Shadow Tag

by Marjorie Swift Doering

  “We’re placing your administrative assistant under arrest for Paul Davis’s murder,” Waverly said.

  “You’re arresting Jillian?”

  She turned to Costales. “I didn’t do it. I swear I didn’t kill him.”

  He took a tentative step toward them. “You’ve got to be out of your damn minds. Paul’s death was a suicide.”

  “Like hell it was.”

  “You’re crazy,” Costales insisted. “Jillian had nothing to do with his death.”

  “No? Then who did?” Ray asked. “You?”

  Ray saw the color drain out his face.

  As Waverly led Wirth out of the office, he volunteered a bit of advice. “You might want to start looking for a new administrative assistant, Mr. Costales. I hear Denise Freeport’s interested in the job.”

  33

  In a cramped interview room, Jillian Wirth protested for a third time. “I’m telling you I didn’t kill Paul.”

  “The evidence says otherwise,” Ray told her. “Your prints are all over the murder weapon.”

  “Haven’t you been listening? I told you Ed Costales had me go to his old office to box up his belongings. In the process, I handled the gun along with everything else; it’s that simple.”

  “And a little too convenient,” Ray said.

  “But it’s true. Ask him.”

  “Even if he confirms your story, it doesn’t mean your prints weren’t already on the weapon. His asking you to bring his things to the new office could’ve been just a lucky break; it gives you a way to explain your fingerprints being on the gun.”

  “I never touched it before that day or after.”

  “We’ll get back to that later,” Ray said. “Right now, I want to hear about the blood.”

  “What blood?”

  “On your blouse, Ms. Wirth. That blood.”

  Her jaw dropped. She took a deep breath and almost exhaled fire. “I suppose you heard about that from Michael.” Neither Ray nor Waverly responded. “I should have known,” she said. “I can’t believe you nearly had me convinced he was trying to protect me.”

  “You should’ve listened to us,” Waverly said. “That poor-me performance you put on for him while he was locked up convinced him you were innocent. If it hadn’t been for that, he might’ve gone to his grave without sharing that bit of information with us.”

  “Seeing you run out of ACC that night, bloody and crying, made him think Davis had roughed you up,” Ray said. “He went to confront him. That’s how he discovered the body.” She opened her mouth to object, but Ray wasn’t done. “It wasn’t until your stepfather found him in the boardroom, that it occurred to him the blood on your blouse might not be yours.”

  “But it was my blood, not Paul’s. I swear that’s the truth.”

  “The cut on your hand wouldn’t account for the amount of blood Michael saw on your blouse.”

  “I never said that’s where it came from.” She rubbed the healed web of skin between her thumb and index finger. “For once, Michael was right.”

  Ray fought to keep the emotion out of his voice. “You’re saying Davis hit you?”

  “Yes.” A tear trickled down her cheek. Where it fell, the fabric of her mint-green blouse turned emerald. “I didn’t tell you about it because the whole incident was humiliating.”

  “And incriminating,” Ray suggested.

  “I didn’t kill Paul over it, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “You’ve lied to us before. It’s time for some straight answers. Why would Davis have struck you?”

  She dried her face and took a deep breath. “I couldn’t sleep. I went to ACC looking for him, hoping I’d be able to help somehow.”

  “I remember this version,” Ray said. “Now let’s have the rest.”

  Head bowed, she continued. “I found Paul in the boardroom. The second he saw me, he ushered me back to the door. No explanation—he just wanted me to leave. Seeing him so upset made me all the more determined to stay. I couldn’t go—not like that, but nothing I said mattered. He insisted I had to leave. The look on his face… I’d never seen him like that before. It frightened me—more for him than myself. The next thing I knew, I’d blurted out how I felt about him.” She buried her face in her hands. “So stupid. The words were barely out of my mouth when he grabbed my arm and shoved me toward the boardroom door. He told me to get out. When I refused again, that’s when he hit me.”

