Shadow Tag (The Ray Schiller Series - Book 2) (26 page)

If it turned out that a lodged piece of food had killed him, it would put a serious kink in the theory that Gaynor’s death and the note were connected. Still, the bruises and the turned-out pockets in his robe said something was rotten in Denmark…and Wayzata.

Remembering Patrick’s open invitation to stop by for a beer, Ray got off the couch. Deciding the sight of a smiling face might do him some good, he knocked on his neighbor’s door, waited ten seconds and knocked again. “Hey,” he shouted, “are you home? I’m here to collect on that beer.”

The door cracked open. “Can I help you?” A dark-haired, fiftyish woman stood looking him over cautiously from the other side.

“Uh…I’m a friend of Patrick’s—his neighbor from across the hall.”

“Oh, you must be Ray, the detective.” She shook his hand. “Lynnette Foltz. I’m Sandy’s aunt.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Foltz.”

“Make it Lynn. Come in,” she said, hurrying away. “You’ll have to excuse me, “I’m getting a few things together.”

He closed the door behind him as she disappeared briefly and returned with a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste.

A glimpse of her reddened eyes made his stomach tighten. “Is Patrick here?” he asked.

She hunched over, tucking the items into a jam-packed overnight bag. “He’s at the hospital.”

“What happened to him?” Visions of Patrick lying beaten to within an inch of his life by the homophobes who’d left the job unfinished the last time tattooed themselves on his brain.

“What?” She stopped what she was doing and looked up apologetically. “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” She dabbed at her nose with a tissue. “It’s not Patrick who’s hurt; it’s my niece. He’s with her at the hospital.”

The sudden shift almost created mental whiplash. “What happened?”

She began reorganizing the bag’s contents. “Some imbecile on a cell phone ran a stoplight. He hit Sandy and another pedestrian in a crosswalk. The other woman is critical.”

“And Sandy?”

She wiped her eyes. “She’s going to make it, but they may not be able to save her leg.” The woman shook her head, busying herself with her task. “Lord, how that girl loves to run. Pike Island—that’s one of her favorite running spots—nice gravel path, lots of shade and cool breezes off the water in the summer.” She zipped the bag shut as though she held it responsible for the accident. “Well…no matter. Sandy’s alive; that’s what’s important.” The woman gathered up her purse from the kitchen counter and grabbed the overnight bag. “I came by to pick up some of her things so Patrick could stay with her. I’ve got to go.”

Ray stepped aside, opening the door for her. “I’m awfully sorry about what happened to your niece. How about Patrick—how’s he doing?”

She stepped into the hallway, shifting the bag from one hand to the other. “He’s putting on a brave face for her. I think he’s committed to their relationship come hell or high water. Thank God for that. Right now she needs him more than ever.” She turned on her heel. “I’ve got to get back to the hospital. Lock up for me, will you?”

“Sure.” Images of Krista lying helpless in Widmer’s critical care unit came flooding back. He’d had more than his fill of hospitals, but as Lynnette Foltz reached the elevator, he stuck his head out the door and shouted, “Which hospital?”

“Methodist. The one on Excelsior.”

As he turned the door lock and reached for the light switch, something caught Ray’s eye. On a shelf in the near corner, his ivy, its leaves still yellow and drooping, sat in a row of thriving plants. Sighing, he walked over and removed it from its healthy neighbors. “C’mon,” he said, “you’re coming home.”

Back inside his own apartment, he carried the plant around, mumbling, “Location, location, location.” He finally set the ivy in the middle of the kitchen table. “Stay put,” he said, grabbing his keys. “I’ll be back in a while.”

32

The Egg McMuffin and orange juice Ray had for breakfast hours earlier weren’t sitting well, and the office coffee only added to the problem. As Waverly approached, the scent of his Old Spice aftershave made Ray’s stomach lurch.

“Are you coming down with something?” Waverly asked. “You look like hell.”

“Had a bad night.”

“Is that all? Good. I thought maybe it was your session with Morasco this morning. How’s the ‘shrink rap’ working for you?” He grinned at his own joke.

“He hasn’t fit me for a straitjacket yet.” About to ask Waverly to stand downwind, Ray chose instead to turn his desk fan in his direction.

