Illinois private investigator’s license in one side pocket, and an Illinois driver’s license in the other. Though the driver’s license has my picture and stats on it, both it and the PI license bear the name Rebecca Taylor. “Just in case they ask you for some ID.”
“Who is Rebecca Taylor?” I ask. “And how did you get her PI license?”
“The license is mine,” Hurley explains. “When I left the Chicago police force I needed a way to make some quick money. So I got a PI license.”
“But this license has the name Rebecca Taylor on it,” I say. “Is there some big secret about your private plumbing you haven’t told me yet?”
“No, I haven’t had a sex change,” he assures me. “Rebecca Taylor is a name I made up for you. I didn’t use my PI license very long because I got hired by the Sorenson PD pretty quickly. So I figured we could use it now to give you an in with the folks down here. I just had it altered a bit.”
I peer down at both licenses, trying to discern the changes, but the documents look pristine. “Impressive work,” I say. “How is it you know how to do something like this?”
He flashes an enigmatic smile. “I was with the Chicago PD for fifteen years and met a lot of talented lawbreakers during that time.” He shrugs. “I still have a few connections.”
“How’d you come up with the name Rebecca Taylor?”
“There is a database of licensed PIs in the state that anyone can check so I wanted to give you a name that would pass muster if someone gets curious. Turns out there is an R. Taylor registered and Taylor happens to be the last name of one of my all-time favorite Victoria’s Secret models: Niki Taylor. I chose Rebecca because it’s the first name of my other favorite Victoria’s Secret model: Rebecca Romijn.”
I’m not sure if I should be worried or flattered—worried because I’m coming to realize Hurley’s standards in women are frighteningly high, or flattered because he thought of those women while trying to come up with a name for me. I suspect it’s only the former given that one of my thighs is probably bigger around than the waist on either of the models. But we do share a couple of traits: they are tall like me and all of us are blondes, so who knows? It’s definite fodder for later analysis, not to mention a nudge for me to consider another underwear upgrade.
“What about this cell phone?” I ask him, proffering the one he handed me.
Hurley leans over and opens up the glove box—giving me a peek at the very sexy nape of his neck and a whiff of that wonderful spicy scent he always seems to have—and pulls out a small manila envelope and a charger for the phone.
“It’s a throwaway phone,” he says, opening the envelope. “I already charged it up but you can recharge it with this.” He hands me the cord and I stuff it in my purse. “The number for it is on these.” He removes a handful of business cards from the envelope and hands them to me. “Give these out to anyone you talk to so they can reach you again later, in case they think of something more. Plus, it makes you look more legit.”
As I tuck the cards, phone, and billfold into my purse, Hurley says, “Lift up your sweater for me.”
“Say what?”
“Lift up your sweater.”
“Why?”
He tips the envelope up and slides the remaining contents out into his hand. Then he shows me what he’s holding—some pulloff sticky tabs, some wires, and a small round device. “I’m going to give you a wire,” he explains.
“You want me to wear a wire? What do you think this is, a Mafia bust?”
“It’s for my ears only. I want to be able to hear exactly what everyone says and, more important, how they say it.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, slickly avoiding an answer. “It won’t be used for anything official.”
I hold my hand out. “Give it to me and I’ll put it on myself.”
“You don’t know how.”
“Well, can’t you tell me?” I shoot back, exasperated. For some reason, the thought of Hurley touching my bare skin there makes me extremely nervous.
He gives me a wicked smile. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “You haven’t developed a strong sense of modesty all of a sudden, have you? Because I’ve seen it all before, remember. You’ve been photographed half naked in the oddest places several times recently.”
This is true, but there were extenuating circumstances. What’s more, Hurley wasn’t touching me either time. “Fine,” I say, resigned. I yank my sweater up, close my eyes, and try to imagine something as disgusting and unsexy as I can. The first thing that pops to mind is an image of Lucien.
Hurley puts the peel-and-sticks on me, connects the wires, and then threads the small circular device up under my bra. His fingers graze the insides of my breasts, making me gasp as my nipples stand up and say hello. “You better take it from here,” he says pulling his hand away. “I need you to stick the mike just under the cup of your bra.”
I open my eyes and we gaze at one another for a moment, one of those long, innuendo-laden stares that says nothing and everything. He starts to close the gap between us and my heart steps up a notch in anticipation of a kiss. But when he’s only inches away, a shadow descends over his face. He pulls back and turns away to stare out his side window instead.
I realize I’m holding my breath and slowly release it, giving myself a few seconds to come back to my senses. With fumbling fingers I position the mike the way he told me and then I stare at the back of his head, wanting to ask him a million questions but afraid to ask a single one. Finally I say, “Okay, the mike is in place.”
He turns back from the window, but doesn’t look at me right away. Instead he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out what appears to be a recording device with a pair of earplugs. He turns the device on, places one of the plugs in his left ear, and says, “Say something.”
“What the hell just happened here?” I blurt out.
Hurley flinches slightly and bows his head. The muscles in his cheek twitch. Silence wraps around us like a dense fog. Finally he says, “Seems to be working fine. You’re good to go.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, clamp my jaws together, and shake my head. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.” I yank up on the door handle and just as I’m about to get out of the car, Hurley reaches over and gives my arm a little squeeze.
“You’ll be fine,” he says. “Just focus on the facts and take notes even if you don’t think you need to. Dig in as far as you can and see what you turn up. I don’t anticipate any problems, but if you need me for any reason, I’ll be right here.”
The idea of Hurley being there, waiting for me, calms me. As I get out of the car and cross the street I try to take on the persona of a private investigator, but I’ve never known a real one so I dig through my memory banks and come up with the only one I can remember: Jim Rockford.
I walk through the front door of the station with a cocky swagger and find myself in a wide lobby area. To my right is a staircase and located on either side of me just past the stairs are doors that I’m guessing open onto hallways that run the length of the building. Straight ahead is a reception desk positioned against the back wall, and the TV station logo is emblazoned across the wall above it.
There is a young woman seated behind the reception desk talking—or judging from all the eyelash batting, hair twirling, and coy looks—flirting with a young man in a security uniform. As I approach, they reluctantly tear their attention away from one another and turn it on me, both of them looking quite annoyed by the interruption.
“May I help you?” the girl asks with a weight-of-the-world sigh designed, no doubt, to let me know what a royal pain in the ass I am to her.
“Yes, my name is Rebecca Taylor and I’m an investigator for the state of Illinois,” I say, snapping one of the business cards down on the desk and trying to sound as officious as possible. The duo looks unimpressed. “I’m looking into the murder of Callie Dunkirk and I’d like to talk to some of the people she worked with.”
The mention of murder seems to earn me a bit of respect judging from the suddenly heightened expressions of interest.
“I heard about that,” the girl says, her eyes wide. “Do they have any idea yet who did it?”
The security guard, who I’m guessing is in his mid-twenties, puffs his chest out and looks all serious. “It had to have been someone she knew, Misty,” he says with a level of authority and conviction that make me peg him as
