Web of Silence: A Ray Schiller Novel (The Ray Schiller Series Book 4)

by Marjorie Doering

  “Right, so where did Elena Dunn come from?”

  Ray cocked his head. “That’s kind of where I’m headed. What if Lundquist didn’t pick Elena Dunn up at all? We can’t rule out her showing up on her own. She left the theater—he left the bar. Maybe they met up on the sidewalk outside.”

  “But there’s another possibility, too,” Waverly said. “What if they’d already been cozy for a while? Suppose Lundquist texted her and asked her to meet him there. Maybe he went outside to wait for her.”

  He looked at Ray for his reaction. Getting none, he continued. “It could be like I said. She did some heavy-duty drinking, then got a text from Lundquist asking her to meet him at the bar. She’s already sloshed, so she thinks nothing of taking off with the boy in his pajamas, dumping him in the theater, and hurrying off to salvage her evening—the only trouble being that they got mugged before they ever got inside.”

  “Dick, let’s face it. We could bat this around all day and still not get anywhere. There are too many possibilities… like she could have texted him for that matter.

  “Damn,” Waverly said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Ray felt tension bunching up his shoulders. “It’s nothing but speculation until we find their missing cell phones… if we do. You know, we’ve been hammering away at this case from a negative angle and getting nowhere. If we change perspectives, we might turn up something we haven’t thought of before.”

  “Yeah,” Waverly said. “maybe you’re right.”

  “If those cell phones don’t turn up in a big hurry,” Ray said, “we’ll have to subpoena their phone records.” He picked up a pen and began tapping it against his knuckles. “Something else occurred to me. If Dave Dunn had become aware of his ex’s mistreatment and neglect of the boy, he might’ve decided to take matters into his own hands.”

  Waverly chuckled. “So much for looking on the bright side.”

  Ray tossed the pen aside. “It’s all still guesswork,” he said. “Even when it comes to the .32 shell casings they finally found, there’s no ballistics match.”

  “Whoever fired those bullets,” Waverly said, “prob’ly found a new home for the gun at the bottom of the Mississippi.”

  Ray reacted with a sigh, and slid his open notepad across the desk. “There’s Elena Dunn’s address. You want to head there next?”

  Waverly thought about it for a few seconds. “The shooting happened miles away, and with the Dunn woman and her son accounted for, I think we can hold off on that for a while. I’d rather go talk to the people on the list Dave Dunn gave you. The house will keep.”

  13

  In St. Louis Park, roughly twelve miles west of Minneapolis, Ray and Waverly located the address they were looking for. Over the front door, an exceptionally large sign lettered in Old English calligraphy drew their attention. It was simple and to the point: Beatty Photography Studio.

  A bell reminiscent of old-time drugstores chimed over their heads as they entered. Everything else about the reception area gave off a cozy but more contemporary vibe.

  A fortyish woman at the desk on the other side of the room greeted them with a smile. “May I help you, gentlemen?” She looked first at the appointment book in front of her, then at the two of them again. “Are you interested in making an appointment for a sitting?”

  Ray returned a smile. “No, thanks. We’re here on other business. Ms. Beatty is expecting us. I spoke to her on the phone earlier.” They showed her their identification. “I’m Detective Schiller. This,” he said jerking his chin in Waverly’s direction, “is my partner, Detective Waverly.”

  Her almond-shaped eyes widened. “Detectives?” The woman fiddled with her hands. “I’m afraid Rachel… Ms. Beatty, is shooting someone just now.”

  Amused by her jitters, Waverly turned to Ray and said, “Sounds like we got here too late.”

  The whites of her eyes showed all around.

  “Ignore him,” Ray told her. “Just a little homicide detective humor.”

  “Homicide?” That information only frayed her nerves more. “Should I go back and ask Ms. Beatty to come out right away?”

  “If she’s busy, we can wait for a few minutes,” Ray said.

  “She should be done any time now. If you’d like to take a seat—”

  Through a door at the back of the room, a woman in her sixties stepped into the waiting area. Gray streaks in her dark hair were less gray than dingy yellow. Her smile exposed crooked teeth as she talked to the young redheaded woman who followed her out. “I hope Doug will like the photos.”

