Dear Crossing (17 page)

“How do you figure?”

“When I questioned Paul Davis in Widmer, he went off like a rocket at just the suggestion that his wife might’ve been unfaithful to him. Either it was a convincing act or he really didn’t know.”

“And if he
didn’t
,” Waverly said, “then that lying shit, Costales, just played us.”

“Exactly. Now, with Valerie Davis gone,” Ray said, “whether or not she made that admission comes down to Costales’s word against Davis’s.”

“Yeah. Tell you what, buddy,” I think it’s time we put more effort into finding that Danforth chick. Agreed?”

“Hell, yeah.”

24

Three cups of coffee into his morning—Ray had begun to tell time that way—he borrowed Waverly’s desk phone. His call went through, but instead of a hello, he heard the tail end of Irene’s wicked smoker’s cough, then, “Widmer police.”

“Hi, gorgeous. It’s Ray.”

“Ray, how’s it going?”

“Slow but steady. Could you put me through to Woody?”

“Can’t,” she said, choking out the word through another cough. “He’s out. You missed him by two minutes.”

“Shit.”

“Hey, I’ll thank you to watch your language when you’re talking to me, goddammit.”

He grinned. “Right. Sorry. Tell him I called. I’ll try again later.”

He heard a garbled voice in the background, then Irene again.

“Hang on,” she told him. “Neil wants to talk to you. I’m putting it through to his desk. Hold on a sec.”

An instant later, Neil picked up. “Ray, I won’t keep you long—got a miniature crime wave going on over here.”

“Anything serious?”

“Not for the most part. A kid got caught walking out of the Bargain Barn with eight bottles of nail polish stuffed in her purse—the most god-awful colors you ever saw. They should’ve thanked her for taking them off their hands. Burt Speltz had a drive-off at his station. The worst is that Wayne Cook’s taken to beating on his wife again.”

“That asshole.”

“At least this time it sounds like she’s done taking his shit.”

“We thought that last time. I guess we can hope.”

“The rest is just more of the same. Anyway, I just wanted to get your okay on something while I had the chance.”

“An okay on what?”

“I bumped into Doc Lewis. He asked what he should do with that wrench we found in Kramer’s barn. I told him I’d drop by his office and pick it up when I get a chance. There’s no point in us hanging onto it anymore, is there?”

It felt like unfinished business, but Ray forced himself to let it go. “No, we’ve already done all we can with it.”

“Okay. I probably won’t get around to doing it today, but I’ll run it over to Kramer’s farm and give it to his son.”

“I’m surprised he’s still there.”

“Me, too. It looks like he’s going to hang around until he gets rid of everything that isn’t nailed down. He’s already sold off half of Hank’s herd to other dairy farmers. If he can’t find buyers for the rest, he’ll probably call some livestock outfit to take them off his hands. The way Hank felt about his cows, he’ll be spinning in his grave. Some out-of-town realtor is already handling the property listing. He’s got the farm equipment and tools listed for sale in area papers.”

“Doesn’t he have a job to get back to?”

“I did a little digging. He owns—well, co-owns a construction company—a failing company from the looks of it. I suppose his partner’s holding down the fort until he gets back. That could explain his big rush to sell everything. Once he divvies up the proceeds, his share will probably go toward trying to salvage his business.”

“Makes sense. Go ahead and give him the wrench. Let him sell the damn thing. It’s not doing us any good.”

“Okay, I’ll take care of it. Gotta go, Ray. ’Bye.”

Ray heard, “Officer Schiller?” It was a throaty purr—the kind that got men’s juices flowing. He turned. “Yes,” he said, “and you’re…”

“Dana Danforth.”

There was a brief lull in the office chatter as, around the room, men turned to get a look. He caught Waverly’s eye and waved him over. “You’re a hard woman to track down, Ms. Danforth.”

“Not intentionally.”

Waverly joined them, overhearing their last comments. “I’m Detective Waverly, Ms. Danforth.”

She extended her hand as though she were offering him a gift. “Nice to meet you. Both of you.” Dana draped her coat over an arm. The fit of her black skirt said it was custom tailored. A teal-green, ribbed knit sweater gently hugged every contour.

