Targeted: A Ray Schiller Novel (The Ray Schiller Series Book 3)

by Marjorie Doering

  “Here,” Waverly said, handing the contents over one item at a time to Logan. Beneath the third layer, the face of a handsome young man stared up at Waverly from a five-by-seven-inch picture frame. Too soon to speculate on his identity, Waverly set the picture aside on the bed with the rest.

  Still crouched over the trunk, Waverly removed a folded, floral sheet and felt his heartbeat quicken. “Well, look at this,” he said. “It looks like we might have a treasure chest here after all.”

  41

  The next morning, light crept through threadbare, faded curtains hanging in a seedy motel room outside St. Cloud, Minnesota. The room provided the bare necessities with little, if any, eye appeal or sanitation. Chances were better than even that the bed sheets hadn’t been changed in days, which had necessitated using the room’s single easy chair for sleeping.

  The motel had one saving grace. As expected, the proprietor hadn’t batted an eye at the fake driver’s license presented to him at check-in the night before. Disguising her penmanship was probably an unnecessary precaution, but the name on the signature line took on an uncustomary backward slant. It read: Beth Rasmussen. It had a nice ring to it.

  Leaving the grimy room straightaway was tempting, but something else needed doing first. While getting caught was a possibility—even a probability—it wasn’t inevitable. A disguise would be a reasonable precaution. Nothing elaborate just something to skew descriptions given by witnesses, and there were bound to be a number of those. It was unavoidable.

  Fifteen minutes later, the bed was missing one of its pillows. It was nearly flat from years of use, but fastened over her chest and stomach with a belt, it created the illusion of a bulkier figure. A favorite knit cap with a large visor solved two problems at once: every last strand of hair could be tucked out of sight making the color and length impossible to see, and the visor would conceal facial features from shoppers and surveillance cameras alike. The oversized sunglasses stored in the car’s center console would hide much of the rest.

  The failed attempt on Amy’s life at the Schillers’ forced one of those sudden change-in-plans situations that had become routine. No matter. Whether the tasks were completed in order or not, the “doing” was all that counted.

  Amy Conley hadn’t been forgotten. She would be dealt with soon.

  Very soon.

  And that meddling Detective Schiller, too.

  42

  Ray wasn’t sure if it was the sudden influx of Old Spice in the room that caught his attention or the rapid movement caught from the corner of his eye as Waverly hurried toward his desk. As he got there, he stripped off his coat and dropped into a chair.

  “We hit pay dirt, buddy.”

  “You’re talking about Dunham’s place?”

  “Abso-frickin-lutely. I’m waiting for word on a couple of things, but I’m feeling mighty damn good. Everything’s starting to come together.”

  “Are you going to let me in on it?”

  “Damn right I am, but you’d better hold onto your skivvies, buddy, because what I found nearly knocked my socks off. Get this. We found a locked trunk in one of Dunham’s spare bedrooms. Might as well have had a big red bow tied on it; it was like Christmas morning. After we got the lock opened, we found the Nikes. I’m pretty damn sure they’re the ones we’ve been looking for. The lab’s comparing the soles to the prints lifted off Amy Conley’s storage bench right now. I’m waiting to hear back on that. We didn’t find the gun, but I might’ve found something even better.”

  “Like what?” Ray sat up straighter, his anticipation multiplying exponentially.

  “Dunham’s motive,” Waverly said. “I had to get another warrant to cover what we found, but it was worth it. There were five Glencoe-Silver Lake High School yearbooks. I had to go through them to piece things together, but it all fits.”

  “What did you find?”

  “I expected to see a lot of scribbled notes like “Have a great summer” and all the usual crap kids write in those things, but I found something better. Wait’ll you hear.”

  “I’ve been waiting,” Ray said.

  “Well, I thumbed through each yearbook. Five of them. Four were no big deal, but the fifth one paid off big time. I got to the photos of the Juniors and found a picture of a Christine Wald. It was circled and crossed out. The pen marks were deep, like whoever made them was plenty angry at the time. I had to locate another picture of her to get a decent look at her face. Pretty girl.”

  “So who’s Christine Wald?”

