Despite her prior objections, Sylvie listens closely to everything we discuss. I suspect she’s intrigued by what we do, but she won’t admit to it because it would seem too unladylike.
Izzy comments on how lucky it was to pick up on the fact that the two cases are connected. “For all his paranoia, Arnie is good at what he does,” he says.
“That he is,” I agree. “In fact, sometimes I think it’s his paranoia that makes him so good at it. He’s driven to look under every rock, to consider every possible scenario, and it’s that determination and drive that lead to him making findings like this.”
Izzy nods and smiles, but the color has faded from his cheeks and his smile looks more wooden than it did earlier. “I don’t want to tire you out too much, and I need to get home,” I say. “It’s been a long day for both of us.”
“Come back tomorrow?” Izzy asks, almost pleading. Sylvie rolls her eyes and crosses both her legs and her arms with exaggerated movements to communicate her annoyance.
“Sure. Rest in the meantime, okay? And call me if you need anything.” I look over at Dom and then reluctantly glance at Sylvie. “Any of you.”
I give Izzy another kiss, take my now-clean son, and head for home.
* * *
Hurley arrives home a little after seven and we all sit down to a dinner of hamburgers, veggie sticks, and French fries. I’d like to say I cooked, but the truth is I stopped at a local restaurant and ordered takeout. The food is good, and nobody seems to mind that it isn’t home-cooked and we aren’t eating off real plates. To me, the more important thing is we are all seated at the dinner table together, sharing.
Emily updates us on the status of her volleyball team, which is currently in first place in the league, and invites us to her game next week. As usual, we tell her we’ll make it if work allows. I feel guilty every time I miss one of her games, but she seems to take it in stride.
I then announce that the wedding venue has been determined, garnering a pleased but surprised look from Hurley. “My sister has offered to have it at her house and she’s taking charge of all the planning. She even found me the perfect dress.” I look at Emily. “Erika is already shopping for a dress she can wear, so you should start looking, too. Desi can help you find one if need be. I’d love to do it with you, but I’m not sure I’m going to have the time with the caseload I have right now. And your dad wants us to do this on the Fourth of July.”
“The Fourth of July,” Emily says. “That’s perfect! You’ll have fireworks to help you celebrate. It’s also kind of ironic, if you think about it.”
“How so?” I ask.
“Well, you two will be giving up your independence on Independence Day.”
My shoulders are feeling heavy again. Matthew waves his fork in the air and says, “Ped is day!”
“Yep, that’s right, Matthew,” Emily says. “Independence Day. You’ll get to see fireworks!”
“Fier-irks,” Matthew says. And then he flings a handful of French fries across the table.
After dinner, I remember our bed has been stripped and the sheets laundered. I should have asked Emily to make it up while she was at home today, but I didn’t think to do so. Actually, the thought did cross my mind at one point, but I didn’t act on it. I’m very self-conscious when it comes to asking Emily for help with chores. I want her to feel like she’s a contributing member of the household, but I don’t want to cross a line to where she feels like she’s slave labor. As a result, I tend to err on the side of laxity more than I probably need to. When I go downstairs to the laundry, I see that she did do several loads of wash, so I remind myself to thank her for that. I grab the sheets and, after making sure Matthew is under Emily’s watchful eye, carry them upstairs. Hurley follows me.
“Want some help?” he says as I toss the sheets on a chair and dig out the fitted one.
“Sure. Thanks. It’s a lot easier to make if there’re two of us.” I flap the sheet out and turn it the right way. Then I grab the top corner on my side and fit it over the mattress. Hurley pulls his corner toward him and does the same, making mine pop off. I grab my corner again and pull it toward me, making Hurley’s corner pop off. The two of us stand there for a moment, staring at one another, and then we both burst into laughter.
“I know you’re a sheet hog,” I say after a moment, “but this is ridiculous.”
“Hey, it could be worse,” Hurley says. “We could be T. rexes. Imagine how hard this would be if we had short little arms.” He tucks his arms back like chicken wings and tries to bend down and grab his corner. “Give it a whirl, Squatch,” he says.
I adopt the same arm position he has and bend over, trying to grab my sheet corner. I lose my balance and tumble forward onto the bed, laughing. Hurley feigns a growl and falls down with me, pretending to bite my neck. We roll around on the bed, giggling and growling, until my phone rings, forcing us to sober up. I roll over and grab the phone, glancing at the caller ID. It’s William-not-Bill.
I barely have a chance to say hello before he cuts in. “What on earth happened between you and your mother today?”
“We opened some old wounds.”
“Well, I don’t know what those wounds were, but it has your mother in the midst of a cleaning frenzy like I’ve never seen before. She was on her hands and knees with a toothbrush scrubbing the floor molding in the kitchen a little while ago, and now she’s in the process of rewashing all the towels and linens in the house. I’m really worried about her.”
“Don’t be,” I tell him. “This is part of her standard coping tactics when she’s emotionally upset. She’ll do the cleaning frenzy for the rest of today and all through the night. In the morning, she’ll drop into bed out of sheer exhaustion, and when she wakes tomorrow afternoon, she’ll announce she has some sort of terminal disease.”