Karan, Kors, Dolce and Gabbana.
The names flitted through Ray’s head. He knew some of the names found on designer labels—he hadn’t been living under a rock—but what he knew or cared about fashion wouldn’t fill a thimble. Regardless, one thing was clear: her clothes hadn’t come from a mainstream department store.

Eyes followed as they went to an interview room.

Waverly opened the door. “In here, Ms. Danforth. Have a seat.”

With the grace of dandelion fluff drifting on a breeze, she lowered herself onto a chair. She laid the coat across her lap, her hands folded on top.

“Would you like me to take that for you?” Waverly asked.

“No, thank you. This is fine.”

Ray watched, transfixed. “Ms. Danforth, we hear you’re a singer. Is that right?”

“What?”

“Were we misinformed?”

“No, but I’d like to know who you’ve been talking to about me.”

Waverly dropped into the chair across from her. “We had some trouble contacting you, so we talked with some of your old co-workers at Logan’s.”

“Logan’s. That hole. That had to be a huge waste of your time.” She paused, seeming to want verification. Getting none, she continued. “What this is all about?”

Damn, why does she look familiar?
Ray caught himself staring and turned away. “We’re investigating the murder of Valerie Davis.”

“So why do you want to talk to
me
?”

“We think you may have some pertinent information.”

“Me?” she said, hand to her chest. “Why?”

“Because of your relationship with Paul Davis.”

“What relationship?”

“You tell us,” Waverly said. “Phone records show he called you the morning of his wife’s murder. A short call, but it’s apparent you know each other.”

She thrust her chin up. “He must’ve misdialed.”

“It doesn’t take a minute and seventeen seconds to realize you’ve reached the wrong number,” Ray said.

Her composure cracking, Dana began to pick at her nail polish.

“We can check to see if he’s made other calls to you,” he said. “Why make us wade through all that red tape?”

Still silent, she turned away.

“I’ve got to tell you,” Ray said, “pointless busy work makes me really cranky.”

“All right. Paul and I are friends. After seeing me perform one night, he took an interest.”

“I’ll bet.”

“In my singing career.”

“Then, you’re saying he’s what? A mentor?”

“A mentor and friend, yes.”

“As a mentor, he must really suck,” Waverly said. “According to our information, you haven’t had a singing engagement since you left Logan’s two years ago.”

“Sometimes it’s smart to move slow—look for the right time—the right opportunity.”

Waverly cut loose with a belly laugh. “You’re in the wrong line of work. You oughta be a comedienne. God knows you’ve got
me
laughing.”

“Go screw yourself.”

“See? There you go again.” Waverly turned off his smile like a light switch. “The truth is there’s no record of you having a job of
any
kind these last two years. Time to be straight with us, Ms. Danforth. Under the circumstances, it’s pretty damn odd that you’re living
like
you do
where
you do. You can tell us, or maybe the IRS. They might be curious, too.”

She slouched in her chair. “It doesn’t take a genius to know what you’re getting at. The two of you have dirty minds.”

“We’re cops,” Ray said. “It comes with the territory. If Paul Davis isn’t supporting your lifestyle, how’ve you been footing the bills?”

“I saved up while I was working.”

“Get serious. It’s not like you were booked at Caesar’s Palace.”

“Maybe I invested wisely. Maybe I inherited a bundle. What would you know about my finances?”

“I know I can check them out.” Ray sighed. “We’ll find out one way or another. Why not cooperate?”

“Earn your pay. Why should I do your job for you?”

Ray fired back, “Yeah, you already work hard enough, right? I’m sure Paul Davis could vouch for that.”

Dana sat up straight, eyes flashing green fire.

“If Paul Davis goes to prison for killing his wife, your cash flow’s going to dry up, Ms. Danforth, but that could be the least of your problems.”

“What are you getting at?”

I’ve seen her before. Where, damn it?
Ray struggled to bring the memory into focus as he continued. “Withholding information suggests you’ve got something to hide.”

“I’m not hiding anything. I had nothing to do with Valerie Davis’s death. Neither did Paul.”

“And you would know because…?”

“Because Paul was with me here in Minneapolis the night she was killed.”

“I’m guessing it’s safe to assume it had nothing to do with your singing career,” Ray taunted.

“All right, Paul and I are lovers. What of it?”

