Dear Crossing (The Ray Schiller Series)

by Doering, Marjorie

  “Officer Schiller will go with you,” Woody said. “BCA technicians are still be on the scene. He’ll go through the house with you room by room.”

  Davis stood motionless, scowling like a cigar store Indian as several other officers milled around the station. “What about one of them?” Davis asked.

  “Officer Schiller is the only man available right now.”

  “Then I’ll meet him there.” Davis started for the door.

  Anxious to have him alone as long as possible, Ray stopped him, saying, “The prospect of doing this walk-through is probably unsettling for you. You’ve already driven quite a distance. Let me take you there.” Giving him no time to consider, Ray held the station door open.

  Davis surprised him by following.

  The tires hummed over the road while Davis sat erect and rigid, staring out the side window.

  “Are you all right?” Ray asked.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “We’ve been making progress. I hope hearing that helps.” Ray watched for a reaction. Positive or negative, it might tell him something. He saw neither.

  “Thursday my wife’s body—what was found—will be laid to rest. At the moment, Officer Schiller, nothing is likely to help.”

  “I understand.” Ray pressed him for some answers. “We heard you didn’t arrive in town alone on Friday night. Is that right?”

  Davis’s head swiveled 180 degrees. “What?”

  “We’ve been told you had someone with you. A man. A biker.”

  “Oh, the biker. I forgot. Yes, I gave him a lift into town.”

  “Someone you know?”

  “No. I’d never seen him before.”

  “But you gave him a ride,” Ray said. “That’s risky these days, especially for a man of your obvious means.”

  “He’d had an accident trying to avoid a deer. I saw it happen. It’s hardly something he could have staged for my benefit.”

  Ray hadn’t expected a denial; it would have been foolish. The real question was whether they’d been strangers traveling alone, or accomplices arriving in tandem. “We heard the man was hurt.”

  “Not so badly that he’d let me call an ambulance for him. I offered to drive him to the hospital. He refused.”

  “Did he give you his name, say where he was from? Is there anything at all you can tell me about him?”

  “Nothing comes to mind,” Davis said.

  “Nothing at all?”

  “There wasn’t much time to talk. I dropped him off at the nearest garage—that Amoco station. Speltz’s.” He heaved a deep sigh. “But then, you obviously know that already.”

  Ray let it pass. “Could you identify him if you saw him again?”

  “It’s doubtful. It was night and the car interior was dark.”

  Whether Davis’s account was accurate or self-serving, Ray couldn’t be sure. He’d been seen with the biker, but the story he was giving covered his ass like chain mail boxers.

  “Why all the interest in this man?” A long, silent moment stretched between them like a tightrope. “You’re not suggesting he may have had something to do with my wife’s murder.”

  “We need to locate him and find out.”

  “My God.” His head fell back against the headrest. “How am I supposed to live with myself if that turns out to be the case?”

  Playing the part of victim. Nice touch. Ray staunched a flood of antagonistic questions building inside him. He parked beside a crime lab vehicle on the edge of Paul Davis’s driveway and walked with him to the front door where they signed into the logbook.

  “This may be more difficult than you expect,” he warned him. “Be prepared to see blood. A lot of it.” Maybe Paul Davis had already seen it. Caused it. Woody’s words ricocheted inside his head. Make nice. He gritted his teeth. “Are you ready?”

  Davis pushed past Ray and stepped into the foyer. On the living room floor ahead, just as Ray had told him earlier, there were scattered pieces of figurines, a table lamp, books, an heirloom mantel clock, its glass lens splintered.

  After a lengthy inspection, Davis announced, “Everything’s here.” Giving Ray no time to prevent it, he walked into the kitchen nearly stepping onto Valerie’s dried blood. “Dear God.”

  Ray hurried closer as Davis swayed. “Are you okay?”

  “I need some air.” He shoved Ray’s outstretched arm away and retreated to the outside.

  “Take a few deep breaths,” he said, following him.

  A member of the forensic team trailed after them and took Ray aside. “We’re done here. There’s still no sign of the victim’s forearm.”

