Dear Crossing (22 page)

He stopped halfway across the threshold. “Is that supposed to be a threat on my life?”

“In your case, something worse.”

“Oh, really?” he said, feigning disinterest. “What might that be?”

Dana lit a cigarette, her anger as hot as the glowing ash. “I think you know what I’m talking about.”

“Ah, the presidency, of course,” he said. “I see. But as you’ve already pointed out, Chet’s dead. He’s not a consideration anymore.”

“But as
you
just pointed out, the stockholders and board of directors are.”

Paul stepped back inside, closing the door behind him.

Dana smiled. “Smart move, Paul.”

His hands fisted. “I ought to kill you where you stand.”

“But you won’t. You’re not going to rock the boat now. With or without Chet’s backing, the final say has always been theirs. Stability, respectability—that’s what they’re looking for in their company president. You drilled that into my head until I felt like puking. You’re right. A scandal would definitely work against you, even now.”

“So would marrying you.”

“Know what? I’m sick of hearing about your prissy, self-righteous board members and stockholders. I don’t care if they don’t like it, and I sure as hell don’t give a damn how
you
feel about it. I’m going to be a part of your life or see it ruined. I’ve wasted too much time waiting for you to make good on your promises.”

“Dana, listen. I—”

“No, you listen. What it boils down to is this: I’m in your life to stay. I can be your ally or enemy. Which do you prefer?”

“Be reasonable for God’s sake.”

“I’m being
very
reasonable. After all this time, did you think you could toss me away like garbage?”

“Think about it, Dana. We’d make each other miserable. I’ll pay you. I’ll—”

“Pay me?” She stared into his startled eyes. “You see? You don’t know me half as well as you think. The money’s only a part of it. I want your name and the prestige that comes with it, sweetheart. As Mrs. Paul W. Davis nothing else matters, not my background, my education, nothing. As your wife, I’ll get respect.”

“Deference maybe. Respect is earned.”

“Screw you. This isn’t open for debate. What’s your decision, Paul?”

“Even if I agreed to marry you, it couldn’t be right away. It would be completely inappropriate.”

“I’ve thought about that. We could work around it.”

His dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’d be willing to wait?”

“For the public ceremony, yes. We’ll marry privately first. It can be in Vegas or in a courthouse in the boondocks for all I care, but you’ll marry me
before
the election. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

He threw a lamp against a wall, shattering the crystal base.

“Is that a yes?”

He stormed to the door.

“Oh, about that lamp, Paul…don’t give it a second thought. I’ll get a better one and put it on the charge card.”

“Bitch.”

“One last thing, dear,” she said, “let’s not be strangers in the meantime. Now that the police know about us, a sudden break might look suspicious.”

The wall shuddered as he slammed the door behind him.

32

Woody’s creative scheduling switched Ray from day shift to nights. His body refused to accommodate the change, leaving him with long, boring hours of unscheduled daylight hours ahead of him. He reheated a cup of day-old coffee in his microwave, showered, shaved and dressed. He spent an hour doing his laundry at the Suds ‘n Go Laundromat on Main Street where he ate breakfast out of a vending machine: a granola bar followed by a bag of Peanut M&Ms with a Pepsi chaser.

By noon, he’d resorted to loitering over an early lunch at Bing’s. He found himself at the station, passing a few minutes with Irene Herman over the dispatch console by 1:00 p.m.

When Woody saw Ray, he called him into his office. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Problem?” Ray asked.

“Yeah. Nothing you did, for a change.”

Ray let the crack pass.

“The M.E. called,” Woody told him. “He determined that Sumner died two days ago. The good news is, it was a heart attack. There are no signs of foul play.”

Some of the tension eased out of Ray’s body. “He may have self-diagnosed his early symptoms as indigestion. That could explain the Pepto Bismol.”

“You’re probably right.” Woody propped a cheek against his knuckles. “But why would he be in his car?”

“It’s just a guess,” Ray said, “but I think he decided to drive himself to the hospital.”

“They have a phone. He could’ve called for an ambulance.”

“Gail’s dad had access to a phone, too, but six years ago, he started getting chest pains and never said a word to anyone—just got in his car and took off. Six miles down the road, he nearly took out a family of five when he passed out behind the wheel.”

“Did he make it?”

