Authors: Marjorie Doering
“That’s right, I won’t, so spit it out, okay?”
“This morning Ziegler decides to take his dog and do some fishing in that creek that feeds into Lake Hadley. He barely gets his line wet and his mutt shows up with a human arm—hand and forearm still connected.”
Ray felt a rush of excitement. “Valerie Davis’s arm.”
“Has to be,” Rodgers agreed. “All that’s left is bones. Scavengers must’ve picked them clean. Ziegler said he could see gnaw marks. He sounded pretty shook up.”
“Damn it. Why didn’t Woody let me in on this? It’s my case.”
Irene came out of the restroom, smoothing her skirt. “We tried to reach you. Either your cell phone is dead or it’s not turned on.”
Ray dug his phone out of his jacket pocket, his face flushing as he flipped the switch to the ‘on’ position. “Okay, but he could’ve waited until I came in.”
“You’re on administrative leave, remember? We had no idea when that might be.”
Ray tucked the phone back in his jacket. “I’m going out there.”
“I suggest,” Irene said, “that you help yourself to a cup of coffee and park yourself right here until he gets back.”
“Really?” he snapped. “Any more homespun advice before I go?”
“Yes, actually.” She looped a liver-spotted arm around Ray’s elbow and walked him closer to the holding cell area out of Rodger’s earshot before releasing him.
“All right,” he said, “what is it?”
She looked him in the eye. “Just this, Ray. Don’t be an ass. How’s that for homespun?”
He stared at her, speechless.
She shook a finger in his face. “Let me tell you something, Ray Schiller, and you listen good. Chief Newell fought for you. He took everything those BCA agents threw at him yesterday and tossed it back in their faces. He stuck his neck out for you, and you’d damn well better show him a little appreciation.”
“How would you know what he did or didn’t do?”
“See here, honeybunch. I may wear dentures, and I can’t see my hand in front of my face without my glasses, but my ears work just fine…even better when I’m standing right outside the office door.” She shook a finger in his face. “Tell Woody I said that and I’ll deny it. Anyway, I heard what went on in there before you showed up, and I’m telling you, you ought to get down on your knees and thank God that man’s in your corner.” She walked away, talking as she went. “Now go get yourself that cup of coffee and chill out.”
Ray waited a few seconds before following. “Is it fresh?”
Half an hour later, shaking rain off his body like a wet spaniel, Woody ducked into the station from beneath a sky that had turned gun metal gray. “The weather sure turned nasty in a hurry,” he announced to no one in particular. He had a large bag secured under his arm. No one needed to ask what was inside. He looked up and saw Ray. “You’re here. Good. Come into the office.” He closed the door behind them as Ray entered. “You heard, right?”
“Rodgers told me.”
Woody set the bag on his desk and slid it over. “Take a look.”
Ray studied the arm’s skeletal remains. It was a relief to know it had been recovered, but disturbing to see. The first two fingers were missing along with the first joint of the little finger.
“Once forensics confirms these bones are Valerie Davis’s,” Woody said, “the last loose end will be tied up.” He took note of Ray’s grim expression. “It’s a shame about your suspects in the Cities. No one wants to see a case end that way, but what happened was out of your control.” He slipped out of his wet jacket and hung it on an old wooden coat rack in the corner.
Ray watched the dripping rainwater and jerked his chin toward the evidence bag. “You could’ve sent someone else out after that.”
“Who? Irene? We’re stretched to the breaking point. With you sidelined, it was me or no one.”
Ray paused, remembering Irene’s admonition. “Want to put me to work on a desk?”
“As what?” Woody asked. “A paper weight?”
He wasn’t amused.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Woody said. “I thought about that, but you’d go nuts doing nothing but paperwork.”
“Like I’m overjoyed with what I’m doing now?”
“You need to kick back for a while. Relax. Rent yourself some movies. Read a good book or something.”
Ray headed out grumbling, “Maybe I’ll take up knitting.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Well, whatever you do, keep your damn cell phone turned on so I can contact you.”
