Dear Crossing (28 page)

Victim? Yeah, that’s par for the course.
Ray fought to keep his tone under control. “I’m as much a victim in this as Mark Haney.”

Sadlec crossed his arms. “Chief Newell seems to agree with that assessment.”

“But,” Dollaway pointed out, “I’ve seen cases where a supervisor’s loyalty acted like blinders.”

Jennerman’s jaws clenched. “Let’s not overlook something—”

Dollaway picked at a non-existent piece of lint on his sleeve. “What would that be?”

“That everything Officer Schiller said in his statement is the absolute truth.”

Nearly two hours later, the agents left the station. Ray and his lawyer remained behind, conferring in the privacy of Woody’s office.

Minutes later, Ray stormed out shouting, “They’re going to crucify me.”

Jennerman followed. “Ray, calm down.”

“You heard them. Crime scene. Victim. Motive. They’ve already made up their minds.” He headed for the exit.

From across the station, Woody shouted after him. “Ray, where are you going?”

“Home. The liquor store. I don’t know. I’m just getting the hell out of here.”

43

Ray
did
go home, but not before stopping at the nearest liquor store. The owner, Alfred Sorenson, was a shriveled old man with brown teeth and a tin of Red Man smokeless tobacco perpetually tucked in a chest pocket. More liver spots than hair covered his balding scalp. Sorenson wasn’t above taking Ray’s money, but he shoved his change and bottle of Dewar’s scotch across the counter with blatant contempt. The corners of his mouth were pulled down nearly to his jowls as he eyed Ray and spit tobacco juice into a can he kept tucked under the counter.

Hoisting the bottle in Sorenson’s direction, Ray gave him a mock salute. “You have a nice day, too.”

The only other customer was a middle-aged woman doing her best to become invisible. Her eyes flitted from the Rieslings to Ray, the Chardonnays to Ray, the Sauvignon Blanc to Ray. The way her face blanched, he may as well have been Freddy Krueger.

Testing his flagging willpower, the bottle of Dewars remained unopened several hours later. The TV was on, but he neither watched nor listened. What he saw and heard over and over was the sound of gunfire, his gun’s muzzle flash and Haney’s blood on his hands.

He flinched at a knock on his apartment door. From the hallway, he heard, “Ray, it’s me. Dick.”

He opened the door and pulled Waverly inside. “What are you doing here?”

“Whatd’ya think? I wanted to see you,”

Ray held his arms out to the side. “Well, here I am. Take a look.”

“You look like the ninth level of hell, buddy.”

“Better than I thought.” He led the way to his mismatched living room furniture: a turquoise couch, its cushions already flattened by years of hard use, a slightly lopsided blue recliner, a yard sale loveseat that had seen one too many yards, and a pockmarked coffee table that did double duty as a footstool.

“Have a seat, Dick.”

Waverly chose the couch. “How’s it going, Ray?”

“About like you’d expect.”

“Seriously. How’re you holding up?”

Ray headed for the kitchen. “Hey, how about a drink?”

“Kind of early in the day for that, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t take you for a clock watcher.” The bottle’s long, clear neck rested in Ray’s clenched fingers. He pulled a squat, thick glass from the cupboard and set it on a tan Formica counter, gripping the bottle still tighter.

Waverly watched. “You gonna strangle that bottle or open it?” He didn’t give Ray time to think about it. “Will you put that damn bottle down and get in here?” he said. “I’ve got some information for you.”

“Do I want to hear it?”

“Not all of it,” Waverly told him honestly. “But the good news is very good. I got into town a few hours ago—thought I’d do some eavesdropping in your local eateries.”

Ray dropped into his blue recliner. “I can guess the main topic of conversation.”

Waverly shrugged. “Hey, it wasn’t all bad. You’ve got some supporters.”

“Care to break that down percentage-wise?”

Waverly looked away and stroked his mustache. “What’s in a number?”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Forget the local yokels,” Waverly said. “I put my ear to the ground, and heard some interesting stuff.”

“Like?”

“Like Mark Haney might’ve been drunk last night.”

“What?”

“I heard it twice. First at that little diner—the Kettle something or other.”

“The Copper Kettle,” Ray said.

“Yeah, that’s it. The second time was in a joint called Bing’s.”

“What did you hear exactly?”

