Shadow Tag (The Ray Schiller Series - Book 2) (30 page)

“Not exclusively. Sporting events, too…even golf games with my friends.”

“I take it you’re in pretty deep,” Ray said, “if it gave Davis that much power over you.”

“Paul said that, as a member of my own company’s board of directors, he’d begun to suspect something was wrong. He’d made a point of doing some serious research after leaving that afternoon and discovered I’d been skimming money from my company’s pension fund. I intended to return every cent, but even if I had been able to do it immediately, he swore he’d see me ruined. He made it clear he meant it.”

Waverly snorted. “And you thought murder was the solution.”

“Paul was suddenly in control of my life. He was out to destroy me and everything I’d built, and I couldn’t deal with facing a prison sentence.”

“So,” Ray said, “you gambled again…this time on getting away with murder.”

“It was as though something took over. I left the boardroom and found myself outside of Ed Costales’s office. Ed’s gun was in my hand when I walked back into the boardroom. Paul sat facing away from me while I pled with him to reconsider. He didn’t have the decency to turn around and face me. I realized talking to him was useless. That’s when I stepped behind his chair, raised the gun to his temple and, God help me, I pulled the trigger.”

Ray’s tone turned cold. “You must’ve snapped out of that fugue state of yours in a damn big hurry considering you took the time to pick up that spent shell casing and tuck it in your pocket before you left the room.”

“That didn’t happen,” Felton said. “It never occurred to me.”

Ray caught himself drifting toward the shoulder of the road and adjusted the wheel. “Are you kidding me?”

“Do you think I’d have pulled the handkerchief from my pocket if I’d known the casing was there? It was as much a surprise to me as it was to you. I’ve been trying to sort it out since we left my office.”

“So what did you come up with?” Waverly asked.

“I was standing directly behind Paul when I fired the gun with my left hand. When the shell casing ejected to the right, it must have landed in the folds of my pocket handkerchief.”

“Holy mother of…” Waverly groaned. “With luck like that, it’s no wonder you took up gambling.”

Ray muttered something unintelligible under his breath. “Was it your plan to frame Ed Costales by using his gun?”

“That never crossed my mind.”

“Then why did you wipe off your prints and put it back in his desk?”

“I wiped the prints off to protect myself, of course, but putting it back in his desk wasn’t meant to be at his or anyone else’s expense. If the weapon disappeared, it would have suggested there was a connection between Ed’s gun and Paul’s death. What I did seemed like the better alternative.” Felton took a quick look ahead. “Follow the signs for US-10, Detective Schiller.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Can you explain to me how in the world Jillian Wirth’s fingerprints got on that weapon?”

Ray winced, remembering how they’d dismissed her explanation. “Costales had her transfer his things to his new office—gun included.”

“A case of unfortunate timing then.”

“More like part of a long chain reaction,” Waverly said.

37

Ray took the next turn as instructed and drove past a handful of buildings scattered on either side of the highway. It looked like a half dozen other locales they had passed already.

Waverly looked out his side window. “Damn, there’s a Culver’s. I’m so thirsty I could spit cotton.”

“I have two great-grandchildren, ages three and five, who ride better than you, Detective Waverly,” Felton told him.

“Maybe so,” he said, “but have them try it in handcuffs sometime.” The Culver’s disappeared from view. “How much farther do we have to go?”

After long moments of deliberation, Felton relented. “I’m taking you to my cabin near the Leech Lake Indian Reservation.”

“Leech Lake? Holy crap,” Waverly complained. “That’s gotta be another hundred miles from here.”

“Not quite, but close. The distance is an inconvenience, but that can’t be helped. Its location works to my advantage in this situation.”

“If you’re planning to dump our bodies there, you might want to rethink what you’re doing. Kill a cop, let alone two, and there’ll be no rock big enough for you to hide under.”

