Authors: Marjorie Doering
“Stuart,” he said, his breath coming in short puffs, “maybe we should discuss this.”
“There’s nothing to discuss, Mitch.” Felton hurried into a vacant elevator with Gaynor several steps behind. “I’ve been trying to reach Paul since I heard about John,” Felton said, “but I haven’t been able to locate him. I’ve notified the rest of the board. Costales and Evers, too, of course.”
Visibly agitated, Gaynor wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Poor John…The timing…” he said, watching the floor numbers blink by.
“We should be grateful he had the heart attack before rather than after we issued a press release about his election.”
“Yes, of course, but replacing him with Paul…?” Gaynor dabbed his brow again. “You know the concerns. Maybe Costales would be preferable to—”
“I agree, but the board made its decision: John Stanley, Paul Davis,
then
Ed Costales. By a narrow margin or not, Paul’s next in line.”
“But, Stuart—”
“You’re arguing a moot point, Mitch.” They stepped out as the elevator doors whisked open on the eighteenth floor. Felton checked his watch. “The others should be here anytime. Once we locate Paul and he confirms his acceptance, we can get on with drafting the press release.” He straightened his tie. “I’ll see if he’s come in. You go ahead. I’ll meet you in the boardroom.”
Davis’s executive assistant informed Felton she hadn’t seen him since he’d left the day before. He hurried to join his fellow board member inside the boardroom. Gaynor was waiting for him, his forehead beaded with perspiration, his eyes large with fright as he looked toward the far end of the massive conference table where Felton’s high-backed, leather chair stood turned away from them. He pointed and uttered one word. “Paul.”
Stuart Felton approached the head of the table. As he reached the chair his steps faltered. “My God. Oh, dear God.”
That evening, Waverly’s name popped up on Ray’s caller ID. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” Ray said.
“Then you heard?”
“About Davis? Hell, yeah. It’s been in the papers and on every newscast since noon. The reporters swarmed out of Widmer like a bunch of cockroaches first thing this morning. I knew something big was up.”
“Sorry I couldn’t get back to you right away. I’ve been tied up with the case.”
“
You’re
on it?”
“Found myself in ACC’s neck of the woods when the call came in,” Waverly said.
“Davis killing himself…” Ray said. “What is that…some kind of joke? I don’t believe it.”
“Well, he sure as hell is dead. He was found in the boardroom, a gun in his hand, a bullet wound to his left temple, blood, bone fragments, hair and tissue sprayed across a corner of the table. Not pretty.”
“Never is,” Ray said. “You buying it as a suicide?”
“Looks right. Feels wrong. Too soon to commit.”
47
The DA’s decision and public opinion still hovered over Ray’s head like a black cloud, but with the reporters chasing the story of Paul Davis’s alleged suicide in Minneapolis, Ray didn’t oppose Gail’s plan to return home with the girls the following day.
Planning on spending some quality time with his daughters at his apartment, he laid in a supply of frozen pizzas, Neapolitan ice cream, and a few board games. Gail had issued a standing invitation to visit them at home, but he wouldn’t subject the girls to the strain between himself and Gail. Pretending things were fine would be pointless; Laurie and Krista had built-in bullshit detectors.
As he was shoving a quart of ice cream into the only ice-free corner of the refrigerator freezer, he answered a call on his cell phone.
“Chief Newell wants you at the station,” Irene said. “ASAP.”
“What’s going on?”
“He’ll tell you when you get here.” Ten minutes later, Ray hurried into Woody’s office.
“What’s happened?”
His face grim, Woody handed him an opened envelope. The return address indicated it came from the DA’s office. “Take a look for yourself.”
Fighting to keep his hands steady, Ray pulled out the letter that, one way or another, would shape his future.
As he finished reading, Woody handed Ray’s duty weapon to him. “Glad to have you back.”
Ray smiled and shook Woody’s hand. “Thanks,” he said, “I mean it. Thank you.” He turned his attention to the letter again as he touched the healing wound near his temple. “Nails?”
“Yeah,” Woody said. “A ten-pound box of nails put that gash in your head,” Woody said. “They found your blood, tissue and hair on one corner. It’s no wonder you went down. All of the information is right there. Everything’s consistent with what you and Chuck Wilke said in your statements.”
