Dear Crossing (The Ray Schiller Series)

by Doering, Marjorie

  “I like your approach,” Ray told Waverly.

  “Thanks. Sometimes it actually works.” Waverly punched a number in on his cell phone, talking while he waited for someone to pick up. “So, what do you want to do next?”

  “Kobilinsky’s employees won’t be at the bar yet,” Ray said. “We should’ve gone back last night. Let’s give Dana Danforth another try.”

  Waverly snapped his cell shut. “Forget it. She’s not answering.”

  “Shit. That leaves us with the funeral videotape. When we review it, watch Costales during the service. Something’s going on.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. Edgy bugger, isn’t he?” They got in the car and Waverly tugged the seatbelt across his belly. “Truth is there’s no tellin’ what was goin’ through his head. Could’ve been job issues, woman problems, the income tax deadline. Crap. I’ve gotta ask Phyllis if we sent our return in yet. Anyway, we’ll pick his brain tomorrow, if he shows up.”

  Ray’s cell phone rang as they arrived at their car. “Hello. Nothing much. We’re just leaving the cemetery. We’re going back to the station to have a look at the funeral tape. No. Nothing concrete since I talked to you yesterday.” He listened briefly, his expression changing. “Vicodin? For what? Okay, I’ll check with Davis. He should know.” Ray went quiet again. “Bovine? He’s positive? It still doesn’t feel right to me. Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten. Yeah.” He snapped the cell shut.

  “That sounded official. Chief Newell?” Waverly asked, turning out of the cemetery.

  “Yeah. Valerie Davis’s blood tests came back. They found Vicodin in her system.”

  “Painkiller.” Waverly arched his bushy eyebrows. “Pretty potent stuff. Nothing to do with her death, though, right?”

  Ray snorted. “I think we’ve got that pretty much narrowed down to the axe.”

  “Funny guy,” Waverly said.

  “The dose wasn’t excessive. It’s probably not important, but I want to check it out. I’ll let Davis have a little time to himself before I call and ask why his wife was taking it.”

  “I’ve gotta ask,” Waverly said. “What do cows have to do with this case?”

  “Nothing. A couple days ago, a bull trampled a farmer to death in Widmer. I’m not convinced there isn’t more to it than that, but the blood on a wrench we found in the man’s barn is the bull’s, not the farmer’s.”

  “Isn’t that good news?”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t add up. Even the rookie who was with me has his doubts.”

  “The Hardy boys down on the farm. Yeehaw.” Waverly changed lanes, cutting off a green Taurus. A horn blared. He glanced in his outside mirror. “Chill out, Bozo. So, Ray, you want to run that bull story by me? Maybe I can help.”

  “Thanks but we Hardy boys will manage.”

  Hours of studying the faces and behavior of the funeral goers, left Ray frustrated. They’d analyzed every expression, every nuance. No one seemed out of place and, except for Ed Costales, no one spurred their curiosity.

  Ray kicked back at his apartment at the Staffords and made a call home. When it wasn’t Gail who answered, he couldn’t deny his disappointment. That disappointment troubled him. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs and the three gentle raps on his door forced him to abbreviate the call.

  He identified the spicy aroma as he opened the door. “Chili,” Ray said, accepting the container Gwen Stafford offered him. “Thank you, Mrs. Stafford.”

  With a drawl as thick as the chili itself, she explained she’d made more than they could manage, suggested he ‘eat up’ while it was hot and wished him goodnight.

  His first truly home-cooked meal in nearly two months practically required an asbestos-lined mouth, but he savored every bite. Eating in front of the TV, his eyes traveled from the screen to the window beyond it. From his bird’s eye view, he saw Gwen and Jim Stafford sitting side-by-side on their couch, framed by their living room window. Without speaking, they sat snuggled against one another with the same tacit intimacy he and Gail used to share. Watching their quiet familiarity made him feel like a voyeur. He carried his chili to the kitchen table.

  When his tongue regained feeling, he tried calling Paul Davis. His line was busy. The same was true when he tried to call Dana Danforth.

  Waverly, on the other hand, answered on the second ring.

