Shadow Tag (The Ray Schiller Series - Book 2) (24 page)

“Thanks. I barely got a chance to know him, but he seemed like a good guy. I’ve seen it happen before. It’s never easy, but I’m dealing with it.”

Morasco leaned back in his seat. “Ray, how long have you been a detective?”

“Let me check my watch.”

“I see. As a police officer then—how long?”

Ray did a quick calculation in his head. “About fifteen years.”

“That’s quite a while. Have you sought professional help before?”

“I’ve always done okay on my own.”

“So what’s happened to change that?” Easing against the back of his chair, he watched Ray subconsciously twisting his wedding band.

Ray looked at him blankly.

“All right. Tell me something. How’s your appetite? Have you been eating?”

“Now and then.”

“Uh-huh. What about sleep?”

“On occasion.”

Morasco nodded almost imperceptibly. “How long has that been going on?”

“A while.” Ray paused and took a deep breath. “It’s gotten worse lately.” He waited for the inevitable question, but it didn’t come. The psychologist continued to look at him, letting the silence stretch like a tightrope between them. “My wife and I separated recently,” Ray said finally. He realized he’d just fallen for a technique he occasionally employed himself during interrogations; Morasco had waited him out.

Damned effective.

Hours later, Ray and Waverly drove toward ACC.

Waverly turned his head toward the passenger’s seat. “Ray…” he said for the third time.

“Hmmm?”

“You okay? Your brain’s been out to lunch since you got back from the shrink’s office.”

“Keep your eyes on the road; I’m fine.”

Waverly drove another block before he couldn’t stand it anymore. “You gonna tell me how it went with Morasco?”

“It went okay. He’s all right.”

“Going back?”

“Maybe.” With a sigh, Ray leaned his head against the headrest. In the brief silence, he engaged in a mental rerun of his session. To his surprise, Morasco’s insights had already begun shedding light on some of his personal issues. It wouldn’t be easy or painless, he knew, but he’d been making a mess of things on his own.

He flipped his sun visor up for a better view as the ACC building came into sight. “Let’s hope we find our missing murder weapon in Ed Costales’s office. At least we know he keeps a gun there, thanks to Betty Shipman.”

“For crying out loud, buddy, you practically pulled that woman’s name out of a hat. We have no idea how reliable she is.”

“There’s no reason for her to lie. And she quit her job, so office politics don’t come into play. Anyway, it’s a starting point, or would you rather work your way up from the first floor?”

“Wiseass,” Waverly grumbled. “Wherever it came from, the murder weapon’s prob’ly not even in the building anymore.” He pulled into the ACC lot and parked. “It’s just as likely the shooter dumped it in a storm drain or something.”

Ray unbuckled his seatbelt. “Let’s go find out.”

A minute later, Ms. Kitwell watched as they walked directly to a vacant elevator without so much as a ‘by your leave’. As they took the elevator to the eighteenth floor, Waverly focused on the blinking floor numbers. “I think we oughta stop by a few other offices before we take Costales on, buddy.”

“What for? We already discussed this. If Wirth acted in the heat of passion and it’s common knowledge Costales keeps a gun in his office, that’s probably the first place she’d have gone looking for a weapon…assuming it was her. And we’ve got a warrant.”

“I don’t want to rely on the warrant right off. I’d rather see if Costales cooperates on his own. That might tell us something right there. Besides, if we make a beeline straight to his office, he’ll scream harassment.”

“Let him.”

Waverly tugged his pants up by the belt. “Look, I took a heap of shit from Roth while you were gone. If Costales decides to phone in a complaint to the captain, are you gonna field this one?”

The elevator doors slid open. Waverly stepped out without waiting for his answer and walked to the first office along the way. He stopped and turned to Ray. “We’re gonna do this one my way, buddy.”