  “Your husband will love them, Mrs. Buckley. It’s very sweet that you’re doing this for him.” The younger woman gave her client an engaging smile. “I’ll give you a call as soon as I have the proofs ready.”

  The older woman acknowledged Ray and Waverly with a nod as she stepped past them and gave the receptionist a little farewell wave before slipping into her coat and stepping outside.

  The photographer approached. “Detectives Schiller and Waverly?”

  Ray said, “Yes. I’m Detective Schiller.”

  She nodded and smiled. “I’m Rachel Beatty. I hope you weren’t waiting too long. I was finishing up some glamour shots of Mrs. Buckley.”

  Waverly looked toward the front window at the departing woman and arched an eyebrow. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  Ray winced at Waverly’s uncharacteristically snide remark.

  Without comment, Beatty motioned for them to follow her. “We can talk in my office.” Once inside she sat at a streamlined, glass desk and gestured to the two chairs across from her.

  Ray paused, his eyes narrowing as he caught himself staring at her. “Sorry,” he said, “but you look familiar. Where have we met?”

  “That’s funny,” Rachel replied, “I was just wondering the same thing.”

  Waverly’s eyebrows shot up. “Gluek’s—Saturday night. We bumped into each other at the door, remember?”

  “That’s it,” Ray said. “Gluek’s Restaurant and Bar. You were leaving just as we got there.”

  “I remember now,” she said. “I was looking for Elena and Georgia.”

  “Georgia.” Ray did a quick check of the contact information Dave Dunn had given him “Georgia Schwartz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you supposed to meet them?”

  “No, I just thought I might find them there. I wanted to hear how Elena’s date went Friday night.”

  “She had a date? Any chance you know the man’s name?” Ray asked.

  “Dirk. No, Derek,” Beatty said. “It was Derek.”

  Expecting to hear ‘Lewis Lundquist,’ the name took Ray by surprise. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Positive.”

  “Any chance you know his last name?” Waverly asked.

  “I don’t remember offhand, but hang on a second.” She grabbed her purse. “Elena mentioned it in a text message. It’s probably still on my phone. Let me look.”

  Moments later she located her phone as well as the text and announced, “His name is

  Derek Printz.”

  “As in Charming?” Waverly asked.

  “No, T-Z not C-E. Anyway,” she said, “on Saturday, I texted Elena to ask how it went, but she didn’t get back to me, so I tried Georgia since she’d already know.”

  “Why’s that?” Waverly asked.

  “Because Elena would’ve told her all about it when she got home.” When Waverly’s eyebrows dipped, she elaborated. “Georgia was babysitting for Elena’s son while she was out.”

  From the confused look on Waverly’s face, Ray knew they were thinking the same thing: If Georgia Schwartz was keeping an eye on Nathan Dunn, how did he wind up inside that theater?

  “Let me get this straight,” Ray said. “On Friday night, Georgia Schwartz was watching Nathan while his mother was with this Derek Printz.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure there wasn’t a last-minute change of plans o
r something?”

  “Positive. Georgia called me from Elena’s place to make tentative plans with me for Sunday. She’d have mentioned it if something had changed.”

  “How did you hear about what happened?” Ray asked.

  “Dave, Elena’s ex, called to tell me.” Her eyes misted over. “I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t. I’m sure Dave would’ve called Georgia, too. I’m concerned that I haven’t been able to get ahold of her to talk about it. She must be as shell-shocked as I am.”

  “Did you ever hear Elena mention a man by the name of Lewis Lundquist?” Ray asked.

  “Lundquist? No. Oh, wait. That’s the name of the man Dave said was found in that alley with Elena, right?”

  “Right,” Waverly said.

  “No. I’d never heard the name before Dave mentioned it.” She paused. “Tell me something. I’m really confused about how Elena ended up in Minneapolis with the Lundquist man when she was supposed to be with Derek Printz in Minnetonka.”

