“Fine,” he says with a resigned sigh. He finishes tossing the trash into the back and brushes a few crumbs off the front seat before gesturing for me to get in.
The inside of the car smells like a mall food court and my stomach growls hungrily. I momentarily fantasize about eating a Sbarro’s pepperoni and cheese Stromboli followed by a Cinnabon classic bun smothered with extra cream cheese frosting. I can practically taste the food and it’s all I can do not to tell Richmond we should head for the nearest mall and go crazy one last time. But I contain myself, force the images away, and focus on the task at hand.
I decide to take advantage of our recent bonding by pumping Richmond for information along the way to Patricia Nottingham’s house. But I have to be quick since Nottingham’s house is only a couple of minutes away.
“Anything new on the Callie Dunkirk case?” I ask as soon as we’re under way.
“I talked with Dunkirk’s mother and sister over the phone to deliver the bad news but they didn’t have much insight to offer. I may have some guys down in Chicago take another run at them in a day or two, after they’ve had a little more time to grieve. I also talked to some of her coworkers at the TV station to see if she was working on anything that might have been dangerous, but I got nothing there, either. Apparently our Miss Dunkirk wasn’t a very sharing person. She liked to keep things to herself.
“So at this point we got nothing. We don’t know where she was killed, we don’t know why she was up here or where her car is, and we don’t have so much as a guess as to who killed her, or why.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I hate investigations like this.”
Hearing the frustration in his voice, I can’t help but wonder how angry he would be if he knew what I was keeping from him, and how quickly he’d be on Hurley as a result. Though I typically revel in being the keeper of secrets, at the moment I’m not relishing my position at all. It makes me feel like I’m walking on glass shards, gingerly taking a step at a time, knowing that a single misstep might lead to painful, irreparable damage.
As we pull onto Patricia Nottingham’s street, it’s obvious she is not only expecting us, but anxious for our arrival because she has the front door open when Richmond parks at the curb. She watches us closely as we get out of the car, no doubt searching for clues.
I smile at her as we climb the porch stairs. “Hi, Patricia. This is Detective Bob Richmond.” She acknowledges the introduction with a nod. “Here is your key back,” I say, handing it to her. “Thank you for letting me borrow it.”
She takes it and stuffs it inside her pants pocket. “Did you do the autopsy?”
“Let’s go inside and talk,” Richmond says.
Patricia waves us through the door and points to the left toward the living room. Richmond eyes the two delicate, antique chairs in the room and wisely takes a seat on the couch. I settle into one of the chairs, and Patricia takes the other one.
“You found something, didn’t you?” she asks, leaning forward eagerly, her eyes bouncing back and forth between me and Richmond before they finally settle on me.
“We did,” I say. I glance over at Richmond, unsure how much he wants me to reveal this soon, and he gives me a subtle nod. “It appears your father may have been poisoned.”
Patricia rears back, looking confused. “Poisoned? You mean like food poisoning?”
“Not exactly, no,” I say, shooting another glance Richmond’s way. He is studying Patricia intently and when he does nothing to interrupt or stop me, I continue. “It appears he was poisoned with cyanide.”
“Cyanide? How on earth could that happen?”
“Most likely someone slipped it into his food or drink,” Richmond says.
Patricia turns and looks at him, her expression horrified and even more befuddled. If she is in any way involved with this, she’s putting on a damned good show. “Why would anyone want to poison him?” she asks.
Richmond says, “You tell me.”
Patricia narrows her eyes at him. “Are you suggesting that
She squeezes her eyes closed and tears course down her face. Richmond and I exchange looks and he shrugs.
“What sort of financial situation was your father in?” Richmond asks. I can tell Patricia is rankled by the question even though Richmond’s tone is less accusatory than before. “Did he have life insurance? A retirement plan? And who is his beneficiary?”
I wince, knowing this line of questioning is only going to incense Patricia even more. There is a spark in her eye, and I brace myself for the storm to come. But her next words are surprisingly calm and measured.
“Yes, I am my father’s sole beneficiary. As I just told you, I’m his only surviving family member. He has—had a small pension. I’m not sure how much it is, but it’s been enough for him to live on because his house is paid off. He was hardly wealthy and as far as life insurance goes, he had one policy that I know of, a small one for twenty- five thousand dollars that he said he got to cover his burial expenses.”
She pauses, gets up and grabs a tissue from a box on an end table, and blows her nose. Then she looks at Richmond and says, “I am a widow. My husband died a little over five years ago but when he was younger he developed a software company that he sold for a very tidy sum. I am quite well off, thank you, and have no need for my father’s money, or anyone else’s. Anything else you’d like to know?”
The question comes out with an underlying tone of bitterness. She and Richmond engage in a twenty second stare-off before Richmond says, “Yes, there is. Can you think of anyone who had a grudge or problem with your father? Anyone who would benefit from his death? Anyone who might want revenge for some reason?”
She thinks a moment, starts to shake her head, and then stops. “Well, there was one thing but it was kind of silly really,” she says, looking sheepish. “My father had a property dispute going on with one of his neighbors and was planning to take him to court.”
I hold my breath and utter a silent prayer that she won’t continue, but she does.
“And since this neighbor is a cop, Dad was convinced the guy would get special treatment because he’d have an in with the courts. Dad kept ranting on about how he’d never get a fair trial, how it was all part of some bigger conspiracy to stomp on the little guys, and how the city’s bourgeois government was just some secret cabal determined to screw him over.” She pauses, shrugs, and gives us an embarrassed smile. “Dad could be pretty blunt and vocal at times. I know he and this neighbor were involved in a couple of shouting matches, so who knows?”
I feel my stomach knot up. When I look over at Richmond, I’m hoping to see indifference on his face and a quick dismissal of Patricia’s idea. But instead I see keen interest.
“Do you know this neighbor’s name?” Richmond asks.
Patricia nods and with a flash of frightening clarity, I know what’s coming next. “I believe his name is Hurley,” she says. “Steve Hurley.”
Chapter 14
Though I expect Bob Richmond to discuss Patricia’s revelations during our short ride back to the station, he doesn’t get a chance. His cell phone rings and after answering the call and grunting a couple of times, he says, “Okay, be right there,” and hangs up.
He looks over at me and says, “They found Callie Dunkirk’s car.”
“Where?”
“It was left parked on a side street, ironically not far from where this Minniver guy lived. I’m heading over to check it out now and my guys have called Izzy to meet us there since the car might also be the murder site. Want to come along?”
I swallow hard, realizing that if Callie’s car is near Minniver’s house, it’s also near Hurley’s. “Sure,” I say.
A few minutes later we pull up on the scene, which is on a side street a couple of blocks down from
