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

by Marjorie Doering

  “Ray, you’re wasting your time.”

  “Stop kidding yourself, Amy. The evidence points to Liz. The night before you fell down the stairs, she took you out and got you drunk. It was probably a calculated move.”

  “She didn’t pour the drinks down my throat, Ray.”

  “Maybe not, but she figured out a way to see to it that you’d go into the basement the next day.”

  “I was on my way there anyway.”

  “But she couldn’t have known that. She made sure that happened. Frankly, you’re lucky my partner kept you in sight after he found the two of you at the bottom of those stairs or you might’ve been dead before the EMTs arrived.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When he first saw the two of you at the bottom of those stairs, she had your head in her hands. He wasn’t sure if she was checking for injuries or had something else in mind. He got more suspicious when she tried to get rid of him.”

  “What do you mean ‘get rid of him’?”

  “She asked him to find a blanket, then suggested he wave down the ambulance when it turned onto your street. He didn’t leave you.” He saw a tear plummet down the apple of her cheek. “We’ve got to locate her, Amy,” he said. “Tell me what you know about her.”

  “I don’t know a lot about Liz yet; I’ve only known her eight or nine months. Nicki, Jessie and I all took to her right away. It’s not like she had to fill out an application to join up.”

  “There must be something you can tell me,” Ray insisted. He watched her face and saw a memory emerge.

  “Wait, there is something. The other day she told me her husband walked out on her and their son and daughter twenty years ago. His name was Michael. No, it was Martin.”

  “Anything else?”

  Amy nodded. “Her son died. That’s all Liz said. She got choked up and changed the subject right away. And a while ago, she told us some movie was filmed in her hometown. Grumpy Old Men, I think she said.”

  “I remember it,” Ray said. “Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon.”

  “That’s the one. I don’t remember the name of the town, but it was right on the Minnesota side of the Mississippi. Liz said that, just across the river, there was another little town with a cheese factory she liked. The place sold cheese, ice cream, wine, that sort of thing. I don’t see how any of that can help, but it’s all I can remember.”

  “All right,” he said. “You relax while I call Detective Waverly and fill him in.”

  While Ray was on the phone, Gail came downstairs, having taken time to do some cosmetic repairs to her red eyes. She knew at a glance Ray had Dick on the other end of the line. There was a certain ease in Ray’s demeanor and tone that always gave it away.

  She found the guestroom door open and stepped inside.

  Amy looked up, surprised. “Gail, I’m so sorry. I know what you saw looked bad, but nothing was going on, I swear.”

  “You don’t have to explain; Ray already did.”

  “Oh. Well, even so, I apologize for upsetting you. Ray may have put it more kindly—maybe not—but he told me something that turned me into a blubbering idiot. I hijacked his shoulder, Gail; he didn’t volunteer it.”

  “You’re right; he did put it more kindly.” She took a deep breath. “I overreacted and I apologize for that, but in the future, if you need a shoulder to cry on, I suggest you use mine.”

  “Understood.”

  Ray stepped into the room. “Good, you’re both here. I just passed your information along to my partner. He says arrangements have been made to transfer you to another location in the morning, Amy. I didn’t ask for the details; we’ll get those tomorrow.” The prospect of returning to his regular routine and his bed pleased Ray no end. For Amy’s benefit, he tried not to let it show.

  “Now that that’s settled, I’ve got a movie programmed for seven o’clock. It’s almost that now. Can you manage one more night in front of the TV with us, Amy?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Ray held the guestroom door open as she directed her wheelchair into the living room. “Anybody want something to drink—coffee, soda, juice?” he asked.

  “Coke if you have it,” Amy said.

  “Apple juice for me, hon,” Gail said as he walked to the kitchen.

  Drinks in hand, Ray returned to a homey scene a minute later. The hand-forged, vine-and-leaf motif iron table lamps cast warm, inviting light throughout the room, but Ray’s grip on the glasses tightened as he realized the drapes on the front window had been left open. The early nightfall and their unexpected preoccupation with other matters had left them exposed like goldfish in a bowl.