  “Minnetonka?” Waverly asked. “You sure you got that right?”

  “Look for yourselves.” Beatty turned the cell phone screen in their direction. “See? Derek Printz. The Redstone American Grill. Minnetonka.”

  Waverly read it and sat back again, scowling. “What the…”

  Beatty’s eyes shifted from one of them to the other. “You look as confused as I am.”

  Unwilling to make that admission, Ray said, “Ms. Beatty, how well do you know Elena Dunn?”

  “Very well. Six years ago, she hired me to photograph her wedding. We hit it off and became friends.”

  “How about her ex-husband—how well do you know him?”

  Her brow creased. “No better than I know any of my other friends’ husbands.”

  “No need to get defensive, Ms. Beatty,” he said. “I wasn’t implying anything.”

  “That’s not what it sounded like.”

  Ray stopped short of an apology. “That wasn’t my intention. What can you tell me about the Dunn’s marriage?”

  She hesitated, clearly uncomfortable answering the question. “At first Elena always seemed very happy, but a couple years in, their marriage skidded downhill pretty fast.”

  “After the carjacking incident?” Ray asked.

  “Oh, you know about that.” Beatty settled back in her chair. “Once that happened, things changed. Elena changed.” Rachel lowered her eyes. “She’s my friend and I love her, but for a long time, she could be pretty difficult to be around. Eventually that drove Dave away. Deep down, I think she’s aware of that. She’s come a long way since then, and voice or no voice, it’s like having my old friend back.”

  “So, somewhere along the line,” Waverly said, “her husband got involved with another woman. He told us as much,” he added, hoping she’d feel more comfortable knowing she wasn’t telling tales out of school.

  Beatty nodded. “Elena found out, and that, as they say, was that.”

  “Any idea who she was?” Ray asked.

  “I have no idea, Detective Schiller, and I don’t think Elena ever found out or even cared particularly. As far as she was concerned, the ‘who’ wasn’t the point.”

  Beatty smiled and crossed one shapely leg over the other. “From the questions you’re asking, it sounds like Dave got it right; you suspect him of having something to do with what happened to Elena and that man. If that’s the case, you’re way off base. He still cares about her. Even the way the divorce went made that clear.”

  “He told me he still loves her,” Ray said, “but what he said and the truth could be two entirely different things.”

  “Not in this case,” she said. “Even in the divorce settlement, Dave gave her everything she asked for. He never batted an eye.” Beatty folded her hands on the desktop. “Of course, Elena didn’t go for the jugular. She’d deny it—has actually—but I think she still has feelings for Dave, too.”

  “Okay,” Ray said, “but what about the custody battle that’s going on between them?”

  “It’s really more of a skirmish. They’re both concerned about Nathan. He doesn’t talk… at least not much. Elena thinks Dave is making too much out of it—that it’s just a phase he’ll outgrow.”

  “Do you think she’s right?” Waverly asked.

  “I don’t know. If it’s selective mutism like Dave thinks—”

  Waverly’s features puckered. “I’ve heard that term. Refresh my memory.”

  “It’s a kind of social anxiety disorder. I Googled it after Dave brought it up one day. It’s an unwillingness or… or even an inability to speak under some circumstances, or to certain people. That’s basically what I got out of it anyhow.”

  Ray moved on. “Do you think his concern about Elena abducting their son was legitimate or just a way to create leverage when it comes to the custody hearing?”

  She shook her head, but the action lacked genuine conviction. “Nathan is Elena’s world, but to think she would just pick up and take off with him…” She shook her head a little more emphatically. “I don’t know. I don’t think Dave was being underhanded; I think he may have just overreacted.”

  They heard a dainty tapping on the door. “Yes, Lorraine?” Rachel said.

  The receptionist opened the door barely far enough to poke her face into the room. “Excuse me, Rachel, but your next appointment is here—the Nussbaums. They’ve been waiting for a while already.”

  “I’ll be done here in just a minute.” She stood. “We are done, aren’t we?” she asked. “I don’t think there’s anything more I can tell you.”

