Pamela squeezes her eyes closed and exhales her frustration hard enough that I can smell her mint-scented breath from across the table. When she opens her eyes again, she zeroes them in on Hurley’s like a laser beam. “I did not kill my husband, Detective,” she says, enunciating slowly and carefully. “I loved my husband. And I don’t need his stupid life insurance. Our business has done very well over the past few years, and we have a healthy nest egg set up. The life insurance policies—and yes, I have one on me, too—were to cover the business value of our services to our company. I can show you our financial reports, if you like.”
Rather than respond to this challenge, Hurley says, “Where were you between the hours of eleven last night and five this morning?”
If Hurley’s aim is to unsettle Pamela with this sudden change of subject, it appears to have worked. She shakes her head, as if trying to loosen something in her brain, and stares at Hurley with her mouth agape.
“What the hell?” she says. “What has that got to do with anything?”
“Please answer the question,” Hurley says calmly.
Pamela rolls her eyes and shakes her head in disgust. “I was at home, Detective. I spent most of the day there. Our office is closed because I needed some time to absorb Craig’s death. I forwarded the office phones to my cell. I didn’t take or make any calls, but I did monitor those that came in, and I listened to the messages. Most were condolence calls, but a few were work-related, mostly from clients who don’t know about what . . . about Craig yet. I left the house this morning at five to go into the office and get some files for the clients who called needing services. Much as I would like to shut the business down indefinitely, Craig and I are that business. There is no one to take over for me, no one to fill in. And I have a fiduciary duty to our clients.” Her eyes have filled with tears, and she stops, leans her head back, and closes her eyes for a few seconds. “Besides,” she says, once she lowers her head and looks at Hurley again, “the work takes my mind off of . . . this.” She waves a hand over the table and does the broccoli face again as a single large tear rolls down her cheek.
“Can anyone verify that you were home during those hours? Is there anyone who can provide you with an alibi?”
“An alibi for what?”
“I take it that means no?” Hurley says.
Pamela’s anger is growing fast now. I can see a spark in her eye, the tension in her muscles, the increase in her respiratory rate. “Detective, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing with me. First you tell me that my husband was murdered and that I’m a suspect because of his life insurance policy, and then you ask me for an alibi for a time period that has nothing to do with Craig’s death. And what about the husband of that woman, Meredith what’s-her-name, that you said was killed by my husband? If I’m a suspect, why isn’t he? If Meredith and Craig were having an affair, he’d be angry and jealous, too, right?”
“Are you saying you’re angry and jealous about Craig and Meredith’s affair?” I ask her.
“Of course I am!” she snaps. “Wouldn’t you be angry if you discovered your husband, the man you loved, the man you thought loved you, was having an affair with another woman?” Pamela’s emotional control is tenuous at best at the moment. Her voice hitches on the last few words, her face is screwed up in a contorted expression as she tries not to break down in tears, and her breathing is irregular. Her pain looks utterly and completely genuine.
“Yes, I would,” I say emphatically, and I feel Hurley’s leg nudge mine beneath the table.
Pamela takes a moment to gather herself together. I slide a box of tissues over to her, and she takes two out, giving me a grateful look. After dabbing her eyes and swiping at her nose, she says, “So why aren’t you questioning Meredith’s husband?”
“We talked to him,” Hurley says.
“And?”
Hurley doesn’t answer her. He just sits there and stares.
Nearly a full minute passes in complete silence before Pamela says, “What the hell is going on here? Do I need to get a lawyer?”
“I don’t know,” Hurley says. “Do you?”
There have been a lot of emotions playing over Pamela’s face while we’ve been in here, but this is the first time I see pure, unadulterated fear.
“Yes,” she says, jutting her chin out in an attempt to look more confident than I know she feels. “I think I do. And I think I’m done talking to you. Am I free to leave?”
“You are,” Hurley says.
Pamela lunges out of her seat and comes around the end of the table toward us. As she steps behind Hurley and opens the door to the room, Hurley says, “Don’t go anywhere without checking with me first.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Pamela says with a pronounced sneer. Then she slams the door closed behind her.
CHAPTER 22
As soon as Pamela Knowlton is gone, Hurley gets out his phone and places a call to Jonas, switching the call to speaker. “Hey, Jonas, I know you’re busy processing that scene at the apartment, but I need an update on the financials for our suspects, particularly Pamela Knowlton.”
“Laura has been working on that,” he says. “I know she started looking into it, but I don’t know how far she’s gotten. We’ve been working a lot of opposite hours lately, so I haven’t had much of a chance to talk with her. You’ll have to call her.”
“Okay,” Hurley says, sounding less than enthused. He disconnects the call and pulls up his contact info for Laura. But rather than call her, he sighs and gives me a sad look. “I don’t want to call her. I don’t think I have the patience.” He looks and sounds exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his voice is hoarse and weaker than usual. I have a sudden urge to hug him or put his head in my lap and tell him to go to sleep for a little while. But I do neither.
“Just be firm with her if she starts to go off on any tangents,” I say. “She’s actually pretty self-aware when it comes to her verbosity, and in my experience, she responds well to reminders.”
