Shadow Tag

by Marjorie Swift Doering

  From another part of the room, someone shouted, “At least it beats yours, Waverly. What do you do—use the grounds twice?”

  Laughter erupted throughout the room.

  “Hey, look who’s talking—Spencer—the guy whose coffee tastes like he gets the water from a sitz bath.”

  Cheers and applause resounded.

  The door of Chief Roth’s office flew open. His broad body filled the doorway. “What the hell is going on out here? It sounds like a war between Juan Valdez and the Hills Brothers. Knock it off and get back to work.” He spotted Ray and Waverly. “You two.” he said, pointing at them. “I want to see both of you in my office.”

  “Be right there, Chief.” Waverly bent over a desk and wrote something down on a tablet. He ripped the sheet off and handed it to Hoerr. “As long as you offered, Dennis… Thanks.” Waverly jerked his head toward Roth’s office. “C’mon, buddy, let’s go.”

  Once inside, Roth didn’t bother to acknowledge them; he left them standing as he sifted through the paperwork scattered across his desk. “All right, let’s have it. Where do things stand on the Davis case? I’d better hear there’s been some progress.”

  “There’s been some progress,” Waverly said.

  Roth’s face curdled. “Don’t play cute with me, Waverly. I busted my balls to bring Schiller in on this case because you were so all-fired sure that—”

  “No cuteness intended, Chief. There’s been some progress. Really.”

  Roth eyed him with suspicion. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

  Ray jumped in. “We’ve got direction.”

  “Direction? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means we’re getting our ducks in a row. We’ve got suspicions, strong convictions—the strongest of which is that Paul Davis did not commit suicide. We’ve narrowed down the suspects and we’ve established possible motives.”

  “Listen, Schiller, I don’t care if your ducks are in a row or spread eagled on a serving platter; it sounds like you’re trying to blow smoke up my briefs. You’d better prove me wrong.”

  For over a quarter of an hour, the three of them discussed the various angles the investigation was taking, shifting Roth’s mood from antagonistic to cautiously optimistic. He looked to Waverly. “So what’s your next move?”

  “We’re going to check out bank records—Gaines’, Johnson’s and Costales’s.”

  “If Costales paid off one or both of the security guards, they won’t have made any deposits or significant purchases yet,” Roth said, pointing out what they already knew, “not if they’ve got half a brain between them.”

  “Right,” Ray said. “But any sizable withdrawals from Costales’s account might point us in the right direction.”

  “All right, go for it.” Roth dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “Go on, get out of here. And keep me posted.”

  Ray shut Roth’s door on the way out. “Does he ever lighten up?”

  “Well, there was this one time back in 2001...” He left off, chuckling. “You’ll get used to it. By the way, good job in there…nice smokescreen.”

  “Thanks. Best I could do on short notice.” Ray slowed down and brought Waverly to a stop. “Hey, what’s up with Hoerr?”

  Waverly groaned. “He’s on temporary desk duty. He was involved in a righteous shooting. He’s having one hell of a time dealing with it. The perp was a fifteen-year-old kid.”

  “Oh, Christ.” Still haunted by his own involvement in the accidental shooting of Gail’s lover, Ray knew firsthand the kind of hell Hoerr had to be going through. They started moving again. “What was in that note you gave him?”

  “I gave him the registration info on the gun we found in Davis’s hand. Maybe Hoerr can find out if Michael Johnson and that .38 are connected. It might save us a lot of time and help take Hoerr’s mind off his troubles for a while—a win-win situation.”

  Ray considered that for a second. “Is Hoerr any good at that stuff?”

  “One of the best.”

  10

  The fluid stroke of a putter connected with a sweet, solid click. Stuart Felton’s golf ball rolled across the subtle contours of the lush green, curled at the last moment and dropped into the left side of the cup with a satisfying hollow plop. Accepting his friends’ compliments, ACC’s Chairman of the Board dipped his lanky six-foot, three-inch frame over the cup and removed the golf ball. It had been a sensational forty-foot putt for another dismal bogey.