Finally.
“Then maybe you’re covering for him by giving him an alibi. Why should I believe you?”

Her knuckles whitened. “Because it’s true. He had nothing to do with his wife’s death. Paul’s a respectable businessman.”

“And a player.”

“At one time maybe, not anymore—not since we’ve been together.”

“And how long would that be?” Waverly asked.

“Since just before I quit my last singing job.”

“If it’s true, why didn’t you come forward with this alibi sooner?” Ray asked. “Why didn’t
he
?”

“You’re kidding, right? If you’ve been doing your homework, you already know Chet Stockton’s thinking of climbing off his throne soon. When that happens, the presidency of ACC will be up for grabs. Paul’s more afraid of losing his chance at that than he is of dodging charges in his wife’s murder. Go figure.”

Ray shook his head in disgust.

She leaned forward in a phony between-you-and-me pose. “It’s a gamble Paul’s willing to take. He didn’t kill Valerie so he’s wagering you’ll catch whoever did, and he’ll be in the clear. Letting you in on our relationship, though? No way.” Dana brought a hand up to cover her lush lips. “You won’t go public with this, will you? When Paul finds out I told you…”

Waverly studied her from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “I’m not making any promises, but we’ll try to avoid it.”

“Thank God.” Smiling, Dana tilted her head and flipped her strawberry-blonde hair over one shoulder.

The pose triggered Ray’s memory; he knew where he’d seen her face. “How well do you know Nick Vincent?”

Her expression soured. “Who says I
do
?”

“He carries a picture of you in his wallet.”

“Does he?” she asked. “How would
you
know?”

As obviously surprised by the revelation as Dana, Waverly waited for the explanation.

“Before we locked him up, Nick had to turn his belongings over for safekeeping. Your photo fell out of his wallet.”

She looked at him with doe-eyed innocence “Nick’s in jail? For what?”

“He’s got a real short fuse,” Ray said, pointing to the fresh bruise on his left cheekbone. “It’s obvious you know each other. I want to know how well.”

“It’s no big deal. Nick bartended at Logan’s when I worked there.”

“No relationship with him beyond that?”

“None.”

“Then what’s he doing with your picture?”

“I had some promotional shots done. The proofs were crap. He wanted one anyway, and I gave it to him. I’d forgotten about it.”

“And he’s still carrying that photo around in his wallet. Why? That’s got to mean something.”

“It means he needs to clean out his wallet.” Dana stood. “This is taking too much of my time. Unless you’re arresting me for something, I’m leaving.”

“That’s your right,” Ray said, “but we have a few more questions. We’d appreciate it if you’d stick around a little longer.”

“I can’t. Sorry.” Dana sashayed to the door, waiting for one of them to open it for her. Neither of them did.

“We’ll need a number where we can reach you,” Waverly said.

“Can’t help you, Detective. You’ve already got my number.”

Ray nodded.
In more ways than one.

She let herself out of the interview room, swinging the coat across her shoulders like a cape. They followed, watching as she took the most direct route to the exit.

Lovell Paige strolled up. “Waverly, my man. Ray, how’s it going?” He made no secret of watching Danforth until she was out of sight. “Guys, a committee has elected me to get a name. Lay it on me. Who’s the babe?”

“Her name’s Dana Danforth,” Ray told him.

“She have something to do with your case?”

“Yeah. The question is
what
?”

Paige grinned. “You guys ever need surveillance on that chick, I’m your man. The department won’t even have to pay me.”

“Steer clear,” Ray told him. “She’s poison.”

“Tell you what, Lovell,” Waverly said, “you go wash your mind out with soap, then run along and tell Burke and the rest of that committee of yours to roll their tongues back up into their heads.”

Paige turned and headed away. “You know, Waverly, you got a real knack for sucking the fun out of our jollies.”

“Zero calories,” Waverly called after him. “I’m allowed.”

Ray started toward the door. “Are you coming?”

“Where are we going?” Waverly asked, catching up.

“Back to Nick Vincent’s apartment building. Someone there has to have some useful information on him.”

“In
that
neighborhood? Odds are half the residents know something, but getting it out of them…?”

“Yeah, I know. A long shot. But with only an anonymous tip to go on, it’ll be a tough sell getting a search warrant for his place.”