“Might as well get used to it,” I tell him as he tries to soften me up with his big, soulful, woeful, puppy-dog eyes. “If I ever get lucky again, this bed won’t be big enough for all of us.”
Chapter 15
Bright and early the following morning I let Hoover out before I throw him back into the tub. One wash and blow-dry later, I drive him over to Mom’s and drop him off, leaving a bag of food and his bowls since I know Mom would never let an animal drink or eat out of any dish she owns. I’m amused to see William’s car is still there, and given the hour, I suspect he spent the night, especially since I don’t see any sign of him inside the main part of the house.
I stay long enough to set up Hoover’s food and water in the kitchen, where the surfaces and floor are cleaner than the operating rooms I used to work in. Out the window I can see that Mom’s backyard is a slushy, muddy mess and I grimace, knowing that Hoover will be tracking it in anytime he’s let out. Before Mom has a chance to realize the same thing, I thank her and hurry off.
After nearly an hour and a half on the road, I arrive at the airport ten minutes before the appointed time and pull into the long-term parking lot. I’m not sure why Hurley wanted me to park here rather than in the short-term area, but he was pretty specific about it. As I drive up and down the aisles looking for a spot, I catch several people staring at me and realize Hurley was right; my car is not the most inconspicuous one in the world. I can’t help but wonder what’s going through these people’s minds as they watch a hearse cruise up and down the long-term parking lot.
I finally find an empty space, pull in, and shut the engine off. Per Hurley’s instructions, I get out, lock the car, and head for the Southwest Airlines terminal. Before I can cross the road where everyone is loading and unloading, Hurley’s car glides up in front of me and his window slides down. “Get in,” he says.
I run around the front of the car and settle in on the passenger side. As we pull away, I buckle my seat belt and glance over at Hurley’s chest, then at his lap.
When he catches my gaze, he flashes me a salacious grin and cocks one eyebrow.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I tell him. “I was checking to make sure you had your seat belt on.”
“I do.”
“Well, sort of. I don’t think having the chest strap behind you like that works very well.”
“I’m sorry. Did I miss something?” he says, his voice rife with sarcasm. “Did someone promote you to seat belt compliance officer and forget to tell me?”
“Ha-ha, very funny, smartass. I’m a nurse, remember? And I’ve seen what happens to people who are too stupid to wear their seat belts. Besides, it’s the law, you know.”
Hurley pulls aside his jacket to show me that he’s wearing his gun in a shoulder holster. “The shoulder strap interferes with this,” he says, gesturing toward the gun with his chin. “Okay?”
I shrug. “Whatever.”
As we leave the main part of the airport, I notice video cameras mounted on the roof of the overhang fronting the terminal. “This place has cameras everywhere,” I tell Hurley. “It wouldn’t be that hard for someone to verify that we met here.”
“True, but hopefully they won’t have any reason to suspect that we met up at all. And if they do, the airport isn’t exactly the most logical place to look.” He shrugs. “I know it’s not perfect, but it was the best I could come up with for now.”
“So where are we headed exactly?”
“Did you bring the items I told you to?”
I fish in my purse and pull out a steno notebook and pen. “Okay?” I say, and he nods. “Good. Now would you please answer my question?”
“The first place we’re going is the TV station where Callie worked. I want you to talk to her coworkers there and see if you can find out what it was she was doing up in our neck of the woods. See if anyone knows what story she was working on.”
“Okay, but Richmond said he already did that and no one knows anything.”
“That’s because Richmond’s a cop and TV people are funny when it comes to cops. They tend to get tight-lipped around us because we have a history of ruining their stories. They might tell you things they wouldn’t tell a cop, especially more personal stuff, like whether or not Callie was dating anyone.”
His tone as he utters this last bit sounds irritated and I look over at him, studying his expression. The muscles in his cheek are twitching and his brows are drawn down into a frown.
“How long were the two of you together?” I ask. Part of me shudders at the thought of having to listen to him talk about a woman he once cared for and presumably slept with. But another twisted, masochistic part of me wants to know every gory, painful detail.
“About a year,” he says, staring straight ahead.
I wait, hoping he’ll offer more but his reticence outlasts my curiosity. “Why did you break up?”
He hesitates, taking one hand from the wheel and running it through his hair. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “She was the one who ended it, and to be honest, I never saw it coming. One day she just called up out of the blue, said the relationship wasn’t working for her anymore, and she wanted to part ways.” His hand goes back to the steering wheel and his knuckles turn white with his grip. “I tried to get her to talk to me about it but she refused. She kept saying it would be best if we cut things off quickly and fully. That way we wouldn’t stain all our good memories with the petty and hurtful detritus”—he lets go of the wheel long enough to make little finger quotes in the air—“that so often accompanies a breakup.”
The hand gesture, along with the sarcastic, singsongy tone in his voice suggests he is quoting this last line from memory, and not a happy one.
“Detritus?” I echo. “She actually said detritus?”
“Yeah,” he says with a laugh, though it sounds bitter. “She loved words—the bigger and fancier, the better.”
Clearly Callie’s cavalier dismissal of him and their relationship pissed him off, a slight I’m beginning to think he never got over. The thought of him still aching and pining for Callie triggers a little stab of pain to my heart, but masochistic Mattie can’t resist one more question and I brace myself for the answer. “Were you in love with her?”
He hesitates a few seconds and then shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe,” he admits. “But it happened a long time ago and it’s all in the past now. Besides, it hardly matters anymore, does it?”
It matters to me more than I like and I sense Hurley knows it. So I say nothing, gazing out my side window at the passing scenery instead. We ride that way for several minutes, the awkward silence a wobbly rope bridge gapping the rift between us. When Hurley speaks again it’s on a new subject.
“So our first stop today is the TV station where they film Behind the Scenes. I want you to talk to Callie’s coworkers to see what you can dig up,” he says again.
“Except that degree of investigation is a bit outside my job description,” I say. “All that interviewing and investigative stuff falls more into your territory or, in this case, Bob Richmond’s. And he’s already spoken to them. What happens if Richmond talks to them again and they mention the fact that I’ve been there? Isn’t that going to look a bit . . . fishy?”
“It will,” he concedes, “which is why you’re going to use a fake ID and say that you’re a private investigator hired to look into Callie’s murder.”
I shoot him a look of incredulity. “You want me to lie to them?”
“Yeah.”
I continue staring at him, slack-jawed and disbelieving.