“Mrs. Conley,” Waverly said, “I’ll check out every detail six ways from Sunday. If there’s anything that might help clear you, I’ll find it. But make no mistake, if you’re guilty, I’ll find that out, too.” He gave his belt a tug. “Detective Schiller is convinced you’re innocent. I hope to hell he’s right.”
“He is,” she said, “I swear it.”
“Good. Then I suggest you level with me—no lies, no half-truths. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes. Everything I just told you is the absolute truth.”
“Good. Keep it that way,” he said, pulling up a chair. “All right, Mrs. Conley. Someone wanted your husband dead. Who?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think Hugh had any genuine enemies.”
“From what I saw upstairs, I’d say he had at least one.”
Ray spoke up. “You said he’d had an affair. What about an angry husband?”
“Yeah,” Waverly agreed. “It would be a help to know who he was sleeping with.” Amy looked away. Waverly said, “Sorry, but I don’t have time to be delicate about this. Did your husband come home smelling like a particular perfume? Did you find a familiar shade of lipstick on his collar, a love letter? Is there anything you can tell me that might point me in the other woman’s direction?”
“No, Hugh was careful not to make that kind of mistake.”
“But you found out,” Waverly said. “What mistake did he make?”
She bit her lower lip. “He got stupid drunk one night and came home, reeking of sex.”
“Uh-huh.” Waverly bobbed his head. “That, unfortunately, is no help.”
“Financially,” Ray said, “how were you and your husband doing? Were you having any money problems?”
“Hugh was doing well, and about to do even better as Larry Benedict’s business partner. Plus, he was about to put the house on the market. Hugh got it for a song. It’s over a hundred years old and needed lots of work, but with the extensive improvements he had done, it’s nearly doubled in value.”
“You called this your dream house,” Waverly said. “You must’ve been upset about his plans to sell it out from under you.”
“Yes, but I was going to lose the house one way or the other. After the divorce, Hugh would have been entitled to half of the equity. For him to get his share, I’d have had to sell it anyhow, so what does it matter?”
Waverly crossed his arms. “That’s easy. Dead husband, no divorce, no sale.”
“You can’t be serious,” she said. “The chances of my keeping this house now are next to zero, Detective. Hugh wouldn’t let me get a job, and even if he had, jobs suited to my work skills wouldn’t begin to pay enough for me to cover the mortgage, the insurance premiums, the heating bills and all the other expenses that come with this house. Right now I have no idea where I stand financially; Hugh handled the money. I may have to find a job to keep my head above water until I can sell this house myself.” Bitterness invaded her voice and filled her eyes with tears. “And the way I hear it, companies generally don’t like to fill their job openings with murder suspects.”
Waverly’s eyes shifted as Hugh Conley’s body was carried past the dining room door in a body bag. “Now, at least, you won’t have to split the proceeds when you sell.”
She turned to see what had caught his eye. “Oh, dear God… Hugh.”
Ray drew her attention away. “Amy, what about the Beretta?”
“What?”
“The gun. It was found under a corner of the bed in the master bedroom. Is it yours?”
“Um…the Beretta…”
“Come on, Amy, get it together. Whose gun is it?”
“Hugh’s. It was his. He kept it in the nightstand on his side of the bed.”
“Did he take it with him when he moved to the third floor?”
“Uh…I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t, Ray. He left some of his things down here. I didn’t think to check on the gun. I didn’t want it in the house in the first place. I hate those things.”
“Have you ever fired a gun—been trained to use one?”
“Never.”
Ray knew Waverly wouldn’t accept the claim at face value. If the situation were reversed, he wouldn’t either. He moved on. “What do you know about Gary Bartlett, Amy?”
“Not much.” She tucked a damp tissue into the palm of her hand. “I’ve only met him a few times.”
“Was he one of your husband’s business associates?”
“No, just a friend. Hugh and Gary golfed together once in a while, played tennis, that sort of thing. Why?”
Waverly answered. “Your husband phoned him just before he was shot. Any idea why he’d have been making that call?”
“No, none.”
“Well, in any case,” Waverly said, “Bartlett wasn’t home. Of course, your husband could’ve left a message if he’d had more time.” He stroked his mustache and added, “As it turns out, Bartlett’s answering machine did record the gunshots and your husband begging you not to shoot.”
“Me? He was begging me?”
“By name,” Waverly replied.
Frantic, she looked from one of them to the other. “But that doesn’t make any sense. That’s crazy.”
“Call it whatever you like,” Waverly told her, “but Bartlett heard the whole thing and called 9-1-1. That’s what brought those officers here this morning. Eventually a jury’s gonna hear that recording, too.”
“But…but I—”
Ray felt like he was watching a car wreck in progress. He could see it coming, but couldn’t do a thing to prevent it. Waverly was doing his job and, probably as a personal favor of sorts, doing it more gently than normal. He let Waverly continue.
“Listen, I’m going to be straight with you, Mrs. Conley. We’ve discovered what brought your husband home last night, and you’re up to your neck in…” Waverly glanced at Ray and rephrased. “Let’s just say it’s not looking good for you. We found your email message on your husband’s laptop.”
