Breakfast proves to be equally challenging as Matthew decides to play chase around the kitchen table with Hoover rather than eat his cereal and fruit. Just to keep things interesting, he runs with his milk in his hand. It’s in a sippy cup, so I think it’ll be okay at first, but Matthew somehow manages to get the lid off and spill milk all over the floor and me.
“Matthew!” I yell. “Stop it right now! Get up in your chair and eat your breakfast before I paddle your bottom.”
This gets me a look from both Hurley and Matthew. Not only have I never paddled Matthew’s bottom, I’ve never threatened to do so. So Hurley is looking at me to see if I’ve finally gone over the edge, and Matthew is looking at me with confusion, unsure what this new threat means. I can tell he’s gauging me, trying to decide if he can push me a little further, but either the tone in my voice a moment ago or the look in my eye now convinces him that it’s time to start behaving.
The rest of the meal goes by without a hitch, and I leave Matthew with Hurley while I go upstairs to shower and dress. When I return downstairs, Hurley has Matthew packaged up and ready to go. “Are you going to your sister’s birthday party tonight?” he asks me as I gather up Matthew’s things and prepare to head for my car.
“I am,” I say. “She said Erika volunteered to watch Matthew for us while we’re there. You’re going, right?”
Hurley makes a face. “I suppose. Though to be honest, I’d rather spend the time working on these cases.”
“I know, but we need to take some time for us, too,” I remind him. “And Desi has done so much for us lately. I mean, look what she did to put together our wedding and reception. The least we can do is attend her birthday party, one she’s planned and arranged all by herself. Besides, a little R and R is good for the soul. Not to mention cake and ice cream.”
“Ice cream!” Matthew says with his classic childlike exuberance. His love for this particular dessert is another thing he inherited from me, so it shouldn’t surprise me that it’s one of the things he learned to say with perfect clarity early on.
“There you go,” I say with a smile. “It’s two votes in favor of going, so you’re outnumbered.”
Hurley gives me a resigned smile.
“We don’t have to stay late,” I tell him.
His phone dings, indicating there is a text message. He takes it out, looks at it, and his eyebrows arch in surprise.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’m not sure yet. But I may have a surprise for you later. I’ll let you know.” He kisses me on the cheek and then ushers me and our son out the door.
I drive to Dom and Izzy’s place to drop Matthew off. When I get inside, I find Dom in the kitchen whipping up something that smells sweet and delicious.
“What’s cooking?” I ask, though the presence of a waffle maker on the counter gives me a good idea. A fresh bowl of berries next to it makes my mouth drool.
“I’m whipping up some waffles with berries and cream,” Dom says, opening the waffle maker and removing two golden-brown waffles. He scoots them onto a plate and then proceeds to spoon the berries, which are floating in an abundance of their own juice, on top of each one. Then he tops them off with a dollop of whipped cream. “Want one?” he asks, turning around with a plate in each hand. “One of these is for Izzy—the whipped cream is a low-fat version, but don’t tell him that—and I was going to eat the other one, but you’re welcome to one of these if you want. I can make more.”
“Awful,” Matthew says in my arms, stretching toward Dom and one of the plates.
“I think he’s asking for a waffle, not judging your efforts,” I say with a wink.
Dom smiles at him and then at me. “Trade you,” he says.
“Deal.”
He sets the plates down on the counter and holds his arms out to Matthew, who goes to him without hesitation. I grab the two plates and some forks, and as Dom is seating Matthew at the kitchen table, I head to the living room, where I find Izzy playing with Juliana.
“Breakfast is served,” I say.
“Hey, Mattie,” Izzy says, eyeing the plates eagerly. He puts Juliana in the playpen and then comes over to take one of the plates from me. “I was hoping to see you this morning. I have some news for you.”
We settle down in our respective chairs, resting our plates in our laps, and I dig in without hesitation while Izzy explains what he means.
“Two things,” he says. “First, I have another job candidate coming in for an interview at eight-thirty this morning.”
“On a Saturday?”
Izzy shrugs. “The guy seems eager, and Lord knows we are. Want to sit in?”