  “Actually, the question is who was Christine Wald,” Waverly said. “Turns out she was murdered a couple of years ago. Shot. Still an active case.”

  “Keep going. I’m hanging on by my fingernails.”

  “I’m getting there, Ray. In the seniors’ section of the same yearbook, right there, nice as you please, is a picture of Amy Conley—Dexter then, of course. And guess what. Just like the Wald girl, her picture’s ringed with deep, dark circles, except her face isn’t crossed out. Does that suggest anything to you?”

  Ray nodded. “My guess is that Dunham doesn’t obliterate the image until she’s obliterated her victim.”

  “Yeah, we’re on the same wavelength, all right. If we’re right, we’ve got a problem, buddy, ’cause I found one more picture circled just like the other two.”

  “Are you serious?” Ray asked.

  “Afraid so. The name under the third picture is Megan Kruse. From the article I found, it’s Megan Amborn now.”

  “What article? You’re losing me, Dick.”

  “All right, let me back up.” Waverly resituated himself in the chair, mustache twitching. “Christine Wald, Amy Conley, and Megan Kruse all had their pictures singled out. I think the three of them were connected somehow to another student by the name of Brad Cole. Good-looking kid. A boyfriend/girlfriend connection, I’m guessing. He was in the yearbook, too, but inside the trunk there was a nice, framed photo of him.

  “Now, here’s where things get real interesting, Ray. When I talked with Amy the other day, this Brad Cole’s name came up. Sounded like he had it bad for her their senior year, even for a while after that, but she insisted that focusing on him would be a waste of time. The guy wouldn’t hurt a fly, she told me—salt of the earth—that sort of thing. I planned to check him out anyway, but hadn’t gotten a chance yet.”

  “You’re thinking Brad Cole could be Hugh Conley’s killer?” Ray asked.

  “Not a chance in hell. Brad Cole’s dead—has been for two and a half years. A photocopy of his death certificate was stuck in the yearbook next to his class picture. Suicide it says. Gunshot wound to the head. The death certificate listed his mother’s name as Beverly Cole. That threw me for a second, but considering what she’s been up to, it’s likely Beverly created a new identity for herself as Elizabeth Dunham.”

  Waverly loosened the knot in his tie and opened his collar button. “As for her son, Brad, I dug around looking for more information on him after I left Elliot Park. No criminal record. Not so much as a traffic ticket. Could be he was as nice as Amy Conley made him out to be. It looks like the only person he ever hurt was himself.”

  “All right,” Ray said. “What about that third picture—the one of Megan what’s-her-name?”

  “Kruse,” Waverly said. “Amborn now. That’s according to a newspaper article that was cut out and tucked between the pages. The information is all local, hometown-type stuff. You know, local Glencoe girl makes good. Graduate of Glencoe-Silver Lake High School… Daughter of… Married to… Yada yada. The gist of the thing was about Amborn opening a store at Crossroads Center in St. Cloud—a place called Scentsibles. Sounds like the store carries perfumes, potpourri, scented candles, bath oils, and what-not. If it smells, she sells it.”

  “But Megan Amborn is alive, right?” Ray asked, sounding hopeful.

  “Yeah, and kicking,” Waverly said. “Seems like she could be another target, so I contacted her by phone this morning to give her a heads-up about
Dunham.”

  Ray started pacing back and forth along a measly, four-foot path. “Did she tell you anything that could help?”

  “She remembered Brad Cole. They dated for a while. ‘Briefly’ was the term she used. The way she tells it, their dates kept getting postponed or cancelled because good old mom always needed her son to go someplace or do something with her or for her. Seems if Cole wasn’t checking in with her every two minutes, she was calling to find out what he was up to. You get the picture.”

  “An ‘apron string’ problem,” Ray said.

  “You got it. Same thing Amy Conley told me. According to Amborn, she and Christine Wald compared notes back then and shared the same complaints. Sounds to me like Liz Dunham kept her son’s balls in a Dixie Cup. ”

  “Sounds right.” Ray stopped pacing. “Three girls… Each of them dated her son. Dunham must’ve made Wald, Amborn, and Amy her scapegoats. It had to be a lot easier blaming those girls for her son’s suicide than placing any responsibility for his death on herself.”

