Dear Crossing (The Ray Schiller Series)

by Doering, Marjorie

  Larissa Lafferty, her former college roommate, had jumped at the chance to have her and the girls visit for as long as they liked. She couldn’t wait to show off the new house she and her orthodontist husband had purchased along the Fox River on the west side of Aurora, Illinois.

  Gail and the girls were leaving. Ray received the news with relief and a sense of loneliness growing in the pit of his stomach.

  45

  The days that followed were among the longest of Ray’s life. Waiting for the District Attorney’s filing decision frayed his nerves. His clear conscience didn’t protect him from the sting of accusatory stares, and the time spent lying low in the apartment felt like self-imposed solitary confinement.

  Between thoughts of Gail and the girls, Ray wrestled with still-unanswered issues: Valerie Davis’s missing Vicodin, the break-in at the Sumners’ place, and the damn wrench found in Kramer’s barn. They were like an itch he couldn’t reach.

  While Ray waited for the DA’s decision, Paul Davis sat in his eighteenth-floor office, anticipating the crowning achievement of his career. Confident, he looked out over the city while the Board of Directors met to cast their votes for ACC’s next president. The stockholders had already made their choice clear. Davis had won their support by a wide margin. Now the Board only needed to second their decision.

  Unable to focus on his work, he checked his watch for the fourth time while waiting for word of the final outcome. His mind turned to Dana. “So much ambition for an underachiever,” he muttered. It amused him that it had been Dana who’d evened his score with Nick Vincent.

  The arrival of the police at his office following the discovery of their bodies hadn’t troubled him. The questions they asked were a formality. The investigation was about to die an inglorious death.

  Turning his attention to a legal pad, Davis read the names he’d doodled on its corner: George Evers, Ed Costales, and John Stanley—his rivals for the presidency. Evers was a good man, but from outside—a strike against him.

  John Stanley was reliable and steady, but without genuine vision. With him at the helm, the company would stagnate.

  “Ed Costales.” He said the name aloud and found it left a bitter taste in his mouth. It hadn’t been difficult to deduce that he’d been the interloper in his and Valerie’s marriage. Davis gave the bastard credit for his creativity. Had he convinced Valerie to leave him, a divorce would have stripped him of Chet Stockton’s favor in an instant. He drew a vicious line through Costales’s name. “I’ll take you down hard when this is over, you son-of-a-bitch.”

  There was a knock on his door. His red-headed executive assistant, a vision in shades of peach, entered looking like she’d stepped off the cover of Cosmopolitan.

  “What is it, Jillian?”

  “Mr. Felton would like you to come to the boardroom.”

  Davis stood and straightened his gray pin-striped suit jacket. “It’s about time.”

  Stuart Felton, Chairman of the Board, sat alone at the head of the gleaming, mahogany conference table. A tall, lean man in his sixties, he fixed hawk-like eyes on Davis as he strode toward him.

  Oil paintings of former ACC executives lined the boardroom’s walls. Davis smiled, passing between them. “Stuart, I didn’t expect to find you here alone.”

  Felton indicated the chair to his right. “Please, have a seat.”

  Davis made himself comfortable in the buttery-soft leather executive chair, confident, at ease.

  “We’ve known each other a lot of years, Paul,” Felton said. “I know you’re not one to beat around the bush, so I’ll come right to the point.” Felton sucked a huge breath into his lungs. “The Board has voted to name John Stanley as ACC’s new president.”

  “John?” Davis’s jaw dropped. “I don’t…I can’t be hearing you right.”

  “John Stanley’s a good man, Paul. He’s been with the company as long as you. He’s done an outstanding job. We have absolute confidence he’ll continue to excel as company president.”

  Paul sprang from his seat. “You’re saying I’ve done less well? The stockholders chose me. It’s clear where their confidence lies.”

  Felton leaned back. “Nobody is disputing your value to ACC. Your position is in no way jeopardized by our decision. As for the stockholders… Frankly, Paul, a great deal of them aren’t aware of the recent complications in your life. The Board on the other hand—”

  “Complications?”

