“So,” Ray said, “when Davis called, you’d come running.”
“I considered it part of my job.” She tossed her head back. Her short, copper-red hair swung beside her jawline. “It’s not like I didn’t benefit from making the sacrifice occasionally. It’s gotten me into the president’s office, and I like being there. As far as money goes, I’ve got no complaints.” She held her head high. “And, frankly, by putting my personal life on hold, I’ve found I like my independence.”
Waverly looked at her from under his thick eyebrows. “That night, how long were you in the building?”
“Only briefly.”
Ray wanted specifics. “What kind of time frame are we talking about here?”
“Ten minutes, no longer.”
“Ten minutes?” Ray was incredulous. “Davis had you come back to the office in the middle of the night for a lousy ten minutes?”
“That’s all it took. I was helping him prepare a report for the next morning. He had to give me additional information.”
“Why not just handle it over the phone?”
“The material was something that needed to be seen.”
“Then why not fax the information to you?”
“I don’t have a fax machine at my apartment.”
Ray sensed that, like a cracked glass, she was weakening by the moment. Davis probably could have scanned the material and emailed an attachment to her computer, but he didn’t bother to bring it up; he’d already heard all he needed. “Ms. Wirth,” he said, “you claim Paul Davis committed suicide.”
“He did.”
“Then tell me this. If he planned to kill himself, why the hell would he be preparing anything for the next day?” She looked as though she’d been physically struck. “Davis didn’t ask you to come in that night, did he? The truth this time.”
Jillian bowed her head in defeat. “So what if I went in on my own? I only did it because I was worried: I’d never seen Mr. Davis as angry as when he left the office that day. I called his home number and cell phone, but he didn’t answer. On the chance that he might not be taking calls, I drove by his house, but it was completely dark. That’s when I decided to look for him at ACC.”
“That’s going well beyond your job description, wouldn’t you say?”
“I was concerned about him, but that’s all there was to it.”
“So you went to the office to check on him.”
“Yes.”
“Sorry,” Ray said. “I don’t buy it. What were you really doing there that night?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I only wanted to make sure Paul was all right.”
Paul. Ray took note of the inadvertent slip.
Waverly leaned closer. “What got him so fired up in the first place?”
“I don’t know; he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Care to hazard a guess?”
“I had a crazy notion, but I was wrong,” she told them.
“Fill us in,” Waverly said, “just for the heck of it.”
She wrung her hands. “After Mr. Davis met with Stuart Felton that afternoon, I expected him to come back elated with the election results, not in a rage. It crossed my mind that he might have lost, but only because I couldn’t think of another explanation. I worked up my nerve and asked him, but he wouldn’t confirm or deny it. He just stormed out, livid.”
“Then, what makes you so sure you were wrong?”
“The next morning the chairman of the board stopped by looking for Mr. Davis. I knew I was stepping out of line, but I asked Mr. Felton about the election.”
“And?” Ray asked.
“Until the news release was issued, he said he wasn’t at liberty to say, but he gave me a wink as he left and said, ‘Let’s just say I hope you and your boss enjoy your new office.’ So, obviously I’d been wrong.”
“Why would Davis refuse to tell you he’d won?”
“I have no idea. When I located him that night, I thought he might explain, but he only wanted to get rid of me. He sent me away.”
“So he dismissed you like some secretarial pool nobody.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” He saw the hurt in her eyes. “You cared about him. I think you more than cared, and he blew you off. What else happened that night?”
“Nothing.”
“What is it you wanted to have happen?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You wanted to be the one he turned to—to be the woman whose shoulder he cried on because you loved him, isn’t that right, Jillian? You can try to deny it, but it’s written all over your face.”
A tear trickled down her cheek. “All right, yes. But if Paul ever suspected how I felt, he never let on. That night I told Paul I loved him, and he pushed me away. He told me to leave—ordered me to get out. He couldn’t wait for me to go.”
