Dana followed, landing a blow on her side of the door, wishing it had been Paul. Better watch yourself, sweetheart. I know how to play hardball, too.
26
The following morning, Ray awoke feeling optimistic. The investigation was moving in a promising direction. Having wrung information from one of Nick Vincent’s neighbors, they’d gotten their search warrant. Now it was a matter of waiting for forensics to confirm it had paid off.
On the off chance they were wrong, Ray and Waverly were prepared to explore a new possibility. Dana Danforth had gone from loose end to potential suspect in the flick of a tongue—hers.
Ray’s cell phone vibrated as he scanned his notes at Waverly’s vacant desk. He answered, but Woody’s hello was drowned out by a loud, angry voice in the background. “I don’t give a damn,” Ray heard. “You want to borrow my tools? Fine, but remember to bring them back. And you still owe me for your girlfriend’s muffler. You’d better—” The voice trailed off as the speaker apparently moved away.
“Wait. What?” Ray said to Woody. “Where are you calling from?”
“Speltz’s garage.”
“I should’ve known.”
“Ray—”
“That guy needs anger management classes.”
“Ray, listen. We just towed Neil’s squad car in.”
“What did he do,” he said, remembering a prior incident, “take out another deer?”
“Listen, I…Shit. Ray…Neil’s dead.”
He felt as though he’d been thrust into a vacuum—the air sucked from his lungs.
“Are you there, Ray?”
Speaking took effort. “What happened?”
“A two-vehicle accident. A couple from out of town. Neil…He must’ve died instantly. The other driver didn’t make it to the hospital. The wife’s in serious condition.”
Ray forced himself to breathe. “How’d it happen?”
“We’re not sure yet. Once they let me into the woman’s room, I’m hoping she can tell me.”
“God. I can’t believe he’s…Holy…”
Emotion choked Woody’s voice as well. “Yeah, I know.”
“As soon as you find anything out, call me. Please.”
“I will. Ray, I’ve got to go.”
He hung up and dropped into a chair on the other side of Waverly’s desk.
Returning with a cup of coffee in each hand, Waverly set one in front of Ray. “Holy crap, buddy, you look like hell. You could at least try the coffee first.”
Ray bowed his head.
“Okay, seriously. What’s up?”
“A friend died in a car accident. I just got word.” In the time it took to tell Waverly what little he knew, Ray’s insides twisted into knots.
“Christ, that’s rough,” Waverly said. “I’m really sorry, Ray. Uh…Nick Vincent’s with his Public Defender. If you want to sit out of the interrogation, I don’t have a problem with that. You probably should. Why don’t you go back to your place and take some time to get your head straight.”
Ray stood and turned away. “Thanks, but I’m probably better off focusing on something else right now. Anything else.” He moved on in a hurry. “Who’s the PD?”
“Name’s McDonnell.”
“Is he any good?”
“I’ve seen him around. Our pal Nick could’ve done worse.”
Within the hour, Ray was coming to the same conclusion. The attorney sat alongside Nick Vincent, relaxed, confident. The dark-gray suit was in keeping with his Public Defender’s salary, but the sharp crease in the pants and shine on his shoes hinted at the thirtyish lawyer’s greater aspirations. What had started as a case of assault on a police officer had potentially catapulted him into a high-profile murder trial. He wasn’t complaining.
Ray continued his questioning. “We covered this ground before, Nick. We already told you there are witnesses who’ll swear you were in Widmer the day Valerie Davis was killed.”
McDonnell leaned against the back of his chair. “Who are these witnesses you’re talking about?”
“There’s the victim’s husband—”
Nick whispered something to his lawyer.
“Hold it, Detective Schiller,” McDonnell said. “The victim’s husband saw my client on Friday night, not Saturday. Who else?”
“There were others: the motel owner, the waitress at the restaurant where your client had lunch, Officer Lloyd, a fellow…” He couldn’t complete his thought. The pain was too fresh, too raw.
