Frozen Stiff (12 page)

Gary frowns and looks doubtful. “I don’t know,” he says. “Shouldn’t we run it by Sheila first?”

“Who’s Sheila?” I ask.

“Sheila Rabinsky. She’s our station and production manager,” Misty explains.

“And she doesn’t care to have a lot of extra people hanging around,” Gary adds.

I’m beginning to think Sheila has the potential to become a huge wrench in my planned works so I think fast and come up with an idea. “Tell you what,” I say. “I don’t want to risk you guys getting into trouble or losing your jobs. So why don’t you let me talk to Sheila myself?”

The two of them look at one another, give simultaneous shrugs, and then Misty again picks up the phone. Many long minutes later, after I have paced the width of the lobby at least a dozen times pretending not to notice when Misty and Gary make surreptitious grabs and gropes at one another, Sheila appears. She is tall, tanned, and anorexically thin, with huge brown eyes, pinched lips, and a cute, chin-length bob in anthracite black. Her makeup is applied with exquisite precision and while her pantsuit and shoes are stylish, the height on her heels and the material in her clothing are both workaday practical. I can tell from the skepticism in her expression and the wary way she is eyeing me that it won’t be easy to pull a fast one on her.

“Hi,” she says, extending a well-manicured hand. “I’m Sheila Rabinsky, the station manager. I understand you’re here about Callie Dunkirk?”

I shake her hand, which is cold, dry, and surprisingly lifeless. “Yes, I am,” I say, releasing my grip and handing her a business card. “I’ve been hired by a private party to investigate her death and was hoping I could talk with some of the people she worked with.”

Sheila’s eyes narrow as she scans the card. “You are a private investigator?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you have some other ID?”

“Sure.” I take out the billfold Hurley gave me and hand it to her. She studies it closer than I like before handing it back to me.

“This may not be the best time,” she says with a dismissive smile. “Sundays are very busy days for us.”

“I realize that,” I say, looking impatiently at my watch. “But it’s rather important that I do it today since I have to catch a flight to Washington, D.C. this afternoon to investigate the connections Callie had there.”

An expression of surprise flits across Sheila’s face, but then disappears so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. “You think Callie’s death is tied to someone in Washington?” she asks, feigning indifference.

I give her the same dismissive smile she gave me a moment ago and a mental kudos for cleverness since she asked about some
one
in Washington rather than something.

“I’m not at liberty to reveal that,” I tell her, and watch as her eyes take on the look of a hungry predator. “It’s a rather . . . delicate and potentially explosive situation. However, in exchange for your cooperation today I would be willing to promise you a preemptive exclusive on the story once we are ready to go public. Given the . . . um . . . stature of the people involved, I’m sure you can understand why things need to be kept very hush-hush for now, but I am certain my client won’t mind having the truth come out once we can turn over enough evidence to ensure a conviction.”

The corners of Sheila’s mouth twitch as she anticipates the coup I’m offering her. “An exclusive that lets us break the story?” she asks.

“Absolutely. From what I understand of Callie, I’m sure she would have wanted it that way.”

“Yes,” Sheila says, nodding. “Yes, she would have.” She proffers that dry, dead hand again and we shake on it, making me feel like I’ve just made a deal with the devil.

Chapter 17

I
hate cameras and not just because of the extra poundage they add, though that’s reason enough. I hate cameras because they hate me. Some people are very photogenic and even when they are caught with some goofy-assed expression on their face, or in some spastic pose, their pictures still manage to be captivating. My pictures are often captivating, too, but it’s usually because I look like the accompaniment to a
Weekly World News
headline, or lately, because I’m half naked.

So when Sheila escorts me into what used to be the school gymnasium but is now the studio for
Behind the Scenes
, I’m instantly on edge. It’s basically a large open room filled with cameras. I start to sweat, which makes the little stickies Hurley used for the wire itch like mad.