“And Haney had been drinking.”
“Not just drinking—legally drunk. Look at the blood alcohol level there: point one, three. They found an open bottle of Johnny Walker on a shelf next to Haney’s inventory list. Must’ve been drinking while he worked.” Woody crossed his arms. “Answer one thing for me, though, Ray. What the hell was going through your head, staring Haney down from outside the café? People saw that. Do you have any idea how bad it looked?”
Ray lowered his eyes. “I have no excuse. It was stupid.”
“That’s putting it mildly. If the Henningfield kid and his girlfriend hadn’t been making out in that alley when Haney came back from The Copper Kettle, you’d have had a hell of a time proving you didn’t tail him there—that you didn’t know it was him in the basement. Their being able to vouch for you was a damn lucky break.”
“I needed one.”
Woody took the letter from Ray’s hands. “This is my copy. The mail gets to this side of town faster. You should be getting yours later this afternoon. I figured, being good news, you’d rather get it sooner than later.”
“I appreciate that.”
Woody opened the office door and signaled Irene and Rodgers inside. Rodgers hobbled in on his crutches. Irene followed, carrying a cupcake on a paper plate. Ray laughed at the lit, white taper candle jammed into its ruined center.
Irene held it up in front of him. “I swiped the cupcake from Glen’s lunch. Welcome back, Ray.”
He blew out the candle. “Thanks.”
“The others are out on calls,” Rodgers told him. “But they’ll be damn glad to hear the news.”
“Not as glad as I am, but thank you.”
“The timing’s good,” Woody said. “The story will make the front page of the Widmer Weekly tomorrow. The whole blessed town will see it.” He circled the desk and took his seat. “Okay, enough celebrating. Let’s get some work done around here.”
Irene and Rodgers headed out.
Woody stopped Ray. “Hold up, a second. New game plan. I’ve had Wilke covering the night shift. I’m keeping it that way for the time being. You’re back on days starting now. I’ll get a decent schedule worked out once the new man starts.”
“New man?”
“The town council finally okayed a new hire. I’m waiting for approval on another.”
“When does the first one start?”
“Next week. I’ll fill everybody in later. In the meantime, get back to work. You can still log some time in ‘til the end of the shift.”
“I’ll get into uniform.”
“Good. Go.”
Ray didn’t move.
“Something else?” Woody asked.
“I just want to say thanks…for sticking by me.”
A hint of surprise bled through Woody’s expression. He acknowledged Ray’s statement with a nod. “Okay, now get going. I’ve got work to do, too.”
Ray got into his car and called Gail with the news. Relief flooded her voice. Following the good news with the bad, he explained he couldn’t be there to greet them when she and the girls got home. Not right away. It couldn’t be helped.
On his way to his apartment to change into his uniform, Ray pulled up in front of Rittman’s West Side Pharmacy. Whether the Valerie Davis case was over or not, he hated loose ends. She’d had Vicodin in her system, but no Vicodin on hand. It might be nothing, but one way or the other, he wanted to be sure. If she filled a prescription in town, Rittman’s was likely to be the place she’d have gone. Known for its old-fashioned soda fountain, the drugstore also had a nice gift department. And, while he was there, picking up a little something for Laurie and Krista might help make up for their disappointment over his delay.
Inside, a couple glanced in his direction, whispering as he searched the gift aisles. He couldn’t make out the words, but he had no doubt they were talking about him.
It’ll be in tomorrow’s paper.
He kept repeating it in his head as he chose a mirrored music box for ten-year-old Laurie and, for seven-year-old Krista, a life-like kitten whose battery-operated sides rose and fell as it lay napping.
A slender, gray-haired woman in gold wire-rim glasses stepped up to check Ray’s items. “Will that be all, Officer Schiller?”
“Can you recommend something for a good night’s sleep?” he asked. “Something non-prescription.”
She grabbed a sleep aid off a shelf behind her and slid it across the counter. “I’ve heard good things about this one.”
“I’ll give it a try.” Ray pulled out his wallet. “I’ve got a question about Vicodin.”
Her face contorted. “Oh, that’s definitely not for sleep issues.”
“I know. I’m interested in knowing if it’s prescribed for migraines. Could I speak with a pharmacist?”
“I can answer that for you. My niece uses Vicodin for those. Terrible things migraines. Just awful.”
