Dead Calm

by Annelise Ryan

  Five minutes later, we are dressed and sorted out, ready to present ourselves to the world. I grab my cell phone, which has somehow ended up halfway under the bed, where there is also a cat lurking, and dial a number. After a brief conversation, I hang up and look over at Hurley.

  “It’s a go. I’ll call you when I’m done to let you know if we can proceed with phase two.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this alone?”

  I nod. “I think I have to. Wish me luck.”

  I leave the bedroom and go downstairs, where I kiss both of my kids on the head. “I need to run out for a while,” I tell Emily. “And your father is leaving, too. Quadruple pay, okay?”

  She gives me a Grinch-like grimace of a smile and rubs her hands together. I kiss her again and head out.

  Five minutes later, I drive the hearse into the underground garage of my office, lock it, and head upstairs. The place is dark, with only the night security lights on. Some people might find that creepy, given that we have dead bodies in the refrigerator, but it’s never bothered me. I suspect it might bother my anticipated guest, however, so I turn on some lights. I’ve just finished lighting up the library when my phone dings with a text message. I check it and head back downstairs to the garage, where I exit the building and head for the gate at the entrance. No sooner do I arrive there than a car pulls up. I use my badge to make the gate arm elevate, and the car pulls in.

  I walk up to the car as its occupant opens the door and climbs out. “Hello, David,” I say. “Please follow me.” I then lead the way back into the building and upstairs to the library. David follows me silently, and when I gesture toward a chair at the library table, he takes it. I settle in across from him.

  “What is so urgent that we have to have this clandestine meeting?” David says.

  “There are some things I need to tell you about, things that might impact you directly. So I want you to just listen to me for a few minutes.” Though he looks impatient and fidgety, he nods. So I start talking. Over the next ten minutes, I explain to him every detail of the Jeremy Prince case, beginning with my father’s involvement thirty years ago, who we suspect the key players are, how it led to the deaths of Carolyn Abernathy as well as my coworker, Hal, and his fiancée, Tina. He listens with interest and some concern until I end with my use of his badge to access confidential files and medical records.

  “What the hell?” he says, clearly angry. “Why would you do that? I could have you fired from your job, have your nursing license taken away . . . hell, I could probably have you arrested for doing that.”

  “Yes, you probably could,” I say. “If you could prove any of it. I’ve admitted it to you here, but I’ll deny it to my dying breath if anyone else asks.”

  “Why are you telling me all of this?” he asks, his anger ramping down a notch.

  “Because you’re a part of this whole thing, David. You have reaped the benefits of these pharmaceutical companies’ illegal doings. And I believe one of your patients died as a result.” I then explain to him what I know about his Leptosoma patient who died, and about what happened to Hal’s sister. “They’re killing people, David. They know that a successful weight-loss drug has a huge potential for turning big profits, so they’re trying to cover up the problems it has in any way they can. And this isn’t the first time. This has been going on for more than thirty years.”

  I take out the Miller-Weiss memos and show them to him. He reads them, his brow furrowing, his teeth raking over his lip. When he’s done reading, he looks at me.

  “They’re going to take you down with all the rest of them,” I tell him. “Unless we can find a way to take them down first. That’s where you come into the picture.”

  “Why should I get involved?” he says. “I didn’t know what was going on, and I doubt anyone can prove I did.”

  “You took their money, David, money you knew was exorbitant for the speaking fee, as they called it. You said as much to me ten years ago when we went on that trip to Miami.”

  “Well, then you’re involved, too,” he says petulantly.

  “Potentially,” I say, “but as the wife who merely went along with the practice, thinking there was nothing wrong with it, I’d wager I’d get off with nothing more than a slap on the hand. And I have that Italy trip to show that I’d become uncomfortable with such perks and no longer wanted to be involved.”

  “You missed that trip because you were sick,” David says, his voice laced with disgust.

  “Yeah, but they won’t know that.”