  “Could be,” Waverly agreed. “When I called to warn Amborn about Dunham, I had to give her a description. It turns out she never met ‘mommy dearest’.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Ray said. “The Cole kid probably did his best to keep his mother and their dysfunctional relationship under wraps.”

  “I contacted the St. Cloud police,” Waverly said. “They’re gonna stay on top of this.” He flinched. “Hang on a second,” he said, digging in his pocket. “My phone’s vibrating.”

  He stepped away and returned a minute later. “Pinch me, buddy; I’ve gotta be dreaming. The shoes match the prints we found on the storage bench. Wanna hear something even better? The bullet taken out of Christine Wald two years ago matches the ones we got out of your wall. If we can find the gun, we’ve got her, buddy.”

  “Great. Now we just have to find Dunham.”

  43

  Thinking back, killing Christine Wald had been almost too easy. Locating her had presented no challenge whatsoever. Born and raised in Glencoe, Minnesota, she and several generations of her family were still entrenched there eight years after she’d graduated from Glencoe-Silver Lake High School.

  Christine, looking as demure as ever, had even attended Brad’s funeral. Not much about her had changed except for the addition of an engagement ring—a nice piece of jewelry, but ultimately a pointless expense for her fiancé considering she’d never make it to the altar.

  What irony that, before exacting her revenge on Christine, it had been necessary to introduce herself. The fatal shot ended the episode much too quickly—an observation owed to 20/20 hindsight. There’d been no chance to savor Christine’s fear. No time to relish her panic. It was over much too soon. The investment of time alone deserved a more satisfying conclusion.

  Being the first of three intended paybacks, there was bound to be a learning curve. It was at that point it was decided Amy’s punishment would have to meet a higher standard. It had taken time to track Amy down—time to establish a friendly connection, no matter how personally distasteful the ruse had been. It involved a great deal of time, and tremendous resolve, not to mention a prolonged and convincing performance.

  The reward came in the form of Hugh’s trip to Jacksonville. Seeing Amy sentenced to life in prison for his murder would have been ideal. The planning, the timing had all been meticulous, but Ray Schiller had meddled and spoiled everything. Now Amy’s punishment would fall far short of what had been planned for her.

  Surviving the fall down her steps could be blamed on bad luck, but the failed attempt on Amy’s life in Eden Prairie lay squarely on Ray Schiller…again. One way or the other, he’d be made to pay for his interference. He and Amy would both be dealt with soon.

  Sooner than either of them expected.

  For now, though, it was time to focus on Megan Kruse-Amborn. A two-year daily on-line visit to The McLeod County Chronicle finally succeeded in locating her when other avenues had failed. The article lauding Amborn’s entrepreneurial enterprise at the Crossroads Center in St. Cloud pinpointed her location as effectively as a GPS system.

  Now it was time to take action.

  Eight minutes after leaving the seedy motel, the car sat curbside less than a block from Amborn’s residence. The plan didn’t involve a confrontation on Amborn’s doorstep, but tracking her prey to the kill-site was appealing.

  Sooner than expected, a door of the two-car garage opened and a silver Equinox backed out. Megan, at the wheel, showed no awareness of the vehicle mirroring her turns at a safe distance.

  She pulled up in front of a residential home with a slide and swings taking up a corner of the yard.

  Even before the trim brunette got out and hurried to the passenger’s side of her vehicle, it was clear she was making a daycare stop. Megan lifted one child out and set her down to attend to the second. The first, who looked to be about four, stood patiently, dark curls blowing across her angelic face as she waited for her mother. The younger one, dressed in pink, appeared to be no more than two. Amborn held the smaller child in her arms as she closed the vehicle’s door and took the other by the hand. The plump, middle-aged woman at the door took charge as Amborn hugged her daughters, gave each a kiss, then rushed back to her Equinox.

  On West Division Street, the vehicle pulled into the Crossroads Center and was parked outside JCPenney. Just as before, Amborn was followed at a safe distance as she walked directly to her store. A subtle hint of citrus and floral scents issued from the interior as Megan entered, stripping off her tweed jacket.

