Dear Crossing (32 page)

He finished his shower, got into what Krista had dubbed his lean, mean jeans and slipped into the blue, cable knit sweater Laurie had chosen for him the previous Christmas. As he pulled up outside their white Cape Cod with its green shutters and window boxes, the girls ran outside to meet him, squealing with excitement as he gave them their gifts. Krista hugged the realistic kitten to her cheek. The Dr. Zhivago theme song chimed through the crisp air as Laurie twisted the key at the bottom of her music box.

“I thought we’d go to Bing’s tonight,” he said. “Sound okay to you?”

They scrambled into his car. Bing’s had the best burgers and fries in town.

“Hold it. What about your mom?”

Laurie stared at her lap. “She doesn’t want to come, Dad.”

“Why not?”

“She just said she didn’t want to.”

He hadn’t been sure whether he wanted Gail along, but her decision not to join them troubled him. It wasn’t lost on him that she’d sent the girls outside ready to go as though to speed him on his way. Ray looked toward the house and saw Gail abandon her spot at a window. “Wait here,” he told them. “I’ll be right back.”

Gail answered the door, the gleam in her dark eyes missing. “Hello, Ray.”

“We’re going to Bing’s,” he said, trying to evaluate her mood. “C’mon, get your jacket on. Let’s go.” It wasn’t the most gracious invitation he’d ever extended, but at least he’d gotten it out.

“No,” she told him. “The three of you go ahead. Have fun. But, Ray, if you’re going to let them have shakes tonight, don’t get them dessert, too, okay? It’s pretty late for a big meal.”

“Come with us.”

“I had a late lunch.”

“So what? You can nurse a cup of coffee—monitor the girls’ intake if you like,” he told her.

“It was a long drive home from Larissa’s place, Ray,” she said. “I’m tired and I still have to finish unpacking our bags.”

“You can do it tomorrow.”

“I said I’m tired.”

It was time to back off. “All right. I’ll have them back before long.” Ray returned to the car, puzzled by Gail’s uncharacteristic mood. She’d made him feel as unwelcome as a cold sore. That wasn’t like her.

Over supper, he subtly wove questions about Gail into his and the girls’ dinner conversation. Their answers left Ray in the dark. Determined to give it another try, Ray carried two Styrofoam boxes of leftover food to the door on their return. The kids disappeared into the living room while Gail took the containers from him where he stood.

“Did you have a good time?” she asked.

“We did. You should’ve come.” He was in no position to demand answers, but his patience with playing cat-and-mouse was wearing thin. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“You seem a little—”

“I’m tired, Ray. That’s all. It’s been a long day.”

Unsure what word he had intended to use next made him almost grateful she’d interrupted him. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s a long drive from Illinois.” He stood in the doorway looking for a way to engage her. “Did you and Larissa have a good visit?”

“It was nice. She said to say hello, by the way.” Gail fidgeted with the doorknob. “Ray, I’m sorry, but if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get the girls to bed and there are still some things I need to do.”

“Sure,” he said, backing over the threshold. “Girls,” he hollered. “I’m leaving. Talk to you tomorrow.”

They hollered back as he turned and started away. “Goodnight, Gail.”

He heard only the sound of the door closing behind him.

50

For the next two days, Ray tried to break Gail’s silence. Something had changed during her stay with Larissa Lafferty. He tried to put his finger on it. It wasn’t hostility, but something equally disturbing: she seemed to be trying to avoid him. The warmth he’d always felt in her presence had cooled. Had she changed her mind about his innocence in Mark Haney’s death? Agonizing over the possibility, Ray asked her outright. She assured him he was wrong, but offered nothing else by way of explanation.

What had Larissa said to her? He could only imagine the woman-to-woman advice she’d offered Gail while she and the girls stayed at her home.
Leave him, Gail. It’s for the best. Start over. You can find someone else. Someone better.
Had it been that easy for Larissa to convince her?

Woody breezed past Ray’s desk, bringing him back to the moment. “Ray, they found Katie Springfield.”

“Where?” he asked, getting up and following.

“Maple Grove.”

The Minnesota city was roughly ten miles southwest of Anoka where Greg Speltz had said they might find her. At least the kid had been on the level.

“They have her?” Ray asked.

