Dear Crossing (24 page)

Taking his hand in hers, Amy led him toward the bedroom. Under the gentle pressure of her hand, Ray felt his wedding band shift. The fleeting sensation triggered an avalanche of unwanted memories and unresolved guilt.

Ray had seen the results of his parents’ shattered promises and broken hearts firsthand. The grim memories of the consequences never left him. He’d promised himself he would never cross that line—not in his marriage, not in his law enforcement career. Never.

“Ray?” Amy gripped his hand a little tighter. “Ray, are you okay?”

He reached out and stroked her cheek. “Amy, I can’t do this.”

“What’s wrong? Did I—”

He freed his hand from hers. “I’m still married.”

“You’re separated.”

“Still married,” he repeated. “If I were divorced, it wouldn’t make this right. Trying to fill the void Neil left behind
this
way is crazy. It would be a quick fix—nothing more.”

Amy looked into his eyes and shook her head. “I’ve always been attracted to you. I just realized it’s more than that. Much more.”

“It would be awfully convenient for me to accept that, Amy, but I can’t. You’re upset.” Body and mind at odds, he told her, “You’re not thinking clearly. I’m not going to take advantage of that.”

She caressed his chest, her touch light, gentle. “I care about you, Ray…deeply.”

“Believe me, I’m flattered, but even if I accept that, you and I are a mismatch. For one thing, I’m too old for you.” He stepped away, buttoning his shirt. “Of course,” he joked, “I know you don’t give a damn about my age. That’s understandable. I’m just too damn handsome for my own good. You know I’m right, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “You
are
too handsome.”

He took her face in his hands, sighing. “Oh, lady, don’t think this is easy for me.”

“
There’s
good news.”

“My God. You’re something else.”

“And you’re going to pass me by.”

Ray shook his head. “I must be out of my ever-lovin’ mind, but I have to.” He took his jacket from the hook beside the door and dropped it over his arm. One hand on the doorknob, he asked, “Amy, are you okay?”

“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that today. Go on. Leave before I make an even bigger fool of myself.”

Amy dried her eyes and smiled for him, but as the door closed behind him, Ray heard her crying on the other side. Preoccupied, he didn’t notice Gail pulling out of the parking lot across the street as he stepped out of the building.

36

He could have been sharing Amy’s bed, but Ray had chosen moral satisfaction over physical gratification. Where was the peace of mind he’d expected to follow? Unable to sleep, he watched slices of daylight slip through the slats of an old set of Venetian blinds. He tossed and turned for the next two hours, unable to turn off his thoughts.

Lying there was accomplishing nothing. He got up and dressed in his uniform. It would be hours before he officially went on the clock, but at least he’d be ready when the time came. Counting on the sugar rush to keep him going until he got some coffee into his system, Ray ate another of the half-dozen crullers he’d picked up at Weidemeyer’s the day before.

On the way to Speltz’s Amoco station, he stopped at a Kwik Trip for his caffeine fix. He would have gladly settled for the foul coffee outside Captain Roth’s office if it meant working the Davis case in person again. Being yanked back to Widmer still irked him, but he realized he’d have done the same thing in Woody’s place. Not an easy admission.

Parking in front of the garage, Ray wandered into the repair bay, looking for Greg Speltz. Instead, he found the kid’s father, his head under the hood of an Impala, replacing a set of spark plugs.

“Working alone today?” Ray asked.

Burt Speltz backed out of the engine compartment and turned around. “I didn’t hear you pull up. Need gas?”

“No. I came to talk with Greg. Is he here?”

“Nope.” Speltz ducked back under the Impala’s hood.

“Are you expecting him?”

“Why?” Speltz backed out again and leaned against the Impala’s fender, greasy hands fisted on his hips. “What do you want with my kid? Does this have something to do with that new paint job on Kramer’s barn?”

“You know about that?”

“Hard not to notice. I drive past the place every day.”

“And the first thing you thought of was your son. Interesting.”

Speltz grabbed a shop rag out of his back pocket and ground his knuckles into it. “Truth is, my first thought was that it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Until you walked in here lookin’ for my son, I didn’t bother giving it another thought.”

“There was bad blood between Greg and Hank Kramer. Now the same can be said for him and Kramer’s son, too. Greg’s the logical place to start.”