Pushing his way through a crowd of reporters, Ray got into his car with one thought on his mind: he hadn’t given Waverly the last bottle of scotch on the face of the earth. Furthermore, Alfred Sorenson didn’t own the only liquor store in town. He’d get another at the Northside Liquor Depot. Maybe he’d get a friendlier reception there, too.
Eleven blocks from the station, he came to his senses, drove back to his apartment and called Gail. Her hello sounded strained.
“It’s me,” he said. “Are the vultures circling there, too?”
“Persistence is part of a reporter’s job, but I swear—”
“Gail, I want you to pack up the girls and leave for a while.” He heard a brief hesitation.
“If we do that, people will read all sorts of things into it. They’ll turn it into something nasty and—”
“I don’t care. I want the girls away from here. I should’ve had you leave sooner. I want the three of you out of here until things settle down.”
“The girls have school.”
His tone became adamant. “Get their assignments and books and get them out of here.”
Defeat echoed in Gail’s voice. “If it were just me—” she said.
“But it’s not.”
She agreed to make arrangements and called back twenty minutes later with the details.
Larissa Lafferty, her former college roommate, had jumped at the chance to have her and the girls visit for as long as they liked. She couldn’t wait to show off the new house she and her orthodontist husband had purchased along the Fox River on the west side of Aurora, Illinois.
Gail and the girls were leaving. Ray received the news with relief and a sense of loneliness growing in the pit of his stomach.
45
The days that followed were among the longest of Ray’s life. Waiting for the District Attorney’s filing decision frayed his nerves. His clear conscience didn’t protect him from the sting of accusatory stares, and the time spent lying low in the apartment felt like self-imposed solitary confinement.
Between thoughts of Gail and the girls, Ray wrestled with still-unanswered issues: Valerie Davis’s missing Vicodin, the break-in at the Sumners’ place, and the damn wrench found in Kramer’s barn. They were like an itch he couldn’t reach.
While Ray waited for the DA’s decision, Paul Davis sat in his eighteenth-floor office, anticipating the crowning achievement of his career. Confident, he looked out over the city while the Board of Directors met to cast their votes for ACC’s next president. The stockholders had already made their choice clear. Davis had won their support by a wide margin. Now the Board only needed to second their decision.
Unable to focus on his work, he checked his watch for the fourth time while waiting for word of the final outcome. His mind turned to Dana. “So much ambition for an underachiever,” he muttered. It amused him that it had been Dana who’d evened his score with Nick Vincent.
The arrival of the police at his office following the discovery of their bodies hadn’t troubled him. The questions they asked were a formality. The investigation was about to die an inglorious death.
Turning his attention to a legal pad, Davis read the names he’d doodled on its corner: George Evers, Ed Costales, and John Stanley—his rivals for the presidency. Evers was a good man, but from outside—a strike against him.
John Stanley was reliable and steady, but without genuine vision. With him at the helm, the company would stagnate.
“Ed Costales.” He said the name aloud and found it left a bitter taste in his mouth. It hadn’t been difficult to deduce that he’d been the interloper in his and Valerie’s marriage. Davis gave the bastard credit for his creativity. Had he convinced Valerie to leave him, a divorce would have stripped him of Chet Stockton’s favor in an instant. He drew a vicious line through Costales’s name. “I’ll take you down hard when this is over, you son-of-a-bitch.”
There was a knock on his door. His red-headed executive assistant, a vision in shades of peach, entered looking like she’d stepped off the cover of
Cosmopolitan
.
“What is it, Jillian?”
“Mr. Felton would like you to come to the boardroom.”
Davis stood and straightened his gray pin-striped suit jacket. “It’s about time.”
Stuart Felton, Chairman of the Board, sat alone at the head of the gleaming, mahogany conference table. A tall, lean man in his sixties, he fixed hawk-like eyes on Davis as he strode toward him.
Oil paintings of former ACC executives lined the boardroom’s walls. Davis smiled, passing between them. “Stuart, I didn’t expect to find you here alone.”
Felton indicated the chair to his right. “Please, have a seat.”
Davis made himself comfortable in the buttery-soft leather executive chair, confident, at ease.
“We’ve known each other a lot of years, Paul,” Felton said. “I know you’re not one to beat around the bush, so I’ll come right to the point.” Felton sucked a huge breath into his lungs. “The Board has voted to name John Stanley as ACC’s new president.”
