Dear Crossing (The Ray Schiller Series)

by Doering, Marjorie

  A brief, early-morning phone call from Paul had roused her from a warm bed. He wanted to see her. She savored the prospect of Paul arriving to deliver a fervent apology, and prepared to graciously forgive him—or her version thereof. The rift would be smoothed over, salvaging two years of her time and effort.

  But it didn’t go according to plan.

  Instead, Paul had arrived and begun with a hackneyed, “Dana, we have to talk.”

  It smacked of late-night movies, teary-eyed heroines and tragic endings. It set her teeth on edge. She wasn’t going to let him kiss her cheek, shake her hand and walk out—not after two years. She thought of Nick in Widmer. No, definitely not now.

  She’d struggled not to laugh when Paul had followed it up with, “Valerie and I are going to make a fresh start.” If Nick accomplished his task, Valerie wouldn’t be around for a new start, fresh or otherwise. But Dana’s pleasure quickly soured when he admitted having gone to Widmer the night before to see his wife. The call he’d made to Dana that morning to announce his visit had been made from some greasy spoon there. Cops always suspected a spouse first. Paul’s little side trip could make a mess of things. Had he stayed in Minneapolis according to plan, he’d have been safely away—safely alibied. What good would he be to her if he wound up in prison?

  Still, Nick was supposed to make it look like an accident. She’d hammered the need for that into his head before he left for Widmer. An accident. So, let him do the job and be done with it. Getting rid of Valerie was more important than ever now that she’d been…dumped. God, how she hated that word.

  For Paul’s benefit, Dana played the victim, and did it well. He pointed out that she already owned the house. He’d purchased it in her name shortly after the start of their relationship. And, he assured her, he wouldn’t leave her wanting. A sizeable amount of cash would be transferred into her personal account to tide her over.

  How magnanimous. Fucking asshole. He’d stood there discussing severance pay like she was some kind of frickin’ employee.

  “Use the money however you choose,” he’d told her. “Pursue your singing career if that’s what you want.” It was at that point she detected his only trace of guilt.

  Dana insisted he’d be back. He insisted she was wrong. Well, she’d just see about that.

  Trying to put the incident out of her mind, Dana lifted one long leg, toes pointed at the ceiling, admiring the smooth calf and Java Mauve nail polish Nick liked so much. There was something to be said for guys like Nick Vincent—all brawn, no brains, their most valuable assets not in some offshore account, but under the fly of their jeans. Too bad it wasn’t enough.

  Paul had money and influence. For a man in his forties, he was in surprisingly good shape, but his body couldn’t compare to Nick’s tall, hard physique and endless vigor. Unlike Paul, Nick had two other qualities that worked to her advantage: he was gullible, and putty in her hands. True, he’d resisted her latest demand, but eventually he’d crumbled as she’d known he would.

  Dana flicked on the water jets, hoping the force of the currents would do what the heat alone hadn’t. She lay back, needing to be soothed. By all the news accounts following that weekend, Nick had come through. But in what universe did the idiot think using an axe would look like an accident? To his credit, as instructed, he hadn’t contacted her since. Some part of her wished he would; she wanted an explanation. An axe, you dumb shit? Why a frickin’ axe?

  The answer would have to wait. All that really mattered to her was that Valerie Davis wasn’t standing in her way anymore. The rest she’d work out.

  Dana immersed herself under the churning surface. Breath depleted, she came up brushing water from her eyes and shaking her head to clear water from her ears. She heard the phone ring. Reaching for her towel, she raced from the tub to the phone on her bedside table. Be Paul. Be Paul.

  Leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake, she clutched the receiver and stood dripping, listening to a dial tone. Dana slammed the receiver down. She ripped the towel from her body, wrapping it around her dripping hair and stormed to her closet where she jammed her arms into a silk, knee-length robe.

  Lighting a cigarette, she went to the living room and paced barefoot over the plush carpet, amid the luxurious trappings Paul had provided. If you think I’m going to wait forever, Paul, you’re in for a surprise. Her last ounce of patience gone, Dana raised the phone and entered a familiar number.