“You can’t blame my kid for bein’ pissed off. Those bastards—”

Ray held his hands palms out. “He may have good reason. I can sympathize, but I can’t give him a pass if he’s responsible for the vandalism.”

Speltz’s mouth pulled down at the corners. “Six months out of rehab, clean and sober. He’s trying to make something of himself. He wouldn’t pull some lame-ass stunt like that.”

“I need to check it out.”

Speltz grabbed the spark plug wrench off the battery and waved it in Ray’s direction. “You know, once Hank Kramer died, I figured Greg would get the money he had coming to him, but that son-of-a-bitch kid of his is every bit as tight as his father ever was.”

The hairs on Ray’s arms stood on end. He turned for a closer look at the rest of Speltz’s hand tools organized on a nearby wall. They hung in their assigned places, each a piece of quality equipment. Ray kicked himself for not having thought of it sooner. As a mechanic, it followed that Speltz would use quality tools. It would be a good investment. Maybe it was the same thought that had occurred to Neil.

“You know,” Ray said, “I’m a father myself. I understand how a man could get sucked into a bad situation involving their kid. Some hard-ass gives them a raw deal and it’s tough not to step in. Push comes to shove and maybe things get out of hand.”

For a moment, Speltz listened in apparent confusion.

“Is that what happened when you confronted Hank Kramer?”

Speltz’s narrowed eyes sprang open. “Wait a minute. Whoa, whoa. Back the bus up. What the hell are you talking about? I never so much as set a foot on Hank Kramer’s property.”

“You didn’t go there to have it out with him?”

“Hell, no. Look,” Speltz said, “I taught my boys to stand on their own two feet. I don’t fight their battles for them.”

“So, the wrench I’ve been looking for isn’t yours?”

Burt Speltz plodded over to his wall of work tools, extended a muscular arm and pointed at the twelve-inch crescent wrench. “Look for yourself. My wrench is right there.”

It was all Ray needed to hear. “Unless it was yours, how’d you know it was a crescent wrench I was looking for? I never told you.”

“What? Wait. No. Uh…I wasn’t pointin’ at a particular wrench. I just meant that they’re all there.”

“Nice try,” Ray said. “Did you find it in the squad car before or after Chuck Wilke went through the wreck?”

“Neither. The wrench hasn’t left that pegboard in ages.”

“Or maybe you just didn’t notice it was gone.”

“What’re you getting at?”

“Chief Newell called me from here after the squad car was towed in. I heard you in the background. You were telling Greg you wanted your tools returned. That wrench was one of them, wasn’t it?”

“Greg borrows my stuff once in a while,”—he looked past Ray, raising his voice to a shout—“but he’s never borrowed that twelve-inch crescent wrench. Never. Isn’t that right, son?”

Ray turned around and saw Greg Speltz and his girlfriend Katie Springfield walking up behind him. Burt Speltz might as well have been holding up cue cards.

“What’s going on?” the younger Speltz asked.

“Kramer’s barn—” It was all the additional help Burt could dispense before Ray shut him down.

“I’ll handle this,” Ray said.

Katie Springfield held onto her boyfriend’s hand. “What
about
Kramer’s barn?”

“Someone threw paint balloons at it last night,” Ray said.

Katie released Greg’s hand and clapped. “That deserves a round of applause.”

“Go ahead, Greg,” Ray said. “Take your bow.”

Eyes widening, Katie’s smile vanished. “What are you talking about? Greg didn’t have anything to do with it.” When her boyfriend didn’t add his own objection, she demanded, “Tell him.”

“Yeah, Greg,” Ray said. “Tell me.”

Palms tucked under his armpits, Greg’s eyes flitted between Ray, his father and the floor.

Burt Speltz’s voice rumbled, “That blue and white paint on Kramer’s barn wasn’t your doing, was it, boy?”

Katie gripped Greg’s arm. “You didn’t do it. You tell him that, Greg.”

Ray saw the turmoil in her blue eyes. “When it comes to Kramer’s barn, it’ll be hard to establish any actual damage,” he said, trying to calm her. “That means the vandalism will be considered a misdemeanor. The penalty will reflect that.”

She crossed both thin arms over her boyish chest. “You’re already talking about penalties, and he didn’t even do anything.” The girl brushed her wheat-blond hair back. It fell out of place again a second later. “Why are you singling Greg out? Hank Kramer’s son has been wheeling and dealing ever since he got into town. From what I hear, that jerk’s been cheating people left and right—lying and ripping everybody off with his father’s crappy stuff. He must’ve made plenty of enemies since he got here. Why not ask around about some of them instead of charging over here accusing Greg?”

