“Maybe I’ll give him a call,” Desi says.
“Good idea. He could probably use the moral support. See you in the morning?” Desi nods in response. “Usual time. Love you.”
Back at home, we unpack our groceries and divvy them up. Then, with Matthew at my feet “heppin” by dragging every pot and pan we own out of the pan cabinet, Emily and I wash and prick the potatoes to get them ready for the microwave. Hurley is out on the back deck grilling the steaks and some chopped squash medley we picked up in the produce section. He’s also cooking a hamburger for Matthew, who isn’t quite ready for steak yet.
Our meal is ready a few minutes before six, and after tossing a sheet over the coffee table, we carry our plates into the living room and eat there so we can watch TV. Hurley and I are sitting on the couch, and Emily, at one end of the coffee table, is sitting on a pillow on the floor. Matthew thinks this new adventure is great fun and he can’t decide where he wants to sit, or even if he wants to sit. He alternates positions every minute or two, standing across the coffee table from us one minute, sitting on the couch between Hurley and me the next, plopping down in Emily’s lap after that. At six o’clock, I flip the channel to a local station so we can catch the evening news. I can tell Emily knows something is up, but she hasn’t asked, most likely because she knows we don’t like to discuss work stuff in front of Matthew. Five minutes into the newscast, the part we’re waiting for comes on. There is Alison in all her glory, being interviewed by one of the Madison newscasters, an adorable little blonde named Maureen.
“Yes, Maureen, it’s true,” Alison says. “I have it on good authority from Detective Steve Hurley at the Sorenson Police Department that the person believed to have killed three people there earlier this week is in custody and discussing a deal in exchange for the names of the people who hired him.”
“So this was some sort of contract killing?” Maureen asks, assuming the perfect balance of horror and cuteness in her expression.
“It does appear that way,” Alison says. “I can’t say any more at this time because I don’t want to jeopardize the larger investigation, but it looks like this is a much bigger case than originally thought. However, the police assure me there is no danger to the general public, that these killings were targeted. I’ll let you know more as soon as I can.”
Maureen thanks Alison, gives a quick recap of what was just said, and then hands off to the anchor desk. I pick up the remote and switch to the cartoon channel.
Emily looks over at us with one eyebrow arched. “Fishing expedition?” she asks.
I nod. The kid doesn’t miss much. She gets up, grabs her plate and Matthew’s, and says, “Come on, bro. Let’s go do a picnic outside.”
“Pick-ick!” Matthew says, and he gleefully follows his big sister out of the room.
“Do you really think this TV thing is going to work?” Hurley says once they’re gone, raking a hand through his hair.
“It’s worth a shot. We have good reason to believe all three of our victims were killed by the same person, and it looks as if that person is someone who was hired to do the killings. If that’s the case, I’m betting someone who knows something about this case is going to contact you and try to work a deal before our supposed suspect does.”
“We’ll see,” Hurley says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
We finish our meal, and while I do the dishes, Hurley goes out to the backyard to practice some Wiffle ball with Matthew and Emily. I finish the cleanup and go sit out on the deck with a cup of coffee, watching my family play. Just before seven, Hurley’s phone rings.
Hurley tosses the Wiffle ball to Emily and lopes toward the deck as he takes his phone out of his pocket. I get up and follow him as he heads inside, showing me the caller ID on the display. It’s Bob Richmond.
Had our TV ploy worked already? Had someone called the station and reached Richmond instead of Hurley?
Hurley answers, putting the call on speaker. “Hey, Bob, what have you got?” He’s a little breathless from his jog.
“I’ve got Mr. Novak.”
My heart skips a beat—not what I thought the call would be, but almost as momentous. Maybe more so. The moment I’ve waited for, the moment I’ve dreaded, is at hand.
“He showed up at the library, just like we thought,” Richmond says. “I’ve got him here at the station.”
