Authors: Marjorie Doering
“She tried a bunch of different drugs. I don’t remember the names, but Vicodin wasn’t one of them. Still, migraines are tough, and that’s strong stuff. It wouldn’t surprise me if it isn’t prescribed for migraines. Like I said,” Neil told him, “it’s just a hunch, but it got me thinking about Erin’s headache routine.”
Ray stared into his Coke while the similarities ticker-taped through his head: Valerie Davis’s bed still undisturbed late at night—barefoot but still in her street clothes, the shoes tucked under the couch. The light sensitivity associated with migraines could even explain the single dim lamp turned on in the house the night of her murder. Even the proximity of the downstairs bathroom to the living room couch fit the picture.
“Neil, you might’ve nailed it. Listen. When you get back to the station, fill Woody in on your theory.” Ray checked his watch and dropped a fistful of singles beside his abandoned meal. “I only got three hours of sleep and I’ve got a long drive ahead of me later. I’m going to try to catch a nap at my apartment before I see my kids.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
The two of them waved goodbye to Amy and stepped outside.
“I’ll see you my next trip back,” Ray said. “You take care.” He prolonged their handshake for an extra second. “Know something, Neil? You’re shaping up to be one hell of a cop.”
Neil’s grip tightened, his grin spreading.
Now the only thing standing between Ray and some much-needed sleep was the thought of seeing Gail.
20
Gail recognized the three sharp knocks that had become Ray’s calling card since their separation. Three, no more or less. Enough to be unmistakable, loud enough to be heard clear to the back of the house.
At the sound, her heartbeat quickened.
Fearing the worst, she avoided checking her reflection in the decorative entryway mirror. At the door, Gail brushed her jeans and straightened her sweater, realizing too late that she smelled like Lysol.
God, why today?
“Hi, Ray.”
“Hello, Gail.” Stone-cold.
She felt the chill. Ray didn’t look at her as much as through her, his eyes telegraphing blame with every measured blink. She stepped aside, letting him enter. He looked thinner than he had only a week earlier.
“I’m surprised to see you.”
“Spur of the moment decision.”
“Oh.”
He looks so tired.
“When did you get into town?”
“Early.” His abrupt reply stung as though it had been a slap in the face.
Gail had been left out of the loop—
his
loop, as though she no longer had any place there. She hadn’t stopped loving him—knew she never would. Her affair had been over nearly before it began. Guilt-ridden and ashamed, she’d been about to end it when Ray found out.
He walked in, surveying the rooms like he was seeing them for the first time. “The place looks nice.”
The place, not her, she noted. Gail ran her fingers through her hair, willing it to cooperate. “How’s the investigation going? Have you made any progress?”
“Some. The girls home?”
Despite years of running into the walls Ray erected, it still left bruises. “They’re upstairs, changing out of their school clothes. They should be down in a minute.” Gail offered him a seat.
He remained standing.
“I’m glad you came, Ray. They’ll be so excited that you’re here.”
“I’ve missed them.”
She heard an emphasis on ‘them’, wondering if it was real or imagined.
“Unless you have some objection, I want to take the girls out for supper.” Ray didn’t wait for a response. “An early supper. I want to head back to the Cities soon.” He looked away, focusing his gaze on anything but her.
Freed from the weight of his glare, an offer spilled from her lips. “We were going to have fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy tonight. I could fix it now if you’re in a hurry. You could have supper with them here, if you like. No fuss, no muss.”
Ray wielded his civility like a weapon. “Tonight’s father/daughter night. Thanks anyway.”
He’d rejected Gail’s repeated apologies and denied her pleas for forgiveness. It seemed he was even unwilling to tolerate her presence. At the foot of the stairs, he turned his head toward the second floor. “Hey, girls,” he shouted over the music blasting from Laurie’s radio, “who wants to go out to supper with their dad?”
From upstairs came the sound of a small herd of stampeding elephants. The girls raced down the steps and flung themselves at Ray, seven-year-old Krista with her head of white-blonde hair and ten-year-old Laurie, shedding any pretense of being all grown up.
“I hope you’re already hungry, because we’re eating early,” he said. “Anybody in the mood for pizza?” Between kisses and hugs, Ray helped them into their coats.
