Targeted: A Ray Schiller Novel (The Ray Schiller Series Book 3)

by Marjorie Doering

  “Oh,” she added, not quite done yet, “one more thing. Don’t walk in here ever again without being invited inside. This is my home, not yours.”

  “Technically maybe, but I’ve got a ton of time and sweat invested in this place. Where’s the money for the work I did?”

  “Hugh paid you.”

  “He tell you that?” he said, sneering.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then he lied,” He took an unsteady step. “Hell, it doesn’t matter if he lied or not. The point is, you owe me. I’ve got bills like everyone else—same as my whole crew. I want the money I’ve got coming to me.”

  Amy stood before him shamefaced. “I had no idea you hadn’t been paid. I swear I didn’t. If you’ll give me a copy of your bill—”

  “You’ll get it, all right. First thing tomorrow.”

  Her heart sank to her stomach like an anchor. “Money-wise, I’m not sure where I stand right now. If you can wait until—”

  His eyes shifted to the drink in her hand, then to the bottle of Applejack on the liquor cabinet. “Forty bucks a bottle,” he muttered. “Money problems? Yeah, right.”

  Curt Retzinger wove his way unsteadily to the door.

  She followed, thankful to see him go. “I’ll need some time to check our…my financial records first, then I might be able to—”

  “Your bill is already way overdue. I want my money now.” He stepped outside and looked over his shoulder, eyes bleary. “Tick tock,” he said, smirking. “You have a nice night, now.”

  15

  Waverly walked into the station the next day, drawing a handkerchief across his brow, mopping up fever sweat. “Hey, how’s it going, buddy?”

  Ray checked his watch: 10:22 AM. “I gave up on you about an hour ago. I figured Phyllis had you strapped down in your sickbed. The way you look, that might’ve been a good idea.”

  “Nah, I’m doing better. You should’ve seen me yesterday.”

  “I did—at the cemetery, remember?”

  “Yeah, right. My brain must be fried.” Waverly gave Ray a weak grin. “Want me to keep my distance or are you willing to chance catching this bug for some new info on the Conley case?”

  “I’ll risk it,” Ray told him.

  Waverly pulled up a chair and sank into it like a sack of wet mush. “Halfway through Round Three of the fight Phyllis and I were having about my coming in today, Amy Conley called. She asked to see me, so I stopped by her place on my way here. Your friend’s got a serious case of the heebie-jeebies, Ray.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Her neighbors from across the street paid her a visit last night. Curt and Ronald Retzinger. They’re a father and son duo.”

  “A condolence call?”

  “Definitely not what the father had in mind. The two of them dropped by separately. The Retzinger kid, Ronald—he’s about seventeen—kinda hard to say what he was thinking. According to your friend Amy, the kid showed up out of the blue and started raking leaves in her backyard. It woke her up from a nap. She went down and asked him to leave—a short exchange, but it set her teeth on edge. Sounds like the kid’s got a thing for her, buddy. Get this. She claims he told her he was glad her husband was gone—that he’d never treated her right.”

  “Interesting.” Ray scratched the back of his neck. “You sound skeptical, though. Why? At seventeen, most males probably have more testosterone than blood running through their veins.”

  “No argument there, buddy, but she could be trying to throw the kid under the bus.”

  “You actually believe that?” Ray asked.

  “No, but I’m reserving the right to believe it. Anyway, she told me she’s seen Ronald Retzinger watching her from his bedroom window across the street more than once. If that’s true, the kid might have a serious kink in his jockey shorts.”

  “A peeping Tom in training?” Ray speculated.

  “Could be. For the time being, it sounds like he’s doing it from a distance at least.”

  “So what’s up with the kid’s father?”

  Waverly mopped his brow. “Curt Retzinger is the contractor Hugh Conley hired to do the renovation work on their place. According to Amy Conley, not long after she sent her underage Romeo on his way, Curt Retzinger stormed over to her place and demanded his money. He wants it like yesterday. Seems Hugh ran up a very large, very overdue bill.”

  “Did he make threats?”