“We’ll be there in ten,” Hurley says, and then he disconnects the call. He looks over at me. “Are you ready for this?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “But it’s happening whether I am or not.”
I head outside and ask Emily if she’d like to have her funny-money account augmented once again. “I’m happy to do it,” she says. “But I’ve been thinking that on these occasions when I get such short notice, I should probably charge you double.”
“Done.”
The wry grin on her face morphs into a look of disappointment. “Crap, I should have gone for triple, right?”
I wink at her, give her a kiss on the forehead, and leave.
Hurley and I arrive at the station a short while later, and as we get out of the car, I’m tempted to get back in. Hurley is halfway to the door before he realizes I’m not with him. He walks back and puts an arm over my shoulders.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “Or if you want, you can just watch from the observation room.”
“I’ll be okay. I just need a minute.”
To his credit, he stands there, holding me for several minutes, not saying anything. When I feel I have myself adequately steeled for what’s to come, I look up at Hurley, kiss him on the cheek, and say, “Okay, let’s do it.”
Richmond is standing in the hallway when we enter. He says nothing, but he gives us an encouraging look. Then he nods toward the door to the conference/interrogation room.
My father is seated on the far side of the table in the room when I walk in. I look at him, and feel something in my gut slide. He is both familiar and a stranger to me. He looks less vigorous, less healthy than he’s been in my memories, but that makes sense. It’s been thirty years. His eyes, however, are exactly as I remember them: warm, loving, patient. They light up a little at the sight of me, and his lips form into a tentative smile.
“Hello, Mattie,” he says, and the sound of his voice is like an arrow to my heart.
“Hello.”
My father shifts his gaze to Hurley. “And you’re Steve Hurley, the father of my grandson.”
Hurley nods, but he says nothing. I want to stay standing so I can flee at a moment’s notice, but I take the seat closest to me out of fear my legs will give way. I stare at the man across from me, wanting to ask him a million questions at once, unable to form a single word.
Hurley, thank goodness, takes the reins. “Mr. Novak . . . or are you going by a different name these days?”
“Novak will do.”
“Fine. Mr. Novak, we have witnesses who say they saw you at the homes of two people who were recently killed, Harold Dawson and Tina Carson. Is that true?”
My father nods slowly, looking somber. “It is. I was trying to locate them, to warn them.”
“Warn them? Of what?”
“Mr. Dawson was looking into something regarding an old case I was involved in years ago in Chicago. Unfortunately, the people involved in that case found him before I did.”
“And Ms. Carson?”
“I knew she was seeing Mr. Dawson and hoped he might be with her, or she might be able to tell me where he was. But she wasn’t at home.” He pauses and sighs. “Apparently, I was too late.”
“Was Ms. Carson involved as well?”
“I don’t know,” he says, and he looks and sounds believable. “I’m not sure if Mr. Dawson told her about it. I suspect her death may have been incidental—in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“What case is it and how do you know anything about it?”
My father’s gaze briefly shifts to me, and then back to
Hurley. “It’s probably best if you don’t know. There are some very powerful people involved, and they are extremely dangerous, as your recent murders prove.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I say irritably, finally finding my voice. “Those people who were killed were friends of ours. How many more people have to die before you come clean?”
“It’s your safety I’m concerned with,” he says.
I’m momentarily taken aback. “My safety? What do I have to do with it?” But before he can answer, my anger takes over. “And I can take care of myself just fine, thank you. I’ve been doing it most of my life without your help, so I think I can manage for another decade or three.”
My father flashes a toothy grin at me. “If you think you’ve been taking care of yourself all this time, you’re wrong,” he says. “I’ve had someone watching you for the past thirty years. How do you think I found out about that moron from Florida who wanted you dead?”
This shuts me up, and stymies me. I’m not sure I believe him, but if what he claims is true, I can’t decide if I should be flattered, angry, or simply creeped out. Regardless, I can’t deny that there is something to what he said. When the man he is referring to tried to kill me, someone killed him during a shoot-out with the police. Except according to ballistics, it wasn’t any of the cops who shot him. And a man bearing a strong resemblance to my father was seen in the woods behind the cottage where I was living at the time.