  “You’re crazy,” David says. He starts to get up from the table, but what I say next makes him sit back down.

  “How much will Patty take you for when she files for divorce?”

  David stares at me, saying nothing.

  “Can you afford another division of your assets?”

  “Patty and I aren’t divorcing,” he says.

  “I suspect you will be when she learns about your latest infidelity. Honestly David, can’t you just keep it in your pants?”

  David’s face darkens as he scowls at me. “You wouldn’t tell her about that,” he sneers.

  “Oh, I most certainly would,” I say. “For God’s sake, David, she’s pregnant with your child. Of course, that may play in her favor because it will entitle her to even more of your assets than what I got.”

  We engage in a stare-down for a full minute, maybe more. Finally, David says, “What, exactly, do you want from me?”

  “I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking,” I say. “Here’s how it’s going to work.”

  CHAPTER 34

  I leave David in the library to stew and go to Izzy’s office to make my next phone call. It takes me a couple of tries to reach the person I want, but once I do, he is more than eager to come and meet with us. As soon as that call is finished, I call Hurley, who is two blocks away at the police station.

  It’s late enough at night that the reporters who have been hanging out by the station and our office have disappeared for the night, so I let both Hurley and Cletus in through the front door. The four of us convene in the library, and over the next two hours, we outline the plan. At the end of that time, David leaves and goes home.

  Cletus, who arrived wearing baggy shorts, another Hawaiian shirt, and a repeat of the socks and sandals he had on the other day, looks young and eager. But I worry that he’s also overwhelmed and in a bit over his head.

  “Are you comfortable moving forward with this, Cletus?” I ask him.

  “I am. I just don’t know how much credibility I’ll have when I take this to one of the bigger papers. I’m pretty new to this stuff, you know.”

  Like we couldn’t have guessed that on our own.

  “It’s true that you don’t have much experience,” I say, “but Detective Hurley and I have an idea about how we can increase your exposure as well as your credibility.”

  Cletus looks from me to Hurley and back again, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I’m listening,” he says.

  “First off, you need to consult a stylist. If you keep walking around dressed like you are now, no one is going to believe a thing you say. They won’t hear you because they’ll be laughing so hard.”

  Cletus looks hurt.

  “Dude, she’s right,” Hurley says.

  “Don’t worry. I have some people in mind who will get you fixed up in no time,” I tell him. “The second thing you need to do is prove your ability to be a decent investigative reporter. That means letting go of this ridiculous alien bones story and instead getting the scoop on the real story behind that skeleton. Trust me, it’s one that’s much more heartwarming and newsworthy. And when you add that to the scoop you’re going to get tomorrow morning, well . . .”

  “What scoop? What’s happening tomorrow morning?”

  “We’re going to reveal the truth behind the Grizzly Motel deaths, which, by the way, wasn’t a murder-suicide at all. Both of those victims were murdered. And you are invited to the showdown
tomorrow morning that will reveal who is behind it and why.”

  “Seriously?” he says, trying not to smile. His facial muscles are twitching so hard and fast that he looks like he’s having a seizure. “Why are you doing this for me? You guys hardly know me.”

  I look at Hurley, who looks at me, then at the floor. “Let’s just say we feel like we owe a debt to journalists,” I say. “One in particular, but she’s dead, so we don’t have a way to pay her back. We’ve decided to give a leg up to someone else instead. Sort of an in memoriam kind of thing.”

  “You’re talking about my predecessor?” Cletus says.

  “I am. Alison Miller was a huge pain in my ass,” I tell him with a little laugh. “But she was one hell of a journalist with a nose for news and a fearless, can-do attitude. And she was also my friend, so I feel like I need to do something in her memory. My one caveat with regard to the larger story, the one involving my ex, is that Alison needs to get credit for turning the case around. Her name needs to be mentioned. Maybe that way her death won’t be totally in vain.”

  Cletus nods slowly, looking somber and serious.