  “Hey,” Ray said, “are you up for that trip back to ‘Logan’s’?”

  17

  Friday, April 9th

  Ray hadn’t slept well. He and Waverly had hoped for more than shrugs and headshakes from Kobilinsky’s employees regarding Dana Danforth. The less-than-helpful responses to their questions seemed due to a lack of information—or even interest—rather than a lack of cooperation.

  At the station, Ray went directly to the coffeemaker. Waverly was right; the coffee sucked. Dunking a greasy cruller in it didn’t benefit either the coffee or the pastry. He tossed the last few bites into a metal wastebasket as Waverly walked in a minute later.

  “Been here long, Ray?”

  “Just got here.” In need of the caffeine, Ray drained his cup. “I was about to call Davis. By the time we got back from Logan’s last night, it was too late.”

  Captain Roth stuck his head through the office door. “Waverly.”

  “Crud,” he mumbled, “I know that tone.” He nodded at Roth. “Be right there, Captain.”

  Waverly straightened his tie first, his shoulders next. “Help yourself to my phone, Ray. I’ll be right back—God willing.”

  Lovell Paige walked over as Waverly headed into Roth’s office. He opened the pastry box and checked out the contents.

  “Window shopping?” Ray asked.

  “Yeah. Damn.” He let the lid fall. “I was hoping for a cruller.”

  The discarded cruller stared up at Ray from the trash basket. Hoping for a strategic landing, he dropped a napkin inside.

  “So, how’s it going?” Paige asked.

  “Slow.”

  “And Waverly?”

  “I’ve got no complaints.”

  “Him neither. Word gets around.” Paige glanced toward the captain’s office. “Roth’s chewing ass this morning. I’d just as soon he stick to white meat. I’m taking my coffee and heading for safer ground. Later.”

  Over the station’s ringing phones and the drone of multiple conversations, Ray heard Roth’s raised voice through the closed door. Standing around sympathizing with Waverly wasn’t getting his call made. With the caffeine kicking in, he sat down at Waverly’s desk and picked up the phone. His call filtered through the receptionist to Davis’s executive assistant, then to Davis himself. The last step took an inordinate amount of time. Whether it was a legitimate delay or another display of Davis’s animosity, he couldn’t be sure.

  “What is it now, Officer Schiller,” Davis said without the benefit of a hello, “another accusation, or is it too much to hope that you’re calling to report some actual progress?”

  “I have a question.”

  “Don’t you always?”

  “The medical examiner found Vicodin in your wife’s system. Any idea why she was taking it?”

  “Vicodin?”

  “It’s quite a potent painkiller,” Ray explained.

  “Valerie had bursitis, but that was a couple of years ago. Why are you asking? Does it have some bearing on her death?”

  “Probably not, but sometimes even small details pay off. If you don’t know why it was prescribed, can you give me the name of her doctor? I’ll ask him myself.”

  Davis hesitated. “We went to different doctors. Hers retired. I don’t remember who she switched to after that.”

  “Then would you check her prescription bottles for the doctor’s name when you get home, and give me a call?”

  “They won’t be there. She’d have taken them with her.”

  “Then they’d be at your place in Widmer. Okay. I’ll go over the crime scene reports again. There should be a record of them in there. Tha
nks.”

  “Wait,” Davis said. “Have you come up with anything yet?”

  “I can promise you this, Mr. Davis. However long it takes, I’m making it my mission to find the person responsible for your wife’s death. I won’t stop until the job’s done. You have my word.” Ray hung up on that note. Depending on his guilt or innocence, Davis could take his promise as reassurance or a personal threat. Either way, it served Ray’s purpose. Head braced against the back of Waverly’s chair, he closed his eyes to consider his next move.

  “Napping?”

  Waverly’s voice startled him. “I didn’t see you come out of Roth’s office.” He got out of Waverly’s chair and gave him a once-over. “You don’t look any the worse for wear.”

  “Just some minor internal bleeding. How’d you make out with Davis? Did you get hold of him?”

  “Yeah. Tell me something. Your wife’s doctor—you know who he is and what her medical conditions are, don’t you?”

  “Sure. A husband knows that stuff about his wife, right?”

