Dead of Winter

by Annelise Ryan

  “He’s home taking a nap,” Izzy says. “He told me he was up all night helping the cops with something and needed to go out with them today, though he didn’t give me the specifics. He should be in around eleven.”

  “It all sounds very exciting,” Christopher says, punctuating the comment with a whistling sound that emanates from his backside. “What are you going to be doing?”

  “Just observing from a van somewhere,” I say. “That’s where Arnie will be, too. Hurley didn’t want me to go along, but I basically nagged him into it.”

  “Nagging is definitely one of her strong suits,” Izzy says to Christopher, eyebrows arched in warning.

  “Find anything on Dalrymple yet?” I ask, ignoring Izzy’s dig.

  Izzy answers with an equivocal nod. “So far, we have the expected fractures in the legs, some compression fractures in the spine, a radial fracture in the left arm, and the big fracture in the neck at C2. But there’s very little bleeding around any of them. Not sure why, but once we open his head, we might have a better idea.”

  “Okay, then,” I say. “Holler if you need me. I’ll be in the library.”

  For the next two hours, I focus on my backlog of paperwork, making good progress. I check my phone every ten minutes or so, waiting for the final word from Hurley that I’m good to go with them to the sting this afternoon. If he doesn’t cave on the matter, it will be the first time I’ve gotten him to capitulate partway without eventually getting the Full Monty.

  When noon rolls around, and I still haven’t heard from him, I decide to give him a call. Just as I pick up my phone, Christopher comes into the library.

  “Hey,” I say. “What did you guys find?”

  “Interesting case,” he says. “Dalrymple had a major head bleed. Looked like it might have been an aneurysm, but he also had head trauma in the same area, so Izzy said he wasn’t sure. He wants to wait until the tox screen comes back, and take some time to look at some tissue slides.”

  “So no definitive cause of death yet?”

  Christopher shakes his head. “We do, however, have a lead on a suspect if it turns out to be murder. That smear of makeup you swabbed up on the catwalk? It had some sort of biological material in it.”

  “ ‘Biological material’?” I repeat the term, askance. I ponder the information for a moment. “What kind of biological material?”

  Christopher shrugs, and with it comes another of his leaking emissions, and this one a squeaker. “We’re waiting on Arnie,” he says. “He’s looking at it now.”

  I get up from my desk, gather my belongings, and head for the door. “I’m going to meet someone for lunch,” I lie. “You can have the room to yourself.”

  “Okay, see ya.”

  * * *

  Once I’m out in the hallway, I call Hurley. He doesn’t answer and I don’t leave a voice mail. Instead, I head upstairs to Arnie’s lab. I find him with his face bent over a microscope.

  “Hey, Mattie,” he says, “What’s up?”

  “That’s what I planned to ask you. Christopher said you found some biological trace in the makeup smear from the catwalk in the theater case?”

  “It’s botanical,” he corrects. “That’s what I’m looking at now. Want to see?” He straightens up and waves me over.

  I put my eyes to the lens and peer through. It takes a second for my vision to adjust, but when it does, I see a small bit of brown something with lines in it. “What am I looking at?”

  “A tiny piece of dried leaf.”

  I raise up and look at him, waiting.

  “I’m not sure what it is,” he admits. “I’ve got Laura coming over to look at it.”

  Two-timing Laura has equivocated on careers in the past, the same way she’s been equivocating on the men in her life. She has an MBA, and she’s a whiz at forensic accounting. One of the other areas she specialized in was forensic botany.

  Arnie glances at his watch. “I have to go. Is there anything else you want?”

  “No. Where are you going?”

  “I need to run over to the police station,” he says, getting up and grabbing his parka from a hook on the wall.

  “Oh, for the sting, right?” This is a guess on my part. “I’m going, too.”

  Arnie’s brow furrows. “You’re involved in the sting?”

  “Not involved, at least not directly. But Hurley said I could come along and be inside the van with you to watch.” This isn’t quite the whole truth . . . okay, it isn’t even quite part of the truth. But I figure if I’m there when they’re ready to head out, it will be harder for Hurley to tell me no. “Let me run downstairs and grab my coat and I’ll meet you out front.”