  It was a relief to find that the view inside the store could be maintained from numerous locations by way of the business’s display windows. Eventually, the aromas coming from the food court would beckon not only mall customers, but hungry store clerks and owners as well. Provided Megan took time out for a coffee break or a quick lunch, the off-the-cuff plan stood a good chance of succeeding.

  It was only a matter of time, and waiting was already second nature.

  44

  In Minneapolis, Ray and Waverly ran into each other in the first precinct’s parking lot. Urgency radiated from Waverly like a palpable force.

  “Glad I bumped into you, Ray. I’m on my way to St. Cloud. Just got a call a Lieutenant Baldridge over there. Megan Amborn’s in the hospital.”

  “What the hell? Tell me it’s appendicitis or something.”

  “You want a fairy tale, check out the Grimm brothers.” Hands in his pockets, Waverly held his open coat close to his body. “Baldridge talked to the woman who called 9-1-1. She said that about an hour after Amborn got back from lunch at the food court, she started acting kinda strange. Amborn was getting more and more uncoordinated. By the time the ambulance got there, she was puking her guts out.”

  “Dunham you think?”

  “I don’t know how she’d have pulled it off, but if she’s involved, I’m damn well gonna find out. The St. Cloud cops are collecting the mall surveillance tapes for me.”

  “How the hell is Dunham still slipping under the radar?” Ray said. “It’s like she’s invisible or something.”

  “I know. Hell, we can’t even find her damned car. It’s gonna get tougher for her to keep it up, though. I’m having her picture broadcast on the news today as a person of interest in Christine Wald’s murder.”

  “You ought to get a good response with that,” Ray said.

  “It could have us chasing our tails, though, and that’s the last thing I need right now.”

  “All it takes is one good lead.”

  Waverly turned and walked to his car. “Yeah. I’ll keep a good thought.”

  Ray struggled to stay focused on his own cases while waiting for word from Waverly. None came until evening. The doorbell rang as he and Gail were sitting side-by-side on the loveseat after supper. Ray opened the door and found Waverly waiting on the porch.

  “Hey, come on in, Dick.”

  Gail hurried over and gave him a hug. “It’s great t
o see you. Let me have your coat.” She draped it over her arm and motioned him to his favorite leather chair. “What brings you out this way?”

  “I overshot Minneapolis on my way home from St. Cloud,” he said.

  Gail chuckled. “Have you had supper? We just finished. I’d be glad to heat up some fried chicken for you.”

  “Thanks. You have no idea how tempting that is, Gail, but I only stopped by to talk to Ray for a minute. Besides, Phyllis is probably holding supper for me.” A smile upturned the ends of his mustache. “Prob’ly a turkey burger minus the bun, and cling peaches in sugar-free syrup over a yummy lettuce leaf for dessert. I sure don’t wanna spoil my appetite for that. Mmm, mmm, mmm.”

  “Can I get a cup of coffee for you while the two of you talk?”

  “Yes. Bless you.”

  She went to the kitchen as Waverly leaned closer to Ray and said, “Ethylene glycol, buddy.”

  “Are you serious? Antifreeze?”

  “Yeah. That’s what they found in Megan Amborn’s system.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “It looks like she’s gonna be okay—no damage to her kidneys or other organs. I talked to her husband at the hospital. He’s the one who told the doctors to check for some kind of poison.”

  “I take it Amborn told him about your phone call this morning.”

  “Yeah. Good thing she did, too. If he hadn’t put two and two together, it would’ve taken longer to diagnose the problem.”

  Gail brought two cups of coffee and left them to talk business.

  “The surveillance tapes…” Ray said, wrapping his hands around his cup. “Was it Dunham?”

  “I couldn’t swear to it in court. The cameras were either too far away or the film was too damned grainy to make a positive ID, but I’d bet next month’s salary it was her. Even if the quality had been better, it would’ve been hard to tell. She had her hair tucked into a cap with a big ass visor, and the sunglasses she was wearing covered half her face. She made sure to keep her head down, too. Smart.”