  “We have complete confidence in you, but circumstances are such that your attention is understandably divided right now. You’re going through a difficult time. You need the steadying influence of routine, not the upheaval of taking on such a tremendous new responsibility.”

  “My well-being’s not your concern.”

  “I’m afraid it is. Very much so.” Felton leaned forward. “Chet founded this corporation, and over the course of forty-two years he made it the success it is today. Changes in leadership can shake shareholder confidence, especially proven leadership of that duration. We need the man who’s likely to create the fewest ripples. John is rock-solid. He’s focused and eminently qualified to take over.”

  “Stuart…My god. No one’s more focused or qualified than I am.”

  “I understand your disappointment, Paul, but—”

  “You understand nothing. I’ve been preparing to take this job on for over two decades. It was Chet’s intention that I succeed him.”

  Felton’s gaze held fast. “We took that under consideration. Unfortunately, under the circumstances, Chet’s intentions and our sense of what’s best for this company are at odds.”

  Paul stared at him, dumbfounded.

  “Ultimately, the final decision rests in the hands of the board.”

  “But you’re making a mistake.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am, Paul, but we’ve considered this from all angles. The decision has been made.”

  “Stuart,” Paul insisted, “you’ve got to turn this around.”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “You’ve already notified the other candidates?”

  “I thought it best to inform you first.”

  “Then you could still reconsider,” he insisted, clinging to a last flicker of hope. “There’s still time.”

  “I’m truly sorry, Paul, but even if I could do that, I wouldn’t. I believe the best choice has already been made.”

  “Stuart, we’re friends. I thought you of all people—”

  Felton’s brow furrowed. “It’s because of our friendship that I chose to talk to you privately. The fact is, if you were to take over right now, your link with the unfortunate happenings of late could be detrimental to the company.

  “The horrible way Valerie died is still fresh in peoples’ minds. It won’t have been forgotten that you were a suspect, even if only briefly. Luckily, your name wasn’t strongly linked to the deaths of that young man and woman found dead in Mendota Heights recently.” Felton hurried on. “We know you’re innocent of any wrongdoing, but unfortunately, it doesn’t make any difference. The public reads accounts of this sort and makes its own judgment. Or somewhere down the road, the facts get murky, and all that’s left is a mental link of your name with scandal, murder and, ultimately with ACC.”

  “And for that I forfeit the presidency?”

  “It’s something that can’t be overlooked. We can’t afford to take that chance.”

  “This is insane. I’ve worked for the presidency nearly half my life. I’ve earned it.”

  Impervious to his rantings, Felton continued with stony calmness. “We plan to issue a press release tomorrow announcing the election results.”

  Paul’s eyes filled with rage and loathing. “If that release names John Stanley as ACC’s new president, you’ll have to find yourselves another Manufacturing VP.”

  Undaunted, Felton steepled his fingers, tapping them against his thin lips. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I’d like you to reconsider, Paul. John’s appointment is
n’t a personal indictment against you. It’s what the Board believes to be a sound business decision. We value your ability and years of dedication to this company.”

  Paul’s fist crashed against the table. “Like hell you do.” He glared at Stuart Felton with undisguised hatred, pivoted and strode out of the conference room.

  46

  Dawn came and went, giving way to the glare of early-morning sunlight as employees began filtering into the ACC building. Stuart Felton and fellow board member, Mitchell Gaynor, hurried to a bank of elevators to the left of the lobby’s reception desk. Beneath his Armani suit, Gaynor’s fire-plug body struggled to keep up with Felton’s long-legged pace.

  “Stuart,” he said, his breath coming in short puffs, “maybe we should discuss this.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss, Mitch.” Felton hurried into a vacant elevator with Gaynor several steps behind. “I’ve been trying to reach Paul since I heard about John,” Felton said, “but I haven’t been able to locate him. I’ve notified the rest of the board. Costales and Evers, too, of course.”