  A brief silence followed.

  “Using Michael’s take on the situation is a nice touch,” Ray said, “but not very convincing.”

  “That’s what happened.”

  “How do you claim you were hit? With his fist? An open hand?”

  “He slapped me.” Eyes closed, she shook her head. “Oh, it wasn’t the way you see it in the movies. I saw it coming and flinched. His hand caught my nose.” A humorless smile flashed across her face. “It was clumsy but effective. I left.”

  “So you’re claiming you had a nosebleed,” Ray said.

  “Yes. My nose bled profusely. I stopped outside the boardroom just long enough to pull a tissue from my purse. I suppose that’s how my blood wound up in the hallway.”

  Ray expelled a short breath. “Let’s say I believe your story. If it’s true, Davis’s response to your declaration of love must’ve felt like the worst kind of violation.”

  “But it didn’t make me homicidal. When I left, Paul was alive.”

  “If we could test the blood on that garment,” Waverly said, “it might help support your story.”

  “I threw it out.”

  “Of course you did,” he said. “What was I thinking?”

  “I’m telling you it was my blood on that blouse. I wasn’t trying to hide anything. The blouse was ruined; there was no point in keeping it.” When they didn’t reply, she shouted, “The blood was mine!”

  Ray wondered if she had any idea how much damage she’d done to her own case. He got his answer a moment later. In her own defense, she said, “I signed into the logbook before going upstairs. I wouldn’t have killed Paul, knowing my signature would give me away.”

  “Your signature isn’t in the logbook entries for that night,” he told her.

  “But that can’t be. I signed in. It’s true. Ask Michael.”

  “He’s sworn, more than once, that you never returned to ACC that night. He stuck to that story even after you admitted being there. Do you really expect us to believe anything he says?”

  Her shoulders slumped.

  Ray relented for a moment. “I’ll follow up on that, but I’m not suggesting you get your hopes up. If you signed in like you say, at least it should help prove it wasn’t a premeditated murder.”

  “I’m telling you I had nothing to do with Paul’s death. Nothing.”

  She was still making the same claim two hours later when Waverly had an officer book her.

  34

  The smile took ten years off Captain Roth’s craggy, fifty-year-old face. Ray could practically count the fillings in his teeth. “Nice job, both of you,” Roth said. He clapped Waverly on the shoulder and shook their hands. “It took longer than I’d have liked, but you finally got the job done. Good work.”

  Despite the pleasantries, Ray wanted to get out of the captain’s office. “If you don’t mind, there’s something I still need to take care of, Captain.”

  “The logbook?” Roth asked.

  “Yeah. I want to check that out. Now’s as good a time as any.”

  “Sure,” Roth said, “go ahead.”

  Outside the office, Ray asked Waverly, “How long do you suppose that will last?”

  “The Jekyll side of Hyde, you mean?” Waverly grinned. “We could probably hold our breath longer.” Waverly hitched up his pants and glanced toward the coffeemaker. “Are you going straight to the property room or are you gonna grab a cup of coffee first?”

  “I’ll pass. I’ll be back in a while.”

  “Okay, I’m gonna have a cup of java and
give Phyllis a call. Gotta tell her to put supper back in the fridge and get into her favorite dress; we’re going out tonight. It’s a little custom I started. Each time a case is solved, it’s our way of celebrating.” He gave Ray a wink. “Part of it anyway.”

  Ray found the logbook. It was about the size of a large hotel register, and despite being bound in rich, supple leather, it felt surprisingly light. The reason became apparent as he flipped through the pages in search of the last entry. The interior was filled with onion skin paper, the surface of each sheet covered in characteristic irregular ripples. While the paper might have been chosen for its lightness and durability, he suspected the odd choice was more about maintaining ACC’s prestigious image.

  Three-quarters of the way through the book, he located the final entry. On the last line of the left-hand page a William Carpenter had signed out. Taking note of the man’s time of departure, Ray determined he was a member of the janitorial service.

