Shadow Tag (The Ray Schiller Series - Book 2) (10 page)

Ray and Waverly's footsteps echoed between the marble floor and vaulted ceiling as they approached the receptionist, a handsome older woman, flawlessly coiffed, attired, accessorized, and still as endearing as a scorpion. At the desk, Waverly cleared his throat to announce their presence.

Ignoring them, the receptionist casually penned a note before slowly raising her head, allowing her eyes to follow a moment later. “Yes?” Self-appointed superiority dripped from the single word. It set Ray’s teeth on edge.

Noting the look of recognition in her eyes, he didn’t bother to offer pointless identification. “We’re here to see Mr. Costales.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible; Mr. Costales is out.”

“How convenient for him.”

Contempt bled through her transparent smile. “Mr. Costales is attending to business.”

Waverly leaned on her desk. “Exactly what
we’re
doing, Ms. Kitwell. How soon will he be back?”

Put off by his encroachment, she drew back several inches. “I really couldn’t say.”

“Give us an estimate,” Ray told her.

His unblinking stare seemed to unnerve her. “If you insist, I suppose I could check with his administrative assistant.”

“Do that,” he said.

She punched a three-digit extension number into her phone and spoke in hushed tones for nearly a minute before hanging up. “Ms. Wirth is expecting Mr. Costales to return shortly.” She added a personal postscript. “Barring unexpected delays, of course. You can go up if you don’t mind waiting.”

“We’ll wait for as long as it takes.”

Once inside an elevator, Ray punched the button for the eighteenth floor three times in rapid succession before the doors slid closed.

“Ease up, will ya?” Waverly said.

“Wirth,” Ray said, leaning against the elevator wall. “I thought Costales’s secretary’s name was Free-something. Freeman, Freeland—”

“Freeport…Denise. She was, but she got left behind when he moved into the president’s office. Jillian Wirth is working for Costales now.”

Ray snapped his fingers. “Wirth used to be Paul Davis’s secretary, right?”

“You got it.”

“How’d that switch happen?”

“The way I heard it, after Stockton died, Davis moved into the president’s office on an interim basis. He took Jillian Wirth along. After Davis died, Costales let things stand. When you see Wirth, you won’t have to ask why. Like they say, she could eat crackers in my bed anytime.”

“Are you saying Costales and Wirth are personally involved?”

“I’m not saying that, but that puts me in the minority around here. Outside of a kennel, I never saw so many tongues wagging at once.”

“Any truth to it?”

“Could be, or it could be sour grapes. She’s a real looker and younger by half than most of the women working here. A lot of ’em figure her job qualifications don’t have much to do with her quick trip up the corporate ladder. From what I’ve heard, the ACC rumor mill cranked out the same accusations when she started working for Paul Davis.”

“What’s your personal opinion?”

“Don’t have one yet. All I know is, I wouldn’t mind working with a dish like her myself. She’d really brighten up the office.”

As they stepped out on the eighteenth floor, Ray noticed Waverly looking at him from the corner of his eye. “What?”

“When Costales shows up, go easy, okay?”

“Don’t I always?”

Waverly’s answer was a sarcastic laugh. “Just follow procedure, will ya?”

Mentally, Ray ran through his version of what that meant:
Smile, but don’t bare your fangs. Show respect though you may feel none. Be sympathetic even when all you feel is disgust.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Waverly’s mustache twitched. “I was hoping to hear something more reassuring.”

“Relax. I’ll give it my best shot.”

They glanced at the new name on the door of Costales’s old office. ROBERT A. FURMAN, VICE-PRESIDENT, MARKETING. They moved on until they came even with the boardroom. Waverly tapped Ray’s shoulder and pointed to a place near the threshold. “This is where we found the three drops of blood.”

When there was no response to his knock, Ray opened the door and walked inside with Waverly. A few feet in, Ray stopped and tried to imagine the boardroom as the crime scene techs had seen it. Paul Davis’s lifeless body no longer occupied the chair at the far end of the conference table, still, Ray imagined him there. He visualized the small entry wound in the left temple, and the greater gore of the exit wound on the right as captured in the crime scene photos. He remembered the way Davis’s head angled toward his chest as though he’d simply dozed off.

Having had the benefit of seeing everything firsthand, Waverly focused more closely on Ray, watching him as he moved a chair to approximate the location and angle in which Davis had been found. He watched Ray seat himself, mimicking the position of the body.

Nothing out of the ordinary remained in the boardroom. Neat and tidy. ACC had done a thorough job of cleaning up the mess. Ray rose from the chair and knelt on one knee, running his fingers over the spice-brown, level loop carpeting. “Is this where they found the sand?”

“Yup.” Waverly scratched the back of his neck. “Any idea where it came from yet?”

“No. You?”

“Not so far.”

Ray stood and needlessly brushed the knee of his pants; the carpet was immaculate.

“The way I see it,” Waverly said, “the sand prob’ly wasn’t tracked in on someone’s shoes or there’d have been other traces of it in the room. It’s like it was just deposited there.”

“I keep thinking it’s got to be stupidly simple,” Ray said, staring at the carpet, “like Davis kicked off a shoe and shook it out on the floor or something.”

“The lab checked. There was no trace of sand in his shoes—not in his socks or clothing either.”

Ray looked around the room again. “We know the cleaning crew had already come and gone, so the sand must’ve gotten in here after they left. Considering that Costales and the whole damn board of directors traipsed in here after they found Davis’s body, we can’t rule out that it came from one of them.”

“Jergens, Gaynor, Felton, Greenway, Costales, the whole damn bunch of ’em...” Waverly said, “to a man, they swear they didn’t go near the body.”

