Frozen Stiff

“We’re flying to Chicago?” I say, thinking maybe Hurley killed those people after all because clearly he’s lost his mind.

“No, but we’re not driving down there in that hearse of yours either. I’ll meet you at the airport. You can park the hearse there and we’ll go the rest of the way in my car.”

“Look, I know you don’t want to be seen in the hearse and that’s fine, but why don’t we just drive your car from here?”

“Because I don’t want us to be seen together.” I’m about to take offense at that when he adds, “At least not yet. Until I can figure out what’s going on I don’t want to compromise you any more than I already have.”

I can think of any number of ways I’d like Hurley to compromise me, but I refrain from saying so.

“So here’s what we’re going to do,” he says, and then I listen as he outlines a series of steps that make me feel like the starring role in a spy movie. It all seems rather exciting and Mata Hari-ish until he finishes with a warning.

“Watch your back, Mattie. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but there are just too many coincidences happening here. And until I know exactly what’s going on and who’s behind it all, anyone involved with me or the investigation might be in danger.”

I disconnect the call and head for Izzy’s office again. This time he’s there, bent over his desk reading reports, a stack of papers and charts on either side of him.

I knock lightly on the doorframe. “Can I ask a favor?”

“Shoot,” he says without looking up.

“Any chance I can be off call tomorrow? I’d like to make a trip down to Chicago to do some early Christmas shopping.”

He looks up at me, clearly amused, probably because he knows I love shopping about as much as I would love having someone rip out my toenails. “Sure, go for it. I think a little retail therapy will do you some good.”

Shopping might be therapeutic for some women, but it only aggravates me most of the time. I grocery shop out of necessity, but I try to get in and out as quickly as possible. Even that becomes frustrating at times because the local grocer likes to rearrange the store just when I’ve memorized where everything is. And don’t even get me started on the nightmare that is clothes shopping. Until someone opens up a Sasquatch boutique for women like me with long legs, baboon arms, and ample bosoms, who wear shoes big enough to house not only the Old Woman and all her kids but five other families, clothes shopping will always be a task I loathe.

Since Izzy knows all this, I have to wonder why he’s smiling. Is he simply amused by the idea of me shopping? Or does he suspect that I’m lying to him for some reason? I again consider telling him about Hurley, but something holds me back. One more day, I promise myself. Just enough time to gather a few more tidbits of information.

Chapter 13

I find Bob Richmond in the break room of the police station finishing off the remains of a sub sandwich. Apparently he’s changed his shirt because the stained white one has been replaced with a light blue one that looks a bit worn but is at least clean.

“You need to give me your cell number,” I tell him. He does so, rattling the number off between bites. After I enter it into my cell phone, I say, “You ready to go?”

He nods, shoves the last of his sandwich in his mouth, and groans as he pushes himself away from the table and out of his chair. He moves like a man in his eighties.

“You know, if you keep eating like that you’re going to keel over of a heart attack before you hit fifty,” I tell him.

He swallows what he has in his mouth and shoots me a dirty look. I brace myself for what’s coming, cursing my inability to turn off the nurse in me, but to my surprise, Richmond’s expression softens.

“For your information, I’m fifty-three,” he says. Then he shakes his head woefully. “Look, I know my weight is unhealthy and I know the only way to control it is by not eating, but damned if I can help myself. No matter how much I eat, I never feel full. I’ve been fat my entire life and I’m too old to change now.”

“You’re never too old to change,” I say, feeling a sudden and unexpected empathy for him. I know exactly how he feels. “You just need someone to help you come up with a rigidly controlled diet and a regular exercise program.” I say this with great authority, knowing I don’t practice what I preach. As far as I’m concerned, the basic four food groups are ice cream, chocolate, fried foods, and sweets. And when it comes to any type of regular exercise program, forget it. I get all ambitious when I gain a pound or twenty and start dieting and exercising with total devotion. But it never lasts. As soon as I shed the weight, or at least most of it—I seem to regain a few pounds every year and my weight has been slowly but steadily creeping upward—I go right back to my slothful, fattening habits. And the older I get, the harder it is to shed those extra pounds. I used to be able to do it with a couple of weeks of serious dieting and exercise. Now it takes a couple of months of near starvation and exercise, and frankly, I often don’t have the stick-to-itiveness to get through it.

Bob says, “I joined that exercise place over on Houghton Street last month but I only went once. Everyone in there is all fit and skinny and shit. I hate it.”

“You just need a buddy to go with you, someone else who isn’t perfect, so you don’t feel alone.”

He considers this, eyes me up and down, and says, “Would you go with me?”

“Me?” I squeak, both appalled and a bit offended at the idea that I’m the first person he would think of for an imperfect partner.

“I’d pay for your membership.”

“Thanks, Bob, but I don’t think so.”

“See, you’re embarrassed to be seen with me. Admit it.”

“No, that’s not it at all,” I say, wondering if it’s true. “I’m just not very good at keeping a regular schedule.”

Richmond shrugs. “I’m basically retired so I’m pretty flexible. We can fit the workouts into your schedule.”

I open my mouth to protest but hesitate because I’m not sure what other excuses I have. Plus, I don’t want to alienate Richmond too much right now because I need him to share his findings with me.

Richmond gives me a look of disgust. “So all that crap you just handed me about being healthy and eating healthy . . . that was just talk?” He shakes his head, looking disappointed. “I had you pegged as a stand-up person, someone with integrity. Clearly I was wrong. You’re as judgmental as the rest of them.”

“I’m not judging you; I’m just giving you my opinion as a nurse.”

“Bull. You’re just like everyone else. Admit it. The only reason you won’t go with me is because you’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”

“I am not.”

He gives me a disbelieving look. “Okay, you just keep telling yourself that.”

“Fine,” I snap. “I’ll go with you to the stupid gym for a while. But you’re paying for my membership.”

“I already told you I would.” He smiles and I think I see a hint of smugness there. I suspect I’ve just been played and played well, and I mentally kick myself. “We can talk about it some more later on,” he adds. “Let’s get this other nasty business out of the way first.”

He heads for the parking lot and I follow, listening to him whistle. Smug bastard. When we get to his car, I go around to the passenger side and open the door. That’s when I remember that Richmond has the contents of a small garbage Dumpster on the floor of his front seat.

“Oh, sorry about that,” he says. “Hold on a sec and I’ll clean it out.” He comes around and starts grabbing handfuls of empty fast-food containers, but with no trash bags or garbage cans anywhere close by, he has nowhere to put them. So he tosses them into the backseat.

“If we’re seriously going to do this gym thing, that shit’s going to stop right now,” I say, nodding toward the empty containers. “No more of that greasy fast-food stuff.”

For a second Richmond gives me a woeful expression, as if he just lost a very close friend.

“I mean it, Bob. If you’re going to keep eating like that, there’s no point to all of this.”