  He set the glasses down and started toward the window to close the drapes when he saw headlights approaching slowly, nearing the curb.

  An instant later, Ray’s heart stuttered in his chest as he recognized the car.

  38

  The vehicle slowed to a stop directly in front of the house. The light of a street lamp glittered off an object raised between the driver and the passenger side window.

  The hairs on Ray’s neck bristled. “Down!” he shouted. “Down! Get down!”

  His warning rang out as he vaulted over the back of the couch, knocking Amy’s wheelchair on its side as the front window shattered.

  From outside, the squeal of spinning tires faded as the car disappeared in the distance.

  With a hand on his ribcage, Ray rose a moment later, frantically scanning the room. He saw Gail standing with a hand on her chest, her back to the staircase. He leapt over the overturned ottoman and raced to her in a panic.

  “Gail,” he shouted, “are you all right?” He pulled her hand away and saw nothing but spotless, undamaged fabric.

  “I’m okay, Ray,” she said. “I’m all right.”

  “Thank God.” He wrapped her in his arms, then stepped back and asked, “Don’t you know what down means?”

  “I’m sorry. I was so startled I…”

  He raced to shut the drapes, then went to Amy, still on the floor. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” she said.

  Wincing, Ray righted the wheelchair, grimacing as he helped her into it again.

  Gail came to his side. “Ray, you’re hurt.”

  “I just bruised my side. I’m okay. Babe, I want you to get upstairs.”

  “Why? You don’t think the shooter’s coming back, do you?”

  “I doubt it, but I’m not chancing you being in the line of fire again. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come down.”

  Gail caressed his cheek and disappeared up the stairs.

  Glancing at the holes in the wall created by the bullets meant for Amy, he dialed Waverly’s number. “Dick?” he said, two rings later. “It’s Ray. Get someone over here now. Amy’s got to be moved immediately. Why? Because I’ve got a shattered window and three bullets in my living room wall, that’s why. “Yeah,” he said, “we’re all okay. And, Dick, the shots were fired from a car. I recognized it; I was in it once. It belongs to Liz Dunham. Find that bitch.”

  An hour later, Waverly, still in his coat, watched the techs remove the bullets along with surrounding drywall from Ray’s living room wall. Cold November air seeped into the room through the three, spider web-patterned holes in the picture window. Ray would have to tape or plug them up once the techs finished checking the trajectory of the bullets. Meanwhile, bundled in a jacket, he talked to Waverly while Gail stood to the side, staying out of everyone’s way.

  “Wonder if homeowner’s insurance covers this,” Waverly said. “Want me to check with Larry Benedict?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Ray said. “You’re a real knee slapper, Dick.”

  “Just trying to lighten the mood, buddy.”

  “You want to make me feel better? Find Liz Dunham.”

  “You’re sure it was her, Ray?”

  “It was her car…a late model, burgundy, Chevy Impala. I could make it out as it passed under the streetlights.”


  “Lotsa Burgundy Impalas, buddy.”

  “Damn few with an S-shaped crease in the right front fender,” Ray said.

  “Okay. Just making sure.”

  “She must be crazy doing this, Dick.”

  “Crazy may be the right word. At least Amy Conley’s outta here now. Dunham sure is hell-bent on seeing her dead, but I’ll be damned if I can figure out what her motive is.”

  Waverly paused to take a ten-second call on his cell phone, then hung up and stroked his mustache. “Still no sign of Dunham,” he said. “She could’ve gone anywhere from here. Doesn’t matter, though. We’ll find her.”

  Ray pointed to the close-set holes in the wall. “She’s a damn good shot; I’ll give her that. Look at that tight grouping.”

  “Yeah, just like the bullet wounds in Hugh Conley’s chest. Well, you don’t need me here anymore, Ray. I’m gonna get going. I can put my time to better use elsewhere.” He turned and walked away still talking. “The minute I get anything, I’ll be in touch.”

