cop, especially more personal stuff, like whether or not Callie was dating anyone.”
His tone as he utters this last bit sounds irritated and I look over at him, studying his expression. The muscles in his cheek are twitching and his brows are drawn down into a frown.
“How long were the two of you together?” I ask. Part of me shudders at the thought of having to listen to him talk about a woman he once cared for and presumably slept with. But another twisted, masochistic part of me wants to know every gory, painful detail.
“About a year,” he says, staring straight ahead.
I wait, hoping he’ll offer more but his reticence outlasts my curiosity. “Why did you break up?”
He hesitates, taking one hand from the wheel and running it through his hair. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “She was the one who ended it, and to be honest, I never saw it coming. One day she just called up out of the blue, said the relationship wasn’t working for her anymore, and she wanted to part ways.” His hand goes back to the steering wheel and his knuckles turn white with his grip. “I tried to get her to talk to me about it but she refused. She kept saying it would be best if we cut things off quickly and fully. That way we wouldn’t stain all our good memories with the petty and hurtful detritus”—he lets go of the wheel long enough to make little finger quotes in the air—“that so often accompanies a breakup.”
The hand gesture, along with the sarcastic, singsongy tone in his voice suggests he is quoting this last line from memory, and not a happy one.
“Detritus?” I echo. “She actually said detritus?”
“Yeah,” he says with a laugh, though it sounds bitter. “She loved words—the bigger and fancier, the better.”
Clearly Callie’s cavalier dismissal of him and their relationship pissed him off, a slight I’m beginning to think he never got over. The thought of him still aching and pining for Callie triggers a little stab of pain to my heart, but masochistic Mattie can’t resist one more question and I brace myself for the answer. “Were you in love with her?”
He hesitates a few seconds and then shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe,” he admits. “But it happened a long time ago and it’s all in the past now. Besides, it hardly matters anymore, does it?”
It matters to me more than I like and I sense Hurley knows it. So I say nothing, gazing out my side window at the passing scenery instead. We ride that way for several minutes, the awkward silence a wobbly rope bridge gapping the rift between us. When Hurley speaks again it’s on a new subject.
“So our first stop today is the TV station where they film
“Except that degree of investigation is a bit outside my job description,” I say. “All that interviewing and investigative stuff falls more into your territory or, in this case, Bob Richmond’s. And he’s already spoken to them. What happens if Richmond talks to them again and they mention the fact that I’ve been there? Isn’t that going to look a bit . . . fishy?”
“It will,” he concedes, “which is why you’re going to use a fake ID and say that you’re a private investigator hired to look into Callie’s murder.”
I shoot him a look of incredulity. “You want me to lie to them?”
“Yeah.”
I continue staring at him, slack-jawed and disbelieving.
“What?” he asks.
“I can’t believe you want me to lie to a team of investigative journalists. Sniffing out the truth is what they do best.”
He dismisses my concerns with a little
“Yeah, right.” I punctuate my skepticism with a roll of my eyes.
“Trust me, Mattie. You can do this. Based on my past experience, I have every confidence that you can lie quite convincingly.”
He’s referring to the first case we ever worked together, one that involved the murder of my husband’s paramour. When I realized David and I were both at the top of the suspect list, I withheld certain information until I could sort things out on my own. When Hurley figured it out, he was rather ticked.
“I never out-and-out lied to you, Hurley. I simply didn’t tell you everything right away.”
“Sorry, but I fail to see the distinction.”
“You’re just angry that I didn’t share everything with you immediately.”
“And you’re doing it again.”
“What do you mean?”
“This thing you did, sneaking one of my hairs out of my house so you could compare it.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he grumbles.
I fold my arms over my chest and turn back to view the scenery, letting him sulk. After a long period of stony silence, Hurley says, “I’m sorry. I seem to be edgier than usual lately what with everything that’s happened.”
“Apology accepted.” I let my arms fall to my sides. “And I suppose it’s understandable, given the circumstances. I’m sure Callie’s death has hit you particularly hard.”
He nods but says nothing, and just as I’m starting to relax, thinking a detente has been reestablished, he blindsides me.
“So as long as we’re discussing exes, mind if I ask where things are with you and David?”
“They’re progressing,” I say vaguely.
“Progressing how?”
“I have a lawyer. She drew up separation papers and is prepping for the divorce filing.”
“Did David sign anything?”
“Not yet. But it doesn’t matter,” I say with more conviction than I feel. “I’m going ahead with things no matter what he does.”
Hurley nods slowly and I hope it means he’s ready to let the subject drop, but then he asks, “Is he still making overtures toward reconciliation?”
I start to squirm. David has been frustratingly reticent to move ahead with this divorce thing and I’ve been a bit ambivalent myself at times. “I don’t want to talk about David,” I say firmly, hoping to eliminate any doubt in his mind that I am done with the topic. “The way the two of you keep pressuring me makes me want to turn tail and run before one of you whips it out and pees on me to mark your territory.”
Hurley shoots me a glance and says, “Sorry. I didn’t realize I was hitting such a sensitive nerve.”
“Let’s focus on the task at hand, okay? I’m nervous about these upcoming interviews and since you’re the ace investigator, how about giving me some guidelines on what questions I should be asking?”
“There’s no need. I trust your instincts.” His compliment has me preening for a moment, but then he adjusts his sights and blows all my feathers off. “You seem to do very well when you stick your nose into things. So just do what you usually do. Be nosy and persistent.”
Chapter 16
The TV station where Callie Dunkirk worked is located in a rectangular brick building situated on the edges of a suburban neighborhood filled with small, older homes. There is a definite institutional look about the place and given that the word GYMNASIUM is stained into the brick above a door at one end, I’m guessing it was once a school. Its current use is equally as obvious, not only from the station logo emblazoned above the front entrance, but from the giant radio tower looming behind the building and the two satellite trucks in the front lot.
Hurley parks a ways down the street, shuts the engine off, and turns to face me. “Here,” he says, pulling a thin billfold and a cell phone from his jacket pocket and handing them to me. I flip open the billfold and find an
