Shadow Tag

by Marjorie Swift Doering

  Insisting on hearing all the details, Ray laughed between mouthfuls as Patrick told him the entire story complete with comedic embellishments right down to Mrs. Sorelli’s saturated dress shields.

  “No one in the audience, not even my parents, could figure out who I was,” Patrick said, wrapping it up. “After the final bows, Mrs. Sorelli dragged me back on stage and clued the audience in. I whipped off the wig and brought down the house. It was a blast.”

  “So you became a female impersonator.”

  “Hey, it wasn’t that much fun. When I moved here, money got tight. I was a couple months behind on my rent when I heard about Lacey’s. I figured what the hell? Like they say: Necessity’s a real mother.”

  Ray managed to swallow before he spit food across the table, laughing. “That must be the new version of the saying.”

  “Well, a guy’s got to do what a guy’s got to do, right? Like I said, the money is pretty good, but when Sandy saw my face busted up again all hell broke loose.”

  “Did you say again?”

  “Yeah, it happened once before. Now she’s on my case, trying to get me to quit my job there.”

  Ray helped himself to a dinner roll. “I can see her point.”

  “Hey, I make more working there part-time than I do selling appliances forty hours a week.”

  “And Lacey’s medical benefits?”

  “Yeah, well…” Still dabbing his bleeding lip, Patrick pushed himself back from the table. “Enough about me. Your turn. So far, all I know about you is your marital status and what you like on your pizza.”

  “I’m a cop. Detective, actually. Homicide division.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. Listen. Not that I don’t appreciate the pizza, the heating pad and ice pack the other night, and now this five-star meal, but, for all you knew, I could’ve been a serial killer. You might want to screen people more carefully in the future, wait awhile, get to know them better.”

  “And where would that have left you?” Patrick asked. “You’d have been found in your apartment, a starved, dehydrated, crippled corpse…with a dead plant.”

  Ray laughed. “Touché.” His detective persona encroached on his personal time. “So what does Sandy do for a living? I don’t suppose she works at ACC by any chance.”

  “No, she works in an accounting office downtown. Why? Wait a minute. ACC?” he said. “You’re not investigating that case—the one with that V.P. who blew his brains out in the company’s boardroom, are you?”

  “Yeah, actually.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Hang on a second.” Ray craned his neck toward the door. “Did you just hear a phone?”

  “Yeah. Yours?”

  “Could be.”

  “Go ahead, I’ve got this covered.” Patrick began clearing the table.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Catch ya later.”

  Ray raced to his apartment and found the interior filled with smoke from his forgotten frozen dinner. The phone stopped ringing as he rushed to the oven and pulled the tray from the rack. He stuck the tips of three burned fingers in his mouth as incinerated turkey and desiccated peach cobbler toppled from the cooking tray. The blackened peas looked like birdshot with a thyroid condition. They crunched under his feet as he threw the kitchen window open.

  Swearing in emphatic bursts, he stood fanning the air with the Minneapolis Star Tribune when the phone started ringing again. Coughing, he picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Ray?” Gail sounded unsure.

  He held the phone away, choking on the billowing smoke.

  “Ray, are you all right?”

  “Summer cold.” He fanned the air as he wiped tears away with the back of his arm.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you get rid of it in a hurry.” The preliminaries over, she said, “I wanted to let you know I got your new number. How’s Minneapolis?”

  “Fine.” He coughed again. “Interesting.”

  “Are you settled in?”

  “Sure,” he lied. “Pat, across the hall, had me over for dinner tonight. Wonderful cook. Bright. Great sense of humor.” Patrick not Pat, you schmuck. What are you doing?

  Within two minutes, the awkward conversation began to wind down. So little to say after so many years. The smoke choked another cough from him, harsher than the last.

  “Ray, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Stressed out. Bad back. Trying to burn my apartment building to the ground, but I’m fine...just fine, thanks. “How about putting the girls on? I’d like to talk to them.”

