Dear Crossing (26 page)

“Relax. This isn’t a B western, Amy. No shootouts. No this-town-isn’t-big-enough-for-the-two-of-us threats, okay?”

“Darn. I thought I’d get to play the distraught saloon girl.”

“You’re out of luck. I wouldn’t bother bruising my knuckles on that bastard. What would I get out of it besides a little personal satisfaction and criminal charges?”

“With any luck, it could get you a lawsuit, too,” she said, smiling.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Amy slipped into her denim jacket and started away. “Eat. Your ice cream’s melting.”

Mark Haney turned to leer at her as she walked by. His expression changed when he spotted Ray. Facing front again, he buried his face in the menu.

Ray pushed his plate aside, dropped a few bills on the table and left. Once inside his squad car, his willpower frayed. He smoked a cigarette down to the filter while watching Haney through the window.

Clearly aware of being observed, Haney occasionally snuck a look over his shoulder. It gave Ray pleasure to see him squirm. As the waitress set a plate in front of Haney, Ray pulled away to continue his patrol. He circled the next block through rear parking lots, checking windows and doorways. Three minutes later, he crossed the main thoroughfare to Weidemeyer’s, which stood at one end of the block. On the far end, was Mark Haney’s hardware store with five other businesses sandwiched between them. Used mostly for loading and unloading merchandise, only Dumpsters occupied the dingy alley. Ray’s spotlight lit up the back of the bakery. Everything was in order there. The same was true at the bookstore, the dry cleaners, the antique shop, appliance store and the florist shop. Ray drove slowly, edging past the last Dumpster outside Haney’s place.

What the hell?

The back door stood ajar, a faint light escaping through the narrow opening. Mentally cursing, he turned off the engine and headlights, radioed for backup and stepped out. He’d sworn to serve and protect. Unfortunately, that included Haney.

Pressed against the building’s rust-red brick wall with his gun drawn, Ray waited for backup.

The wait stretched from two minutes, to three, to four. Ray considered going in alone, but his training and experience taught him to follow procedure.

Intermittent noises came from the basement, quiet but clearly audible. Ray’s mind churned.
Whoever’s down there must think justice is blind
and
deaf.

Sirens off, lights flashing, another squad car finally turned down the alley. Drawing his gun, Chuck Wilke stepped out and pressed his bulk against the wall beside Ray.

Leaning past him, Ray looked for another car. “You’re it?” he muttered.

“Hey,” Wilke said in a hoarse whisper, “right now I’m all we’ve got.”

The old building had a more than its share of exits. If the perp bolted, whichever route he took was likely to be one they didn’t have covered. Options limited, Ray made a decision. “We’ll go in together. Me first,” Ray told him. “Ready?”

“Right behind you.”

He slipped through the door. The stairs to the basement were angled—ten steps to a landing, then a ninety degree turn to the right and a final set of steps to the floor. Once on the landing, Ray stuck his head beyond the wall’s edge, chancing a quick look. Beneath the dim overhead lighting, a maze of boxes and crates stood stacked around the room, casting shadows everywhere.

From the center of the maze came the sound of movement. Muzzle pointed toward the floor, Ray held his service revolver in both hands. He crept down the last steps and hurried behind a tower of boxes rising nearly to the ceiling. Gauging the subject’s location by sound alone, he dashed behind the next stack of crates and took cover. At eye level, the word “Kohler” stretched across its width.

Great. My life could depend on a goddamn crapper.

Muscles taut, every nerve on alert, Ray shouted, “Police. Come out where I can see you.”

A silence fell over the room.

“I want to see you. Now. Hands in the air,” Ray ordered. “Come out now.”

Nothing.

Damn it.
“Show yourself.” He zig-zagged between two more towering stacks, Wilke bumbling along behind him. “Police.” he shouted again. “Come out of there.”

From behind a column of boxes, he heard movement. It was too close. A murky figure charged through the cardboard towers. Crates and cartons of every size and weight rained down around him—
on
him. Pain knifed through his head as he fell, the sharp crack of a gunshot echoing in his ears. For several seconds, total darkness enveloped him. A stream of blood trickled over his left temple as he opened his eyes.

Wilke helped him to his feet. “You okay, Ray? You’re bleeding.”

