“Him again? That kid’s getting to be a Class A nuisance.” Jessica handed Amy’s jacket to her. “Come on. If I see Ronald Retzinger, I’ll turn the little jerk into a speed bump. Liz, say goodnight to Nicki for us, would you?”
“Sure. I guess it’ll just be Nicki and me again tonight. It’ll be the third time this week.”
“Making a nuisance of herself?” Jessica asked.
“No, no, it’s fine. You two go ahead. Talk to you later.”
For an instant, Amy felt torn between being dropped off at her empty house, or remaining in the company of friends, but staying behind would only delay the inevitable. She buttoned her jacket and followed Jessica to her car.
Turning the key in the ignition, Jessie looked up and down the street. “No sign of that little Retzinger perv. Hey,” she said, pulling away from the curb, “any idea why Nicki’s on the warpath tonight?”
“I’ve got no idea. I thought you’d know.”
“Hell, I’m completely clueless.” She lit a cigarette and grinned a wicked grin. “Whatever it is, I’ll get it straightened out if I have to ram a breadstick up her nose to do it.”
“Uh…that leaves quite a visual image.”
“Relax,” Jessica told her as she pulled up in front of Amy’s house. “I wouldn’t waste a good breadstick like that.”
“Good to hear.” Amy climbed out with a quick “Thanks”.
Amy let herself into the house and turned to wave goodbye as Jessica drove away, but her hand froze in mid-wave as she saw Ronald. At first he was nothing but a dim shadow, but his cocky swagger was unmistakable. The unique way his shoulders rose and fell from side to side in time with each step was unique. He was coming from the direction of Liz’s house as though he’d been waiting for her there.
She quickly lowered her hand lest he think the gesture was intended for him. As Amy began to close the door, she watched through the narrowing gap until he climbed his porch steps. Maybe he’d have the decency to leave her alone the rest of the night—to mind his own business and keep his attention focused on his side of the street.
Through the remaining inch of space between the door and jamb, her gaze drifted to the second floor of his house. A chill that had nothing to do with the falling temperature coursed through her body.
“Oh, dear God.” Fear permeated the whispered words.
As the teenager stepped inside, a silhouetted figure already stood at a second-floor window, watching her from the room she’d always imagined belonged to Ronald.
20
The next morning Ray watched Waverly walk into the department and make a beeline to the office coffee pot, flicking snow off the shoulders of his coat. He lifted the pot to his nose and set it back on the hot plate in disgust.
Ray raised his thermos like an Olympic torch. “Dick.”
Holding a cup out like a divining rod, Waverly joined him. “Buddy, you’re a lifesaver. Another ounce of that toxic crap over there and I’d have to have my stomach pumped.” He inhaled the rich aroma of Gail’s home-brewed coffee as Ray filled his cup to the rim. “Thanks for sharing.”
“You know what they say: Do unto others…”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll do unto you in a second.” Waverly hurried to set the coffee down just in time to sneeze into his elbow. “Crap. Just got this coat back from the cleaner and I already turned it into a petri dish.” He slipped out of his coat and brushed off the last few snowflakes.
“So, it’s snowing out?” Ray asked
“No,” Waverly grumbled, “I’ve got terminal dandruff, Sherlock.”
“Is this a wrong-side-of-the-bed thing you’ve got going on,” Ray asked, “or is it the flu talking?”
“Is that a multiple choice or essay question?” Waverly blew on his coffee and sighed. “Sorry. I traded the flu in for this crappy cold. It really sucks.”
“Great. Another seven to ten days of putting up with this shit,” Ray said, rubbing an eye socket with his fist.
“Sounds like you’re not in the best of moods either,” Waverly said. “Rough night?”
“Not one of my best. I’m still in the doghouse for missing Laurie’s band concert the other night. Gail and I are okay again, but Laurie hasn’t let it go. She knew I wanted to talk to her about it, so she found an excuse to be gone before I got home, then stayed out until after her curfew. I gave her a heartfelt apology and then grounded her for a week. It didn’t go well.”