“Every investigation has to start somewhere. Your boyfriend won the toss.” Ray took note of Greg Speltz’s jeans. They were nearly worn through but bore no telltale blue or white paint spatters. The same was true of his torn, gray sweatshirt. Katie’s clothing was also free of paint but, in both cases, a simple change of clothes could explain that.

“Let me see your hands, Greg,” Ray told him.

Katie stepped between them. “He doesn’t have to show you squat.”

“Like hell he doesn’t.”

“It’s okay, Katie. Relax.” Greg held his hands out for examination.

They were clean, maybe a little too clean he thought.

Katie thrust her hands in his face. “Want to check me, too? Go ahead and look.” The prominent knuckles on her bony fingers suggested the body hidden beneath the baggy sweater was skeletal. Katie glared at him. “No paint. Happy now?”

“Greg,” Ray said, “I want you to come to the station with me.”

Burt Speltz spoke up. “The girl’s right. You should be checking on those suckers Kramer’s son’s been swindling.”

Ray crooked a finger at Greg. “Let’s go.”

“Why? We don’t have to go all the way to the station to talk.”

“We do if you want to keep our conversation private.”

Greg chewed his lower lip. “Okay, I’ll go, but I’m gonna need a ride back. Katie was just dropping me off on her way to work.”

She latched onto his arm. “It’s okay. I’ll drive you there and wait for you until you’re done.”

“No, you go to work. I’ll drive him back when we’re done.”

Burt Speltz had managed to coach his son regarding the wrench, but Greg and Katie wouldn’t be allowed to compare notes, not if Ray had anything to say about it.

37

The warped trailer door barely managed to close as Katie hurried inside slamming it after her. She tossed her denim purse on a sagging, plaid couch that looked like it needed to be put out of its misery. “Okay, what happened at the station this morning, Greg?”

He stood leaning against a kitchen counter whose green laminate had started peeling away from the front edge. Spatula in hand, he turned and lifted his supper from a frying pan, plunking the fried egg between two slices of white bread. He offered it to Katie. “Hungry?”

“I don’t want your stupid egg sandwich.” Pushing his hand away, she threw her car keys on the counter. “I’ve been waiting all day to hear what happened with the cop this morning.”

He shrugged. “We talked.”

“Well, no shit. Tell me, Greg.”

He put his meal on a saucer and sat down at the speckled, gray Formica table jammed in the tiny kitchen.

“Well?” Her pale face reddened as she waited for an answer too long in coming. “You told him you didn’t do it, right?”

Greg nodded, tucking a mouthful of sandwich in his left cheek. “At first.”

Her voice turned shrill. “You admitted it? Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” With a sweep of her hand, Katie sent the saucer and his sandwich sailing onto the chipped linoleum floor. “Damn it. What’s the matter with you?”

Greg leapt from his chair, partly startled, mostly angry. “What happened to the support I was getting from you this morning?”

“That was before I heard you used my paint—the blue and white paint I left in the garage—the stuff I was going to use inside this crappy piece of shit.”

“Is that what you’re so pissed off about? Okay, I’m sorry, but the rest of the paint out there is for my detailing jobs.” He bent down, picking the mess off the floor. “It’s not like a couple coats of paint would’ve made any difference in here anyway.”

“Like I don’t know that?”

“Then what’s the big deal?”

Katie wrapped her arms around her emaciated body. “They’re gonna haul your ass off to jail, Greg.”

“You heard what the cop said. It’ll be a misdemeanor not a felony. They’ll be sending a notice about the court date.”

“Court, yeah.” She rested a bony hip against the avocado refrigerator. “And whatd’ya think is gonna happen to you there?”

“That cop—Schiller—he says the judge is likely to go easy on me because of the low damage estimate and my admitting I did it. He said I’ll probably get off with making restitution, maybe paying a fine and probation.”

“Restitution and a fine. Great. How do you think we’re going to come up with the money, huh?”

“I’ll figure something out.” Greg cracked another egg into the greasy pan. “You want one?”

“I told you, I’m not hungry.”

He pulled two more slices of bread from the wrapper. “I was thinking maybe I could borrow the money from my dad.”