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Authors: Elisabeth Hyde

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BOOK: The Abortionist's Daughter
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“Well, get this,” said Ernie. “You know how Diana was a twenty-four-seven kind of gal? Guess how? Pharmaceuticals,” he said proudly.

“Who’d you hear this from?”

Ernie indicated a young man wearing a black leather jacket with the collar turned up.

“How does he know?”

“He’s friends with the daughter. Name is Branson.”

“So what, you’re thinking this could have been drug-related?”

“Money owed, a deal gone sour, could be lots of things.”

The coffee was vile. Huck flung the remainder into a snowbank. It always amazed him that here were these expensive houses in expensive neighborhoods, and the stuff going on was the same as in South Central L.A. Glancing at the house, he wondered what the asking price might be. Against the snowy hills, its taupe exterior looked dead and undistinguished; the shrubbery that presumably burst into color during warmer months now merely smudged the architectural lines. He pictured the Thompson family over the years raking leaves, planting bulbs, stringing Christmas lights. He pictured one of those wooden swingsets, kids flying in the air.
The tire swing in his grandmother’s yard, the vast blue lake beyond, whitecaps, a red canoe on the horizon. Too far! his grandmother shouted. Come back to shore!

Huck dug his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. He thought about how life goes on in a normal fashion and then in the blink of an eye something happens. A girl walks down the wrong street at night. A car skids. A whitecap flips the red canoe. A woman goes for a swim.

“Hey,” said Ernie. “Did you hear anything I said?”

“Sorry,” said Huck.

“I said go home. Catch some sleep. I’ll set up a time to talk to the reverend. And see what I can get out of Frank.”

“I guarantee you he’s hired an attorney,” Huck said.

“So I’ll talk to his attorney.”

By now Huck’s throat felt as though someone had sprayed it with Tabasco sauce. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, and all he’d had to eat were those eggs and a few muffin crumbs, and he needed a shower and a shave and some time to himself to make some kind of sense out of this. Plus he’d forgotten to deposit his paycheck yesterday, plus he kept having some vague recollection of a doctor’s appointment that had been on the calendar for months. Ernie was right. He was entitled to a break.

But before he could leave, one of the reporters stuck a microphone in his face.

“Do you know the cause of death yet, detective?”

“We’re waiting for the final autopsy report,” said Huck.

“Is it true that Dr. Duprey had a drug problem?”

“No comment,” said Huck.

“Is it true that Reverend O’Connell was seen at the clinic yesterday?”

“No comment.”

“Would you characterize the reverend as a suspect?”

“No comment,” said Huck. “Excuse me now.”

“One last question,” the reporter said. “Have you seen the photos?”

If Huck had learned anything from seven years on the force, it was how to bluff. “Look, guys,” he said, “when we have some news, we’ll let you know.”

“Was she paid?”

“Was who paid?”

“Megan. For the photos.”

Huck felt the blood rise in his neck. As a cop, he felt there were worse things than having a reporter know more than you, but right now he couldn’t think of any.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he said.

CHAPTER FIVE

——————

WHEN HUCK GOT HOME,
he found a slew of messages on his answering machine, all from Carolyn. Immediately he called her back. She answered from her mother’s hospital room. She said that her mother was sitting up, alert, talking—Huck instantly sensed the relief in her voice.

“When are you coming back?” he asked.

“I’m going to stay a while,” she told him. “My dad’s got to go back to Philly. I’m just going to stay a few days. She’s going home tomorrow. I’ll get some groceries and help her get settled.” Carolyn’s parents had been divorced for over twenty years, but neither had remarried, and like blood relatives they still depended on each other in emergencies.

“What about your sister?”

“She’s so busy with the girls. I don’t mind. I’ll take some of my leave time. How are the cats?”

Huck had forgotten all about the cats.
Cats!!!!
he scrawled on a piece of junk mail. “Fine.”

“So what’s going on?” she asked. “This is big, isn’t it. Any leads?”

“Not really. The press is going apeshit.”

“Do you think it was political?”

“Could be. Could be a lot of things, though. I can’t really talk about it.”

“God,” she said. “I liked Diana.”

Something in her voice made Huck wonder if Carolyn had ever been a patient of Diana’s. She had never mentioned it. There were a lot of things they still didn’t know about each other, he thought.

