Dear Crossing (5 page)

“It figures
you’d
like him. Big tipper, right?”

“That doesn’t hurt,” she teased. “He just drank his coffee, made a call, paid and left. And yes, he did over tip me, but that’s beside the point. Now
I’ve
got a question, Ray.” Amy reached across the table and gently touched the injured knuckles of his right hand. Her fingertips lingered there. “What kind of trouble have
you
been getting into?”

Ray drew his hand away. “Your boyfriend hasn’t already told you?”

“Boyfriend? You mean Neil?”

He nodded.

“Ray, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Well, he’s definitely going for the title. At least he’s got incredibly good taste. I’ll give him that.” He gave her a wink.

“You haven’t answered me. If you don’t want to tell me, just say so.”

Ray touched his bruised cheekbone. “I thought the news about Buric and me would’ve already made its way around town.”

She laughed. “I heard, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” Her focus returned to his hand. “Either you’re a slow healer, or these knuckles have seen action more recently.”

“Your observational skills are being wasted here. You ought to join the force.” He looked out over the street. “I’d rather not discuss it, okay?”

A good-natured challenge gleamed in her eyes. “I guess I’ll have to get the lowdown from Neil then.”

“When you see him, you won’t have to ask.”

Her eyes widened as she grasped his meaning. “You hit Neil?”

He stared into his cup.

“Ray, why? It’s Ray this and Ray that all the time from him. He practically idolizes you.”

“Trust me, Amy, I’m no one’s idol.”

“You’re wrong. I’m telling you, Ray, Neil thinks you’re better than jam on bread.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that fifteen minutes ago.”

“Whatever happened between the two of you, don’t let it wreck your friendship.”

Friendship.
Ray flinched. “Neil and I are just co-workers, Amy.”

“Is that how you want it?”

He didn’t answer. The silence between them was littered with the sounds of utensils clinking against plates, laughter, and the diners’ muffled conversations.

“Ray,” she said, “unclench.”

To Ray her advice felt like a bandage being ripped from an unhealed wound.

“I just mean you need to lighten up a little, that’s all.”

“I got it.” He slid out of the booth. Not to be outdone by Paul Davis, he set a five dollar bill alongside his cup. “Thanks for your help, Amy. I’ve got to run.”

She slipped out of the booth, giving herself a virtual kick with one of her aching feet.
Idiot. Who went and made you “Dear Abby?”
She watched until Ray’s squad car turned right at the corner beyond Weidemeyer’s Bakery.

Ray’s thanks wasn’t for her unsolicited advice. Of that she was certain. He hadn’t been openly sarcastic, but maybe the hefty tip was meant to serve that purpose. Amy snatched the money from the table and stuffed it in a pocket.
Damn it, Ray, you’re getting this back the next time I see you.
That might not be anytime soon, she realized. He was as unyielding and rigid as glass, she knew, but just as fragile.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

The bell over the door jangled as she did another round of her tables. Seconds later, Ray’s voice startled her.

“Amy, did you say Paul Davis made a phone call?”

6

Ray had used up his second wind and wondered if there was a third left in him. He knocked on Woody’s office door and walked inside.

From behind his desk, Woody extended a hand, palm out. “Before you say a word, Ray, I want you to know I’ve seen your latest handiwork.”

“No doubt.”

“Shut up and listen. Your stunt with Neil pushed me as far as I go. Under any other circumstances I’d be cutting you loose instead of cutting you more slack, but you’ve got me over a barrel. If it wasn’t for this investigation I’d be working on getting your ass fired.” He stepped from behind his desk. “I’m putting you on notice. One more incident and I’ll set the wheels in motion to send you packing.”

“Fair enough.” Ray waited, expecting a longer tirade. “Is that it?”

“You want more?”

“No, that’s plenty. Got something of interest from Amy Dexter.” He rattled it off like it was part of the same topic. “Davis was at the Copper Kettle yesterday morning like he said, but he went for more than coffee. He used the pay phone to make a long-distance call before he left; she saw him use a calling card. From what Amy Dexter just told me, it sounds like the coffee was an afterthought.”

“Davis
has
to rely on public phones when he’s here. They never had a phone installed at their place. From what I’ve heard, they didn’t even bring cell phones along. This was their getaway spot.”