“I have no intention of harming either of you, Detective Waverly. The cabin is on a small island. In order to buy myself some time, I’ll leave you there…bound of course. Once you’ve freed yourselves, you’ll find the place is stocked with canned food and bottled water—enough to tide you over until you’re either rescued or find a way to make it off the island by yourselves. By that time, I’ll be well on my way. And please,” he added quickly, “don’t insult my intelligence by asking me where.”

The monotonous hum of tires against pavement became the only audible sound inside the vehicle. Mile after mile of countryside continued to pass by in near silence as Ray’s apprehension built. Felton’s assurances were worthless. He talked a good game, but had proven himself to be a convincing liar. Whatever lay ahead, Ray wasn’t about to let his questions go unasked. If he was going to die, he wanted the satisfaction of hearing Felton’s explanations first.

He turned onto the ramp toward St. Cloud, finally breaking the lengthy silence. “We came damn close to hauling Ed Costales in on charges. If we’d done that, had you planned to set the record straight?”

“I told myself I would, but in the meantime, I did what I could to avoid making that necessary.”

“Yeah?” Waverly said. “By doing what?”

“Understand something, Detective Waverly. We’d dodged a bullet when John Stanley had the heart attack. Paul would take over and the stockholders would be happy. But with Paul’s death, our situation became even more precarious. If the actual election results became public knowledge, his suicide would be blamed on the board. The results would have been devastating.”

“Except it wasn’t suicide,” Ray said.

“But only I knew that. The rest of the board never doubted he’d killed himself. They decided to protect the company by saying Paul had won the election—that his suicide was the result of the other recent complications in his life. We put the matter to a vote.”

“My God,” Ray said. “That’s why it took twenty minutes for Costales and the rest of you to notify authorities. You were busy conducting business.”

“Considering the circumstances, we agreed it had to be a unanimous decision.”

“Oh, by all means,” Ray said. “Parliamentary procedure takes precedence over preserving a crime scene, right? Of course, contaminating the scene worked to your advantage. You
I understand, but the others—”

“They believed Paul killed himself. They didn’t see it as a crime scene.”

“Assholes,” Waverly muttered.

Felton continued without comment. “As far as Ed Costales’s welfare was concerned, I persuaded the others we had to amend our original statements to the police. Once we explained Paul had lost the election, his state of mind would support a ruling of suicide, and Ed would have been fine.”

“Not to mention that it would’ve meant you’d gotten away with murder,” Ray said. “A bit self-serving, wouldn’t you say? But just to set the record straight, Mr. Felton, amending your statements wouldn’t have changed a thing—not the bullet’s trajectory or the fact that the fatal bullet hadn’t come from the gun in his hand.”

Felton’s shoulders slumped. “The gun,” he said.

“What?”

“That pearl-handled revolver, Detective Schiller... Where did it come from?”

Ray laughed. He laughed so hard his eyes watered; he couldn’t help himself. He hadn’t thought of it before, but now he saw the scene playing out in his head: Felton walking into the boardroom the morning after killing Paul Davis and finding a gun had mysteriously materialized in his hand. He had to have thought he’d stepped into the Twilight Zone.
If Stuart Felton chose that moment to shoot him dead, Ray decided he might almost die happy. Almost.

“Was it the security guard’s,” Felton asked, “…the one who was supposed to be at the front desk?”

“It was.”

“I see,” Felton said. “You say he felt protective toward Ms. Wirth. Then I take it he made it look like suicide in order to protect her.”

“That’s right.” Ray had to ask. “When you saw the revolver in Davis’s hand, what went through your mind?”

“Initially I thought Mitch must have put it there.” A rueful smile crossed Felton’s face. “Even with his over-developed sense of responsibility, I found the notion ridiculous. Still, what else was I supposed to think? Naturally, I was in no position to ask him about it.”

“No fooling,” Waverly said.

“The note… The security guard must have left that, too, then?”

“Right.” Ray and Waverly’s eyes met briefly in the rearview, acknowledging that the note did exist. “Did you take it?” Ray asked Felton.