“Well, I guess you either loved her or hated her,” he said.

“What will happen to her clinic?”

“I’m just a cop,” he reminded her.

“Well, be a cop,” she said. “Be a good cop. I have to go. My mother’s lunch is here. They still serve Jell-O in hospitals,” she said. “Did you know that?”

“Call me tonight,” said Huck.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too,” he said.

He hung up and called a florist and ordered a hundred dollars’ worth of flowers to be sent to Carolyn’s mother in Minnesota. That’s what you did when someone was sick. Then he called back and ordered another hundred dollars’ worth of flowers to be sent to Caro-lyn, at her mother’s home. What did he want to say on the message card? the florist asked. Just, I miss you, said Huck. That’s so sweet, said the woman.

Huck and Carolyn had met at Ernie’s Super Bowl party the year before. Huck wasn’t much into football, but Ernie used the annual event as an occasion to invite a lot of people over and drink beer and eat Kentucky Fried Chicken. Carolyn, it turned out, liked football a lot, and Huck watched with interest as this woman with short spiky blond hair booed and cheered, beer bottle in hand, shrieking at the ref over any unfavorable call. Within a month they were seeing each other regularly, alternating nights between their two houses. She thought his little house was frighteningly bare, and found occasions to bring in plants and ruffly placemats and baskets of potpourri, which mystified Huck, why people spent good money on dead flowers. Still, he appreciated her gifts, and spread them about the house.

When they made love, she did this thing with her knees, a trembling squeeze, a quiver he could feel in his loins for the rest of the day.

—————

After ordering the flowers, Huck stripped down, showered, dried off, pulled on a pair of sweats, and went out to the kitchen to see what he might find in his refrigerator. His kitchen was small and dark, with scallopy veneer cabinets and avocado-green appliances. A chipped Formica table butted up against the wall; there was only one chair, its match having collapsed from Ernie’s weight one evening back before Ernie started Atkins. Carolyn had given him two quilted placemats with flowery napkins to match, and these he kept on the table all the time, even if they weren’t exactly his style. He was meaning to get the other chair fixed soon, so they could dine together.

Now he poked through the refrigerator in search of something to eat. Not much. On one of the lower shelves he found half a meatball sub. He ate it, regretted it, washed the taste out of his mouth with a beer. On the table was a scrap of paper on which he’d scribbled the address of the Web site, which he’d gotten from Ernie. He threw it in the trash. He clipped his nails, stacked the newspapers, opened another beer, turned on the television, turned it off, flossed his teeth, dug at the specks on the mirror. He went on a long search for a pair of slippers he’d been missing for over a year. He took out the trash. He lay down on his bed. He called Carolyn, but she didn’t answer. He lay back down again.

Finally at eleven-fifteen he stormed back outside to the trash bin, where he hauled up the damn bag, unknotted it, dug through the gunk to find the damn scrap of paper with the Web address, took it back inside, and sat down at his computer.

With three clicks he brought up the picture.

For something taken at night, it was awfully clear.

Quickly he shut down all emotions. He was a cop, after all; this was a case he was investigating, and if he couldn’t maintain a sense of professionalism, then what good was he? He glanced at the other two shots—yes, her hair was definitely wet—then closed out the window. He’d just commended himself for keeping his cool, however, when he flashed on Megan sitting in the Volkswagen last night, and crap if he couldn’t see her profile as clearly as if she were sitting here beside him, with the slight bump on her nose and the chiseled upper lip and the stray curl that corkscrewed over her forehead.

Huck Berlin felt a light sweat break out on the back of his neck. Suddenly the girl’s presence was everywhere—sitting at his table, lying on his sofa, curled up on his bed fast asleep. It upset him enough that he grabbed his jacket and fled the house to a nearby all-night deli, because although he didn’t believe in ghosts, he certainly did believe that some people had the power to dig themselves into the very deepest part of your brain and stay there until you paid them the attention they demanded.

—————

Early the next morning he found a fresh memo in his mailbox from the chief of police.

It has come to my attention that the Duprey investigation may require staff members to log on to certain websites that could portray certain family members in compromising positions. Such websites may or may not be relevant to the case, but we are not in a position to rule anything out at this point. Thus we must all accept the need to investigate these sites as they might pertain to motive, etc.