“These people, they are very serious about keeping their secrets,” my father continues. “And if they find out you’re related to me, they won’t hesitate to come after you in an attempt to draw me out. Your mother made her own choices—selfish choices that didn’t take your welfare into consideration—but you never had a choice. So I felt it was, and still is, my duty to watch over and protect you.”
His self-righteous speech plucks at my nerves. “At least my mother was there for me when I was growing up. Just because she didn’t want to pull up roots, and start over somewhere with a new identity, doesn’t mean she didn’t care about my welfare. And since we survived just fine, it would seem her decision was a reasonable one.”
“Was it?” my father asks. He opens his mouth to say something more, but then seems to think better of it.
“Look,” Hurley says, holding a hand up to both of us. “I get that the two of you probably have a lot of history to cover and things to hash out, but I want to keep focused on our case for now.” He drops his hands and leans toward my father. “Mr. Novak, is your involvement in the deaths of Harold Dawson and Tina Carson—whatever that involvement may be—related to the pharmaceutical case that landed you in the Witness Protection Program thirty years ago?”
My father’s face pales. Clearly, he didn’t think we knew anything about that long-ago case, and discovering that we do has unnerved him. “What do you know about it?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly.
“We had a chat with someone at the U.S. Marshal’s Office,” Hurley says. “So pretty much everything.”
“I see.” My father looks back and forth between the two of us several times before dropping his gaze to the hands he has folded in front of him. He purses his lips and sighs heavily. When he looks back up at us, his expression is grim. “The one thing you don’t know—because I don’t know it, and neither do any of the investigators who looked into this case—is who exactly was behind it all. Sure, they have the names of some of the executives from back then who were properly punished with firings or relocations or worse, but no one knows who the real puppet masters were, the ones who contributed the big funds, the ones with the most to lose. They’re well hidden behind a bevy of corporate curtains and business shenanigans that make it impossible to trace their involvement. I may not know all the players, but there are a few things I know for sure. They’re still around, still determined to protect their dirty secrets, and not afraid to kill to do it. I wanted to warn Harold, but I was too late.”
“How did Hal get involved in this in the first place?” I ask.
My father cocks his head to the side. “I think his sister was a victim of one of their latest disasters, a diet drug they’re trying to bring to market. Hal started poking around and asking questions of certain people. When I heard about it, I knew he was sniffing up a dangerous tree.”
Hurley nods slowly. “So you tried to talk to him, but you were never able to. Is that the case?”
“Correct. When I went by his house, he wasn’t home. I went by the girlfriend’s house, too, hoping to find him there, but it was empty.”
“You’re lying,” I say, my voice filled with disgust. “Damn it, don’t play games with us on this. We’re not one of your marks, waiting to be conned.”
“I’m not lying,” he says with eminent patience, scowling at me.
“Yes, you are,” I insist. “We know you were in Harold Dawson’s truck because we found something of yours in it on the day he was killed.” I take out my cell phone, pull up the picture of the pendant, and show it to him. “Does this look familiar?”
His expression goes from wounded innocence to excitement in a split second. “You found it!” he exclaims, his eyes wide. “I thought it was gone for good. Can I get it back?”
His audacity stuns me. “Why don’t you try telling me why you’re lying to us first?”
“I am not lying,” he insists. I give him my best cynic’s face. “Okay, okay, maybe I did chat with Hal briefly, but it was only to feel him out and see what he knew, see if he intended to continue looking into it. I followed him to a restaurant parking lot and got into his truck to talk to him. I asked him if he was looking into something with the new weight-loss drug and told him he needed to leave it alone, that it was dangerous. He got angry with me, told me to get out of his truck. I tried to persuade him to listen to me, but he was too mad. He reached over, opened the door of his truck, and pushed me out into the parking lot. Then he drove off.”