  “Hello.”

  Squelching her anger, she purred, “Hello, Paul.”

  “Dana? Why are you calling?”

  “Do you really have to ask? The minute I heard about…about what happened, I wanted to—”

  “What, to be there for me? You never were before.”

  “Now you’re just being cruel. I know you’re hurting; I understand that. But now more than ever, you need me. I miss you, Paul. I want you.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Paul?” she cooed.

  “I didn’t think you would be so forgiving.”

  “Did you think I would turn my back on you at a time like this? Let me hold you, Paul. I want to comfort you. Let me help you through this.”

  His voice lacked warmth, anxiety audible in every word. “You shouldn’t have called, Dana. No one can find out about us. Especially now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Come on, you’re not stupid. You must be following the news coverage. A blind man could read between the lines. I’m considered a suspect. The prime suspect. They can phrase it as delicately as they like, but that’s the bottom line. Two investigators were in my office again today hounding me for more details. If they find out about us, it’ll be one more nail in my coffin. It’s exactly the kind of thing they’re looking for.”

  “But you and Valerie just reconciled.”

  “Use your head. They’re looking for a motive. Telling them Valerie and I had reconciled is an admission there were problems. If they find out about you and me, that’ll clinch it.” He laughed, his underlying contempt evident. “They’re even suggesting I paid to have Valerie killed.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Of course it is, but they’re trying to connect me to some biker I picked up on my way into Widmer. They’re tap dancing around it, but it’s obvious they suspect he’s my accomplice.”

  Her heart stuttered in her chest. “A biker? What biker?”

  “Some young guy on the road ahead of me had an accident trying to avoid a deer. I saw it happen and gave him a lift into town. They’re taking that and trying to turn it into—”

  She was having trouble breathing. “Did you get his name?”

  “I wish I had. If they could locate him, they’d be able to rule out that asinine notion. Hell. Even if they find him, they’ll just go back to assuming I acted alone. They’ve got their sights set on me.”

  “Paul, I could be your alibi.”

  His voice became a hoarse growl. “I told you, they can’t find out about us. If there’s some other way of clearing myself, it would be foolish to risk it. I’m not about to forfeit the presidency of ACC over this. If Chet found out about us, I’d lose everything. Not just the presidency, but my entire career. We’ve gone over this time after time, Dana.”

  “But, Paul—”

  “Goodbye. I can’t talk to you now.” A click punctuated the end of the conversation.

  Half numb, Dana hung up. “Damn it, Nick,” she said, “what did you do?”

  Her cigarette had burned down to the filter. She ground it out and lit another. Maybe it wasn’t Nick he picked up. It was possible, but in her gut, she knew it was him. Just like you to screw this up. She flicked ashes from her cigarette, unconcerned as to where they landed. Damn you, Nick.

  Her mouth quivered in a tentative grin. Malicious pleasure trickled down her spine. Yes, why not damn Nick?

  Dana stared at the phone beckoning to her from beside the couch. Uncertainty gone, she took a tentative step in its direction, cigarette sm
oke swirling around her like the thoughts inside her mind. Changing course, she circled the room, thinking, plotting.

  Decided, she stopped in front of an end table and removed a telephone directory. Dana opened the pages to the front, looking for an area code. With a steady hand, she entered the numbers.

  A voice answered. “City and name, please.”

  “Widmer,” Dana said. “The Widmer police department.”

  22

  Ray’s drive back to Minneapolis had seemed interminable, thoughts of Gail plaguing him mile after endless mile. The harder he tried to push them from his mind, the harder they pushed back. He needed sleep badly—a chance to lie down, shut out the world and wake with a fresher perspective.

  Gwen Stafford waved a quick hello through her living room window as he parked in his allotted space. Rubbing his eyes, Ray got out and started up the steps to his apartment while the lingering aroma of fried chicken drifted from the Stafford’s kitchen, reminding him of Gail’s generous but spurned dinner invitation. It felt like a conspiracy.

