Shadow Tag (The Ray Schiller Series - Book 2) (23 page)

“That forensics screw-up wasn’t our doing,” Waverly objected.

“Know what? I couldn’t care less.” Roth sneered. “Did I get that right, Schiller?”

28

With the investigation coasting to a temporary standstill, the prospect of downtime worsened Ray’s mood. The thoughts torturing him in his spare moments grew louder and more persistent. He wanted Gail more than he could say—needed her. Putting the affair behind them was one thing, but raising Mark Haney’s baby…

What was he supposed to do, pretend to be the baby’s father? Try to
be
its father? Either way, sooner or later, he and Gail would have to tell Laurie and Krista the truth or risk them learning it in some cruel way on their own. And the baby... He or she might come home one day, the victim of some schoolmate’s cruel taunts. What kind of explanation could he offer?
Yes, it’s true. I shot and killed your real
daddy before you were born. It was an accident. Sorry.

“Morasco,” Ray said, interrupting Waverly in the middle of a sentence he hadn’t been listening to.

“What?”

“Morasco,” he said again. “The guy Berg mentioned the other day.”

“The police psychologist?” Waverly asked. “What about him?”

“Is he any good?”

“Why?” Waverly waited to see where Ray was going with it.

“You ever see him? Professionally, I mean.”

“Me? Nah. I’ve got Phyllis to tell me what’s wrong with me. You thinking about talking to him?”

Ray hunched a shoulder.

“You should, buddy.”

He gave Waverly a dark look. “Is there some right way for me to take that?”

“Hey, relax. I know all the crap you went through while we were investigating the death of Davis’s wife. I’m just saying it might be a good idea to let someone kick your tires and see if they’re all round. If you want to know about Morasco, ask Berg; he can prob’ly help you out.”

Around 7:00 p.m., Ray shoved an order of Chinese take-out food around his plate while he sat in front of his TV, thinking. He’d always handled job pressures and personal problems on his own. Why change M.O.s now? Maybe he’d let Berg’s enthusiasm for critical incident stress counseling convince him to see Morasco too quickly. He’d expected a longer lead time, but a cancellation got him an appointment with the psychologist first thing on Monday morning.

Ray dumped his Kung Pao Beef into the trash with one of two egg rolls and a still-wrapped fortune cookie. As he set his plate and fork in the sink, he noticed Patrick Gerrard’s gel pack on the counter alongside the refrigerator. Testing his back with a few cautious bends and twists, he decided it was safe to return that and the heating pad to their owner. Borrowed items in hand, he crossed the hall and knocked on Gerrard’s door.

“Hey, Ray,” Patrick said, waving him inside, “where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you around lately.”

“I was out of town. I thought I’d better bring your stuff back before it disappears under the debris at my place.” Ray handed Patrick’s things to him. “They really helped. Thanks.”

“I see that,” he said, laughing. “Standing upright, you’re taller than I thought you’d be.”

Ray smiled. “Is your girlfriend back yet?”

“No, she’s still mad as hell. Hey, park yourself. I’ll get you a beer.”

“That would be great, but I can’t right now. I’m still hip high in packed boxes.”

Patrick grinned. “Too busy catching psychos?”

“In part. Thanks again, Patrick. I’d better get moving or I’m not going to get anything done.” He started away.

“Hey, I’ll keep some beer on ice for you. When you get your place all shipshape, come back and we’ll kick back a while.”

“I’ll do that.” Ray walked into his apartment and looked around the box-cluttered room.
Shipshape? That’ll take some real doing.
The thought triggered something he couldn’t quite pinpoint.
Shipshape.
He said the word aloud twice before the connection finally came to him. “Shipsted? Shipley? Shipton?”

He went to the bedroom and pulled the notepad out of his inside suit coat pocket. He flipped it open near the front and started paging through. “It’s got to be in here. Come on,” he said, scanning each sheet as he flipped to the next. “Damn it. Where is it?”

