Lucky Stiff (10 page)

Hurley cocks his head and smiles at me.

“What?” I say, glancing down to see if my blouse is gaping open.

“You’ve really taken to your new job, haven’t you?”

I shrug. “It suits me. Plus I think it makes good use of my skills.”

“And what skills are those?” There’s a hint of a wicked gleam in Hurley’s eye that leaves me unsure if he’s mocking me or flirting with me—though it occurs to me that it might simply be the lingering effects of the pepper spray. My face flushes hot; and in an attempt to hide my fluster, I walk over to one of the wall cabinets, where I know there’s a bottle of Mylanta stashed amidst the coffee mugs. It’s been rumored that the station house coffee has been known to eat through metal; and if you drink it, you’ll likely need to use Mylanta as creamer. I have another use in mind, however.

“Here,” I say, handing the bottle to Hurley. “Dab some of this on your eyes. It will neutralize any remaining pepper spray.”

He takes the bottle, rips a sheet off the paper towel roll by the sink, and proceeds to moisten a corner of the towel with the Mylanta. Then he starts dabbing it around his eyes.

“I’m still waiting for an answer about those skills of yours,” he says.

“Well, my knowledge of anatomy and physiology, for one,” I say, eyeballing his mighty-fine anatomy and wishing I could enhance my existing knowledge along his lines. Before I get too distracted, I add, “I’m also good at solving puzzles—something this job seems to have plenty of. And I think I’m good at reading people.”

“Do you, now?”

“I do,” I say, bristling at his tone. “In fact, I think I’m better at it than you are.”

Hurley scoffs. “What gives you that crazy idea?”

“The fact that I’ve been right more often than you have when it comes to suspects.”

“You hit a lucky streak is all,” Hurley says dismissively.

“I don’t think so. I’ve been a nurse long enough that I’ve developed a kind of sixth sense when it comes to reading people. I can almost always tell when someone is bullshitting me. And I have a skill for interpreting the subtleties in a person’s tone of voice, mannerisms, body language, and words. For instance, I’m pretty certain little Miss Candy Kane”—I say her name in an ultrafeminine, lilting voice—“wants to jump your bones.”

Hurley’s eyes narrow at me. “You sound as if that bothers you.”

“Nope, not at all,” I lie.

“Good,” Hurley taunts, “because I was thinking of calling her tonight and asking her out.”

“Have at it,” I say, shrugging. “Of course, you realize I’d be compelled to report your ‘relationship’”—I couch this last word with little finger quotes—“to the higher-ups, since Miss Kane
is
involved in our investigation. Seems to me dating her might be construed as a conflict of interest, don’t you think?”

I give Hurley a smug smile while he stares at me in silence for what feels like a gazillion beats of my heart. It’s all I can do not to laugh since the dried circles of Mylanta around his bloodshot eyes make him look like something out of central casting for a brain-eating zombie movie.

“Besides,” I continue, “I thought you were coming to dinner with me tonight to meet with Joe Whitehorse.”

I see a tiny twitch of a smile tweak the corners of Hurley’s mouth. “It would seem we are both in a holding pattern for the moment,” he says.

“So it would seem.”

“Okay, then, change of subject. What’s your take on young Mr. Denver?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m leaning toward innocent. He’s stick thin and starving hungry, still in the area, and living in an abandoned house that has no heat. If he had his uncle’s money, he’d be holed up in a luxury hotel in Chicago, kicking back and ordering room service.”

“Maybe,” Hurley says, looking thoughtful. “Or maybe he’s just putting on an act to make us think he’s broke and starving. I’m banking on the killer being smart enough to know that he or she will have to lie low for a while in order to divert suspicion.”

“Or maybe the killer is someone we haven’t even identified as a suspect yet, and he or she is already on the way to Argentina.”

“Argentina?” Hurley says, looking amused.

“Yeah, isn’t that one of the countries criminals typically flee to, to avoid extradition?”

“Not if they’re smart. All of the countries in South America have extradition treaties with the United States.”

“Really?” I say, genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know that. So where would I have to go if I wanted to escape punishment for a crime?”

“Why do you want to know? What crime are you planning on committing?”

Before I can answer, Lucien’s booming voice interrupts as he exits the conference room, and what he says makes the crime of murder jump to mind.

