Shadow Tag (The Ray Schiller Series - Book 2) (9 page)

“Hey, how’s it going, guys?”

Ray looked up and found a familiar face studying them. He couldn’t put a name to it, but he recognized the young detective as one of the few who’d given him a genuine welcome when he’d arrived at the first precinct.

“It’s going all right,” Waverly told him. “Ray, you remember Dennis Hoerr, don’t you?”

“Sure,” Ray said, shaking his hand. “Good to see you again.” The guys in vice probably had a field day with that name; he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten it. Dennis Hoerr looked all of fifteen. Ray would’ve bet that baby face couldn’t produce a five o’clock shadow before midnight.

Keeping his hands nestled in his pockets, Hoerr asked, “So, what are you guys working on—anything interesting?” His incessant rocking on the balls of his feet was making Ray queasy.

“We’re still chipping away at the Paul Davis case,” Waverly said.

“Got anything yet?”

“We’ve got some ideas,” Waverly told him. “Nothing we can back up yet, though.”

“Anything I can do?” Hoerr asked. “I’m kind of at loose ends right now, you know?”

“Yeah.” Waverly laid a hand on his shoulder. “How’re you doing, Dennis?”

“All right, I guess.” Hoerr’s face brightened. “Hey, listen, guys. I’ve got my folks’ fishing boat this weekend. I’m taking it out on Minnetonka to see if I can reel in a few bass or something. Would the two of you like to come?”

“Sorry,” Waverly told him, “but Phyllis has me contractually bound to do household chores this weekend.”

“Can’t you get out of it?”

“Wish I could, Dennis,” Waverly said, refilling his cup, “but I’ve put ’em off two weekends in a row already. Sorry.”

Ray could feel Hoerr’s eyes boring into him.

“What about you, Ray? We can wet our whistles, soak up some sun and call it fishing. How about it?”

“Can I get a rain check? I’ve got to unpack my stuff and get my apartment in some kind of order.”

“Come on, Ray, you and me. That stuff can wait. I’ll bring the beer.”

“Sounds good, but I’ve really got to get organized. I swear the packing boxes are multiplying every time I leave the apartment. Maybe another time.”

The light in Hoerr’s eyes dimmed. “Sure. Some other time then.”

Waverly took a swig of the fresh coffee and shouted, “Hey, who brewed this swill? You could pave roads with this crud.”

From another part of the room, someone shouted, “At least it beats yours, Waverly. What do you do—use the grounds twice?”

Laughter erupted throughout the room.

“Hey, look who’s talking—Spencer—the guy whose coffee tastes like he gets the water from a sitz bath.”

Cheers and applause resounded.

The door of Chief Roth’s office flew open. His broad body filled the doorway. “What the hell is going on out here? It sounds like a war between Juan Valdez and the Hills Brothers. Knock it off and get back to work.” He spotted Ray and Waverly. “You two.” he said, pointing at them. “I want to see both of you in my office.”

“Be right there, Chief.” Waverly bent over a desk and wrote something down on a tablet. He ripped the sheet off and handed it to Hoerr. “As long as you offered, Dennis… Thanks.” Waverly jerked his head toward Roth’s office. “C’mon, buddy, let’s go.”

Once inside, Roth didn’t bother to acknowledge them; he left them standing as he sifted through the paperwork scattered across his desk. “All right, let’s have it. Where do things stand on the Davis case? I’d better hear there’s been some progress.”

“There’s been some progress,” Waverly said.

Roth’s face curdled. “Don’t play cute with me, Waverly. I busted my balls to bring Schiller in on this case because you were so all-fired sure that—”

“No cuteness intended, Chief. There’s been some progress. Really.”

Roth eyed him with suspicion. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

Ray jumped in. “We’ve got direction.”

“Direction? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means we’re getting our ducks in a row. We’ve got suspicions, strong convictions—the strongest of which is that Paul Davis did not commit suicide. We’ve narrowed down the suspects and we’ve established possible motives.”

“Listen, Schiller, I don’t care if your ducks are in a row or spread eagled on a serving platter; it sounds like you’re trying to blow smoke up my briefs. You’d better prove me wrong.”

For over a quarter of an hour, the three of them discussed the various angles the investigation was taking, shifting Roth’s mood from antagonistic to cautiously optimistic. He looked to Waverly. “So what’s your next move?”

“We’re going to check out bank records—Gaines’, Johnson’s and Costales’s.”

“If Costales paid off one or both of the security guards, they won’t have made any deposits or significant purchases yet,” Roth said, pointing out what they already knew, “not if they’ve got half a brain between them.”

“Right,” Ray said. “But any sizable withdrawals from Costales’s account might point us in the right direction.”

“All right, go for it.” Roth dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “Go on, get out of here. And keep me posted.”

Ray shut Roth’s door on the way out. “Does he ever lighten up?”

“Well, there was this one time back in 2001...” He left off, chuckling. “You’ll get used to it. By the way, good job in there…nice smokescreen.”

“Thanks. Best I could do on short notice.” Ray slowed down and brought Waverly to a stop. “Hey, what’s up with Hoerr?”

Waverly groaned. “He’s on temporary desk duty. He was involved in a righteous shooting. He’s having one hell of a time dealing with it. The perp was a fifteen-year-old kid.”

“Oh, Christ.” Still haunted by his own involvement in the accidental shooting of Gail’s lover, Ray knew firsthand the kind of hell Hoerr had to be going through. They started moving again. “What was in that note you gave him?”

“I gave him the registration info on the gun we found in Davis’s hand. Maybe Hoerr can find out if Michael Johnson and that .38 are connected. It might save us a lot of time and help take Hoerr’s mind off his troubles for a while—a win-win situation.”

Ray considered that for a second. “Is Hoerr any good at that stuff?”

