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

by Marjorie Doering

  “Clock tower quiet?” Waverly asked.

  “No, no. Nothing like that. More like low-key.”

  “Detached?”

  Kellogg features skewed. “Moody might be more accurate, but what teenager isn’t?”

  There was a knock on the office door.

  “Ron?” Kellogg said in a raised voice. “Come in.”

  The kid walked into the office, nonchalant, arms hanging loose and easy at his sides. “You wanted to see me?”

  Waverly stood and shook the kid’s hand. “I’m Detective Waverly, Ron. Nice to meet you. I asked Mr. Kellogg to have you come by. I hear you’re a running back. I used to play tackle in my day.”

  The way Ron looked him in the eye, it was like he could see clear through to the back of his head. “I suppose you’re here about what happened at the Conley place.”

  The kid was a bottom-liner. No messing around. No bullshitting. That suited Waverly just fine. “Yeah, I am. Have a seat. You don’t have any objections to answering a few questions for me, do you, Ron?”

  “Not if it gets me out of study hall.”

  “I hear ya.” Waverly pulled his cell phone out. “Tell ya what. The law’s real particular about how things get done, so if you’ll give me your dad’s number, I’ll get his okay to talk with you before we get started.”

  Ron provided the number while Waverly punched it in. Five rings later, Curt Retzinger picked up, shouting over the sounds of nail guns, whirring drills and circular saws. Curt wasn’t as easy a sell as his son but, pressured by work deadlines and having been caught off guard—as Waverly intended—he consented to let the principal oversee the questioning in his stead.

  Off to a better start than expected, Waverly read the kid his rights as promised. Kellogg removed himself to a corner of the room, back braced against a bookshelf—strictly an observer.

  Unconcerned, the kid perched an ankle over a knee, elbows resting on his chair’s armrests.

  “Now, Ron,” Waverly said, “you understand that you’re free to leave at any time, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Okay, then let’s do this. Mind telling me where you were on the night your neighbor Hugh Conley was killed?”

  “I was at home.”

  “Doing what?”

  “That depends on what time you’re talking about.”

  “Okay,” Waverly said, “let’s narrow it down to between nine and midnight.”

  “I was playing video games. About ten, I went to bed.”

  “Pretty early for someone your age, isn’t it?”

  The kid hoisted his shoulders and let them drop. “I got bored.”

  “Did you see or hear anything unusual before you called it a night?”

  The boy’s raised foot took on a life of its own. “The cops already asked me this crap the next day.”

  “I know,” Waverly told him. “You’re not the only one they talked to. They canvassed the entire neighborhood. Now how about telling me? See or hear anything unusual, Ron?”

  “Just the usual stuff.”

  Waverly stroked his mustache. “Let’s approach this another way. Tell me what you did see that night—the usual stuff included.”

  “I didn’t see anything. Like I said—the whole night was a bore.”

  “Okay, Ron, let’s move on.” Waverly sighed audibly. “You did some work around the Conleys’ place while your dad was renovating their house, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I helped out.”

  “That job lasted quite a while, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It was a big job. So?”

  “Then you must’ve run into Hugh and Amy Conley occasionally. What did you think of them?”

  “They were okay.”

  “Mrs. Conley’s very pretty, isn’t she?”

  The kid squirmed. “I suppose.”

  “Did she treat you well?”

  “I guess.” Something seemed to spark behind the boy’s apathetic eyes.

  “You like her?”

  “She’s all right, I guess. What are you trying to get at?” Ron’s knee began to bounce like a jackhammer.

  “I’m just asking. You have a problem with that?” The boy slumped in his chair. “How about her husband—did you like him?”

  “The guy was a real douche bag.”

  “Oh?”

  “The dumb shit treated her like dirt.”

  Waverly’s head bobbed slowly. “Like how? Did you see him hurt her—a slap, a punch, a shove maybe?”

  Ron leaned forward, his tone earnest. “If I had, I’d have made sure he never did it again.”