  39

  Thanks to Ray Schiller, Amy Conley was still alive. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go—not how it was supposed to go at all. Had the gun been fired a split second sooner or Schiller been a split second slower, that would have been the end of that. Still, it wasn’t the first time her plans required changing. Another opportunity was bound to present itself. With any luck, it would be sooner rather than later.

  The ability to think on her feet was advantageous, and while being patient hadn’t been easy, it paid dividends. Watching Amy go through hell had been gratifying. Seeing her behind bars, her ordeal stretching out year after endless year would have been infinitely more satisfying, but Schiller’s interference spoiled that plan as well. Another opportunity of that sort wasn’t likely to come along again. Killing Amy would have to do.

  It had been a troubling decision. Death was too quick. Too easy. From that perspective, the murder attempt on the stairs, having added physical injury to Amy’s emotional distress, wasn’t so much a failure as a tolerable nuisance.

  While biding her time was one thing, wasting it was something else. Now with Amy under even closer guard, hanging around would serve no purpose. Devising a new plan could be done anywhere, and with unfinished business awaiting completion little more than an hour away, it took no time at all deciding on the location.

  “Anywhere” would be St. Cloud, Minnesota.

  40

  The following morning, seeing the patched bullet holes in the picture window brought Ray’s anger to the boiling point again. Dunham had to be out of her mind, but smart. Determined.

  His family’s move to Eden Prairie had come up at Hugh Conley’s funeral lunch. It followed that when it came to locating Amy, Dunham hazarded a wild guess and got lucky. Getting his home address, however, would have presented a major challenge. As a member of law enforcement, his home number was unlisted—his address kept confidential. The department’s standard precautions worked well, but they weren’t foolproof. The shooting incident had proved as much.

  The night before, in the darkness of their room, Ray and Gail never broke physical contact: a hand on his chest; his arm draped over her waist; her head on his shoulder. It had nothing to do with sexual intimacy—everything to do with unspoken reassurance.

  Gail was waiting for him in the kitchen the next morning. She poured his coffee as he came down the stairs, dressed for work. Setting his cup down on the table, she went to him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “You’re going in?”

  “If you want me to stay with you, I will. Technically, today’s still a vacation day.”

  She stepped back. “It’s you I’m worried about, not me. How are your ribs?”

  “Bruised, like I thought. Not a big deal.”

  “If you’re sure,” she said. “Eggs today, hon?”

  “Just coffee and juice this morning. Got my thermos ready?”

  “You’re all set.” Gail set a glass of orange juice beside his coffee.

  He drank both, standing. “You have the window replacement covered, babe?”

  “I’ll get on it at the stroke of nine.”

  “Okay, good.” Ray took his thermos from her and leaned in for a kiss. “If you need anything, give me a call, all right? See you later.”

  They had danced around the topic of Amy and the shooting with finesse. The subject was closed by tacit agreement…at least in the Schiller household. At the precinct station, word had gotten around. Other detectives in Ray’s department greeted him with expressions of outrage and concern. Their sentiments were appreciated, but it was Waverly Ray wanted to talk to.

  An hour later he hustled up to Ray’s desk. “Did you get any sleep last night, buddy?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “Thought as much. Me either. I finally got tired of tossing and turning, so I got up at the crack of dawn and got Judge Landers out of bed. It didn’t win me any points, but I got this.” Waverly waved a search warrant in the air.

  Ray gave him a high-five. “You’re on your way to Elliot Park then?”

  “Damn straight. We’re gonna search every inch of Dunham’s place. There’s still no sign of her inside the Cities or out.

  “I checked out the information you got from Amy Conley. Wabasha, Minnesota. That’s where they filmed part of Grumpy Old Men. The cheese factory’s in Nelson, Wisconsin. I thought Dunham might’ve headed back to her old stomping grounds, but the cops over there haven’t seen hide nor hair of her either. She’ll turn up eventually. In the meantime,” he said waving the search warrant, “I’m gonna make the most of this. Wish you could be in on it, buddy.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Don’t worry, Ray. You’ll be the first to know if we find anything.”