  Visibly agitated, Gaynor wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Poor John…The timing…” he said, watching the floor numbers blink by.

  “We should be grateful he had the heart attack before rather than after we issued a press release about his election.”

  “Yes, of course, but replacing him with Paul…?” Gaynor dabbed his brow again. “You know the concerns. Maybe Costales would be preferable to—”

  “I agree, but the board made its decision: John Stanley, Paul Davis, then Ed Costales. By a narrow margin or not, Paul’s next in line.”

  “But, Stuart—”

  “You’re arguing a moot point, Mitch.” They stepped out as the elevator doors whisked open on the eighteenth floor. Felton checked his watch. “The others should be here anytime. Once we locate Paul and he confirms his acceptance, we can get on with drafting the press release.” He straightened his tie. “I’ll see if he’s come in. You go ahead. I’ll meet you in the boardroom.”

  Davis’s executive assistant informed Felton she hadn’t seen him since he’d left the day before. He hurried to join his fellow board member inside the boardroom. Gaynor was waiting for him, his forehead beaded with perspiration, his eyes large with fright as he looked toward the far end of the massive conference table where Felton’s high-backed, leather chair stood turned away from them. He pointed and uttered one word. “Paul.”

  Stuart Felton approached the head of the table. As he reached the chair his steps faltered. “My God. Oh, dear God.”

  That evening, Waverly’s name popped up on Ray’s caller ID. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” Ray said.

  “Then you heard?”

  “About Davis? Hell, yeah. It’s been in the papers and on every newscast since noon. The reporters swarmed out of Widmer like a bunch of cockroaches first thing this morning. I knew something big was up.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t get back to you right away. I’ve been tied up with the case.”

  “You’re on it?”

  “Found myself in ACC’s neck of the woods when the call came in,” Waverly said.

  “Davis killing himself…” Ray said. “What is that…some kind of joke? I don’t believe it.”

  “Well, he sure as hell is dead. He was found in the boardroom, a gun in his hand, a bullet wound to his left temple, blood, bone fragments, hair and tissue sprayed across a corner of the table. Not pretty.”

  “Never is,” Ray said. “You buying it as a suicide?”

  “Looks right. Feels wrong. Too soon to commit.”

  47

  The DA’s decision and public opinion still hovered over Ray’s head like a black cloud, but with the reporters chasing the story of Paul Davis’s alleged suicide in Minneapolis, Ray didn’t oppose Gail’s plan to return home with the girls the following day.

  Planning on spending some quality time with his daughters at his apartment, he laid in a supply of frozen pizzas, Neapolitan ice cream, and a few board games. Gail had issued a standing invitation to visit them at home, but he wouldn’t subject the girls to the strain between himself and Gail. Pretending things were fine would be pointless; Laurie and Krista had built-in bullshit detectors.

  As he was shoving a quart of ice cream into the only ice-free corner of the refrigerator freezer, he answered a call on his cell phone.

  “Chief Newell wants you at the station,” Irene said. “ASAP.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “He’ll tell you when you get here.” Ten minutes later, Ray hurried into Woody’s office.

  “What’s happened?”

  His face grim, Woody handed him an opened envelope. The return address indicated it came from the DA’s office. “Take a look for yourself.”

  Fighting to keep his hands steady, Ray pulled out the letter that, one way or another, would shape his future.

  As he finished reading, Woody handed Ray’s duty weapon to him. “Glad to have you back.”

  Ray smiled and shook Woody’s hand. “Thanks,” he said, “I mean it. Thank you.” He turned his attention to the letter again as he touched the healing wound near his temple. “Nails?”

  “Yeah,” Woody said. “A ten-pound box of nails put that gash in your head,” Woody said. “They found your blood, tissue and hair on one corner. It’s no wonder you went down. All of the information is right there. Everything’s consistent with what you and Chuck Wilke said in your statements.”