  If there was any truth to Jillian Wirth’s story, her signature should have been at the top of the next page. It was blank. He wondered if she thought she’d be able to bluff her way out of the murder charge.

  The pages fluttered together as Ray started to shut the book in disgust. A split-second glimpse—a momentary shift in the lighting caused him to stop and return to the page in question. He’d spotted something.

  Using his palms, he pressed the sheets apart. At the binding was a barely perceptible remnant of a single sheet of paper.

  His eyes strained as he studied the right-hand page. He slanted the book at different angles trying to determine what was real and what might be nothing but his imagination. Were those meaningless wrinkles characteristic of the paper’s cockled finish or imprints from handwriting on a previous page?

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Problem?” It was Waverly.

  “Done with your coffee already?”

  “The stuff was lousier than usual. I dumped it.” Waverly stepped behind him and looked over his shoulder. “Find anything?”

  Pressing the pages apart, Ray exposed the tiny, tell-tale bit of paper again. “Take a look. A page was ripped out. Maybe Wirth signed in after all.”

  Waverly squinted at the evidence and straightened up again, sighing. “Prob’ly Johnson’s doing.”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “You know, if Davis hadn’t been such a jackass that night, he’d prob’ly still be alive.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. The man was a womanizer,” Ray said, “but abusive? I never got that impression. Why would he lose it that night?”

  “Must’ve snapped. He wasn’t interested in Wirth, but she wouldn’t take the hint. In his crappy frame of mind, he might’ve figured it was the quickest way to set her straight.”

  “Stop and think about that for a second,” Ray said. “We’re talking about Jillian Wirth. Gorgeous. Young. Sexy. She’d just thrown herself at him, for God’s sake. That’s not the response I’d have expected from him.”

  “Point taken, buddy. So, what are you thinking?”

  “I think something else might’ve been going on. According to Wirth, Davis tried to get rid of her the second she showed up. She hadn’t started spouting off about her feelings at that point; why the big rush to get her out of there?”

  Waverly fingered his mustache. “Maybe he was up to his ass in work.”

  “Earlier maybe,” Ray said, giving it more thought. “Todd Gaines did see Davis digging through files that night. Still, by the time Wirth showed up, he must’ve been finished with whatever he was doing. The only thing that was out of place in the boardroom the next morning was his body. There were no files lying around, no unfinished paperwork.”

  “No suicide note either,” Waverly pointed out.

  “I don’t see Davis killing time, sitting around in that boardroom.”

  “That does seem weird.”

  Ray paced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Davis had some reason for coming back that night, and it probably involved the files he was looking for.”

  “Too bad we don’t know which ones they were.”

  “Yeah, and the odds of finding out are pretty poor. They may have no bearing on his murder, anyway. Still, why would he be sitting around there at that time of night?”

  “He damn well wasn’t taking time to admire the view.”

  “Not in his frame of mind.” Ray began pacing again. “What the hell was he waiting around for?” He stopped and snapped his fingers. “Waiting. That’s got to be it.”

  “Waiting for what, though?”

  “I don’t know. Something—someone. Not for Jillian Wirth obviously.”

  “Maybe a phone call,” Waverly said. “Nah, forget that; he could’ve taken a call anywhere.”

  Ray started pacing again. “But what if… Yeah. Say he’d arranged to meet with someone privately. That could explain his rush to get Wirth out of there.”

  “A meeting with someone on the QT,” Waverly mused. “You know, if you’re right, there should be another name on that missing logbook page.”

  Ray picked the logbook up again. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  Waverly looked over his shoulder. “How about it? See any handwriting impressions?”

  Lifting the book to chin level, Ray turned it at different angles. “Shit. If there are imprints from the missing page, this paper is doing a damn good job of camouflaging them.”

  “Don’t worry, the forensics guys have ways to bring them out.”