  “No, but even under normal circumstances, it sounds like the guy isn’t exactly Prince Charming. Last night, he was pissed off and drunk. That couldn’t have helped.

  “She couldn’t tell me much about him, but the way she heard it, the guy’s wife dumped him and their son years ago—ran off with another man and never looked back. That could’ve left him tilted a little off center. Something must have because, the way she tells it, he accused her of trying to seduce his son—from across the street no less.”

  “Combination crackpot and creditor,” Ray said. “Just what she needs right now.”

  “She says she didn’t have a clue Retzinger hadn’t been paid. I’m inclined to believe her. You and I already agreed there’s prob’ly a lot her husband didn’t tell her. Anyway, Curt Retzinger showed up at her place again this morning with an itemized bill that just about knocked her on her ass. She called me after he left.”

  Ray did a mental rundown of the information. “It sounds like Hugh Conley wasn’t as well off as we thought: the unpaid remodeling bill; the hurry to sell the house; the relatively low life insurance coverage. He might’ve been counting on the partnership with Larry Benedict to pull his ass out of the fire.”

  He ran a hand through his hair and continued. “It makes what I heard at the funeral luncheon more credible. The way Amy’s friends told it, Hugh Conley was living the good life, pretty much on his parents’ dime. It sounds like his parents over-indulged him, then used their money like thumb screws. They’d say jump—”

  “And he’d pole vault,” Waverly volunteered.

  “Yeah, right down to giving in when they started pressuring him to get married.”

  “Shoulda grown a pair of balls.”

  “You got that right,” Ray said. “Instead he married Amy. Rather than look for some debutante his parents would approve of, he chose her to rub their noses in it. They must’ve freaked out when they found out their new daughter-in-law stepped out of a waitress uniform and straight into their privileged lives. Getting cut off financially was probably the last thing Conley expected.”

  Waverly laughed. “Yeah. His jaw must’ve hit the floor when they yanked that silver spoon out of his mouth.”

  “The S.O.B. only had himself to blame, but that didn’t keep him from taking it out on Amy.” Ray stayed focused despite the ringing phones and conversations going on around them. “About this Retzinger guy and his son, Dick… Do you think there’s a connection between them and Hugh Conley’s murder?”

  “I can’t rule it out. The kid’s fixation on Amy Conley seems kinda hinky. He wouldn’t be the first horny kid to fantasize about filling the vacancy left in an attractive woman’s bed.”

  “Maybe he helped create it,” Ray said.

  “It’s possible. And Curt Retzinger’s wife walking out on him like she did could’ve left him with a warped groove. I’ll take a hard look Curt and his son,” Waverly said. “By the way, I tracked down the ticket agent who was manning the boarding gate Conley and Benedict would’ve used for their flight Wednesday night.”

  “Get anything useful?”

  “Yeah.” Waverly sniffed and blew his nose. “I know why Benedict booked a flight for the next morning. They refused to let him board Wednesday night; he was drunk.”

  “Drunk for real, or was he faking it?” Ray asked. “Making himself memorable would be exactly what he’d want to do, if he was trying to establish an alibi.”

  “My thought exactly, but your guess is as good as mine, Ray. The ticket agent remembers Benedict hitting on a couple of female passeng
ers in the departure area. Hell, he even hit on her. Whether he was actually drunk or not, though, she couldn’t say. She couldn’t tell me whether Conley or Benedict left the gate area first. Too bad, too. If she could’ve confirmed it was Conley who left first, Benedict would’ve been in the clear since he couldn’t have beaten him back to Elliot Park. That leaves Larry Benedict as a person of interest.”

  Captain E. Joseph Roth stood in his office doorway. “Waverly! I want to see you.”

  “Be right there, Captain.” He got up, blowing his nose. “Catch ya later, Ray. I’ve gotta go spread some of this cold virus around Ejo’s office.”

  Ray grinned. “Sneeze a few times for me.”

  16

  Hours later, Ray stood pinching a phone receiver between his shoulder and ear as he talked to Gail. “Hi, honey. I’m running late. Sorry, but I’m not going to make it home in time for supper.”

