Chapter 12

Cat had agreed to call Sullivan when her shift was over at midnight. The plan was for him to come to the station, and together they would go to her apartment where she would give him the note. As Bronson and Sullivan left the conference room, Sullivan saw Rick’s blonde head dart behind a door quickly as if he had been peeking through the window at them. Sullivan walked straight towards the door and rapped on it, so Bronson and Cat followed him. Rick pulled the door open and stood in the doorway with a quizzical look on his face.

“Yes?” Rick asked snootily. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” Sullivan began. “My name is Detective Sullivan, Homicide Division, Oklahoma City Police Department. I have a few questions for you, if you have a minute.”

“Actually, I don’t,” Rick said. He started to close the door in their faces when Sullivan put a hand out and stopped it.

“You can speak to us here or you can come downtown with us Mister…?”

“Hurley, Rick Hurley,” Rick answered indignantly. “I will be happy to look at my schedule and see when we can set up a time.”

Sullivan laughed and turned to look at Bronson who had moved closer to the open door. They both chuckled as they pushed their way into the office, forcing Rick to back up.

“Excuse us, Miss Carlyle,” Sullivan called over his shoulder.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Bronson added. He turned and flashed another smile that was completely lost on Cat. She smiled back, though, and quietly left, leaving Rick to fend for himself. She thought it felt pretty good seeing Rick treated with as much decorum as he often treated others.

“You can’t just barge in here like some kind of…thugs,” Rick stuttered.

“What? You think you can just shut the door in our faces, and we are just going to leave, Mister Hurley?” asked Sullivan. He leaned closer to Rick and sniffed. “Been hitting the bottle a little early in the day, haven’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rick said defensively. He put his hands on his hips, flexing his chest and neck muscles.

“Don’t hurt yourself there, Hulk,” Bronson laughed. He was thinking to himself that Rick looked more like a playground bully than an “Assistant Network Manager” like the nameplate on his desk suggested. Bronson picked the nameplate up and showed it to Sullivan who only raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes.

“Look,” Sullivan said, “I just have a few questions for you and then we will let you get back to whatever you were drinking…I mean, doing.”

Rick’s face reddened and his lips formed a thin tight line. Sullivan and Bronson watched as his chest rose and fell quickly. Tiny little specks of sweat appeared above his upper lip and across his forehead. Rick worked his fingers through his thick blonde hair, combing it over to the side. He didn’t think either of them would notice that he let his palm wipe his forehead off or his forearm brush across his sweaty lip as he returned his hand to his hip. Sullivan enjoyed watching the effects of Rick’s discomfort.

“Would you care to sit down or would you like to stand?” Sullivan gestured toward Rick’s chair.

Completely flustered and stuttering, Rick demanded, “What is it that you want to know?” He tried to appear relaxed by allowing his arms to hang by his sides, but it felt unnatural and stiff. So he crossed one arm over his chest and held the elbow of the other arm while that hand rubbed his chin with his fingers and thumb.

Both detectives noticed the fresh bruises on Ricks knuckles. Sullivan asked him how he had gotten injured.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Rick tried to assure them as he looked at the back of his hand. “I accidently hit the wall earlier today, that’s all. I’m fine.”

Bronson shook his head and exchanged glances with Sullivan. Sullivan asked Rick about his whereabouts the night of the murder, about what kind of vehicle he drove and where he usually parked. He asked where he was parked the night of the murder. He asked whether or not he knew or had ever met the victim, Juan Diaz. Sullivan asked him about Cat and what her demeanor was like the night of the murder. He asked if he remembered what time she left the building and when was the next time Rick talked to her. He asked Rick about the condition in which he found Cat’s car the next day. Sullivan jotted notes down while Rick answered the questions. Bronson roamed the room.

Rick appeared to keep a close eye on Bronson’s movements. Occasionally Sullivan had to repeat the question because Rick was so distracted by Bronson’s close examination of Rick’s personal items on display. Bronson smiled while looking at Rick’s wall decorated with numerous broadcasting awards. Bronson thought it was odd that a guy would have so many pictures of himself in his own office. Many of the photos were of Rick with famous rock bands, but still Bronson thought it was weird. He looked around but didn’t find any photos of a wife or kids, not even any photos of girlfriends. Then Bronson sniffed at the plastic cup that sat on a coaster next to the keyboard and identified Rick’s drink of choice as a Crown and Coke.

“That’s not mine,” Rick declared.

Bronson replied, “Yah, whatever,” and continued looking around.

