Frozen Stiff (17 page)

I wander out into Hurley’s backyard, to the rear line of the fence where it butts up against Minniver’s yard. There is police tape across Minniver’s back door, which opens into his garage. Similar doors, similar locks—access to one would make it easy to access the other. And that’s assuming that both Hurley and Minniver were religious about locking their doors. Here in small-town America, people often don’t. Plus there’s the missing key to Minniver’s house.

I head back out to the street, Hoover sniffing the ground as we go. Just before we round the front corner of the house, Hoover stops dead in his tracks and raises his nose to the air. Then he barks excitedly several times. Thinking it might be Hurley, I head for the front yard at a fast clip and nearly trip over a white blur that runs into my feet as I round the corner of the house.

“Oh, my, I’m sorry,” says a female voice. “I didn’t know you were there.”

The white blur has materialized into a small dog—some type of poodle-looking thing—and I see that the female voice belongs to an older woman with brown eyes and a gray Joan of Are hairdo.

Hoover sits dutifully at my feet at first, watching the white fuzzy dog approach him. Seconds later he is desperately trying to stick his nose in the little dog’s butt, while the little dog yips and barks and bounces around like it’s on meth.

“Antoinette!” the woman yells, tugging on her leash. Unfortunately, the efforts of the two dogs have resulted in their leashes becoming intertwined and wrapped around my legs, so I nearly fall when the woman keeps pulling.

“Could you please ease up?” I say, trying to hop on my one good foot. The woman finally seems to realize what’s happening and she drops her leash completely. I do the same hoping to make the untangling process a little easier. But the fuzzy white wonder keeps darting in and out between my legs, nipping at Hoover’s heels and making a general pest of herself. As Hoover tries to avoid her bites and sniff her butt instead, he starts running between my legs, too. Finally, in desperation, I reach down and unhook him from the leash completely. Sensing his newfound freedom, he immediately takes off for a nearby bush. Antoinette follows and I manage to get her leash unwrapped from my ankle in the nick of time.

“What are you doing here?” the woman asks, narrowing her eyes at me.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Helen Baxter.”

The name rings no bells so I start to do my own introduction. “I’m Mattie Win—”

“I know who you are,” Helen says, cutting me off. “You’re that nurse who works at the ME’s office now, right?”

I nod, not surprised she knows me. My face along with other more delicate parts of my anatomy recently appeared on the cover of a national tabloid thanks to a rather high-profile case our office handled. That, combined with the fact that I live in a small town where the only thing that moves faster than good news is bad news, has made it hard for me to remain anonymous.

“What are you doing here?” Helen asks again.

“I’m trying to investigate—”

“You’re looking into Harold’s death, aren’t you?” she says. “I live over on the next block and I saw you there at Harold’s house with that cop the other night, and now I see there’s crime tape up on his door. Was Harold murdered, because it wouldn’t surprise me if he was. There have been some very strange things going on in this neighborhood lately.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, getting the distinct impression that Helen doesn’t miss much of what goes on in the area.

But rather than answer me, she yells, “Stop it, you little slut!”

I’m about to be offended when I realize it’s her dog she’s yelling at, not me. Hoover is sitting next to a bush trembling, his eyes big and round. Mere inches in front of him, facing away from Hoover with her shoulders on the ground and her butt stuck up in the air, is Antoinette. Her knobby little tail is twitching back and forth, back and forth, as she whimpers. Helen walks over and scoops Antoinette off the ground, giving me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Antoinette is in heat and I’m afraid she’s rather desperate to compromise herself.”

I think of Hurley and empathize with Antoinette. Hoover looks up at me with an expression of sad yearning while Antoinette squirms in Helen’s arms, desperate to get down. Helen tightens her grip and says to me, “I’m a nurse. I used to work at Mercy.”

“Really? I don’t recall ever seeing you there.”

“You wouldn’t. I’ve been retired for nearly twenty years, and I’d imagine that was before your time.”

“What department did you work in?”

“I used to be the Director of Nurses, before that odd job took over.”