“And how did you know Harold was looking into it?” Hurley asks.
Novak aims his gaze down at the table, giving his eyes a hooded, almost menacing look. “I have a connection. It’s the same person who’s been keeping an eye on Jane and Mattie for me.”
“And this person is . . . ,” Hurley prompts.
Novak shakes his head slowly. “I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone about our . . . um . . . working relationship. And I’m known for keeping my word.”
“And for conning innocent people,” I toss out. “What about this Abernathy woman who was murdered this weekend?” Novak gives me a confused look, so I clarify. “Carolyn Abernathy? Twenty-eight-year-old nursing student?”
“I have no idea who she is,” Novak says, looking genuinely puzzled. “What makes you think she’s connected to Hal’s death?”
“Trace evidence we found at both her murder site and Harold’s,” Hurley explains without going into detail about exactly what the trace evidence is. I wonder if my father will ask, but he doesn’t.
“You said she’s a nursing student?” Novak asks, and I can almost see the wheels turning inside his skull. Hurley and I both nod. “Does she . . . did she have a job?”
“Yeah, she worked at one of the clinics here in town, in billing and medical records. Why?”
Novak chews on his bottom lip, a habit I have. These glimpses into the parts of him that may be parts of me are both fascinating and annoying. “Let’s just say the slap on the hands Martin-Weiss got thirty years ago wasn’t enough to teach anyone any lessons. If you want answers, I suggest you start at that clinic.”
“Why?” I ask. “Are you suggesting there are doctors at the clinic who are altering medical records for the benefit of drug research? Local doctors?” I’m hoping he’ll say no—I still feel defensive about my prior field of work at times, and I’ve worked on some level with nearly every doctor in town—but I also won’t be surprised if he says yes. Pharmaceutical research, development, and sales are hugely competitive, part of a multibillion-dollar business. And doctors, while the
y make decent money once they finish school and start their practices, typically have huge educational loans to pay off and a lot of overhead related to the day-to-day setup, functioning, and staffing of their practices. It’s not hard to imagine some of them succumbing to the lure of easy money, and the drug companies know how to throw it around.
In fact, in the past, I enjoyed some of the fruits from that potentially poisonous tree when I was married to David. That trip we took to the Florida Keys the year my mother moved into her current house was bought and paid for by one of the drug companies. It wasn’t obvious, though. They paid David to speak at a weeklong medical seminar in Miami, and it included first-class airfare for the two of us to get there and a nice hotel room once we arrived. We were responsible for our own meals, but the speaker fee was exorbitant enough to pay for us to eat all week long in the finest restaurants if we wanted. And there were also several company-sponsored activities offered during the week that often included meals, things like deep-sea fishing excursions, a seaplane trip to some island, and a daylong cruise around the Florida coast. We took advantage of a sponsored package that included diving lessons and a trip to the Keys for two dives. We had a great time and basically it was a weeklong vacation for the two of us that cost us nothing.
Or had it? Had David done a deal with the devil in exchange for that week? Had he started pushing some drug the sponsoring company produced? This thought naturally segues into another, more frightening one. Could David be involved in this somehow? There were other trips he’d made over the years: one to London, where I went along and spent the time visiting one of the stepfathers I had who lived over there now, and one to Italy, where I hadn’t gone because I was sick with the flu. The realization stuns and sickens me. Had I been an unwitting accomplice in this scheme? Something else is bothering me, some niggling thought in the back of my head that I can’t quite pull out because my father is talking again.
“Look,” he says, “I know some of the doctors who were involved in this thirty years ago, and none of them are still practicing, at least not anywhere near here. As for who might be involved in it today, I couldn’t say. I could speculate, but that would be irresponsible and dangerous. However, given your third victim in this case, I would imagine the clinic she worked for would be a logical place to start digging.”
Dead in the Water Page 29