He starts the engine, but rather than pull out right away, he sits there, staring out the windshield.
“Who was that?” I ask, wearing my impatience on my sleeve.
“A man named Greg Washington. It seems our inquiries, primarily the fingerprints we ran on Carmichael’s car and your father’s Social Security number, triggered an alarm at the U.S. Marshal’s Office. That’s because they belong to someone in the Witness Protection Program, or rather someone who was in the program. He has since left.”
“Is it my father?” I ask, realizing this might explain his need to disappear all those years ago.
“Presumably, since it was his Social we ran,” Hurley says with a shrug. “But Marshal Washington wouldn’t commit to a name. He wants to meet with us. He’s invited us, or me at least, to his office in Chicago.”
“I’m going, too,” I say, unwilling to brook any objections he might offer. “You can’t shut me out of this, Hurley.”
“I don’t intend to. But be aware, your presence might make him less willing to reveal any information.”
“I don’t care. I’m going.”
Hurley’s face is a frowning scowl.
“You don’t want me to come along?”
“It’s not that.” He shifts the car into gear and pulls out.
“Then why the long face?”
“If your father is guilty of killing my old partner, I’m none too happy to find out he was given federal protection. You don’t kill a cop and get off scot-free.”
“Maybe he didn’t do it, Hurley.”
He shoots me a look like the one he had this morning when our son pointed at the dog’s rawhide bone, did the gimme gesture with his hand, and said, “Me eat.”
“Don’t be delusional, Mattie.”
“I’m not.” This comes out harsher then I mean it to, so I take in a deep breath and try to exhale my defensiveness. “Look, I’m painfully aware my father might be, at worst, a killer, and an irresponsible, unpleasant human being, at best. But I’m keeping an open mind until I have all the facts. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me to do when we’re investigating a case?”
Hurley doesn’t answer right away. His fingers open and close on the steering wheel. I study his face, trying to read it, and I’m relieved when I see the tension ease out of it.
“Fine, you got me,” he says finally.
“I wasn’t trying to get you.”
He looks over at me and smiles. “I know. I’m saying you got me, Squatch, regardless of how this turns out, regardless of how crooked and sketchy your family line is. None of it will change how I feel about you, or my commitment to you. So erase those worries from that blackboard in your head, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, feeling the wind leave my self-righteous, defensive sails. Lord, how I love this man. “And just so you know, it’s a whiteboard, not a blackboard.”
“That’s a bit bigoted, isn’t it?”
“Merely a practical choice. Chalk dust makes me sneeze and I hate the smell of slate. Trust me, I know, because I spent many an after-school hour clapping erasers and washing the boards in my sixth-grade class as punishment for letting Tommy Smithson see my test answers.”
“I see,” Hurley says. “Should I be worried? It sounds like you had quite a thing for this Tommy Smithson.”
“Indeed, I did. He not only told me I was pretty, he always gave me the Little Debbie coffee cakes his mother packed in his lunch.” I close my eyes and let out a little moan. “God, I loved those things.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It was, for about four months or so. But then one day, his mother started packing chocolate cupcakes in his lunch, and suddenly I wasn’t good enough for Tommy anymore. He ate those himself. That was the end of it for me.”
“Duly noted. I promise to let you have the biggest piece of our wedding cake. In fact, you can have the whole darn thing if you want.” He pauses and then adds, “We are having cake at the wedding, aren’t we?”
And just like that, the whiteboard in my head starts filling up again, listing all the little details I still need to tend to.
CHAPTER 25
As we’re pulling into the parking lot at the police station, Hurley’s phone rings again. “It’s Arnie,” he tells me before answering. He puts it on speaker so I can hear, too. “Hey, Arnie, what have you got?”
“I got an ISP on that e-mail address you got for Walter Scott, [email protected]. It was created on a computer at the local library and the last e-mails sent out from that address came from there, too.”
“That’s great, Arnie,” Hurley says. “Can you tell me the exact computer used?”
“I can, but I don’t think you need that. There’s a bank of five of them for public use at the library and they’re all located in the same general area.”
“Any luck with those password-protected files on the USB drive?”
“Not yet. I sent it on to the Madison guys, but kept copies here. I might have Joey Dewhurst take a whack at them to see if he can get in. It won’t be usable as evidence that way, but whatever the Madison guys come up with will be. I just think Joey might be able to access them quicker. What do you think?”
Joey Dewhurst is giant hulk of a man with the approximate IQ of a ten-year-old, but a savant ability when it comes to working on computer hardware and software. He’s been able to hack into other files for us in the past. His talent—or quirk, depending on your perspective—has led to him adopting a superhero persona, which he calls “Hacker-Man,” replete with a caped outfit he wears under his everyday clothing featuring a giant red H on the chest.
“As long as we have an official evidence trail with the Madison folks, I think it would be fine,” Hurley says, looking over at me with a questioning expression. I nod.
“Thanks, Arnie. Keep up the good work.” With that, Hurley disconnects the call. “I’m hungry,” he says. “Want to grab a bite to eat?”