Krista shoved her arms into the sleeves. “C’mon, Mom, let’s go.”
Ray’s smile faded. “It’s just the three of us tonight, honey. Me and my two best girls.”
Gail smiled for their daughters’ sake. “You go with your dad. I’m going to stay home and relax tonight.”
“But, Mom—” Laurie groaned.
“Honey, I’m a mess and your dad’s in a hurry. Getting ready would take me forever. Besides, there’s something on TV I want to see. Maybe next time, all right?”
Ray held the door open. “Right. Maybe next time.” He didn’t meet Gail’s eyes. “Let’s get a move on. Your old man’s starving.” He led them out with a backward glance. “I’ll have them back in an hour, maybe two. Enjoy your program.”
He had to know it was a lie. Had he taken pleasure in driving the barb still deeper? The tears she hid from Ray stung her eyes. She was the guilty party, deserving of his anger—a role she’d never imagined playing—something for which she could never forgive herself, let alone expect of Ray. She’d hurt the one man she would have given her life to protect.
Gail refused to use tears as a lever any more than she would Krista’s recent bout of nightmares, or Laurie’s plummeting grades. Ray wasn’t entirely blameless, but she accepted the guilt, and would deal with the consequences. Alone if necessary.
She ended her affair with Mark Haney the day Ray discovered their involvement. Happening for all the wrong reasons, it was doomed from the start. If only Mark accepted that.
At the Pizza Corral, Ray sat in a booth, listening to his daughters—or trying—nodding in what felt like appropriate places. School, friends, the usual, all fading in and out as his thoughts kept drifting back to Gail.
She looked good. Who was he kidding? She looked terrific. The sight of her clouded his judgment, lowered his defenses. He couldn’t allow that.
Even to himself, Ray couldn’t deny he’d been mean-spirited, but he’d used all the restraint he could muster. As callous as he’d been, Gail hadn’t shed a tear. Ray rejected that some part of him resented that. Did she care so little? Had she become emotionally uninvested?
Gail’s absence had taken the luster off the girls’ excitement. Her absence made him the villain in their little tableau. She had taken the high road by graciously bowing out for the evening, absolving him of blame.
If she thinks earning good conduct points will help, she’s kidding herself. There aren’t enough to get her out of the hole she’s dug for herself.
Ray shoved a piece of pepperoni pizza in his mouth, wishing it were Gail’s fried chicken.
“How’re you doing, kids? Anyone want dessert? Spumoni? Cannolis?”
Twenty minutes later, avoiding the risk of further contact with Gail, Ray watched from his car until the girls were safely back inside their house. The sight of Gail, the way the light danced in her eyes, the sound of her voice muddied his resolve. During his waking hours, he could keep her at arm’s length. Nights, he was powerless to banish her from his dreams.
21
Nerves on edge, Dana crushed out a cigarette, visualizing Paul’s face in the bottom of the ashtray. Valerie was gone—out of the picture for good. Without his wife to hold him back, Paul should have called by now. After the big “kiss off” he’d delivered the morning of alerie’s death, maybe he was afraid to try crawling back. No, not afraid, too proud.
The lousy son of a bitch.
Dana drew a lavender-scented bath and stripped out of her clothes. She studied her curvaceous body in a wall-to-wall, gold-veined mirror before stepping into the tub, posing to admire every angle, every taut inch. A smile crept across her face. Paul would be back all right. How could he
not
come back?
She slipped into the water, trying to subdue her restless mood. Liquid warmth engulfed her slim thighs, her firm breasts, but couldn’t extinguish her rage over the indignity of getting dumped.
Dumped. There was no other word for it. She’d never been on the receiving end before although she’d performed the maneuver often enough to qualify as an expert.
In any event, Paul hadn’t been subtle. He’d delivered the news quickly and without ceremony. Sure, maybe she could have shown him a little sympathy that Friday night—some small degree of understanding when Chet Stockton announced he wasn’t stepping down yet, but, damn it, she hadn’t expected Paul to throw a frickin’ tantrum over her lack of sensitivity. What did he want? She was his mistress not his goddamn mother.