  “They’re in bed, Ray.”

  He checked his watch, surprised at the lateness of the hour. “I’m sorry I missed them. Tell them I’ll call tomorrow.”

  There was a palpable silence.

  “Well,” Gail said with finality, “I guess that’s it then. Goodight, Ray. Take care of that cold.”

  As she broke the connection, he felt a sense of longing. Had he detected yearning in Gail’s voice, or was it wishful thinking? Struggling to put her out of his mind, he walked into the kitchen and jotted down a note to himself: New batteries for smoke detector.

  15

  Following another long soak in the tub and a rare, good night’s sleep, Ray arrived at work the next day standing erect and in only moderate discomfort.

  Waverly arrived right behind him. “Hey, looking good, buddy. Back to normal?”

  “Pretty close.”

  Captain E. Joseph Roth, Ejo, stuck his head out of the office and summoned them inside for a progress report on the Davis case. His patience seemed to be wearing thinner by the day. They left Roth’s office with his verbal throttling still echoing in their ears,

  “That was a complete waste of time,” Ray complained. “All he did was keep us from getting down to work.”

  “Get used to it.”

  Ray thumbed through the pages of his notebook. “Want to head over to Felton Plastics, or talk to this Gaynor guy first?”

  Waverly dug a battered quarter out of his pocket, flipped the coin in the air, caught it, and slapped it against the back of his hand. “Heads, Felton Plastics—tails, Gaynor.”

  They parked in the visitors’ area of Felton Plastics and strode through the heat waves snaking off the pavement. The building was an air-conditioned utopia.

  Inside and out, the building contrasted markedly from ACC. The Alliance Computer Corporation building’s brick, mortar and marble was a tribute to staunch durability—a fortress. Newer in construction, the Felton Plastics building was far more modern: concrete and steel but softer in its lines, visually appealing. Even the atmosphere differed. The building’s interior walls were painted subdued pastels, while carpeting muted the normal workplace sounds, creating a restful environment.

  When they showed their badges, the receptionist’s smile never faltered. The pert brunette notified Stuart Felton’s administrative assistant they wanted to speak with him, and, with a smile, sent them upstairs with directions to his office. People nodded hello as they passed them on their way to the twelfth floor.

  Felton’s administrative assistant, a pleasant, round-faced woman, greeted them as they arrived. “Detective Waverly, Detective Schiller, would you care to wait in Mr. Felton’s office? He’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  They turned down an offer of refreshments and were left to wait in his tasteful but understated office. It felt as though they might sink up to their ankles in the carpet. Sunlight streamed in through a wide, high window and glinted off the surface of a standard-sized desktop. Paperwork was stacked in several neat piles across its surface—no unnecessary clutter. Felton’s chair was bold in its simplicity and identical to those on the opposite side of his desk.

  Waverly nodded his approval. “No throne to designate Felton’s authority. I knew I liked this guy.”

  Ray lifted a picture from a set of display shelves beside the office d
oor. Within the frame, a young couple was frozen forever in mid-swirl as they danced to soundless music. The man, tall and handsome, smiled down at the willowy blonde in his arms, gazing into her eyes as her gown swirled around them.

  Waverly looked over Ray’s shoulder. “Good-looking couple.”

  “Thank you. The woman’s my wife…former wife, actually,” Felton said, stepping inside. “Good to see you again, Detective Waverly. Detective Schiller, nice to meet you.” He shook their hands and gestured toward the chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

  Ray put the picture back and sat beside Waverly. “You and your wife were dancers?”

  A smile lit Felton’s thin face. “Past tense, yes.” He laced his fingers over his flat stomach. “That photo was taken eons ago during a ballroom dancing competition.”

  “The two of you look well matched.”

  “Yes. The judges look for that. I’m 6’ 3”, and Joanna is 5’ 11”.”

  “I admit I’m curious,” Ray said. “How’d you go from ballroom dancing to CEO of your own company?”