“John?” Davis’s jaw dropped. “I don’t…I can’t be hearing you right.”
“John Stanley’s a good man, Paul. He’s been with the company as long as you. He’s done an outstanding job. We have absolute confidence he’ll continue to excel as company president.”
Paul sprang from his seat. “You’re saying I’ve done
less
well? The stockholders chose me. It’s clear where their confidence lies.”
Felton leaned back. “Nobody is disputing your value to ACC. Your position is in no way jeopardized by our decision. As for the stockholders… Frankly, Paul, a great deal of them aren’t aware of the recent complications in your life. The Board on the other hand—”
“Complications?”
“We have complete confidence in you, but circumstances are such that your attention is understandably divided right now. You’re going through a difficult time. You need the steadying influence of routine, not the upheaval of taking on such a tremendous new responsibility.”
“My well-being’s not your concern.”
“I’m afraid it is. Very much so.” Felton leaned forward. “Chet founded this corporation, and over the course of forty-two years he made it the success it is today. Changes in leadership can shake shareholder confidence, especially proven leadership of that duration. We need the man who’s likely to create the fewest ripples. John is rock-solid. He’s focused and eminently qualified to take over.”
“Stuart…My god. No one’s more focused or qualified than I am.”
“I understand your disappointment, Paul, but—”
“You understand nothing. I’ve been preparing to take this job on for over two decades. It was Chet’s intention that I succeed him.”
Felton’s gaze held fast. “We took that under consideration. Unfortunately, under the circumstances, Chet’s intentions and our sense of what’s best for this company are at odds.”
Paul stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Ultimately, the final decision rests in the hands of the board.”
“But you’re making a mistake.”
“I’m sorry. I really am, Paul, but we’ve considered this from all angles. The decision has been made.”
“Stuart,” Paul insisted, “you’ve got to turn this around.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“You’ve already notified the other candidates?”
“I thought it best to inform you first.”
“Then you could still reconsider,” he insisted, clinging to a last flicker of hope. “There’s still time.”
“I’m truly sorry, Paul, but even if I could do that, I wouldn’t. I believe the best choice has already been made.”
“Stuart, we’re friends. I thought you of all people—”
Felton’s brow furrowed. “It’s because of our friendship that I chose to talk to you privately. The fact is, if you were to take over right now, your link with the unfortunate happenings of late could be detrimental to the company.
“The horrible way Valerie died is still fresh in peoples’ minds. It won’t have been forgotten that you were a suspect, even if only briefly. Luckily, your name wasn’t strongly linked to the deaths of that young man and woman found dead in Mendota Heights recently.” Felton hurried on. “We know you’re innocent of any wrongdoing, but unfortunately, it doesn’t make any difference. The public reads accounts of this sort and makes its own judgment. Or somewhere down the road, the facts get murky, and all that’s left is a mental link of your name with scandal, murder and, ultimately with ACC.”
“And for that I forfeit the presidency?”
“It’s something that can’t be overlooked. We can’t afford to take that chance.”
“This is insane. I’ve worked for the presidency nearly half my life. I’ve earned it.”
Impervious to his rantings, Felton continued with stony calmness. “We plan to issue a press release tomorrow announcing the election results.”
Paul’s eyes filled with rage and loathing. “If that release names John Stanley as ACC’s new president, you’ll have to find yourselves another Manufacturing VP.”
Undaunted, Felton steepled his fingers, tapping them against his thin lips. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I’d like you to reconsider, Paul. John’s appointment isn’t a personal indictment against you. It’s what the Board believes to be a sound business decision. We value your ability and years of dedication to this company.”
Paul’s fist crashed against the table. “Like hell you do.” He glared at Stuart Felton with undisguised hatred, pivoted and strode out of the conference room.
46
Dawn came and went, giving way to the glare of early-morning sunlight as employees began filtering into the ACC building. Stuart Felton and fellow board member, Mitchell Gaynor, hurried to a bank of elevators to the left of the lobby’s reception desk. Beneath his Armani suit, Gaynor’s fire-plug body struggled to keep up with Felton’s long-legged pace.