Her hazel eyes widened. “What message?”
“Should be easy for you to remember; there were only six words.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“All right, I’ll play along.” Waverly jammed his hands in his pockets. “It said, ‘Urgent you come home immediately. Please.’ You didn’t write that, Mrs. Conley?”
Her chest rose and fell erratically. “I never went near the computer last night. I didn’t even set foot in the library yesterday. Either this is a nightmare, or I must be losing my mind.”
Ray remembered his and Waverly’s earlier discussion about the use of the insanity defense. Clearly, Waverly did, too. Ray watched him return the meaningful look he’d sent his way earlier and sighed.
5
Gail Schiller set her fork down on the edge of a stoneware plate and looked across the table into the living room. Draped over one of the easy chairs, thirteen-year-old Laurie sat talking on the phone while ten-year-old Krista and the girls’ three-year-old brother Joey played with his blocks in front of the TV. The only sound in the dining room came from Ray as he shoved food around his plate with a fork.
Gail turned her attention to him. “What’s wrong, honey?”
He glanced up, then let his gaze slide away. “Who said anything’s wrong?”
“Well, it wouldn’t have been you; you’ve barely said more than two words since you got home.”
“I’m tired, that’s all.”
“Okay, that rounds the total up to about a half-dozen.”
“Sorry. It’s been a rough day.” He rotated his shoulders, trying to loosen the knotted muscles in his back.
“Hmm. One of those ‘backrub-bad’ days.” Gail got up and stood behind him, her hands kneading his shoulders. The pungent smell of garlic rose from his plate. She watched as he continued to rearrange his food. “You’re supposed to eat that, not test drive it. By the way, that’s one of my best batches of lasagna; you really ought to have some.”
“Save it for me, would you? I’ll take it with me for lunch tomorrow.”
“Okay…the truth, Ray. Is it your new case—the one that dragged you out of the house so early this morning?”
“Yeah, except it’s not mine anymore; I got the boot. Want to see the bruise?”
“I’ll give it a real close examination later on, if you like,” Gail purred, ruffling his hair. “Tell me what’s going on; maybe it’ll help.”
“Doubtful,” he said, but he reached back and gave her hand a squeeze. “That feels good, babe.”
“It’s meant to,” Gail told him. “So what’s going on?”
“I know one of the people involved in the case.”
She continued working his muscles with her thumbs. “Really? Who is it?”
“Actually, you know her, too. She used to be a waitress at The Copper Kettle Café in Widmer.”
“You’re not talking about Amy Dexter, are you?”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding a little surprised. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember her.” Ray flinched as her thumbs dug in deeper. “Hey, easy, Bruno.” He gave his neck and shoulders a test twist as the massage ended abruptly.
“Of course I remember her.” Gail told him. “I used to take Laurie and Krista to The Copper
Kettle for lunch once in a while.” Eyes down, she started working her way around the table, gathering dishes.
“Is something wrong, hon?”
“No, but what is Amy Dexter doing in Minneapolis?”
“Her name’s Conley now. She got married and moved to the Cities a couple of years ago,” Ray said, following her into the kitchen with leftovers.
“How long have you known about that?”
“For about the last eight hours. Why?”
“Just curious.” She returned to the dining room for the cups and glasses. “So, Amy got married. I’m happy for her.”
“Well, don’t be too happy; she’s just become a widow.”
“What?”
“Her husband was shot to death in their home last night.”
“Oh, no.” Gail stopped dead in her tracks. “Wait a minute. You said she’s involved. How? Is she a witness or something?”
“Something.”
She dropped onto a seat at the dining room table. “Amy’s a suspect?”
“Until we find the person who actually did it.”
“We? Didn’t you just say you’ve been pulled off the case?”
“Yeah, the case is Dick’s now. Roth pulled me off the investigation to avoid a conflict-of-interest issue.”
She focused on Ray’s eyes. “Doesn’t that usually imply you have more than a casual acquaintance with the other party?”
“Usually, but I jumped in and defended her, so Roth said I was biased and I got the heave-ho.”
“Are you? Biased, I mean.”
“Look,” he said, “the investigation is barely out of the starting blocks, but my gut instinct
says she didn’t do it. My mistake was being too quick to take a stand on that. The truth is, Amy Conley couldn’t look guiltier if she’d been caught holding the smoking gun.”
“Then you don’t know for a fact she didn’t do it.”
“Damn it, Gail, you’re starting to sound like Dick.” She flinched at the tone of his voice. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat, but sitting around wondering what’s going on is already starting to get on my nerves.”
“Well, the spouse is always considered a suspect. Everybody knows that,” she said.
“Right, but that doesn’t mean she did it.”
“Other than your loyalty, Ray, have you got anything to say she didn’t?”
“No,” he said, bracing a hip against a counter. “What really bothers me, though, is that the evidence is too obvious—too incriminating. Amy says she’s got no memory of what happened last night. She’s as confused as we are.”
Gail closed the dishwasher with a bit more force than was necessary. “She told you? I thought you said Dick was working the case.”
