Shadow Tag

by Marjorie Swift Doering

Without warning, a nondescript man with a stack of file folders stepped through the door. “Excuse me.” His tone was clipped and brittle. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  Ray’s frustration spewed out. “Yes. You can leave.”

  The man drew himself up to his full five-foot, six-inch height. “Do you have authorization to be in here?”

  “Will this do?” he said, flashing his shield.

  The man experienced an immediate attitude adjustment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” He practically tripped over himself backing out and closing the door.

  “Is there anything I missed in here?” Ray asked.

  “Not that I can think of. Let’s go see if Costales is back yet.”

  The office door bore a gold nameplate larger than the others. EDWARD L. COSTALES, PRESIDENT.

  Working at her desk, Jillian Wirth smoothed the front of her pastel-blue blouse as they entered. She was radiant, her skin smooth, her copper-colored hair ablaze with sun-streaked highlights. She greeted them with an understated smile. “Hello, Detective Waverly, Officer Schiller.”

  As Wirth spoke, Ray found himself watching her perfectly bowed lips.

  “I expected you sooner,” she said. “Charity called a while ago and said you were coming right up.”

  Charity—Ms. Kitwell? You’ve got to be kidding. “Sorry we kept you waiting.”

  “For the record,” Waverly told her on Ray’s behalf, “it’s Detective Schiller now.”

  “I didn’t know. Congratulations, Detective.”

  “The same to you,” Ray said.

  She looked at him blankly.

  “On your recent promotion. Not many people reach this level of a corporation at your age.”

  Her teeth clenched. “I earned it.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “Then why are you making an issue of it?”

  “An issue? I thought I was just making conversation.” Her face flushed. “I take it I scraped a raw nerve.”

  “No, I apologize. I overreacted.” She checked her watch. “Mr. Costales should be back any time now.” She motioned toward a mauve sofa and matching chair in a corner of the room. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Is there something I can get for you while you wait?”

  “No thanks,” Ray said, “but we’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ve already—”

  Waverly offered a smile with his explanation. “Humor us, Ms. Wirth. We’re trying to sort out a few things. Just following up some leads.”

  Her turquoise eyes widened. “Leads? It was suicide.”

  Continuing as though he hadn’t heard her, Waverly said, “You worked quite closely with Paul Davis, right?”

  “For two years, yes.”

  “Did he strike you as being the kind of man who would commit suicide?”

  Her answer was instantaneous. “Not for a second.” She twisted a ring on her right hand. “But then, obviously I was wrong. I’ve had to accept that I didn’t know him as well as I thought.”

  Ray looked at her hand. “Your bandage...”

  “What?”

  He pointed. A single drop of blood escaped from beneath a plastic strip dangling from the web between her right thumb and index finger.

  “Your bandage… It’s come loose.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” She tossed it in a wastebasket beside her desk and replaced it with another from a drawer.

  Waverly watched. “That looks like a pretty deep cut. How’d you get it?”

  “On a glass. I was washing the rim when it broke.”

  “A bad spot. Had a cut there myself once. Took forever to heal.”

  “Yes, it keeps reopening.”

  Face buried in a sheaf of papers, Ed Costales breezed into the office and began issuing orders. “Jillian,” he said, “I want you to…” As he looked up and caught sight of Ray and Waverly, there was a stutter in his step.

  12

  Costales closed the door behind them as Ray and Waverly followed him inside his office. “I wasn’t expecting to see you,” he said. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.” Despite the civil language and pleasant manner, Ray knew what Costales wanted to say was neither civil nor pleasant. “Make yourselves comfortable.” He gestured to the seats across from him. “Now, what can I do for you?” The oversized desk separating them was a modern day version of a moat.

  Waverly cleared his throat. “We’d like you to go over your recollections of those two days for us one more time.”

  “The day of the election and the following morning?”

  No, Christmas and New Years, you schmuck. “Yes,” Ray said. “Everything. Just the way you remember it.”