Waverly held his shirt collar open, taking advantage of the welcome breeze. “Feels good. Thanks. So,” he said, “a sucky night, eh? Got a hangover?”

“No, I’m just twenty or so hours short on my sleep quota for the week. I spent the night in a hospital waiting room with my neighbor. I figured he could use a little moral support.”

“What’s up with your neighbor?”

“You heard about the accident on 4th and Hennepin?”

“Yeah, I did,” Waverly said. “Tell me he wasn’t the jackass who hit those women in the crosswalk.”

“No, that wasn’t him, but Patrick’s fiancée is one of the women who got hurt.”

“Sorry to hear it. That’s really crappy.” Waverly’s face contorted. “Patrick,” he mumbled. “Are you talking Patrick as in ‘Patti’—‘across the hall Patti’?”

“That’s him.”

“The female impersonator’s got a fiancée?”

Ray grinned. “Surprised me, too. It turns out he’s straight. The Lacey’s gig is only something he does to supplement his day job.”

“Must need the money awfully damn bad,” Waverly said. “Is the girlfriend gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. The question is whether she’ll leave the hospital with one leg or two. It’s too early to tell.” With eyelids at half-mast and a hand over his stomach, Ray said, “Zero sleep and my breakfast is sitting in my stomach like a rock. Great way to start the day.”

Waverly whipped a bottle of antacids out of his pocket. “Want a couple?”

Ray grabbed the bottle and popped two fruit-flavored tablets in his mouth with a “Thanks.”

“Hate to say it, but you’d need those now if you didn’t need them before. I just got word from the M.E. and the forensics lab. The calls came back-to-back. Which results do you want first, buddy—the bad news or the worse news?

“Oh, hell, you choose.”

“Okay, then. Gaynor’s autopsy results. It’s official—death by suffocation.”

Ray gave him a long look. “Why doesn’t that qualify as
good
news?”

“Because the asphyxia had nothing to do with the food blocking his airway. The chunk of sandwich they found in his throat was still intact; it hadn’t been chewed. And they found scratches at the back of his throat. Apparently, someone tried to make his death look like an accident by shoving the food there after he died.”

“Couldn’t Gaynor have made those scratches himself by trying to dislodge the blockage?”

“They didn’t find any tissue under his nails. But here’s the real kicker, buddy. It turns out Gaynor would never have eaten that sandwich in the first place. It was ham on rye.”

“What—he wasn’t a fan of ham?”

“The ham isn’t the problem. Angela Gaynor told the M.E. her husband had a nasty allergy to rye flour—gastric irritation, nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, diarrhea, the whole works. Seems she saw what was left of the sandwich on a kitchen counter, but didn’t think to mention that or his allergy earlier.”

“If he didn’t choke to death, he must’ve been smothered. The bruises on his arms and wrist—the button torn off his pajama top…” Ray said, “it all makes sense if Gaynor was fighting for his life.”

“Right,” Waverly said. “The M.E. found some damage to the inside of Gaynor’s lips, too. He says it’s consistent with having something pressed down hard over his face. Now we just have to find out who did it and why, and it’s out of our jurisdiction. It’s up to the Wayzata cops now.” Waverly held out the bottle of antacids toward Ray. “Want a second helping before ya hear the ballistics test results?”

“That would depend on whether that’s the ‘bad’ or the ‘worse’ news.”

Waverly smiled and tucked the bottle back in his pocket. “Your hunch was right. The gun used to kill Paul Davis was Ed Costales’s 9mm Glock. One guess whose fingerprints were found on it.”

Ray didn’t need more than one. “Jillian Wirth.”

“Bingo.”

As they rode the elevator to ACC’s eighteenth floor, Ray felt satisfaction but no joy over what he and Waverly were about to do. Together they strode into Ed Costales’s outer office where Jillian Wirth was concentrating on her job, moving efficiently from one task to another.

“Ms. Wirth,” Ray said, announcing himself. He watched her look up, startled. “We have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Paul Davis.”

Her turquoise eyes widened. “You’re joking, right?”