I have no doubt that everyone will remain professional about this matter.
Jokes will not be tolerated.
Pleased be advised that an inordinate number of hits on said websites will be viewed as presumptively inappropriate and dealt with accordingly.

Ernie wasn’t in the office yet, so instead of going to his office, Huck went down to the lounge, where someone had brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Two officers coming off the night shift were sitting at a table. One was a woman named Gretchen who’d been on the force eight years. The other was a man named Brad, still young enough to have acne. In the middle of the table was a plastic tray of Christmas cookies, seventy-five percent eaten except for the powdered nut balls.

Huck sat down.

“Busy night?” he asked.

“Ask Gretchen here,” said Brad.

“You do look kind of wasted, now that I think of it,” Huck said to her.

Gretchen leaned back, closed her eyes, and folded her hands behind her head. Twin pockets of sweat darkened her underarms, like Muppet mouths.

“Kid puked in my car,” she said grimly.

“Not just a few cookies, either,” Brad added. “We’re talking eruptions. We’re talking Vesuvius. We’re talking
whales.

“Joke all you want,” said Gretchen. “You’re hosing it, bud. Better get on it.”

“The kid was lucid,” Brad said defensively. “Blew point eleven. Who knew he had a virus?”

Huck popped a nut ball into his mouth. Big mistake. He went over and spat it into the wastebasket.

“So I heard about the Web sites,” said Gretchen when he got back. “This is going to be a fun little case.”

Huck supposed that she hadn’t seen the chief’s memo yet.

“So what’s the theory?” Gretchen continued. “Frank saw some Internet pictures and flipped?”

“Don’t know,” said Huck. “Could be anything.”

“How old is the girl?”

Brad said, “Nineteen.”

“How do you know?” Gretchen demanded.

“I check things out,” said Brad. “I’m a cop on the ball. God, I hope I never have a daughter.”

“I hope you don’t too, but not for your sake,” said Gretchen. “So what else are you finding?” she asked Huck.

“Right now, not a whole lot.”

“Think it was Frank?”

Huck shrugged.

“How ironic,” said Gretchen. “Guy wouldn’t go forward with Templeton and this is how it comes back to haunt him.”

“Karma,” said Brad, nodding.

Gretchen rolled her eyes. She’d grown up in rural Colorado, and her notions of spirituality and world harmony did not extend to the Far East.

“Are you guys even sure it was a murder?” she asked. “Maybe she just fell.”

“Not likely,” said Huck. “Not with that kind of a bash.”

Gretchen leaned forward. “Here’s what bugs me, though. Of all the DAs I’ve worked with, Frank’s the most level-headed. Never snapped. Never lost his temper. It’s just very hard for me to imagine.”

“Everyone’s got a breaking point,” said Huck.

“Not the kind where they kill their wife.”

Huck looked at his watch. He wished Ernie would get here. He wanted to know if Ernie had seen the pictures, if they had stayed in his mind too. Or was it just him?

“The funeral’s tomorrow, I hear,” Gretchen was saying. “Are you going?”

“It’s up to the chief.”

“It’ll be huge.”

“Huge,”
agreed Brad.

“Lot of bigwigs, I’ll bet.”

She was right. There would be the NOW people, and probably their congressman, and maybe even one of their senators would show up. Huck found himself stifling a yawn. He hadn’t left the deli until four that morning, at which point it had been futile to try to sleep. Instead he’d gone home, put the music on loud, showered, and come straight in to headquarters. Without decent coffee, he was going to crash before the morning was over.

“They keep you up all night?” Gretchen asked.

“I was home,” Huck said. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Take Benadryl,” advised Gretchen.

Huck stood up. He threw out his coffee and left Gretchen and Brad arguing over chemicals versus herbal sleep tonics and went off in search of Ernie. If he was going to go to the funeral tomorrow, he was going to have to borrow something decent to wear; a black hooded sweatshirt wouldn’t cut it.

He found Ernie at his desk in the office they shared. They greeted each other grimly, knowing that long days and sleepless nights lay ahead of them for the next month. Two, possibly. Even three or more.

BOOK: The Abortionist's Daughter
10.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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