“You mean she’s done this before?”
“Sadly, yes. Many times. She’ll be fine in a day or two, William. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?” he asks, nearly screeching.
“Unless the thing that has her upset worsens and gets her more upset.”
“What thing?” William says irritably. “What has her so upset?”
“I suspect it’s partly me, and partly her ex-husband, my father.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. Listen, William, things are probably going to get messy in the days to come and I suspect Mother will have that house cleaner than it’s ever been by the time it’s all said and done. You can’t do anything to change what will happen. All you can do is sit back and keep an eye on her. And when she tells you she has a terminal illness, don’t try to logic her out of it. That woman has better medical knowledge than most doctors and she can twist all sorts of symptoms around to fit whatever disease she’s adopted for the week. You’ll just be wasting your breath if you try to get her to see the light. So take the advice of someone who’s been down this road a few dozen times and just ride it out. Do not let her convince you to start making funeral plans because she won’t really be ill and she’s already got a plot and a plan anyway.”
“Oh, my,” William says.
“You’ll be fine. It will all pass eventually. Call me if it gets to be too much for you.”
“Okay. Um . . . what about your father? Is he back? Do I need to be worried about him?”
“He’s around,” I tell him. “I think he’s keeping a low profile for now, but he could surface at any time. I don’t think you need to worry about him, though.”
“Okay.” He sounds completely unconvinced.
“William?”
“Yeah?”
“You are one of the best things that has happened to my mother. So hang in there, okay?”
“Okay.” This time he sounds relieved, or at least not panicked.
I bid him good night and disconnect the call.
“Poor William,” Hurley says.
“He’s a tough guy. He’ll get through it.” I then tell him about my visit to Lech Wyzin
ski.
“Why did you go see him?” he asks, scratching his head.
“The whole coincidence thing . . . it bothered me. I needed to talk to him.”
“And?”
“And he doesn’t remember what he and Tina talked about. But he did share something with me that gives me pause.” I then explain to him about the logbook he showed me of Tomas’s diet and blood sugars. “I don’t think it’s outside the realm of possibility that Tomas was framed,” I conclude.
“I think it’s more likely that he simply tried to off himself,” Hurley says. “Besides, Richmond talked to Tina’s coworkers at the library and they confirmed that she was constantly researching real crimes as fodder for the books she was writing. I’m sure that’s all it was.”
“Lech did say there was a bad man—that’s how he referred to him—who came to visit Tomas. He couldn’t tell me much about him other than the fact that he drove some type of blue convertible.”
“Probably a drug connection of some sort,” Hurley says dismissively. He kisses me on the forehead and climbs out of the bed. “I’ve got to get back to the station and see to some things. I’m not sure when I’ll get home, so don’t wait up.”
Just like that, he’s gone. I stay on the bed a few minutes longer, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the chaos my life has become. Then I get up and make the bed. After that, I do two more loads of laundry, pick up Matthew’s room, run the dishwasher, and sweep and mop the remains of the day—and Matthew’s meals—from the kitchen floor. Once all of that is done, I take Matthew upstairs, bathe him, and get him ready for bed. I read him One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish three times before he falls asleep.
I tiptoe out of his room and go back downstairs to find Emily watching yet another iteration of the CSI shows on TV. “I’m going to take Hoover for a walk,” I tell her. “Be back in a bit.”
Having heard me mention his name and the word “walk,” Hoover is already at my feet, wagging his butt excitedly, looking at me with those big brown eyes. Poor guy, ever since Matthew’s arrival, he hasn’t had nearly the level of attention he used to get, though he is getting lots more food than he used to get. It’s starting to show, too, in his expanding midsection. I hook him up to his leash and head out the front door.
It’s a gorgeous summer night and the fireflies are out, sparkling twinkles of light all around us. Hoover is afraid of fireflies because he ate one once and apparently the stuff that makes them glow tastes awful. After eating it, he was scraping his glowing tongue on the grass, on his paws, on my leg . . . anything he could find, leaving a glowing streak of saliva in his wake. So tonight he dodges and avoids the fireflies, content to sniff out all the other wonders of the summer-night world. We do an eight-block circuit that I know is a little over a mile long from clocking it some time ago. As we walk, I look into the lit windows of the houses we pass, catching glimpses of the lives within, tiny slices of warmly lit life, cozy scenarios that seem bathed in a golden light like that of the fireflies. The people behind those windows and walls all look so happy, and satisfied, and normal.
Back home, I unleash Hoover and top off his food and water bowls. That’s when I realize there are smudges on the floor from the door to the kitchen, and a foul smell hits me. I lift first my left foot, then my right, finding the culprit on the bottom of my right shoe. Somehow I’ve managed to step in dog poop and track it into the house.
As I kick off my shoes and grab some paper towels and spray cleaner, I realize this is the perfect metaphoric ending for a really crappy day.
CHAPTER 28
Once again, I have no idea when Hurley came home because I slept hard. I awaken to find a drool spot on my pillow and Hurley’s arm draped over my waist. A glance at the clock tells me it’s almost six, and even though every fiber of my being is telling me to snuggle in and go back to sleep, I know I need to get up.