“Then you call her,” Hurley says, and he slides his phone over to me.
I push his phone back toward him but take out my own. “Okay,” I say. I dial Laura’s number, and she answers on the second ring, sounding sleepy. I put the call on speaker.
“Hey, Laura, it’s Mattie and Hurley. Sorry if we woke you.”
“That’s okay,” she says, sounding very subdued for Laura.
I start to think I might have found the trick for managing a conversation with her: call her when she’s sleeping. “We wanted to check with you to see if you’ve made any progress on the Lansing/Knowlton case with regard to the financials or the GPS analysis.”
“Um, haven’t gotten very far with the financials yet. The banks are being stubborn. But I did discover some oddities regarding the GPS stuff. I put a report online in the case file about it.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say, grimacing at Hurley. “We haven’t checked the file today. Can you give me a summary?”
“Sure. I downloaded cell tower and GPS info from all four phones and the GPS info from Craig Knowlton’s car. In general, it all seemed normal enough, but then I noticed that a call Craig made from his burner phone to Meredith’s burner phone bounced off a cell tower on the far east side of town at the same time that his car GPS showed him being near the Dells.”
“So maybe his wife was driving his car,” I surmise. “Maybe Craig was with Meredith. What did Meredith’s phones show for the same time period?”
“That’s the thing. Meredith’s regular cell phone shows she made a call at the same exact time and the GPS on that phone puts her at work at the hospital. The call was to a friend of hers, a coworker named Jeannie Howe. And yet the burner cells show a phone call lasting between the two burner phones for fifteen minutes.”
“Maybe one or the other of them was merely listening on their end,” I surmise.
“But I’m not done yet,” Laura says. “Craig’s regular cell phone also made a call durin
g that time, one that started about a minute after the burner calls. And the GPS on his phone as well as the cell tower it bounced off of show he was in the Dells. So both his car and his regular cell phone were in the Dells, yet his burner phone called Meredith’s burner phone from somewhere in town. Unless the man had powers we don’t know about, he couldn’t have been in two places at one time.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, thinking. “Who did Craig call on his regular cell phone?”
“His wife, Pamela,” Laura says. “They talked for just over ten minutes, and it looks like her end of the call pinged off the tower closest to their house. That’s a different tower than the one Craig’s burner cell pinged off of.”
“So clearly someone else was using Craig’s burner phone,” Hurley says.
“That’s what it looks like, yes,” Laura says, stifling a yawn.
“Is there any way to know exactly where Meredith’s burner phone was?” Hurley asks.
“No, sorry,” Laura says. “I can tell you it was in the vicinity of the hospital and her regular cell phone, but I can’t say exactly where. However, I did notice that Meredith’s apartment is in an area that would bounce off that same tower. So maybe her husband made the call? You should ask him.”
“Can’t do that,” I say. “John Lansing is dead.”
“What?” Laura says, the question coming out like a gunshot.
In my mind’s eye, I visualize her bolting upright in her bed. And I realize that this shocking news might be just the thing she needs to wake up fully. I sense our clock is ticking. “What happened?” Laura asks.
“It looks like someone killed him and tried to make it look like a suicide,” Hurley says.
“Oh jeez,” Laura says, her Midwestern accent coming through strong. “I need to get going. Don’t worry. I’m up now, and I’ll get to the office as soon as I can. I’ll get on those financials and wring it out of the banks if I have to sell my soul to do it. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about the Prince case. I’m working on that every spare second I have. I’m trying to allot at least two hours out of every shift to that particular project.”
Laura’s voice is breathless and irregular, and I can tell she’s running around doing things on her end. Despite this, she shows no sign of letting up on her current train of thought, and I can tell we are going to have to derail her.
“I’ve got an extensive list of homes near that cell tower, and I’m wading through the tax and census records for the area to see who lives where. I’ve got a string of names already, but I still have to run those through some search engines to see if I can tie any of them to the pharmaceutical industry. It’s going to take some time, but I promise you I’m working on it. And as soon—”
“Laura!” I say loudly. “We got it. You get yourself ready for work, and we’ll touch base with you later, okay?” I jab at the little red hang-up icon on my phone, not giving her a chance to answer.
I look at Hurley, my eyes big as if I’m stunned. He smiles and shakes his head. “It’s a good thing she’s good at her job,” he says. “I wish we’d known about the GPS phone thing when we talked to Pamela. I’m going to have to remind Laura to call or text me as well as upload information when she has evidence like that.”
“She usually does,” I say. “I wonder if we’ve scared her away from doing that by complaining about her talking too much, too fast, and too often.”
“Perhaps,” Hurley says. “I guess listening to her babble is a price we’ll have to pay in the future.”
“Help me understand what this whole phone thing she came up with means,” I say to Hurley, switching topics.
He squeezes his eyes closed and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Near as I can tell,” he says, dropping his hand and opening his eyes, “our theory of this case is all wrong. And I’m going to have to try to talk to Pamela again.”
“Good luck with that,” I say, making a face. “I don’t think she’s going to be too inclined to cooperate with us at this point.” I glance at my watch. “I need to get to the office so I can help Otto with John Lansing’s autopsy. Is it safe to assume you won’t be attending?”