“That’s my point. Why not just say he needed to use a phone? Why the lame excuse about not wanting to wake his wife, unless there was some reason he wanted to keep the call to himself?”

“Okay, maybe you’re on to something. Any idea who he called?”

“Not specifically, but Amy Dexter thinks he was talking to a woman.”

“It could’ve been a female business associate; Davis said he had business in Minneapolis.”

“Those weren’t the vibes Amy got.”

“Based on what?”

“Woman’s intuition, I suppose. Her powers of observation.” Ray tried to ignore the tension headache that had replaced his hangover hours earlier.

“I think you’re placing too much faith in Amy Dexter’s instincts.”

“Mostly, I’m basing it on Davis’s attempt to misdirect us. If Amy’s right, though, it could explain why he didn’t mention the phone call.”

“Okay. Look, once the BCA guys are finished processing the crime scene, I’ll get Paul Davis back here. He’s going to have to go through the house and see if anything was taken. I’ll ask him about the call then.”

“You’re going to get the phone records first, right? When he gives his explanation, we want to be able to either substantiate or disprove it.”

“I’ll have Neil get on it.”

“Here.” Woody handed a sheet of paper to him. “It’s some basic background info on our victim.”

Ray read it aloud. “Valerie Davis—43 years old. Born in Minneapolis to Chester and Virginia Stockton—an only child. Attended Sarah Lawrence College. Left in her junior year. Married to Paul W. Davis for twenty-two years—no children. Affiliations with several charitable Twin Cities organizations: The Walker Art Center, the Women’s General Auxiliary and the YouthCARE organization.” Finished with the paper, he tossed it back on Woody’s desk.

Woody supplied more details. “The Women’s General Auxiliary is connected with the Shriners Hospital. Her primary involvement was in the area of fundraising. With the YouthCARE organization, she had a more hands-on role.”

“So, a big interest in kids. Probably wasn’t childless by choice. Got anything else?”

Woody tried to stifle a yawn. “Nothing that can’t wait until morning. It’s been a hell of a long day already. Get out of here and get some shut-eye tonight. Tomorrow’s not likely to be any better.”

The chances of Ray getting a good night’s sleep were minimal. Between the lumpy yard-sale mattress at his apartment and questions about Valerie Davis’s murder, he’d be lucky to sleep at all. He reached for the doorknob and stopped. “Those phone records—”

Woody waved him away. “Yeah, yeah. I said I’d get Neil on it. Now get out of here.”

Ray slipped out of the station to the parking lot through a back door. The air seemed different, heavier—the night ripe with fear. As he drove, the streets were unusually quiet. News of Valerie Davis’s murder was out—televised and printed in every paper across the state. Frightened, Widmer residents had holed up in their homes.

Inside his apartment, Ray tossed his jacket over one of two kitchen chairs. He stripped off his uniform shirt and flung it onto the second. Bone-weary, he ran a hand over his toned midsection. A handful of trail mix accounted for the only solid food he’d had all day. The scent memory of the Copper Kettle’s pot roast dogged him. A tug on the refrigerator door revealed a selection of dried-out bologna, summer sausage, a package of graying ground beef and several Tupperware containers better left unopened. A cupboard yielded a can of minestrone soup. Convenience taking precedence over the normal niceties, he ate it unheated, straight out of the can. Licking a last drop of soup from his lips, Ray dialed Gail’s number—
his
number less than two months earlier.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” he said. “Ray”—as though she might not know. “Are Laurie and Krista still up?”

“No, they’ve been in bed for a while—school tomorrow.”

“I couldn’t call any earlier. I only got home about ten minutes ago.”

“I’m not surprised. Are the reports accurate, Ray? An axe?”

“That wasn’t supposed to go public. Ted Barton must be enjoying the limelight. He’s been telling the reporters everything that was meant to be kept under wraps.”

“That poor woman.”

“Yeah.” The single word conveyed his exhaustion.

“So, how worried should the rest of us be?” Gail’s tone was calm but uneasy.

“I don’t think the community-at-large is in any danger. Keep your doors and windows locked. The usual precautions.”

