Shadow Tag (The Ray Schiller Series - Book 2) (17 page)

Jillian looked away and huffed. “It was a lapse of judgment.”

“Regardless,” Ray said, “he must’ve been grateful.”

“Michael would’ve had no reason to think it was me.”

“He must’ve suspected.” Ray stepped back, puzzled. “Why all the hostility? What’s going on with the two of you?”

“That’s between Michael and me, Detective Schiller.”

“Maybe so, but you might want to share with us,” he said,” because, at the moment, you’re both suspects, and it’s starting to look like a coin toss. If there’s anything you can tell us that’ll help clear this up, now would be the time to let us in on it.”

Her body visibly tensed. “I swear I had nothing to do with Mr. Davis’s death, but for you to suggest it was Michael… You can’t be serious.”

The hint of concern eased Ray’s ratcheting distaste for Jillian Wirth, but her next invective counteracted it. “Michael is a loser,” she said. “A waste of time. He couldn’t mastermind wiping the shit off his own ass.”

Coming from her, Ray found the vulgarity singularly repulsive—like seeing a Ming vase being used as a spittoon.

“Ms. Wirth,” Ray said, “he’s suggested someone may have broken in to his apartment, stolen that weapon, and used it to frame him.”

“And you think that would be me? That’s ridiculous.”

“Everything points to the probability that one of you used that revolver to kill Paul Davis.”

“It wasn’t me. But as much as I hate him, I can’t believe Michael did it either.”

Expecting another scathing denunciation of her stepfather, her response surprised Ray. “What if his job was back on the line?” he asked. “Had Davis caught him drinking again?”

“I don’t know, but I suppose it’s possible.” Her eyes glistened with suppressed tears. “Michael started drinking when my mother died. He’s never stopped. At seven, I was taking care of
him
when it should have been the other way around. I left at sixteen, managed to finish school and moved on. I don’t need or want his help now...as if he had any to give.”

“How’d he wind up at ACC?” Waverly asked.

“He showed up there as a security guard sometime in February,” she said, cradling herself. “He insisted it was just a fluke; I’m still not sure I believe that. He’s an embarrassment to me; I didn’t want him in the same state let alone the same company. Anyway, when he realized I was in a position to pull the rug out from under him, he begged me not to interfere with him keeping his job.”

“And you agreed,” Waverly said.

“On two conditions. Michael was to stay away from me and was never to let anyone know we’re related. No one. Not ever.” Her voice cracked. “Now he’s failed me even in that. Did he have to kill Paul Davis, too?”

“Hold it,” Ray said. “A minute ago you claimed he couldn’t wipe his own ass, now suddenly he’s the murderer after all?”

“I’ve reconsidered. Yes, it must have been Michael.”

“That’s interesting,” Waverly said, “because he thinks it was you.”

“Did that bastard actually say that?” She tried to leave her seat, but he put his hand on her shoulder, preventing it.

“No, he didn’t have to,” Ray told her. “Unless it was to protect you, why would he risk putting his own gun in Davis’s hand to make the death look like a suicide?”

“But I had no reason to kill Mr. Davis.”

“Unless the rumors about your personal involvement with him were true.”

“No.” Jillian spat the word at him. “There was nothing going on between us.”

“A lot of people say otherwise.”

“They’re wrong…every last one of them.”

“Why should we believe you? What kind of business requires that you come to ACC in the middle of the night?”

“Other than monkey business,” Waverly added.

“I’d gone back to ACC with him long after normal hours a number of times before—always for strictly work-related reasons.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You don’t understand; it wasn’t like that. Mr. Davis was obsessed with his job. I got ahead in this company because, day or night, I was willing to put my personal life on hold to accommodate his schedule. That plus my job skills got me where I am. I didn’t sleep my way up; I worked like hell for it.”

“So,” Ray said, “when Davis called, you’d come running.”

