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—”