The odd job she is referring to is Nancy Molinaro, a short, stout, hirsute woman who was recruited from outside the hospital to head the nursing department. It’s rumored she used to be a former mob hit woman—though some think she used to be a man—who entered the witness protection program. It’s easy to see how the rumors got started. The woman talks with a whispered lisp, has spies peppered throughout the facility, and eliminates employees she doesn’t like with frightening efficiency. Plus there is the acronym derived from the Director of Nursing title: DON.

“Anyway,” Helen goes on, “ever since my husband, George, died, it’s just me and Antoinette here. I kind of keep an eye on things in the neighborhood, especially during the day when most of the other folks are gone.”

“Did you know Mr. Minniver?”

“We chatted every week or so. As the two old folks on the street, we had a pact of sorts to watch out for one another, you know? When you get to be our age, things can happen.”

“Did you see Mr. Minniver on the day he died?”

She nods. “I didn’t speak to him, but I saw him fetch his mail that morning when Antoinette and I were out on our walk. I take her out twice a day every day and walk a circuit of several blocks. Keeps me young, you know. That’s how I spotted that strange man.”

“What strange man?”

“The one who kept parking a black sedan around the neighborhood, different time and place every day. Sometimes he was on this street, sometimes on our street, sometimes he was on a side street, but he was here every day for the better part of a week.”

I frown.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Helen says with a sneer. “Crazy old woman gets paranoid about some guy parking on the street.”

I don’t respond because she’s right; that’s exactly what I’m thinking. “What did this guy look like?”

She shrugs. “I never got a good look at his face. He was always wearing one of those hooded things the kids like so much these days. I was going to call the police about him but then he disappeared. Do you think I still should?”

“I don’t think it will do much good since he isn’t here anymore,” I tell her, wishing she had called them sooner. “Black sedans are a dime a dozen. They won’t have any way of finding him.”

“Even if I give them a license plate number?”

It takes me a couple of beats to register what she just said. “Do you
have
a license plate number?”

“I do. I wrote it down in the pad I carry with me whenever I walk, in case I need to leave a note for someone. Like the time I left a note for Mr. Abbott saying I needed a plumber and wondering if he’d give me the name and number of the one I’d seen coming to his house twice a week for the past two months.” She gives me a wink. “The Abbotts don’t live here anymore,” she says drily. She bends over and sets Antoinette down, then fishes in her slacks pocket, pulling out a small spiral notebook. “Let’s see,” she says, flipping pages. “Here you go.” She rips the page out of the notebook and hands it to me.

“It was an Illinois plate?” I say, reading what she wrote.

“Yep, one of them damned flatlanders. That alone was reason enough to find him suspicious if you ask me.”

“Thanks, Helen. I’ll have the police run this and see what we come up with.” I tuck the slip of paper in my pocket and turn to look for Hoover. Antoinette has dashed back to the bushes and Hoover is there tentatively sniffing her nether regions. Antoinette drops herself down so that she is flat on her belly on the ground, her legs extended straight out behind her, her tail standing at attention. “I think your poodle has a crush on my dog,” I tell Helen.

“Antoinette is not a poodle,” Helen says, all indignant. “She’s a purebred bichon frise.”

“A bitch on what?”

Helen gives me a look that rivals my mother’s. It must be one of those things that improves with age. “I think you and your mutt had better leave now,” she says, making a face like she just tasted dog shit. “If he gets my Antoinette pregnant, there will be hell to pay.”

“Well, if your furry slut would quit enticing him, it would help,” I say. “Besides I don’t think my dog is old enough to do anything yet.”

“Judging from the fact that his red rocket is out and looks ready to launch, I’d say you’re mistaken.”

I walk over and hook Hoover up to his leash, pulling him off Antoinette. Just as Helen said, Hoover’s winky-dink is primed and ready. As soon as I rein him in, Helen walks over and scoops the slut back into her arms.

“Thanks for the license number,” I tell her, dragging a humiliated Hoover toward my car.

“You’ll let me know if it leads to anything, won’t you?” Helen asks.

“Sure.”
When your bichon freezes over.