  “Age was a definite factor. We could have continued competing awhile longer, but toward the end, our ‘quick step’ wasn’t quite as quick anymore. And,” he added, “our partnership off the dance floor started to fall apart. When Joanna left me, I followed other pursuits; eventually they led me here.”

  “Not a bad place to be.”

  “No, not at all.” Felton’s gaze traveled to the photograph and lingered there. “But I often miss the old days—the way things used to be.” Fingers still linked, he leaned forward, his forearms resting on his desk. “But, enough of that. Obviously, you didn’t come here to listen to me reminisce. How can I help you, Detectives?”

  “Frankly, I’ve come in late on the Paul Davis case, and that leaves me at a disadvantage,” Ray told him. “If you don’t mind answering some questions again, it would give me a better perspective and help bring me up to speed. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all, Detective. What would you like to know?”

  “Thanks. According to several accounts, on the day of the election, Mr. Davis left the building visibly upset. We’ve heard you were the last person to speak with him there.”

  “Was I?”

  “That’s what we’ve been told. Can you tell us what was bothering him?”

  Felton steepled his long, slender fingers under his chin. “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t aware of his having been troubled.”

  “You’re saying he was fine when he left you?”

  “Yes, quite fine, in fact. I’d just told him he’d been named the new president of ACC. If something happened to upset him, it must have occurred after he left the boardroom.”

  “A 180-degree shift in mood. That’s odd. Any idea what could account for the sudden change?”

  “I have no idea,” Felton said, shaking his head. “If it’s any help, I can tell you Paul’s emotional swing probably wasn’t as great as you seem to imagine. Basically, his election was a certainty. It had been so long in coming, the news was anticlimactic. There’s no telling what may have set him off. Paul could be quite volatile at times.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “I think so,” Felton replied. “We didn’t socialize, but we worked with one another frequently over the years.”

  “In your capacity as president of the board of directors?” Ray asked.

  “Yes, plus Paul was on my board of directors here at Felton Plastics.”

  Waverly cleared his throat. “From what we’ve seen of his financial records, you paid him very generously for that.”

  “Yes, as I do every member. Some companies pay well; some pay nothing at all. Chet Stockton and I shared the conviction that financial reward and performance are directly related. My own salary as an ACC board member reflects that philosophy as well.”

  “Finances don’t seem to have played a part in Davis’s death.”

  “No, I’d be surprised if they had. But if you’re trying to make sense of his suicide, you don’t have far to look. He went through so much just prior to his death—Valerie’s murder—the ensuing investigation.” He paused, looking at each of them in turn. “He’d lost his wife in such a horrible way. Instead of sympathy, suspicion and accusations were leveled at him. The two of you put him through hell, gentlemen.”

  “It was an investigation,” Ray said. “We did what we had to do.”

  “I suppose that’s true. It’s just that Paul loved Valerie deeply, and I could sympathize with what he was going through.”

  “Did he? Love her, I mean?” Ray asked.

  Without hesitation, Felton answered, “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Were you aware that he’d had a number of extramarital affairs?”

  Felton clasped his hands in his lap. “Paul didn’t discuss that part of his life with me, but I’d heard the rumors. To that extent, yes, I was aware of it, Detective Schiller.”

  “But still you say Paul Davis loved his wife.”

  “He may have been unfaithful, but that doesn’t mean he stopped loving Valerie.”

  “Wait a minute. You don’t see the discrepancy?”

  “As someone who has experienced that unfortunate situation, my perspective may be different from your own. My wife is a professional woman. Over the years, she became immersed in her own career. Eventually I began to feel excluded. Someone came along who made me feel needed again. Trite but true,” he said with a hint of a smile. “Despite that affair, I never stopped loving Joanna.”

  Ray’s back straightened. “You’re saying your affair was your wife’s fault?”