Bronson saw what appeared to be a hand-shredded piece of paper scattered all over the floor by the trash can. He moved it around with the toe of his boot, but didn’t ask about it. Sullivan wrote Rick’s answers in his notebook and noted his odd behavior. He was hiding something. Sullivan could sense it. While Bronson continued his examination of the room, Sullivan dug deeper and asked Rick personal questions. Was he married, was he seeing someone and if so what was his or her name? That last remark must have hit a nerve, because Rick’s eyes instantly flashed something akin to anger.

“That is all the time I have for you gentlemen, if you would please excuse me.” Rick’s voice had also changed instantly, Sullivan noticed. If he wasn’t mistaken, it sounded like Rick turned his radio voice on for that last sentence. That struck Sullivan as very odd, and he scratched out what he thought about it on paper. He enjoyed his charade of note taking. His mini-recorder had been recording since they got out of the patrol car.

“We will be in touch,” Sullivan said as he gave the nod to Bronson to indicate he was ready to leave.

“Nice office,” Bronson commented to Rick as he followed Sullivan out and into the front entrance where they had entered an hour or so earlier.

“Nice fella.”

“Yeah, right. Hey, I’d like to see if we can catch the net-work’s station manager before we leave and maybe visit with this Pat Gilbraithe. What do you think?” Sullivan asked Bronson.

“Sounds good. You’re the boss. Whatever you say.”

“Right. Come on.” He followed Sullivan across the foyer to the receptionist’s desk. A teenage girl sat behind a large wooden desk that had a beautiful finished surface. She was chewing gum and texting on her cell phone. She slid the phone under the desk as the men approached.

“How can I help you?” she asked. She was staring at Bronson and smiling. Bronson, taking his cue, stepped around Sullivan and up to the desk. He asked to speak to the station manager and then rewarded the girl with a dimpled cheek smile and sealed the deal with a compliment about the color of her shirt.

“You are pathetic, son,” Sullivan whispered as the girl scurried down the hall to go speak with the station manager.

“I’m just trying to help out, Sully. Don’t judge me,” Bronson responded with a sly smile.

Before they left, they had spoken to Frederick Davidson, the network’s station manager; Brooke, the teenage receptionist; the intern, Pat Gilbraithe; and the sales representative named Lindsey Byrd.

Sullivan mentioned on the way back to headquarters that he didn’t think they had gained any new or relevant information out of the last few people they talked to. He was curious to hear what his partner thought of Cat Carlyle.

“Well, what was your take on Cat?” Sullivan asked Bronson.

“I thought she was adorable, and I loved her outfit,” Bronson commented with a fake lisp.

“Be serious, man. What did you think about her story?”

“I think she might have a stalker. I wouldn’t put it past that Rick guy to be it either. Or maybe she has two stalkers. She’s credible, but skittish.”

“I agree,” Sullivan added. “Let’s take a closer look at Rick and this Warren character.”

“Tell you what,” Bronson said with a grin. “Since you’re going to be putting in some long hours today, I’ll run down Warren Garrison and get a statement from him.”

“Sounds good,” Sullivan agreed. “I need to do a little more digging on our victim Diaz and visit with his ex-wife again. I have his Department of Corrections file on my desk. I thumbed through it this morning. It looks like he has stayed clean the last few months. He checked in regularly with his probation officer and was looking for full-time work. His ex seemed pretty torn up over the killing and couldn’t think of anyone who would want to harm him. Who knows? Maybe the killing had nothing to do with Cat. Maybe it was payback or a drug deal gone wrong. I didn’t see any drug convictions in Diaz’ file, but as you know, that doesn’t really mean he wasn’t involved with them.”

“Yeah, it’s possible your smokin’ hot’ girl was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. She seems perfectly innocent to me,” Bronson added glibly. He poked Sullivan in the ribs producing a yelp and a jerk of the steering wheel.

“One of these days…” Sullivan began, but didn’t finish as he lowered his elbow against his side to prevent further attacks.

When they parted ways at the police station, Sullivan agreed to contact Bronson, if necessary, after he picked up the note from Cat’s place. “It won’t be necessary,” Sullivan assured his partner.

“Enjoy your evening and kiss your beautiful wife for me.”

“Never gonna happen,” Bronson declared as he walked away.

Sullivan went to his desk, draped his blue wool blazer over the back of the chair and loosened his favorite striped tie. He unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled them up as he walked to the refrigerator. God, he was tired. He opened the door, picked out a cold can of Dr. Pepper, popped the top open and drank half the can. As he was shutting the refrigerator door, something came to him. He stood there drinking and staring off into space. Something was bugging him. That little voice inside his head was trying to get him to remember something he had seen or heard today. What was it?