The discovery of the car seems like a good omen to me and without a second’s thought I head back to the den, get back on the computer, and pull up the browser history. When I’m done I head back to the garage and climb into the Lexus. Apparently Carl Withers is a short man because I have to move the seat back as far as it will go just to get my knees to clear the steering wheel. And as I do so, I flash back on the discovery of Callie’s car and how the lab tech had to move the seat back when he got in.
That’s when it hits me. There’s no way Hurley could have driven that car with the seat in the position it was found because of his height. And then I remember the basement window in my house, and the trouble I had squeezing through it, which resulted in a cut from leftover glass, a cut that required stitches. Granted my butt may be bigger than Hurley’s, but my shoulders aren’t, and they barely fit through. Hurley’s shoulders are delightfully, appealingly broad, much wider than mine. He never would have fit through there. Combine these things with the apparent left-handedness of the person who stabbed Callie and it all points to someone other than Hurley.
Five minutes later I’m pulling out of Carl Withers’s garage with a picture of Connor Smith from a newspaper article about Dilles’s trial, and the addresses for his home and office on the seat beside me. Hurley’s gun and its clip are safely tucked beneath the seat, and Hurley’s cash is safely stuffed in my bra. I wish I had a way to call Hurley and tell him what I’ve figured out but he has the cell phone with him and I don’t know the number for it. Without my own throwaway phone, I have no way to reach him.
The Lexus is equipped with GPS navigation and when I plug in Smith’s office address, it tells me that my estimated arrival time will be well into the evening hours. His home address isn’t much better since it only shaves fifteen minutes off my travel time, so I settle into the Lexus—easy to do since the seats are quite plush and come equipped with a butt warmer—and drive.
As soon as I hit the interstate I take my speed up to sixty-nine, wanting to travel as fast as I can but unwilling to risk getting pulled over, especially since I’m now guilty of operating without a license and car theft—though I’m hoping Carl Withers will see it as more of a car borrowing kind of thing. I know Hurley tends to be a bit of a lead foot but I suspect he’ll be cautious too, given that he doesn’t want to get caught. Though I don’t really expect to catch up to him, I keep scanning the cars ahead of me, looking for Hurley’s.
An hour into my drive, when I’m only half an hour or so outside of Sorenson, I notice that the Lexus’s gas gauge is bordering on empty and I start looking for an exit that can provide me with food, gas, and a toilet. Though stopping somewhere this close to home makes me a little nervous, the next exit has what I need, so I take it and prepare to pull into a mini-mart gas station combo. But I get caught in a bottleneck almost as soon as I leave the freeway and as I inch my way toward the end of the exit ramp, I see why. A blockade of cop cars is positioned in front of the mini-mart and an officer is directing us to go around. I follow the rest of the drivers, rubbernecking like everyone else but also wary of being seen and recognized.
And that’s when I see Hurley, handcuffed and standing beside a police cruiser in the mini-mart parking lot.
Chapter 40
My first impulse is to hide but I realize that with all the attention focused on Hurley, I’m not likely to attract any more attention than any of the other drivers. Besides, I don’t even know if anyone is looking for me. My second impulse is to stop and tell the cops that I know Hurley and what’s more, I know he’s innocent. But I quickly realize how suicidal that move would be. While I may be able to prove Hurley’s innocence eventually, he’ll be locked up anyway and who knows what might happen. So I stay in line with all the other cars, drive past the mini-mart, take the first U-turn I see, and get back on the freeway.
My mind is a whirlwind of questions and worries, wondering what the hell I should do now that Hurley is in custody. I push the Lexus’s gas supply to its limits by going another ten miles down the road before I exit. Once I have the tank filled and my bladder emptied, I get back on the road and start filling my own tank with my just purchased items: a package of shortbread cookies and a cup of coffee that tastes like it’s been on the burner for a month, making me wonder if the person who made it got the coffee mixed up with the cleaning products.
I turn on the radio and scan the frequencies for local stations, hoping to hear some news about Hurley’s arrest. After suffering through half an hour of a country station and being forced to listen to twangy male singers whine about the women that done them wrong, my head feels like it’s going to explode.
I consider altering my plans and heading back home to Sorenson, but quickly discard the idea. I have a feeling it will be difficult to explain away my recent car theft, not to mention my aiding and abetting of a suspected murderer. Feeling trapped and frustrated, I eventually decide to stick to the original plan and continue on toward Smith’s office, hoping it will lead to something.
It’s nearing seven o’clock at night when I finally arrive in Chicago. I find the nearest parking garage I can to Smith’s office, but it’s still nearly seven blocks away. After a moment of debate, I leave the gun stashed under the seat before taking to the streets on foot. I’m not a fan of the early darkness that comes with Wisconsin winters—after a few weeks of it I start to feel like I’m living in a postapocalyptic world—but I’m grateful for it now for two reasons. One, it makes me feel less conspicuous as I skulk along the sidewalks. And two, it makes the people inside lighted buildings very easy to see.
Smith’s building is a four-story office complex, and since his address includes a suite number of 101, I assume his office is on the first floor. This is confirmed when I see Smith—recognizable from the picture I printed—through one of the first-floor windows. He and a heavyset black woman are seated in an office facing one another, Smith talking, the woman writing on a legal pad. I head inside and discover that Smith’s firm—which consists of three other lawyers—shares the floor with a dental office, which looks dark and deserted.
The outer door to Smith’s office is closed and locked but it and the surrounding walls are made of glass and I can see that several lights are on. There is a receptionist’s desk near the entrance but it’s empty. Behind the desk are a half-dozen doors, most of which are closed. But two of them—an empty office straight ahead and the one I saw from outside—are open with the lights on.
I knock as loud as I can, first on the door, then on the window. After several attempts, the woman I saw from outside finally comes out and stares at me through the glass.
“I need to speak to Connor Smith,” I yell through the glass when it becomes obvious she isn’t going to just open the door. “It’s urgent.”
The woman turns around and heads back to the office. Thinking she is ignoring me, I pound on the glass again and she reappears a second later with Smith on her heels. This time he approaches and when he sees me, I get the distinct impression based on his expression that he is both wary and surprised by my appearance, though I can’t be sure why. Then I realize that a strange woman pounding on your locked office door late on Thanksgiving Eve is reason enough, especially when you’re in the business of defending criminals.
Smith, who I note disappointedly is nearly as tall as I am, making him as unlikely a suspect as Hurley, stares at me for a few seconds and then unlocks the door.