Asking me if I want to eat is like asking most people if they want to breathe. “Sure. What do you have in mind?”
He looks over at me and wiggles his eyebrows salaciously. “What I’d like to have for lunch is you,” he says. “But with Emily at the house, we don’t have anywhere private to go.”
“We could always check into a motel.”
“Tempting,” Hurley says with a sigh. “But expensive. I can wait until we get home this evening. In the meantime, how about Chinese?”
“Works for me.”
Fifteen minutes later, we are seated in a booth at the Peking Palace, our orders placed. We spend a few minutes reviewing the case, Hurley checking off the things in his notebook we have yet to follow up on. Our food arrives, and once the waitress has departed, Hurley switches topics.
“Let’s talk about the wedding.”
“Okay,” I say, stalling for a minute by shoving a large wonton into my mouth.
“Should we take Otto up on his offer and do it in his backyard?”
I make a face, and then swallow. “It’s very kind of him to make that offer, but we don’t know him all that well and it might be a little awkward. I don’t know how long I’m going to have to work with the guy. I don’t want to start our relationship off by trading favors.”
“Okay, then where else would you suggest?”
I shove another wonton in my mouth and shrug.
“We could do it at our house,” Hurley suggests.
I make a face and shake my head. “No way,” I say once I’ve swallowed. “I don’t want everyone traipsing through there, seeing what an awful housekeeper I am. And then there’s the minefield we call a backyard. I haven’t pooper-scoopered for a week and Hoover has been producing hugely and regularly.”
“What about Izzy’s house then?”
I shake my head again. “That might have worked at one time, but not now. I don’t want to put a lot of extra stress on him with this heart attack.”
Hurley narrows his eyes at me. “You’re stalling again.”
/> “I’m not,” I insist. “We’ll do it. Something . . . somewhere will come up.”
Hurley looks skeptical.
“Give me a day or two and I’ll find a suitable place.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
With that out of the way, at least for now, we chat about Matthew and Emily for the rest of our meal. When we’re done, Hurley pays and we go back to the police station. Richmond is in his office; when we enter, he says he was just about to call us.
“I did a little background research on that phone number you gave me,” he says. “The area codes for Chicago have changed over the years with the proliferation of phones and the need for numbers. The one from your letter is no longer in the 312 area code. Back in 1996, it was switched to 773. And I think I found out who it belonged to: a guy named Dan Kellerman, who coincidentally worked for the U.S. Marshal’s Office. He’s dead now, died of cancer a little over two years ago, but at one time the number was his home phone.”
“That makes sense,” Hurley says, and then he fills Richmond in on the phone call he received earlier from the U.S. Marshal’s Office. “Mattie and I are going down to Chicago first thing in the morning to talk to them.”
Richmond nods and looks at me. “That also explains your father’s Social Security number on your birth certificate. I tried to trace it back in time, but it has been completely inactive for over thirty years.”
“I imagine he got a new one when he went into the Witness Protection Program,” I surmise. “And a new name. I wonder if Walter Scott is the name the marshal’s office gave him, or if that’s just a temporary alias he’s using now.”
Hurley scowls. “I’m tired of wondering with this case. We need to find your father and talk to him directly.”
The suggestion triggers butterflies in my stomach. I’ve imagined talking to the man hundreds of times over the years—in different places, on different topics, and with a variety of attitudes—but no matter what scenario I create in my mind, the end result is always the same: awkward and uncomfortable. “Good luck with that,” I say. “He may have left the Witness Protection Program, but he seems determined to stay hidden.”
“There might be a way to flush him out,” Hurley says, looking thoughtful. “Peter Carmichael says he communicates with him through e-mail. So what if we stake out the library computers and watch for him? We still need to talk to Tina’s coworkers, so we could put someone there and knock two items off our list.”
“We could,” I say. “What I can’t figure out is where my father’s been staying. If he’s here locally, he must be living somewhere. Have we checked the motels in the area for anyone named Walter Scott? Maybe we should hit up some of the apartment complexes and show his picture around.”
“Or all of the above,” Richmond wisely suggests. “Except we don’t have a current picture of the guy.”
“Yes, we do,” I say. “We have the one Emily drew two years ago, remember? She was staying in my cottage and someone was peeking in the windows at her. We asked her to draw a picture of the man, and my mother later identified it as my father, so it must be a reasonable likeness of him.”
“Maybe the U.S. Marshal’s Office can get us a more current picture,” Hurley says. “Let me call them back.”
He places the call, and as he does so, my cell rings. I take it out of my pocket and see that it’s Dom calling. “Hey, Dom, how are things going?”
“Well as can be expected,” he says. “We just got home and Izzy is comfortably ensconced on the couch with the remote control. He wanted me to call and let you know.”
“That’s great. Is he up for visitors?”
“Sure, as long as you don’t stay too long. He says he’s really tired.”
“I’m sure he is. Hospitals are the worst place to try to get any real sleep.” Because I detect an undertone of concern and worry in Dom’s voice, I add, “Wait and see. After a couple of days at home with a decent night’s sleep or two, he’ll look and feel tons better.”
