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

by Marjorie Doering

  21

  Later, as Waverly drove to Elliot Park, Jessica sat in her car outside the boutique waiting for Nicki. The sun had already begun melting the city’s first snowfall of the season but, even with the Honda’s heater running, her fingers felt like icicles. She raised her wrist and checked the time. Three minutes later, Nicki emerged buttoning her gray herringbone jacket as she piled into the car.

  “You’re late,” Jessica said.

  Nicki brushed strands of red, wind-whipped hair out of her face. “I had to wait. My last customer insisted on trying to force her size fourteen butt into a pair of size ten jeans.”

  “I hope we’ve got enough time to eat and settle whatever’s bugging you. I hate that you’re angry with me.”

  “I hate that you gave me reason.” Aside from giving directions for the quickest route to 46th and Grand, Nicki had nothing more to say.

  Minutes later, lucky to find an open parking space near Café Ena, they hurried into the unimposing, brick building. Instantly impressed by the interior’s bright colors and tile mosaics, Jessica followed Nicki as they were shown to a comfortable, street-side booth in the Latin fusion restaurant.

  “Did you see the food on those other tables?” Jessica said, sliding in. “I’m already salivating.”

  When a server arrived with menus and water, Nicki wasted no time. “We’ll have two glasses of Casas Del Bosque sauvignon blanc and the seared salmon. And,” she added, “we’re in a hurry.”

  “Right away,” the waiter promised, stepping away.

  Jessica’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing ordering for me?”

  “We don’t have all day for you to study the menu. It takes you ten minutes at McDonald’s.”

  “Fine, but since I’m picking up the tab, I’d better like what you ordered.”

  “You will.”

  “Look, we’re going to have to make this quick,” Jessica said, folding her arms on the edge of the table. “Let’s get on with it. What’s got you so ticked off?”

  “I found the picture, Jess.”

  “What picture?”

  “The one of you—buck naked—looking over your shoulder at the lens of a camera. Ring a bell?”

  The color drained from Jessica’s face. “I… I… Where did you see that photo, Nicki?”

  “In one of Hugh’s dresser drawers—hidden under a drawer liner. It wasn’t hidden very well obviously or I wouldn’t have seen it.” Nicki leaned against the back of her chair, shaking her head. “You’re supposed to be Amy’s friend. How could you sleep with her husband?”

  Jessica drew back as though she’d been slapped. “Are you out of your mind? I would never do that to her, not to mention that I couldn’t stand the guy in the first place. And why were you snooping around in Hugh’s bureau in the first place?”

  “I wasn’t snooping; I sort of came across it on Saturday while I was there. I wondered how much of his stuff could be packed up and given away, so I checked out his dresser.”

  They stopped talking abruptly as their waiter returned and served their wine. “Enjoy. I’ll be back shortly.” With that, he hurried away again.

  “Where’s the picture now?” Jessica asked her.

  “Right where I found it.”

  “Oh, my God, Nicki. Why did you leave it there?”

  “Did you think I’d protect you after what you did?”

  “Regardless what you think, you could’ve at least protected Amy. If you’re her friend, you should’ve gotten rid of it, Nicki.”

  “And you shouldn’t have messed around with her husband in the first place. Obviously you don’t take friendship as seriously as I do.”

  “Oh, really? Apparently you don’t give a damn about Amy’s feelings. You know what finding that photo will do to her. What kind of friend does that make you?”

  “Amy needs to find out what kind of two-faced traitor you are.”

  “Nicki, I didn’t sleep with Hugh,” Jessica said. “He didn’t take that picture, and I didn’t give it to him.”

  Clutching the stem of her wine glass in a death grip, Nicki sampled the sauvignon blanc. “That’s right. Just go ahead and keep on lying. You’re just like everyone else I’ve ever known, you can’t be trusted.”

  “I’m being honest with you, Nicki. You and I are friends. How can you accuse me of stabbing Amy in the back like that?”