  “I do, you do, but not Davis apparently. He didn’t know shit. Seems like an emotional disconnect if you ask me. That makes me more anxious than ever to meet this Danforth woman. I want to find out what their connection is.”

  “About that… We’ll have to hold off until—”

  The phone on Waverly’s desk rang. He dropped into his chair and pressed the receiver to his ear. “Homicide. Detective Waverly.” He listened briefly. “Yeah, all right. Tomorrow then—without fail. Tell him, Ms. Freeport. Thanks.” He slapped the receiver back into the cradle. “Well, buddy, that tears it.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “That was Ed Costales’s secretary. Guess who’s not coming in to be interviewed today.”

  “Damn it.”

  “Maybe it’s just as well. That stint in the captain’s office screwed things up. It seems my partner took some shortcuts on one of our cases. I’ve got orders to untie the knots he left in a mile-long trail of red tape. Roth wants it done now. Undoing the mess is liable to chew up a big chunk of my day.”

  “Where is your partner?”

  “Vacationing in Cancun or Cucamonga—some damned place. Doesn’t matter. Look, officially this is your case. You can go ahead without me, but I’d sure appreciate it if you’d hold off until tomorrow. It’s early. You could still put the day to good use.”

  “I guess I could drive back to Widmer and take care of a few things there.”

  “Great. Tomorrow when you come in, I’ll have things straightened out and we can go at this full tilt again.”

  The prospect of putting off his plans for the day didn’t sit well, but Waverly was right; it didn’t mean bringing progress to a screeching halt.

  Ray drove on automatic pilot. A couple of hours later, he arrived at his and Gail’s Cape Cod house in Widmer. He parked across the street, planning to let her know he was there—that he planned to visit with the kids when they got home from school. He’d prepared a script along the way but, sitting there, it eluded him. For a second time, he reached for the car door’s handle when the front door of the house opened.

  Gail stepped out and scooped the newspaper off the stoop. She glanced at the front page and went back inside. In fewer than ten seconds, Ray had already deduced several things. Gail had no house showing appointments that morning; the jeans and favorite old sweater were part of her housecleaning attire. The auburn hair brushing her slim shoulders was still damp from a later-than-usual shower, meaning her day had probably gotten off to a rough start. She was tired. It didn’t show in her face, but in the way she moved; the spring in her step was missing.

  The sight of her threatened to weaken the wall of anger he’d erected. He couldn’t allow that—not while his wounds still bled.

  Ray started the engine and drove away.

  At Twelfth and Belmont, he pulled into his usual parking space at the station. Woody’s vehicle sat two slots away. Ray went inside and stopped at the dispatcher’s console.

  “Hey, gorgeous. Have you been behaving yourself?”

  Irene looked up over her bifocals and grinned. “Question is, have you? What’d they do—ride you out of town on a rail already?”

  “Not yet.” He looked toward the closed office door. “Is Woody receiving visitors?”

  “I imagine he’ll fit you in. Ask him yourself.”

  He nodded hello to Cooper along the way without stopping. At the office, he rapped on the frosted window before opening the door and leaning in.

  Woody hung up the phone. “What are you doing here?”

  “We hit a snag in today’s game plan. I’m heading back later.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here. This long-distance shit is a pain in the ass. Have a seat. What’s been happening?”

  For nearly an hour, Ray and Woody tossed theories back and forth but, in the long run, the details uncovered since the murder contributed little to the overall picture.

  “When do you and this Dick Waverly plan to interview Paul Davis again?”

  “After we’ve talked with the Danforth woman. When I question Davis again, I want all my ammunition lined up ahead of time.”

  “What turns my stomach is that if he killed his wife, it had to have been premeditated. The only prints on the axe are Ted Barton’s, and he’s in the clear. If Davis took the time to put gloves on before using that thing on his wife, he thought it out. My God…his wife.”

  Ray’s lip curled. “This morning he couldn’t even tell me why she was using Vicodin. Couldn’t tell me the name of her doctor either. Any chance you remember seeing it in the reports? Should’ve been notes, pictures, something.”