  Arnie shrugs, and I make a mad dash downstairs to grab my coat and hat from the locker room. I don’t even stop to put anything on, hurrying up front to the reception area, and trying to get my arms in the sleeves of my coat as I go. Cass is at the front desk, and she looks at me with a puzzled expression.

  “Why are you here today?” she says.

  I see Arnie standing outside by the front door, dancing in place to keep himself warm.

  “I’m not,” I tell her with a smile. “I’m outta here.” I meet Arnie and tug my coat closed in front, not bothering to button it. I shove my hat into a pocket—my gloves are in the other pocket—and say, “Shall we?”

  I thought the walk to the police station would be short enough that I wouldn’t have to worry about dressing up fully, but it turns out I’m wrong. I grossly underestimated how cold it is outside. And it’s slow going because while the sidewalks have been cleared to some degree, not all of them have, and there is an icy layer of skim at the base.

  By the time we reach the station, I feel like a Popsicle and my fingers are numb. We go in through the front, and the dispatcher buzzes us on back without question. When we reach the office shared by Hurley and Richmond, we find both of them inside, along with three other people I’ve never seen before. One of them is obviously the agent who is going to play our eleven-year-old boy, and if I had any doubts about a grown woman’s ability to pull off such a charade, they are now instantly erased. Her limbs and overall stature are small, her hips are narrow, and her facial features are androgynously ambiguous. As had been reported, her blond hair is cut close, cropped like a boy’s would be. At the moment, she is dressed in boy’s clothing: blue jeans, boots, and a T-shirt with a gaming logo on it. Despite her small stature, I can tell she is strong and muscular. The short sleeves of her shirt reveal sinewy muscle in her arms, and her neck has a definite masculine look to its musculature.

  The other two people in the room are both men, and it’s not hard to tell where they’re from, since they’re both wearing FBI T-shirts, unnecessary in my opinion since they both scream federal agent with their military-style haircuts, rigid posture, khaki cargo pants, and broad shoulders—not to mention the guns they’re both sporting.

  Everyone in the room looks at Arnie and me as we walk in. All expressions are curious and friendly, except Hurley’s. He scowls at me and I flash him a smile, trying to look as if nothing is wrong. My heart is racing—a trip-hammer thud in my chest—as I wait to see if he’s going to call me out in front of the others.

  Richmond, apparently unbothered by my presence, does the introductions. “Mattie, Arnie, welcome. These are Agents Corey Black, Mike Anderson, and Jen Nolan. Agents, this is Mattie Winston and Arnie Toffer with the ME’s office. Arnie is the one who snagged this online meeting, and Mattie happens to be the wife of Detective Hurley.”

  There are murmurs of greetings and a lot of head nods, while Hurley continues to frown at me. I decide to ignore him and compliment Jen Nolan on her impersonation of an eleven-year-old boy.

  “You are very convincing,” I say. “Is this kind of impersonation something you do often?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” she says, and she even sounds like a boy.

  “Don’t let her size fool you,” Agent Black says. “She is wicked strong. She’s taken m
e down before.” This is impressive, considering that Agent Black is six feet tall and looks to weigh somewhere in the two-hundred-pound range. “Now that we’re all here, let’s review the plan.”

  Over the next hour, the seven of us discuss and plan out in minute detail how the operation will go down. Jen is fitted with a tiny microphone that looks like an emblem on her red knitted cap—the color hat Arnie told the online persona he would be wearing—and an earbud that is all but invisible so that the agents can talk to her. She is also wearing a wristwatch that is supposed to double as a camera.

  “She can aim the face of the watch at something she wants us to see,” Agent Black explains. “By using normal body movements—scratching her cheek, adjusting her hat, folding her arms over her chest—she can capture just about anything or anyone without being too obvious. Everything she sends us is captured digitally and saved. That way, we can look over the people in the restaurant and the surrounding area at leisure, both during the operation and after the fact.”