On the far side of the room, beyond the cameras and against the back wall, are the two sets used for the show. The one on the left is a basic conversation arrangement with three uncomfortable-looking, modern-design, molded plastic chairs in shades of plum and turquoise. Fronting them is a coffee table with slanting legs and a trapezoid shaped top, constructed with what appears to be the same plastic turquoise material. The wall behind all this is a geometric sculpture comprised of two gigantic triangular-shaped pieces of who-knows-what hanging at right angles to one another. One has been painted the same color as the coffee table; the other has been done in the plum.

The set on the right side of the room is a desk arrangement that looks like most TV broadcast newsrooms. There are modernistic touches here, too, in the angles and overall design, but its effect is less extreme than the conversational set. The real attention getter for the desk set is the giant blue screen on the wall behind it.

Clearly any design sense stops with the sets because the rest of the room is all business: towering ceilings, overhead catwalks, cords snaking every which way across the floor, klieg lights hanging and standing everywhere, and of course, the cameras.

About a dozen or so people are milling about the room, some wearing headphones, some carrying clipboards, some just standing around watching. At the news desk set there is a perfectly coiffed brunette who looks to be about a size zero getting some final makeup touches while she practices reading from a teleprompter. So far every woman I’ve met here is tiny, petite, and attractive. I’m starting to feel like an ostrich in the songbird cage at the zoo.

“Doesn’t anyone in this business ever eat?” I mutter under my breath, though Sheila hears me.

She looks up at me with a patient, patronizing smile and eyes me from head to toe. “We can’t all afford the luxury of daily indulgence,” she says.

“Trust me, I don’t indulge daily,” I tell her. And it’s true. I manage to miss a few days here and there. “If I did, I’d be huge.”

The exaggeratedly embarrassed look she gives me suggests that I’ve already reached that plateau and just don’t know it yet. “Our viewing public demands the very best when it comes to beauty and fitness,” she says. “We try to maintain the highest of standards. Plus, those cameras do add a few pounds, you know.”

Based on the pictures I’ve seen of myself recently, I’m hoping it’s more than a few.

Sheila nods toward the skinny anchorwoman and says, “That’s Tasha Lansing, Callie’s replacement. She probably knew Callie as well as anyone since she worked both as her assistant and her relief anchor.”

“Was there any competition between them?” I ask, scribbling notes in my pad.

Sheila doesn’t answer right away. Instead she narrows her eyes at Tasha while brandishing a tight, thin smile. “I suppose there was a little,” she says finally. “Tasha has always been a very ambitious person. But it wasn’t cutthroat or anything like that. Everyone here knew that Callie was Ackerman’s pet project.”

“Ackerman,” I repeat. “He’s the executive producer, right?”

Sheila nods.

“Is he here?”

“I think he’s in his office,” she says. She is still watching Tasha but I notice a subtle shift in both her expression and her tone with the mention of Ackerman.

“Do you know what story Callie was working on when she was killed?”

Sheila finally tears her gaze away from Tasha and stares at me instead, looking as if she is surprised by the question. “I have no idea,” she says. “No one here does. I’ve asked. In fact, I’m not even sure she
was
working on a story. For all I know she was traveling up north for personal reasons.”

“Did she ever pursue stories on her own?”

Sheila shrugs. “Sometimes she would research things and then bring them to us, but Mike and I always have the final say on what does or doesn’t get aired. The only stories we’ve had her working on recently was an investigation into a local daycare center that had some abuse complaints filed against it, and a follow-up with some of the survivors from that train accident last year.”

“Did either of those stories have any connections in Wisconsin?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Great, a dead end
. Sensing that I’m not going to get anything more out of Sheila, I shift my focus. “I’d like to talk to Tasha for a couple of minutes if that’s okay. Is she getting ready to go on the air?”

Sheila glances at her watch. “We have a segment we’re about to tape but I can give you five minutes.”

“That should be fine.”