Woody nodded. “She was driving in a residential area. A local cop pulled her over to give her a warning about the volume of her stereo system. When he ran her plates, he found out who he had and brought her in. They’re transporting her now. If you leave right away—”

“I’m on my way.”

At the county jail, Katie Springfield sat at a small table inside an interrogation room. She fiddled with her lime-green T-shirt. Without benefit of long sleeves, scratches and open sores were evident on her emaciated arms.

The girl’s gaunt body and self-inflicted injuries left no doubt in Ray’s mind. Meth.

Sergeant Elizabeth Talbot, a husky, fortyish brunette, sat beside Ray at the table opposite the girl as the audio and video tapes continued to record the interrogation.

“You were only in Widmer for what…three months?” Ray asked. “I was surprised to hear you’d left town so soon. Why the hurry?”

“Why not?” she said. “That trailer was a shit hole.”

“Sure, I understand. Staying there couldn’t have been a picnic. Hard for Greg, too.”

For the first time since he’d come into the room, she made eye contact. “If Greg had the balls to get out from under his father’s thumb, he could leave, too.”

“His father’s not stopping him. Greg’s on his way to making a new life for himself there.”

“Some life,” she scoffed.

“It’s tough starting out,” he said. “Rent. Utilities. Barely enough money to put food on the table sometimes. I know how it is.” He looked at her scrawny, damaged arms, knowing that, thanks to the meth, she probably hadn’t eaten or slept in days. “Hank Kramer didn’t make it any easier for you, did he?”

“He was an asshole. He should’ve paid up.”

“I agree,” Ray told her. “I can’t say I blame you for being angry—either one of you. But Kramer wouldn’t listen, would he?”

“That stubborn bastard? Hell, no.”

“If he’d stiffed
me
, I might’ve felt like I had to take matters into my own hands, too. Is that what you had in mind when you went to Kramer’s farm that day?”

She shifted her eyes from Ray to the wall behind him. “What day?”

He chose his words carefully. “The day his bull killed him.”

She didn’t answer.

“Greg told us what happened, Katie.”

“Then he’s an asshole, too,” she shouted.

“How about telling us in your own words?”

“How about you go screw yourself?”

“We know about the wrench—how you used it to beat Kramer’s bull. Kramer made two mistakes, didn’t he?” Ray said. “Not paying Greg what he owed him, and walking into that barn after you let the bull get loose.”

“Hey, I didn’t force the old fart to go in inside. He wasn’t supposed to get hurt. It was an accident.”

“Like what happened to Valerie Davis? Was that an accident, too, Katie?”

She left fresh scratches in her arm before tucking both hands under her legs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Let’s clear this up. If you weren’t at the Davises’ place the night Valerie Davis was killed, where were you? Do you remember?”

One hand slipped from under her thigh and traveled to her mouth. She began to chew on a cuticle. “I was just hanging out—nowhere in particular.”

“Who were you with?”

She hitched both shoulders up under her ears. “I don’t remember.”

“Maybe you remember about the paint. Two gallons. Blue and white. Tell us about that. Where did you get it, Katie? Was it from Valerie Davis’s summer house on Lake Hadley?”

Her cuticle bled. “Why? Did she have the only blue and white paint in town?”

“No, but hers was custom blended at Sheehan’s Interiors—very specific shades. We have the discarded paint cans, Katie. We found them in the Dumpster behind Greg’s trailer with the Sheehan’s Interiors tags still on the cans.”

She inspected her nails, refusing to meet his eyes. “Then ask Greg where he got them.”

“We did. He said you brought the paint to the trailer.”

The girl came halfway out of her seat. “Then he’s a liar.”

“Are you saying it was Greg who took it from the Davises’ home? That he killed Valerie Davis?”

“Yeah. Do I have to spell it out for you?” Her eyes went wide, wild. “He’s using again. He went there to get her Vicodin.”

“How did he know she had it?”

“I told him.”

“Right. You worked at Rittman’s Pharmacy—medication records on computer files—prescription slips lying around where you could see them. It couldn’t have been easier for you.” Ray moved closer. “I want to hear what happened. Explain, Katie. Tell me.”

Her eyes darted left and right. “He said the house was dark that night—all locked up, but he climbed a tree to the balcony outside the bitch’s bedroom and the door slid right open. He walked right in, but she wasn’t there.”