  Inside, he tossed his keys on the first horizontal surface he passed on the way to bed. He dropped, fully clothed, onto the mattress, fighting the urge for a cigarette and the even stronger urge for a glass of scotch.

  As he finally teetered on the brink of sleep, his cell phone rang. Ray dragged himself out of bed and pulled it from his jacket pocket. “Yeah?” he grumbled into the mouthpiece.

  “Are you sitting down?”

  Through his groggy haze, Ray recognized Woody Newell’s voice. “No, but go ahead. What’s going on?”

  “We just got a tip on our biker. It was anonymous, but it’s got merit.”

  All thoughts of his barely warmed mattress vanished. Ray dropped onto a kitchen chair. “Okay, now I’m sitting. What’d you get?”

  “The caller said that on the night of the murder, she saw a motorcycle coming out of the Davises’ driveway. Right night. Fits the time frame.”

  “That’s great, but we need more.”

  “How about a license plate number?”

  “You’ve got it? Holy shit. Give it to me.” Ray wrote it down.

  A minute later, he hung up, lit a cigarette and poured that glass of scotch.

  Nick Vincent pulled the covers over his head. Morning. He could do without it. He did without a lot of things. Faded wallpaper, applied in the eighties, hung loose in the corners of the single multi-purpose room of his third floor apartment in a crummy five floor walk-up, but a fifty-inch plasma TV sat on a scarred coffee table he’d leveled with a matchbook. In another part of the dingy room there was a Pioneer stereo system, and beside a rust-stained enamel sink, a Cuisinart coffeemaker took up most of his paltry counter space. He had Dana’s word that things were going to change for the better. It meant being patient, and he’d proven he could do that. In the meantime, the occasional gifts she provided helped to smooth his ruffled feathers.

  He heard a knock on his door and ignored it.

  Louder, more insistent, the knocking rattled a pushpin out of Nick’s side of the door. Freed of its support, a pin-up calendar spiraled to the floor. Nick swung his legs off the mattress. “Give me a damn second. What’s your fucking hurry?” He untwisted his corkscrewed sweatpants. “Geezus. Give me a break, asshole.” Planting one bare foot on the calendar girl’s breasts and belly, he yanked the door open. Cops. Two of them. A label might as well have been stamped across their foreheads.

  The fat one brushed a hand over his mustache and said, “Nick Vincent?”

  “Yeah. Who’s asking?”

  Waverly flashed his badge. “Officer Schiller and I would like to have a word with you.”

  “About what?”

  “You own a Harley?”

  “Yeah. Me and a few million other guys. What’s it to ya?”

  Nick felt his stomach twist just as it had on when he’d seen them walk into Logan’s Thursday night. Panicked, he’d ducked into the bar’s basement on the pretext of getting supplies. He waited, expecting them to come downstairs after him. When the door finally opened, it was the other bartender, royally pissed off by his prolonged absence. Chit-chatting information from him, Nick had climbed the stairs with a few token items. They’d been asking about Dana, not him. Had he done something to draw attention to her? He agonized over the possibility.

  From the other side of the door, Ray held a notepad up in front of Nick. “Is this your license plate number?”

  “Yeah. So? Is my tag expired or something?”

  “Mind if we come in?”

  Nick blocked the doorway. “What for?”

  “We’d like to ask a few questions,” Ray said. “We can talk in your apartment or out here in the hallway. Whichever you prefer.”

  “And if I don’t want to talk to you at all?”

  Ray arched an eyebrow. “What’s it going to be? Inside or out?”

  Nick ran a hand over his ripped abs and stepped back. “All right, come in, but make it quick. You got me out of bed.”

  “Don’t worry,” Waverly said, following Ray inside, “this shouldn’t take long.”

  Nick’s stomach clenched. “So, what’s this about?”

  “Mind telling us where you were the evenings of April 2nd and 3rd?” Ray asked.