  “You’ve heard the saying ‘A picture speaks a thousand words?’ Well, that one says you’re a lying bitch. I hold my friends to very high standard, and if you can climb between the sheets with a friend’s husband, you fall way short of my requirements.”

  “Well, excuse me all to hell, Your Highness. I didn’t realize you were holding court here today. If you think so little of me, maybe I should just bow out of your itty-bitty kingdom.”

  Nicki glanced at her over the rim of her wine glass. “I can count the number of people I’ve ever cared about on the fingers of one hand. You’re one of them. I want to be convinced I’m wrong. Can you do that, Jess?”

  The conversation at Café Ena raged on as Waverly pulled up in front of Amy’s house, brushing

  French fry salt and Big Mac crumbs off his coat. By the time he rapped on her front door, a half-inch of slush soaked his black oxfords.

  Clearly surprised, Amy greeted him seconds later. “Detective Waverly, come in.” He stomped his feet outside and stepped into the foyer. She stopped him as he put the toe of one shoe to the heel of the other with obvious intent. “You don’t have to take your shoes off. Just wipe your feet on the floor mat. That’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?” he said. “My wife’s got me well-trained.”

  “It’s okay, really.” She closed the door behind him. “I’m almost afraid to ask why you’re here.” She started away before he could explain. “I’ve got something on the stove. Do you mind talking in the kitchen?”

  “No problem.” He followed her through the house and sat down at the round, oak table in the center of the room as she gave a final stir to a pot on the front burner.

  “This ought to be hot enough now.” She grabbed a second mug and poured hot chocolate into both. “Marshmallows, Detective?”

  “Absolutely. Thanks.” He watched her drop three, large “Jet-Puffed” confections into the hot chocolate before setting the steaming mug in front of him. “Reminds me of when I was a kid,” he told her.

  She sat across from him. “Same here.”

  “But at my age,” Waverly said, with a chuckle, “I’ve got to remember a lot farther back than you.” Pleasantries out of the way, he said, “I came to do some digging. I need to ask you for information about your former relationships and associations…professional and personal.”

  “Why? What’s this about?” She wrapped both hands around her mug, the heat forcing her to let go a second later.

  “I need to find out who might want to see you hurt. Is there anyone you can think of who’s got a score to settle with you?”

  She cocked her head. “If this is about Hugh’s parents—”

  “No,” he assured her. “It’s not likely they had anything to do with their son’s murder.”

  Amy dropped against the back of her chair. “I’m not sure I understand. What does Hugh’s murder have to do with what you’re asking? I mean Hugh’s the one who was killed, not me.”

  His eyes shifted from the melting marshmallows to Amy. “Look, Ms. Conley, I’m just gonna tell you straight out. There’s a chance that you, not your husband, might’ve been the real target.”

  She laughed out of surprise. “That doesn’t make any sense. I was only feet away. Drugged. If I was the intended victim, Hugh would be here instead of me.”

  “This is prob’ly gonna be hard for you to hear, Ms. Conley, but whoever killed your husband may have done it to see you put in prison for his murder.”

  A nervous smile played at the corners of her mouth. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I wish.” He sampled the hot chocolate, using it to
create a brief diversion. “Mmm. Delicious.”

  Welcoming the momentary digression, she said, “I think it’s the dash of vanilla. My friend Nicki told me that’s how she makes it.”

  “It works.” Waverly reluctantly steered the conversation back on track. “Ms. Conley, can you think of anyone who could be holding some kind of grudge against you—even for some imagined wrongdoing?”

  “If someone hates me so much, why wouldn’t they have just killed me when they had the opportunity?”

  “Like I said, the point might’ve been to see you suffer—for as long as possible. They might’ve seen death as an easy ‘out’ for you,” Waverly said. “Too merciful.”

  “You’re really starting to scare me, Detective. Who in their right mind would murder an innocent person just to see me pay for it?”