  “Okay. Listen, what about the motel? Anyone get over there yet?”

  The technician nodded. “I wish I could tell you different, but it was a total bust. The bloody sheets and towels were saturated with bleach. We did find something odd here, though. The murder went down around midnight, but the only light that was turned on in the entire place was that small table lamp we found on the living room floor.”

  “I don’t remember seeing it lit up.”

  “You wouldn’t have. The switch was in the ‘on’ position, but the bulb was broken.” The crime scene tech shrugged. “That’s all I can tell you for now.”

  “Thanks.” Ray walked back to where Davis stood. “How’re you doing?”

  Davis started toward the house. “Let’s just get this done.”

  14

  Captain E. Joseph Roth, aka Ejo to his subordinates—Cujo on his bad days—gave Ray a curt welcome when he announced himself, then stuck his head out the door, shouting, “Waverly, get in here.”

  Hand extended, the detective entered Roth’s office. “Ray Schiller? I’m Dick Waverly.” The scent of his Old Spice aftershave reached Ray before he did. He sported a walrus-style mustache, which matched his body.

  Roth cut the pleasantries short. “This case involves some of this city’s elite. We’ve been following the news accounts with a lot of interest. I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you.”

  “Of course not.”

  “We’ll do whatever we can to help. Fill us in. What has your department come up with so far?”

  Ray began with a quick rundown of the timeline: the arrival of Paul Davis and the biker on Friday evening, and the discovery of Valerie Davis’s body early Sunday morning.

  Captain Roth and Dick Waverly took it all in, tossing in occasional pertinent comments.

  “This,” Ray said, slapping Woody’s note on Roth’s desk, “is the license plate of a car seen on the Davises’ property the morning of the murder. E-C-G-O-I-N. According to one of our officers, the driver practically put himself through his own windshield when he saw the police car at the bottom of the driveway. The abrupt stop made him suspicious. He got the car’s plate before it backed out of sight. DMV records say it belongs to an Ed Costales.”

  “Why does that name sound familiar?” Waverly asked. “Wait a second. He’s another big wig at ACC, isn’t he?”

  “Vice-president of Marketing according to my information,” Ray told him.

  “Interesting,” Waverly said.

  “Very,” Roth agreed.

  “One other thing,” Ray said. “Chief Newell contacted me this morning. Early last Saturday Paul Davis made a call from Widmer’s Copper Kettle restaurant. Phone records show it was to a Dana Danforth. What bearing, if any, she has on this case I can’t say. We took an interest because he seemed anxious to keep it to himself. I haven’t had a chance to run a check on Danforth yet. All I have is an address for her in Mendota Heights.”

  “Not too shabby,” Waverly said, hoisting an ankle over a knee. “That’s a pretty affluent area.”

  “Danforth and Costales are both high on my list of priorities.” Ray stuffed the sheet of paper back in his pocket. “That’s about it for now. The BCA released the crime scene yesterday, but we’re waiting for more results from forensics.”

  “Okay,” Roth said. “We’ve got a jumping-off point. More than one, t
hank God. That biker Paul Davis chauffeured into Widmer is a major loose end, though.”

  “Everything points to the biker being involved,” Ray said. “Everything I told you about—the bootprints in the soil, the dirt tracked into the bedroom. All of it—sloppy. He’s got to be one lucky son of a bitch that we haven’t been able to identify him yet. It sure as hell isn’t because of his careful planning; it doesn’t look like he did any.”

  “Done by the seat of his pants,” Waverly said. “Sure it wasn’t a burglary gone bad?”

  “We haven’t ruled that out completely, but, like I said, her husband went through the place yesterday and said there’s nothing missing.”

  “Maybe he was after the electronics.”

  “Riding a motorcycle?”

  “Okay, that was off the top of my head. Scratch that.”

  Roth went to his office door and held it open for them. “You two put your heads together and work out a game plan. Get it done. The media’s watching this case like vultures.”

  Waverly ushered Ray to a coffee pot outside the office. It sat on a utilitarian cart with Styrofoam cups, stir sticks, creamer and an empty, grease-soaked bakery box. The usual paraphernalia.