Buried on a page of nearly illegible notes, Ray found it: Betty Shipman 555-1735—sort of an ACC insider according to the woman who’d provided the name and number during his investigation into the murder of Paul Davis’s wife Valerie. He hadn’t needed the information then, but he had nothing to lose now except maybe time. He picked up the phone and dialed.

Out of breath, Betty Shipman answered on the fifth ring. “I’m sorry,” she said after listening to his brief explanation, “tomorrow won’t work for me. Tell you what, though, Detective, if you can come to my place now, I’ll be glad to talk with you.”

He wrote down her address, hung up, and got back into his suit. Waverly had a wife and. like most detectives, too few off-time hours to spend with her. Ray kicked a packing box out of the way and left to make the spur-of-the-moment call alone.

The brick-front, single story house in Woodbury was located in a cul-de-sac near the Tamarack Village Shopping Center. Betty Shipman greeted him at the door, looking like a refugee from a swap meet. “Come in, Detective Schiller. I hope you don’t mind if we talk in the kitchen; I was about to take a break—maybe grab a bite to eat.”

“Wherever you like is fine.” He followed her across the living room through a maze of cardboard boxes much like his own, her blue flip-flops slapping a steady rhythm against her heels. Below the hem of her taupe cargo shorts, a few varicose veins marred an otherwise attractive pair of legs.

“Moving in?” he asked.

“Uh-uh, moving on,” she said. “San Diego. My husband’s company offered him a transfer. We jumped on it.” She tucked a few gray strands under a small, yellow scarf where they blended into a mass of dark-brown curls. She gestured to a chair at the kitchen table. “Make yourself at home.”

“San Diego,” Ray said, seating himself. “Nice. No more Minnesota winters.”

“Or the Minnesota state bird either.”

Ray smiled at her reference to the mosquito—the joke a familiar one to Minnesotans.

“Mind if I ask why you contacted
me
?” she asked, puttering around the kitchen. “Specifically, I mean.”

Put at ease by her affable manner, he broke into a smile. “Shrewd police work—that and someone said you know a lot about what goes on at ACC.”

“Ah.” Her face brightened. “Then I should make you aware of my policy: I don’t repeat gossip, so listen closely the first time.” Ray laughed. “An old joke,” she said, “but it’s still good for a laugh.” She set two glasses of iced tea on the table. “Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. Lemon?”

“This is fine, thanks.”

“I’m sorry about making you drive out here, Detective, but I gave ACC my two-week notice twelve days ago, and I’m not even close to finishing the packing yet.”

“That’s no problem. I’m just playing a longshot, anyway. I appreciate you taking time out to talk to me. Mind if I ask how long you’ve worked at ACC?”

“Forever,” she said, rolling up the sleeves of a white, paint-spattered shirt. “I’m one of the company fossils; I started there right out of high school.”

“Then you know a lot about the place.”

“Tons. What do you want to know?”

“What can you tell me about Jillian Wirth?”

She slipped a fork and a slice of pie in front of him—cranberry/apple with a crumble topping—and sat down with a slice for herself. “I take it you’ve been plucking bitter ‘fruit’ off the company grapevine.”

“Bitter,” he repeated. “Does that mean you don’t believe her quick rise to the president’s office was the result of sexual bartering?”

She chuckled. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard it put exactly that way before, but, no, I don’t think that’s the case.”

“Don’t men at ACC hit on her?”

She threw her head back, laughing. “Are you kidding? Like a piñata. But near as I can tell, they haven’t gotten the goodies.” Shipman waved a hand toward his pie. “Give that a try,” she said. “It’s good.”

Ray took a forkful and licked his lips. “Mmm.” He had another. “How do you know? About Jillian Wirth, I mean.”

“For one thing, they dubbed her ‘the iron maiden’. And,” she said, pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth, “the word ‘lesbian’ gets bandied about. Lesbian, my left foot. The girl’s got taste, that’s all. She had it bad for Paul Davis. I almost felt sorry for her that it was a one-way thing.”

