Working Stiff (11 page)

“He was. I mean, he is. A doctor, that is. He won't be my husband much longer.”

Deborah nods. “I see,” she says pointedly. She gives her watch a meaningful glance and says, “Anything else? I need to be somewhere by seven-thirty.”

I shake my head and thank her for her candor.

“I hope you catch the bastard who did this, Mattie,” she says. “Karen was a really good tipper.”

As I watch Deborah leave, I conjure up an image of a gravestone with
SHE WAS A REALLY GOOD TIPPER
engraved on the surface.

I walk around front to my car and am about to start it when I hear an odd chirping sound. I have no idea what it is at first, but after tilting my head this way and that, I finally determine the sound is coming from my purse and guess that it's probably my new cell phone. I dig around until I find it, then fumble with it for several seconds in the dark as I try to figure out which button to push to answer it.

“Hello?” I say finally.

“Hey, Mattie.” It's Izzy. “Where are you?”

I tell him. “I'm just getting ready to head home now. Why? Do we have a call?”

“No. But you need to call your sister right away.”

“Why? What's wrong? Is she okay? Did something happen to the kids?”

“Don't panic. Desi's fine and so are the kids. But I'm not sure David is doing too well. Steve Hurley hauled him down to the station for questioning this afternoon and he's still there. It must be serious because David called for Lucien. He says he needs a defense attorney right away.”

A
quick call to Desi gets me some details. She tells me that Hurley showed up at David's house with a search warrant in hand and, after going through the place, he then invited David downtown for some questioning. David went along willingly and when Hurley asked for a blood sample, David went along with that, too.

“Lucien called just a bit ago with an update,” Desi tells me. “Among the stuff they seized during the search warrant were some hairs from David's brush and some fibers from the living room carpet. Apparently they hope to match those up with stuff that was found on the dead woman's body.”

I grimace, remembering my own thoughts about the trace evidence.

“It's not looking very good for David right now,” Desi goes on. “Apparently when the detective asked him whether or not he'd seen or been with the victim on the night of the murder, David said no. But it turns out that the detective has evidence to the contrary.”

I wince.

“Lucien says he doesn't think they have enough to hit David with a homicide charge yet, but if they want to play hardball, they could toss him in jail for a while on an obstruction-of-justice charge or something like that. He says the detective on the case is something of a hard ass.”

“So I've heard,” I tell her, thinking that the term “firm” fits Hurley's ass better than “hard.”

“Are you going to go down there?” Desi asks.

“I don't know. I guess so.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

I haven't a clue and say as much before hanging up. Five minutes later I'm standing in the foyer of the police station. At the front desk, sitting behind a protective Plexiglas barrier, is Heidi Cronen, who has been the evening dispatcher for nigh onto twenty years. I know Heidi well, not only from my contact with the cops during my days working the ER, but also because Heidi has had several surgeries over the past four years in an effort to diagnose and treat her infertility.

Heidi's face lights up when she sees me. “Mattie!” She hits the buzzer beneath her desk and waves me in through the door that leads to the inner sanctum. Once I'm inside, she stands and gives me a hug. “It's been a long time,” she says, stepping back and smiling. “You look great!”

“Thanks. How're things?”

She wags a hand back and forth. “Same old, same old. How are
you
doing? I was so sorry to hear about you and David.”

“I'm doing okay. It's been rough at times, but I'm hanging in there.” Not wanting to dwell on the subject, I quickly change it. “I have a new job. I'm working at the ME's office now, with Izzy.” I pull out my badge and flash it at her.

“Wow,” she says, looking suitably impressed. “Do you like it?”

“So far.”

“More power to you. I couldn't do it.” She shivers and wraps her arms about herself. “All those dead people. Too creepy for me.”

“You get used to it,” I say, wondering if I ever will. “Plus, I think the investigative side of it will be fun. It gives me an excuse to poke my nose into things.”

“And are you here tonight to poke your nose into what's going on with David?”

I nod.

“In your new official capacity or just a personal one?”

“I don't know,” I tell her honestly, still unsure just why I am here or what I hope to accomplish. “I guess I should start by talking to Lucien. Is he here?”

“He is. He's been with David and Detective Hurley in the interrogation room for the past hour or so.”

I almost smile at the term “interrogation room.” Given our city's budget limitations, we are lucky to have a police station. Consequently, the interrogation room does double duty as a conference room. Instead of the scarred wooden table, hard chairs, and concrete floors you see in TV interrogation rooms, this one is furnished with a polished conference table, padded chairs, and wall-to-wall carpeting. There is nothing in the least intimidating about the room, although it's been rumored that the Wal-Mart art on the walls has occasionally been used as a torture device.

