Dear Crossing (The Ray Schiller Series)

by Doering, Marjorie

  Ray’s stomach rumbled. Since his separation from Gail, meals had gone from being a pleasure to an afterthought. He’d forgotten to eat lunch. Again. He came to a slow stop at a red light, knowing there was no point in racing to the motel. Having left Valerie Davis in his wake, the biker would be long gone.

  Waiting for the light to change, he glanced at Neil. “How’s the lip?”

  “Still keeps liquids from dribbling out.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  The rookie motioned toward Ray’s bruised cheek. “Nice shade of purple. It’s a good color on you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Ray accelerated on green. Passing Mark Haney’s hardware store, he forced himself to face forward. “Have you ever been inside the Shady Manor?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’m wondering if there’s still a chance of finding some trace of that biker in the room he rented.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard Harry Schuster keeps a pretty clean place.”

  “Shit.”

  Ray stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray as they passed St. Bartholomew’s Catholic Church. He hadn’t been inside St. Bart’s or any other church since his father’s funeral at his home parish in Chicago several years earlier.

  St. Dominic’s, with its twin bell towers, stood at the corner of N. Sedgwick and W. Locust just blocks from his childhood home. As a boy, the bells and pleasant clackety clack of trains crossing the overpass a block east had been a pleasant distraction from the weekly sermons. For an hour every Sunday, he and his sister Ellen would sit fidgeting between their parents on St. Dominic’s polished pews. The last time he saw his sister, she lay in a white casket at the front of the church. She was only ten.

  His mother blamed the leukemia.

  His father blamed God.

  At eight years of age, numb with grief, Ray couldn’t decide who or what was responsible for the loss of his sister. When his mother died, he didn’t have that problem; he laid the blame squarely on his father’s shoulders.

  When his father died a year later, Ray blamed himself.

  As the reflection of the church disappeared from the rearview mirror, Ray tried to shake off the troubling memories. The fast food joints, shops, bars and banks thinned out then vanished. They’d reached the more bucolic stretch of real estate where the road into town siphoned traffic off the interstate.

  Lake Hadley flashed intermittently through the densely wooded shoreline. Ahead and to the right, the Shady Manor came into view. The fifteen-unit motel sat perched atop an elevated stretch of land high enough to attract travelers with its lakeside view.

  Black shutters, white walls, crisp, neat, inviting—from a distance. The motel’s attractive façade faded as Ray parked outside the office. The hedges in front were in serious need of trimming, and spider webs the size of doilies occupied the corners under the portico. Ray hoped they might find something of use in the biker’s motel room after all.

  With Neil on his heels, Ray stepped past an abandoned cleaning cart and into the office. Inside, a radio spewed a nasal Willie Nelson song through the too-beige room. “Mr. Schuster?” Ray tapped the bell on the counter. “Mr. Schuster?” He tapped it again with more insistence.

  From behind a door on the opposite side of the desk, a voice answered, “Hold on, I’m coming.”

  The man sounded annoyed. Slightly winded, Harry Schuster came through the door a minute later. He ran a hand over his mussed hair—what little remained of it. Realizing they weren’t customers, his lined face darkened with irritation.

  Ray took note of the shirttail still hanging out of the back of the man’s pants and the open buttonhole over his paunch, missed in his rush to get dressed. Ray turned in time to see a chubby fiftyish woman reclaiming her cleaning cart outside. She caught him watching her through the window, finished tucking in her blouse and hurried away. Apparently, maid service at the Shady Manor consisted of more than cleaning rooms.

  Schuster adjusted the bifocals perched over his bulbous nose, stepped up to the counter and saw the knowing look on Ray’s face. He grinned. “A little afternoon delight. You know how it is. So, what brings you fellas out this way? You two need a room?”

  Unamused, Ray said, “What we need is information. We’re looking for a man who may have stayed here sometime this past weekend. Probably Friday night.”

  Schuster looked from Ray’s battered face to Neil’s and back again. “You two walk into the same door or something?”