Working their way down the hall, they found Delgado was no more help than Cameron. Flustered but obliging, Klein informed them he hadn’t held a weapon since his stint in the Army. At Ed Costales’s former office, they walked through the door marked: ROBERT A. FURMAN, VICE-PRESIDENT, MARKETING.

Denise Freeport looked up from her work as they entered. “May I help you?”

Ray showed his shield. “We’d like to see Mr. Furman, please.”

“Mr. Furman’s in a meeting.” Looking Ray up and down, she slipped a long strand of black hair behind her ear. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Maybe. We’d like to know if Mr. Furman owns a handgun—one he keeps here.”

“Mr. Furman? A gun?” She laughed. “I doubt he’d even know what to do with one.” She looked at Ray, her eyes gleaming. “I shouldn’t laugh, but just picturing that strikes me as funny.” A sly smile crossed her face. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Mr. Davis’s murder, would it?”

Ray cocked his head.

“Problem?” she asked.

“No, but everyone else around here insists on calling it a suicide.”

“They’ve got their heads buried in the sand,” Freeport said. “Paul Davis thought too highly of himself to put a bullet in his head. I don’t see that happening…not for a minute.”

Waverly smoothed his mustache. “You have something more solid to base your opinion on?”

“It’s just a strong hunch, but tell me something. When it comes to a questionable death, isn’t a victim’s significant other high on your suspect list?”

“Usually, but Paul Davis’s wife died before he did.”

“Everybody knows that,” Freeport told Waverly. “I’m referring to his…uh, ‘office’ wife.”

“It’s plain you’ve got something to say,” he said. “Wanna spit it out?”

“Well, I don’t like telling tales out of school, but everyone around here knows Paul Davis and Jillian Wirth were doing it. Ask around. That would make her a pretty significant
other
, wouldn’t you say?” Freeport arched an eyebrow. “And Jillian has access to the building, even after hours…like on the night Paul Davis was killed.”

“And her motive?” Ray asked.

Freeport laughed. “At some point, I’ve had the urge to kill every man I’ve had a long-term relationship with. Who hasn’t? Maybe they had a lovers’ quarrel, and Jillian let the impulse get out of hand.”

“Tell us about Ed Costales,” Ray said.

“Care to be more specific?”

“All right. With Paul Davis out of the way, he became company president. How badly did he want the job?”

Freeport looked back and forth between Ray and Waverly, her smile broadening. “If you’re asking me if he’d have killed Paul Davis to get it, I’m guessing he would.”

“We’ve heard he keeps a gun in his office.”

“You heard right.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that fires bullets.” Playing suggestively with her pen, she leaned forward, giving Ray a better view of her cleavage. “Sorry I can’t be more precise, but I’m not up on the subject.”

Ray forced his gaze back to her face. “On the night of the shooting, Costales claims he was in his office, writing a letter of resignation. Can you confirm that?”

“Really?” she said. “A letter of resignation? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“You didn’t see a rough draft? Anything at all?”

“Not a thing. Why? Is it important?”

“Ms. Freeport, how long did you work for Ed Costales?” Waverly asked.

“Five years.”

“Isn’t it normal procedure for a secretary to move up with her boss when he’s promoted—sort of a team thing?”

Her expression turned hard. “Normally, yes, but it didn’t work out that way in this case. I got left in Jillian’s dust after Chet Stockton died and Paul Davis became interim president. I should’ve gotten the job when Ed Costales took over, but she’d already received the training. Anything else I can do for you?” Her tone said the subject was closed.

“Not at the moment,” Ray said. “We’ll let you get back to work, Ms. Freeport. Thanks.”

As they stepped into the hallway again, Waverly rolled his eyes. “Man. That babe’s about as subtle as a bazooka. Hell, I was waiting for her to slip you her phone number.”

“Nothing subtle about her agenda either. The Shipman woman nailed it,” Ray said. “Freeport’s pissed. She wanted Wirth’s job—still does—maybe Costales, too. If she can’t have either, she’s ready and willing to settle the score with one or both of them.”