“And you couldn’t deal with his rejection,” Waverly said.
“I didn’t kill him.”
“Your stepfather’s gun was lying around unattended. I think you saw it, grabbed it, went back to the boardroom and put a bullet in Davis’s head.” Waverly let that sink in for a second. “After you killed him, you reopened that cut of yours when you jammed the weapon in his hand. As you left, your blood dripped on the floor outside the boardroom.”
She locked eyes with Ray. “That never happened.”
“We’re not convinced.”
20
Ray and Waverly felt it moments after they followed Jillian Wirth from the interview room: something was wrong. A pall seemed to have fallen over the department. Their fellow detectives seemed to be going through the motions in near silence as though they were on automatic pilot.
Ray stopped talking in the middle of a sentence.
“What’s going on?” Waverly asked of nobody in particular. No one answered. “What the hell? Hey, what’s up?” he shouted.
A detective known to Ray only as Berg stepped forward. He laid a hand on Waverly’s shoulder, looked at Ray and, with a jerk of his head, motioned them toward a less populated part of the room.
“Let’s have it,” Waverly said, coming to a stop. “What’s happened? Are we getting a pay cut or something?”
Voice low, Berg said, “It’s Hoerr.”
“What about him?”
“He’s gone. We just got word.”
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” Waverly asked.
Sensing Berg’s meaning, Ray tried to pull his thoughts together. “What happened? A shooting? An accident? What?”
“On 35 under the 494 overpass...the cloverleaf next to Southtown Center in Bloomington…” Berg ran a hand over his bare scalp. “Hoerr drove his car into a bridge support. Witnesses say it was intentional.”
“No, c’mon,” Waverly moaned, “that can’t be.”
“No other vehicles were involved. The guy in the car behind him said Hoerr accelerated as he neared the bridge—swears he steered straight for the support column—brake lights didn’t even flicker.”
“Damn it. God damn it.” Ray’s voice carried throughout the office.
“Yeah, I know,” Berg said, commiserating. “Hoerr should’ve found himself another line of work; he wasn’t cut out for law enforcement. The kid was too soft.”
“Bullshit.” It came from Kruse, a nearby detective with a body like a fireplug. “It’s attitudes like yours that kept Hoerr from getting counseling, you jackass.”
“He should’ve sucked it up—been a man about it.”
“Berg, you stupid fuck, you’re talking out of your ass. He killed a goddamned fifteen-year-old kid. Something like that ever happens to you, we’ll see how well you handle it on your own. I’ve been to see Morasco. You got some issue with my manhood?”
“All right, knock it off, you two,” Waverly said. He turned to Kruse. “When did it happen?”
“About an hour ago, I guess. The Bloomington cops contacted Captain Roth after they found Hoerr’s
shield and I.D. Roth filled us in about ten minutes ago. Where were the two of you?”
“Conducting an interview.”
Kruse pointed toward the captain’s office. Roth was sitting stock-still with his back to the door. “He’s been sitting in there like that since he broke the news. I’d steer clear for a while.”
For hours, unable to focus, Ray and Waverly went through the motions like everyone else.
“You hungry?” Waverly asked finally.
Ray checked his watch: 5:43 p.m. He should have been, but wasn’t. He shrugged.
“I was thinking we could stop by that bar and grill place where Johnson hangs out,” Waverly said, “—take a look around, ask some questions, maybe grab a bite to eat while we’re at it. I’ve heard the food’s pretty good. You up for it?”
Hoerr’s death hung over the department like a shroud. He wanted to get out of the station as badly as Waverly did. “Yeah, let’s go.”
Circling the block in search of a parking space near Gilhooley’s, Waverly finally lucked out halfway down a side street. They entered at the side of the building, welcomed by a variety of mouth-watering aromas. The ho-hum exterior of the building left them surprised by the bar and grill’s understated but pleasant decor. The dim lighting required several seconds for their eyes to adjust. Nearby road construction had apparently kept customers at bay; business was slow. A mirror as wide as the bar itself reflected their images as they chose a couple of barstools away from several other patrons.