  “How the fuck am I supposed to remember?”

  “That would’ve been last Friday and Saturday night,” Ray added. “That help?”

  “Nothing’s coming to me.” Nick turned his back to them and walked away trying to keep the blatant lie from showing on his face.

  They followed.

  “Maybe I can help you out,” Waverly said. “Deer in the road? A bike accident outside of Widmer? I see you’ve still got a little limp goin’ on.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “That would’ve been Friday, April 2nd. Is it coming back you now, Nick?” He flashed a snide smile. “You don’t mind me calling you Nick, do you?”

  “That was Friday? Okay, yeah. I remember now.”

  “Good,” Ray said. “So, why were you there?”

  “Why? Did I break some frickin’ law by not getting permission from the Chamber of Commerce first or something?”

  Ray ignored the wisecrack. “What business did you have in Widmer?”

  “Who said I had business there?”

  “We’re not here to play word games with you. What’s your connection with Paul Davis?”

  Nick turned away. “Who?”

  “Paul Davis. The man who gave you a ride into Widmer after you and your bike hit the pavement.”

  “I didn’t ask his name. The guy offered me a ride and I took it.”

  “You never met him before that?”

  “Him and me don’t travel in the same circles.”

  “Then you do know him.”

  Nick scrambled. “I don’t know the guy from Adam. I just know he drives a fuckin’ kiss-my-ass car. That says it all.”

  “You’ve never talked over the phone?”

  “Him and me? Yeah, sure. He calls me all the time asking for stock tips. Shit. You two brain dead or something?” Nick cursed under his breath. “I banged myself up and my bike, too. I stayed in Widmer ‘cause I couldn’t leave ‘til it was fixed. What’s the big deal?”

  “What about Saturday night?”

  “I was right here in my apartment.”

  “Bullshit,” Ray said.

  “Hey, man, I was here. I rode back Saturday morning, as soon as my bike was up and running.”

  “I repeat…bullshit. C’mon, Nick,” Ray said, “we’re giving you a chance to come clean.”

  “I was right here.”

  “Have anybody who can back that up?” Ray jabbed a finger in his direction. “And before you answer, let me explain something. I’ve got two people who’ll swear you didn’t leave town on the morning of the 3rd —the motel owner, who, by the way, is pissed as hell over the blood-stained towels you left in your room, and a personal friend of mine on the Widmer police force. Remember him? Lunch at the café? He sat down n
ext to you—asked you how your bike got messed up. Is it coming back to you now?”

  Nick noticed Waverly starting to drift around the apartment. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Just taking the nickel tour,” Waverly told him. “You have a problem with that?”

  Nick bristled. “There’s nothing you can’t see from over here.”

  “Got something to hide, Nick?”

  “Go to hell.”

  Ray nodded toward the TV and stereo. “You’ve got some nice stuff here. Did you rush right out and start spending Paul Davis’s blood money?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Like hell you don’t. You haven’t bothered to ask why we’re asking about your whereabouts Saturday night. That tells me you already know. Paul Davis paid you to kill his wife, and on you did one hell of a job of it.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind. That bitch’s murder was all over TV. The papers, too. You think I can’t put two and two together? Fuckin’ cops. I want you out.”

  “For an innocent man, you’re pretty damn touchy.”

  “Out.”

  “Sure thing, Nick, but we’ll be back.” At the door, Ray turned around. “By the way…the high-end goodies you’ve got here…? Is that all you’ve got to show for the job? Davis must’ve gotten you mighty cheap. No surprise—a bargain basement punk like you.”

  Years of festering resentment exploded before Nick could control his impulse. He felt the impact of bone against bone as he drove his fist into Ray’s face. A second later, Nick was facedown on the floor with Ray’s knee in his back, wrists cuffed behind him. He grimaced as Waverly hauled him to his feet.

  “Assaulting an officer.” Waverly tsked. “That was real stupid, Nick, but thanks for making out job easier.” He turned to Ray. “You all right, buddy?”