  Valor or bluster, Waverly wondered. He asked, “If he didn’t get physical with her, what did he do?”

  “It was the way he talked to her. He was an asshole.” Ron glanced at Kellogg. “Well, he was.”

  “And hearing him go off on her made you angry.”

  “Sure. Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Absolutely,” Waverly said. “So, what did you do about it?”

  “Nothing. I wanted to tell him to shut his ugly mouth, but ass-wipes like him don’t listen. Besides, if I said anything, it would’ve pissed my dad off—him working on Conley’s house and all, so I kept my mouth shut. Then the dick didn’t even pay his bill when my dad finished the job.”

  “That must’ve made you even madder, huh?”

  “Yeah. My dad’s still waiting for his money.”

  “Do you blame Amy Conley for that now that her husband’s dead?”

  He shrugged again. “But my dad’s pissed off, especially with jobs getting harder to come by lately.”

  “That must have him pretty stressed out.”

  Another shrug. “He’s doing okay.”

  “Hitting the bottle a little maybe?”

  “Once in a while. No big deal.”

  “When he gets drunk, does he tend to get mean? Violent?”

  The teen’s face flushed. “I didn’t say he gets drunk.”

  “But he does, doesn’t he?” The question met with stony silence. “I happen to know,” Waverly said, “because he was drunk the other night when he went to talk to Mrs. Conley. That would be the day you went over to rake her leaves. She gave you the brush-off, Ron, remember?” The kid tensed. “Pretty crappy, huh? You go over to lend a hand, and she tells you to get lost. Has she done that before?”

  “A couple of times,” Ron said. “It’s no skin off my nose if she doesn’t want my help.”

  Waverly realized he had touched a nerve. He moved to a corner of Kellogg’s desk, looking down at the boy. “Maybe it’s the way you watch her from your window across the way that has her upset with you, Ron.”

  Eyes widening, Ron shifted to the edge of his seat. “What are you talking about? I don’t do that.”

  “Don’t you?” Waverly said. “Ms. Conley has seen somebody watching from your place. It’s only you and your dad in that house. If it’s not you, are you saying it’s him?

  “No, I… No.”

  “Know what, Ron? I think it is.” Waverly crossed his arms over the top of his paunch. “See, I know about your mom leaving. I’m sorry about that. I am. That can’t have been easy for you or your dad,” Waverly continued. “That sort of thing can really mess with a person’s mind. It can set a guy off—screw around with his whole outlook—maybe even leave him with a cockeyed view of women in general.”

  Still entrenched in the corner, Kellogg cleared his throat.

  Waverly didn’t want to wear out his welcome with Kellogg, but he pushed a little harder. “Does your dad have anyone special in his life—a woman, I mean?”

  The kid crossed his arms, hands tucked under his armpits. “He goes out.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Is he seeing anyone regularly?”

  “He doesn’t bring anyone downstairs with him for breakfast in the morning, if that’s what you’re getting at. Anyway, what business is it of yours?”

  “I’m just trying to get a look at the big picture,” Waverly said.
“Maybe your dad has some mixed feelings about women—sort of a love/hate relationship with the opposite sex, know what I mean? Trust issues…that sorta thing.”

  Kellogg stepped forward. “Detective, I think this topic is—”

  Legs bouncing at double time, Ron answered before Kellogg could complete his objection. “My dad’s fine.” The principal held back, prepared to jump in if the discussion continued in the same vein. “Maybe Mrs. Conley did see me in the window,” the boy said. “But even if she did, I wasn’t spying on her.”

  Waverly proceeded. “Last night someone was already in that upstairs window just as you were walking in your front door. You have an explanation for that? Maybe you’ve figured out how to be in two places at the same time.” Waverly paused, stroking his mustache. “Gotta tell ya, Ron, I’ve got a real problem with this whole thing—your dad watching her from across the street—you following her to and from her friend’s house last night.” Ron didn’t reply. “What was the big idea?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “That’s not gonna cut it, Ronald.”

