says, but both her expression and her tone make it clear she isn’t sure. Then her eyes grow wide. “Wait. Yes, I think I’ve heard that name before. I think she might be a client of his.” She returns her gaze to Hurley. “Why? Does she have something to do with this?”

  Hurley shifts in his chair. I know this whole conversation is an uncomfortable one for him. Death notices are never easy, and one like this is doubly hard, given both the nature of the death and the circumstances surrounding it.

  “Meredith Lansing was also found dead,” Hurley says.

  “In the same room with your husband.” Before he can continue, Pamela makes the connection.

  “Oh my God, you said he was found at a motel?” Hurley nods. “Why were they at some out-of-town motel? Were they having an affair?”

  Pamela’s tone suggests she finds this idea ludicrous, but when Hurley says, “It appears so, yes,” her expression turns incredulous.

  “I’m very sorry,” Hurley says. “I know this must be a huge shock.”

  Pamela is shaking her head yet again, but it’s slower, more resigned this time. “That’s an understatement,” she says in an ironic tone. Her eyes have dried, but she looks pale and shaky. It’s clear she is struggling to absorb everything. “Was it some kind of suicide pact or something?” she asks.

  Hurley shifts again. “It doesn’t appear that way,” he says, clearing his throat. “We think your husband shot Mrs. Lansing because she wanted to break things off with him.”

  She’s staring at him again, eyes agape. “Mrs. Lansing?” she says, seemingly grabbing at the first straw she can focus on. “Are you telling me she’s married, too?”

  “Yes,” Hurley says.

  Pamela leans forward once more and runs her hands through her hair. “I can’t believe this,” she says, and the tears start flowing again. “Oh my God. Oh my God,” she sobs, rocking slowly.

  Hurley gives her a moment before hitting her up with a request. “Mrs. Knowlton, I’m very sorry for your loss, and I know this must be very difficult for you. But because of the nature of your husband’s death, we need to look into some things.”

  She turns her tear-stained face toward him. “What things?”

  “Your husband worked here in this office with you?” Hurley asks.

  Pamela nods.

  “I need to take a look at his workstation. I assume he has a computer?”

  “He does,” Pamela says. She gets out of her chair and walks toward the back part of the office, her gait zombie-like. Hurley and I exchange a look before we follow her.

  The back area of the office contains two desks, a half-dozen filing cabinets, and a small kitchenette. Pamela walks over to the closest desk, stops, and gestures toward the computer. Then she stands there, staring off into space.

  I take out my camera and shoot a few pictures of the work area. Then, after donning gloves, I tap the space bar on the desktop computer and the screen springs to life, requesting a password.

  “Do you know what Craig’s password is?” I ask Pamela.

  She nods. “It’s the word moneymaker,” she says. “All lowercase.”

  I type it in, but it doesn’t work. Just to be sure, I type it again, but it’s definitely not the right password. “That doesn’t work,” I tell Pamela. “Any other ideas?”

  She stares at the screen, looking perplexed. “Are you sure?” she asks. “That’s been his password for as long as I can remember. It’s mine, too. We came up with them when we opened the office here.”

  “Maybe he changed his,” Hurley says. There is a hint of innuendo in his voice, and Pamela doesn’t miss it.

  “Of course,” she says with a pained expression. “If he was having an affair . . .” She drifts off, not stating the obvious.

  Hurley says, “We’ll need to take this computer with us. In the meantime, if it’s all right with you, we’re going to look through his desk to see what we find. Maybe he wrote down his new password somewhere.”

  Pamela frowns. “We have confidential financial information on these computers,” she says. “I can’t just let you take it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hurley says, though the softness in his voice is gone now. “But this is evidence in a homicide investigation.”

  While the two of them are debating the matter, I start looking though Craig’s desk drawers, beginning on the right side. There’s the requisite hanging-file drawer, and it’s stuffed with manila folders, each one labeled with a name. I recognize a couple of the names when I scan the labels, but I’m only interested in seeing if there is one for Meredith Lansing. There isn’t.

  “I need some kind of assurance that the files on that computer will be kept confidential,” Pamela says as I open the drawer above the one with the files. It contains a bottle of Scotch, a bottle of vodka—both of them high-end brands—and two highball glasses. I shut it and move to the drawers on the other side.

  “I assure you the files will be kept secure,” Hurley says. “There will be no need to expose any of the information on them unless it’s pertinent to our investigation. And at this point, I can’t imagine any of it would be unless we find a file belonging to or relating to Mrs. Lansing.”

  There is another file drawer on the left side of the desk that mirrors the first one. I once again scan the labels, and this time I strike pay dirt. There is a file with Meredith Lansing’s name on the label. I pull it out and set it on top of the desk, moving the keyboard to one side to make room.

  That’s when it hits me. I look at the top of Craig’s desk—his monitor, sitting atop a PCU, a wireless keyboard in front of it, and a wireless mouse off to one side of the keyboard. I flash back on the scene
in the motel room.

  “Don’t you need a warrant or something like that before you can take Craig’s computer?” Pamela is asking.

  Hurley shakes his head. “Your husband left a note in the motel room,” he explains. “It was computer generated, and that makes this computer, your office printer, and any other computers Craig might have key to our investigation. Does he have a laptop or a second computer at home?”

  I make quick work of the remaining desk drawer, which contains a variety of office supplies: pens, pencils, staples, a staple remover, a letter opener, paper clips, and a couple of sticky notepads. I’m eager to get Hurley aside and tell him what I’m thinking, but I don’t want to interrupt his debate with Pamela.

  “He has a laptop at home,” Pamela says in a resigned tone. “You’re welcome to it.” She hugs herself, gazing about the small office. “How are you going to examine his computers if you don’t know the password?” she asks.

  “We have technicians in our lab who do this sort of stuff all the time,” Hurley says.

  I can’t stand waiting any longer. I get up from Craig’s desk chair, pick up Meredith Lansing’s file, and tug on Hurley’s shirt. “I need to speak to you,” I tell him. “Privately.”

  Hurley looks mildly annoyed at my interruption, but when he sees the expression on my face, he nods and says, “Mrs. Knowlton, I’m going to ask you to have a seat out front in the reception area.”

  Pamela doesn’t look happy at this directive, and for a moment, I think she’s going to raise yet another objection. But then her shoulders sag, and she squeezes her eyes closed and lets out a perturbed but resigned sigh. “Fine. I need to make some calls anyway.” She shuffles past us toward the front reception area.

  I start to tell Hurley what’s on my mind, but he puts up a hand, halting me. “Hold on. I want to get some help out here.”

  “You need to hear me out first,” I say, grabbing his phone hand, “because you’re going to need more help than you realize. I think Pamela might be right. I don’t think Craig Knowlton killed himself.”

  His brow furrows, and he looks amused. “And you’re basing this on what?”