  Tired of being a source of Schuster’s entertainment, Ray ignored him. “We don’t know the man’s name,” he said, “but he would’ve been around 6’2”, 200 pounds or so. Nice-looking guy in his twenties. Dark hair—”

  Schuster sneered. “You can stop. I remember him. A punk. A real wise ass.” He hocked up a chunk of phlegm and spit it into a wastebasket under his side of the counter.

  “Sure we’re talking about the same person? He’d have been riding a motorcycle.”

  “Couldn’t say what he rode into town on. Could’ve been a pogo stick or a stretch limo for all I know. He was hoofin’ it when I saw him.”

  “He was walking?”

  “Yeah, and not too well at that. Stood right where you are, dripping rain and blood all over my floor. Said he’d had an accident outside of town. His knee was all tore up, so it made sense, and I let him sign in. Didn’t like his looks, though—black leather jacket, biker’s boots. You know the type.”

  “Let me see your guest register.”

  “Won’t do you no good.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The name he gave is a phony as sure as I’m standing here. That black hair, the dark eyes and olive complexion? Tom Brown, my ass. That punk sure as hell ain’t the sharpest needle in the pincushion. Gonzales or Russo maybe—something more ethnic, but Brown? C’mon, gimme a break. Stands to reason the address he gave is bogus, too.”

  Schuster was probably right, but Ray held his hand out for the register all the same. He flipped to a recent page and recorded the address in a notepad. If any part of it was right, it was probably the city, or maybe just the state: Minneapolis, Minnesota. He’d check out the street address later.

  “Did you ask to see his driver’s license?” Neil asked.

  “A guy like that…? I didn’t bother. Trust me, whatever ID he offered would be as fake as a three-dollar bill.”

  “You could’ve refused to rent him a room,” Neil said.

  “Yeah.” Schuster worked at sucking something from between his teeth. “Thing is, I gotta make a living, you know?”

  Ray ventured a guess. “I don’t suppose he used a credit card.”

  “Nope. Paid cash.”

  “Did he make any calls while he was here?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “We’d like to see his room.”

  “Don’t waste your time. I rented that unit out twice more since he was here on Friday. The room’s been cleaned up three times over already.”

  Ray held out his hand. “The key, please.”

  Reaching up to the double row of ‘S’ hooks hanging on a pegboard, Schuster snagged the key marked ‘5’. “Just so’s you can’t claim I was uncooperative, I’ll take you there myself.” Schuster led the way, talking over his shoulder. “You never said what this is all about.”

  “You’re right, we didn’t.”

  “You gonna?” Schuster slipped the key in the lock. He pushed the door open, stepped aside and let them pass. “Say…does this have anything to do with that Davis woman?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Schuster leaned against a wall, out of their way.

  The room’s bland, monochromatic color scheme matched the office. Totally tan and beige, Ray figured it was enough to put an insomniac to sleep. A faint whiff of bleach and other cleaning products lingered in the room. One wall sported a large crack, and a stain on the ceiling hinted that the roof needed serious attention. Other flaws caught Ray’s eye but, with all
its imperfections, the room was immaculate. The division of labor was clear: the maid cleaned the interior, while maintenance and outdoor upkeep fell to Schuster. Harry was falling down on the job.

  Working his way around the double beds, Ray checked the floors, sills, the spotless wastebasket and every drawer. Still searching, he took another shot at getting additional information. “This Tom Brown guy… What’d he do to tick you off?”

  Schuster hmmphed. “The punk had a real crappy attitude. Didn’t think nothin’ of showin’ it off neither. Know what I’m saying?”

  “Give me a for instance.”

  “For one thing, he left me with that puddle of rainwater and blood in my office without a single ‘sorry.’ Then he gets me out of bed at midnight. Wanted some aspirin for his leg. Shoulda told him to cram it, but I’m too damn nice. I hauled myself down there with a bottle of Tylenol. My personal supply, mind you. Tipped a couple into his hand, and instead of being grateful, he gets mouthy. ‘Geezus, old man,’ he says, ‘are they made of gold?’ He grabs the bottle and dumps a few more into his palm. Nervy as hell.