“He is. When I got to the scene, I had no idea Amy was involved. How could I know? Before I even saw her, I’d already gone through her entire house and checked the evidence. Once I found out it was Amy we were dealing with, I questioned her. Right now I know as much about the case as Dick does, but I basically shot myself in the foot by opening my mouth in her defense. The second Roth found out I know her, he cut me loose.” Ray pulled the refrigerator door open and looked inside.
The tension in Gail’s voice raised a notch. “You just said you weren’t hungry.”
“I’m not going to eat; I’m just nosing around.”
Arms crossed, Gail leaned against a counter and said, “So, what is it about this case that’s got you so uptight? Is it because it’s Amy?”
He pulled his head out of the fridge a second later. “Honey, standing around on the sidelines just feels wrong. I hate having my hands tied. It’s like…like… If I saw a friend drowning, my instinct would be to jump in and help, not wait around for someone else to do it.”
“Would you feel the same way if it were anyone other than her?” Gail asked.
There it was: jealousy—the first time in seventeen years.
“If I was this sure the person was innocent, yeah, I’d feel exactly the same way.”
“Got it.” Finding no hint of deception in his face, Gail uncrossed her arms and kissed him. “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.”
“Mmmm. You were right—good lasagna.” He kissed her again and grinned. “That second serving was even better than the first.”
She gave him a smile and asked, “So what happens next with her case?”
Finding himself back on dangerous ground, he tread lightly. “It turns out Amy was at Gatsby’s for a while last night. I’m hoping some good will come of that. Dick will check it out.”
“It’s a nice place,” she said.
“You’ve been there?”
“Julie and I went there for lunch last week. I told you, remember?”
He didn’t. “Oh, yeah. Right. Anyway, maybe we can turn up something useful there.”
“We? You mean Dick, don’t you?” He nodded. “You’re not worried about him handling the case, are you, Ray?”
“Dick’s a great investigator, but he just seemed a little too satisfied with all the evidence stacked against her.” Ray massaged his temples. “Forget I said that. Dick won’t let anything slip through the cracks.”
“Good,” Gail said. “Then you can just step away.”
“Mm-hmm.” It was the sound of Ray’s mind switching gears.
6
Ray he didn’t find a cigar store Indian standing watch at the entrance when he walked into Gatsby’s the next day, or Sam Malone serving drinks, but the aura reminded him of the Cheers bar popularized by the sitcom of the same name decades earlier.
“Ready for another?” the bartender asked, hand already halfway to Ray’s glass.
He shoved it toward him. “Yeah, go ahead. Do it again.”
As the bartender returned and set another club soda in front of him, Waverly’s baritone voice washed over Ray like a wave. “Well, well…imagine my finding you here.” He dropped onto the backless stool beside him. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I’m just having lunch, that’s all.”
He tapped the side of Ray’s glass. “Liquid diet?”
“I held off ordering on the chance you might show up. I hear the food’s pretty good. Hungry?”
Waverly rapped his knuckles on the mahogany bar to get the bartender’s attention. “Can I get a Diet Pepsi?”
The bartender delivered Waverly’s drink and asked, “Would you like to see a menu?” Ray grabbed his drink as well as Waverly’s and stood. “We’ll check one out at a table.”
Waverly slid off the barstool. “You just can’t wait to start pumping me, can you?”
“Hey, I’m starving; you took your good-natured time getting here.”
Before they’d finished pulling their chairs in, a waitress dispensed menus and ice water. “Hi. I’m Beth. I’ll be your server today.”
“Thanks,” Ray said, doing a quick scan of the menu. “I’ll have the beef stew and coffee, please.”
“Beef stew?” Without giving it a glance, Waverly handed his menu back. “I’ll have the same. And cream for my coffee, please.”
“Sure thing,” she said, turning and hurrying away.
Ray waited until she was out of earshot. “What have you found out?”
“So much for small talk,” Waverly said. “I assume you’re asking about the Conley case?” Ray responded to the taunt with a slow blink of the eyes. Waverly chuckled. “Just checking. The answer is: not much. Nothing conclusive anyhow.”
“That means you found something.”
Hands laced across the ledge of his stomach, Waverly cocked his head to one side. “Am I wrong, or didn’t you agree to bow out gracefully?”
“I agreed to bow out; nothing was said about ‘gracefully’.”
“You’re just gonna be a real pain in the ass, aren’t you?”
“I promised not to interfere, but I won’t play dead, Dick. How about giving me an update?”
Their waitress returned with a pitcher of cream, coffee, a basket of steaming dinner rolls and butter. She filled their cups and moved on to another table.
“I’ll guarantee you one thing, Ray,” Waverly said, plucking a roll off the top of the basket, “Captain Roth would not look kindly on this collaboration.” He slathered butter over the roll’s tender center.
“Collaboration?” Ray said, feigning surprise. “We’re just enjoying some conversation over lunch.”
“You’re walking a fine line, buddy.”
“Hey, as far as Roth’s concerned,” Ray said, “we just bumped into each other on a meal break. Besides, how is he going to know?”
“If that’s the game you want to play, you’d better make damned sure we don’t walk into the station with matching gravy stains on our ties.”
Targeted: A Ray Schiller Novel (The Ray Schiller Series Book 3) Page 3