“I can’t,” Hurley says tiredly. “I’ve got too many other things to follow up on. Call me if you find anything significant, okay?”
“Of course.” I get up from my chair and kiss Hurley on the cheek. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I leave via the break room door and the secure parking lot, intending to take some back streets to my office so I can avoid the media cabal gathered out front. I haven’t gone far before my stomach reminds me that it’s waging a major protest. It feels like it’s trying to eat itself, and I’m so hungry I feel nauseated. There is a sandwich shop a couple of blocks down past my office, and I decide to detour there and order a sandwich to go. I can get there and back using side streets that will help me avoid the media.
I make it to the shop without incident, and while I’m waiting for my food, my cell phone rings, and I see that it’s my sister, Desi.
“Hey, Des, what’s up?”
“Have you got a moment to chat?”
I glance at my watch. “Maybe five. Is that enough?”
“It will get us started,” she says. “Let me begin with the fun stuff.” I wince, knowing this means that whatever she has called about won’t be all happy news. “I’ve decided to throw myself a birthday party,” she goes on.
I curse silently, realizing I’ve forgotten all about my sister’s birthday on August first—tomorrow. “Okay,” I say, mentally adding the purchase of a card and gift to my mental to-do list. “That sounds like fun.” I hope my voice sounds convincing because a party is the last thing I need in my life right now. Not that I don’t enjoy them. Typically, I do. But my life is hardly typical right now, and this party is just one more thing I have to fit into a schedule that is already bursting at the seams, much like my thighs will be if Otto doesn’t quit bringing pastries to work.
“I’m thinking of having it early in the evening tomorrow, around six,” Desi says, sounding enthused and excited. “I’m going to whip up a bunch of fun hors d’oeuvres I’ve recently found recipes for. Erika has agreed to babysit, so you can bring Matthew, and Dom and Izzy can bring Juliana. I’m happy to keep both kids overnight if you like so you adults can have some adult time.”
“Hold on,” I say, chuckling. “This is supposed to be your celebration. You should be on the receiving end, not the giving end. You’re throwing your own party, fixing your own food for it, and providing overnight babysitting services? I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to go, Desi.”
She laughs. “I know, but I also know that your schedule right now is crazy hectic, and I really, really, really want you to come. It’s been a long time since we’ve done anything fun.”
“We had a wedding just three weeks ago,” I remind her. “Mine, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” Desi says with a little chuckle.
“Hold on a sec,” I say. “I need to pay for my sandwich so I can get back to the office.” I set my phone down on the counter, pay for my food, grab both my lunch and my phone, and head outside, walking fast. I don’t want to make Otto wait for me.
“Okay, I’m back,” I say once I have my phone back to my ear. I try to wedge the device against my shoulder so I can have my hands free to unwrap my sandwich. I can practically feel my stomach trying to push its way through my skin to get at it. “How many people are you inviting? Are you inviting Mom? Is that why you’re doing this at the last minute? Are you planning some sort of intervention or confrontation with Mom?”
“I’ve invited her, but I doubt she’ll come,” she says. “By the way, what’s this thing about an alien body being found out on your new property?”
“It’s not an alien body,” I say, rolling my eyes. I’ve managed to unwrap most of my sandwich, but as I’m trying to remove the last bit of cellophane, it slips out of my hand and drops to the sidewalk. “Damn it!” I say, looking at my damaged lunch an
d trying not to cry. Part of it has landed on top of the cellophane, the bread slices sliding only halfway off. I give it a second’s worth of consideration before bending down and picking up the part of the sandwich that isn’t covered with dirt and gravel. I almost drop my phone while doing this, so I grab it with one hand, and end up grabbing only the top portion of the sandwich. I put it in my mouth, the bread hanging halfway out, and then reach for the rest of it.
Distracted as I am by my attempts to walk, talk on the phone, and eat at the same time, I forget that I should be taking the slightly longer back streets to the office. When I stand up, I see Cletus and two other reporters in front of me, their cameras posed and ready. I hear several rapid clicks, and then Cletus flashes me a smile.
“Our tax dollars at work,” he says. The other two reporters turn and run back toward the crowd a block away.
I use the back of my hand to push the part of the sandwich that is hanging from my lips into my mouth, and chew quickly.
“Damn it, Cletus,” I mumble around half a mouthful of food. “You are not going to use those pictures.”
He shrugs and his smile widens. “Why not?” he asks. “I think the public would be interested in knowing that the assistant to the medical examiner not only has an alien body on her property but also eats off the sidewalk.” He spins around and hurries off after the others, leaving me fuming. I’m mad enough that I consider tossing the sandwich remnant I’m still holding in my hand, but after a second I think better of it.
I hear Desi’s voice calling to me from my phone. “Mattie? Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” I say, coddling the sad remains of my lunch. “I had an accident with my sandwich.”
“An accident?” Desi says, sounding mildly alarmed. “Are you okay?”
“Physically, yes. But my pride has sustained a fatal blow. As will yours when you see my picture in the next issue of the paper. You might want to think twice about admitting that we’re related.”
Dead Calm Page 21