Some part of him wanted to offer his presence on their couch to provide peace of mind until the killer was caught. The other part reminded him that Gail had another man in her life willing to protect…and
serve.

“I’ve got to go. Give the girls a kiss and a hug for me.”

“I will.”

Emotions too close to the surface, Ray hung up before his bitterness could make its way through the phone line. Shedding his remaining clothes along the way, he went to the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast. The apartment’s ample water pressure was its only redeeming feature. The torrent pounded against his bruised ribs, forcing him to change his position. He let the water beat against the tight muscles in his neck, shoulders and back.

He rinsed, dried, put on his briefs and a pair of sweatpants before pouring two fingers of scotch. Glass in hand, he turned on his TV and located a news channel. An exotic, dark-haired female led off the broadcast with the story about Valerie Davis’s brutal death in Widmer, Minnesota. Woody, Neil, Chuck, and other members of the force, including himself, showed up briefly in the film clips against the backdrop of the Davises’ lakeside summer house. Other familiar faces popped in and out of view—Mr. Weidemeyer of Weidemeyer’s Bakery, the high school football coach, Laurie’s third grade teacher. They and dozens of others were all there, getting an eyeful.

The ‘butcher,’ the ‘baker,’ the ‘candlestick maker.’ Nosy bastards.
Ray spotted Mark Haney and tossed back half of his drink. At least Gail wasn’t with him.

The film switched, showing Valerie Davis being taken away in a body bag. The news teams had done their usual thorough job, sensationalizing the manner of her death while spouting platitudes about the loss to Minneapolis and her adopted Widmer community.

Woody’s face appeared on the screen as he fielded a few questions from the jostling reporters.
A little frazzled, but not bad for a debut performance.

With typical disregard for the grieving family’s privacy, the station’s unrelenting news crew—one of many—had taped brief statements given by Paul Davis and Chet Stockton in Minneapolis. Ray couldn’t pinpoint the exact location, but the scene was all too familiar. It made his stomach turn.

Davis, looking strained but in control, asked in vain for the media’s understanding and restraint. Accustomed to the attention of the press, seventy-one-year-old Chet Stockton stood at Davis’s side, his shoulders squared as the throng of reporters thrust microphones in his face. He pled for the public’s help in finding his daughter’s killer. His chin trembled and tears flooded his eyes as he concluded his brief comments. Stockton’s shoulders slumped as Davis wrapped an arm around his father-in-law and led him away.

Downing the rest of his drink, Ray turned off the set in disgust. Fed, showered, and self-medicated with Dewar’s scotch, Ray hoped for at least a few hours of sleep. He dropped onto his bed and listened to the slow drip, drip, drip of water on Saturday morning’s dishes still in the kitchen sink. The only other sound came in the form of the questions thundering in his head.

Who’d you call, Davis? What are you trying to hide?

7

Sunday evening, April 4th

At her stylish Mendota Heights home just south of St. Paul, Dana Danforth watched her third newscast of the day. The Minneapolis
Star Tribune
, already read and discarded, lay on her glass coffee table since morning. By midday, her wait was finally over. News of Valerie Davis’s murder aired on the local Minneapolis network affiliates.

Now, hours later, worry lines marred the twenty-six-year-old woman’s face as she waited to hear further details. Her wait proved fruitless. Either law enforcement officials in Widmer had nothing new to release or they were stonewalling. She absentmindedly chipped away at her ‘Rosy Future’ nail polish while wondering if her own rosy future shared the same fate.

For two years she’d played by Paul Davis’s rules—more or less, anyway. She shared a bed with him at his convenience, kept their relationship discreet, bought into his promises and overlooked his lies. Well, not so much the last.

While substantial, the perks of being his mistress still paled in comparison to the benefits of being
Mrs.
Paul Davis. At long last, Valerie was out of her way. With his wife gone, Paul couldn’t keep putting her off. Even Chet Stockton, Valerie’s doting father, couldn’t fault him for eventually moving on with his life.

Chet’s ignorance of their affair surprised her. Maybe Valerie’s daddy wasn’t as sharp as everyone claimed, or maybe he chose to wear blinders. Paul, after all, was a valuable asset to his business. Maybe Stockton’s love for his corporate baby took precedence over his flesh-and-blood child. Dana smirked.