  Woody shrugged. “What they didn’t photograph, they cataloged. I didn’t see any mention or photographic records of the Vicodin, though. The only mention of it was in her blood workup. You went over all of that, right?”

  “At least a half dozen times. I thought you might’ve noticed something I missed. I’m going to go back to the Davises’ place and look for it myself.” It was the last thing he wanted to do. The sights and smells were still fresh in his mind—every image all too clear, but he felt compelled to find it. “I’ll need Paul Davis’s permission to go through the house again.”

  Woody shoved the phone across the desk. “Go ahead. Give him a call.”

  18

  The spare key to the Davises’ summer house had been exactly where Paul Davis told Ray he would find it—at the inner curve of the flagstone walk, in a metal key case tucked under a single loose slab of rock. Finding it posed no problem. Locating any trace of the Vicodin container, on the other hand, proved impossible.

  Ray conducted his own protracted search of the home’s interior. Darkened, dried blood and the living room’s disarray remained, the testament to Valerie Davis’s struggle and death. Repulsed, Ray went about the job. He overlooked nothing, the pockets in the clothing hanging in the closets—Valerie’s and Paul’s—every drawer, every nook and cranny large enough to contain or conceal a prescription bottle.

  Certain he couldn’t have overlooked the container, and frustrated by its absence, he returned the key to its dank niche beneath the flagstone. Ray looked at the home’s welcoming exterior. What the hell happened here?

  With any luck, he’d never have to set foot inside the house again. Not that it mattered, he realized. The bloody images, like so many others, were etched in his memory, waiting to ambush him in his most vulnerable moments.

  His stomach rumbled. Thoughts of comfort food drew Ray back into town. Once inside the Copper Kettle Café, Ray glanced around the restaurant for Amy Dexter. The drone of voices didn’t include hers. She was markedly absent. He slung a leg over a counter stool, deciding he didn’t need smiles and pleasantries to go with his meal; salt and pepper were all the condiments he required.

  Coming from the ladies’ room, Amy walked up behind him. “Ray, hi,” she said, startling him. “I almost didn’t recognize you in your civvies.”

&nbs
p; “Hi.” Ray saw her appraising him in his jeans, denim shirt and gray, V-neck cable knit sweater. The sweater camouflaged a bleach blotch the size of a dinner plate on the shirt beneath it, the result of his first, but not last laundry fiasco since he and Gail separated.

  “Lookin’ good.”

  “Thanks.” He glanced at Amy’s feet. “You break in those new work shoes yet?”

  “My feet will probably break in before the shoes do.” She went to the other side of the counter and set a placemat, napkin and utensils in front of him. “Are you back to stay?”

  He shook his head. “There’s been a brief delay. I’m going back later. Can you get me a burger and Coke, Amy?”

  She looked him over. “Looks like you could use something more substantial.”

  Ray laughed. “Are you mothering me or trying to pad my bill?”

  She thrust her chin forward. “Maybe both. Sue me.” Amy turned in his order, and set a glass of Coca-Cola in front of him.

  “Where’s Neil? I half expected to find him here.”

  She checked her watch. “He’s at Hank Kramer’s funeral. It should be wrapping up about now.”

  The turnout was pitiful. Neil stood graveside, making up twenty percent of Hank Kramer’s mourners—if he included the minister.

  Neil had taken up a spot beside Ben Abernathy, an old friend of Kramer’s—apparently his one and only. Two middle-aged men stood on the opposite side of the open grave. Kramer’s sons, he realized. The familial similarity didn’t end with the stocky builds or facial features. Kramer’s outlook was reflected in both faces—their lips, like their father’s, permanently drawn down at the corners, the world seen through narrowed, suspicious eyes.

  While disagreeable, Neil’s encounters with Kramer intrigued him. “Couldn’t find your own ass with a map and two free hands,” Kramer had told him when he’d shown up to help locate the old man’s missing cow. That and a half-dozen other taunts followed. Neil had expected as much. What he hadn’t expected was the tear trickling through Kramer’s beard stubble when he learned his cow was dead. The show of emotion from the man reputed to be one solid callus through and through, deepened Neil’s curiosity.