  Costales addressed himself to Waverly. “Look, what’s the point? Like you said, we’ve been through all of this before, and I really am very busy.”

  “Sorry,” Ray said, “my fault. I joined the investigation late, and hearing the details firsthand is helpful to me.”

  “Excuse me, Officer Schiller, but I don’t see how it’s your concern in the first place. Paul Davis’s death doesn’t fall under Widmer’s jurisdiction.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Ray agreed. “But as a detective on the Minneapolis police force, I have every reason to be here.” He could have sworn Costales stopped breathing for a full five-count.

  “A detective?”

  “Homicide division.”

  Costales’s voice was admirably steady. “In that case, welcome to the Twin Cities. Congratulations on your upgrade.”

  “To you, too…on your presidency,” Ray said, returning the phony pleasantries.

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Costales said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That you came to Minneapolis—it shouldn’t surprise me.” Costales leaned back, fingers laced over his stomach, his smile fading as quickly as his genial banter. “You’re like a pit bull. Once you get a grip on your prey, you don’t let loose.”

  From the corner of his eye, Ray saw Waverly tense, and doubled his effort to keep his tongue in check. “Murder investigations usually involve stepping on some toes. Unfortunately, the investigation of Valerie Davis’s murder put you directly in my path.”

  “With a vengeance.”

  “Whether you agree with my methods or not, they generally get results. That’s what I get paid to do. In any case, what happened to Valerie Davis is history. The investigation into her husband’s death, however, is still very much active. Make no mistake; it’s my intention to see that change. If you have nothing to hide, how about giving us more cooperation and a little less attitude?”

  Indignant but cornered, Costales backed down. “Coffee?”

  They both declined.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I have one.” Costales keyed the intercom. “Jillian, one coffee. Cream, no sugar.” Looking pleased with himself, he said, “I’m still breaking her in.”

  The comment raised Ray’s hackles, but he kept his mouth shut.

  Moments later Jillian Wirth entered, crossed the large office, placed the steaming coffee on his desk and retreated. As she reached the door, Costales stopped her. “Wait. Take this away. Make it black instead.” He patted his waistline. “I’m cutting back.”

  Dutifully, she returned with a second cup, took the first and set the new one in front of him, then crossed the room for a fourth time. Just as she reached the threshold, Costales stopped her again. “Just a second.” Jillian did an irritated about-face. “On second thought, take this away altogether. I’ve already got caffeine jitters this morning.”

  Her fifth trip was less walk than march. She picked up the cup and stood there for a long, tense moment, seeming to consider her options. Ray would have like nothing more than to see her dump the coffee in Costales’s lap, but, as a favor to her, he stood and wrapped his hand around the cup. For an instant, they shared joint possession. “As long as it’s up for grabs,” he said, “I’ll take it after all.”

  It took
a moment before she relinquished the cup, then turned and made a brisk exit. Ray set the unwanted coffee down on the edge of Costales’s desk—an intentional trespass. “We’ve been told Paul Davis left ACC in a foul temper the day of the election,” he said. “Any idea what upset him?”

  “No.”

  “No idea at all?”

  “None. Let me spare you all the Q. and A., Detective Schiller. I wouldn’t know what Paul’s state of mind was earlier that day; I didn’t see him until well after hours. At that point, he was definitely in an ugly mood. In fact, that’s why I left the building when I did.”

  “Did you argue?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but it was nothing like that. I was in my office when I looked up and saw Paul glaring at me from the hallway. He didn’t say a word—didn’t have to. It was the first time I genuinely understood what people mean when they say they felt their skin crawl. I decided what I was doing could wait.”

  “That being what?”

  “I was writing a letter of resignation.”

  The tilt of Ray’s head spoke for him.

  “That can’t surprise you,” Costales said. “You’d have done the same thing in my situation.”

  His personal feelings bleeding through, Ray said, “First of all, I wouldn’t have been in your situation; I don’t sleep with other men’s wives.”