  “And along those same lines, our names need to be totally left out of it.”

  Cletus frowns at me. “If I do that, how do I explain all this information I was able to find?” he asks, nodding toward the small pile of papers in front of him.

  “Dr. Winston will be your whistleblower,” I explain. “It was his ID that accessed the medical records, and his e-mails that got you on the right path. As for the information we got from the thumb drive, I don’t care where you claim you got it from, and to be honest, if you do your homework, I suspect you won’t need to use it. The evidence is out there to be found. Tap into some of your journalist buddies who have access to databases of things like phone records and addresses. Let them and their cohorts help you. Do you know anyone in the Chicago area?”

  “Of course,” Cletus says with a shrug. “That’s where I went to school. Several of my classmates work in that area.”

  “Then use them,” I tell him. “Work at it, Cletus. But remember that this thing goes very high up in the justice hierarchy, so you can’t go to anyone in a DA’s office or a police station unless you have vetted them thoroughly.” I pause and lean back in my seat. “I don’t want to sugarcoat things,” I say, looking very serious. “This is the kind of story that can launch a career, maybe several careers, but it could be a very dangerous assignment for you, Cletus. You and anyone who helps you. Are you up to the task? Because if you’re not, we’ll take it to someone who is.”

  Cletus straightens in his seat and even puffs his chest out a little. “I can handle it,” he says.

  “Good,” I say with a smile, “because we’re counting on you. We expect big things from you, Cletus.”

  “I won’t let you down,” he says, full of bravado.

  “Okay then,” I say. “Let’s go get ’em.”

  Cletus gathers up his papers and stands.

  “But first,” I say, holding up a hand, “we have some work to do. “Come with me.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, Cletus is standing in front of a mirror in my sister’s house. He looks at his reflection with an expression of awe. Standing behind him, taking in that same reflection, are me—as much in awe as Cletus is—my sister, Desi, and Barbara, my personal hair and makeup stylist.

  The Cletus standing before us is hardly recognizable as the one I was speaking to just hours ago. His hair is neatly trimmed, with subtle highlights on top, his acne is well hidden behind a mask of makeup, and he is wearing a pair of fashionable glasses. He is dressed in black slacks, a royal blue, button-down shirt, and a tie with black, blue, and gold stripes. On his feet are a pair of loafers, sans socks—something he grumbled about, reminding me of my son and his peculiar pickiness with clothes.

  “Wow,” I say. “You guys are good.”

  “It helps that Cletus is the same size as Lucien,” Desi says.

  “That new airbrush makeup system you used is perfect for something like this,” I say to Barbara. I haven’t yet told Cletus that Barbara works in a funeral home doing makeup and hair for the dead most of the time, and I have no intention of doing so.

  Barbara nods and says, “It works well on my, um, regular clients. Next time you come in, I’ll use it on you. It’s amazing how well it covers.”

  I figured we’d given Cletus enough to worry about already, so I had coached Barbara ahead of time on keeping her regular occupation mum for now. I could tell that the fact that she made him lie down while she worked on him was something he was curious about but wisely accepted without question.

  Barbara hands Cletus a bag of stuff. “If you use these products religiously every day and night, I promise you those zits will be gone in no time. For tomorrow, I’ll meet you at Mattie’s office at eight and redo this for you.”

  “Thanks,” Cletus says. “This is really impressive.”

  “You can keep those clothes,” Desi says. “Lucien has no idea what’s in his wardrobe because I buy all his stuff. And frankly, he doesn’t take very good care of most of it. He’s constantly coming home with food stains, tears, you name it. These were a couple of the only pieces I could find that were still in decent shape.”

  “Thanks,” Cletus says again.

  “Those clothes will work for tomorrow morning,” I tell him. “But you need to buy some new clothes. Or at the least, learn how to better use the ones you already have. And under no circumstances is it okay to wear socks with sandals, particularly those mid-calf black socks. Got it?”