“Bottom line—the scene’s been compromised. What really bugs the hell out of me is the twenty-minute delay before they called the authorities. What were they doing in here? Did you ever get a straight answer?”

“Oh, I got answers—the same excuse from every last one of those executive jackasses. They were ‘stunned into stupidity’—my choice of words, not theirs, but that’s the gist of it.”

“I’m not buying it.” Ray circled the room, taking in every detail. “Okay, so Davis was holding the revolver and they found gunpowder residue on his hand.”

“Yes and yes.”

“And there were two empty cartridges in the revolver’s chambers, but only one bullet recovered from the scene.”

“Right.”

Without warning, a nondescript man with a stack of file folders stepped through the door. “Excuse me.” His tone was clipped and brittle. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Ray’s frustration spewed out. “Yes. You can leave.”

The man drew himself up to his full five-foot, six-inch height. “Do you have authorization to be in here?”

“Will this do?” he said, flashing his shield.

The man experienced an immediate attitude adjustment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” He practically tripped over himself backing out and closing the door.

“Is there anything I missed in here?” Ray asked.

“Not that I can think of. Let’s go see if Costales is back yet.”

The office door bore a gold nameplate larger than the others. EDWARD L. COSTALES, PRESIDENT.

Working at her desk, Jillian Wirth smoothed the front of her pastel-blue blouse as they entered. She was radiant, her skin smooth, her copper-colored hair ablaze with sun-streaked highlights. She greeted them with an understated smile. “Hello, Detective Waverly, Officer Schiller.”

As Wirth spoke, Ray found himself watching her perfectly bowed lips.

“I expected you sooner,” she said. “Charity called a while ago and said you were coming right up.”

Charity—Ms. Kitwell? You’ve got to be kidding.
“Sorry we kept you waiting.”

“For the record,” Waverly told her on Ray’s behalf, “it’s
Detective
Schiller now.”

“I didn’t know. Congratulations, Detective.”

“The same to you,” Ray said.

She looked at him blankly.

“On your recent promotion. Not many people reach this level of a corporation at your age.”

Her teeth clenched. “I earned it.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“Then why are you making an issue of it?”

“An issue? I thought I was just making conversation.” Her face flushed. “I take it I scraped a raw nerve.”

“No, I apologize. I overreacted.” She checked her watch. “Mr. Costales should be back any time now.” She motioned toward a mauve sofa and matching chair in a corner of the room. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Is there something I can get for you while you wait?”

“No thanks,” Ray said, “but we’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ve already—”

Waverly offered a smile with his explanation. “Humor us, Ms. Wirth. We’re trying to sort out a few things. Just following up some leads.”

Her turquoise eyes widened. “Leads? It was suicide.”

Continuing as though he hadn’t heard her, Waverly said, “You worked quite closely with Paul Davis, right?”

“For two years, yes.”

“Did he strike you as being the kind of man who would commit suicide?”

Her answer was instantaneous. “Not for a second.” She twisted a ring on her right hand. “But then, obviously I was wrong. I’ve had to accept that I didn’t know him as well as I thought.”

Ray looked at her hand. “Your bandage...”

“What?”

He pointed. A single drop of blood escaped from beneath a plastic strip dangling from the web between her right thumb and index finger.

“Your bandage… It’s come loose.”

“Oh. Thank you.” She tossed it in a wastebasket beside her desk and replaced it with another from a drawer.

Waverly watched. “That looks like a pretty deep cut. How’d you get it?”

“On a glass. I was washing the rim when it broke.”

“A bad spot. Had a cut there myself once. Took forever to heal.”

“Yes, it keeps reopening.”

Face buried in a sheaf of papers, Ed Costales breezed into the office and began issuing orders. “Jillian,” he said, “I want you to…” As he looked up and caught sight of Ray and Waverly, there was a stutter in his step.

12

Costales closed the door behind them as Ray and Waverly followed him inside his office. “I wasn’t expecting to see you,” he said. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.” Despite the civil language and pleasant manner, Ray knew what Costales wanted to say was neither civil nor pleasant. “Make yourselves comfortable.” He gestured to the seats across from him. “Now, what can I do for you?” The oversized desk separating them was a modern day version of a moat.

Waverly cleared his throat. “We’d like you to go over your recollections of those two days for us one more time.”

“The day of the election and the following morning?”

No, Christmas and New Years, you schmuck
. “Yes,” Ray said. “Everything. Just the way you remember it.”

Costales addressed himself to Waverly. “Look, what’s the point? Like you said, we’ve been through all of this before, and I really am very busy.”

“Sorry,” Ray said, “my fault. I joined the investigation late, and hearing the details firsthand is helpful to me.”

“Excuse me, Officer Schiller, but I don’t see how it’s your concern in the first place. Paul Davis’s death doesn’t fall under Widmer’s jurisdiction.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Ray agreed. “But as a detective on the Minneapolis police force, I have every reason to be here.” He could have sworn Costales stopped breathing for a full five-count.

“A detective?”

“Homicide division.”

Costales’s voice was admirably steady. “In that case, welcome to the Twin Cities. Congratulations on your upgrade.”

“To you, too…on your presidency,” Ray said, returning the phony pleasantries.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Costales said.

“Excuse me?”

“That you came to Minneapolis—it shouldn’t surprise me.” Costales leaned back, fingers laced over his stomach, his smile fading as quickly as his genial banter. “You’re like a pit bull. Once you get a grip on your prey, you don’t let loose.”

From the corner of his eye, Ray saw Waverly tense, and doubled his effort to keep his tongue in check. “Murder investigations usually involve stepping on some toes. Unfortunately, the investigation of Valerie Davis’s murder put you directly in my path.”