“You said it was dark. How could he see?”

“A penlight. He had a penlight.”

“Okay. Keep going.”

“He didn’t find any drugs on the second floor. It didn’t look like she was home, so he went downstairs to look for the Vicodin and whatever other drugs she might have there.”

“And then?”

“He got to the bottom of the steps and the Davis bitch hollered, ‘Who’s there? Who is it?’” Katie became more animated, her volume escalating. “A light came on and she started yelling, ‘I see you. I know who you are.’ She threw everything she could get her hands on at…at Greg. When she got by him and made it outside, that’s when she grabbed the damn axe out of that tree stump. There was a struggle. The bitch fell. That’s when I…” Katie stopped short. “That’s…that’s when I remember Greg telling me he swung the axe and…” Even as the words left her mouth, she clamped the heels of both hands over her ears.

Ray knew she couldn’t block the sounds out—only in.
I hope you hear Valerie Davis’s screams every day for the rest of your life.

The sergeant offered Katie a tissue. She refused it, wiping tears from her face with the palm of a hand.

Ray proceeded. “So he and Valerie Davis were outside at that point. When did he pocket the Vicodin?”

“After that, Greg went back inside.”

“And where was Mrs. Davis?”

“Still lying out back. Anyway, he grabbed the pills. They were sitting on the counter next to the paint. He just took it all and got out of there.”

“And the break-in at Sumner’s…Did Greg do that, too?”

Katie nodded. “He was after the guy’s Valium and Oxycodone.”

“The money jar, too?”

“Sure. It was right there on the dresser.”

“Give it up, Katie. Blaming Greg isn’t going to work.” Ray stood back. “If he’d stolen that paint from the Davises’ home, using it to vandalize Kramer’s barn would’ve been the last thing he’d have done. The prospect of his admitting to the vandalism scared you shitless because you knew if he did, the paint he used could be traced back to you…and what happened to Valerie Davis.”

Katie opened her mouth to speak, but Ray cut her off.

“As for Greg using again, he volunteered to be tested. The results came back negative. He’s clean, Katie. He didn’t need those drugs;
you
did. Did you use them yourself or did you sell them on the street for your meth money?”

Her tone was blasé. “You’re crazy.”

“Everything you just described was from firsthand experience, not some account Greg gave you. You went to the Davis’s place hopped up on drugs. When Valerie Davis tried to protect herself, you went into a rage. You’d have swung that axe even if she hadn’t claimed she could identify you, isn’t that right?”

All pretense of composure vanished. “Fuck you. I didn’t do it.”

In a low voice, Ray said, “We
know
, Katie.” He sensed she understood how far she’d backed herself into a corner. He backed her up still farther. “You left a lot of things behind in your rush to get out of town. Greg cleared all your belongings out of the trailer—threw everything in that Dumpster out back—everything but what you’d already secretly disposed of earlier on your own. A lot of things have both Greg’s and your fingerprints on them—not the prescription bottles or Michael Sumner’s change jar, though. Only
you
touched those things. Only
you
knew they were in that Dumpster. Your boyfriend had no idea what you’d been up to.”

“No. It was Greg.”

“Katie,” Ray said, “it’s not going to work. Your shoes…We found them in that Dumpster along with the rest.”

“They were falling apart. I threw them out. So what?”

“No. You got rid of them because the shoe tread matches the heel prints you left in the Pepto-Bismol spill on Sumner’s floor. That’s why you buried them under the rest of the trash.”

Her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

“You did it all, Katie. I’m giving you a chance to cooperate. You might want to use it, because no matter how you might explain anything else, you can’t get around the pair of bloody, latex gloves we found.”

Her pale face turned still paler.

“How about it, Katie? Forensics will prove those are your prints inside the gloves just as sure as it’s Valerie Davis’s blood on the outside. You know it. I know it.”

Katie Springfield tucked her legs up beneath her and gnawed on another finger. “I want a lawyer.”

51

Woody’s head snapped up from his paperwork. “What?”

“I said I’m giving my notice.”

Woody got to his feet and came around the front of the desk. “Ray, if this is about the few jackasses, who still think you’re guilty…Hey, it’s only been a few days since the decision was made public. Give it some time.”