you seem to be a very keen observer. I’m guessing nothing much gets by you, does it?”
“I think I’m pretty perceptive,” she says.
“So help me out. Who do you think Jake’s father is?”
She starts to say something but then her gaze shifts over my shoulder and the high-wattage smile turns on. “Mr. Ackerman,” she says, practically cooing. “Have you met, um . . .” She hesitates and looks at me. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”
“M—” I catch myself just as I’m about to blurt out my real name. I cough to give myself a moment to recover and then, as I’m turning around to greet the wise and powerful Mr. Ackerman, I say, “Ms. Taylor.”
It’s all I can manage to get out because I am dumbstruck by the sight before me. Mike Ackerman is as stunning an example of the male species as I’ve seen in a long time: tall, broad shouldered, square jawed, and gorgeous. His eyes are the color of an October sky and rimmed with thick, dark lashes; his hair is a rich chestnut brown with gold highlights. There is an adorable cleft in his chin, a deep dimple in each cheek, and a pair of sexy, biteme lips turned up into an inscrutable smile. It’s a combination I imagine could easily melt the pants off most women.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Taylor,” he says. His voice is mellifluous and sexy, but there is a hint of humor in his tone when he repeats my name, suggesting that he is amused by my formality. His attire is casual: khaki slacks and a plain, white shirt unbuttoned at the collar with the sleeves rolled up. As he extends his hand toward me for a shake, I can’t help but notice the tanned and muscular forearm it’s attached to.
“Likewise,” I manage. I take his hand and feel an electric volt of sexual energy race up my arm.
“I understand you’re investigating Callie Dunkirk’s death,” he says, releasing me.
“Yes.” I don’t offer any more, thinking it’s probably best to say as little as possible lest I start blabbering.
“Her death has been a terrible shock and loss for us all,” Ackerman says, looking appropriately saddened, though something about it strikes me as false. “Not only was she a kind and very likable person, she was a rising star in the TV news world. Her death is a senseless, horrible thing.”
“I’m sure it’s been difficult for all of you,” I say, noticing that both Sheila and Tasha are gaping at Ackerman, looking as starstruck as I feel. Clearly the man has some powerful charisma. “Any thoughts on who might have wanted her dead, or what she was doing in Wisconsin?”
Ackerman rubs his chin in thought for a moment and I notice that he’s wearing a wedding band. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but as I’ve already told the police, I have no idea.”
I sense he is about to dismiss me so I blurt out one last question, hoping to keep his attention a little longer. “Any thoughts about who the father of Callie’s son might be?”
The change in Ackerman’s expression is subtle—there and gone in a blink—but it is echoed in the nervous movements of Sheila and Tasha, who both look away suddenly, as if they can’t bear to watch. “Why would I know something like that?” Ackerman asks.
“I thought Callie might have talked about her private life.”
“Not with me,” Ackerman says. He turns and looks at the two women. Despite being unable to tear their gazes away from him a moment ago, they are now busy looking at everything but him. “Has she ever said anything to either of you?” he asks.
Sheila finally engages him and for a brief second she looks angry and bitter. But then she shifts her gaze to me, smiles, and shakes her head. “Callie kept to herself for the most part,” she says.
Tasha, who is now studying her feet with heightened intensity, says, “That’s true. She keeps—kept her professional and personal lives separate.”
Ackerman glances at his watch and says, “I’m sorry, Ms. Taylor, but that’s about all I have time for today. We have a deadline to meet and we all need to get back to work.”
Sheila takes the cue and gently nudges me toward the door with the flat of her hand on my arm. “Let me show you out.”
I want to object but sense I’m not likely to get much more information out of anyone today anyway, so I let her steer me away. As we step out into the hallway she says, “So tell me something. Are you thinking Jake’s father is someone in Washington?”
“I can’t really say,” I answer vaguely, knowing she’ll be exploring that angle the minute I’m gone.
“But you think the identity of Jake’s father might have something to do with Callie’s murder.” She isn’t asking me; she’s stating an opinion, no doubt hoping I’ll confirm it. I decide to let her draw her own conclusions.
“I’m exploring every possibility at the moment,” I tell her. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”
Judging from the storm clouds I see on Hurley’s face as I get in the car, I can tell that what he overheard isn’t sitting well with him. As soon as I close the door, he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, white- knuckling the steering wheel. I tolerate his stony silence for several blocks before caving in.
“Did you know Callie had a son?”
The muscles in his arms bulge with tension and his cheek twitches wildly. It’s several seconds before he answers me. “No,” he says through his teeth. “And I don’t want to discuss it.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, peeling off my wire.
He turns and glares at me, looking like he wants to toss me out of the car. Suddenly it’s not hard to imagine him as a killer. “Not fair?” he says. “I’ll tell you what’s not fair. Lying to someone you profess to love, that’s not fair. Keeping secrets from someone you should be able to trust, that’s not fair.” His voice rises in an angry crescendo and I pray that his ire is directed at someone other than me. “And manipulating other people’s lives is definitely not fucking fair!” he yells.
His driving is getting erratic and too fast for the suburban streets we’re on. “Maybe you should pull over and let me drive,” I suggest as gently as I can.
“Yeah, maybe I should,” he snaps irritably. With that he whips the steering wheel hard to the right and slams on the brakes as he hits the curb. Once the car is at a full stop, he jams the gearshift lever into park, leans back in his seat, and closes his eyes. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, shaking his head. “How could she do that to me?”
It’s becoming clear to me that Hurley didn’t know Callie had a child until now, and it’s equally obvious the knowledge has hurt him deeply. The pain is etched on his face, but is it the simple fact that Callie withheld the information from him, or has he made the other leap by figuring out the timing and all the possible ramifications that go with it?
“I’m sorry you’re hurting, Hurley.” He grunts but says nothing. I let him stew for another minute or two before tossing caution aside and plunging headlong into dangerous waters by asking him, “Do you think Jake could be your son?”
Chapter 18
Hurley opens his eyes and stares out the windshield. “I’m sure you did the math, the same as I did,” he says. He looks over at me. “But I can’t bring myself to believe that Callie wouldn’t have told me if she thought I was the father.”
“Maybe she had her reasons.”
“What reasons?” he shoots back, clearly irritated.
“I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t want to tie you down. Maybe she didn’t know she was pregnant until after you two split up and she had already moved on to someone else.”
He winces at that, and while it gives me pause, I know I have to push onward. One thing I’ve learned in my nursing career is that pain is sometimes a necessary part of healing.
“And maybe she didn’t say anything because it had nothing to do with you,” I suggest, offering a temporary balm. “If she broke up with you because she met someone else, maybe that someone else is the father.”
A weighted silence fills the air and just when I think I can’t stand it any longer, Hurley shifts the car into drive, looks over his shoulder to check for traffic, and pulls out onto the road.
“Change of plans,” he says. “I need to get inside Callie’s apartment.”
The look of determination on his face worries me, but his driving is reasonably sane for now so I sit quietly