“Of course.”
“Good. The other thing is regarding Hal’s case. I know the case isn’t technically mine since Otto was the one in charge at the time, but I’ve been looking it over.” He nods toward a side table, and I see a file there.
“Izzy, you’re supposed to be relaxing on your days off, not working.”
“This isn’t anything physical,” he says. He cuts a bite of waffle and puts it in his mouth, closing his eyes as he relishes the flavors. “Mmm,” he moans, chewing slowly. He swallows and opens his eyes. “It’s low-fat whipped cream, isn’t it?”
I nod. “Don’t tell Dom you know. He thinks he’s outsmarting you.”
“It’s not that bad,” he says with a conciliatory shrug. “It beats the hell out of that cardboard toast I’ve been eating lately.” He takes another bite. I do the same, and the two of us enjoy a silent moment of gustatory ecstasy.
“Anyway,” Izzy says after he has consumed two more bites, “as I said, I was looking over the file, and I noticed the name of the ME who did the autopsy on Hal’s sister.”
I nod, chewing quickly. “Yeah, it was a Dr. Farmer, as I recall,” I say around half a mouthful of waffle. I swallow and add, “But he’s in South America somewhere, and no one has been able to find him or get hold of him.” I punctuate this depressing news with another bite of waffle.
“I found him,” Izzy says, which stops me mid-chew. “And I spoke to him.”
I stare at him, chewing like a munching machine because I’m so eager to speak. “What?” I manage, choking down a half-chewed piece of waffle. “How?” This last question comes out a bit hoarse because my food has stuck halfway down my throat. I can feel it there—a giant lump of pasty goodness that is starting to make my esophagus spasm like it’s having a leg cramp. I try to swallow again, but not only doesn’t the lump move, I find my spit won’t even go down. Great, I think. I’m about to become one of those patients who presents to the ER with what medical folks call a food bolus, a giant wad of undigested food too big for the esophagus to handle. Food bolus is a euphemism for you haven’t learned how to eat slowly and politely and thoroughly chew your food, and the remedy is typically getting something that looks like a toilet snake with teeth pushed down your throat.
My chest aches as my esophagus spasms even harder in protest. I now know how John Hurt felt when that alien creature came busting out of his chest. For an insane moment, I wonder what an alien waffle creature would look like, then I come to my senses and look around for something to drink. I grab the only thing I see: Juliana’s half-finished juice bottle.
It works, but as I lower my head and feel the waffle bolus finally give way and slide into my stomach, I see Izzy staring at me, a forkful of waffle midway between his plate and his mouth, his expression both stunned and amused.
“Sorry about that,” I say, giving my chest a pounding with my fist, just to make sure any waffle vestiges are gone. “I swallowed too much too soon, and it got stuck there for a few seconds.” I look at the bottle in my hand and then set it aside. “I’ll get her another bottle in a minute,” I say. “Tell me about Dr. Farmer.”
I have to wait a few seconds because Izzy has eaten his pending forkful, and he hasn’t yet swallowed. I set my plate aside, done for now thanks to my bolus episode.
“Well, for starters,” Izzy sa
ys finally, “I know him because I went to medical school with him years ago, and then we worked together for a short time in Madison. Eventually he went north and I came here. I haven’t spoken to or seen him in probably twenty years, but at one time we were good friends. So I figured it was worth a shot to try and find him—something I had an idea about—and if successful, to talk to him about the case. I remembered that back when we were in medical school together, Chuck—that’s his first name—had a friend who moved to Brazil when he was in high school because of his father’s job. Chuck and this friend were pretty close, and they stayed in touch for a number of years. The friend, whose name was Ike—apparently his mother had a thing for Eisenhower—started up a charter fishing business in Brazil after he finished high school, and he kept inviting Chuck to come down and work the boats with him. Chuck used to talk about it whenever we got frustrated, or tired, or overwhelmed with med school stuff or later with work-related stuff, saying that one of these days he was going to do it.”
Izzy pauses to take another bite, and it’s all I can do not to knock the fork out of his hand. He takes his time chewing, and I roll my eyes. I suspect he’s torturing me on purpose.