“A customer at the Copper Kettle said a waitress claims she smelled liquor on Haney’s breath. According to her, he never touched his food. He just paid, got up and left…a little unsteady on his feet.”

Ray’s eyes clenched. “
That’s
how he got to his store before me. As soon as I left, so did he. He must’ve walked straight back there while I patrolled the other block.”

“It gets better, buddy. I was cruisin’ around Bing’s, listening for anything of interest. Two women were yakkin’ up a storm. I grabbed a table next to them.” Waverly paused. “By the way, they serve a helluva good open-faced beef sandwich there.”

“Geezus, Dick, will you get to it?”

“Sure, sure. The dame with the bad dye job was talking to her friend, who, by the way, had no style sense at all. Not shabby chic, just shabby shabby.”

Ray sucked in a breath. “You’re jerking me around now, right?”

“Yeah.” Waverly laughed. “Okay, here it is. Angela, the dye job, she said her son was within spitting distance of the crime scene last night.” Waverly made little airborne apostrophes at crime scene. “You’re gonna like this,” he promised. “It seems he was out back of the hardware store when Haney came down the alley. The kid watched him fumble with his keys then go in and leave the door ajar.”

“Tell me you’re not kidding anymore.”

“Nope. God’s truth. The kid’s name is James Henningfield. You might want to jot that down.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t forget it. What was he doing in the alley?”

“That’s what his mother wanted to know. Big surprise…he wouldn’t tell her. But she told her friend she’d be willing to bet her grocery money that her kid was parking with—and I quote—that little hussy, Chrissy Strohmeyer.”

“Thank God for teenage hormones.” Ray took his first easy breath of the day. “Sometimes kids park in that alley rather than drive out to Ketterhagen Road.”

“Well, James Henningfield, bless his horny little heart, is a definite witness. And if his mother’s right, so’s Chrissy Strohmeyer. The kids’ story might not be enough to clear you, but it oughta help.”

“Dick, thanks. I owe you.”

Waverly’s mustache shifted over a spreading grin. “My pleasure. Really. You know, you’ve got some good food joints around here.” His grin evaporated. “Now for the bad news—Nick Vincent and Dana Danforth.”

“What about them?”

“Vincent was gonna walk pretty quick anyway with your county attorney waffling about charging him with Valerie Davis’s murder.” Stalling, Waverly tugged at his waistband and cleared his throat. “He got sprung sooner than we expected, Ray. He made bail.”

He looked at Waverly in disbelief. “Bail? Who got him out?”

“His grandmother. The old woman must’ve used her life savings.”

“Shit. All right. We’ll just have get him back again.”

“Can’t,” Waverly said, “They’re dead. Vincent
and
Danforth.”

It felt like a sick joke. “You’re messing with me again, right?”

“I wish. Vincent broke into Danforth’s place and she shot him.”

“Christ. How’d
she
wind up dead?”

“It looks like there was a struggle over the gun and Danforth took a bullet.”

He glared at Waverly. “What the hell happened? You were supposed to be on top of things.”

“When the call about Nick making bail came in, I was away from my desk. Schaefer took the message. The damn asshole didn’t tell me about it until this morning. The second he filled me in, I sent a car to check on Danforth. It was too late. It happened last night. Vincent must’ve made a beeline straight from the county jail to her place.”

“Geezus.”

“At least Roth and I are finally on the same page; he’s had it with Schaefer, too.”

Ray raked his hands through his hair. “Is there any question about what happened last night?”

“It’s gonna take time to get the official results back from the lab but, unofficially, I’d say there’s no doubt at all. Vincent broke in through a back door. Wasn’t subtle about it either. A print on the outside of the door looks like a perfect match to his boots. The .38 was registered to her. Three rounds fired—one in a wall next to the fireplace, another in her, one in him. Trajectory, gunshot residue…Everything fits.”

Ray stood in the center of the room, hands resting loosely on his hips. “So where the hell does that leave us on the case?”

“Costales has an airtight alibi. Paul Davis’s, having come from Danforth, is a lot shakier, but we’re stuck with it now. There’s no solid evidence that Danforth was involved in the killing. On the other hand, Nick Vincent was definitely on the Davises’ property the night Valerie Davis was murdered. Forensics confirmed that his boots made the prints found outside the house, plus, they’ve determined that the blood on his boots was hers.”

“So we’re going to lay it all on Nick Vincent and let it go at that?”