His hand came away from his head, bloody. A body lay facedown in a growing pool of blood. “Forget me,” Ray said. “What about him?”

Wilke turned the man over. “Holy frickin’ shit,” Wilke said. “It’s Mark Haney.”

Ray stared in disbelief. “That’s impossible. I just left him at The Copper Kettle.” With nothing else at hand, Ray stripped off his own jacket using it to apply pressure to Haney’s chest wound. “Get an ambulance here now. Move it.”

Haney’s breaths became shallow, his face growing paler. This couldn’t be happening. The thought streamed through Ray’s mind over and over.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” he hollered. “Don’t you die on me, you bastard. You hear me? Don’t you die.” He located the carotid artery. The pulse was thready.

The faint sound of sirens grew increasingly louder until they stopped in the alley. Ray thanked God as hurried footsteps came down the stairs.

“How is he?” It was Woody.

Shit.
“Not good. Where’s the damn ambulance?”

“Right behind me.” Woody did his own check of Haney’s pulse. “Jesus Christ, Ray. How’d this happen?”

Still applying pressure to Haney’s wound, Ray felt the blood soaking through the fabric of his jacket. Warm. Wet. Sickening. “If you want answers, ask Wilke. I’m a little busy here.” He heard the wail of the ambulance sirens coming from the opposite end of the alley.

Two EMTs rushed into the basement moments later, the taller of the two taking charge. “Step back. Move aside.”

He and Woody stood back as the attendants checked vital signs.

Ray brushed blood from his eye. “How bad is it?”

The smaller EMT looked up and saw the wound above Ray’s temple. “Looks like you need attention, too.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Ray said. “Is he going to make it?”

“Just stay out of the way and let us get him to the ER.” They secured Haney on a stretcher and hauled him up the stairs.

Ray started to follow.

Woody grabbed his arm. “We’ve got to talk.”

“It can wait. I have to find out how he’s doing.”

“Pull your head out of your ass, Ray. The BCA is going to be here in a hurry. There are procedures that have to be followed.” Woody held his hand out without need for an explanation.

Ray turned his service weapon over to him.

“Give me a quick rundown. We’ll get the rest when you make your statement.”

“It was an accident,” Ray said. “I swear to God, I thought a burglary was in progress. I had no idea it was Haney down here.”

“Your wife’s lover…Geezus, Ray.”

“Ex-lover.”

“Hey, you think the BCA agents are going to make that distinction?” Woody glanced around the basement and the clutter of potential evidence. “C’mon. We shouldn’t be down here.”

Another police car pulled up as they reached the top of the stairs.

“Cooper,” Woody said, pulling the arriving officer aside, “get this area secured and sequester Wilke until the BCA arrives and takes his statement. You’ll need some help here. Get every available man we have. Get their asses out of bed if necessary, but tell them to get here ASAP.”

Woody spotted Wilke sitting in his car, his butt on the seat, his feet on the pavement outside. “Chuck, are you okay?”

“I’m all right.”

“You’re not hurt?”

Wilke shook his head, his large belly heaving with each breath. “What a helluva thing.”

Woody waved a finger in his face. “Don’t talk to anyone about what happened until you’ve given your statement, understand? The BCA’s going to want to check out your gun. Turn it over to Cooper.”

“I didn’t fire it.”

“It doesn’t matter. They’ll want to check that out for themselves. Give it to Cooper.”

Braced with his arms on the roof of Woody’s car, Ray brushed away the blood creeping down the side of his face as Woody returned.

“You’re going to need stitches,” he said, taking a closer look. “We’ll talk on the way to the hospital. Get in.”

The turns, taken at high speed, intensified the throbbing in Ray’s head. The drive was mercifully short, the rest of his explanation brief and to the point.

“The investigators are going to take a hard look at anything that suggests criminal conduct,” Woody said. “The last thing we need is to be blindsided. After we get you patched up, the BCA’s going to want to get your statement. If you’re not up to it—”

“I’ll be all right. Let’s just get it done.”

“Look, Ray, this investigation could get uglier than most.”

“No damn kidding.”

“You’d better start thinking about who can back up what you’ve told me.”

“We can go back to the Copper Kettle and—”

“Snap out of it, Ray. You know you can’t do that. Effective immediately, you’re on paid administrative leave.”