Waverly took over. “Neil Lloyd, an officer on the Widmer police force, sat next to your client at a lunch counter in Widmer Saturday afternoon.” Waverly didn’t bother to mention Neil’s sudden unavailability as a witness.
McDonnell smoothed the front of his robin’s-egg-blue shirt. “My client’s presence in Widmer is strictly coincidental. He had nothing to do with the killing.”
Nick slouched. “What’s the big deal anyway? Does being in Widmer make me a criminal?”
“No,” Waverly said, “but claiming you left early Saturday morning does make you a liar. It puts a huge ding in your credibility. And there’s your record to consider.”
“My record’s clean,” Nick argued. “Whatever you’ve got there is ancient history.”
Waverly thumbed through Nick’s file. “It’s been a while. Seven or eight years maybe, but it’s hardly what I’d call ancient, and it’s anything but clean. There’s the joy riding charge when you were eighteen, petty theft at nineteen—”
Blood rushed to Nick’s face.
“At twenty-one—” Waverly continued.
“That was on a dare.”
“Was killing Valerie Davis on a dare, too?” Ray asked.
“I didn’t lay a hand on her.”
“How about an axe?”
Nick started to rise, but his lawyer blocked him with an arm. “Officer Schiller, this line of questioning borders on harrassment. Mr. Vincent’s presence in Widmer, whatever the hour of day, isn’t enough to warrant an accusation of murder.”
“Right,” Waverly said, “but we have more. Forensic evidence proves your client wasn’t just in town, he was on the Davises’ property.”
Nick opened his mouth, but his lawyer hushed him. “What evidence?”
“Casts of your client’s boot prints outside the Davises’ home were made by the crime lab.”
“His alleged prints,” McDonnell pointed out.
“They’re consistent with his height, weight, even the limp resulting from the bike accident he had the night before.”
McDonnell flashed an indulgent smile. “That doesn’t conclusively rule out someone of the same general description and condition from having made those prints.”
“What are the odds?” Waverly said. “Never mind. The point is, the casts were good. Very good. Matching them to the boots we found in your client’s apartment shouldn’t present a problem.”
“Have you gotten those test results back yet?”
“Not yet, but I’ve got no doubt what the findings will be.”
The muscles in Nick’s jaws flexed. “You bastards had no right to take my stuff.”
“Shut up, Nick,” McDonnell told him. “I trust you had a valid search warrant?”
“Absolutely,” Waverly said.
“On what basis was it obtained?”
“The Widmer police received a call reporting a Harley coming out of the Davises’ driveway around 12:00 or 12:30 that morning.”
Nick shot to his feet. “That’s a lie.”
“Sit down,” McDonnell ordered.
“They’re lying through their teeth. They didn’t get a call like that. They couldn’t have. They’re trying to set me up.”
“Calm down, Nick.” A subtle ripple of apprehension bubbled closer to the lawyer’s calm, in-charge demeanor. “Who was this caller?”
“She insisted on remaining anonymous,” Ray told him.
“Well, gentlemen…an anonymous call. It won’t hold up in court. In fact, it’s ridiculous that a judge issu
ed a search warrant based on something as flimsy as that.”
Waverly smiled. “The caller also furnished us with your client’s license plate number.”
McDonnell had to restrain Nick once more. “That’s still not enough for a warrant, Detective. A fleeting glance, a faulty memory…A number of issues might result in mistaken information.”
“We’re aware of that, so we got something more substantial.”
“Such as?”
“Eyewitness testimony. We canvassed residents of your client’s apartment building. One person saw him get back around 2:30 Sunday morning.” Waverly faced Nick. “He referred to you as a bloody mess. Later, the same witness saw you stuff the bloody clothes into a Dumpster in the alley.” He let the information sink in for a second. “You want to change your story, Nick? Cooperating could work to your advantage. How about it?”
“My clothes got bloody because of the bike accident. That’s the stuff I got rid of.”