“I hope so. What time are you going to come by?”
“Hurley and I are about to ‘start pounding the pavement, ’ as the cops say. I expect that will use up most of the afternoon, and then I’ll need to pick up Matthew. So let’s figure around five or five-thirty, okay? Unless Otto Morton calls with an autopsy. If that happens, I’ll have to get back to you with a new time.”
“Okay, see you then.”
“Do you need anything? Groceries? Baby supplies?”
“No, I’m good. But thanks.”
“Okay. Let me know if you think of something.”
By the time I’m done with my call, Hurley has finished his, and he’s standing next to his computer waiting on the arrival of an e-mail. When it comes, he opens the attached picture and prints it. I stand by the printer, watching it draw my father’s face, line by line: thinning black hair; a dark, ruddy complexion; hooded hazel eyes; a flat, broad nose; and thick, pale lips. When it’s done, I take it from the tray and study the whole, searching for a resemblance to my own face. I inherited my father’s height, long limbs, and thick build, but my facial features and coloring are all my mother’s. Ironically, my sister, Desi, looks more like my father than I do, though she inherited my mother’s small build. My mother has a type, I realize, or at least she did—William doesn’t fit her usual mold. But all of her other husbands were dark-haired and dark-complected, though none were as tall or as big as my father.
“I have to confess, I don’t see a strong resemblance,” Hurley says, echoing my thoughts as he peers at the head shot over my shoulder.
“My father’s genes all manifested from the neck down. From the neck up, I’m my mother.”
Hurley massages my shoulders and I allow myself to lean back into him and enjoy the moment.
“You two should get a room,” Richmond says.
“Speaking of motels,” I say, “Let’s start looking.”
“Let me make a few copies of this picture,” Hurley says. “We can leave one at the library and ask the staff to call if they see him come in.”
“I’ll take care of that part if you want,” Richmond says, and Hurley eagerly agrees. Then, with pictures of my father in hand, Hurley and I head out to pound the pavement.
* * *
Three hours later, I have tired feet, an aching back, and a whole new level of respect for sensible shoes, but we are no closer to finding my father. I tell Hurley after hitting all three of the motels in the area—including yet another memorable encounter with Joseph—and eleven different apartment complexes that I don’t think my father would stay here in town. “He wants to stay hidden and Sorenson is too small,” I say. “And the risk of being identified is too great. He’s probably in the county somewhere, not too far away, and he comes to town from time to time, but I’m betting he isn’t staying here.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Hurley says. “But we still have to do the work. Footwork is the basis of all solid police work.”
There is an upside to our endeavors, however. Some of the peeks I get into the lives of others make me feel better about the chaos in mine.
“I think it’s time to call it a day,” I say to Hurley, sinking gratefully into the passenger seat of the car after apartment complex number twelve. “We started early today and we’re going to have to start early tomorrow.”
Hurley nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Why don’t you go pick up Matthew and I’ll see you at home in a bit. I’ve got a few things I want to look into.”
My curiosity wages war with my fatigue, and the fatigue wins. “Okay. I’m going to stop by Izzy’s on the way and check on him. What time do you want to have dinner?”
“Let’s figure on seven or seven-thirty.”
“Gotcha.”
Hurley drops me off in front of my office and I go inside to check in with Otto. “Everything quiet?” I ask.
“So far,” he says, knocking on his desktop.
“Anything turn up wit
h Tina’s autopsy?”
Otto shakes his head slowly, sadly.
“I’ve made the official ID and her family has been notified.” I don’t want to ask my next question, but I have to. “Was she alive when she went into the water?” I’m pretty sure I know the answer to this based on the way I found her, but there is a small glimmer of hope in me that wants my assumptions to be wrong, for Tina’s sake.
Otto shifts uncomfortably in his seat and I can tell he doesn’t want to look at me or answer my questions. But he does both. “Yes,” he says, his eyes meeting mine as he shatters my last hope. “She drowned.”
I nod slowly, picturing in my mind Tina’s open eyes and mouth, and imagining the horror of her final moments. A little shudder runs through me.
“How are you holding up?” he asks.
“Okay,” I say. I fill him in on the progress we’ve made thus far, which doesn’t sound like much. I realize he probably knows most of it already, but focusing on the details gets my mind off Tina and her death mask. Then I realize he might not know the parts about my father. In the interest of keeping things up front and open, I fill him in on what we know so far with regard to Cedric Novak, though I leave out some of the personal information I gleaned from my mother’s letters.
When I’m done, Otto says, “Should you recuse yourself from this investigation if your father is a suspect?”
“I considered it,” I admit. “But we don’t know for sure if he did anything. In fact, it’s starting to look like this Keith Lundberg–Jeremy Prince guy is who we’re after. But if it turns out my father is involved in anything illegal, I feel confident in my ability to see him brought to justice. I haven’t seen him in over thirty years and have no emotional attachment to him. I’ll have no reservations about putting him behind bars, if that’s where he belongs.”
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