  “And Haney had been drinking.”

  “Not just drinking—legally drunk. Look at the blood alcohol level there: point one, three. They found an open bottle of Johnny Walker on a shelf next to Haney’s inventory list. Must’ve been drinking while he worked.” Woody crossed his arms. “Answer one thing for me, though, Ray. What the hell was going through your head, staring Haney down from outside the café? People saw that. Do you have any idea how bad it looked?”

  Ray lowered his eyes. “I have no excuse. It was stupid.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. If the Henningfield kid and his girlfriend hadn’t been making out in that alley when Haney came back from The Copper Kettle, you’d have had a hell of a time proving you didn’t tail him there—that you didn’t know it was him in the basement. Their being able to vouch for you was a damn lucky break.”

  “I needed one.”

  Woody took the letter from Ray’s hands. “This is my copy. The mail gets to this side of town faster. You should be getting yours later this afternoon. I figured, being good news, you’d rather get it sooner than later.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Woody opened the office door and signaled Irene and Rodgers inside. Rodgers hobbled in on his crutches. Irene followed, carrying a cupcake on a paper plate. Ray laughed at the lit, white taper candle jammed into its ruined center.

  Irene held it up in front of him. “I swiped the cupcake from Glen’s lunch. Welcome back, Ray.”

  He blew out the candle. “Thanks.”

  “The others are out on calls,” Rodgers told him. “But they’ll be damn glad to hear the news.”

  “Not as glad as I am, but thank you.”

  “The timing’s good,” Woody said. “The story will make the front page of the Widmer Weekly tomorrow. The whole blessed town will see it.” He circled the desk and took his seat. “Okay, enough celebrating. Let’s get some work done around here.”

  Irene and Rodgers headed out.

  Woody stopped Ray. “Hold up, a second. New game plan. I’ve had Wilke covering the night shift. I’m keeping it that way for the time being. You’re back on days starting now. I’ll get a decent schedule worked out once the new man starts.”

  “New man?”

  “The town council finally okayed a new hire. I’m waiting for approval on another.”

  “When does the first one start?”

  “Next week. I’ll fill everybody in later. In the meantime, get back to work. You can still log some time in ‘til the end of the shift
.”

  “I’ll get into uniform.”

  “Good. Go.”

  Ray didn’t move.

  “Something else?” Woody asked.

  “I just want to say thanks…for sticking by me.”

  A hint of surprise bled through Woody’s expression. He acknowledged Ray’s statement with a nod. “Okay, now get going. I’ve got work to do, too.”

  Ray got into his car and called Gail with the news. Relief flooded her voice. Following the good news with the bad, he explained he couldn’t be there to greet them when she and the girls got home. Not right away. It couldn’t be helped.

  On his way to his apartment to change into his uniform, Ray pulled up in front of Rittman’s West Side Pharmacy. Whether the Valerie Davis case was over or not, he hated loose ends. She’d had Vicodin in her system, but no Vicodin on hand. It might be nothing, but one way or the other, he wanted to be sure. If she filled a prescription in town, Rittman’s was likely to be the place she’d have gone. Known for its old-fashioned soda fountain, the drugstore also had a nice gift department. And, while he was there, picking up a little something for Laurie and Krista might help make up for their disappointment over his delay.

  Inside, a couple glanced in his direction, whispering as he searched the gift aisles. He couldn’t make out the words, but he had no doubt they were talking about him. It’ll be in tomorrow’s paper. He kept repeating it in his head as he chose a mirrored music box for ten-year-old Laurie and, for seven-year-old Krista, a life-like kitten whose battery-operated sides rose and fell as it lay napping.

  A slender, gray-haired woman in gold wire-rim glasses stepped up to check Ray’s items. “Will that be all, Officer Schiller?”

  “Can you recommend something for a good night’s sleep?” he asked. “Something non-prescription.”

  She grabbed a sleep aid off a shelf behind her and slid it across the counter. “I’ve heard good things about this one.”