  “Cup of coffee?”

  “Thanks, I’ll pass.”

  “Smart.” Waverly poured one for himself, adding three blue packets of artificial sweetener and a heavy dose of powdered creamer. “More often than not, the coffee’s lousy—practically lethal. Listen, I was in the middle of finishing something up. Do you suppose you can get to your temporary digs and back without me?”

  “Do you give good directions?”

  “The best. I know this city better than the founding fathers.” Waverly set the coffee aside and brushed a single drop from his salt-and-pepper mustache before jotting down the directions on his notepad. “The place belongs to the Staffords. Jim and Gwen, I think. Never met �em myself, but they’re supposed to be okay—the place too. I don’t suppose you’ll be spending a lot of time there anyway.”

  “Probably not.” He took the paper from Waverly. “I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t rush. What I’m doing could take a while. Unpack your stuff. Maybe get yourself something to eat. Lots of places to choose from—most of ‘em pretty good. See you later.”

  As Ray watched him walk away, Waverly’s nonchalant attitude left him with a sinking feeling.

  Another detective stepped up and poured a cup of coffee the same rich shade as his skin. “You the guy from Widmer?”

  Ray shook his hand. “Ray Schiller.”

  “Lovell Paige.” The detective grinned into his Styrofoam cup. “Don’t worry about Waverly; he’s all right.”

  “Was I that transparent?”

  “It was just a good guess. Getting an accurate first impression of Waverly can be tricky. Inside that beer barrel body, he’s got an uptight, type ‘A’ personality like the rest of us. Some of us chill out with a Xanax or a stiff drink; with him, it’s junk food.”

  From halfway across the room, someone called out, “Hey, Lovey, c’mere a second.”

  Paige raised his eyebrows and pointed a finger at Ray. “Just so we’re clear, my partner’s the only one who gets away with calling me that, and he’s treading on thin ice.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.” Lovell Paige headed away with a final word of encouragement. “You can relax. Waverly’s okay.”

  When Ray returned from the Stafford’s, Waverly grabbed his jacket before Ray reached his desk. “Where’ve you been?”

  “You said to take my time.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did. No big deal. I finished up sooner than I expected. Let’s go.”

  “Where?” Ray followed him out of the office.

  “I did some strategizing while you were gone. You don’t mind, right? I just mapped out a tentative plan of attack—who we want to talk to—the logistics involved. Thought it might save us some time.”

  “That works for me.”

  “Thought it might. ACC first, then a trip to talk with this Danforth woman. I got a little more info on her.”

  Ray didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed. “If I’d gotten back five minutes later, you’d have the entire case wrapped up.”

  “Gotta make hay while the sun shines, buddy.”

  “I’ve got no problem with that, but I’d like to be part of the process.”

  “I get it,” Waverly said, getting into his car. “You Lone Ranger. Me Tonto. No problem, Kemo Sabe.”

  Ray got in the passenger’s seat. “Hey, I don’t give a crap about that shit, but if we’re going to work together, I don’t want to be crowded out.”

  “Wasn’t my intention.”

  “Okay. I just want to get that straight.”

  “Straight as an arrow.” He started the engine, filling Ray in as they drove to Hennepin Avenue. An accident several blocks ahead of them turned their trip into a stop-and-go crawl. “Hey,” Waverly said, two minutes and ten car lengths later, “did you find the Stafford place okay?”

  “Drove right to it. Thanks.”

  “Pretty decent?”

  “It’s got all I need.”

  “What about the Staffords?” Waverly said. “They okay?”

  “They’re an odd pair.” Ray couldn’t suppress a smile. “I introduced myself and she—Gwen—pulled me into the house and yelled, ‘Jeeyim, come meet Rye.’ The last time I heard that drawl was in college. One of my professors was from Lubbock, Texas. Never got that twang out of my head.”

  “What about the husband?”

  “A nice guy, but dull compared to her. Heavy makeup, hair dyed Crayola red, and a laugh like an air raid siren.”

