Dear Crossing (12 page)

During the brief time he’d spent with Stockton, Ray had gotten a feel for the old man’s character—his intelligence, his drive, and his deep love for his daughter. Davis was another matter. Something about him left a bad taste in Ray’s mouth.

Not for the first time, Ray focused on another man located several rows back. It was his demeanor that caught his attention. In his early forties, of average height with a sturdy build, he was the kind of man female admirers would call muscular as opposed to husky. His full head of thick, midnight-black hair fell to each side in a natural part. Attractive, Ray supposed, but not particularly handsome. The man tried to project the same emotional detachment as other ACC attendees, but something else seeped through his veneer. Anger. Tension maybe.

The service ended in a flurry of amens and hushed goodbyes as the crowd began to disperse. Ray motioned for Waverly to follow while he increased the length of his stride. Catching up with the targeted ACC exec, Ray fell in step. “An awful shame, isn’t it?”

“Yes, horrible.”

“She was a wonderful woman.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Were you a close friend?”

Irritated, the man stopped and turned. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet.” Ray extended his hand. “Officer Schiller—Widmer.” Waverly caught up a step later. “This is Detective Waverly.”

The man’s electric blue eyes gave nothing away. “Ed Costales,” he said, shaking their hands.

Ed Costales. The E-C-G-O-I-N personalized plates.
“Detective Waverly and I would like to talk with you, Mr. Costales.”

“I’ve got a prior commitment at the moment.” He motioned toward the roadway and started toward his car again. “Do you mind walking along?”

Flanking him like bookends, Ray and Waverly kept pace.

“I thought Chet Stockton closed ACC’s Minneapolis offices for the day,” Ray said.

“I didn’t say my commitment was job-related. If you think I can help you in some way, I’ll be glad to see you tomorrow in my office.”

“We tried that yesterday.” Waverly handed his card to Costales. “Tomorrow it’s your turn to pay
us
a visit.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to—”

“Call ahead. We’ll make it a point to be there.”

Before he could argue, they reversed directions and headed to their own car.

“I like your approach,” Ray told Waverly.

“Thanks. Sometimes it actually works.” Waverly punched a number in on his cell phone, talking while he waited for someone to pick up. “So, what do you want to do next?”

“Kobilinsky’s employees won’t be at the bar yet,” Ray said. “We should’ve gone back last night. Let’s give Dana Danforth another try.”

Waverly snapped his cell shut. “Forget it. She’s not answering.”

“Shit. That leaves us with the funeral videotape. When we review it, watch Costales during the service. Something’s going on.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Edgy bugger, isn’t he?” They got in the car and Waverly tugged the seatbelt across his belly. “Truth is there’s no tellin’ what was goin’ through his head. Could’ve been job issues, woman problems, the income tax deadline. Crap. I’ve gotta ask Phyllis if we sent our return in yet. Anyway, we’ll pick his brain tomorrow, if he shows up.”

Ray’s cell phone rang as they arrived at their car. “Hello. Nothing much. We’re just leaving the cemetery. We’re going back to the station to have a look at the funeral tape. No. Nothing concrete since I talked to you yesterday.” He listened briefly, his expression changing. “Vicodin? For what? Okay, I’ll check with Davis. He should know.” Ray went quiet again. “Bovine? He’s positive? It still doesn’t feel right to me. Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten. Yeah.” He snapped the cell shut.

“That sounded official. Chief Newell?” Waverly asked, turning out of the cemetery.

“Yeah. Valerie Davis’s blood tests came back. They found Vicodin in her system.”

“Painkiller.” Waverly arched his bushy eyebrows. “Pretty potent stuff. Nothing to do with her death, though, right?”

Ray snorted. “I think we’ve got that pretty much narrowed down to the axe.”

“Funny guy,” Waverly said.

“The dose wasn’t excessive. It’s probably not important, but I want to check it out. I’ll let Davis have a little time to himself before I call and ask why his wife was taking it.”

“I’ve gotta ask,” Waverly said. “What do cows have to do with this case?”

“Nothing. A couple days ago, a bull trampled a farmer to death in Widmer. I’m not convinced there isn’t more to it than that, but the blood on a wrench we found in the man’s barn is the bull’s, not the farmer’s.”

“Isn’t that good news?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t add up. Even the rookie who was with me has his doubts.”