Coming from an objective third party, the statement lent some weight to Wirth’s claim, but it was only one opinion. “How can you be sure that’s as far as it went?”

“I can’t swear to it, of course, but I’d be willing to bet my 401K on it. It’s a ‘woman’ thing, Detective. Another female can usually tell; we know the signs.”

Sampling the iced tea, Ray formulated his next question. “Is there some reason she might have wanted Paul Davis dead?”

She almost choked on a mouthful of pie. “Why would she?”

“You just said he didn’t return her feelings.”

“Right,” she said, “but what would be the point of killing him? As long as Paul Davis was alive, Jillian stood a chance of winning him over. Dead, not so much.”

“Okay, let’s say you’re right. Are you aware of anyone else who might’ve wanted him dead?”

“Sure,” she said, “Ed Costales.” She watched his expression shift. “You look surprised.”

“Only because you’re the first person who hasn’t insisted Paul Davis’s death was a suicide.”

Her cheek bulged around a bite of pie. “I just can’t see him doing that; he didn’t strike me as the type.” She covered her mouth. “Sorry. I’m starving; I haven’t eaten since this morning. Look, I’m not saying Ed Costales did it, only that he’d have had good reason. That’s just speculation, of course, but he did replace Paul Davis as company president, after all. Now, had Ed Costales or Jillian Wirth been carried out of ACC feet first, I could be more helpful.” She gave him a mischievous wink.

“I’m not following you,” Ray said.

“Sorry. It’s kind of an inside joke. The cliché about bosses sleeping with their secretaries is a cliché for a reason. Ed Costales and Denise Freeport were one of ACC’s office couples. He left her behind when he moved into the president’s office and, believe me, Denise wasn’t pleased about it. Still isn’t. Actually, I suspect there was trouble brewing between them before that. Ask anyone. If looks could kill, he’d be dead already. Naturally Jillian is on Denise’s list now, too. If Ed Costales is smart, he’ll take that gun of his home before she decides to use it on one of them.”

“He keeps a gun there?”

“Sure. That’s no secret, no big deal either really. There are other executives who keep guns in their offices, too. Ask the secretaries. It’s a stupid, macho thing—probably compensation for what’s lacking in other areas if you get my drift, but it’s what men do.” Her face flushed. “Present company excluded, of course.”

For another twenty minutes, Ray probed the depths of her knowledge and the even greater depth of her wide-ranging opinions.

He drove away feeling better than he had all day.

29

Over the weekend, Ray phoned the girls daily. Both kids had come through Krista’s ordeal better than he had even dared to hope. Gail was screening her calls, having one of them answer each time he phoned. Even if he could say something to Gail to make things right, he wasn’t being given the chance.

The information Betty Shipman had given him Friday night made him eager to return to ACC. One thing stood in the way: his appointment with Dr. Morasco. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep the appointment or cancel. The trip to ACC could be a waste of time, but the same could be true of his trip to the psychologist’s office. On the other hand, seeing Morasco might just be the beginning of a positive change in his life.

On the stroke of the appointed hour, the receptionist showed him into the psychologist’s office. Hand extended, he came from behind his desk. “Detective Schiller, I’m Dr. Morasco.” For a small man, he had a surprisingly strong handshake. “Mind if I call you Ray?”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“Have a seat.” He settled into a comfortable, beige armchair, his notebook within reach on a side table to his left. “So, Ray, what can I do for you?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.” Trying to stay out of his direct line of vision, Ray chose an identical chair set at an angle to Morasco’s. He sat at the edge of the seat, elbows on his knees, fighting the urge to bolt.

“Please,” Morasco said, “relax. Make yourself comfortable.”

“I’m good,” Ray told him.

The psychologist nodded, offering a cordial smile. Fifteen seconds in, Ray thought, and the guy could already read him like a book.

“I see you’re from the First Precinct. I heard about Detective Hoerr’s suicide. A terrible thing. My condolences.”