“What?” he asks.
“I can’t believe you want me to lie to a team of investigative journalists. Sniffing out the truth is what they do best.”
He dismisses my concerns with a little pfft. “You’ll do fine,” he says.
“Yeah, right.” I punctuate my skepticism with a roll of my eyes.
“Trust me, Mattie. You can do this. Based on my past experience, I have every confidence that you can lie quite convincingly.”
He’s referring to the first case we ever worked together, one that involved the murder of my husband’s paramour. When I realized David and I were both at the top of the suspect list, I withheld certain information until I could sort things out on my own. When Hurley figured it out, he was rather ticked.
“I never out-and-out lied to you, Hurley. I simply didn’t tell you everything right away.”
“Sorry, but I fail to see the distinction.”
“You’re just angry that I didn’t share everything with you immediately.”
“And you’re doing it again.”
“What do you mean?”
“This thing you did, sneaking one of my hairs out of my house so you could compare it.”
Oh, that. “Come on, Hurley. I have a right to be cautious. We’ve only known each other for a few weeks and given what you’re asking me to do, I think it’s smart of me to be careful. Besides, if I didn’t trust you, would I be sneaking around like this, leaving no trail of where I’ve gone and who I’m with? If you wanted to do me in, now would be the perfect time.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he grumbles.
I fold my arms over my chest and turn back to view the scenery, letting him sulk. After a long period of stony silence, Hurley says, “I’m sorry. I seem to be edgier than usual lately what with everything that’s happened.”
“Apology accepted.” I let my arms fall to my sides. “And I suppose it’s understandable, given the circumstances. I’m sure Callie’s death has hit you particularly hard.”
He nods but says nothing, and just as I’m starting to relax, thinking a détente has been reestablished, he blindsides me.
“So as long as we’re discussing exes, mind if I ask where things are with you and David?”
“They’re progressing,” I say vaguely.
“Progressing how?”
“I have a lawyer. She drew up separation papers and is prepping for the divorce filing.”
“Did David sign anything?”
“Not yet. But it doesn’t matter,” I say with more conviction than I feel. “I’m going ahead with things no matter what he does.”
Hurley nods slowly and I hope it means he’s ready to let the subject drop, but then he asks, “Is he still making overtures toward reconciliation?”
I start to squirm. David has been frustratingly reticent to move ahead with this divorce thing and I’ve been a bit ambivalent myself at times. “I don’t want to talk about David,” I say firmly, hoping to eliminate any doubt in his mind that I am done with the topic. “The way the two of you keep pressuring me makes me want to turn tail and run before one of you whips it out and pees on me to mark your territory.”
Hurley shoots me a glance and says, “Sorry. I didn’t realize I was hitting such a sensitive nerve.”
“Let’s focus on the task at hand, okay? I’m nervous about these upcoming interviews and since you’re the ace investigator, how about giving me some guidelines on what questions I should be asking?”
“There’s no need. I trust your instincts.” His compliment has me preening for a moment, but then he adjusts his sights and blows all my feathers off. “You seem to do very well when you stick your nose into things. So just do what you usually do. Be nosy and persistent.”
Chapter 16
The TV station where Callie Dunkirk worked is located in a rectangular brick building situated on the edges of a suburban neighborhood filled with small, older homes. There is a definite institutional look about the place and given that the word GYMNASIUM is stained into the brick above a door at one end, I’m guessing it was once a school. Its current use is equally as obvious, not only from the station logo emblazoned above the front entrance, but from the giant radio tower looming behind the building and the two satellite trucks in the front lot.
Hurley parks a ways down the street, shuts the engine off, and turns to face me. “Here,” he says, pulling a thin billfold and a cell phone from his jacket pocket and handing them to me. I flip open the billfold and find an Illinois private investigator’s license in one side pocket, and an Illinois driver’s license in the other. Though the driver’s license has my picture and stats on it, both it and the PI license bear the name Rebecca Taylor. “Just in case they ask you for some ID.”
“Who is Rebecca Taylor?” I ask. “And how did you get her PI license?”
“The license is mine,” Hurley explains. “When I left the Chicago police force I needed a way to make some quick money. So I got a PI license.”
“But this license has the name Rebecca Taylor on it,” I say. “Is there some big secret about your private plumbing you haven’t told me yet?”
“No, I haven’t had a sex change,” he assures me. “Rebecca Taylor is a name I made up for you. I didn’t use my PI license very long because I got hired by the Sorenson PD pretty quickly. So I figured we could use it now to give you an in with the folks down here. I just had it altered a bit.”
I peer down at both licenses, trying to discern the changes, but the documents look pristine. “Impressive work,” I say. “How is it you know how to do something like this?”
He flashes an enigmatic smile. “I was with the Chicago PD for fifteen years and met a lot of talented lawbreakers during that time.” He shrugs. “I still have a few connections.”
“How’d you come up with the name Rebecca Taylor?”
“There is a database of licensed PIs in the state that anyone can check so I wanted to give you a name that would pass muster if someone gets curious. Turns out there is an R. Taylor registered and Taylor happens to be the last name of one of my all-time favorite Victoria’s Secret models: Niki Taylor. I chose Rebecca because it’s the first name of my other favorite Victoria’s Secret modeclass="underline" Rebecca Romijn.”
I’m not sure if I should be worried or flattered—worried because I’m coming to realize Hurley’s standards in women are frighteningly high, or flattered because he thought of those women while trying to come up with a name for me. I suspect it’s only the former given that one of my thighs is probably bigger around than the waist on either of the models. But we do share a couple of traits: they are tall like me and all of us are blondes, so who knows? It’s definite fodder for later analysis, not to mention a nudge for me to consider another underwear upgrade.
“What about this cell phone?” I ask him, proffering the one he handed me.
Hurley leans over and opens up the glove box—giving me a peek at the very sexy nape of his neck and a whiff of that wonderful spicy scent he always seems to have—and pulls out a small manila envelope and a charger for the phone.
“It’s a throwaway phone,” he says, opening the envelope. “I already charged it up but you can recharge it with this.” He hands me the cord and I stuff it in my purse. “The number for it is on these.” He removes a handful of business cards from the envelope and hands them to me. “Give these out to anyone you talk to so they can reach you again later, in case they think of something more. Plus, it makes you look more legit.”
As I tuck the cards, phone, and billfold into my purse, Hurley says, “Lift up your sweater for me.”
“Say what?”