“The Hardy boys down on the farm. Yeehaw.” Waverly changed lanes, cutting off a green Taurus. A horn blared. He glanced in his outside mirror. “Chill out, Bozo. So, Ray, you want to run that bull story by me? Maybe I can help.”

“Thanks but we Hardy boys will manage.”

Hours of studying the faces and behavior of the funeral goers, left Ray frustrated. They’d analyzed every expression, every nuance. No one seemed out of place and, except for Ed Costales, no one spurred their curiosity.

Ray kicked back at his apartment at the Staffords and made a call home. When it wasn’t Gail who answered, he couldn’t deny his disappointment. That disappointment troubled him. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs and the three gentle raps on his door forced him to abbreviate the call.

He identified the spicy aroma as he opened the door. “Chili,” Ray said, accepting the container Gwen Stafford offered him. “Thank you, Mrs. Stafford.”

With a drawl as thick as the chili itself, she explained she’d made more than they could manage, suggested he ‘eat up’ while it was hot and wished him goodnight.

His first truly home-cooked meal in nearly two months practically required an asbestos-lined mouth, but he savored every bite. Eating in front of the TV, his eyes traveled from the screen to the window beyond it. From his bird’s eye view, he saw Gwen and Jim Stafford sitting side-by-side on their couch, framed by their living room window. Without speaking, they sat snuggled against one another with the same tacit intimacy he and Gail used to share. Watching their quiet familiarity made him feel like a voyeur. He carried his chili to the kitchen table.

When his tongue regained feeling, he tried calling Paul Davis. His line was busy. The same was true when he tried to call Dana Danforth.

Waverly, on the other hand, answered on the second ring.

“Hey,” Ray said, “are you up for that trip back to ‘Logan’s’?”

17

Friday, April 9th

Ray hadn’t slept well. He and Waverly had hoped for more than shrugs and headshakes from Kobilinsky’s employees regarding Dana Danforth. The less-than-helpful responses to their questions seemed due to a lack of information—or even interest—rather than a lack of cooperation.

At the station, Ray went directly to the coffeemaker. Waverly was right; the coffee sucked. Dunking a greasy cruller in it didn’t benefit either the coffee or the pastry. He tossed the last few bites into a metal wastebasket as Waverly walked in a minute later.

“Been here long, Ray?”

“Just got here.” In need of the caffeine, Ray drained his cup. “I was about to call Davis. By the time we got back from Logan’s last night, it was too late.”

Captain Roth stuck his head through the office door. “Waverly.”

“Crud,” he mumbled, “I know that tone.” He nodded at Roth. “Be right there, Captain.”

Waverly straightened his tie first, his shoulders next. “Help yourself to my phone, Ray. I’ll be right back—God willing.”

Lovell Paige walked over as Waverly headed into Roth’s office. He opened the pastry box and checked out the contents.

“Window shopping?” Ray asked.

“Yeah. Damn.” He let the lid fall. “I was hoping for a cruller.”

The discarded cruller stared up at Ray from the trash basket. Hoping for a strategic landing, he dropped a napkin inside.

“So, how’s it going?” Paige asked.

“Slow.”

“And Waverly?”

“I’ve got no complaints.”

“Him neither. Word gets around.” Paige glanced toward the captain’s office. “Roth’s chewing ass this morning. I’d just as soon he stick to white meat. I’m taking my coffee and heading for safer ground. Later.”

Over the station’s ringing phones and the drone of multiple conversations, Ray heard Roth’s raised voice through the closed door. Standing around sympathizing with Waverly wasn’t getting his call made. With the caffeine kicking in, he sat down at Waverly’s desk and picked up the phone. His call filtered through the receptionist to Davis’s executive assistant, then to Davis himself. The last step took an inordinate amount of time. Whether it was a legitimate delay or another display of Davis’s animosity, he couldn’t be sure.

“What is it now, Officer Schiller,” Davis said without the benefit of a hello, “another accusation, or is it too much to hope that you’re calling to report some actual progress?”

“I have a question.”

“Don’t you always?”

“The medical examiner found Vicodin in your wife’s system. Any idea why she was taking it?”

“Vicodin?”

“It’s quite a potent painkiller,” Ray explained.