  “Saturday morning, I watched, waiting for him to leave. Checked out just before he could get charged for another day. Both complimentary coffee packets were gone. Only found one package in the trash basket. The bastard must’ve pocketed the second one.”

  Ray checked under the beds. “Did he take your towels while he was at it?”

  “Might as well have. He got blood on those and the sheets, too. The damn jackass ruined ‘em.”

  Ray dared to hope. “Where are they?”

  Having overheard, Neil hurried out of the bathroom. “Do you still have them?”

  “They’re out back in the Dumpster. Finally tossed ‘em—couldn’t get the stains out.”

  “See to it that your Dumpster stays exactly as is.” Ray raised a finger toward Schuster’s face. “Don’t add or remove anything. Let your housekeeper know, too.” He looked at Neil and pointed toward the bathroom. “You find anything in there?”

  Neil shook his head. “Not even a stray hair.”

  “Might as well wrap it up here then.” He turned to Harry Schuster. “We’d like to talk to this Tom Brown. If you think of anything—”

  “I’ll give you a holler. Count on it.”

  “Good,” Ray said. “Meanwhile, this room is off limits until crime scene techs check it out. Don’t rent it out again until they finish with it.”

  “What the hell? Neither of you found a damn thing.”

  Ray started walking away. “Maybe they’ll have better luck.”

  “Hey, am I getting reimbursed? Keeping that room vacant is gonna cost me.”

  “From the looks of your register,” Ray said, “you don’t need it. The good news is: you do like I say and I won’t have to arrest you for interfering with a police investigation. Are we clear?”

  “Shit.” Schuster slammed the door and locked the room up as Ray and Neil got back into the squad car.

  “Where to now?” Neil said.

  “You have to ask?” Ray turned the key, but left the car in Park. “Think about it. This guy had an accident outside of town on Friday night. He shows up on foot at the motel, but he and his bike are back together Saturday at The Copper Kettle. Put it all together. What does that suggest?”

  Neil’s face lit up. “Speltz’s garage. It’s only a couple blocks away—easy walking distance. He probably got his bike repaired there.”

  Ray put the car in gear. “Give the man a cigar.”

  11

  One of two bay doors stood open as Ray and Neil pulled up outside Speltz’s Amoco Station. It wasn’t a convenience store by any stretch of the imagination. Customers had to ask for a key to use the restroom. Occasionally, when the front counter was left unattended, some used the woods out back—a more sanitary alternative to the toilet kept under lock and key around the side of the garage. Burt Speltz sold gas and did automotive repairs. If customers had change for his vending machines, they could get cigarettes, candy bars, gum, and soda pop, nothing more. Those items he kept on hand for his personal convenience more than the public’s. A fifty-year-old chain-smoking, gum-chewing diabetic with an insatiable sweet tooth, he was living on borrowed time.

  As they stepped inside the work area, a blast of heavy metal music pounded Ray and Neil like invisible fists. Someone was working under the hood of a rusted, red, 1996 Honda Civic hatchback.

  The engine revved, competing with the ramped-up bass booming from the car’s speakers.

  “Greg,” Neil hollered. He got no reaction. “Yo, Greg.” he called again, tapping the mechanic’s shoulder.

  The young man’s head snapped up barely missing the hood. “Shit, you scared the crap outta me.” Brushing a forearm across his unremarkable face, the twenty year old smeared grease across his brow.

  “Sorry.” Neil motioned toward the car, the source of the music. “Judas Priest?”

  Out of his depth, Ray stepped closer, waiting without comment.

  Greg Speltz’s dark eyes registered surprise. “You like Judas Priest?”

  “Some,” Neil hollered over the music. “‘Riding on the Wind’ and ‘Bloodstone.’ Good stuff. Hey, what do you hear from Keith?”

  “Nothing much.” His narrowed eyes shifted from Neil to Ray. “I’ve got work to do. What do you guys want?”

  Ray shouted over the pulsating bass. “Friday night, maybe Saturday morning, did you do some work on a Harley?”

  “Not me.” Greg wiped his hands on a greasy, paint-spotted shop rag. “Let me check with my dad.” He signaled for them to wait and walked toward the office.