  “It’s possible this person isn’t in their right mind, Ms. Conley. I need your cooperation. Have you ever been involved in some kind of job dispute, or crossed swords with another woman over a man? Maybe a bad break-up or something?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “What about old boyfriends?

  She fidgeted. He noticed.

  “You have something?”

  “I… No, never mind.”

  “Ms. Conley, don’t hold back. If there’s anything at all, you need to tell me.”

  “But it’s ancient history.” Waverly’s steadfast gaze suggested he wasn’t going to let it go.

  Amy gave in. “The last half of senior year, I dated a guy named Brad Cole. I haven’t seen him in ages. I feel silly even talking about this.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Tell me about him.”

  “All right, but I guarantee it’s a waste of time.” Amy held tight to her cooling mug. “Brad was tall and handsome. Dark hair. Extraordinary, bright-blue eyes. Sweet. Gentle. Funny, too. With all that going for him, I could still count the girls he went out with on one hand.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He was self-conscious. I heard there was some kind of accident when Brad was just a baby. It left one of his legs shorter than the other. He wore a lift, but still walked with a noticeable limp.”

  “So, what happened between the two of you?”

  “Nothing,” she said, shrugging. “After graduation, I moved to Widmer. Brad’s mother convinced him to stay in Glencoe to attend college—South Central. He wrote to me and, for a while, I answered. After a few months, I tapered off. Even after I stopped replying altogether, Brad kept it up. That went on for about a year.”

  “Were his letters demanding in any way? Threatening?”

  “Not at all. They were very sweet. It made me feel guilty that I’d stopped answering. Once his letters finally stopped coming, it was actually kind of a relief.” Amy drummed her fingers on the side of her cup. “About four years ago, we bumped into each other again in Widmer.”

  Waverly leaned closer. “Was it a coincidence, or do you think it was intentional on his part?”

  “I don’t know, but he started dropping by regularly after that. We even went out again a few times, but some things never change, so I wished him all the best, and we parted ways again.”

  “What things?” Waverly prompted.

  Amy raised her eyebrows and sighed. “In high school, Brad was still tied to his mother’s apron strings. That hadn’t changed. I couldn’t see myself dealing with that on a long-term basis, so I broke it off for the second time.”

  “How’d he take that?”

  “All right, I guess, but he started contacting me again like he had after graduation. Never say die, you know? He stayed in touch until Hugh and I married. After that I never heard from him again. That’s going on three years now. Believe me, Brad Cole isn’t the problem, Detective Waverly. If I’m worried about anyone, it’s the Retzingers across the street.” Amy stared into her mug. “I don’t know which one of them scares me more. Until last night, I thought it was Ronald watching me from across the way. Now I know better and it’s freaking me out.”

  “What happened last night?” Waverly asked.

  “Liz Dunham invited me and my friends Jessica and Nicki over for a spur-of-the-moment get-together. Ron followed me over there. Nicki suggested that it was just a coincidence—that he and I were just walking in the same direction, but when Jessie dropped me off here afterward, I saw Ron coming back from the direction of Liz’s house. It was as though he’d been waiting for me. I think he’d have been right on my heels again if I hadn’t gotten the ride.”

  “Okay, got it.”

  “There’s something else that scared me more, though,” she said. “I told you there were nights I saw Ronald watching me from his room across the way. I was wrong. Last night while he was still outside, I glanced up at that room and saw a silhouette in the window I always assumed was his. It had to have been his father.”

  “Curt Retzinger.”

  “Yes. It had to be. He and Ronald are the only ones living there.” She slapped several stapled sheets of paper on the table in front of him. “It has to be about this.”

  Waverly scanned the top sheet. “Retzinger’s itemized statement.” He blew a stream of air through his lips when he got to the number at the bottom of the third sheet. “Whoa.”

  “I know,” she said. “I don’t blame him for being angry; the balance is huge, but it’s like I told you; there’s no way I can pay him right now. Still, I don’t see how he could expect to get his money by killing Hugh and sending me to prison for it.”