“Batten down the hatches, buddy. I remember Barb at that age. This is just the beginning.” With a groan, Waverly settled into the chair on the other side of Ray’s desk. “Hey, I went to Larry Benedict’s office yesterday. I spent most of this morning checking out his story.”
“Which is what?”
“He claims he grabbed a cab to St. Paul after being told he was too drunk to board the plane to Jacksonville Wednesday night. He says he stayed with a Nancy Ballard before he caught that early morning flight the next day.”
“You talk to her?”
“Naturally. This Ballard babe’s gotta stand almost a head taller than that shrimp. She’s curvier than a mountain road and just as scenic.”
“So did she back up his story?”
“Yup, but her word could be as phony as her double-D implants. I’d have liked to verify his trip to St. Paul with the cab company, but Benedict can’t or won’t say which one he used. The odds of finding the right company, let alone the right cabbie are as good as zero.”
“You’d stand a better chance of threading a needle blindfolded.”
“You got that right. I asked Benedict about Conley’s quick rise to partner status. He claims he was the right fit at the right time—that he’d planned to put Conley in charge of a new office he was thinking of opening in St. Paul. Benedict’s story seems legit. I tracked down the property owner, and the guy’s pretty pissed off. Says Benedict hemmed and hawed about the location for months. He finally told the guy to write up the paperwork, then called the whole thing off a couple of days later.”
“After Conley was killed.”
“You guessed it. At least his story sounds credible. And for the record, buddy, it surprised me, but Benedict didn’t pussyfoot around about his interest in Amy Conley,” Waverly said, running a handkerchief under his nose. “A denial wouldn’t have gotten him far anyhow. According to Amy Conley’s hot, blond friend, Jessica Hall, Benedict’s been chumming the water. He offered to pay her legal fees.”
“What? Did you ask him about that?”
“Damn right I did. The question got me shown the door, but I’m not done with him yet.”
“What about the shoe prints?” Ray asked. “Any word on those yet?”
“Yeah, I was getting to that. The lab says the prints on that storage bench were made by a pair of Nikes View II walking shoes.”
“Men’s? Women’s? Size?”
“Slow down, would ya?” Waverly lifted the cup to his lips, savoring the coffee. “Anyway, it’s like we thought. Most of the prints were useless. There’s no telling whether they were men’s or women’s because the sole design is identical. Plus, they couldn’t get a good fix on the size from the partial prints we got. They’re a wide width, but that’s about as much as they could tell me. The good news is: it’s not likely they were made by Amy Conley. Her feet are so narrow it’s a wonder she doesn’t wobble when she walks.”
“That’s something at least,” Ray said. “I wish like hell you had enough to get a warrant to search through Benedict’s shoe wardrobe.”
“Yeah, that’s makes two of us.” Waverly downed the last of his coffee and held the cup out toward Ray. “I’ll trade ya my best piece of news for a refill.”
Ray tipped the thermos over Waverly’s cup, but the stream became a drizzle halfway up the side. “Looks like I’m going to need the partner’s discount.”
“You got it.” Waverly blew on the coffee and said, “The lab found a couple of hairs on Amy Conley’s robe.” He took a sip, adding, “They weren’t hers.”
“You got DNA results back already?”
“Dream on. Wouldn’t do any good anyhow. The hairs are synthetic—from a wig—a cheap one at that.” Waverly flipped his notepad open. “Some fiber called Toyokalon. Costs less than the better crap, but the color and texture aren’t as good. You ever see Amy Conley wear a wig, buddy?”
“A wig? No. What the hell is going on?” He massaged his temples as he thought about it. “Dick, give me a second. Let me run something by you.”
“Go ahead. At this point, I’m willing to listen to anything.”
“Good, but cut me a little slack; I’m going to be winging this.”
“Have at it, buddy.”
Ray stood and paced. “Gail said something the other night that got me thinking. It was about the timing of Conley’s call to Bartlett. The odds of the shooting getting recorded on Bartlett’s answering machine were astronomical. Now there’s this wig thing. Putting the two things together, a whole new picture is taking shape. What if the recording wasn’t just a major fluke? What if it was way more than that?”