“I knew nothing about the note…not until much later.”

“Then who did? Mitchell Gaynor?”

Felton’s voice was nearly inaudible. “Yes, he took it.”

“Why?” Ray asked.

“For the same reason the election results were misrepresented: to protect ACC, himself and the rest of the board. Mitch assumed the note would point a damning finger at us. He said when he heard me coming, he stuffed the paper into his pocket, unread. He’d done it on an impulse. There was no criminal intent involved. In his mind, the presence or absence of a note wouldn’t change the fact that Paul had taken his own life.”

“When did he tell you all this?” Ray asked.

“Later.”

“When exactly?”

“I think I’ve said as much as I care to, Detective.” Felton checked a road sign. “Take this exit onto US-10 West.”

Ray wanted confirmation of what he already suspected. “You killed Mitchell Gaynor.”

“I said this conversation is over.”

Turning onto the exit, Ray pressed for an answer. “He was your friend. What happened?”

“Concentrate on your driving. I’m not saying any more.”

Waverly took a shot at it. “C’mon, Felton. At this point, what’ve you got to lose?”

“I said I’m not discussing this.”

“Look,” Waverly told him, “I’m hurting, tired, hungry and thirsty. It’s got me kinda testy, so if I feel like talking, you’re not gonna stop me.” He slid across the soft, gray leather toward his corner of the backseat. “What really galls me is that you had me fooled. I’ve got you pegged now, though. It can’t be that you’re afraid to tell us; you’ve got ice water in your veins. You proved as much. Just before Davis’s body was found, you walked into ACC as cool as a cucumber and went straight to his office on the pretense of looking for him. You knew what your friend Mitch would find when he walked into that boardroom, but you put on a good show giving Jillian Wirth some line about hoping she and Davis would enjoy their new office. That makes you nothing but a cold, calculating son-of-a-bitch. You must have balls the size of honeydews.”

As Felton shifted the gun to his left hand, Waverly lurched perilously closer.

“I wouldn’t do that, Detective,” Felton warned him, “I’m ambidextrous.”

“Don’t get excited; I’m just trying to find a comfortable spot.”

Antagonizing Felton might not be smart, but Ray hoped Waverly continually rattling his cage might make him careless. Something had to. The area around the Leech Lake Indian Reservation, with nearly a thousand square miles of land and over three hundred square miles of water, presented an inviting opportunity for a man in Felton’s situation. If he let them live, he’d have to chuck his family and plastics firm and leave the country in order to escape prosecution—not an appealing option. Felton implied that was his plan, but it was more likely he’d plant him and Waverly in a dank, dark spot in the Chippewa National Forest, or leave them submerged in one of the dozens of lakes. With each murder, he had less to lose, and Ray was confident his body count was already up to two. As silence overtook them once more, he realized Waverly had to be thinking the same thing—Felton, too. The last thought didn’t sit well.

38

Ten uneasy minutes later, Felton had Ray take Minnesota 371 toward Brainerd.

“About Mitchell Gaynor…” Ray said at last. “Tell us what happened.”

Felton didn’t respond.

“I think I get it,” Ray said calmly. “It’s not that you won’t tell us, you can’t. You can’t bring yourself to admit what you did.” The words were his, but the soothing tone was borrowed from memories of Father De Luca patiently hearing his boyhood confessions at St. Dominic’s in Chicago. “How did it happen? It might help to get it off your chest.”

Whether Ray’s persistence paid off or Felton hoped he was right, there was a quaver in his voice as he relented. “I never meant to hurt Mitch. I swear by all that’s holy, it was an accident.”

“Either way, knowing you’re responsible for his death has to be gut wrenching.”

“It’s a living hell.” Felton’s chest heaved. “Mitch was a good, good man. The minute he refused to go along with the board’s plan to amend our statements to the police, I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t imagine what it was.”