Ray shook his head.

“Sorry.”

“Thanks. Anyway, Sumner probably panicked, the same as Gail’s dad.” Ray had liked Gail’s father. He forced the memory of his death aside. “What about the broken window and heel prints?”

“Cooper’s in charge of this one, Ray.”

“I’ve got no problem with that. I’m just asking.”

“Good, because I want you focused on the Davis case when you go back to Minneapolis.”

Woody linked his fingers on top of his desk. “As far as the heel prints are concerned, you were right. It wasn’t Sumner who stepped in that Pepto Bismol, but we have no idea who did.”

“What about the branch?”

“It was probably broken by high winds. Scrapes on the bark suggest the branch took out the window. Considering everything else, though, the question is whether it did it on its own or with someone’s help.”

“Breaking the window would be noisy—a pretty gutsy move,” Ray said. “I suppose a perp could’ve phoned the house or knocked on the door first. Sumner was probably already dead by then. When he didn’t answer, going in through the window wouldn’t have seemed that risky.”

“Coop’s report says the Pepto hadn’t dried thoroughly yet. The break-in had to be pretty recent. The bottle must’ve gotten knocked off the counter when someone climbed through the window.”

Ray rubbed his eyes, the lack of sleep catching up with him. “But why the break-in? Was anything taken?”

“We’ll have to wait for Lydia Sumner to say for sure.”

“How’s she holding up?”

“Like you’d expect,” Woody said. “They were married forever—forty-eight years I heard. She’s on her way back from Seattle. I hope someone’s coming with her.” Woody tapped his pen against the desktop. “Before you leave, there’s one more thing, Ray. Neil’s arrangements. The funeral is set for tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“His family wants it that way. There won’t be a viewing; there was a lot of cranial damage.” He cleared his throat. “Ten o’clock tomorrow. Good Shepherd cemetery.”

The room went quiet.

“I didn’t think to ask,” Woody said, breaking the awkward silence. “Your shift doesn’t start for hours. What’re you doing here so early?”

“Can’t sleep during the day.”

“Listen, as long as you’re at loose ends anyway, how about taking a run over to Kramer’s farm? His son called in this morning. The barn got pelted with paint.”

“Yeah, I’ll go.”

Ray drove down Kramer’s gravel driveway, checking out the barn as he got closer. It was probably more paint than the building had seen in a decade. Blue and white blotches gave the otherwise bare, weathered wood a cheerful aspect, something both the property and its late owner lacked.

As he got out of his car, Lawrence Kramer came out of a nearby outbuilding, shouting. “It’s about time. I called hours ago. What’s the matter with you people?”

Lawrence Kramer’s attitude made Ray bristle. “We’re shorthanded. We lost an officer. Considering he died a mile or two down the road after coming out here to do you a favor, you might want adjust your attitude.”

“You’re talking about that kid that came out here?”

“Officer Neil Lloyd. Yes,” Ray said, demanding respect for Neil’s memory.

Kramer sneered and pointed to the polka-dotted barn. “I got up this morning, came out and found this mess. There used to be a time that people around here respected each other’s property.”

“By and large, they still do,” Ray assured him. At the barn, he reached down and picked something out of the weeds lining the foundation. He showed the bit of yellow, paint-splattered rubber to Kramer. “A balloon,” he said.

Walking around the building, he picked up other bright fragments off the ground. “No sign of spilled paint. The balloons must’ve been filled elsewhere.”

“I can tell you who did this. It was that kid.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“That ballsy punk—the one that demanded money from me at the cemetery.”

The conversation with Neil at the Copper Kettle flashed through Ray’s mind. “Are you talking about Greg Speltz?”

“Yeah, if he’s the one who painted the logos on my father’s truck. He’s pissed off because I won’t pay him.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I? That truck’s sold. The buyer’s just going to paint over those logos anyhow.”

“He did the job in good faith,” Ray said. “As executor of your father’s estate, it’s your responsibility to pay his outstanding debts with the proceeds of the inheritance.”

Kramer spit barely missing Ray’s foot. “Who says the punk didn’t get paid already?”

“Greg Speltz says so.”

“It’s a scam. I say he already got his money.”

“Have you gone through your father’s canceled checks to substantiate that?”

