Shadow Tag (The Ray Schiller Series - Book 2) (13 page)

“Look, Sandy’s not coming back tonight, and there’s no point in letting this food go to waste. It’s hot and it’s ready. Don’t just stand there; sit down and dig in.”

The meal was a feast: Cornish game hen, fresh cranberry-orange relish, crescent rolls, mashed potatoes and gravy.

Patrick sat down and motioned for Ray to do likewise. “I intended for this to be kind of a peace offering to Sandy. I knew she’d go ballistic when she saw this,” he said, pointing at his face. “By now, you’ve probably guessed my plan didn’t work.”

“Yeah, I sort of got that. This Sandy… Is she your roommate?”

Patrick nodded. “And fianceé.”

In the middle of draping a paper napkin over his lap, Ray stopped. “Your what?”

“My fiancée. Problem?”

“No,” Ray said, “I’m just surprised.”

“That’s right, I forgot; I didn’t explain your ‘Patti’ encounter the other night. The female impersonation thing is strictly for the money. I’m as straight as I’m guessing you are. I only work at Lacey’s to supplement what I make at my day job.”

Unsure of the politically correct response, Ray nodded, giving Patrick a middle-of-the-road “Ah” and took a bite of succulent game hen. “This is great. You cooked this?”

“Sandy’s best dish is mac and cheese, and even that could use some work. I had two options: learn to cook or starve.”

Ray laughed. “Are you the one with the green thumb, too?”

“No, that’s Sandy’s specialty.” Patrick pointed to the sickly ivy Ray had set on a small coffee table. “In fact, she might even be able to save
that
thing.”

“I planned to ask if you wanted to give it a try, but if Sandy’s willing, great. Tell her she’s welcome to keep the thing if she can revive it, otherwise I’m just granting it a stay of execution.”

“I’ll let her know.”

“So,” Ray said, loading mashed potatoes on his fork, “I’m still waiting to hear who tried to rearrange your face.”

“A couple of drunks. Between acts at Lacey’s, I went out back for a smoke. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone there. My mistake.”

Ray spoke around a bite of cranberry relish. “Homophobes, I suppose—and you’re not even gay.”

“Yeah.” A grimace split Patrick’s lip open even wider. “But try telling that to a couple of tanked-up jackasses while you’re done up in heels, a wig and full makeup.” He dabbed his lip with a paper napkin. “Even if I was gay, it’s not like they have any right to—”

“Oh, hell, no. Were they caught?”

“I wish. The two of them ran pretty damn fast for being drunk. I couldn’t even give the cops a description; all I saw was knuckles, not much else.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Ray said. “This female impersonation thing… How’d you get into that?”

“Long story short, my senior class play was
South Pacific
. Our female lead broke an ankle an hour before the curtain went up. Just my luck, I’d helped her learn the part—the lines, the songs, the whole bit. Our drama coach, Mrs. Sorelli, snagged me out of the ‘extra’ pool, stuck me under a wig, slathered on about ten coats of makeup and the rest is history.”

Insisting on hearing all the details, Ray laughed between mouthfuls as Patrick told him the entire story complete with comedic embellishments right down to Mrs. Sorelli’s saturated dress shields.

“No one in the audience, not even my parents, could figure out who I was,” Patrick said, wrapping it up. “After the final bows, Mrs. Sorelli dragged me back on stage and clued the audience in. I whipped off the wig and brought down the house. It was a blast.”

“So you became a female impersonator.”

“Hey, it wasn’t
that
much fun. When I moved here, money got tight. I was a couple months behind on my rent when I heard about Lacey’s. I figured what the hell? Like they say: Necessity’s a real mother.”

Ray managed to swallow before he spit food across the table, laughing. “That must be the new version of the saying.”

“Well, a guy’s got to do what a guy’s got to do, right? Like I said, the money is pretty good, but when Sandy saw my face busted up again all hell broke loose.”

“Did you say
again
?”

“Yeah, it happened once before. Now she’s on my case, trying to get me to quit my job there.”

Ray helped himself to a dinner roll. “I can see her point.”

“Hey, I make more working there part-time than I do selling appliances forty hours a week.”

“And Lacey’s medical benefits?”

“Yeah, well…” Still dabbing his bleeding lip, Patrick pushed himself back from the table. “Enough about me. Your turn. So far, all I know about you is your marital status and what you like on your pizza.”

“I’m a cop. Detective, actually. Homicide division.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. Listen. Not that I don’t appreciate the pizza, the heating pad and ice pack the other night, and now this five-star meal, but, for all you knew, I could’ve been a serial killer. You might want to screen people more carefully in the future, wait awhile, get to know them better.”

“And where would that have left you?” Patrick asked. “You’d have been found in your apartment, a starved, dehydrated, crippled corpse…with a dead plant.”

Ray laughed. “Touché.” His detective persona encroached on his personal time. “So what does Sandy do for a living? I don’t suppose she works at ACC by any chance.”

“No, she works in an accounting office downtown. Why? Wait a minute. ACC?” he said. “You’re not investigating that case—the one with that V.P. who blew his brains out in the company’s boardroom, are you?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“Hang on a second.” Ray craned his neck toward the door. “Did you just hear a phone?”

“Yeah. Yours?”

“Could be.”

“Go ahead, I’ve got this covered.” Patrick began clearing the table.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Catch ya later.”

Ray raced to his apartment and found the interior filled with smoke from his forgotten frozen dinner. The phone stopped ringing as he rushed to the oven and pulled the tray from the rack. He stuck the tips of three burned fingers in his mouth as incinerated turkey and desiccated peach cobbler toppled from the cooking tray. The blackened peas looked like birdshot with a thyroid condition. They crunched under his feet as he threw the kitchen window open.