  “Ron,” the kid growled. “I was just keeping an eye on Mrs. Conley. I was watching out for her, that’s all.”

  “You were watching out for her? C’mon. You expect me to believe that?”

  “Hey, she’s alone over there and scared shitless, I bet. And you cops still haven’t caught her husband’s killer.”

  “I gather you don’t think she’s the one who did it.”

  The kid looked at Waverly like he was week-old roadkill. “Amy… Mrs. Conley… she’s a nice lady. She’d never do anything like that.”

  Waverly blew his nose, stuffed his handkerchief back in a pocket, then took his seat again. “Look, if you really want to help her, you’ll tell me if you saw or heard something going on the night of the murder. It’s like you said—you’d rather be here than in study hall anyway, right?”

  Ron crossed his arms. “Nothing was going on. It was a frickin’ Wednesday night. I heard a car pull up across the street around eight, and got up and looked just for something to do. I saw Mrs. Conley get in, and then the car pulled away. But that’s it. Big damn deal.”

  “What about after that?”

  “Nothing happened after that.” Ronald hesitated, his slouch bringing his hips to the front edge of his seat. “I guess it was around eleven that I got out of bed and went downstairs to get something to eat. I heard tires peeling out from in front of the Conleys’ house. I took a look out front, and it was that asshole. A cab had dropped him off.”

  “Mr. Conley?”

  “Yeah, him. I guess Mrs. Conley wasn’t back yet, because the house was dark. He let himself in and turned on a couple of lights.”

  “The house was dark? Totally dark?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, she must’ve still been out.”

  Either that, Waverly knew, or if his original suspicions were right, she was upstairs lying in wait for her husband. If Ray was right, Amy Conley was lying unconscious, while someone else prepared to take Hugh Conley’s life in order to ruin hers.

  Waverly wasn’t sure Ron Retzinger didn’t know the answer.

  23

  When Amy answered her door the next day, Liz barreled straight past her into the living room, toting folded corrugated boxes under each arm.

  “Good morning, sunshine.”

  “What’s all this?” Amy said.

  “Boxes.”

  “I see that, but what are they for?”

  “For filling.”

  “Liz, I’m not up to playing guessing games today.” Amy’s voice reflected her less-than-upbeat state of mind. “Just tell me, okay?”

  Liz leaned the flattened cartons against the couch, then reached into a pocket of her winter jacket and pulled out a roll of packing tape. Tossed on the couch, the tape bounced twice and came to rest on the center cushion where her jacket landed seconds later. “We’re going to do a little packing up, my dear.”

  “I gathered as much,” Amy said. “Do you mind telling me exactly what it is we’re packing?”

  Liz began organizing the slabs of cardboard according to size. “Hugh’s things, sweetie.”

  “I don’t think I can, Liz. It’s too soon.”

  Poking a finger in Amy’s direction, she said, “I knew you’d say that. Nicki told me you put her off when she offered to help do it, but you can’t pull that on me; I’m too damned pushy. Getting this done is for your own good. And from a purely practical standpoint, his stuff is taking up a lot of valuable space around here.”

  “Look at the size of this place, Liz. I don’t need more space.”

  “Do I smell coffee?” Liz walked toward the kitchen. “Let’s have a cup. It’ll give you some time to get used to the idea. Over her shoulder she said, “It’s a nice day out today. Chilly but pretty.”

  Amy sighed and followed.

  Liz had already snagged two mugs from a cupboard.” Sit,” she told Amy. “I’ve got this.”

  “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Liz, but I don’t mind Hugh’s things staying where they are for now.”

  “Hush. You need to listen to someone who’s thinking with a clearer head than yours at the moment. That would be me.” She set an overly full cup in front of Amy and joined her. “I know getting rid of Hugh’s things won’t be easy for you, but once his personal belongings aren’t all over the place, you’ll feel a lot better.”

  Amy stared into her mug. “You don’t understand. There are memories of Hugh I want to hold onto. We had some really wonderful times in the beginning.”

  “But not nearly enough of them, I’m guessing.”