“Valerie had bursitis, but that was a couple of years ago. Why are you asking? Does it have some bearing on her death?”

“Probably not, but sometimes even small details pay off. If you don’t know why it was prescribed, can you give me the name of her doctor? I’ll ask him myself.”

Davis hesitated. “We went to different doctors. Hers retired. I don’t remember who she switched to after that.”

“Then would you check her prescription bottles for the doctor’s name when you get home, and give me a call?”

“They won’t be there. She’d have taken them with her.”

“Then they’d be at your place in Widmer. Okay. I’ll go over the crime scene reports again. There should be a record of them in there. Thanks.”

“Wait,” Davis said. “Have you come up with anything yet?”

“I can promise you this, Mr. Davis. However long it takes, I’m making it my mission to find the person responsible for your wife’s death. I won’t stop until the job’s done. You have my word.” Ray hung up on that note. Depending on his guilt or innocence, Davis could take his promise as reassurance or a personal threat. Either way, it served Ray’s purpose. Head braced against the back of Waverly’s chair, he closed his eyes to consider his next move.

“Napping?”

Waverly’s voice startled him. “I didn’t see you come out of Roth’s office.” He got out of Waverly’s chair and gave him a once-over. “You don’t look any the worse for wear.”

“Just some minor internal bleeding. How’d you make out with Davis? Did you get hold of him?”

“Yeah. Tell me something. Your wife’s doctor—you know who he is and what her medical conditions are, don’t you?”

“Sure. A husband knows that stuff about his wife, right?”

“I do, you do, but not Davis apparently. He didn’t know shit. Seems like an emotional disconnect if you ask me. That makes me more anxious than ever to meet this Danforth woman. I want to find out what their connection is.”

“About that… We’ll have to hold off until—”

The phone on Waverly’s desk rang. He dropped into his chair and pressed the receiver to his ear. “Homicide. Detective Waverly.” He listened briefly. “Yeah, all right. Tomorrow then—without fail. Tell him, Ms. Freeport. Thanks.” He slapped the receiver back into the cradle. “Well, buddy, that tears it.”

“What’s going on?”

“That was Ed Costales’s secretary. Guess who’s not coming in to be interviewed today.”

“Damn it.”

“Maybe it’s just as well. That stint in the captain’s office screwed things up. It seems my partner took some shortcuts on one of our cases. I’ve got orders to untie the knots he left in a mile-long trail of red tape. Roth wants it done
now
. Undoing the mess is liable to chew up a big chunk of my day.”

“Where
is
your partner?”

“Vacationing in Cancun or Cucamonga—some damned place. Doesn’t matter. Look, officially this is your case. You can go ahead without me, but I’d sure appreciate it if you’d hold off until tomorrow. It’s early. You could still put the day to good use.”

“I guess I could drive back to Widmer and take care of a few things there.”

“Great. Tomorrow when you come in, I’ll have things straightened out and we can go at this full tilt again.”

The prospect of putting off his plans for the day didn’t sit well, but Waverly was right; it didn’t mean bringing progress to a screeching halt.

Ray drove on automatic pilot. A couple of hours later, he arrived at his and Gail’s Cape Cod house in Widmer. He parked across the street, planning to let her know he was there—that he planned to visit with the kids when they got home from school. He’d prepared a script along the way but, sitting there, it eluded him. For a second time, he reached for the car door’s handle when the front door of the house opened.

Gail stepped out and scooped the newspaper off the stoop. She glanced at the front page and went back inside. In fewer than ten seconds, Ray had already deduced several things. Gail had no house showing appointments that morning; the jeans and favorite old sweater were part of her housecleaning attire. The auburn hair brushing her slim shoulders was still damp from a later-than-usual shower, meaning her day had probably gotten off to a rough start. She was tired. It didn’t show in her face, but in the way she moved; the spring in her step was missing.

The sight of her threatened to weaken the wall of anger he’d erected. He couldn’t allow that—not while his wounds still bled.

Ray started the engine and drove away.

At Twelfth and Belmont, he pulled into his usual parking space at the station. Woody’s vehicle sat two slots away. Ray went inside and stopped at the dispatcher’s console.

“Hey, gorgeous. Have you been behaving yourself?”

Irene looked up over her bifocals and grinned. “Question is, have you? What’d they do—ride you out of town on a rail already?”