  Felton stepped away and watched another member of his foursome putt. The word Titleist printed on the ball’s dimpled surface, somersaulted over and over on the short trip before dropping into the center of the cup for a fourth consecutive par.

  The grinning golfer clapped Felton on the shoulder. “You’re going to have to hustle to make up for lost ground on the back nine, Stu.”

  “Don’t count me out yet; I’ve done it before.” Feigning a smile, he moved toward his golf cart, his spikes jabbing bloodless wounds into the earth.

  Between the ninth green and Interlochen Country Club’s Tudor style clubhouse, a figure in a navy blue suit and matching tie beckoned him with an upraised arm. Felton squinted against the glare of the sun. “Ed?” It was half greeting, half an expression of surprise. He closed the distance between them with long strides, calling to the others, “Go ahead. I’ll catch up with you on the tee.” He extended his hand to Costales. “Ed, what brings you here?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you in the clubhouse. Your secretary told me you’d be here.”

  “Some emergency?”

  “You might call it that.”

  Felton looked toward the tenth tee where his friends were waiting for him. “Can’t it wait?”

  Costales grasped him by the elbow. “No, I need to talk with you now.”

  Cupping a hand at the side of his mouth, Felton called to his friends. “Go ahead. I’ll settle up with you later.” They waved and teed up without him.

  Maintaining his grip on Felton’s elbow, Costales led him toward the clubhouse. “Let’s talk over a cup of coffee.”

  Seated at an out-of-the-way table in the dining room, Felton waited until the waitress left. “All right, Ed, what’s so urgent?”

  “I apologize for interrupting your game, Stu.”

  “You probably did me a favor; I was losing my shirt. My long game has gone to hell.”

  Costales looked at him over the top of his raised cup. “I’ll get right to the point.” His smile disappeared like a dead leaf on a stiff breeze. “I’ve heard some disturbing news.”

  “Oh?”

  He glanced around the room. “I’ve heard some of the board members want to hedge on our agreement.” Felton’s expression gave nothing away. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  “I imagine so,” Felton admitted, lowering his voice. “Amending the statement we gave the police about the election results.”

  “Exactly. I want you to put a stop to that.”

  Felton folded his hands on the table. “I’m all for making a clean breast of it, Ed.”

  “You’re siding against me, too?”

  “There’s no need to get paranoid; no one is against you.” Felton leaned forward, his voice nearly a whisper. “Correcting what we told the police would be in yours and the company’s best interest.”

  “That’s not how I see it. I want you to let things stand as they are.”

  Felton cocked his head. “I’m convinced that would be a mistake.”

  “Then it will be my mistake.”

  Felton laid a hand over his midsection and the ulcer raging inside. “You’d be taking a huge risk. The police have been asking some very disturbing questions...about you, Ed.” He looked around, making sure they weren’t overheard. “More and more, it’s becoming evident their investigation is focused on you.”

  “I expected as much. It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  “What about ACC?” Felton lowered his voice even further. “If ch
arges are leveled against you, ACC could come down like a house of cards. It wouldn’t make any difference that they’re unfounded.”

  “As the head of the company, the decision is up to me.” He leaned closer, his face grim. “I came here to ask you to keep the others quiet. Now, I’m telling you.”

  “You’re overstepping your bounds, Ed.” Felton rose from his seat, his hands trembling in anger.

  “Sit down.” Costales said. “Please,” he added.

  Jaws locked, Felton hesitated, then took his seat.

  “ACC has come a long way since Chet founded it, Stuart, but we can take it a lot farther. We can all benefit.”

  “Or take a huge fall.”

  “Maybe, but I’m in the driver’s seat now, and the rest of you go in the direction I choose.”