“Desi said that Lucien told her they might hit David with an obstruction-of-justice charge. Have you heard anything?” I ask Heidi.

“Only that David apparently lied to Detective Hurley about both his level of involvement with that Owenby woman who was killed and his whereabouts on the night of the murder.” She pauses, gives me a sad look, and says, “Is she the one who—”

“Yes,” I answer quickly, knowing what she wants to ask and not wanting to hear it.

Heidi glances over her shoulder, then beckons me closer with a crook of her finger. “This is just hearsay,” she says in a low whisper, “but rumor has it that Hurley thinks David is the one who killed that woman and that a homicide charge isn't far behind.”

I pull back, feeling something uncomfortable squirm in my gut. “I was afraid of that,” I mutter.

“Do you think David killed her?” Heidi says, her eyes as big as saucers.

“No. Maybe. Hell, I don't know,” I say rapid-fire, ending with a tired sigh. “I don't think so, but then I've been surprised by David's behavior a bit too often lately.”

“I'm so sorry, Mattie.”

I'm saved from any more of Heidi's pity when I hear a door open behind us and recognize my brother-in-law's booming voice as it echoes down the hall. “I mean it, Hurley. No questions until I get back from the john.” I turn and prepare myself for Lucien—never an easy task.

Technically speaking, Lucien is a handsome man. He has blue eyes, clear skin, nice features, and a well-proportioned build. But he always looks rumpled and worn, as if he's slept in whatever he's wearing, and he slicks back his strawberry-blond hair with enough grease to deep-fry a moose. Plus, once you get a glimpse of Lucien's mind or, worse yet, hear the stuff that comes out of his mouth, any hint of attractiveness disappears faster than you can say sleazeball.

Despite his many shortcomings, or perhaps because of them, he's a very successful defense lawyer. His wheeling and dealing skills are legendary and the vast majority of his clients' cases are either reduced to a lesser charge or dismissed altogether. I suspect part of his success stems from his opponents' willingness to give in to his demands so he'll shut up and go away.

Most of his cases are low-profile crimes such as drunken driving, assault and battery, and the occasional car theft. I think there might have been a manslaughter charge or two over the years, but outright cold-blooded murder is a definite rarity. It doesn't seem to be slowing Lucien down any, however. In fact, judging from the extra spring I can see in his step, he's revved up and raring to go.

“Mattie!” He grabs me and gives me a full-body hug, allowing himself to get a few cheap thrills through bodily contact. After I squirm loose, he steps back and gives me a head-to-toe perusal that makes me feel like I need a shower.

“And may I say, doll face, you are looking
mighty
fine tonight.” He smacks his lips a couple of times, then squints at me. “You've done something different, haven't you? New haircut? Is that it, honeybuns? Well, whatever it is, it makes you look sexy as hell. Too bad I'm married to your sister 'cause otherwise, you and I could play a little game of Where's Willie Wanker.” Lest I have any doubts as to the meaning of his joke, he thrusts his hips a little with the pronunciation of each word in his made-up game.

“Down, Lucien,” I say. “Save it for someone who gives a rip.” I hear Heidi snort behind me.

“Ooh, you just love playing hard to get, don't you, Mattie baby?”

“Impossible to get, is more like it, Lucien. And I'm not your baby,” I say, wondering why I am bothering to correct his crass behavior because I know from past experience that it never works. “How's David doing?”

“Fine, considering. They don't have enough to pin him with anything too serious yet, though it was damned foolish of him to lie like he did. Just makes him look guilty.”

“Is this obstruction-of-justice charge anything serious? Will he have to go to jail?”

“Maybe, but it won't be for long. I can't let my own brother-in-law rot away in jail, now can I?”

I consider reminding him that David won't be his brother-in-law much longer, but decide to let it pass for now. It seems a petty detail in the overall scheme of things and besides, knowing the way Lucien's mind works, he'll think I'm flirting with him.

“Can I see him?”

Lucien clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “Might not be best just now,” he says. “I think he's a bit ticked with you since he figures you were the one who squealed to the cops about the vic being at his house that night. Technically you did him a favor, since her being there helps to explain the hair and fiber evidence they have. But I don't think David is seeing it that way right now.”

“All I did was tell the truth,” I whine, feeling a heavy flush of guilt. I look around and lower my voice. “And then only when I was cornered. I didn't have a choice, Lucien.”