  When Amy raised her eyes, they were moist. “You, Nicki and Jessie never got to meet the man I fell in love with. That Hugh could be funny and kind. Thoughtful. He made me feel special. Cherished.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for that, hon, but let’s be practical here. You don’t need his shirts and jockey shorts to remember him by.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Then use your head. Those memories you keep in your mind and heart, not in your closets and dressers.”

  “Yes, but it’s just so soon.”

  “Then can I make a suggestion, hon?” Liz asked, sipping her coffee. “Doing the job all at once would be the best way to go about this, but if that’s too big a step right now, what about disposing of his things a little at a time? That might be easier for you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “The only way to know for sure is to try,” Liz said. “Cruddy stuff gets the heave ho first, like underwear and socks, then all the toiletries and odds and ends men always leave lying around. You know, all those annoying, cluttery things. Look,” she said, setting her cup down, “I know you must think I’m a real beast for pushing this down your throat, but it’s for the best. Really it is. You’ll see. Besides, I’ve got a few items in the trunk of my car waiting for a trip to a St. Vincent de Paul’s or a Goodwill store. I could drop your donations and mine off at the same time. No fuss, no muss.”

  Amy looked unconvinced.

  “Believe me, sweetie, you don’t want to be tripping over old memories every time you set foot in a closet or open a drawer. I ought to know—I’ve been through that.”

  It was news Amy hadn’t heard in the nine months they’d known each other. “I had no idea, Liz. I’m sorry. You’ve never talked about your husband. I haven’t seen any pictures of him in your house, so I assumed there’d been a divorce. I didn’t want to ask. It never dawned on me that your husband died.”

  Liz smirked. “With any luck, by now he has.”

  “What?”

  “Actually, we did divorce. It’s the way he went about it that still has me pissed off. Martin just up and left one day. Didn’t even bother to lie and say he was going out for a pack of cigarettes or a carton of milk. The next morning, I realized some of his clothes and a couple of suitcases were gone. The damned coward must’ve packed up his car while I was at work. I guess he figured his
sudden departure was all the explanation I needed. It wasn’t until almost a year after he’d walked out that door for the last time that he finally sent me the divorce papers. In two days it’ll be twenty-one years.”

  “Oh, Liz, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be; I’m not. The kids and I got along fine without him.”

  “You’ve got kids?”

  “A son and a daughter.”

  “Why haven’t you mentioned them before?”

  A sheen of tears appeared in Liz’s eyes. “My son died.” The words crackled with anguish as they caught in her throat. Before Amy could ask about her daughter, Liz shut the conversation down. “See? This is why I like to keep my personal history to myself. Anyway, I’m not here to talk about me.” Liz slapped a hand on the table. “Enough of that. How about drinking up so we can get upstairs and get this job done?”

  Liz stood and led the way, stopping short as she stepped into the master bedroom. “Oh, my God. This room looks absolutely spotless. No one would ever guess this is where Hugh was… Oh, I’m sorry, hon. I’m just really impressed that you managed to handle the cleanup.”

  Amy’s face blanched. “I didn’t do it. I couldn’t. Detective Waverly told me there are companies that specialize in cleaning up crime scenes. I contacted one of them. My insurance even covered it.”

  “Well, they did a great job.”

  Amy grimaced. “They did, but there are times I swear I can still smell the blood.”

  “It’s all in your head, sweetie.”

  “That only makes it worse.” Amy looked around the room. “I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but it’s gotten to the point that I can barely wait to sell this house.”

  “I can understand that,” Liz said. “Be patient. The way Detective Waverly and your friend Detective Schiller are going at this, you’ll be in the clear before you know it. Then you can collect Hugh’s life insurance and do whatever you want with this place.”

  “I wish I felt as optimistic as you sound.”

  “Sweetie,” Liz said, reconstructing a box with the help of the packing tape, “a good lawyer will take the information about the date rape drug in your system and the footprints on that storage bench and get you off just like that. On reasonable doubt, if nothing else.”