Chapter 25

A
few minutes later, I’m pulling into the police station parking lot. There’s no sign of Hurley’s car anywhere so I tell Hoover to stay and head inside with the slip of paper Helen gave me. The day dispatcher, Stephanie, greets me with a smile.

“Hi, Mattie. How are things?”

“They’re good. How are you doing?”

“Fine. I was sorry to hear about the fire. Is David okay?”

“He seems to be, yes. Thanks for asking.” Before she can pursue the topic of David, the fire, my old house, and my marriage, I add, “Listen, I wonder if you could do me a favor. I have a license plate number I’d like you to run for me.” I hand her the slip of paper and she studies it for a second.

“Illinois, eh?”

“Yep. You can still run it, can’t you?”

“I can. Just give me a sec.”

Steph starts typing info into the computer and as I’m waiting, the door behind her opens and Bob Richmond comes out. “Mattie! I was going to call you this morning to see if you wanted to go to the gym with me but when I heard about the fire, I figured I should wait.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered if you did call because I’ve temporarily misplaced my cell phone. Besides, considering that I feel like I smoked an entire carton of cigarettes last night, I’m thinking it might not be the best time to start an exercise program. And I have a couple of broken toes to deal with.” I stick my foot out and show him my Frankenstein shoe.

“Here you go,” Steph says, handing me a sheet of paper. I take it, fold it up, and stick it in my pocket, hoping Richmond won’t start asking questions. But there’s too much detective left in him.

“What’s that?” he asks, gesturing toward my pocket. “Who are you running?”

“It’s nothing,” I say, but I can tell from the way he narrows his eyes at me that I’ve only heightened his interest. “It’s just some asshole who tried to run me off the road yesterday when I was in Chicago. I want to call him up and give him a piece of my mind.”

Richmond frowns at this explanation, no doubt because it isn’t a legitimate use of the system. Then I see the scared look on Steph’s face, who is no doubt worrying if she’s about to get into trouble for helping me. “Look, Bob, I know it isn’t exactly kosher, but this guy was one of those rich assholes driving some big fancy Cadillac Escalade and acting like he owned the whole damned road.”

Bob looks sympathetic and mutters, “Assholes” under his breath. I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief when Steph says, “I think you’re out of luck anyway, because that plate is registered to a rental car company at O’Hare Airport.”

“Oh. Well, thanks anyway.”

“Listen,” Bob says, “if we go to the health club today, all they’ll do is an orientation. They show you how to work the machines and then they develop an exercise plan for you. It won’t be anything too strenuous and they have plenty of stuff you can do that won’t involve your foot. I’m sure they can take that into consideration.”

I’m starting to regret ever agreeing to Bob’s harebrained proposal and I’m about to beg off when the pathetic hangdog look on his face stops me. “Tell you what, Bob. I’ll make a deal with you. Have you pulled phone records for Callie Dunkirk yet?”

“Yeah,” he says, clearly confused about where I’m going with this. “For her cell phone, anyway. Her work phone is part of a main trunk line going into the building so there’s no way to know for sure what calls go where in that place.”

“I want to take a look at them. Let me have a peek now and I’ll go to the gym with you later.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to learn about this investigative stuff and I figure you probably know more about it than anyone, given your years of experience.” I pray that a little flattery will help sway Richmond and keep him from questioning my motives too closely. And it appears to be working since he’s pursing his lips as if he’s considering my request. “I know it’s not my job to look at stuff like that, but it helps me get a better grasp of the overall picture. If you could go over it with me and explain how stuff like that works, and how it all ties together when you make a case, it would really help me. I want to learn from the best,” I say, laying it on thick.

Richmond considers my request for a few more seconds and then shrugs. “Sure, I don’t see what it will hurt. Come on.”

Steph buzzes me into the back and I follow Richmond into a large office that holds four desks. He walks over to one of them, flips through some files, and then says, “Here we go.” He pulls the phone company paperwork from a manila folder and hands it to me. I see a list of dates with corresponding phone numbers lining the pages. I immediately zero in on the date of Callie’s diary entry for the police corruption phone call and scan the numbers there.