  “We can wrap it up for now,” Ray said. “You’ve been a big help, Ms. Beatty. Thanks.”

  “Our apologies to the Nussbaums,” Waverly added.

  “They’ll understand,” she said. “They’re a very sweet couple. Their kids are paying to have a photograph taken of them to commemorate their fiftieth anniversary.”

  Waverly went to the office door. “Yeah, they’ll be okay with the wait. After fifty years of marriage, they’ve gotta have the market on patience cornered.”

  14

  Outside Rachel Beatty’s photography studio, Ray let the car engine idle and dropped his head against the headrest.

  “Are you as confused as I am, Dick?”

  “That depends,” Waverly told him. “How confused are you?”

  “Since we walked in there, I went from a six to an eight on a scale of ten. How did Elena Dunn turn up in Minneapolis with Lundquist, when she was supposed to be in Minnetonka with Printz? Nothing fits.”

  “Confusion-wise I’d say we’re tied, buddy.”

  Ray raised his head. “And if Georgia Schwartz was watching Nathan Dunn Friday night, how’d he wind up in that theater? Something better start making sense soon.” He put the car in gear. “What do you say—the Redstone?”

  Waverly sat staring out the window.

  Ray repeated himself. “The Redstone, Dick?”

  “What?”

  “I think we should go to the Redstone Grill. Are you all right?”

  “Hey, just because I’m not hanging on your every word doesn’t mean anything’s wrong, okay?”

  “Fine,” Ray said. “Forget I asked.” He wasn’t about to drive the burr under Waverly’s saddle any deeper. It wasn’t likely to get him anywhere anyway.

  “Okay.” Waverly flicked an apologetic glance in Ray’s direction. “Let’s head over there.”

  Ray put the car in gear and drove while Waverly called dispatch to request a background check on Derek Printz. They received the information just as they pulled into the Redstone’s parking lot.

  The restaurant had the distinction of being the first in the growing chain, each different in appearance, each equal in appeal, and all constructed with large stone slabs on the face of the buildings.

  Inside, a dozen customers sat scattered around the bar, but no one fit Derek Printz’s description. Ray and Waverly zeroed in on an area that provided some elbow room.

  A man, dressed in
standard all-black Redstone bartender attire, greeted them. “Hello, gentlemen. What can I get for you?”

  Ray held up his detective shield. “Just some information.”

  “What kind are you looking for?”

  “Friday night…” Ray said. “A man was supposed to meet a woman here—a pretty, thirty-year-old blond. We’d like to ask him some questions.”

  The bartender laughed. “Every night a dozen men come in looking for a woman like that.”

  “Yeah, well, this one’s name is Derek Printz. Six-two, dark hair, nice build, late thirties. Know him?”

  Before the bartender could answer, a voice came from their right. “I know the guy.”

  They turned in unison. A stocky man was facing forward, sucking down a beer. He hoisted the empty bottle in the bartender’s direction. “Scott, another Sam Adams over here.” He turned to face them. “What do you want with Printz?”

  Ray stepped closer. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  The man grabbed the fresh bottle from the bartender before it touched down on the bar. “I wouldn’t call him that.” He tipped the bottle back and pulled it away, smacking his lips. The whites of his eyes bordered on red.

  Ray’s expression said he noticed.

  The man offered a preemptive, “Don’t worry. I’m not drunk. It’s allergies.” He stuck his hand out. “Name’s Butkus—you know, like the linebacker for the Chicago Bears back when, but I go by Hank.”

  Ray shook his hand. “How do you know Derek Printz, Hank?”

  “From here,” he said. “He’s a would-be drinking buddy.” Butkus fiddled with his beer bottle. “Every now and then he comes in, sees me, parks on the next stool and shoots the breeze until he targets some good-looking woman. Then he’s off, trying to score.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you think much of him,” Waverly said.

  Butkus took a drink and set the bottle down with a thump. “He’s a glad-hander—a salesman for some IT company. A real bullshitter.”

  “With an eye for pretty women,” Waverly said. “How does he do?”