  Agent Black, clearly the one in charge in this group, gives us a demonstration of the watch’s capabilities, using a small laptop computer. Agent Nolan moves her arms about in seemingly normal ways, catching everyone in the room on camera within a matter of seconds.

  “We have some known entities in this trafficking business whose faces we might recognize. And then there’s this O’Keefe fellow to watch for, too,” he adds with a nod of approval toward Richmond.

  “Arnie,” Agent Black goes on, once the watch demo is finished, “you will be in the van with us wearing a headset like this one.” He hands the headset, which has a mike attached, to Arnie. He then hands out similar headsets to Richmond, Hurley, and me.

  “Put them on,” Black instructs, and we all do so. “You should be able to hear anything Jen says or hears, and you’ll all be able to speak to her directly through her earbud, if need be. Let’s give it a test. Agent Nolan, why don’t you go outside to the front of the police station.”

  Agent Nolan dons a coat and departs, and while we’re waiting, Agent Black puts on a headset and says, “You’ll be able to hear everyone who has a headset, and since there will be several of us with them, be mindful of unnecessary chatter. We’d prefer no chatter at all, except from Arnie if we need some facts filled in. We’ve reviewed your e-mail and online exchanges with this guy quite thoroughly, but it’s always possible that some question will arise that Jen can’t recall the answer to. If that happens, she’ll clear her throat like this.”

  On cue, Agent Nolan clears her throat. I hear it as if she were standing right next to me. These FBI guys have some fun toys. Even Hurley has forgotten his irritation with me—for the moment—as he admires the gadgets and their capabilities.

  “Arnie, say something to Agent Nolan,” Black instructs.

  Arnie, looking like he’s died and gone to heaven, says, “Are you single by any chance?”

  The two male agents snort back laughs; Richmond and Hurley grin and shake their heads. I manage to stay quiet, but so does Agent Nolan. After an awkward few seconds of silence, Agent Nolan finally answers.

  “I am,” she says good-naturedly, “but I bat for the other team. Thanks, though. I’m flattered.”

  Arnie blushes so hard that the top of his bald head turns flaming red. Agent Anderson, who, up until now has stayed quiet, smiles at Arnie. “Better that you have tried and failed,” he says.

  Agent Black looks at his watch and has us remove our headsets. “Let’s get on-site and set up,” he says. “I assume you guys will follow us?”

  Richmond and Hurley both nod. “I’m going to take my own vehicle,” Hurley says. “Arnie, you can ride with Richmond.”

  The assumption here is that I will be riding with Hurley, or at least that’s the assumption I guess all the others have made. I, on the other hand, fear Hurley has yet to play his final card. Will he say something to me? I wonder. Or will he simply try to ditch me?

  As soon as Jen returns, the group of us don our winter wear and head for the parking lot behind the police station. Hurley says nothing to me, but he doesn’t look at me, either. I follow him to his truck and half expect him not to unlock the passenger-side door as I’m standing next to it, waiting. But he does, and I get inside, bracing myself for the storm I suspect is coming. Last night’s winter maelstrom is likely to pale in comparison.

  “What the hell, Mattie?” Hurley says the second I shut my door. He starts the car and waits for the Fibbies to get into their van, which has no windows, save for the front compartment, and is boasting the logo of a cleaning service on both of its sides. “You have no business coming along on this.”

  “Yes, I do,” I argue. “It’s my case, and I have as much of an interest in finding Lily Paulsen as any of you do.”

  “But I told you not to come,” Hurley says, his jaw tight.

  “No, what you said was that you’d think about it.”

  “And did I give you any reason to think I’d changed my mind?” he asks, his tone escalating. “Did I, at any point in time, say it was okay?”

  “Not in so many words, but you never said I couldn’t, either.”

  “The hell I didn’t,” he snaps.

  “Not after you said you’d think about it. And I—”

  Hurley holds a hand out toward me, his face contorted with anger. “Don’t,” he says through gritted teeth, pulling in behind Richmond’s car in our mini convoy. “I don’t want to hear it, and I don’t want to discuss it anymore. I’m seriously pissed right now and badly sleep deprived, and I’m afraid of saying something I don’t mean, or can’t take back. You’re here. Enough said.”