Sheila walks up to the desk and speaks to Tasha, who glances at me over Sheila’s shoulder. Though I can’t hear what’s being said, Tasha nods, says something to Sheila, and then approaches me.

“Hi, I’m Tasha Lansing,” she says, extending a hand and wearing her on-the-air, two-hundred-watt smile. “Sheila said you are looking into Callie’s murder.”

“I am, yes. Do you have any idea why Callie was up in Wisconsin?”

“No,” she says, her eyes huge with innocence. “Frankly, it’s pretty rare for her to go anywhere without Jake.”

“Her son, you mean?”

She nods. “That boy is the love of her life.”

I note that Tasha is referring to Callie in the present tense and wonder if it’s significant. “So who did she leave him with when she headed up north?” I ask her, thinking perhaps this person might know more about Callie’s plans.

She shrugs. “Family I suppose.”

“By family do you mean a boyfriend, or husband? Was she living with anyone?”

“No, it’s always been just her and Jake. She does have a sister in the area, and her mom, though I gather their relationship is strained at times.”

“Is Jake’s father in the picture at all?”

Tasha shakes her head but her gaze slips away and I get a strong sense that what she’s about to say next will be something short of the truth. “Nobody knows who Jake’s father is,” she says. “Callie never talked about it.”

I recall the dynamic duo at the front desk telling me Jake is less than a year old, so I do a quick calculation in my head. Hurley said he and Callie split up a year and a half ago, which would have been right around the time she found out she was pregnant. Was that why she broke it off? Did Hurley know she had a kid? And could he be the father? Misty did say the kid had huge blue eyes.

Hoping to appeal to Tasha’s ego, I lean in close and whisper, “I’ve been told you worked very closely with Callie, that you were her protégée and main confidante.”

She shrugs dismissively and says, “I guess.” I can tell she is wary of my praise but also flattered by it so I pile it on a little more.

“I can see why they picked you to take over the main anchor role. You’ve got the beauty and the brains, and you seem to be a very keen observer. I’m guessing nothing much gets by you, does it?”

“I think I’m pretty perceptive,” she says.

“So help me out. Who do you think Jake’s father is?”

She starts to say something but then her gaze shifts over my shoulder and the high-wattage smile turns on. “Mr. Ackerman,” she says, practically cooing. “Have you met, um . . .” She hesitates and looks at me. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”

“
M
—”
I
catch myself just as I’m about to blurt out my real name. I cough to give myself a moment to recover and then, as I’m turning around to greet the wise and powerful Mr. Ackerman, I say, “Ms. Taylor.”

It’s all I can manage to get out because I am dumbstruck by the sight before me. Mike Ackerman is as stunning an example of the male species as I’ve seen in a long time: tall, broad shouldered, square jawed, and gorgeous. His eyes are the color of an October sky and rimmed with thick, dark lashes; his hair is a rich chestnut brown with gold highlights. There is an adorable cleft in his chin, a deep dimple in each cheek, and a pair of sexy, biteme lips turned up into an inscrutable smile. It’s a combination I imagine could easily melt the pants off most women.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Taylor,” he says. His voice is mellifluous and sexy, but there is a hint of humor in his tone when he repeats my name, suggesting that he is amused by my formality. His attire is casual: khaki slacks and a plain, white shirt unbuttoned at the collar with the sleeves rolled up. As he extends his hand toward me for a shake, I can’t help but notice the tanned and muscular forearm it’s attached to.

“Likewise,” I manage. I take his hand and feel an electric volt of sexual energy race up my arm.

“I understand you’re investigating Callie Dunkirk’s death,” he says, releasing me.

“Yes.” I don’t offer any more, thinking it’s probably best to say as little as possible lest I start blabbering.

“Her death has been a terrible shock and loss for us all,” Ackerman says, looking appropriately saddened, though something about it strikes me as false. “Not only was she a kind and very likable person, she was a rising star in the TV news world. Her death is a senseless, horrible thing.”