  Felton’s ulcer fed on itself. “I take serious exception to your attitude. Keep in mind that you finished a distant third when it came to the board’s vote. The presidency doesn’t make you invulnerable. I suggest you watch your step.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “I suggest you also remember that I have a corporation of my own to run,” Felton reminded him. “I don’t need the board job at ACC.”

  “I’m aware of that, Stu. But being Chairman of the Board affords the kind of financial benefits and prestige that aren’t easily dismissed.”

  Felton’s lack of argument conceded the point. “If this investigation takes you down, it’ll take the company down with you. At that point, it won’t make any difference what any of us want.”

  “But that’s not going to happen,” Costales assured him. “The investigation will eventually blow over, and we’ll move on from there.”

  “We could expedite that process by explaining the situation to the police.”

  “Are you and the others willing to risk facing charges? Don’t kid yourself; it could happen.” Costales looked around and continued, satisfied no one could overhear. “Individually or together, if anyone goes to the police, it’ll be crash and burn for all of us.” Costales leaned across the table. “I’m warning you, Stuart, keep the others quiet.”

  Felton stood, arms locked, hands braced on the tabletop. “Be careful, Ed, I find I don’t respond well to threats.”

  “It’s not a threat. It’s my strong recommendation.”

  “What it is,” Felton said, turning and walking away, “is semantics.”

  11

  The information gathered on Ed Costales’s financial transactions brought Ray and Waverly back to ACC. The murder investigation involving Paul Davis’s wife Valerie was so recent, Ray remembered the place in detail. The Alliance Computer Corporation building was old, but the interior had been renovated years earlier. Only the immense lobby remained in its original state—the massive chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, a monument to needless grandeur.

  Ray and Waverly's footsteps echoed between the marble floor and vaulted ceiling as they approached the receptionist, a handsome older woman, flawlessly coiffed, attired, accessorized, and still as endearing as a scorpion. At the desk, Waverly cleared his throat to announce their presence.

  Ignoring them, the receptionist casually penned a note before slowly raising her head, allowing her eyes to follow a moment later. “Yes?” Self-appointed superiority dripped from the single word. It set Ray’s teeth on edge.

  Noting the look of recognition in her eyes, he didn’t bother to offer pointless identification. “We’re here to see Mr. Costales.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible; Mr. Costales is out.”

  “How convenient for him.”

  Contempt bled through her transparent smile. “Mr. Costales is attending to business.”

  Waverly leaned on her desk. “Exactly what we’re doing, Ms. Kitwell. How soon will he be back?”

  Put off by his encroachment, she drew back several inches. “I really couldn’t say.”

  “Give us an estimate,” Ray told her.

  His unblinking stare seemed to unnerve her. “If you insist, I suppose I could check with his administrative assistant.”

  “Do that,” he said.

  She punched a three-digit extension number into her phone and spoke in hushed tones for nearly a minute before hanging up. “Ms. Wirth is expecting Mr. Costales to return shortly.” She added a personal postscript. “Barring unexpected delays, of course. You can go up if you don’t mind waiting.”

  “We’ll wait for as long as it takes.”

  Once inside an elevator, Ray punched the button for the eighteenth floor three times in rapid succession before the doors slid closed.

  “Ease up, will ya?” Waverly said.

  “Wirth,” Ray said, leaning against the elevator wall. “I thought Costales’s secretary’s name was Free-something. Freeman, Freeland—”

  “Freeport…Denise. She was, but she got left behind when he moved into the president’s office. Jillian Wirth is working for Costales now.”

  Ray snapped his fingers. “Wirth used to be Paul Davis’s secretary, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “How’d that switch happen?”

  “The way I heard it, after Stockton died, Davis moved into the president’s office on an interim basis. He took Jillian Wirth along. After Davis died, Costales let things stand. When you see Wirth, you won’t have to ask why. Like they say, she could eat crackers in my bed anytime.”

  “Are you saying Costales and Wirth are personally involved?”

  “I’m not saying that, but that puts me in the minority around here. Outside of a kennel, I never saw so many tongues wagging at once.”