As Woody pulled into an “emergency only” parking spot, Ray bolted from the car with Woody on his heels. The odor of hospital disinfectants smacked him in the face as he burst into the emergency unit. Forcing his way through a group of nurses, Ray stopped a doctor coming down the hall.

“A man was just brought in,” he said. “Gunshot wound to the chest. What’s his condition?”

The doctor’s face was as grim as his answer.

“D.O.A.”

40

As the doctor informed Ray of Haney’s death, Paul Davis was stepping into Dana’s living room. He froze at the sight before him. Nick’s body lay across Dana’s, the gun still clutched in an outstretched hand. His unblinking stare left no doubt of his condition. Davis crouched over the two bodies.

Dana’s eyes fluttered open. “Paul.” Her voice startled him. Something evil displaced compassion. He looked down at her and felt nothing.

“Paul, help me.”

Ignoring her plea, he rose and inspected the first-floor rooms, returning at a casual pace. “From the looks of your back door, Dana, I assume your friend came in uninvited.” He stood over her, being careful not to disturb anything. “Well, my dear, it seems you’ve gotten yourself into quite a fix.”

“Paul,” she moaned, “help me.”

“Help you? Why would I do that?” He sat down on the edge of the couch only inches away.

Dana’s breaths were becoming irregular. “What…what are you doing?”

“I thought that would be clear. I’m doing nothing, Dana. Absolutely nothing.”

She gasped in pain. “I think I’m dying.”

He looked on, unmoved. “I believe you’re right.”

She struggled unsuccessfully to free herself from Nick’s body. A landline phone sat on an end table beside Davis. She reached for the cord, half an inch beyond her grasp.

Paul lifted the cord away. “I’m sorry, Dana. I can’t let you do that.”

“Please…” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “I’ll leave…never bother you again.”

“I’m afraid there’s only one way I can be absolutely sure of that.” He leaned closer. “You’ve proven yourself a liar. I can’t take the chance that you’ll continue to complicate my life. You can see that, can’t you?” He smiled. “With Nick dead and the alibi you provided for me, Valerie’s murder investigation will come to a close.” He looked around the room. “It’ll be very clear to the police what’s happened here. Now, my dear, I’m just waiting to see you off.”

“Don’t…don’t do this.”

Desperate, she struggled to reach the gun in Nick’s hand, even farther away than the phone. She fell back gasping. With astounding finality, all movement ceased.

Paul sat for a moment, repulsed by the grotesque sight of what he once found so alluring.

Letting the phone cord drop back in place, he crouched beside her, his fingers seeking a non-existent pulse.

Satisfied, he rose and walked away. At the door, he glanced over his shoulder. “Goodbye, Dana.”

41

Having left Dana and Nick’s bodies to be discovered, Paul Davis lay sleeping peacefully in Minneapolis while Ray wore a path in the floor of his Widmer apartment. A freshly emptied bottle of Dewar’s White Label sat in the trash basket under his kitchen sink. He reverted to chain smoking for the first time in months—a better choice, he decided, than replenishing his depleted liquor supply.

Not the Davis case, the break-in at Sumner’s lake home, or the damn wrench hanging back in Speltz’s garage could supplant the bloody images of Haney running rampant through his mind.

Ray was lighting another cigarette when his phone rang.

“What.”

“Hey, buddy,” Waverly said, “I heard. What the hell?”

“Heard how?”

“Newell called Roth. Roth called me.”

“It was an accident.”

“I figured as much. It’s what Roth heard, too. Listen. I’ve got you figured for a straight shooter. No pun intended. You say it was an accident—I believe you.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Like I said—good enough for me. You give your statement yet?”

“Yeah. A BCA agent beat the forensics team here. Name’s Sadlec.”

“Sadlec?” Waverly asked. “About 6’6”—looks like he eats nails and picks his teeth with barbed wire?”

“Sounds like him,” Ray said. “You know something about him?”

“He usually works with an agent Dollaway. I think that’s the name. Dollaway’s a sawed-off runt with a Napoleon complex—my impression anyway. Sadlec’s supposed to be tough but fair. If he shows up, Dollaway’s the one you prob’ly need to look out for. Word is he goes for the jugular. You holding up okay, buddy?”

“Depends on your definition.”

“I hear ya,” Waverly said. “You been in touch with a union rep?”