“I considered it part of my job.” She tossed her head back. Her short, copper-red hair swung beside her jawline. “It’s not like I didn’t benefit from making the sacrifice occasionally. It’s gotten me into the president’s office, and I like being there. As far as money goes, I’ve got no complaints.” She held her head high. “And, frankly, by putting my personal life on hold, I’ve found I like my independence.”

Waverly looked at her from under his thick eyebrows. “That night, how long were you in the building?”

“Only briefly.”

Ray wanted specifics. “What kind of time frame are we talking about here?”

“Ten minutes, no longer.”

“Ten minutes?” Ray was incredulous. “Davis had you come back to the office in the middle of the night for a lousy ten minutes?”

“That’s all it took. I was helping him prepare a report for the next morning. He had to give me additional information.”

“Why not just handle it over the phone?”

“The material was something that needed to be seen.”

“Then why not fax the information to you?”

“I don’t have a fax machine at my apartment.”

Ray sensed that, like a cracked glass, she was weakening by the moment. Davis probably could have scanned the material and emailed an attachment to her computer, but he didn’t bother to bring it up; he’d already heard all he needed. “Ms. Wirth,” he said, “you claim Paul Davis committed suicide.”

“He did.”

“Then tell me this. If he planned to kill himself, why the hell would he be preparing anything for the next day?” She looked as though she’d been physically struck. “Davis didn’t ask you to come in that night, did he? The truth this time.”

Jillian bowed her head in defeat. “So what if I went in on my own? I only did it because I was worried: I’d never seen Mr. Davis as angry as when he left the office that day. I called his home number and cell phone, but he didn’t answer. On the chance that he might not be taking calls, I drove by his house, but it was completely dark. That’s when I decided to look for him at ACC.”

“That’s going well beyond your job description, wouldn’t you say?”

“I was concerned about him, but that’s all there was to it.”

“So you went to the office to check on him.”

“Yes.”

“Sorry,” Ray said. “I don’t buy it. What were you really doing there that night?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I only wanted to make sure Paul was all right.”

Paul
. Ray took note of the inadvertent slip.

Waverly leaned closer. “What got him so fired up in the first place?”

“I don’t know; he wouldn’t tell me.”

“Care to hazard a guess?”

“I had a crazy notion, but I was wrong,” she told them.

“Fill us in,” Waverly said, “just for the heck of it.”

She wrung her hands. “After Mr. Davis met with Stuart Felton that afternoon, I expected him to come back elated with the election results, not in a rage. It crossed my mind that he might have lost, but only because I couldn’t think of another explanation. I worked up my nerve and asked him, but he wouldn’t confirm or deny it. He just stormed out, livid.”

“Then, what makes you so sure you were wrong?”

“The next morning the chairman of the board stopped by looking for Mr. Davis. I knew I was stepping out of line, but I asked Mr. Felton about the election.”

“And?” Ray asked.

“Until the news release was issued, he said he wasn’t at liberty to say, but he gave me a wink as he left and said, ‘Let’s just say I hope you and your boss enjoy your new office.’ So, obviously I’d been wrong.”

“Why would Davis refuse to tell you he’d won?”

“I have no idea. When I located him that night, I thought he might explain, but he only wanted to get rid of me. He sent me away.”

“So he dismissed you like some secretarial pool nobody.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” He saw the hurt in her eyes. “You cared about him. I think you more than cared, and he blew you off. What else happened that night?”

“Nothing.”

“What is it you
wanted
to have happen?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You wanted to be the one he turned to—to be the woman whose shoulder he cried on because you loved him, isn’t that right, Jillian? You can try to deny it, but it’s written all over your face.”

A tear trickled down her cheek. “All right, yes. But if Paul ever suspected how I felt, he never let on. That night I told Paul I loved him, and he pushed me away. He told me to leave—ordered me to get out. He couldn’t wait for me to go.”

“And you couldn’t deal with his rejection,” Waverly said.