  “No, I guess not—not if you’re calling from the station.” Resignation seeped into her voice. “I was expecting to see you walk through the door any minute now.”

  “That was the plan,” he said. “Hugh Conley’s funeral chewed up a big chunk of my day yesterday. I’ve still got a backlog of paperwork stacked up on my desk.”

  “Should I keep a plate warm for you?”

  “Thanks, but don’t bother.” Switching the phone to his hand, he tried to work the kinks out of his neck. “When I finish here, I’ll grab a burger or something, swing by Amy’s place for a minute, then head home.”

  “Amy’s? Why are you stopping there?”

  “I thought I’d drop by and offer a little moral support. Dick volunteered some new information this morning; the flu must be making him delirious or something. It turns out that burying her husband and dealing with her in-laws isn’t all Amy had to deal with yesterday.”

  “She’s got friends for that, Ray.”

  “And I’m one of them.”

  “Why don’t you just call her?”

  “It’s right on my way. No big deal.”

  “All right, fine, but Laurie’s counting on you to be at her band concert.”

  “Oh, shit. That’s tonight?”

  “You forgot? Ray, you promised her. You missed all but two of her volleyball games this year.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He felt his insides twist. “Damn. I’ve got another hour’s worth of work on my desk…minimum. Okay, look,” he said, “let me get off the phone and I’ll see how fast I can get it whittled down. I’ll do my best, but I might be a little late.”

  “As long as you put in an appearance, Laurie will be happy. Just make sure you show up, okay?”

  “You got it. Tell Laurie I’ll be there. You and the kids go ahead without me. I’ll meet you at the auditorium.”

  As they hung up, he checked his watch. Only 5:32 PM and it was already dark out.

  Screw it. I’ll come in early tomorrow.

  A minute later, Ray buckled himself in his car, weighing his options. Foregoing a quick grab-and-go meal at a drive-thru would leave him hungry, but it would save time. He’d be able to make that quick stop at Amy’s and still get to the Eden Prairie High School before the band played its first off-key note.

  He pulled up in front of Amy’s house in Elliot Park six minutes later and saw lights shining from every window on the first and second floor. He hurried up the front steps and rang the bell. A second later, a narrow gap appeared between the door and jamb.

  “Ray! Hi. Come in.” Amy took his wrist and pulled him inside. “Let me have your coat. Sit down. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Thanks, but I can’t stay, Amy. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  “That’s really sweet of you. I’m doing all right, Ray.”

  The pile of crumpled tissues on the end table at the side of her couch told him a different story. “What’s up with all the lights? This place must be visible from outer space.”

  “The truth?” Her face flushed. “They help keep the boogeyman away.” She pointed toward the dark fixture at the top of the stairs. “That light would be on, too, if it was working.”

  “Keep this up and you might get a personal Christmas card from the electric company this year.”

  “As if.” Huddling in the security of her own arms, she said, “It’s embarrassing to admit, but I actually slept down here on the couch last night rather than face that dark landing and hallway.”

  “How are things looking for tonight?”

  “About the same.”

  He looked at her, then at the unlit bulb at the top of the staircase and checked his watch again. “I’ve really got to run, but if you hurry and get me a replacement, I can take care of that for you.”

  “Would you? That would be terrific.”

  Amy hurried to get a new bulb while he took the stairs two at a time. The high ceilings guaranteed the job would require the use of a ladder, a chair…something. Eight feet down the hall, he spotted a storage bench. “Hey, Amy,” he shouted loudly enough to make himself heard

  on the first floor, “I need something to stand on. Do you mind if I use the bench in this hallway?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” she called back. “It’s an heirloom. Hang on. I’ll bring a stepstool.” A minute later she reached the landing. “Here you go. One stepstool. One light bulb. I’d have changed it myself,” she said, “but even with this stool, the bulb’s still a little too high for me. I planned to get the ladder out of the garage tomorrow.”