“Keep going,” Waverly said. “My decongestant is short circuiting my gray cells. Spell it out for me, Ray.”
“All right, here’s what I’m thinking. What if the killer didn’t give a damn one way or the other about Hugh Conley? What if the murder wasn’t even about him?”
“I feel a case of whiplash coming on.”
“Okay, yeah, it means doing a one-eighty here, but I think Amy’s could be the one at the center of the bullseye. There was so much evidence it was overkill. That’s bothered me from the start. Whoever did this practically moved heaven and earth to make sure she would take the fall for the murder. The fake hair has me convinced.”
“Run that by me again.” Waverly tapped his head. “Decongestant, remember?”
“All right, think about this. Amy’s not stupid. If she wanted her husband dead, she could’ve shot him as he came through the door that night. He was supposed to be flying to Jacksonville. All she’d have had to do is claim she thought he was an intruder. It’s simple and believable.”
“I get what you’re saying, Ray, but it’s not foolproof. We still would’ve traced that email that brought him home straight back to her computer.”
“Maybe so, but it sure beats drugging herself and trying to make it look like she was framed. That’s straight-up crazy.”
“I can’t argue with you there,” Waverly said, “but I’m not sure where you’re going with Conley’s phone call to Bartlett.”
“I’m coming to that.” Ray continued to pace. “Don’t automatically dismiss what I’m going to say; think it through first, all right?”
“Go for it.”
“The killer took the time to unscrew the light bulbs in two critical locations, but when the shots were fired, he was standing in front of the bedroom window. The trajectory proves that, right?”
“Right.”
“To me that suggests the shooter wanted to be seen, but not identified. I think that’s where the wig comes in. The killer may have wanted to create the illusion that he was Amy—a dark silhouette wearing her robe and a wig to look like her hair. Think about it. If you walked into your bedroom and saw the same thing some dark night, wouldn’t you assume it was Phyllis?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“Sure you would,” Ray said, “even if only briefly.”
“But why bother to create that illusion at all?” Waverly said. “Conley was as good as dead the minute he set foot in that bedroom.”
“That’s where the phone call comes in. It’s about setting Amy up.” Ray could see Waverly wasn’t totally in sync yet. “Okay, listen. I don’t think Conley placed that call to Bartlett; I think the killer did it.”
“Using Conley’s phone?”
Ray cocked his head. “Didn’t you say Amy told you he’d lost it?”
“Well, yeah, she did.”
“Okay,” Ray said. “The phone could’ve been stolen, not lost. A customer, a co-worker, a friend tossing a few down with him at a bar—any number of people could’ve taken it, then used it that night to help tie the noose around Amy’s neck.”
Instead of the “eureka” moment Ray expected from him, Waverly blew his nose.
“You get it, right?” Ray asked. “The killer created an off-scene witness. As Conley came up the stairs, or maybe down the hall, the perp initiated the call to Bartlett. The answering machine kicked in about the time Conley realized what was about to happen to him. He called out Amy’s name, misidentifying her as the shooter, and the killer had all he needed. Game over.”
“An ‘ear-witness’.” Waverly’s eyes did a half-roll. “Where are you getting this from? What if Bartlett had answered the phone in person?”
“I doubt that was even a concern. Whether Bartlett heard the shooting as it happened or later on, it wouldn’t have made any difference except for how long it took him to make the 9-1-1 call. All that mattered was that he heard Conley identify Amy as his killer. The whole thing getting recorded on an answering machine was just the frosting on the cake.”
He stopped pacing. “Look, Dick, some people oppose the death penalty because they think execution is an easy ‘out’. Maybe this killer shares that opinion. I think this creep wants Amy to suffer, not just die. Can you think of a better way than to put her behind bars for the rest of her life?”