“Anyway, I got to thinking that if Chuck went to South America, where else would he go? So I searched for fishing charters with the name Ike, and sure enough, I found one operating out of a little seaport in Brazil called Tibau do Sul. So I called last night, said I was in the States, that I was a doctor, and that I needed to get in touch with Chuck Farmer regarding a family emergency. Sure enough, he called me back early this morning.”
“Izzy, you are brilliant!” I say. “Did he talk at all about the case with Hal’s sister?”
“Not at first. He claimed he had no idea who I was or what I was talking about. But then I assured him of who I was by telling him some things that only the two of us would know, things we went through in med school, and that I was desperate for information because a very close friend of mine was killed, and I feared for myself and my family. That got to him. It was threats to his family that got him to leave. It’s also why he falsified the autopsy report on Hal’s sister, Liz. There was no suicide.”
“He admitted to that?”
“He did.”
“Can he name names?”
“Probably,” Izzy says, “but he won’t.”
My hopes sag. “Damn,” I mutter.
“But he did tell me one thing,” Izzy says. “We know Tomas Wyzinski worked for a pharmaceutical company a few years ago. And Farmer gave me the name of that company. It’s Drake Industries.”
Now I’ve perked up again. “Arnie and Laura came up with someone related to the Kuppers who lives near that cell tower in Kenilworth,” I say excitedly. “His name is Desmond Townsend, and he’s the CEO of Drake Industries. His wife just happens to be Marilyn Kupper, Judge Kupper’s sister.”
“That’s progress,” Izzy says, looking pleased.
“It is. And not only that, I have evidence that someone from Drake Industries was involved in the Leptosoma trial with a patient of David’s. A patient who later died of liver failure.”
“That’s great,” Izzy says. “That could lead to some concrete evidence.”
I make a face.
“What?” Izzy says.
“I’m not sure we’ll be able to use it, given how I came by the information. And it looks as if someone covered the tracks like they did with Liz, making the man’s death appear to be from something other than what it was.”
Izzy narrows his eyes at me, slowly chewing on a bite of waffle. I can tell he wants to ask me how I came by this information, but in the end, he wisely defers.
Eager to move on, I say, “I also think it’s time to have a chat with Tomas Wyzinski.”
“I suppose it’s worth a try,” Izzy says.
I take out my cell phone and call Hurley, filling him in on what Izzy has just told me. “I really think we need to talk with Tomas,” I conclude. “Today, if possible.”
“As I’ve told you, I doubt it will do any good,” Hurley says. “Besides, if he’s afraid of the Kuppers and their involvement, he isn’t going to trust someone from a police department.”
“Then set it up so I’m the only one he talks to,” I say. “Maybe he’ll open up more if it’s just me.”
“You’re still a part of law enforcement,” Hurley says. “Granted, it’s less of a direct line, but . . .” He trails off, and I can tell he’s thinking. “You’re not going to let this go until I let you talk to him, are you?”
“You know me too well, Hurley.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice tinged with resignation. “Let me see what I can set up, and I’ll call you back.”
“Thanks.” I disconnect the call, eyeing the remains of my waffle longingly, but a lingering twinge in my chest helps me decide to leave it. “Gotta run,” I tell Izzy. “But I’ll see you in the office for the interview at eight-thirty.”
I head back out to the kitchen and deposit my plate in the sink. Dom eyes it curiously. “I’ve never seen you leave food on your plate uneaten. The waffle wasn’t good?” he says, looking wounded.
“On the contrary, it was delicious,” I say. If there is any doubt to this testament, my son’s delighted, sticky, strawberry-stained face eliminates it. “In fact, it was so good, I inhaled it . . . literally. I had a chunk stuck in my esophagus, and now it hurts to swallow.”
“Sorry,” Dom says.
“Don’t be. Unless you’re apologizing for being a kick-ass cook, in which case you’re forgiven.”
“Kick ass!” Matthew says loudly, his enunciation perfect.