The bartender nodded a greeting.
“How’s it going?” Waverly asked him.
“I’ve got no complaints.”
Ray sat reading the labels on the bottles of Irish liquor lining the display shelves along the back bar: Knappogue Castle, Jameson, Monarch, Brennans, Tullamore. “We just heard about this place,” he said. “Thought we’d check it out.”
“Glad you came in,” the bartender said. “What can I get for you?”
“A Virgin Mary.” Noting the bartender’s thick, dark hair and V-shaped physique, Ray decided more than the food and location kept female ACC staffers coming back.
“And you?” the bartender asked Waverly.
“The same with a twist of lemon.”
“You got it.” He prepared their drinks, grinning. “Cops, right?”
“You have a problem with that?” Ray asked.
“Nope.” He slapped cocktail napkins down in front of them. “There you go,” he said moments later, setting their drinks down. “Good health.”
“Got a few questions for you, Waverly said.
“Go ahead and ask; I’m bored out of my skull.” He wiped his hand off with a bar towel and offered it to each of them. “Name’s Steve, by the way.”
“Detective Schiller. This is my partner Detective Waverly.” Ray took a quick drink. “We’ve heard Michael Johnson’s a regular here. You know him?”
Apparently puzzled, the bartender repeated the name.
Waverly offered some help. “An older guy. A security guard at ACC.”
“Oh, Ace. That’s what I call him, anyway. Yeah, he’s practically a resident.” He ran the towel over the bar. “What about him?”
“We hear that he and a lot of other ACC employees hang out here,” Waverly said. “That right?”
“Sure, that whole crowd started coming in after the owner introduced a menu. Some of them are coming in evenings now, too, but Ace was a regular before any of the others.”
“Is Paul Davis still a topic of conversation around here?”
“That exec who blew his brains out? Hell, yeah. I figure that subject’s good for another couple months yet.”
Ray cut to the chase. “What can you tell us about Michael Johnson?”
“Not a lot except the guy’s got it in for everybody.”
“Did he ever mention Davis—talk about him specifically?”
“A couple times.” He started washing glasses. “It was the usual stuff about how Davis could take his job and shove it, yada yada. Typical griping.”
“Nothing more than that?” Waverly asked.
The bartender dried one glass and grabbed another. “Hey, he can be a real pain in the ass when he’s liquored up, but Ace isn’t really a bad guy. He’s your garden-variety, hard-luck case. I see his type all the time.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” Ray said. “Did it ever go beyond the usual bellyaching?”
“Nah.” The bartender stopped and stared at the glass in his hand. “Well, there was this one time. He came in half plowed already. Later, a couple of ACC employees were talking about Davis and Ace went ballistic. I told him he’d either have to tone it down or leave.”
“What was it about?” Ray asked.
The bartender shook his head. “Damned if I know, but Ace was in top form.” He set a glass and the bar towel down. “Ace said, ‘If I had the chance, I’d send that sack of high-grade shit straight to hell where he belongs.’ That’s word for word. I know he was just mouthing off again, but his choice of words was memorable.”
“Has Johnson been in today?” Ray asked.
“Not yet,” he said, checking his watch, “but he’s still got time to show up before he goes to work.”
“Guess we’ll wait awhile,” Waverly said. “How’s your food?”
The bartender glanced at Waverly’s bulky middle and winked. “You’ll like it. Let me call a waitress.”
Waverly smacked his lips as he finished an open-faced beef sandwich. The pool of rich, brown gravy on his plate became a thin smudge as he wiped it up with a dinner roll.
Ray watched, aware that, for Waverly, this truly was comfort food. They were wired differently. Thoughts of Dennis Hoerr turned Ray’s appetite off. His BLT and homemade, seasoned fries sat on the plate nearly untouched. He managed to down several cups of coffee—decaf. If there was any chance of getting a few hours of sleep that night, he wasn’t going to muck it up with caffeine.