  Felton shrugged. “I’m saying that sometimes—”

  “Excuse me,” Waverly interrupted. “We’ve gotten way off track here.” He redirected the course of the interview and found Felton’s answers taking them over well-worn ground, verifying that Mitchell Gaynor had discovered Davis’s body—that Paul had taken his own life—that the board’s failure to notify authorities immediately had been inexcusably stupid, but nothing more than a regrettable mistake.

  Ray listened, inwardly grumbling, Tell us something we haven’t heard already—something that will make sense of this.

  Stuart Felton eventually showed them out, his rail-thin frame moving with a natural grace. “By the way,” he said at the door, “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but if you’re planning to speak to Mitchell Gaynor, he’s going to be away this weekend with his wife and son. I expect he’ll be gone until late Sunday.”

  “Thanks.” Waverly said. “We appreciate the heads-up.”

  “Time is money; I don’t like to see it wasted,” Felton said, “regardless whether it’s yours or mine.”

  16

  Waverly drove out of the Felton Plastics parking lot and turned onto North Washington Avenue. “Damn it, Ray, we got nothing. Well, at least Felton spared us a useless trip to see Gaynor. On Monday, maybe we can get something out of him we can sink our teeth into.”

  “I’m not holding my breath,” Ray said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t shake the feeling we’re being stonewalled.”

  “Same here.” Checking his rearview mirrors, Waverly changed lanes to get on First Avenue North. “Hey, you remember the movie The Day the Earth Stood Still?”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “Since I met Felton, I’ve been trying to figure out who he reminds me of. I finally got it. It’s the E.T. from that film…the guy with the badass robot. Remember?”

  His hand on the dashboard, Ray braced himself for another ill-advised lane change. “I remember you nearly put us in another guy’s trunk a minute ago. Would you watch what you’re doing?”

  “Yeah, yeah, relax. You know who I’m talking about, though, right?”

  “You’re crazy. Felton doesn’t look anything like Keanu Reeves.”

  “Oh, hell, no. I’m not talking about the damn remake. The original movie back in the fifties. Um … Rennie. Michael Rennie. That’s the guy’s name. Tall. Hollow cheeks. Slicked-b
ack hair. Remember him?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “You see the resemblance?”

  “I guess. Now can you get us back to the station in one piece?”

  They’d hardly had time to sign in again when a familiar voice captured their attention.

  “Toledo.”

  “What?” Ray turned and saw Dennis Hoerr standing behind him. The meaning of the single word sank in. “Wait. Does Toledo have something to do with a link between that pearl-handled revolver and Michael and Franklin Johnson?”

  Hoerr smiled. “Damn right.”

  “You found something?”

  “You better believe it.”

  Waverly clapped Hoerr on the back with an enthusiasm that rocked the young detective forward three inches. “We hit pay dirt?”

  “It sure looks that way. Michael Johnson may have been born in Milwaukee, but his Social Security card wasn’t issued until years later in Toledo, Ohio. Good thing getting a Social Security number at birth wasn’t a requirement back then, because it’s the location that put me on the right track.”

  Waverly’s brown eyes gleamed. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  Hoerr began dragging the process out. “Sixty-two years ago,” he said, “Michael Arthur Johnson was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin to Margaret Ann Johnson, nee Jankowski, and Wendell Charles Johnson II.”

  “Okay,” Ray said, “so where does Franklin come in?”

  “I’m getting to that.” Hoerr flipped a page in his notepad. “Now, Johnson’s father Wendell was a ‘junior’, so obviously his grandfather was also a ‘Wendell’, which still left me in the dark. That got me checking for siblings.”

  “So Franklin was his brother?” Ray asked.

  “Technically he had one, but he was stillborn; Johnson’s mother died in childbirth. When your suspect was seven, his father was killed in an industrial accident, leaving him an orphan.” Hoerr began the incessant rocking on the balls of his feet, grating on Ray’s already-raw nerves. “So,” he said, “with both parents dead, the only family Michael Johnson had left was his Aunt Loretta and Uncle—”