  Search warrant in hand, with an assist from a locksmith, Waverly and a small handful of crime scene techs gained entry into Liz Dunham’s unoccupied Elliot Park home. Waverly glanced down the street at Amy Conley’s house and shook his head.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get a move on. Logan, you and Fedie take the first floor. Beecroft and I will start on the second.”

  They knew what they were looking for: Nike View II walking shoes, ammo for a .38 Rossi, the Rossi itself, and last but not least, Rohypnol.

  He turned into the first room at the top of the stairs. Dunham had turned it into a tidy, little office with an L-shaped desk, computer, and bookcase. The usual. If her computer contained incriminating information, it would be up to someone else to find it—someone who was computer savvy. Waverly didn’t claim to be skilled in that area.

  He found the desk drawers unlocked. Bill files were divided into paid and unpaid statements arranged by order of their due dates. Bank statements had their own assigned place. None of her check records raised any suspicion. They showed mortgage payments, utilities, insurance premiums, checks to grocery and department stores. All routine stuff.

  He heard Beecroft rummaging through the upstairs bathroom. “How’s it going, Beecroft?”

  “Nothing interesting so far.”

  “All right,” Waverly told him, opening the closet. “Keep at it.” Inside, he found nothing but dust bunnies and empty luggage—probably closet ‘overflow’.

  A voice came from downstairs. “Detective, you might want to come down here.”

  “Be there in a second,” Waverly hollered. He went down the stairs, through the living room and into the kitchen. “Where the hell are you, Fedie?”

  “Down the hall, first door on the right.”

  Waverly located him in a small, first-floor bedroom, standing beside a promising find. “Well, what do we have here?”

  “Some sort of trunk,” Fedie said. “Looks like a miniature coffin.”

  Waverly ran a hand over the pine surface and one of the hand-forged, steel handles. “What it is, is a coach trunk. One of my uncles had one just like this. Check out these dovetailed corners and hand-cut, square nails.” He stood back for a better look and
smiled. “My cousins and I used to play ‘pirate’ at their place—pretended the coach trunk was a treasure chest. Fun times.”

  “It’s locked. Want me to force it open?”

  Waverly thought about it for a few seconds. “How are you at picking a lock, Fedie?” The tech sighed. “Well,” Waverly said, “give a try anyway.”

  Logan walked into the room. “It looks like the next bedroom down is the one the Dunham woman uses. The closet is full of clothes. And shoes, Detective. A ton of them.”

  “Any Nike View II walking shoes?”

  “Some Nikes,” Logan said, “but no View IIs.”

  Waverly sighed. “That figures. They’re prob’ly long gone, but keep checking just in case.”

  He looked at Fedie still at work on the lock. “Keep at it,” he mumbled as he left for the kitchen.

  A plastic-wrapped plate of leftover lasagna and a slice of raspberry cheesecake in a deli container made Waverly’s mouth water, but left his professional interest unsatisfied. The presence of three bottles of Spicy Hot V-8 vegetable juice, two bottles of pulp-free orange juice, and a bottle of cranberry juice made sense when he opened a cupboard and found a bottle of peach schnapps and two bottles of Grey Goose vodka. His mustache twitched. “More liquid refreshment than solid food in this joint.”

  “What did you say?” Logan asked as he stepped into the kitchen.

  “Wasn’t important. Did you find anything?”

  “Just a whole lot of nothing, Detective. No gun. No Nike View II walking shoes. No ammo. No ‘roofies’. The only pills I found are the kind I keep in my own medicine cabinet. There’s a half-finished bottle of sleeping pills on her nightstand, though. Any chance we should be looking for a suicide note?” Logan asked.

  “Suicide might explain why no one’s spotted Dunham or her car,” Waverly said, “but I don’t see this woman doing that. Can’t even picture it.”

  “Hey, Detective,” Fedie hollered from the bedroom, “I got it open.”

  Waverly walked into the room as the tech lifted the lid. At first glance, the contents looked disappointing—a hope chest rather than the treasure chest Waverly hoped for. In the confines of the coach trunk’s wooden sides, there were linens, towels and miscellaneous odds and ends.