“Well,” Waverly said, “she’s doing her damndest, I’ll say that for her.” He stopped Ray outside of Costales’s office. “Hold up a second, buddy. Maybe you oughta let me talk to him alone.”

“You’re putting me on, right?”

“You two are oil and water; you don’t mix. I just think it might be smoother sailing if I talk to him by myself for a few minutes with you out of the wheelhouse.”

Ray cringed. “Tell you what, Dick. I give you my word I’ll handle Costales with kid gloves if you’ll just stop using those weird analogies.

“What weird analogies?”

They stepped into the outer office and found Jillian Wirth seated at her desk.

“Hello, Ms. Wirth,” Waverly said. “Is your boss in?”

Jillian responded by pressing a button on the intercom. “Detectives Schiller and Waverly are here to see you, Mr. Costales.”

There was no response over the speaker, but a moment later, the office door opened.

Costales stood glaring at Ray as he motioned them inside and returned to his desk. “Another social call?”

Waverly offered a smile. “Actually, we’re here to ask for your cooperation.”

“As I recall, that usually precedes a verbal beating.”

Waverly ignored the remark and moved on. “It’s our understanding that you…and other executives,” he added quickly, “keep a gun in your office. Would you mind showing it to us?”

Costales narrowed his eyes. “What for?”

“We’re looking for the weapon used to murder Paul Davis.”

“You’re still hanging onto that ridiculous murder theory? And what does my weapon have to do with it? The gun was in his hand.”

“
A
gun,” Ray said, “not
the
gun.”

“What?”

“The bullet that killed him came from a 9mm, not the revolver we found on him.”

“So you’re accusing
me
again?” He stood, hands fisted at his side. “Damn it. Paul was alive when I left here that night. You’re crazy if you—”

“It’s not you we’re interested in,” Ray assured him, “only your weapon.”

Costales sputtered to a stop. “I don’t get it. If I’m not under suspicion, why the interest in my gun?”

“It’s possible someone else may have used it to kill him.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“We aren’t here for laughs,” Waverly said. “You told us you were in your office that night, writing a letter of resignation. Was the gun in your desk then?”

“Yes, right where I always keep it.”

“You’re sure?” Ray asked.

“Positive. I saw it when I took paper out of the drawer to write the letter.”

“What you were doing here seems to be in question,” Ray said. “We’ve been told there was no evidence of your having written a letter of any kind that night.”

“Denise.” Costales’s face reddened. “She told you that, right? That bitch. There was a draft of the letter on my desk when I left; she must have seen it. There were even a couple of discarded drafts crumpled in the wastebasket.”

“Our only real interest right now is in the gun,” Waverly told him. “Would you mind showing it to us, please?”

Costales opened the right hand drawer. His eyes widened. “It’s not here. Just a second.”

He opened another. “Where the hell…?” He breathed easier on the third try. “Here it is.” He reached for it.

Ray stopped him, slipped a pencil through the trigger guard, and lifted it out. “Glock. Nine millimeter, semi-automatic,” he said to Waverly. “It fits the bill.”

“Do we have your permission to take it for a ballistics test?” Waverly asked.

Costales didn’t answer.

“Again, we’re only interested in the gun,” Ray assured him, “not you.”

“Go ahead then, take it. Just for the record, though, Denise is lying through her teeth.”

Ray couldn’t help himself. “I don’t think she likes you. Imagine that.”

30

With Ed Costales’s gun turned over to the forensics lab, Ray and Waverly turned their attention to Mitchell Gaynor, anxious to find out what, if anything, he’d found in the ACC boardroom…besides Davis’s body. Following the weekend getaway with his wife and son, it stood to reason he’d be back in his office. At Dura-Tech, however, his secretary informed them Gaynor had already missed a scheduled meeting and two appointments. He hadn’t called in, and she hadn’t been able to reach him at his home or on his cell phone—uncharacteristic for the man she described as unfailingly reliable.