  He nods.

  “Okay then. I think we’re done for tonight,” I say. “Cletus and Barbara, I’ll see you in my office in the morning. And Desi, thanks so much for giving up part of your birthday to my little project.”

  “It was my pleasure,” she says. “This is the most fun I’ve had on a birthday in a long time.”

  With that, we bid one another good night. I see Cletus and Barbara off before getting into my hearse and driving home. The house is mostly dark, just some under-cabinet lights and one lamp in the living room glowing on the first floor. The kids are both in their rooms asleep, and after checking on each of them, I head for my bedroom. I find Hurley in bed but awake, reading through a file.

  “How did it go?” he asks.

  “Amazingly well,” I say, stripping out of my clothes. “You won’t recognize Cletus in the morning.”

  “Do you think he’ll be able to pull this thing off?”

  I grab a nightgown from a drawer and pull it on over my head. Then I crawl into bed next to Hurley, snuggling up to his side. “I hope so,” I tell him. “I don’t think I can bear it if I find out I’ve sent someone else to their death.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Barbara and Cletus are on time the next morning, and while Barbara repeats her magic ministrations, Hurley and I get ready. At a little before nine, we say good-bye to Barbara, once again thanking her for her help, and then Cletus and I climb into Cletus’s van, while Hurley gets into his own car.

  We caravan over to Pamela Knowlton’s house, park at the curb, and get out, heading for the front door. Hurley rings the bell, and I hoist my video camera and turn it on.

  A moment later, Pamela opens the door. “Detective,” she says, her expression not particularly welcoming. “Are you here to arrest me?”

  “No,” Hurley says. “We’ve uncovered some more information regarding your husband’s death. May we come in and talk?”

  “I think I need to call my lawyer,” Pamela says.

  Hurley shrugs. “You can do that if you want. But I think you’re going to want to hear us out first. You don’t have to say anything, and you don’t have to allow us to look at anything. We just want to talk. We’re filming this in order to provide you with a level of comfort. I’m telling you now that you are not under arrest at this time.”

  For a moment, I think Pamela is going to say no and make us go back to the drawing board,
or wait for some legal eagle in a suit to show up. But in the end, she relents, opens the door, and waves us in. Hurley walks to the breakfast bar, and I bite back a smile. I’m guessing he chose this particular spot because he’s hoping Pamela will once again grace him—and hopefully Cletus and me as well—with one of the beverages from her stellar coffee machine.

  “May I offer you something to drink?” Pamela says. “I have some bottled water, or if you prefer I can make you a latte or a cappuccino.”

  Hurley arches one brow and smiles at her. “I would love another one of those coffee drinks you fixed for me the other day,” he says.

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” I say, lowering the camera for the moment, “I’d like one too. Hurley hasn’t stopped talking about it since you made him that first one.”

  Pamela looks pleased at this. She gives Cletus a questioning look, and he nods and shrugs. “Sure,” he says. “Whatever they’re having.”

  Pamela sets about making the drinks, and as she does so, Hurley brings her up to date on the status of the case.

  “Mrs. Knowlton,” he begins, “as we mentioned before, it appears your husband didn’t commit suicide after all. Nor did he kill Mrs. Lansing.”

  Pamela turns and looks at him over her shoulder, a puzzled expression on her face. “Then how did he die?”

  “He was murdered,” Hurley says. “They both were.”

  Pamela sets down the coffee mug she is holding. “By whom? Do you even know?”

  “Yes, we do. I’ll explain,” Hurley says. And over the next twenty minutes, he does. Fortunately for us, Pamela is the type of person who likes to stay busy when she’s dealing with stress, and so our drinks get made. She even makes one for herself, and when she’s done with all of them she stands across the bar from us, holding her own mug close to her chest, staring at Hurley with a bewildered expression on her face. I have set the camera down on the bar—still filming—in a spot that takes in most of our setting.