“One of the best.”

10

The fluid stroke of a putter connected with a sweet, solid click. Stuart Felton’s golf ball rolled across the subtle contours of the lush green, curled at the last moment and dropped into the left side of the cup with a satisfying hollow
plop
.
Accepting his friends’ compliments, ACC’s Chairman of the Board dipped his lanky six-foot, three-inch frame over the cup and removed the golf ball. It had been a sensational forty-foot putt for another dismal bogey.

Felton stepped away and watched another member of his foursome putt. The word Titleist printed on the ball’s dimpled surface, somersaulted over and over on the short trip before dropping into the center of the cup for a fourth consecutive par.

The grinning golfer clapped Felton on the shoulder. “You’re going to have to hustle to make up for lost ground on the back nine, Stu.”

“Don’t count me out yet; I’ve done it before.” Feigning a smile, he moved toward his golf cart, his spikes jabbing bloodless wounds into the earth.

Between the ninth green and Interlochen Country Club’s Tudor style clubhouse, a figure in a navy blue suit and matching tie beckoned him with an upraised arm. Felton squinted against the glare of the sun. “Ed?” It was half greeting, half an expression of surprise. He closed the distance between them with long strides, calling to the others, “Go ahead. I’ll catch up with you on the tee.” He extended his hand to Costales. “Ed, what brings you here?”

“I’ve been waiting for you in the clubhouse. Your secretary told me you’d be here.”

“Some emergency?”

“You might call it that.”

Felton looked toward the tenth tee where his friends were waiting for him. “Can’t it wait?”

Costales grasped him by the elbow. “No, I need to talk with you now.”

Cupping a hand at the side of his mouth, Felton called to his friends. “Go ahead. I’ll settle up with you later.” They waved and teed up without him.

Maintaining his grip on Felton’s elbow, Costales led him toward the clubhouse. “Let’s talk over a cup of coffee.”

Seated at an out-of-the-way table in the dining room, Felton waited until the waitress left. “All right, Ed, what’s so urgent?”

“I apologize for interrupting your game, Stu.”

“You probably did me a favor; I was losing my shirt. My long game has gone to hell.”

Costales looked at him over the top of his raised cup. “I’ll get right to the point.” His smile disappeared like a dead leaf on a stiff breeze. “I’ve heard some disturbing news.”

“Oh?”

He glanced around the room. “I’ve heard some of the board members want to hedge on our agreement.” Felton’s expression gave nothing away. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“I imagine so,” Felton admitted, lowering his voice. “Amending the statement we gave the police about the election results.”

“Exactly. I want you to put a stop to that.”

Felton folded his hands on the table. “I’m all for making a clean breast of it, Ed.”

“You’re siding against me, too?”

“There’s no need to get paranoid; no one is against you.” Felton leaned forward, his voice nearly a whisper. “Correcting what we told the police would be in yours and the company’s best interest.”

“That’s not how I see it. I want you to let things stand as they are.”

Felton cocked his head. “I’m convinced that would be a mistake.”

“Then it will be
my
mistake.”

Felton laid a hand over his midsection and the ulcer raging inside. “You’d be taking a huge risk. The police have been asking some very disturbing questions...about you, Ed.” He looked around, making sure they weren’t overheard. “More and more, it’s becoming evident their investigation is focused on you.”

“I expected as much. It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

“What about ACC?” Felton lowered his voice even further. “If charges are leveled against you, ACC could come down like a house of cards. It wouldn’t make any difference that they’re unfounded.”

“As the head of the company, the decision is up to me.” He leaned closer, his face grim. “I came here to ask you to keep the others quiet. Now, I’m telling
you.”

“You’re overstepping your bounds, Ed.” Felton rose from his seat, his hands trembling in anger.

“Sit down.” Costales said. “Please,” he added.

Jaws locked, Felton hesitated, then took his seat.

“ACC has come a long way since Chet founded it, Stuart, but we can take it a lot farther. We can all benefit.”

“Or take a huge fall.”

“Maybe, but I’m
in the driver’s seat now, and the rest of you go in the direction I choose.”

Felton’s ulcer fed on itself. “I take serious exception to your attitude. Keep in mind that you finished a distant third when it came to the board’s vote. The presidency doesn’t make you invulnerable. I suggest you watch your step.”

“Duly noted.”

“I suggest you also remember that I have a corporation of my own to run,” Felton reminded him. “I don’t need the board job at ACC.”

“I’m aware of that, Stu. But being Chairman of the Board affords the kind of financial benefits and prestige that aren’t easily dismissed.”

Felton’s lack of argument conceded the point. “If this investigation takes you down, it’ll take the company down with you. At that point, it won’t make any difference what any of us want.”

“But that’s not going to happen,” Costales assured him. “The investigation will eventually blow over, and we’ll move on from there.”

“We could expedite that process by explaining the situation to the police.”

“Are you and the others willing to risk facing charges? Don’t kid yourself; it could happen.” Costales looked around and continued, satisfied no one could overhear. “Individually or together, if anyone goes to the police, it’ll be crash and burn for all of us.” Costales leaned across the table. “I’m warning you, Stuart, keep the others quiet.”

Felton stood, arms locked, hands braced on the tabletop. “Be careful, Ed, I find I don’t respond well to threats.”

“It’s not a threat. It’s my strong recommendation.”

“What it is,” Felton said, turning and walking away, “is semantics.”

11

The information gathered on Ed Costales’s financial transactions brought Ray and Waverly back to ACC. The murder investigation involving Paul Davis’s wife Valerie was so recent, Ray remembered the place in detail. The Alliance Computer Corporation building was old, but the interior had been renovated years earlier. Only the immense lobby remained in its original state—the massive chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, a monument to needless grandeur.