“Hey, you two weren’t trying to sneak in a little ride on the ‘baloney pony’ while I was in there, were ya?”

I shoot eye darts at Lucien, and Hurley, who is apparently reading my mind, says, “I’d go with Vietnam, or maybe Samoa.”

Lucien looks from me to Hurley and back at me again. “Are you two planning a trip?”

“We might be, if you don’t knock off the innuendo,” I say.

Lucien tosses his briefcase onto the table again, and then he grabs the back of one of the chairs and leans forward, wincing.

“Lucien, are you okay?” I ask.

He shifts his stance and winces again. “Not really,” he says. “My hemorrhoids are super inflamed today.”

Hurley groans and rolls his eyes, while I look to the heavens and pray for a quick reprieve.

“They’ve flared up before, but never this bad,” Lucien prattles on, oblivious to his audience’s reaction. He shifts his feet and winces again. “They’re killing me. And just why is it that they call them ‘hemorrhoids’?” he asks. “Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to call them ‘asteroids’?”

“Lucien, please,” I moan.

“Hey, I know you don’t practice as one anymore, but you’re technically still a nurse, right?” he says. Then he starts to undo his belt buckle. “I don’t suppose you could take a look for me.”

“I’d rather skin myself alive with a dull razor,” I say.

A heartbeat later, Hurley adds, “If you drop your drawers in here, Lucien, I swear I’ll shoot you.”

Lucien pauses with his buckle and stares at the two of us with a half grin, thinking we are joking. Apparently, he realizes we aren’t, because he shrugs, does his belt back up, and quickly changes the subject. “So the kid says he had nothing to do with his uncle’s death. When exactly did the dastardly deed occur, if I may ask?”

“Sometime yesterday morning,” Hurley says. “The fire call came in just before eleven, so we’re guessing it was shortly before that.”

“Well, my client says he has an alibi.”

Hurley snorts a laugh. “What, his drugged-up buddies out at the abandoned house? I don’t think we’ll be taking their word for anything.”

“No, it’s a bit better than that,” Lucien says. “He says he was at the North Woods Casino from ten o’clock on Christmas Eve until four o’clock yesterday afternoon. I’m sure the casino cameras will verify that.”

Hurley scowls at this news.

“Are you going to press charges for the other stuff?”

“I don’t know yet,” Hurley says. “But I’m not going to spring him on his word alone. I don’t trust him to hang around.”

Lucien shrugs. “He’s agreeable to being jailed while you check out his alibi. Apparently, after a bit of a winning streak, the kid hit a major losing trend and lost everything he had. He says he’s broke and has nowhere to stay. He was sleeping in his car prior to finding the house, so three squares and a bed is looking pretty good to him right about now.”

“Fair enough,” Hurley says.

“Let me know if anything new comes up,” Lucien says, putting on his coat. With that, he leaves, and Hurley lets out an irritated sigh.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “I figured you’d be happy now that Lucien’s gone.”

“I am happy about that,” Hurley says. “But I wish we’d known about this alibi earlier. We could have viewed the tapes at the casino when we were there last night and saved a lot of time.”

“What difference does it make? We’re going back there tonight anyway,” I remind him. “Dinner with Joe, remember?”

Hurley frowns in a way that makes it clear he does.

“And I plan to wear my lucky undies.”

“I don’t think we’ll have time for any gambling,” Hurley says, still frowning.

I smile sweetly at him and wink. “What makes you think my lucky undies are for gambling?”

Chapter 8

Next on our agenda is a visit to Serena Vasquez’s house, so Hurley hands off the jail duties for Brian Denver to Junior and we head to Hurley’s car. Our journey is a short one, since Serena Vasquez lives in a small ranch-style home only a few blocks from downtown.

Though the house may have been cute at one time, it now appears worn and in desperate need of repair. There are several spots on the roof where shingles are missing, the double-paned windows are clouded from broken seals, and the paint on the clapboards is faded and peeling.

When Serena meets us at the door and invites us in, I can’t help but think that she looks a bit like the house. Her auburn-colored hair has nearly an inch of dark roots showing, and the material in her shirt and blouse is worn and thin. However, her makeup is perfectly applied, her nails appear to have been recently manicured, and her hair is neatly styled, despite its color issues.