  “If it’s about the money, he could sue to get it from your husband’s estate, but wading through the proper channels might take him years.” He went through the papers, reading the lengthy list of materials and labor charges. He stopped short halfway down the second page. As he looked up at her, his eyes narrowed. “Retzinger replaced an outside door?”

  “Yes, the one behind me. The original kitchen door was in bad shape.”

  Waverly pushed his chair back. “Ms. Conley, I’ve gotta go.” He drained his cup. “Thanks for the hot chocolate.” He stood, licking a drop off the fringe of his mustache. “I suggest you get your locks changed if you didn’t do it already.”

  “I’ve arranged to get it done, but they haven’t been here yet.”

  “Have them get a move on.”

  22

  As he left the Conley house and got into his car, Waverly looked across the street at the Retzinger place. Curt Retzinger’s work truck, which had been parked in the driveway earlier, was gone.

  The installation of a new exterior door in the Conleys’ kitchen meant, at some point, Curt and/or members of his crew had access to the key that would have come with it. If one of them made a duplicate, it could explain the lack of forced entry on the night of Hugh Conley’s murder. Access to a key and the nighttime “surveillance” activity by Curt and/or Ronald suggested the need to put the two of them under a microscope ASAP.

  To be effective, he’d need to interrogate them individually. Standard procedure. But in their case, that posed a problem. Being underage, the kid was entitled to have a parent present and, with no mother in the picture, that meant Curt. With his options limited, Waverly was on the phone with the principal of Ronald Retzinger’s school minutes later.

  “When can I talk with him?” Waverly asked.

  For a minute dead air followed while papers rustled in the background. Finally, the principal said, “Ron’s schedule has him in study hall next period. I can have him rerouted to my office then. That should be in roughly twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll be there in ten,” Waverly said.

  Waverly hadn’t been in a principal’s office since he set fire to his report card in a restroom sink in eighth grade. Setting the memory aside, he shook the principal’s hand. “I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Kellogg.”

  “Ordinarily I’d insist that this questioning be conducted elsewhere, Detective, but from what you’ve told me, this isn’t a typical situation.” Lanky body towering over Waverly, Kellogg looked at him
over the glasses perched below the bridge of his crooked nose. “I want your assurance that Ronald Retzinger’s rights will be fully protected.”

  “Count on it. You have my word on that,” Waverly said. “If the boy agrees to talk with me, I’ll get his father’s approval before we start. With any luck, Curt Retzinger will let you stand in for him during the questioning. If not, I’m screwed. And,” he assured Kellogg, “this is a non-custodial situation, but to be on the safe side, I’m gonna Mirandize the boy all the same.”

  “All right, I’m fine with that.”

  “Anything you can tell me about this kid before he shows up?”

  Motioning for Waverly to take a seat, Philip Kellogg settled in the chair behind his desk. “Ron’s a fairly typical student.” He glanced at the teen’s records lying in front of him. “He’s a lot brighter than his grades reflect: Cs and Ds mostly. He’s capable of doing much better than that, but doesn’t seem motivated.”

  “Oh?” It was the word that routinely got the greatest return for the least output.

  “You probably already know Ron’s father is a contractor,” Kellogg continued. “Ron prefers working with him to focusing on his education. I understand he often goes directly from school to his father’s current work site, wherever it may be. He puts in an hour or two helping out to earn his spending money. He’s told me he plans to work full-time for his father once he graduates. That’ll be another year. He’d have quit school last year if his father hadn’t insisted that he graduate first.”

  “So his father’s an involved parent?” The surprise bled through Waverly’s tone.

  “Involved?” Kellogg’s response fell somewhere between mild amusement and disappointment. “On a scale of one to ten…a two, maybe a three. During football season he did manage to show up for a few home games. Ron’s a pretty fair running back.”

  Waverly checked his watch. “Okay, so academically the kid’s a slacker. Any personal issues you’re aware of?”

  With Ron due at any time, Kellogg’s answers became more concise. “He’s a loner. Quiet.”