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Your stepfather’s gun was lying around unattended. I think you saw it, grabbed it, went back to the boardroom and put a bullet in Davis’s head.” Waverly let that sink in for a second. “After you killed him, you reopened that cut of yours when you jammed the weapon in his hand. As you left, your blood dripped on the floor outside the boardroom.”

She locked eyes with Ray. “That never happened.”

“We’re not convinced.”

20

Ray and Waverly felt it moments after they followed Jillian Wirth from the interview room: something was wrong. A pall seemed to have fallen over the department. Their fellow detectives seemed to be going through the motions in near silence as though they were on automatic pilot.

Ray stopped talking in the middle of a sentence.

“What’s going on?” Waverly asked of nobody in particular. No one answered. “What the hell? Hey, what’s up?” he shouted.

A detective known to Ray only as Berg stepped forward. He laid a hand on Waverly’s shoulder, looked at Ray and, with a jerk of his head, motioned them toward a less populated part of the room.

“Let’s have it,” Waverly said, coming to a stop. “What’s happened? Are we getting a pay cut or something?”

Voice low, Berg said, “It’s Hoerr.”

“What about him?”

“He’s gone. We just got word.”

“What do you mean ‘gone’?” Waverly asked.

Sensing Berg’s meaning, Ray tried to pull his thoughts together. “What happened? A shooting? An accident? What?”

“On 35 under the 494 overpass...the cloverleaf next to Southtown Center in Bloomington…” Berg ran a hand over his bare scalp. “Hoerr drove his car into a bridge support. Witnesses say it was intentional.”

“No, c’mon,” Waverly moaned, “that can’t be.”

“No other vehicles were involved. The guy in the car behind him said Hoerr accelerated as he neared the bridge—swears he steered straight for the support column—brake lights didn’t even flicker.”

“Damn it. God damn it.” Ray’s voice carried throughout the office.

“Yeah, I know,” Berg said, commiserating. “Hoerr should’ve found himself another line of work; he wasn’t cut out for law enforcement. The kid was too soft.”

“Bullshit.” It came from Kruse, a nearby detective with a body like a fireplug. “It’s attitudes like yours that kept Hoerr from getting counseling, you jackass.”

“He should’ve sucked it up—been a man about it.”

“Berg, you stupid fuck, you’re talking out of your ass. He killed a goddamned fifteen-year-old kid. Something like that ever happens to you, we’ll see how well you handle it on your own. I’ve
been to see Morasco. You got some issue with
my
manhood?”

“All right, knock it off, you two,” Waverly said. He turned to Kruse. “When did it happen?”

“About an hour ago, I guess. The Bloomington cops contacted Captain Roth after they found Hoerr’s shield and I.D. Roth filled us in about ten minutes ago. Where were the two of you?”

“Conducting an interview.”

Kruse pointed toward the captain’s office. Roth was sitting stock-still with his back to the door. “He’s been sitting in there like that since he broke the news. I’d steer clear for a while.”

For hours, unable to focus, Ray and Waverly went through the motions like everyone else.

“You hungry?” Waverly asked finally.

Ray checked his watch: 5:43 p.m. He should have been, but wasn’t. He shrugged.

“I was thinking we could stop by that bar and grill place where Johnson hangs out,” Waverly said, “—take a look around, ask some questions, maybe grab a bite to eat while we’re at it. I’ve heard the food’s pretty good. You up for it?”

Hoerr’s death hung over the department like a shroud. He wanted to get out of the station as badly as Waverly did. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Circling the block in search of a parking space near Gilhooley’s, Waverly finally lucked out halfway down a side street. They entered at the side of the building, welcomed by a variety of mouth-watering aromas. The ho-hum exterior of the building left them surprised by the bar and grill’s understated but pleasant decor. The dim lighting required several seconds for their eyes to adjust. Nearby road construction had apparently kept customers at bay; business was slow. A mirror as wide as the bar itself reflected their images as they chose a couple of barstools away from several other patrons.