“Hey, sweet cheeks, I understand. Really I do. But David's not in a spot to be real understanding just now. You can appreciate that, can't you?”

No, I can't. And it pisses me off that every time David does something bad or stupid, I somehow end up being the one who feels guilty.

“Look,” Lucien says, “much as I'd love to bend your ear”—he pauses, giving my chest an ogle-eye—“or several other parts of your body, for that matter, I have to whiz something fierce and get back into that interrogation room. But I do want to talk to you about all this. The sooner the better. Is there a time when I can drop by?”

The last thing I want is for Lucien to drop by. “I'll get in touch with you in the next day or so,” I tell him, lying like a rug.

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.” I do the accompanying gesture out of habit, before I can stop myself. Not surprisingly, Lucien watches my fingers with a smiling leer before disappearing into the men's room. Seconds later, the sound of a huge fart rips through the air like a sonic boom.

I look at Heidi and roll my eyes.

“He's a piece of work, isn't he?” she says.

“Something like that.”

“Any idea what your sister sees in him?”

“Not a clue. I can only assume it's the result of some aberrant gene she inherited from her father.”

Heidi chuckles.

“Who's on duty tonight?” I ask. “I need to get some information for Izzy from the file on Karen Owenby.”

Heidi picks up a clipboard and starts reading names. “Tommy Mazur, John Quam, Larry Johnson. And, of course, Detective Hurley is in the interrogation room if—”

“No! Not Hurley,” I say, trying to block out the image of a sexually laden interrogation fantasy that has just popped into my head. “I don't want to interrupt him. Larry will do. In fact, he's perfect since he was one of the officers on the scene the night of the murder. Any chance he's here?”

“Not at the moment, but I can call him and have him here in five minutes.”

“Would you? Thanks. Mind if I wait in the squad room?”

“Not at all.”

Like the conference/interrogation room, the squad room does double duty as a kitchenette and break room. I've been here before. Prior to marrying David, I dated a couple of the guys on the force and during my years in the ER I built up more than a passing acquaintance with several others. Nurses and cops always seem to be drawn together—a camaraderie of the trenches kind of thing. Both have jobs that entail odd hours, lots of stress, and dealing with people when they are at their very worst. And at four o'clock in the morning in a town the size of Sorenson, there isn't much to do. Consequently, the cops often showed up at the ER to share a cup of coffee or two and chat away the quiet hours of the night. Our conversations were often ribald, sometimes personal, always lively. The odd hour and the stresses we had in common fostered a level of intimacy that made it easy to talk about things you wouldn't discuss with anyone else. I got to know some of the guys really well during those coffee chats.

That was when I became good friends with Larry, who was going through a bitter separation and divorce at the time. At some point I realized Larry had a crush on me but, unfortunately, I didn't feel the same about him. He's a sweet, nice-looking man with broad shoulders, a trim build, warm brown eyes, and a thick head of dark hair. But I never felt even the smallest spark of sexual tension between us. I adored him; I just didn't want to sleep with him.

Despite our disparate feelings for one another, we have remained good friends over the years. In fact, our bond is tighter than ever, in part because I was the nurse on duty a few months ago when Larry came in for some surgery. There's nothing like getting up-close and personal with someone's hemorrhoids for fostering a true sense of intimacy.

Heidi's predicted five-minute arrival time for Larry turns out to be closer to ten and I'm feeling a little hungry. So I kill time by rummaging around in the station refrigerator, where I find several canned sodas, a brown bag covered with grease spots, a moldy orange, half a dozen containers from the local Chinese restaurant, and a partially used tube of Preparation H.

Larry arrives as I'm sniffing the congealed mass in one of the Chinese containers. “I wouldn't eat that if I were you,” he warns. I toss it back in the fridge and greet him with a hug. “You look great,” he says, holding me at arm's length. “How have you been?”

“Been good. Up and down.”

“I'm very sorry about you and David. It's never easy when a marriage hits the rocks and I guess it's even harder when you find out your husband's a murder suspect, huh?”

That's Larry: blunt and to the point. Back in high school he was chosen Most Likely to Not Go Into Public Relations or Politics. His honesty is a trait that annoyed his wife to no end, a factor that contributed heavily to the divorce. But it is one of the things about Larry I happen to like best. I never have to worry about whether he is holding something back or saying one thing and thinking another. In Sorenson, where most people thrive on gossiped half-truths and vague innuendo, Larry's candor is refreshing.