We survive the usual morning chaos at home: Matthew snacking on the dry cat food when I turn my back on him for thirty seconds; Hoover stealing Emily’s toast when she turns her back on him for thirty seconds; Hurley discovering, just as we’re about to go out the door, that he’s wearing two different-colored socks.
I leave the hearse at home and Hurley and I ride together to Desi’s house to drop Matthew off. I made arrangements with Dom to give him and Izzy a week or two to recover before taking on Matthew again, and my sister is more than happy to have him. She wants to chat when I arrive, but we’re running late and I have Hurley waiting in the car, so I brush her off.
With that out of the way, Hurley and I head for Chicago.
“I followed up on the name of that boat, Court A’Sea,” Hurley says. “Turns out it belongs to an attorney who lives on the lake. He reported it stolen the day after Hal and Tina were killed. Apparently, he was out of town and didn’t realize the boat was missing until he got back. He kept the keys to it in a locked boathouse, but it was broken into. So that’s basically a dead end.”
I again bring up my visit to Lech Wyzinski. “I feel sorry for the guy,” I say. “And I can’t help but wonder if he’s onto something. Tomas did pass a lie detector test.”
“Beckwith explained that to you,” Hurley says. “Those things can be beat.”
“Then why did Tomas tell his lawyer to let it go? I wonder if she knows about that notebook Tomas kept. Do you think I should try to call her and ask her?”
Hurley frowns and casts me a look.
“What?” I say.
“You’re such a softie,” he says. “You feel sorry for Lech and want to help him. Do you think that might be coloring your logic? And also no, you can’t call the defense attorney and discuss possible evidence with her. Do you want to jeopardize the whole case? Cause a mistrial? Besides, I heard the jury is already out. And if Tomas is innocent and thinks he’s been framed, why hasn’t he offered up a plausible alternate scenario?”
I can’t answer that question. Maybe Hurley’s right and I’m being too much of a bleeding heart.
After that, our drive is a mostly quiet one, both of us lost in our own thoughts. This comfortable silence has been a hallmark of my relationship with Hurley practically since day one. Given that my job entails plenty of awkward silences, such as when I have to inform someone a loved one has died, or question someone about a suspicious death, I highly value this aspect of our relationship.
We park in a structure and walk three blocks to the building that contains the U.S. Marshal’s Office. A receptionist greets us, and after Hurley introduces himself, she informs us with one slightly raised eyebrow that Marshal Washington was expecting only one person.
“This is Mattie Winston,” Hurley explains. “She’s a medico-legal death investigator with the medical examiner’s office in Sorenson and they have an interest in the same case.” The receptionist asks for our IDs, and after checking and photographing them, she hands them back. “Please have a seat.”
As we settle into wooden chairs with hard, uncomfortable cushions, the receptionist picks up her phone and has a sotto voce discussion with someone on the other end. I struggle to hear what she’s saying, but I can’t. When she hangs up, I half expect her to tell us we have to leave, but she doesn’t so much as look at us. A few minutes later, a small-built, nattily dressed, well-manicured, African-American man emerges from the area behind the receptionist. He walks over to Hurley, his hand extended.
“Detective Hurley,” he says. “I’m Greg Washington. Nice to meet you.”
Hurley rises from his chair, towering over the other man. They shake, and then Washington turns his eyes toward me.
“This is Mattie Winston,” Hurley says. “She’s with the medical examiner’s office in Sorenson.”
I stand, too, and as Washington looks up at me with his extended hand, he smiles and says, “You grow them big up there in Wisconsin.”
Neither Hurley nor I laugh. Hurley knows I’m occasionally sensitive about my size, and he’s too smart to offer so much as a polite chuckle. Talk about awk
ward silences.
Washington clears his throat, sobers his expression, and says, “Come on back to our lair.” He turns, heading back the way he came, and we follow him through a door the receptionist buzzes open into a large room with a conference table at the center and various offices around the perimeter. Washington steers us to the table and directs us to take seats. He settles into a chair at the end of the table behind a large stack of files. Before reaching for any of the files, he leans back in his seat, hands folded in his lap, and fixes his gaze on me.
“You are Mr. Novak’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“I am,” I admit, disappointed the cat’s been let out of the bag so soon.
Washington seems to sense this because he says, “We’re very thorough here. We do our homework.”
“My interest in this case is purely professional.” I utter this in my best unemotional voice, which apparently isn’t good enough.
Washington scoffs softly, looks away before shaking his head ever so slightly, and then looks back at me with the sort of tolerant expression a parent gives a child. “You might have convinced yourself of that,” he says, “but I’m not buying it. Your father deserted you and your mother when you were young, and you grew up with no contact from, or knowledge of, him. That must have left some kind of mark.”
I shrug noncommittally. “I’m curious about the man,” I admit, “but I harbor no biases toward him one way or the other. His relationship to me will in no way impact what happens in this case, regardless of the level of his involvement.”
Washington stares at me for a moment and I shift nervously in my seat beneath his intense scrutiny.
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