It opened the door to another question. Ray checked the name tag pinned to the front of her periwinkle-blue blouse. “Mrs. Bergstrom, was Valerie Davis a customer here?”
“That poor woman,” she moaned. “What a horrible, horrible tragedy, dying that way.”
“Yes,” he said. “Was she a customer?”
“She stopped in occasionally when she came to town. She liked our ice cream floats.”
“But did she fill her prescriptions here?”
“No.” The woman stopped to think for a moment. “Well, except for that Friday before she was killed.”
Ray’s stomach knotted. “She filled a prescription here that day?”
“She had to have her doctor in Minneapolis approve the prescription over the phone. She said she hadn’t needed it for so long that she’d let the prescription lapse.”
“Was it for Vicodin?” he asked, already certain he knew the answer. “For a migraine?”
Her head bobbed. “The poor thing felt one coming on. She said she could always tell—sometimes well in advance.”
Ray wished he could give a Neil Lloyd a high-five.
The clerk looked left, right and behind. “I probably shouldn’t have given you that information,” she said, “but the privacy laws can’t be of any concern to her now.”
A chunky, redheaded woman stepped past him to the computer station on the other side of the counter. He watched her shove a stack of small, white papers aside. His found his attention divided between the clerk and the woman at the computer as she blundered her way from screen to screen.
“Mrs.Bergstrom, did Mrs. Davis discuss anything else with you that day? Did she mention if she was expecting anyone over the weekend? Maybe a friend, an associate, anyone?”
“No. I remember her saying she planned to work on a decorating project. One of the bathrooms, I think. She was disappointed that the headache would mean putting it off. She’d just picked up a couple gallons of paint at Sheehan’s Interiors.”
“Paint.” His last breath lodged in his chest. “Any chance you know what colors she bought?”
At the computer, the woman turned her chair 180 degrees. “Mrs. Bergstrom, excuse me. I can’t find the right program. It keeps bringing up customer files.”
“New employee,” Mrs. Bergstrom said, lowering her voice. “Her kids are grown. She’s trying to get back into the workforce. Doesn’t know a thing about computers.” She rolled her eyes. “Almost makes me wish Katie was back. Excuse me. This won’t take a minute.”
The clerk leaned over the woman’s shoulder, jockeying the mouse around the pad, tapping keys and explaining. She apologized as she returned. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem,” he said. “This Katie you mentioned. That wouldn’t be Katie Springfield, would it?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Did she have access to that computer?”
“All the gift department employees use it to manage inventory records.”
“And prescription records are kept in the computer files?”
“Well…yes, they are.”
He pointed at the stack of small, white squares of paper beside the computer. “Prescription slips?”
“The filled orders. We keep them there so the pharmacy staff can record them when they find time.”
Teeth gritted, Ray asked, “How long has Katie Springfield worked here?”
The woman’s brow creased. “She worked for about two months, then just stopped coming in.”
“She quit?”
“Presumably. Young people these days don’t seem to have much staying power.”
“Mrs. Bergstrom, what about Michael Sumner? Did he—”
The woman stopped him. “I’ll repeat what I already told Officer Cooper when he asked. Mr. Sumner never filled a prescription here. Whichever of her husband’s medications Lydia Sumner reported missing, they didn’t come from here,” she said. “Maybe he’d just run out.”
Ray could see her mind working and decided to wait.
She knuckled the bifocals higher up her nose, “Actually, I’d be surprised if that was the case with Mr. Sumner, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“Every time he came in, he’d stop at the soda fountain for an egg cream to wash down one pill or another—sometimes several. I think he always had his pillbox with him. He seemed very conscientious about his meds.”
“Then anyone in the store might’ve been aware that Michael Sumner took a lot of prescription drugs—Katie Springfield, yourself, anybody.”
“I suppose so. Most of us take our breaks at the soda fountain.”
“Katie, too?”
“Yes. In fact, the last time Mr. Sumner was here, I remember the store manager going to the soda fountain to tell her to get back to work. Ten minutes after her break had ended, she was still there chatting with Mr. Sumner.”
It was a small detail, a fragile thread of information, but many threads could make up a sturdy rope on which he could hang the case. Ray picked up his bag and turned toward the door. “Thanks.”