“The way I heard it, it was your leg that got the worst of it. That wouldn’t explain the amount or location of the blood our witness claims to have seen. My guess is that yours wasn’t the only blood on that clothing.”
McDonnell ran a hand over his dark hair. “Have you recovered the discarded items?”
“Not yet,” Waverly said. “We’re working on it. But even if we never recover then, we have your client’s bloody boots.”
“Fuck you,” Nick shouted. “There’s no blood on them.”
“They cleaned up real nice, didn’t they? Too bad you missed a few drops of blood between the soles and leather uppers,” Waverly said. “I suppose you’re going to tell us that’s yours, too.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you.”
“Whatd’ya wanna bet the DNA tests prove it’s Valerie Davis’s blood?” He shook his head. “You should’ve gotten rid of those boots, too, Nick.”
“Gentlemen,” McDonnell said, “I’d like to consult with my client in private.”
“Go ahead,” Ray said. “We’ll be right outside.”
27
“You okay, Ray?” Waverly asked as they stepped into the hallway.
“Crap. I was useless in there. The news about Neil…I…It’s rough.”
“Don’t worry about it. God’s truth,” Waverly said, holding up a hand. “I’d rather have you in there with me, as is, than my regular partner on his best day.”
“If that isn’t an out-and-out attempt to make me feel better, you’re in serious need of a new partner.”
“Cup of coffee?” Waverly asked.
“I doubt it’ll help.”
“Hey…couldn’t hurt.”
Waverly was draining his second cup of coffee as the door reopened. McDonnell motioned them inside. Chucking his empty Styrofoam cup into an overfilled basket, Waverly claimed his previous seat while Ray stood, arms crossed, in the middle of the cramped, colorless room.
“So,” Waverly said. “What have you two come up with?”
“My client is ready to cooperate fully.”
“It’s about time,” Ray said.
“Mr.Vincent is willing to make a formal statement confirming he was on the property the night of Valerie Davis’s murder, but in no way is that to be construed as an admission of guilt.”
Ray gritted his teeth. “So, what were you doing there, Nick—sightseeing?”
“I was casing the place, all right? I heard there were some ritzy joints around Lake Hadley—a lot of them empty eight or nine months out of the year. I decided to check it out.”
“So,” Waverly said, “in a downpour, you hopped on your Harley and headed to Widmer. The rain had to hurt like hell.”
“It stung, yeah, but I was more than halfway there before it started. I decided I’d better not put it off; the summer people would be showing up before long.”
“So you were there to target houses,” Ray said.
“Yeah. If my bike hadn’t gotten fucked up in the accident, I’d have been back in Minneapolis that night.”
“Okay, but the garage owner said your bike was up and running early the next morning. Why not leave then? Why’d you stick around?”
“That would’ve made it a wasted trip. I decided to stick around and check out those lake homes that night. After dark there wasn’t much chance of my being seen.”
“I’ve got to hand it to you,” Waverly scoffed. “You put your time in that cell to good use. You’ve got all the answers worked out, right?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Sure it is.”
“You might want to let him finish,” McDonnell insisted.
“Go ahead, Nick. We’ll even try to keep a straight face,” Waverly told him. “But tell me something. If you only wanted to look around, why’d you go inside Valerie Davis’s place?”
“What?” Nick’s face twisted in anger. He turned to McDonnell. “I didn’t.”
“Evidence says you did,” Ray told him. “You left footprints in an upstairs bedroom.”
Nick wiped his palms on his pants. “I never set foot in that place, not upstairs or down.”
“The mud on that carpet says different.”
“Bullshit.”
“Can you prove those prints were made by my client?” McDonnell asked.
“Boot prints were found in the soil alongside the house,” Ray explained. “It stands to reason the mud in the upstairs bedroom came from the soles of the same boots.”
McDonnell arched an eyebrow. “Is that an assumption or do you have proof?”
The image of the muddy prints on the off-white carpeting was as clear in Ray’s mind as if he were still standing in that upstairs bedroom. Obvious on the light fibers, the prints themselves were poorly defined—barely more than dirty smudges. He chose not to divulge that information. “Save the technicalities for the trial,” Ray told him.