“I’m dead serious.” Grasping her arm, he helped Wirth out of the chair and read her rights as Waverly snapped the handcuffs on her wrists.

“Please, you can’t do this.” Her voice was brittle with desperation. “You’re making a huge mistake.”

Costales stepped out of his office. “What’s going on out here?” He looked at Jillian, her hands cuffed behind her back, anxiety etched on her face. “What the hell are you two doing?”

“We’re placing your administrative assistant under arrest for Paul Davis’s murder,” Waverly said.

“You’re arresting Jillian?”

She turned to Costales. “I didn’t do it. I swear I didn’t kill him.”

He took a tentative step toward them. “You’ve got to be out of your damn minds. Paul’s death was a suicide.”

“Like hell it was.”

“You’re crazy,” Costales insisted. “Jillian had nothing to do with his death.”

“No? Then who did?” Ray asked. “You?”

Ray saw the color drain out his face.

As Waverly led Wirth out of the office, he volunteered a bit of advice. “You might want to start looking for a new administrative assistant, Mr. Costales. I hear Denise Freeport’s interested in the job.”

33

In a cramped interview room, Jillian Wirth protested for a third time. “I’m telling you I didn’t kill Paul.”

“The evidence says otherwise,” Ray told her. “Your prints are all over the murder weapon.”

“Haven’t you been listening? I told you Ed Costales had me go to his old office to box up his belongings. In the process, I handled the gun along with everything else; it’s that simple.”

“And a little too convenient,” Ray said.

“But it’s true. Ask him.”

“Even if he confirms your story, it doesn’t mean your prints weren’t already on the weapon. His asking you to bring his things to the new office could’ve been just a lucky break; it gives you a way to explain your fingerprints being on the gun.”

“I never touched it before that day or after.”

“We’ll get back to that later,” Ray said. “Right now, I want to hear about the blood.”

“What blood?”

“On your blouse, Ms. Wirth. That
blood.”

Her jaw dropped. She took a deep breath and almost exhaled fire. “I suppose you heard about that from Michael.” Neither Ray nor Waverly responded. “I should have known,” she said. “I can’t believe you nearly had me convinced he was trying to protect me.”

“You should’ve listened to us,” Waverly said. “That poor-me performance you put on for him while he was locked up convinced him you were innocent. If it hadn’t been for that, he might’ve gone to his grave without sharing that bit of information with us.”

“Seeing you run out of ACC that night, bloody and crying, made him think Davis had roughed you up,” Ray said. “He went to confront him. That’s how he discovered the body.” She opened her mouth to object, but Ray wasn’t done. “It wasn’t until your stepfather found him in the boardroom, that it occurred to him the blood on your blouse might not be yours.”

“But it was
my blood, not Paul’s. I swear that’s the truth.”

“The cut on your hand wouldn’t account for the amount of blood Michael saw on your blouse.”

“I never said that’s where it came from.” She rubbed the healed web of skin between her thumb and index finger. “For once, Michael was right.”

Ray fought to keep the emotion out of his voice. “You’re saying Davis hit you?”

“Yes.” A tear trickled down her cheek. Where it fell, the fabric of her mint-green blouse turned emerald. “I didn’t tell you about it because the whole incident was humiliating.”

“And incriminating,” Ray suggested.

“I didn’t kill Paul over it, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You’ve lied to us before. It’s time for some straight answers. Why would Davis have struck you?”

She dried her face and took a deep breath. “I couldn’t sleep. I went to ACC looking for him, hoping I’d be able to help somehow.”

“I remember this version,” Ray said. “Now let’s have the rest.”

Head bowed, she continued. “I found Paul in the boardroom. The second he saw me, he ushered me back to the door. No explanation—he just wanted me to leave. Seeing him so upset made me all the more determined to stay. I couldn’t go—not like that, but nothing I said mattered. He insisted I had to leave. The look on his face… I’d never seen him like that before. It frightened me—more for him than myself. The next thing I knew, I’d blurted out how I felt about him.” She buried her face in her hands. “So stupid. The words were barely out of my mouth when he grabbed my arm and shoved me toward the boardroom door. He told me to get out. When I refused again, that’s when he hit me.”