  I sink back into my seat, frowning. The drive to our location will take a little over half an hour. At the moment, the temperature inside the car is much more frigid than outside, and I pull my coat closed at my throat, more a move of withdrawal than one intended for warmth. Several times during the ride, I think of things to say, everything from conciliatory apologies to defenses of my position. But I voice none of them. Hurley and I have had disagreements and arguments before, and we’ve been angry at one another before. But this is the maddest at me I’ve ever seen him, and it frightens me a little.

  In the end, I opt for channeling Scarlett O’Hara yet again and deciding that tomorrow is another day. We’ll sort it all out then. For now, I have a sting to focus on.

  CHAPTER 28

  Arnie’s arranged appointment at the pizza restaurant was for three-thirty, and by two forty-five, everything is set up and in place. The FBI van is parked in the lot of a convenience store in the block behind the restaurant, and both Hurley and Richmond have parked their respective vehicles on a nearby side street in a residential neighborhood. The school Arnie claimed he attends is four blocks away, though that’s now a moot point since it was closed for the day due to the weather. Fortunately, Arnie also claimed that he lives in the neighborhood near the restaurant, though he was able to avoid providing a specific address, saying that his mom told him never to do that online.

  The video and audio equipment has been tested and retested, and Jen is sitting in the front passenger seat of the van, restless and fidgety. The rest of us are crowded into the back of the van, each of us wearing a headset. There are two of the small laptops, one on either side of the cargo area, the first one manned by Agent Black, the second one by Agent Anderson.

  Just before three, Agent Black tells Jen to go. “Our guy might well show up early to scope things out and watch the kid come in, so we best be earlier still.”

  Jen hops out and assumes the hands-in-pocket, hunched-down swagger of an eleven-year-old boy. She walks a block over so that she is on a street of houses, and then turns toward the pizza restaurant.

  When she reaches the parking lot, she glances at her watch, giving us a fleeting view of her red-nosed face, and then she meanders some, doing sliding skids on some icy patches, and scraping up snowballs here and there that she lobs at empty parking spaces. This is so she can get a video fee
d of all the cars and their plates currently in the restaurant lot. At three-fifteen, she heads inside the restaurant, stopping for a moment near a podium with a cash register. The light inside the building is much darker than the outside, and it takes a moment for the camera to adjust. When we are able to make out the interior, we see a dining area set up with booths around the perimeter, and tables and chairs through the middle. There is a counter area at the front for waitstaff orders, and the kitchen with the pizza ovens in full view is behind it. There is a separate area to the right of the podium for orders called in for pickup. Between the front counter and the dining area is a long salad bar.

  The place isn’t crowded, not surprising given the hour and the weather, and Jen heads for a booth near the windows bordering the parking lot. She sits facing the door, the watch on her left arm aimed toward the seating area.

  A waitress approaches almost immediately. “Can I help you?” she says, her tone rife with skepticism. Jen lifts her arm, showing us the waitress’s face. The girl looks barely old enough to have a work permit, and she’s frowning at Jen.

  “I’m waiting for someone,” Jen says. “Is it okay if I sit here, or do I have to wait by the door?” I’m impressed by Jen’s boyishly appealing tone, a mix of politeness and nerves. The waitress is apparently impressed, too, because her expression softens immediately.

  “Normally, we’d ask you to wait in the foyer area,” she says. “But we’re not that busy, so you can stay here for now.”

  “Can I get a Coke?”

  The waitress seems to weigh this request, and I guess she’s wondering if the kid has the money to pay for it, should his other party not show up. “Sure,” she says finally. “Be right back.”

  In the two minutes it takes for the waitress to return with the drink, Jen manipulates her arm to provide us with a better view of the other diners. We see that there is a woman seated across the dining area in a booth by the opposite window, but the light coming in through the glass casts her face in shadow. There are also two young men, who look to be college age, seated at a table, and a middle-aged couple in a booth two tables behind Jen. She is aiming her watch in the direction of the front of the restaurant when the waitress returns and disaster strikes.