Swearing in emphatic bursts, he stood fanning the air with the
Minneapolis Star Tribune
when the phone started ringing again. Coughing, he picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Ray?” Gail sounded unsure.

He held the phone away, choking on the billowing smoke.

“Ray, are you all right?”

“Summer cold.” He fanned the air as he wiped tears away with the back of his arm.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you get rid of it in a hurry.” The preliminaries over, she said, “I wanted to let you know I got your new number. How’s Minneapolis?”

“Fine.” He coughed again. “Interesting.”

“Are you settled in?”

“Sure,” he lied. “Pat, across the hall, had me over for dinner tonight. Wonderful cook. Bright. Great sense of humor.”
Patrick not Pat, you schmuck. What are you doing?

Within two minutes, the awkward conversation began to wind down. So little to say after so many years. The smoke choked another cough from him, harsher than the last.

“Ray, are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.”
Stressed out. Bad back. Trying to burn my apartment building to the ground, but I’m fine...just fine, thanks.
“How about putting the girls on? I’d like to talk to them.”

“They’re in bed, Ray.”

He checked his watch, surprised at the lateness of the hour. “I’m sorry I missed them. Tell them I’ll call tomorrow.”

There was a palpable silence.

“Well,” Gail said with finality, “I guess that’s it then. Goodight, Ray. Take care of that cold.”

As she broke the connection, he felt a sense of longing. Had he detected yearning in Gail’s voice, or was it wishful thinking? Struggling to put her out of his mind, he walked into the kitchen and jotted down a note to himself: New batteries for smoke detector.

15

Following another long soak in the tub and a rare, good night’s sleep, Ray arrived at work the next day standing erect and in only moderate discomfort.

Waverly arrived right behind him. “Hey, looking good, buddy. Back to normal?”

“Pretty close.”

Captain E. Joseph Roth, Ejo, stuck his head out of the office and summoned them inside for a progress report on the Davis case. His patience seemed to be wearing thinner by the day. They left Roth’s office with his verbal throttling still echoing in their ears,

“That was a complete waste of time,” Ray complained. “All he did was keep us from getting down to work.”

“Get used to it.”

Ray thumbed through the pages of his notebook. “Want to head over to Felton Plastics, or talk to this Gaynor guy first?”

Waverly dug a battered quarter out of his pocket, flipped the coin in the air, caught it, and slapped it against the back of his hand. “Heads, Felton Plastics—tails, Gaynor.”

They parked in the visitors’ area of Felton Plastics and strode through the heat waves snaking off the pavement. The building was an air-conditioned utopia.

Inside and out, the building contrasted markedly from ACC. The Alliance Computer Corporation building’s brick, mortar and marble was a tribute to staunch durability—a fortress. Newer in construction, the Felton Plastics building was far more modern: concrete and steel but softer in its lines, visually appealing. Even the atmosphere differed. The building’s interior walls were painted subdued pastels, while carpeting muted the normal workplace sounds, creating a restful environment.

When they showed their badges, the receptionist’s smile never faltered. The pert brunette notified Stuart Felton’s administrative assistant they wanted to speak with him, and, with a smile, sent them upstairs with directions to his office. People nodded hello as they passed them on their way to the twelfth floor.

Felton’s administrative assistant, a pleasant, round-faced woman, greeted them as they arrived. “Detective Waverly, Detective Schiller, would you care to wait in Mr. Felton’s office? He’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

They turned down an offer of refreshments and were left to wait in his tasteful but understated office. It felt as though they might sink up to their ankles in the carpet. Sunlight streamed in through a wide, high window and glinted off the surface of a standard-sized desktop. Paperwork was stacked in several neat piles across its surface—no unnecessary clutter. Felton’s chair was bold in its simplicity and identical to those on the opposite side of his desk.

Waverly nodded his approval. “No throne
to designate Felton’s authority. I knew I liked this guy.”

Ray lifted a picture from a set of display shelves beside the office door. Within the frame, a young couple was frozen forever in mid-swirl as they danced to soundless music. The man, tall and handsome, smiled down at the willowy blonde in his arms, gazing into her eyes as her gown swirled around them.

Waverly looked over Ray’s shoulder. “Good-looking couple.”

“Thank you. The woman’s my wife…former wife, actually,” Felton said, stepping inside. “Good to see you again, Detective Waverly. Detective Schiller, nice to meet you.” He shook their hands and gestured toward the chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

Ray put the picture back and sat beside Waverly. “You and your wife were dancers?”

A smile lit Felton’s thin face. “Past tense, yes.” He laced his fingers over his flat stomach. “That photo was taken eons ago during a ballroom dancing competition.”

“The two of you look well matched.”

“Yes. The judges look for that. I’m 6’ 3”, and Joanna is 5’ 11”.”

“I admit I’m curious,” Ray said. “How’d you go from ballroom dancing to CEO of your own company?”

“Age was a definite factor. We could have continued competing awhile longer, but toward the end, our ‘quick step’ wasn’t quite as quick anymore. And,” he added, “our partnership off the dance floor started to fall apart. When Joanna left me, I followed other pursuits; eventually they led me here.”

“Not a bad place to be.”

“No, not at all.” Felton’s gaze traveled to the photograph and lingered there. “But I often miss the old days—the way things used to be.” Fingers still linked, he leaned forward, his forearms resting on his desk. “But, enough of that. Obviously, you didn’t come here to listen to me reminisce. How can I help you, Detectives?”

“Frankly, I’ve come in late on the Paul Davis case, and that leaves me at a disadvantage,” Ray told him. “If you don’t mind answering some questions again, it would give me a better perspective and help bring me up to speed. Do you mind?”

“Not at all, Detective. What would you like to know?”