“So how do you know who these numbers belong to?” I ask.

“We run them by the phone company if we see anything that looks interesting. For instance, we ran all the numbers that appear on the day she was killed and for a day or two before that.”

“And did you find anything useful?”

“Nah, it was all work-related stuff, or calls to her family.”

Most of the numbers I see appear more than once on the list and they are labeled with names of Callie’s coworkers, the TV station, and her family. When I look at the numbers for calls made or received on the day of the diary entry, they are all family or work-related calls. Then I notice something peculiar. “Why does this Ackerman guy have, what, at least three different phone numbers?”

Richmond rolls his eyes. “Apparently the guy has a cell for work and another one for his personal use that is unlisted. Plus he called her from his office phone a number of times. That’s this one here,” he says, pointing to an oft-repeated number.

I hand the papers back to Richmond. “Thanks, Bob. That was very helpful.” I turn and head back out front with him on my heels. When we reach the front desk Richmond says, “Want to go hit the gym now?”

“I can’t,” I say, and Richmond’s face turns momentarily angry. “I need to run by the hospital and check on David first, but I’ll meet you at the gym after that,” I add hastily. I glance at my watch and see it’s almost noon. “How about one o’clock?”

“One o’clock it is,” Richmond says looking appeased. “See you there.”

He waddles out the door, leaving me alone with Steph. “I’m sorry if I did anything that might get you in trouble,” I tell her.

She dismisses my apology with a wave of her hand. “It’s okay. I don’t think Richmond cares anyway. And speaking of Richmond, what’s this about a health club?”

“When I made the mistake of lecturing him on his weight, he begged me to go to the gym with him so he wouldn’t be the only fat person there.”

“You’re not fat,” Steph says. “You’re just a big girl . . . large boned.”

I shrug, knowing she’s being kind. Steph is a bit overweight herself and these types of shared euphemisms are the secret passwords for entry into the overweight women’s glee club. “I can use the exercise and Richmond can use the support,” I tell her. “Besides, I feel obligated to help him try. If he doesn’t do something, he’ll be dead soon.”

“Ah,” Steph says with a knowing smile. “You’re channeling your inner nurse. Well, I’m sure it will prove interesting. I hope your CPR skills are up to par.”

“Have you seen Hurley today?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “Nope, and I don’t expect to. He requested some time off for a medical leave. He’s going to be out the rest of the week. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?” At first I don’t understand what she’s getting at, but then she adds, “Given that it’s Thanksgiving week.”

“You think it’s a ruse?”

“Who knows?” She looks over her shoulder and then leans forward conspiratorially. “Nobody here knows much about Hurley. He’s rather tight-lipped. A bit of a mystery man, you know?”

Boy, do I.

“But I guess that if the chief approved it, Hurley must have had some kind of supportive information for this supposed emergency, or a helluva convincing story. I wish I knew. I wouldn’t mind having the whole week off, too.”

I thank Steph for risking her job for me and head for the hospital to check on David. I’m told he’s still in ICU and I make my way up to the third floor where it’s located. When I step into the elevator—I see no reason to start the exercise abuse early by taking the stairs—I’m joined by Nancy Molinaro. She’s wearing a black skirt suit with thick, flesh-colored hose and a pair of serious orthopedic shoes. I can see dark hairs matted beneath the hose and consider suggesting that she cut some of it and try to transplant it to her head, where her scalp is shining through in spots. But I don’t. I’m afraid that if I piss Molinaro off, she’ll come knocking at my door carrying a fish wrapped in newspaper.

“Mattie,” she says, giving me a nod of acknowledgment. “Are you here on personal or official business today?”

“Personal,” I tell her. “I’m here to check on David.”

“Yes, I heard about the fire. Any idea yet how it started?”

“Not yet,” I lie.

“Well, I hope David is back on his feet soon. We need our best surgeon.”

That’s Molinaro for you, all about the bottom line.