“What you’re saying sounds reasonable, but hell, Ray, that stunt could’ve backfired big time. What if Conley didn’t fall for the phony get-up? If he’d been able to identify the person in that outfit and called out the right name, the perp would’ve been royally screwed. Why would he risk that?”
“Because he’d tipped the odds in his favor. It was a ballsy move, but it paid off.”
Waverly paled. “Oh shit.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Something just occurred to me. I’ve listened to that answering machine message more than a few times, and something bugged me about it. I couldn’t put my finger on it until now. Damn. I should’ve picked up on it right away.”
“I haven’t heard it,” Ray said. “You’re going to have to fill me in.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure: Conley realized what was about to happen to him; you could hear it in his voice. He was in a panic, buddy. He was shouting at her—or the person he thought was her. Shouting, Ray. That’s what I should’ve caught. His voice should’ve been louder. It was clear—distinct but—”
“Distant?” Ray said, finishing the thought for him.
“Yeah,” Waverly said. “I’ll have to listen to it again, but I think you might’ve just nailed it. Conley might not have been the one holding the phone. When I saw it lying next to his body, I just figured he’d located it again. What you just suggested never dawned on me.”
“It didn’t occur to me either until a few minutes ago.” Ray said. “Whoever murdered Hugh Conley is smart and awfully damn creative.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Waverly said. “But let’s not assume we’ve got a lock on this, though. First, I’d like to have the lab guys do some sound checks—see if they can determine the approximate distance between Conley and his cell phone at the time of the shooting.” Waverly got to his feet, looking sicker than he had before. “For the record, buddy, I’m glad you insisted on sticking your nose into this case.”
“It’s still yours, Dick. I’m only a Monday morning quarterback.”
“The way things are going, you’re in the running for MVP, and that’s okay with me. I’ve been knocking myself out trying to make some headway, but even the background check I did on Amy Conley gave me nothing, and I went back pretty damn far. If she made an enemy somewhere along the way, I have no idea who it would be.” Waverly hauled out his ever-present notepad and flipped several pages in. “Small-town girl born and raised in Glencoe, Minnesota. Graduate of Glencoe-Silver Lake High School. Moved to Widmer. Yada, yada. ITT Technical Institute at Eden Prairie—”
�
�Hold it,” Ray said. “When was that—the ITT thing?”
Waverly ran an index finger down the page. “A few years back. She enrolled in the Associate Degree Program. Information Technology. You know, computer stuff.”
“Good for her. I didn’t know about that.”
“She didn’t finish,” Waverly added. “Quit six months in. That was probably about the time ‘Mr. Wonderful’ came along. Must’ve swept her off her feet and right out of the classroom.”
“Too bad.”
“Anyway, everything I found says she’s your typical girl next door. Nothing on her record but a couple of speeding tickets and an illegal U-turn. If someone’s out to get her, I’d better find out who and why in a damn big hurry.”
“Larry Benedict and the Retzingers are still on the roster, aren’t they?” Ray asked.
“Absolutely. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about them.” Waverly popped a cherry-flavored lozenge into his mouth. “Guess I’ll start with Benedict. If he and Amy Conley weren’t accomplices, maybe he pulled it off on his own.”
“That’s a definite possibility,” Ray agreed.
“And I’m starting to think Curt Retzinger is a little ‘out there’.”
“His kid, too,” Ray said. “Nothing’s more melodramatic than a rejected, hormonal teenager.”
“Hey, any chance you have anything to share about Amy Conley, buddy—anything I don’t already have in my notes?”
Ray thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “Her father died when she was young, and her mother passed away about five years ago. Some kind of cancer, I think. No brothers, sisters or other family members to speak of on either side. You’ve probably got that information already. Sorry. That’s all I’ve got. If I knew more I’d tell you.”
“One thing I know for sure, buddy… If your theory’s right about what’s going on, Amy Conley’s got one hell of a pissed-off enemy.”
“No doubt about it,” Ray agreed. “And anyone that pissed off isn’t going to quit until they’ve accomplished what they set out to do.”
Targeted: A Ray Schiller Novel (The Ray Schiller Series Book 3) Page 13
