Heidi chuckles.
“Who’s on duty tonight?” I ask. “I need to get some information for Izzy from the file on Karen Owenby.”
Heidi picks up a clipboard and starts reading names. “Tommy Mazur, John Quam, Larry Johnson. And, of course, Detective Hurley is in the interrogation room if—”
“No! Not Hurley,” I say, trying to block out the image of a sexually laden interrogation fantasy that has just popped into my head. “I don’t want to interrupt him. Larry will do. In fact, he’s perfect since he was one of the officers on the scene the night of the murder. Any chance he’s here?”
“Not at the moment, but I can call him and have him here in five minutes.”
“Would you? Thanks. Mind if I wait in the squad room?”
“Not at all.”
Like the conference/interrogation room, the squad room does double duty as a kitchenette and break room. I’ve been here before. Prior to marrying David, I dated a couple of the guys on the force and during my years in the ER I built up more than a passing acquaintance with several others. Nurses and cops always seem to be drawn together—a camaraderie of the trenches kind of thing. Both have jobs that entail odd hours, lots of stress, and dealing with people when they are at their very worst. And at four o’clock in the morning in a town the size of Sorenson, there isn’t much to do. Consequently, the cops often showed up at the ER to share a cup of coffee or two and chat away the quiet hours of the night. Our conversations were often ribald, sometimes personal, always lively. The odd hour and the stresses we had in common fostered a level of intimacy that made it easy to talk about things you wouldn’t discuss with anyone else. I got to know some of the guys really well during those coffee chats.
That was when I became good friends with Larry, who was going through a bitter separation and divorce at the time. At some point I realized Larry had a crush on me but, unfortunately, I didn’t feel the same about him. He’s a sweet, nice-looking man with broad shoulders, a trim build, warm brown eyes, and a thick head of dark hair. But I never felt even the smallest spark of sexual tension between us. I adored him; I just didn’t want to sleep with him.
Despite our disparate feelings for one another, we have remained good friends over the years. In fact, our bond is tighter than ever, in part because I was the nurse on duty a few months ago when Larry came in for some surgery. There’s nothing like getting up-close and personal with someone’s hemorrhoids for fostering a true sense of intimacy.
Heidi’s predicted five-minute arrival time for Larry turns out to be closer to ten and I’m feeling a little hungry. So I kill time by rummaging around in the station refrigerator, where I find several canned sodas, a brown bag covered with grease spots, a moldy orange, half a dozen containers from the local Chinese restaurant, and a partially used tube of Preparation H.
Larry arrives as I’m sniffing the congealed mass in one of the Chinese containers. “I wouldn’t eat that if I were you,” he warns. I toss it back in the fridge and greet him with a hug. “You look great,” he says, holding me at arm’s length. “How have you been?”
“Been good. Up and down.”
“I’m very sorry about you and David. It’s never easy when a marriage hits the rocks and I guess it’s even harder when you find out your husband’s a murder suspect, huh?”
That’s Larry: blunt and to the point. Back in high school he was chosen Most Likely to Not Go Into Public Relations or Politics. His honesty is a trait that annoyed his wife to no end, a factor that contributed heavily to the divorce. But it is one of the things about Larry I happen to like best. I never have to worry about whether he is holding something back or saying one thing and thinking another. In Sorenson, where most people thrive on gossiped half-truths and vague innuendo, Larry’s candor is refreshing.
“It hasn’t been easy,” I admit. “But I’m holding my own.”
“I bet you are,” he says with a smile. “You’re a survivor.”
“Thanks, Lar. Listen, I could use a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I need some info from the file on the Owenby case.” I see him wince and quickly add, “It’s for Izzy, for our investigation.”
“You should really talk to Hurley,” Larry says, shaking his head. “It’s his case and he tends to be a bit, uh, territorial about such things.”
“Okay,” I say, thinking fast. “How about if I just ask you a few questions and see if I can get what I need that way?”
He considers this a moment, then says, “Okay. Fire away.”
“What can you tell me about Karen Owenby’s roommate?”
“Not a whole lot. Her name is Susan McNally and she works as a teller at Community Bank.”
“She’s the one who found Karen, right?”
Larry nods. “She was out on a date and returned to find Karen already dead on the living room floor. She was pretty hysterical. We had the paramedics take her over to the ER.”
“Did anyone question her first?”
“A little, but she didn’t know much. Frankly, she was in too much shock to be of much use to us. I understand Hurley interviewed her later on.”
I’d love to know what Hurley found out, but judging from what I’ve seen of him so far, I suspect he won’t be too willing to share. I make a mental note to track down Susan McNally and talk with her myself.
“About the only thing worthwhile we got out of the roomy,” Larry goes on, “is that she and Karen were both pretty fanatical about locking their doors. Given that there was no sign of a forced entry, it’s certainly possible, maybe even likely that Karen knew her killer.”
Another nail in David’s coffin. “One other thing, Larry. Hurley told me there is an eyewitness who saw David leaving Karen’s house on the night of the murder around the time she was killed. Was it the roommate?”
“Actually, we don’t know who the eyewitness is.”
“What?”
“Hurley isn’t being totally up-front with you. We’re not sure there even is an eyewitness. All we have is an anonymous woman who called to say she saw a man leaving Karen’s house between eleven and twelve that night. She identified him as David, said she was a patient of his and that’s how she recognized him. But she didn’t leave her name and the call was placed from a public phone, so we have no way of knowing who she is.”
I’m beginning to see what a master manipulator Hurley is. “Thanks, Larry. You’ve been a huge help.”
“Glad to be of assistance. Anything, anytime. You know that.”
“You’re too sweet.”
He blushes and his eyes sparkle. “Hey, listen. Why don’t we get together some night for dinner or something? Catch up on old times.”
The invitation sounds innocent enough, but given my history with Larry, I figure it’s better to play it safe. “I’m not much for socializing just yet, Larry. It’s too soon. I’ve got too much going on, too much to digest.”
He stares at me and I can see the disappointment in his eyes. “Please tell me you’re not seriously thinking about getting back with David,” he says.
“I don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“You know that Owenby woman was pregnant, don’t you?” The pain I feel at his words must show on my face because he immediately slaps himself on the side of the head. “Oh, Christ, Mattie. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I’m such a jerk. I didn’t mean to throw it in your face like that. Besides, it was a stupid question. Of course you know. You work at the ME’s office.”
“Yes, we know about the pregnancy,” I tell him. “But we don’t know who the father is yet. It’s possible that Karen was sleeping with more than one person.” My defense of David sounds feeble, even to my own highly subjective ears. Why am I trying so hard to hang on, grasping at so many straws? Why can’t I just let David go?