The inside of the house is cozy and welcoming. The hardwood floors gleam, and most of the rooms have been freshly painted in tasteful, neutral colors. Though none of the furnishings are part of any matched sets, they appear to be in good shape and well cared for. The entire place is spic-and-span clean. I suppose this shouldn’t be surprising, given that Serena cleans houses for a living. The contrast between the inside and the outside makes me suspect Serena is renting the place.

Three kids are huddled around the TV in the living room, off to our left: two boys and a girl. The boys are identical twins, who appear to be about six years old and have the same dark hair, Hispanic complexion, and big brown eyes their mother has. The girl looks to be a year or so younger. She has blond hair, blue eyes, and a pale complexion, which all make me suspect she is either adopted, or someone else’s kid.

In one corner of the living room is a Christmas tree, a live one, decorated with strung popcorn, strings of beads, and some baked clay and papier-mâché ornaments, which were clearly made by kids.

Serena leads us past the living room and into the kitchen, where the air smells good enough to eat. I detect the scents of butter and cinnamon seconds before my eagle eye spots a pan of what looks like snickerdoodle cookies cooling atop the stove. I can also smell fresh-brewed coffee. It’s all I can do not to drool as Serena directs us to sit at the table. My stomach rumbles hungrily, and at an embarrassing volume, as I settle into my chair. Then Serena Vasquez moves to the top of my “I don’t care if she did kill someone” list when she offers us samples of her wares.

“It is an awful thing that happened to Mr. Allen,” she says as she sets a plate of warm cookies in the center of the table. “I saw it on the news last night.” She shakes her head sadly. “He is a very nice man, and burning like that is an awful way to die, especially on Christmas.”

I wince at this idiotic observation, as if burning to death could somehow be made worse simply because it happened on Christmas. I also make a mental note of Serena’s use of the present tense when discussing Jack, and the fact that she seems to think Jack died as a result of the fire, though I realize the latter could simply be a clever bit of misdirection.

“Do you know what caused the fire?” Serena asks. “Was it his tree?”

Hurley shakes his head. “We aren’t sure yet. When was the last time you saw Mr. Allen?”

“It was Christmas Eve day.” She pauses a moment to think. “That was Monday, around noon. I clean for him every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

“How long have you known Mr. Allen?” I ask.

“I’ve been working for him for five years now. He is my steadiest customer.”

“How did he pay you?” Hurley asks.

Serena’s facial muscles flinch almost imperceptibly. She turns away, busying herself with fetching coffee mugs from a cabinet. By the time she turns back to us, she appears calm and composed, but that flinch has me watching her more closely.

“He writes me a check once a week,” Serena tells us. “All of my clients do. And I am very careful to pay taxes on every cent of it.”

I get a strong sense that Serena is lying, but I don’t think Hurley cares that she might be sneaking a little money by the IRS, so I shrug it off. I grab a cookie from the plate and hold it in my mouth as Serena passes me a cup of hot, steaming coffee.

Hurley declines Serena’s offer of a cookie, but he accepts a cup of coffee. “Did you know Mr. Allen very well on a personal level?” he asks.

Serena shrugs. “We chatted often, and sometimes I would sit with him for a while and share a snack, watch TV, stuff like that.”

“I take it you knew about his big win at the casino, then,” Hurley says as I grab another cookie from the plate. They are exquisite, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth treats.

“Oh, yes,” Serena says. “I knew. Pretty much everyone who knew him knew.”

Hurley sighs, knowing that this makes our list of suspects frustratingly long. “Were you aware of any stash of cash Mr. Allen had in his house?”

Serena looks off to the side and hesitates a second before answering. “I know he kept some cash in the house, but I don’t think it was any more than anyone else would keep around. He wrote checks for most things. He paid me with a check every week. He paid his bills with checks. He paid off his mortgage with a check. . . .” Her voice trails off and she shrugs.

“Did he pay for anything with cash that you know of?”

“He gives cash to Catherine from time to time so she can shop for groceries and such,” she says. “That’s all I ever saw when I was with him, but I don’t know what he did the rest of the time. I suppose he might have given money to some of the folks who came begging.”

“‘Begging’?” Hurley and I both say at the same time.

Serena nods. “There haven’t been as many lately, but he won some money in a lawsuit. And then shortly after that, he hit it big at the casino. Suddenly everyone was knocking on the door, or calling on the phone, or sending e-mails, dishing out a sob story of some kind and asking for cash.”