He’d stormed out and, with the slamming of the door she felt the framework of their relationship shudder. The split had been about to become a chasm; Dana felt it in every fiber of her being. She’d called on Nick Vincent to provide a permanent solution. Remembering the events of the morning prior to Valerie’s death, the knots in her stomach tightened.
A brief, early-morning phone call from Paul had roused her from a warm bed. He wanted to see her. She savored the prospect of Paul arriving to deliver a fervent apology, and prepared to graciously forgive him—or her version thereof. The rift would be smoothed over, salvaging two years of her time and effort.
But it didn’t go according to plan.
Instead, Paul had arrived and begun with a hackneyed, “Dana, we have to talk.”
It smacked of late-night movies, teary-eyed heroines and tragic endings. It set her teeth on edge. She wasn’t going to let him kiss her cheek, shake her hand and walk out—not after two years. She thought of Nick in Widmer. No, definitely not now.
She’d struggled not to laugh when Paul had followed it up with, “Valerie and I are going to make a fresh start.” If Nick accomplished his task, Valerie wouldn’t be around for a new start, fresh or otherwise. But Dana’s pleasure quickly soured when he admitted having gone to Widmer the night before to see his wife. The call he’d made to Dana that morning to announce his visit had been made from some greasy spoon there. Cops always suspected a spouse first. Paul’s little side trip could make a mess of things. Had he stayed in Minneapolis according to plan, he’d have been safely away—safely alibied. What good would he be to her if he wound up in prison?
Still, Nick was supposed to make it look like an accident. She’d hammered the need for that into his head before he left for Widmer. An accident. So, let him do the job and be done with it. Getting rid of Valerie was more important than ever now that she’d been…dumped. God, how she hated that word.
For Paul’s benefit, Dana played the victim, and did it well. He pointed out that she already owned the house. He’d purchased it in her name shortly after the start of their relationship. And, he assured her, he wouldn’t leave her wanting. A sizeable amount of cash would be transferred into her personal account to tide her over.
How magnanimous. Fucking asshole. He’d stood there discussing severance pay like she was some kind of frickin’ employee.
“Use the money however you choose,” he’d told her. “Pursue your singing career if that’s what you want.” It was at that point she detected his only trace of guilt.
Dana insisted he’d be back. He insisted she was wrong. Well, she’d just see about that.
Trying to put the incident out of her mind, Dana lifted one long leg, toes pointed at the ceiling, admiring the smooth calf and Java Mauve nail polish Nick liked so much. There was something to be said for guys like Nick Vincent—all brawn, no brains, their most valuable assets not in some offshore account, but under the fly of their jeans. Too bad it wasn’t enough.
Paul had money and influence. For a man in his forties, he was in surprisingly good shape, but his body couldn’t compare to Nick’s tall, hard physique and endless vigor. Unlike Paul, Nick had two other qualities that worked to her advantage: he was gullible, and putty in her hands. True, he’d resisted her latest demand, but eventually he’d crumbled as she’d known he would.
Dana flicked on the water jets, hoping the force of the currents would do what the heat alone hadn’t. She lay back, needing to be soothed. By all the news accounts following that weekend, Nick had come through. But in what universe did the idiot think using an axe would look like an accident? To his credit, as instructed, he hadn’t contacted her since. Some part of her wished he would; she wanted an explanation.
An axe, you dumb shit? Why a frickin’ axe?
The answer would have to wait. All that really mattered to her was that Valerie Davis wasn’t standing in her way anymore. The rest she’d work out.
Dana immersed herself under the churning surface. Breath depleted, she came up brushing water from her eyes and shaking her head to clear water from her ears. She heard the phone ring. Reaching for her towel, she raced from the tub to the phone on her bedside table.
Be Paul. Be Paul.
Leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake, she clutched the receiver and stood dripping, listening to a dial tone. Dana slammed the receiver down. She ripped the towel from her body, wrapping it around her dripping hair and stormed to her closet where she jammed her arms into a silk, knee-length robe.
Lighting a cigarette, she went to the living room and paced barefoot over the plush carpet, amid the luxurious trappings Paul had provided.
If you think I’m going to wait forever, Paul, you’re in for a surprise.
Her last ounce of patience gone, Dana raised the phone and entered a familiar number.