  “Yeah, but there’s no telling how long that could take. If I don’t have to, I’m not going to sit around waiting for results from the lab. Help me look.” Ray angled the book more to the right. “Is this something here? It’s really faint, but...” He shoved the book at Waverly. “Look at this—right here.”

  Long moments passed.

  “Well?” Ray waited as Waverly continued to squint at the page. “Anything?”

  “My eyeballs are gonna pop outta my head if I look any harder.” He mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, then, “Okay. I think I see an ‘L’. No, two—side by side. It’s Jillian—gotta be.”

  “Not there,” Ray complained. “The next line.”

  “Hey, at this point I’m glad to make anything out.”

  Ray tapped the spot. “Right here. Take another look.”

  Waverly held the book so close his mustache dusted the page. “No, I can’t make anything out.”

  Looking around the room, Ray took the book from Waverly’s hands. “Come over here.”

  He slanted it, letting brighter light spill across the blank page. “Right there, on the second line. Look again.”

  “Damn. I think I see an impression—barely, but there may be something there.” Waverly stood beside Ray, eyes straining. “I’m gonna go blind for sure. Hang on a sec.” He stepped away and returned a minute later with a magnifying glass. “Okay, now we should be in business.” He held it over the page, pointing with the index finger of his other hand. “An ‘O’, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s an ‘O’.” Ray angled the book slightly downward.

  “Wait. Tilt it back the other way. Is that an ‘S’?”

  A minute later, they found another faint imprint: a crossbar.

  Waverly moved in so close it looked like Ray had grown a second head. “What about this? Is it another ‘O’ or an ‘A’, Ray?”

  “An ‘A’, I think.”

  Waverly pointed again a minute later. “Looks like an ‘E’. Damn it, Ray, I can’t see if you keep moving the book on me. Wait. There’s an ‘L’. Will ya hold the damn thing still?”

  So it went for another ten minutes until they returned to their department, unable to make out anything else. As though it were a game of Hangman, Ray made a dozen or so blank dashes on a notepad at his desk and filled the lines in with the letters they were reasonably sure they’d identified correctly. Placing them in proper order, he stared at the results. Despite the air-conditioning, a trick
le of sweat ran between his shoulder blades.

  Ray studied the alignment and filled in the missing blanks. He slid the notepad over to Waverly. “You’d better call home and tell your wife to put the meatloaf back in the oven.”

  35

  Armed with dozens of questions and just six letters of the alphabet discovered in the ACC logbook, Ray and Waverly drove to a familiar location. On the short drive, silence alternated with back-and-forth debate.

  Ray threw the door open as Waverly pulled into a parking space in the back lot. “The only way we’re going to get answers is to go up there and ask the right questions.”

  “You ready then?” Waverly asked.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “As I’m ever gonna be.”

  They entered the lobby, stopped briefly at the reception desk and got into an elevator.

  Heartbeat accelerating, Ray watched the light blink from one floor number to the next as the elevator ascended. At their floor, the doors whooshed aside. They exited, their destination in plain view. With the outer office unoccupied, Ray and Waverly stepped to the open office door beyond and announced themselves.

  “Gentlemen,” they heard, “good morning. Please, come in.” Stuart Felton rose effortlessly, every movement of his tall, lean body a study in masculine grace. He indicated the chairs on the other side of his desk. “Have a seat,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you, or is that an oversight on my part? I find myself a little scattered lately. Too much going on—not enough time to manage all of it.”

  “It’s not you,” Ray assured him, taking a seat, “this is an impromptu visit.”

  “Ah. At least I’m not quite as disorganized as I imagined then. My secretary is away from her desk at the moment, but may I offer you something? Some coffee? Something cold perhaps?”

  “No thanks,” Waverly said.

  “Not just now, thank you,” Ray told him.

  Felton’s smile faded. “Is something wrong? You both seem a bit...grim.”

  “We wanted to offer our condolences,” Waverly told him. “We know Mitchell Gaynor was a friend of yours.”