  “Ah,” Waverly said. “An aging southern belle trying to hold onto some of her old ring-a-ding-ding.”

  “With a chokehold.”

  When Ray saw Waverly glance at his wedding band, Ray tucked his ring finger out of sight. Too late.

  “Got kids?”

  “Two daughters.”

  “Phyllis and I wanted a whole slew of kids, but after one, the doctors said we’d have to settle for that. Barb’s grown up and on her own now. How about yours?”

  “Two girls—seven and ten.”

  “And your wife?”

  Ray turned his face toward the side window. “What about her?”

  Waverly gave him a brief glance. “Trouble in paradise?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Got it. Question withdrawn.” Waverly edged up to the bumper of the SUV ahead of them. “Looks like traffic’s starting to move. Won’t be long now.”

  Nosy? Just passing the time? Whatever the case, at least Waverly knew when to back off.

  The brick and mortar Alliance Computer Corporation building created a sense of strength and stability, but the enormity of the lobby was out of all proportion to its limited purpose. A massive chandelier added grandeur but no warmth.

  Over the top of her Balenciaga eyewear, an elegant, silver-haired woman watched from an exceptionally large reception desk as Ray and Waverly approached. The long walk reminded Ray of his childhood marches down the center aisle of St. Dominic’s church when the only remaining seats were front and center. At the reception desk, he resisted the urge to genuflect. From her authoritarian air, Ray suspected the receptionist would have accepted that as her fair due.

  “How may I help you?” Her tone was as cold as the building’s marble floors.

  Waverly flashed his big, Teddy bear smile and inquired about the availability of Chet Stockton, Paul Davis and Ed Costales. Learning what he needed to know, Waverly glanced at her prominent nameplate. “Thank you, Mrs. Kitwell.” The smile remained lodged beneath his mustache. “Nice talkin’ to you.”

  She stared after them as though they were vermin who’d escaped an exterminator.

  Ray walked with Waverly to the nearest elevator. Inside, he punched the button for their floor. Waverly checked out employees as they entered and left the elevator on d
ifferent floors. He and Ray got out on eighteen and followed the hallway to the right. He nudged Ray. “They’ve got some mighty good-lookin’ females around this joint. Did you see that redhead in the—”

  “Here.” Ray stopped short and entered Chet Stockton’s outer office.

  Stockton’s executive assistant sat behind a desk, wrinkles crisscrossing her thin face like a road map. The woman’s smile welcomed them from across the room. “Hello,” she said. “Mrs. Kitwell called to say you were on your way up. Please, go right in. Mr. Stockton is waiting for you.”

  Inside, Chet Stockton stepped from behind his desk, hand extended. While impeccably tailored, the charcoal-gray, three-piece suit on his gaunt body only enhanced Stockton’s pallor.

  “Detective Waverly, Officer Schiller, I’m glad you’re here.” What his handshake lacked in strength, it made up for in sincerity. “Please,” he said, motioning to a grouping of blue, high-backed upholstered chairs across the room, “let’s make ourselves comfortable. Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Juice? Anything at all?”

  They declined the offer and waited for him to sit first. The weight Chet Stockton seemed to be carrying on his shoulders became visibly heavier as they offered their condolences.

  “Valerie was the apple of my eye. My treasure. After her mother died, all the years of struggling to make ACC a success were for Valerie. She was my only child. I intended for this company to be my legacy to her.”

  “Then, you planned to turn the company over to your daughter?” Ray asked.

  “Yes.” Stockton removed his gold-framed bifocals. He pinched the bridge of his nose between arthritic fingers and slipped the glasses back in place, sighing. “Valerie could have run this company and continued to grow its success. My daughter had the intelligence and business sense to succeed, but Valerie didn’t share my dream. She had her own.”

  “Which was?” Waverly asked.

  “She was very much like her mother—unassuming, with simple wants and desires. Like Virginia, she wanted a home and family first and foremost.”

  “The white picket fence,” Ray said.

  Stockton studied him with apparent interest. “By your tone, I gather you think that’s a bad thing.”