“He could just as easily have paid in cash,” Kramer said.

“Can you prove he did?”

“Can you prove he didn’t?”

Ray pointed at the barn. “I doubt Greg Speltz would go to that extreme if he’d already gotten his money. Look,” he said, trying to keep his temper in check, “we’re not talking about the national debt. It’s not enough to make or break you. I’m not so sure the same can be said for him.”

“Then he should’ve thought of that before he did this. Now he can wait ’til pigs fly.”

“There’s no proof yet that he’s responsible for the vandalism. If he is, you might avoid more trouble by paying up.”

“I’m not giving him one red cent.”

Ray knew he wasn’t getting anywhere. “I’ll get back to you later.”

“Be still, my heart.” Kramer spit on the ground again, missing Ray’s other foot by less than an inch. “Like it’ll do me any good,” he griped. “It’s clear where your sympathies lie.”

“You’ll get fair treatment.” Ray wished Greg Speltz could expect the same from Lawrence Kramer. “I hope the wrench Officer Lloyd gave you brings a buck or two. You must really need it.” He turned to go.

“That dumb shit took it with him.”

Ray spun around. “What?”

“When your Officer Lloyd showed up, I was in the work shed. Every tool in there is crap, nothing like that wrench he had with him. When he saw that, he realized it had to belong to someone else—even thought he might know who.”

Ray tensed. “Did he give a name?”

“No, he just took off with the damn thing.”

A minute later, Ray drove off Kramer’s property, certain the wrench lay undiscovered in the wreckage of Neil’s squad car.

33

At Speltz’s garage, Ray parked beside the chain link fence surrounding the auto graveyard. Back braced against an outside wall of his station, Burt Speltz stood watching, chewing a wad of gum, alternately sucking on a cigarette and a can of Coke.

The sight of Neil’s mangled vehicle was still like a knife blade between Ray’s ribs. The prospect of having to search the car’s bloody interior made his stomach churn. “I need to take a look inside the squad car,” he hollered to Speltz.

“Looking for something in particular?” Speltz shouted back.

“A wrench.”

Speltz ground an unfiltered cigarette stub under the ball of his foot. “A wrench,” he said, lighting another cigarette. “Odd thing to find in a police car. Evidence or something?”

Ray stared at the wreckage. “I need to find out who owns it.”

“What for?” No longer smiling, Speltz hoisted his body off the garage wall and walked closer. “Is it connected to a crime or something?”

“That’s what I plan to find out.”

“Chuck Wilke already cleaned the wreck out and he didn’t find no wrench.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yeah.” Speltz scowled. “If you don’t want to take my word for it, ask him yourself.”

He’d been given an out to avoid going through Neil’s vehicle, but he wasn’t in the habit of accepting or making excuses. “I’d better double-check. It might’ve been overlooked.”

“No offense,” Speltz said, running am oily hand under his nose, “but you look like shit.” “Yeah, thanks.”

“Just sayin’…” Speltz drained the Coke can and tossed it dead center into a trash can twelve feet away before letting Ray inside the fenced area. “Can’t be easy for you to go rootin’ around in there especially when you knew the poor schmuck.”

If Speltz was trying to be sympathetic, he missed the mark by light years.

At the car, Ray checked the trunk first. Empty. With no other choice, Ray angled his body through the twisted frame. Neil’s dried blood was everywhere. Head tucked beneath the dislodged seat, he could still hear Speltz.

“Hell of an impact. It’s messed up real bad.”

Ray’s tolerance reached its limit. “Haven’t you got something else to do?”

Burt Speltz spat out a pink gum wad. “Yeah, sure. Suit yourself.”

Reaching into places too small for easy access, Ray crammed himself between pieces of mangled interior. There was a candy bar wrapper—Almond Joy, Neil’s favorite. A moment later, he located a receipt from Bob’s Market—seafood salad—$2.89.

Extricating himself from the twisted metal, he worked his way into the less-damaged back seat. He turned up nothing but a Doublemint gum wrapper, a Subway napkin and a tension headache.

Outside the fence, Burt Speltz popped the top on another Coke as Ray came out. “No luck?”

“It’s not there.”

“I told you that.” Speltz scratched his beard stubble. “You know, with a hit like that, the wrench might’ve wound up outside the car.”