  “No problem.” Ray positioned the stool under the fixture, stepped up, removed the ornate globe and handed it to her. As he touched the bulb, it wiggled in his hand. He gave it a single twist to the right and squinted into the blinding glare of the bare bulb.

  “It was just loose?” Amy asked from below.

  “Looks that way.” He didn’t notice as she tried to hand the globe back to him.

  “Ray…?”

  “Oh,” he said absently. “Set it down somewhere for now.” He got down, walked to the master bedroom and, without an explanation, flipped the wall switch to no avail. “Damn.”

  Amy watched, puzzled. “Is something wrong?”

  “Give me a minute.” He went back to the landing for the stepstool and returned to the bedroom. Standing at the top, he used a handkerchief to hold the bulb and gave it a single twist. Once more he found himself blinded by the glare of a sixty-watt bulb. “Amy, when did these lights stop working?”

  “I don’t remember. Why?”

  “Think,” he told her. “Was this light working when you got home from Gatsby’s Wednesday night?”

  “It was dark, so I suppose I turned it on, but I was so loopy at the time, I can’t really swear to anything.”

  “What about the light over the landing?”

  “Same thing, Ray. I think it was working, but I can’t be sure. Is it important?”

  Ignoring her question, he stepped down onto the floor. “What about the next day?”

  “When I woke up, it was light out. Then I saw Hugh and—”

  “Okay, but when you were released the next day, do you remember if either light was working then?”

  Worry lines creased her brow. “Uh…”

  “Come on, Amy. Think.”

  “Everything’s kind of a blur, but… Okay. I think it was that night I tried the light over the landing and thought it had burned out.”

  “And this bedroom light?”

  “I don’t know, Ray. Since Hugh was killed, I’ve only come in here to move my things out, and that was during daylight hours. What does it matter?”

  Rather than answer, Ray went into the hall. If he needed something to stand on in order to reach the lights, so had the person who’d loosened the bulbs. He stopped in front of the storage bench, got down on one knee and studied the lid. With a thumb and index finger, he pinched one end of the bench seat and lifted it an inch, then two, then three, angling his head to inspect the smooth, wooden surface.

  “What size shoe did Hugh wear,
Amy?”

  “Eleven and a half. Why?”

  “Don’t touch anything. I’ve got to make a call.”

  “Ray, what’s going on?”

  He stepped away punching a number into his cell phone. He got an answer on the second ring. “Phyllis, it’s Ray. Let me talk to Dick.” He heard some brief chatter before Waverly came on the line.

  “What’s up, Ray?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to, Dick, but there’s something you need to see at Amy Conley’s place. Can you come? I’m there now. We’ll need the techs over here, too. We’ve got shoe prints to document. With any luck, there may be fingerprints, too.”

  “Shoe prints? Where the hell did you find… Crap. Tell me later. I’ll make a phone call and be there ASAP.”

  17

  Ray’s heart sank as he turned down his street hours later and saw his house completely dark. He parked in the garage alongside Gail’s minivan and let his head drop against the headrest until the garage door rumbled closed behind him.

  Knowing there was no point in putting off the inevitable, he stepped out of his car and into the kitchen. The faint scent of chicken tetrazzini still lingered in the air, teasing his nose and tempting his empty stomach. What he really wanted was a drink. Settling for orange juice instead of scotch, he gulped it straight from the carton before proceeding to the living room where Gail had left a single light on for him. Apparently, she didn’t want him to break his neck before she got a crack at doing it herself.

  Upstairs, he could make out the contours of her body under the covers. From the bend of her legs, it was clear Gail’s back was turned toward his side of the bed. He laid his coat over a chair upholstered in a muted floral print, then tossed his suit jacket on top of it. His tie followed.

  Settling himself on the edge of the bed in front of her, he kept his voice low. “Are you awake, hon?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Liar,” he said. “You’re no more asleep than I am. You’re mad as hell, and I don’t blame you.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’m really sorry. I wanted to be at Laurie’s band concert, I swear.” He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Believe it or not, I left the station right after we got off the phone. I did, Gail.”