Waverly pointed at Ray’s fries. “You gonna finish those?”
Ray pushed the plate across the table. “Go ahead, knock yourself out.”
In mid-reach, Waverly stopped. “Hey, Ray.” He tipped his head in the direction of the bar. One of the faces reflected in the mirror belonged to Michael Johnson. “Stay put, buddy, I’ll be right back.” He slid out of the booth, walked up and leaned against the bar beside Johnson. “Hey,” he said, “how’s it going?”
Johnson looked up from the drink in his hand. “Fine, ’til now. Why don’t you get off my back?”
“Wish I could. Trouble is, my partner and I have a bone to pick with you.”
“There’s no satisfyin’ some people. ‘Eff off.” He drank deeply, staring into the bottom of his glass.
“I’d like you to join us. I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” Waverly latched onto Johnson’s arm, lifting him to his feet. “The three of us need to have a little heart-to-heart.” He arrived back at the booth with Johnson in tow. “Ray, I was just telling our friend here, that we’re a little annoyed with him.”
“You got that right.”
Waverly nudged Johnson into the booth and slid in after him. “It’s getting hard for us to keep track of your lies, Michael. According to you, no one came to ACC after hours on the night Davis died.”
“No one did.”
“Wrong. Jillian Wirth was there.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Why would your stepdaughter lie?” Ray watched Johnson’s sallow skin blanch.
“I don’t have no kids, ‘step’ or any other kind.”
“You see,” Waverly said, “there you go again. You wouldn’t know the truth if it came up, took a bite out of your ass and spit the chunk out in your hand.”
“We paid a visit to the Kingsley Security Agency,” Ray said. “You put Jillian Wirth’s name down on your job application as your emergency contact.”
“Oh, Christ.” Johnson buried his face in his hands. “One ‘effin’ piece of paper. I didn’t figure it would d
o any harm. I got no one else.”
“Yeah, Jillian told us.” The edge in Ray’s voice softened. “She told us a lot of things. She told us she was in love with Paul Davis—that she went there that night and told him how she felt. She even admitted the blood found outside the boardroom was hers. It’s time you stop protecting her.”
Defiant, Johnson sat up straighter. “I’m doin’ no such thing.”
“Then why claim she wasn’t there?”
“Because,” Johnson spat back, “she wasn’t.”
He could see the desperation in the man’s eyes. “You can stop now. I told you, she’s already said she was.”
“Then she’s the one lyin’…maybe to protect me.”
“I don’t think so, Michael.” Ray spared him a recital of Jillian Wirth’s hate-filled remarks, knowing he’d only be ‘twisting the knife’.
Fierce determination burned in Johnson’s eyes. “What difference does it make if she was there or not, anyway? Davis killed himself.”
“I wish I believed that, but I don’t—can’t. More and more the evidence is pointing toward your stepdaughter being responsible for Davis’s death.”
“You’re outta your ‘effn’ mind.” The overwhelming silence that followed finally became unbearable. Johnson hammered his fist on the table. “You leave her the ‘eff’ alone. It was me. I killed the lousy bastard.”
21
Ray read Michael Johnson’s rights to him before he could say more. With the bartender looking on, Waverly cuffed him and loaded him into the back of their car.
In an interview room a short while later, Johnson sat looking at them with the glazed eyes of a man teetering between false hope and futility. “I killed Paul Davis,” he said again. “It was me, no one else. The high and mighty Paul Davis brought down by the likes of me. What do you think of that?” His grim laugh faded.
“Mr. Johnson,” Waverly said, “protecting Jillian is—”
“I ain’t protecting nobody. I did it and I’m glad.”
“If you’re not protecting her, why keep insisting she wasn’t there?” Ray asked. “There’s no point. She’s already admitted being at ACC that night.”
Shadow Tag Page 13