“Tell me,” McDonnell said, “do you have solid evidence of any kind that places Mr. Vincent inside the residence? Fingerprints? DNA? Anything at all?”
“The DNA results aren’t back yet but, when push comes to shove, we don’t have to prove your client was ever inside. It doesn’t matter. Valerie Davis bled out in her home, but the attack took place outdoors, and we have proof your client was there,” Ray said.
“The blood on his boots will tell us everything we need to know,” Waverly added.
Nick slammed a fist on the tabletop. “She was already dead when I got there.”
McDonnell clamped a hand on Nick’s arm. “Nick, enough. Shut up.”
“You want to run that by us again?” Waverly asked.
“You heard me.” Nick yanked his arm out of his lawyer’s grip. “She was already dead.”
“Nick—” McDonnell reached for his shoulder.
“Keep your hands off me. I want them off my fuckin’ back. I’ll tell them exactly what happened.”
“Please do,” Waverly said. “We’re all ears.”
McDonnell sank back in his chair, his expertise no match for Nick’s hotheaded rush to self-destruction.
“That night,” Nick said, “when I got close to the Davises’s place, I hid my bike off the road where it couldn’t be seen. I walked the rest of the way to the house through the woods.”
Ray made a mental note of Nick’s claim. “Then what?”
“When I got there, there was a light on inside—like a night light or something. Real dim. Right away I knew someone was there; people put a few lights on timers when they’re trying to make it look like they’re home, not one shittin’ little light like that. The last thing I wanted was to run into anybody, so I took off.”
Ray and Waverly said nothing, drawing him out with their silence.
Nick fidgeted and continued. “It was really dark that night. Going up that little slope in the backyard, I slipped and fell on some wet grass—from the rain the night before, I figured. Later on I rode under some streetlights and got a look at my clothes. What I slipped on wasn’t rainwater; it was blood. It was all over
me.”
A few deep breaths later, he continued. “When I got back to my apartment, it was late. I figured no one was around to see me, so I stripped, cleaned up and got rid of the clothes in that Dumpster. So, yeah, you’ll find Valerie Davis’s blood on my stuff, but I had nothing to do with killing her, I swear.”
McDonnell linked his fingers on the tabletop. “So,” he said, sighing, “you have Mr. Vincent’s admission that he was there. Given his explanation, with anything less than his fingerprints on that axe, you might want to reconsider rushing to charge my client with murder, assuming that’s what you had in mind.”
“Your client’s a liar,” Ray said. “He claims he arrived and left on foot, but he was seen riding off the Davises’ property on his Harley.”
Nick’s hands fisted. “That’s a crock. No one saw me do that because it didn’t happen.”
“What would anyone have to gain by making that claim?”
“I don’t know, but, sure as hell, someone lied.”
There was an uncomfortable lull.
“Are we done here?” McDonnell asked.
“One more thing,” Ray said. “Nick, how well do you know Dana Danforth?”
Nick looked like he’d been gut punched.
“Well?” Ray said. “How about it, Nick? How well do you know her? You know…the hot chick? The one whose picture you keep in your wallet.”
“Oh, you mean Lucinda Harger? She worked at Logan’s for a while. She finally changed her name, huh?”
“According to our information you still work at Logan’s. Detective Waverly and I talked to the other employees there Thursday night. Why didn’t we see you?”
“You’re not very observant?”
“Cute,” Waverly said. “Answer the question. How well do you know Dana Danforth?”
“I could pick her out of a crowd, but that’s about it.”
Trying to catch both Nick Vincent and Dana Danforth in a lie, Ray asked, “You claim to barely know her, but you carry her picture around. How did you happen to come by it?”
Nick’s jaw clenched. “I don’t remember.”
Bullshit. “Think. What were the circumstances?”
“I said I don’t remember.”
Dear Crossing (The Ray Schiller Series) Page 15