  “Any truth to it?”

  “Could be, or it could be sour grapes. She’s a real looker and younger by half than most of the women working here. A lot of ’em figure her job qualifications don’t have much to do with her quick trip up the corporate ladder. From what I’ve heard, the ACC rumor mill cranked out the same accusations when she started working for Paul Davis.”

  “What’s your personal opinion?”

  “Don’t have one yet. All I know is, I wouldn’t mind working with a dish like her myself. She’d really brighten up the office.”

  As they stepped out on the eighteenth floor, Ray noticed Waverly looking at him from the corner of his eye. “What?”

  “When Costales shows up, go easy, okay?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  Waverly’s answer was a sarcastic laugh. “Just follow procedure, will ya?”

  Mentally, Ray ran through his version of what that meant: Smile, but don’t bare your fangs. Show respect though you may feel none. Be sympathetic even when all you feel is disgust.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Waverly’s mustache twitched. “I was hoping to hear something more reassuring.”

  “Relax. I’ll give it my best shot.”

  They glanced at the new name on the door of Costales’s old office. ROBERT A. FURMAN, VICE-PRESIDENT, MARKETING. They moved on until they came even with the boardroom. Waverly tapped Ray’s shoulder and pointed to a place near the threshold. “This is where we found the three drops of blood.”

  When there was no response to his knock, Ray opened the door and walked inside with Waverly. A few feet in, Ray stopped and tried to imagine the boardroom as the crime scene techs had seen it. Paul Davis’s lifeless body no longer occupied the chair at the far end of the conference table, still, Ray imagined him there. He visualized the small entry wound in the left temple, and the greater gore of the exit wound on the right as captured in the crime scene photos. He remembered the way Davis’s head angled toward his chest as though he’d simply dozed off.

  Having had the benefit of seeing everything firsthand, Waverly focused more closely on Ray, watching him as he moved a chair to approximate the location and angle in which Davis had been found. He watched Ray seat himself, mimicking the position of the body.

  Nothing out of the ordinary remained in the boardroom. Neat and tidy. ACC had done a thorough job of cleaning
up the mess. Ray rose from the chair and knelt on one knee, running his fingers over the spice-brown, level loop carpeting. “Is this where they found the sand?”

  “Yup.” Waverly scratched the back of his neck. “Any idea where it came from yet?”

  “No. You?”

  “Not so far.”

  Ray stood and needlessly brushed the knee of his pants; the carpet was immaculate.

  “The way I see it,” Waverly said, “the sand prob’ly wasn’t tracked in on someone’s shoes or there’d have been other traces of it in the room. It’s like it was just deposited there.”

  “I keep thinking it’s got to be stupidly simple,” Ray said, staring at the carpet, “like Davis kicked off a shoe and shook it out on the floor or something.”

  “The lab checked. There was no trace of sand in his shoes—not in his socks or clothing either.”

  Ray looked around the room again. “We know the cleaning crew had already come and gone, so the sand must’ve gotten in here after they left. Considering that Costales and the whole damn board of directors traipsed in here after they found Davis’s body, we can’t rule out that it came from one of them.”

  “Jergens, Gaynor, Felton, Greenway, Costales, the whole damn bunch of ’em...” Waverly said, “to a man, they swear they didn’t go near the body.”

  “Bottom line—the scene’s been compromised. What really bugs the hell out of me is the twenty-minute delay before they called the authorities. What were they doing in here? Did you ever get a straight answer?”

  “Oh, I got answers—the same excuse from every last one of those executive jackasses. They were ‘stunned into stupidity’—my choice of words, not theirs, but that’s the gist of it.”

  “I’m not buying it.” Ray circled the room, taking in every detail. “Okay, so Davis was holding the revolver and they found gunpowder residue on his hand.”

  “Yes and yes.”

  “And there were two empty cartridges in the revolver’s chambers, but only one bullet recovered from the scene.”

  “Right.”