  Costales’s jaws clenched. “In any case, as ACC’s new president, Paul’s first order of business would’ve been to get rid of me.”

  “That’s a safe bet.”

  “Exactly. So, rather than give him the satisfaction, I decided to leave on my own.”

  “Cut and run. Good call. Considering you were sleeping with Davis’s wife to get a leg-up on the company presidency, I can see how Davis might’ve been a little peeved.”

  “You son-of-a… I cared about Val.”

  “And what she could do for your career,” Ray said. “After she was murdered, you couldn’t marry your way into Chet Stockton’s favor, so you tried to implicate Paul Davis in her death. Turning her father against him could only improve your chances of winning his backing for the presidency of ACC.”

  Costales’s eyes telegraphed his escalating anger.

  “Then Stockton died,” Ray continued. “Still, you stood an outside chance of winning the election on the up and up, but that didn’t pan out either. As runner-up, the only obstacle between you and this office was Paul Davis. Don’t tell me you didn’t, at least, think of killing him.”

  “Even if I did, thinking’s not a crime.” He put his hands to work manhandling a solid glass paperweight the size of a baseball. “I do what I have to do to survive. My personal code of ethics may not meet your high standards, but it doesn’t include murder.”

  “You can whistle that out your ass, but I see you as the kind of cold-blooded bastard who’d stoop to anything to get what he wants.”

  His action concealed by the desk, Waverly delivered a sharp kick to Ray’s ankle.

  Suppressing an instinctive yelp, Ray moved his leg out of range.

  “I’m finished.” Costales slammed the paperweight down on the desk. “I’ve done all I can to cooperate with you people. I’ve taken time to answer the same questions repeatedly. Now you come in here and insult me? I’m done.”

  Waverly stepped in, trying to mitigate the damages. “Mr. Costales, you’ve been very cooperative, and we appreciate that. Sometimes a case gets to us and we push a little harder than we ought to. If you’ll bear with us just awhile longer, we might be able to get out of your hair for good.” Not allowing him time to balk, Waverly said, “Thanks, we appreciate it.”

  Costales leaned back in his chair, huffing and puffing in indignation. “All right. Professionally, Valerie could have helped me considerably. What of it? Maybe I wasn’t head over heels in love with her, but I did care about Val. How does that make me any different than Paul? As far as implicating him in her death is concerned, what I told you, I believed. If that gave me a foot up, all the better. I haven’t always followed the high road, but I recognize a dead end when I see one. I’d given it my best shot, and it was time to move on. That night I came here to throw in the towel.”

  Ray tried to ratchet down his antagonism. “And you claim that when you left, Davis was still alive.”

  “It’s not a claim; it’s a fact.” Costales turned to Waverly. “Why are you wasting my time? Paul killed himself. This whole discussion is pointless.”

  “Not from our perspective,” Waverly said. “His death isn’t as cut and dried as a lot of people around here want us to think.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Costales said. “Even if foul play was involved—which it wasn’t—Paul was alive when I left the building. Check the logbook.”

  “We did,” Waverly said, “but records can be faked.”

  “Then take it up with the security guard.”

  “You mean the drunk on the front desk?” Ray asked.

  “What?”

  “Not only does the man drink like a fish,” Waverly said, “he lies like a rug. Not a good combination.”

  “For God’s sake, why would he lie about the time I left the building?”

  “Because each of you had something to gain from Paul Davis’s death,” Waverly said. “Johnson may have acted on his own but, then again, he may have worked with someone else. Circumstances suggest it could’ve been you.”

  “What?”

  “Or,” Waverly said, “there’s another possibility—Todd Gaines.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s the security guard who was on the eighteenth floor the night Davis was killed. It’s possible he could’ve been recruited to pull the trigger or maybe just to play deaf and dumb.”

  “By me? Is that what you’re suggesting?” He thrust himself forward, his face halfway across the immense desk. “That’s ridiculous. I’m telling you, Paul killed himself.”