“I’m sure it’s been difficult for all of you,” I say, noticing that both Sheila and Tasha are gaping at Ackerman, looking as starstruck as I feel. Clearly the man has some powerful charisma. “Any thoughts on who might have wanted her dead, or what she was doing in Wisconsin?”

Ackerman rubs his chin in thought for a moment and I notice that he’s wearing a wedding band. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but as I’ve already told the police, I have no idea.”

I sense he is about to dismiss me so I blurt out one last question, hoping to keep his attention a little longer. “Any thoughts about who the father of Callie’s son might be?”

The change in Ackerman’s expression is subtle—there and gone in a blink—but it is echoed in the nervous movements of Sheila and Tasha, who both look away suddenly, as if they can’t bear to watch. “Why would I know something like that?” Ackerman asks.

“I thought Callie might have talked about her private life.”

“Not with me,” Ackerman says. He turns and looks at the two women. Despite being unable to tear their gazes away from him a moment ago, they are now busy looking at everything but him. “Has she ever said anything to either of you?” he asks.

Sheila finally engages him and for a brief second she looks angry and bitter. But then she shifts her gaze to me, smiles, and shakes her head. “Callie kept to herself for the most part,” she says.

Tasha, who is now studying her feet with heightened intensity, says, “That’s true. She keeps—kept her professional and personal lives separate.”

Ackerman glances at his watch and says, “I’m sorry, Ms. Taylor, but that’s about all I have time for today. We have a deadline to meet and we all need to get back to work.”

Sheila takes the cue and gently nudges me toward the door with the flat of her hand on my arm. “Let me show you out.”

I want to object but sense I’m not likely to get much more information out of anyone today anyway, so I let her steer me away. As we step out into the hallway she says, “So tell me something. Are you thinking Jake’s father is someone in Washington?”

“I can’t really say,” I answer vaguely, knowing she’ll be exploring that angle the minute I’m gone.

“But you think the identity of Jake’s father might have something to do with Callie’s murder.” She isn’t asking me; she’s stating an opinion, no doubt hoping I’ll confirm it. I decide to let her draw her own conclusions.

“I’m exploring every possibility at the moment,” I tell her. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

Judging from the storm clouds I see on Hurley’s face as I get in the car, I can tell that what he overheard isn’t sitting well with him. As soon as I close the door, he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, white-knuckling the steering wheel. I tolerate his stony silence for several blocks before caving in.

“Did you know Callie had a son?”

The muscles in his arms bulge with tension and his cheek twitches wildly. It’s several seconds before he answers me. “No,” he says through his teeth. “And I don’t want to discuss it.”

“That’s not fair,” I say, peeling off my wire.

He turns and glares at me, looking like he wants to toss me out of the car. Suddenly it’s not hard to imagine him as a killer. “Not fair?” he says. “I’ll tell you what’s not fair. Lying to someone you profess to love, that’s not fair. Keeping secrets from someone you should be able to trust, that’s not fair.” His voice rises in an angry crescendo and I pray that his ire is directed at someone other than me. “And manipulating other people’s lives is definitely not fucking fair!” he yells.

His driving is getting erratic and too fast for the suburban streets we’re on. “Maybe you should pull over and let me drive,” I suggest as gently as I can.

“Yeah, maybe I should,” he snaps irritably. With that he whips the steering wheel hard to the right and slams on the brakes as he hits the curb. Once the car is at a full stop, he jams the gearshift lever into park, leans back in his seat, and closes his eyes. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, shaking his head. “How could she do that to me?”

It’s becoming clear to me that Hurley didn’t know Callie had a child until now, and it’s equally obvious the knowledge has hurt him deeply. The pain is etched on his face, but is it the simple fact that Callie withheld the information from him, or has he made the other leap by figuring out the timing and all the possible ramifications that go with it?