“I must say, it does seem as if tragedy is following you around these days,” she says, looking faintly amused by the concept. “Ever since you left here and took that job at the ME’s office. Although come to think of it, you did get called in during your on-call time more than any of the other OR nurses. And I seem to recall your cohorts in the ER saying you were quite the shit magnet. I guess some people just attract trouble. I mean look at what happened with you and that nipple incident thing. Who would of thought that—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I say quickly, hoping to cut her off. But she has a point. I did receive the Black Cloud Award four years running when I worked in the ER. Fortunately the elevator arrives on the third floor and I am able to make my escape.

When I enter the ICU, the nurse on duty recognizes me and waves me into Room Two. I tiptoe in, thinking David might be sleeping, but he’s sitting up in bed wide-awake, eating his lunch, though
dissecting
it might be a better term.

“Hi, David.”

“Mattie! Good to see you. You’re just in time to run out and get me some real food to eat.”

“It doesn’t look that bad,” I tell him, eyeing the food on his plate. “Better stick with what the doctor ordered.”

“Are you kidding me?” He pries the top slice of bread off his sandwich with his fork. “I mean, what is this stuff? The nurse said it’s chicken salad but I swear there’s stuff in here I removed from people in the OR. And then there’s this crap.” He moves his fork over and stabs it into a green square of gelatin on a side dish. When he lets go, the fork remains upright. “You know, we tried to nuke this stuff once and it wouldn’t melt. That’s not a good thing.”

“Other than the food, how are you doing?”

He pushes the tray away in disgust. “I’m fine. They tell me I have you to thank for making it out alive.”

“No big deal.”

“That’s not the way I heard it. So thank you.” He smiles at me and there’s a hint of the old David I once knew and loved in the glimmer I see in his eye. “I’ve always known you still care for me.”

The way he says this makes me wince. “I would have done the same for anyone,” I counter.

“They said the house is a total loss,” he says, ignoring my comment. “I can’t believe how much we’ve lost. And now I have nowhere to stay.” He stares at me long and hard, clearly waiting for me to offer up a suggestion.

“One of the hotels in town should do for now.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of staying with you.”

Over my dead body
. Then I remember Molinaro’s shit magnet comment in the elevator and take it back, thinking I might be tempting the gods a bit too much. “The cottage isn’t big enough for two people,” I argue. “Hell, it’s barely big enough for me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “There’s plenty of room.”

“There’s only one bedroom,” I say pointedly. I give him a look that dares him to suggest we share not just an abode, but a bed.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he counters. “And it’s only a temporary arrangement, until I can get the house rebuilt. It’s the perfect opportunity for us, Mattie. It will give us the chance we need to work on our marriage.”

I roll my eyes at him and sigh heavily. “David, how many times do I have to tell you that I’m not interested in working on our marriage? You and I are done. Finished. I’m moving on.”

He throws himself back against his pillow and pouts like a child. “You are such an unforgiving bitch,” he hisses. “This is about that cop Hurley, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s about you and your inability to keep your pecker in your pants. And speaking of Hurley, what the hell gives you the right to ask him to back off?”

“Ha!” He shoots forward and points a finger at me. “See? If it wasn’t about him, he wouldn’t need to back off, would he?”

“There is nothing going on between me and Hurley,” I seethe. “And even if there was, it’s none of your damned business anymore, David. You lost the right to have a say in my life when you decided to bed someone else.”

His expression turns smug and he folds his arms over his chest, leaning back again. “Say what you want, but I’m not giving up, Mattie. I love you and I want you back. I want us back.”

“You should have thought of that before you went humping around like a dog in heat,” I say, borrowing a page from Hoover’s playbook.

“Object all you want but I know better. And I’m not going to sign any divorce papers. Sooner or later you’ll come to your senses.”

I figure two can play this game of hardball, so I cross my arms over my chest and fire back. “Well, if I recall correctly, David, that house that burned down is in both of our names. So until
you
come to
your
senses, I won’t be signing off on any insurance checks.”

His eyes grow wide with disbelief. “You’d really be that cruel?” he says.

“Damn right.”

“You
are
a bitch.”

“With a capital B.”

The nurse pops into the room, effectively shutting both of us up. “Is everything okay in here?” she asks. “His heart rate and blood pressure are through the roof right now.”