curiosity gets the better of me. I launch the Internet browser and click on the Wisconsin Circuit Court site. I type in Minniver’s name and only one case pops up. When I click on the link and see the name of the defendant, my heart sinks. It’s Steven Hurley.
Chapter 9
I spend the night tossing and turning, unable to sleep as I ponder the significance of Harold Minniver’s death and the lawsuit he had against Hurley. Is it merely coincidence that two people who were close to Hurley are now dead? I debate how much information to share with Hurley and what to tell Izzy and Bob Richmond. I want to give Hurley a chance, but what if I’m protecting a dirty cop, a clever killer disguised as a gorgeous, tightassed hunk of man-meat?
The next morning I take Hoover outside to do his thing before taking my shower. As I watch him make yellow snow I’m reminded of Bob Richmond and wonder how diligent the man is going to be in his investigation. I’ve gotten kind of used to Hurley’s way of doing things and despite the fact that I sometimes overstep my bounds when it comes to investigating things, Hurley has been not only tolerant but supportive. I suspect Richmond isn’t going to be quite as accommodating, which will make doing my own investigation for Hurley much more difficult.
Hoover and I head back inside, and after stripping off my flannel jammies, I’m standing naked waiting for the shower water to heat up when my cell phone rings. Thinking it’s Izzy with a death call, I groan. But when I look at the caller ID I see it’s Hurley. The idea of talking to Hurley while I’m stark raving naked makes me start to sweat despite the frigid temps outside.
I grab the phone, flip it open, and utter a cheery “Good morning!”
“Hardly,” Hurley snaps. “Did you know about Minniver?”
This isn’t the greeting I was expecting and I’m struck dumb for a moment. That’s enough for Hurley to figure things out.
“You did, didn’t you?”
“He was the case I was called out on last night when I was at your house,” I admit. “I didn’t know he was your neighbor until after I got to the hospital.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about him? Why is there crime scene tape at his house? And why am I finding all this out from my neighbors instead of you?”
“Whoa, slow down, would you?”
“I can’t slow down, Mattie. People around me are turning up dead with frightening frequency lately and it’s making me a tad anxious.”
“Understandable,” I say slowly.
Hurley lets forth with a weighty sigh. “You’re not starting to have doubts about me, are you? Because I’m counting on you, and if you’re withholding information from me, I’m thinking we’ve got a problem.”
“Minniver was more than just your neighbor, wasn’t he?”
He doesn’t answer right away and while I’m waiting, I reach over and turn off the shower.
“We had some disagreements recently,” Hurley says finally. “He didn’t like where I put my fence, claiming it encroached on his property. He has . . . had some old survey map from twenty years ago that shows a different property line than what my survey shows. So he’s suing me.”
“Not anymore,” I toss out.
Hurley groans. “What did he die of?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “My first thought was that he had a heart attack but after reviewing his medical record I think that’s unlikely. Right now I have no idea what killed him. We’re going to post him this morning.”
“Do you suspect something other than natural causes?”
“Not necessarily. While it’s unlikely that his heart was the cause, he could have had a stroke, or thrown a blood clot, or blown an aneurysm. There are a ton of natural causes in a man his age that are plausible. Hopefully we’ll be able to narrow it down once we’ve done the autopsy.”
“I want to be there when you do it.”
My heart skips a beat. There is nothing I like more than having Hurley around, even when it occurs over a dead body. But . . .
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say. “Clearly you’ve got some connections to this man other than the typical neighborly one. Given the other . . . situation, I think it might be wiser if you distanced yourself from the investigation.”
“But that just makes me look guilty.”
“Are you?”
This time the silence stretches out for what seems like a full minute or more, long enough that I start to wonder if he’s disconnected the call. I’m about to call his name to see if he’s still on the line when he says, “What do you think, Mattie? Do you think I went off the deep end and killed both my ex-girlfriend and my neighbor?”
The term “ex-girlfriend” rankles me, particularly when I realize I’m still naked. It just feels wrong to be nude and discussing an ex-lover with someone I have a current interest in. Plus, I’m reminded of how lovely and tiny and petite she was, and as I survey my own body in the mirror, I’m reminded of my many faults, not the least of which are the bingo wings I can see developing on my upper arms. Fortunately I’m spared visualizing anything below the waist since the mirror is mounted too high.
“I don’t think you killed anyone, Hurley, but I want to hear you tell me,” I say finally. “I need to hear it, from your lips to my ears.”
“I didn’t kill them, Mattie. I swear it. But I’m starting to get a very bad feeling about all of this.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Hurley admits, and while I’m tempted to breathe a sigh of relief, his quick capitulation leaves me suspicious. It doesn’t help that he hangs up before I can utter another word. I stare at my phone a minute, wondering what to do.
Once I’m showered, dressed, and blown dry, I gather up the hair I collected from Hurley’s bathroom, hop into my hearse, and head out. When I arrive at the office, I find it empty of any living souls, though there are now two dead ones in our morgue fridge. I check the fax machine and find a reply from a hospital in Chicago verifying that the numbers on the breast implants we sent them were surgically implanted in a patient named Callie Dunkirk, confirming our presumptive identity.
As I’m walking the fax report to Izzy’s desk, I hear the door to the garage area open. A minute later Arnie, our lab tech and resident conspiracy theorist, appears. Despite his casual dress, John Lennon glasses, and ponytailed hair, all of which make him look more like a Woodstock survivor than a scientist, he’s a whip-smart and very talented evidence tech.
“You’re here early,” he says when he sees me.
“I had my first solo last night and thought I’d come in to prep the body.”
“Wow,” he says, looking suitably impressed. “Izzy let you out on your own already?” The way he says it you’d think I was a serial murderer who’d just been paroled.
“He did,” I say, “though it appeared at first blush to be a pretty basic case. It was a PNB the EMTs brought into the hospital. The guy had a cardiac history so it was assumed that was the cause of death.”
“And you found something to make you think otherwise?” Arnie looks intrigued. He loves unraveling mysteries and he’s suspicious by nature. Both qualities, combined with his faith in science, make him excellent at his job.
“I did, though it might have been some other natural cause.” Arnie looks crestfallen. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
“How much prep did you do last night?”
“Just the weight and the basic intake paperwork. I didn’t do the vitreous samples . . . I hate those.” Obtaining vitreous samples requires sticking a needle into the dead person’s eye and withdrawing a sample of fluid.