“We can keep digging, but odds are he’s our man.”

“Are we bookies or cops?”

“Look, we may never be one hundred percent certain that he was solely responsible, but we might have to make our peace with that.”

Ray shook his head.

“Believe me, with you here up to your eyeballs in doo-doo, the last thing I wanted to do was dump this load of crap on you. I don’t blame you for being royally pissed. I suppose I should’ve called the county lock-up and checked on Vincent myself.”

“Hindsight’s a bitch,” Ray grumbled. “Want that drink
now
?”

“Nah. I traded drinking for eating years ago after I got a DUI. Figured I can’t get arrested for driving fat. Hey listen, Ray. Seriously…there’s something else I want to talk to you about before I head back.”

Jennerman had seemed to breathe a little easier after Ray passed Waverly’s information on, but the lawyer wasn’t doing cartwheels yet. Peace of mind still floated out of reach like a runaway balloon.

Twice that night, after giving way to exhaustion, Ray awoke, his arms flailing, trying to shield himself from the boxes and crates crashing down on him in a recurring nightmare. Both times, he bolted upright at the sound of phantom gunfire, his chest heaving, his body drenched in sweat.

The second time, he headed toward the kitchen before remembering he’d given the bottle of Dewars to Waverly for Lovell Paige. Getting rid of the scotch was a precaution. He regretted it more than he cared to admit.

44

Draining his coffee mug, Nelson Ziegler brushed toast crumbs from his shirt. He looked at his black Lab, lying in a corner of the kitchen. Like Nelson’s beard, the dog’s muzzle was more “salt” than “pepper” these days. Doozer’s nails clicked against the linoleum as he chased after something in his dreams.

“Hey,” Ziegler shouted without a response. He hollered still louder, “Hey, Doozer, wanna go fishin’?” He sighed. “Deaf as a doorknob, ain’t ya, old boy?” Ziegler nudged the old dog gently with the toe of his boot.

The dog rolled onto its stomach, searching his master’s face.

“Fishin’, Dooze?” he asked again as if the dog could read lips.

The dog watched until Ziegler picked up his rod and tacklebox, then thumped its tail against the floor and struggled to his feet. Quickly, the Labrador waddled to the door.

Outside, Ziegler lifted his companion’s shaky hindquarters into a rusty, blue ‘81 C-10 Chevy truck. Several miles from home, he parked on a barren patch of ground next to their favorite fishing stream and let Doozer out. With any luck, the dog would choose to wade downstream rather than ruin his chances of catching supper. If not, there were SpaghettiOs in the cupboard.

Hip-high weeds and brush waved in the still air, marking the dog’s progress as he ventured away while Ziegler baited his hook with a worm plucked from his compost pile. Minutes later, the old man’s eyes strayed from his bobber to the dog as Doozer emerged from the undergrowth, carrying something in his jaws. Ziegler couldn’t make it out.

“What’cha got there, boy?” He thought it might be a birch branch, but it looked peculiar. He motioned the dog over. “Bring it here, Doozer.”

The old retriever turned away, guarding his find.

Ziegler set his rod down. “Let’s see what you got there.” At his approach, a quiet rumble rose from the dog’s throat. “Whatd’ya have, boy?”

Doozer turned his big head away, growling possessively.

“Well, you old so-and-so.” With authority, Ziegler reached down and snatched the object partially hidden by the dog and overgrown grass.

Resigned to defeat, the dog released it.

Just as quickly, Ziegler did the same as recognition set in. “Holy God almighty.”

An hour after Nelson Ziegler’s discovery, Ray walked into the station feeling out of place in a pair of stone-washed jeans, a white Oxford shirt and denim jacket. He nearly tripped over Glen Rodger’s crutches. Rodgers, a lanky, thirtyish officer, was manning the dispatch console.

“How’s your leg?” Ray asked.

“Still broken. How’re you doing, Ray?”

“Same as your leg.” He was only half joking. “Where’s Irene?”

“In the restroom.”

Ray leaned to his left for a quick glance into Woody’s office. He jerked a thumb toward the door. “Where’s
he
?”

Flustered, Rodgers babbled, “Crap, I forgot. You don’t know.” He hitched himself higher in the chair, trying to maneuver his bulky cast. “Nelson Ziegler called awhile ago. You’re not going to believe what he found.” Rodgers gave him a toothy grin. “You’ll never guess.”