  “We don’t see it that way,” Ray said. “We got a warrant to check your bank records. You recently made a fifteen thousand dollar withdrawal. Care to explain what you did with the money?”

  “Wait. You seriously think I paid off one or both security guards to help get rid of Paul? Am I getting this right?”

  “It crossed our minds,” Ray said.

  A snide smile slid across Costales’s face. “If that’s what’s bothering you, let me enlighten you.”

  “We’re listening,” Waverly said.

  “The fifteen thousand dollars went to a man in Shakopee.” Costales let his body ease back into his chair, truly relaxed for the first time since they’d set foot in his office. “The money was for a rebuilt, 1952, Rio Blue, Harley-Davidson Hydra-Glide Panhead—a gift for my son’s twenty-first birthday.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Can you prove it?” Ray asked.

  “I can show you the ad I answered in the Buyer’s Express, the seller’s number, the Harley, the title and one happy kid.” Costales’s smile held all the warmth of a crocodile’s grin. “Oh, and one more thing.” He pulled a wallet from his inner jacket pocket and handed Waverly a slip of paper from the credit card compartment. “I can show you this.”

  Waverly took it from him and announced what Ray had already surmised. “It’s a receipt.”

  “Satisfied?” Costales asked.

  Needing to confirm it for himself, Ray took the paper from Waverly, gave it a once-over and handed it back to Costales. “We had to ask. You can understand that.”

  “And you can understand why I’ve run out of patience.” He rose to see them out.

  “Unfortunately,” Ray said, stopping him, “we have a few more questions.”

  “Don’t you always?” He dropped back into his chair.

  “Tell us again,” Ray said. “When did you leave the building that night?”

  “Between eleven thirty and eleven forty-five . I don’t remember the exact time. It’s recorded in the logbook…accurately.”

  “When did you return?”

 
“Shortly after nine the next morning. Dave Underwood, one of the board members, met me at the door with the news about Paul, and we rushed to the boardroom.”

  “Rushed,” Ray said, annoyed. “Then why did it take twenty minutes for someone to call the authorities?”

  “Everyone was in shock.”

  “Shocked into inaction?”

  “You could put it that way, I suppose.”

  “If the others thought to send someone to meet you at the door, why didn’t anyone have the presence of mind to call the police?”

  “With Paul’s death, I became the new president of ACC—”

  The look in Ray’s eyes was ice cold. “We’re acutely aware of that.”

  Ignoring the remark, Costales inhaled a deep breath. “As the new head of the company, the others must have felt it was up to me to take action.”

  Ray raised his hands in the air. “Oh, come on. We’re talking about top-level business executives here—intelligent, capable, take-charge individuals. Are we supposed to believe they waited around for you to come take them by the hand and suggest, ‘Gosh, maybe we ought to call somebody.’ Is that the line of bull you’re trying to sell us?”

  “I don’t have any other explanation. I can only imagine that the whole scene must have played out again and again each time another board member arrived.”

  “So, like a big logjam, they piled into the room, one after the other, and did nothing until the head lumberjack showed up.”

  “I wouldn’t know what happened before I got there; I was the last to arrive.”

  “Are you aware that you and your board members compromised the crime scene?” Waverly asked.

  “I’m telling you there was no crime. Paul put that bullet in his own head.”

  “That,” Ray said, “has become more difficult to determine thanks to you and your pack of board members. At least one of them should’ve had the common sense to keep the others out of there.” Ray massaged his temples. “Who discovered Davis’s body?”

  “My understanding is that it was Mitchell Gaynor. I heard he and Stuart Felton arrived together, but it was Gaynor who walked into the boardroom first and found Paul’s body.”

  Waverly checked his notes. “Makes sense, Ray. Jillian Wirth said Felton stopped by Davis’s office to see if he’d come in. Gaynor prob’ly went on to the boardroom ahead of him.”