“Lift up your sweater.”
“Why?”
He tips the envelope up and slides the remaining contents out into his hand. Then he shows me what he’s holding—some pulloff sticky tabs, some wires, and a small round device. “I’m going to give you a wire,” he explains.
“You want me to wear a wire? What do you think this is, a Mafia bust?”
“It’s for my ears only. I want to be able to hear exactly what everyone says and, more important, how they say it.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, slickly avoiding an answer. “It won’t be used for anything official.”
I hold my hand out. “Give it to me and I’ll put it on myself.”
“You don’t know how.”
“Well, can’t you tell me?” I shoot back, exasperated. For some reason, the thought of Hurley touching my bare skin there makes me extremely nervous.
He gives me a wicked smile. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “You haven’t developed a strong sense of modesty all of a sudden, have you? Because I’ve seen it all before, remember. You’ve been photographed half naked in the oddest places several times recently.”
This is true, but there were extenuating circumstances. What’s more, Hurley wasn’t touching me either time. “Fine,” I say, resigned. I yank my sweater up, close my eyes, and try to imagine something as disgusting and unsexy as I can. The first thing that pops to mind is an image of Lucien.
Hurley puts the peel-and-sticks on me, connects the wires, and then threads the small circular device up under my bra. His fingers graze the insides of my breasts, making me gasp as my nipples stand up and say hello. “You better take it from here,” he says pulling his hand away. “I need you to stick the mike just under the cup of your bra.”
I open my eyes and we gaze at one another for a moment, one of those long, innuendo-laden stares that says nothing and everything. He starts to close the gap between us and my heart steps up a notch in anticipation of a kiss. But when he’s only inches away, a shadow descends over his face. He pulls back and turns away to stare out his side window instead.
I realize I’m holding my breath and slowly release it, giving myself a few seconds to come back to my senses. With fumbling fingers I position the mike the way he told me and then I stare at the back of his head, wanting to ask him a million questions but afraid to ask a single one. Finally I say, “Okay, the mike is in place.”
He turns back from the window, but doesn’t look at me right away. Instead he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out what appears to be a recording device with a pair of earplugs. He turns the device on, places one of the plugs in his left ear, and says, “Say something.”
“What the hell just happened here?” I blurt out.
Hurley flinches slightly and bows his head. The muscles in his cheek twitch. Silence wraps around us like a dense fog. Finally he says, “Seems to be working fine. You’re good to go.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, clamp my jaws together, and shake my head. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.” I yank up on the door handle and just as I’m about to get out of the car, Hurley reaches over and gives my arm a little squeeze.
“You’ll be fine,” he says. “Just focus on the facts and take notes even if you don’t think you need to. Dig in as far as you can and see what you turn up. I don’t anticipate any problems, but if you need me for any reason, I’ll be right here.”
The idea of Hurley being there, waiting for me, calms me. As I get out of the car and cross the street I try to take on the persona of a private investigator, but I’ve never known a real one so I dig through my memory banks and come up with the only one I can remember: Jim Rockford.
I walk through the front door of the station with a cocky swagger and find myself in a wide lobby area. To my right is a staircase and located on either side of me just past the stairs are doors that I’m guessing open onto hallways that run the length of the building. Straight ahead is a reception desk positioned against the back wall, and the TV station logo is emblazoned across the wall above it.
There is a young woman seated behind the reception desk talking—or judging from all the eyelash batting, hair twirling, and coy looks—flirting with a young man in a security uniform. As I approach, they reluctantly tear their attention away from one another and turn it on me, both of them looking quite annoyed by the interruption.
“May I help you?” the girl asks with a weight-of-the-world sigh designed, no doubt, to let me know what a royal pain in the ass I am to her.
“Yes, my name is Rebecca Taylor and I’m an investigator for the state of Illinois,” I say, snapping one of the business cards down on the desk and trying to sound as officious as possible. The duo looks unimpressed. “I’m looking into the murder of Callie Dunkirk and I’d like to talk to some of the people she worked with.”
The mention of murder seems to earn me a bit of respect judging from the suddenly heightened expressions of interest.
“I heard about that,” the girl says, her eyes wide. “Do they have any idea yet who did it?”
The security guard, who I’m guessing is in his mid-twenties, puffs his chest out and looks all serious. “It had to have been someone she knew, Misty,” he says with a level of authority and conviction that make me peg him as a police academy dropout. “I heard she was stabbed in the heart, and a crime like that generally indicates intimacy and passion.”
“Do you really think so?” Misty says, looking up at him with big doe eyes. He nods and puffs his chest out a little more until Misty shifts her focus to me. “Is that true?” she asks.
Security Boy’s chest collapses a bit and he shoots me a quick side glance, like he’s afraid I’ll contradict him and make him look bad. I’m tempted, but I’m not here to crush blooming romances or make enemies. Besides, what the kid said is right.
“Yes, that’s true,” I say, and Security Boy’s chest puffs back up into pigeon mode. “Did you guys know Callie very well?”
Misty shakes her head. “I saw her when she came into work every day and she always said hi, but we never really talked or anything. She was one of the reporters.” Judging from Misty’s tone of awe, I gather that being a reporter is akin to being king, or in this case, queen.
“She was a real nice lady,” Security Boy says. “Real pretty, too,” he adds, making Misty pout.
“Was there anyone special in her life that you know of?”
Security Boy shakes his head. “Nah, she didn’t date much. Between work and her kid, I don’t think she had the time.”
For a moment I’m dumbstruck. Then I blurt out, “Callie had a kid?”
Misty smiles and says, “Yep. His name is Jake. What a cutie-pie! He’s like nine or ten months old and he’s got these huge blue eyes and the most adorable little face.” She smiles wistfully for a second before her expression turns suddenly grim. “Poor little Jakey. Losing his mom like that. It’s not fair.”
Security Boy proves he’s not a total incompetent when he narrows his eyes at me and says, “As a cop, I would have thought you knew that Callie had a kid.”
I mutter a curse under my breath and think fast. “Cop? I’m not a cop,” I say with an incredulous smile, saying a silent prayer that I’m reading him right. I dig out my fake licenses and show them to him. “I’m a private investigator.” I emphasize the last two words as if they’re some sort of elite award. “Cops are so limited in what they can do what with all the restrictions the law puts on you, and I don’t have the patience for that crap. Besides, I like doing things my own way, you know?” Security Boy nods eagerly. “I mean, if you know your stuff and have the wits to do the investigative end of things, why settle for a job that makes you work with restrictive laws and pathetic pay?”