I follow him out to the kitchen, where he unearths a bottle of pinot noir and two wineglasses. He puts the glasses on the table, which is already set with simple white dishes, and as he uncorks the wine bottle, I settle into one of the chairs and decide to try to put an end to my daylong suspense.
“So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
His eyes shift briefly to me, then back to the task at hand. There is a moment of silence as he finishes pouring and takes the seat across from me. Then he completely ignores my question by asking one of his own. “How did things go at the scene this morning after I left?”
“It went fine. So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Have you identified the victim yet?”
“Yes,” I say with an exasperated sigh. “She’s some reporter from Chicago. Now can you please tell me what it is you—”
“She’s not
I stare at him and after a few seconds I realize my mouth is hanging open, so I shut it. He holds my gaze the entire time, waiting. “You knew her,” I say finally, realizing now why he acted the way he did when he first saw the body. He nods. “How?”
“We dated for a while.”
I’m stymied, not only by the revelation that Hurley once dated the victim, but by the fact that he dated someone that gorgeous. Then I realize how stupid it is to be jealous of a dead woman. I’m starting to get an inkling of why he wanted to see me and it isn’t making me happy. I have a sinking feeling that putting on my fancy underwear was a big waste of time. “How long ago?” I ask.
He shrugs and finally tears his eyes from mine, looking up at the ceiling instead. “It’s been about a year and a half since we split up.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to take the case, because you knew her?”
“That’s one reason.”
“And the other?”
He hesitates and I can tell that whatever is coming next won’t be good. “Before I tell you, I need you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“You have to promise me that you’ll keep what I’m about to tell you to yourself for the time being.”
I consider this, figuring he’s going to reveal some juicy tidbit of potential gossip. While gossip is a hot commodity in a small town like ours, one that can often be traded back and forth like money, I’ve spent most of my adult life working in a hospital, where confidentiality and privacy are absolutes. Thanks to HIPAA—a law that makes it easier to get your hands on top-secret government documents than medical information on a patient—I’m used to knowing the juicy stuff and not being able to share it. That’s okay with me. It’s the “being in the know” part that I value the most.
“Yeah, I promise,” I tell Hurley.
He sucks in a deep breath and winces, as if bracing himself for a blow. Then he delivers one to me.
“I’m pretty sure that knife you found in her chest is mine.”
Chapter 6
I stare slack-jawed at Hurley, stunned.
“Say something,” he says, looking worried.
“You tricked me,” is all I can manage.
“How so?”
“You made me promise to keep whatever you told me to myself but you didn’t tell me it was going to be evidence in an ongoing case.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“I don’t believe you did,” I tell him, though at the moment I’m too confused to know if that’s true or not. “That’s not the point. By asking me to keep this under wraps you’re asking me to compromise my investigation,
“That I need your help.”
“At the cost of my reputation and job?” I yell at him. I’m angry, not only because of the compromising position he’s put me in, but because I know now that the matter he wanted to discuss with me has nothing at all to do with our future relationship, which at this point I fear may take place with both of us behind bars.
“You’re upset.”
“Of course I’m upset. You . . . you . . . argh!” I push back from the table, stand up, and start pacing.
“Mattie, answer me honestly. Do you think I could murder someone?”
I shoot him a glaring glance and keep pacing, but say nothing. The truth is I don’t really know him well enough to answer. My gut—and perhaps a few untrustworthy nether regions of my body—are making me lean toward no, but my mind is cautioning me to think things through.
Hurley sighs, gets up from the table, and positions himself in front of me, forcing me to stop. He grabs my shoulders and holds me tight. “Mattie, look at me.”
I do, and those piercing blue eyes of his calm me.
“Think about things a minute. Why would I tell you about any of this if I did it? Why would I take myself off the case if I did it? I mean, wouldn’t it be easier for me to run the primary investigation so I could hide any incriminating evidence that turned up?”
He has a point.
“I need you to believe in me,” he says, looking deep into my eyes. “I’m out on a very shaky limb here. I’m not sure what’s going on yet but I promise you I didn’t kill Callie. I’m going to need someone on the inside to help me, and right now you’re the only person I trust.”
I suppose I should be flattered, but at the moment I’m too confused and frightened.
“Will you help me?” he pleads.
I shrug his hands from my shoulders and return to the table. I grab my wineglass, slug back several big gulps, and drop into my chair.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask him.
“I need you to keep me posted on the results of the investigation. I’m going to be doing my own, of course, but I want to keep it under the radar.”
“Tell me about the knife.”
“It’s one my father gave me years ago, before he died. I kept it in my boat outside. I checked this morning after I came back from the site and it’s gone.”
“Are you sure the knife is yours?”
He shrugs. “I can’t be one-hundred-percent sure, but I’m at about ninety-nine. It’s a pretty unique piece with a carved ivory handle. My father bought it over in Vietnam when he was in the service there. The man he bought it from was a villager who carved it himself. Supposedly it’s the only one of its kind.”
“Can you describe it in more detail for me?”
“Sure. It’s about nine inches in length. There is a small nick in the blade just below the hasp. And the figure carved into the handle is a dragon.”
“That’s it,” I tell him. “Show me where you kept it.” Hurley nods, picks up his wineglass, and heads for a door across the kitchen. Determined to keep my wits about me, I leave my own wine on the table and follow him. We enter a two-car garage that contains no vehicles and has been done over as some kind of workshop with a large table in the middle of the room and workbenches lining the perimeter walls. Hanging above and stored below the work areas are many sizes, shapes, and colors of sheet metal, and a variety of tools. The walls are insulated though unfinished, and a heater in the ceiling blows warm air onto my shoulders.
“What is all this?” I ask.