“Hmmph!” I hear behind me, and when I turn I see Izzy’s mother, Sylvie, standing there. “Such language you teach your boy,” she says, shaking her head forlornly. “And his table manners aren’t much better, I see.”
“Good morning, Sylvie,” I say, ignoring her jibes. “How are you today?”
She dismisses my question with a wave of her hand and a look of disgust. She wrinkles her nose, and at first, I think it’s yet another commentary on my inquiry, but then she says, “Whatever that mess is, it smells good. And an old lady like me needs good fuel in the morninks, yes?” In addition to her unique pronunciation of the word mornings, she says the word fuel as two distinct syllables. She plops herself in a seat at the end of the table opposite my son and folds her hands on the tabletop, looking at Dom expectantly.
“Coming right up,” Dom says, and as he turns back to the waffle maker, he gives me a roll of his eyes, followed by a wink.
“I need to get to work,” I say. I give my son a kiss on top of his head in the square inch of hair that isn’t sticky and full of crumbs. Matthew seems to enjoy playing with his food as much as, if not more than, eating it.
I head for the door, but before I leave, I turn back. “Are you and Izzy coming to Desi’s party tonight?” I ask.
“Party?” Sylvie asks in a voice that sounds mildly wounded as well as curious. She squares her shoulders as if she’s preparing for a blow.
Belatedly, I realize my faux pas. Desi probably didn’t extend an invitation to Sylvie. “Yes, it’s to celebrate her birthday,” I say, giving Dom a wide-eyed look. “It’s something she planned very last minute. Can you come, Sylvie?”
“I will check my schedule,” she says, looking haughty.
I have to stifle a laugh. The busiest Sylvie’s schedule gets these days is right after she takes her Lasix, which then requires her to pee every thirty minutes for the next several hours. “Well, I hope to see you there,” I say, and before the conversation can get any worse, I take my leave.
CHAPTER 26
On the drive to the office, I call my sister and wish her a happy birthday. Then I explain—though it comes out more like an apology—that I’ve invited Sylvie to her party.
“That’s fine,” Desi says with her usual good humor. “I didn’t even think to invite her, but I should have.”
“I’m not sure Dom and Izzy will be
happy about it,” I say. “But it is what it is. See you later.”
When I arrive at the office, I see that the media throng out front has thinned, but there are still some people milling about. Unfortunately, my hearse makes it hard for me to be clandestine, and as I prepare to pull into the garage, I see one eager and energetic female reporter break free of the group and come running toward me. I have to stop and use my key card to gain entrance to the garage, and this gives her enough time to catch up to me.
“Ms. Winston,” she says in a loud, commanding voice. She is an engaging young woman whom I’d guess to be somewhere in her late twenties. She has perfect makeup, a wild mass of curly dark hair, and huge blue eyes. She also has a tape recorder in one hand, which she holds in front of her face. “Susan Simons,” she says. “I’m a stringer for one of the FOX affiliates. Can you tell me anything about the bones that were found out on your property? Do we know yet if they’re extraterrestrial?” She thrusts the recorder at me and waits expectantly.
“We don’t have the DNA results back yet and probably won’t for a week or so,” I say. “However, we are fairly certain the bones are human.”
“Really?” says the woman, pulling the recorder back, her tone suggesting she thinks I’m giving her a snow job. “Then how do you explain their unusual appearance? And what about the piece of material that looked like some kind of metallic uniform that was found with the bones?”
As she once again thrusts the recorder in my direction, I ponder the fact that she knows about the material. Someone has been talking. It was probably Cletus, but I wouldn’t put it past Arnie to fuel this particular rumor fire.
“We are looking into the origin of the bones, but we haven’t come up with any definitive answers yet,” I tell her, ignoring the question about the fabric. “I would suggest you check back in a week or so when we have the DNA results.” With this, I pull into the garage, half expecting the woman to follow me in. While the card requirement at the drive-in entry to the garage limits who can pull in and park here, there’s nothing to keep pedestrians from entering, which is why the elevator from it to our office also requires a key card. Fortunately, the reporter turns back and returns to the group by the front office entrance.
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