  Ray put his mouth closer to Neil’s ear. “Friend of yours?”

  “Brother of. I graduated with Keith Speltz—couple years older than Greg, better-looking, smarter, more athletic, better prospects.”

  Ray had seen the outcome of similar sibling rivalries. “Is he trying to compete?”

  “Gave up,” Neil shouted over the music. “Got into drugs.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Got out of rehab not long ago. Trying to get a detailing business off the ground.”

  Greg Speltz trailed behind his father as they entered the repair bay from what constituted the business’s office space—a disorganized room not much larger than a walk-in closet.

  Burt Speltz had no trouble making himself heard. “Greg, turn that damn racket off.” Rather than wait, he did it himself and kicked the car door shut, putting a new ding next to a half dozen others.

  He jerked a thumb in his son’s direction. “His girlfriend’s car,” he told them. “A piece of crap and he goes and spends a shitload of money on a frickin’ audio system for it. Gotta be twice what the car is worth. Dumb kid.” He shot a look at Greg. “Goddamned girlfriend’s not worth shit either. You oughta stay clear of that freeloading druggie.”

  “Lay off Katie.”

  “Just so you know, I’m keepin’ track of every engine part you’re putting in that heap of hers. No freebies. Hear me?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll pay for every last fuckin’—”

  Ray stepped between them. “Back off, both of you. You can pick up where you left off when we’re done here.”

  Lips pulled down at the corners, Burt Speltz clamped muscle-knotted arms across his chest.

  Ray turned to the older Speltz. “Did you do some repair work on a Harley this weekend?”

  “Yeah. Hauled one into the garage Friday night. It sat here Saturday morning waitin’ on Greg to come in. Bikes are more up his alley than mine. Of course, he was out chasing around ’til all hours with his girlfriend.” He cast an angry look at his son. “That girl’s gonna drag you right back down to where you were six months ago.”

  Greg’s jaws clenched. “Shut up about her.”

  “Look,” Ray told them, “I’m not here to referee. Can we focus for a minute? Tell me about the bike’s owner.”

  Burt Speltz pinched his chin, deepening a pronounced cleft. “Nice-looking guy. Mid-tw
enties or thereabouts. Said a deer ran out in front of him. It was raining, and his bike hydroplaned. It skidded down the pavement, across the shoulder and into a ditch. Him and his bike both got scuffed up pretty good. The damage to the bike was mostly all on the surface. Just needed a new gas line. That much I could do. Good thing, too. If I’d waited for Greg to show up—”

  Ray hampered another father/son argument. “Did you get his name or license number? Did he use a credit card for the repair?”

  “I saw a credit card tucked inside his billfold, but he paid in cash. Sort of surprised me, because from the looks of it, he was scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

  “Can you think of anything you noticed that might help us locate him?”

  “Can’t say I paid any attention. The only thing I know for sure is that when Mr. Davis dropped him off here Friday night, the kid’s leg was giving him hell.”

  “Mr. Davis? Paul Davis?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re sure it was him?”

  “Positive. He’s the only one I know of around here who drives a silver Lexus.”

  Neil piped up. “You’re sure the biker arrived in Davis’s car?”

  “Yeah. Why? What’s the big deal?”

  “Don’t you get it?” Greg Speltz sniped. “They think your biker might be connected to what happened to Davis’s wife.”

  His father’s jaw dropped. “You serious?” He spat on the oil-stained floor and turned back to Ray. “Imagine that…Paul Davis bringing his wife’s killer into town. You suppose they were in it together?”

  “We don’t know who this biker is let alone what he was doing here. He could have nothing to do with it at all. Right now, this is nothing more than a routine inquiry.”

  “Gotcha,” Burt said in a ‘wink wink’ tone of voice. “I’ll keep it under wraps.”

  “We’d appreciate that.” Warranted or not, Ray knew Burt Speltz had already convicted Paul Davis in the time it took to pop a hood, and nothing he could say would change that.

  “Did they seem to know each other?” Neil asked.