Twenty minutes later and eight blocks away at the Hennepin County Medical Center, Ray led the way to the nurses’ station outside the ICU. The Waverly-style breakfast was lying in his stomach like an anvil. He showed his ID to the middle-aged nurse behind the desk.
“Good morning, ma’am. A Jane Doe was brought into the E.R. early this morning—a shooting victim.” She looked up at him dull-eyed as though female shooting victims were admitted in droves every night. “Blond. Young. Pretty,” Ray added for clarification.
She brushed a hank of graying brown hair behind her ear. “What about her?”
“We’d like to talk to her,” Waverly said.
“That’s impossible.”
Ray’s stomach clenched. “She’s still alive, right?”
“Yes, but she’s unconscious.”
Based on past personal experience, Ray had no trouble putting two and two together. “She’s been out of surgery for hours already, right?” The nurse lowered her eyes, turning her attention to the paperwork in front of her. “Has she been put in a medically induced coma? Can you tell me that much at least?”
The nurse glanced up and looked left and right down the hallway, then took a deep breath. In a low voice she said, “I’m not allowed to tell you she is.” She waited a long moment and added, “You understand, right?”
Ray smiled at her. “I do. Thanks. We appreciate your help.”
“Yeah,” Waverly said. “Thanks.”
They went to the nearest bank of elevators and entered the first vacant car.
“Well,” Waverly said, punching the down button, “All the information we need is locked in that woman’s head and we can’t get at it. That really sucks.”
“Yeah, but we can’t sit on our hands, waiting for her to come to. We’ve got to identify both victims now.”
“Back to square one,” Waverly said.
Five minutes later they were at the crime scene again. In the hours since the shooting, the telltale blood had turned a dull brown. In the light of day, evidence techs were checking everything over a final time.
Ray pulled an officer aside. “Anything new?”
“Nothing.”
“What about empty shell casings?”
“None we could find. Not yet, anyway,” the cop said. “They’re still looking.”
“We’re playing ‘Pin the Tail on The Donkey’ and we don’t have a donkey or the tail,” Waverly muttered.
“Come on, Dick. We’re going back to the parking lot on Tenth. If that LaCrosse is still there, I say we run the plate.”
Four blocks away, Ray pulled back into the lot behind the comedy club. “Still there,” he said, focused on the Buick LaCrosse.
Waverly checked his watch. “It’s barely after nine on a Saturday morning. The owner’s prob’ly still in bed, sleeping off a hangover.”
Ray gave him a sidelong glance.
“Hey, I’m just saying it’s kind of a ‘pig in a poke,’ buddy.”
“What have we got to lose?”
“All right, why not?” Waverly called in the plate number and waited.
The information came in a matter of minutes.
“Damn, Ray,” Waverly said, jotting it down. “Longshot or not, your hunch might’ve paid off.”
“Something had better.”
5
A fifteen-minute drive brought them to a two-story home along the edge of the Edina Country Club—the residence of Lewis Lundquist, age sixty-one.
“Not too shabby,” Waverly said, ringing the bell. “This joint prob’ly has walk-in closets bigger than my living room.”
Seconds later, the door opened. The woman on the other side of the threshold swept a forearm over her brow. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Lundquist?” Waverly said.
“Not hardly,” she snorted. “I’m the Lundquists’ housekeeper. What do you want?”
Ray showed his badge. “My name is Detective Schiller. My partner Detective Waverly and I would like a word with Mr. Lundquist. Is he home?”
She set both hands on her broad hips. “I haven’t seen him, but in a place this size, that doesn’t always mean anything.”
“What about Mrs. Lundquist?” Ray asked. “Could we speak to her?”
The woman stood rooted in the doorway, shaking her head. “Sorry. Mrs. Lundquist is in bed.”
“I realize it’s pretty early, but it’s important that we speak to one of them.”
A woman’s voice came from within the house. “Who’s at the door, Dolores?”
“Detectives,” she said, still guarding the entrance. “They want to talk to you or Mr. Lundquist.”
“Well, let them in.”
The housekeeper stepped aside without another word and allowed them to pass. Tall and slender, Mrs. Lundquist came down an exquisite curved staircase, looking elegant in a full-length, silk, turquoise robe.
“Marguerite Lundquist,” she said, introducing herself.
“My name is Detective Schiller, Mrs. Lundquist,” Ray said. “This is my partner Detective Waverly. Is your husband here, ma’am?”
“I don’t believe he is, but is there something I can do to help you?”
“Could you tell us where we can find him?” Waverly asked.
Marguerite Lundquist’s faint smile fell away. “Has something happened that involves Lewis?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Ray told her.
Her hand trembled as she raised it to her temple. “Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, let’s go to another room; I’d like to sit down.” She led the way to a stately window-laden living room scented by a large arrangement of lilies, daisies, roses, alstroemeria and carnations. “I apologize for the way I’m dressed, or not dressed as the case may be,” she said, seating herself on an embossed leather wingback chair. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be in my robe at this time of day, but I’m feeling under the weather this morning.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Ray said. “The flu?”
“A headache. Last night’s migraine isn’t quite done with me yet. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
Ray sat down on the edge of the couch, “We’ll try not to keep you long,”
She gave him a gracious smile despite the pain clearly registering in her eyes. “If you’re looking for my husband, I imagine you’ll find him on the course. Lewis has a standing golf date with a few of his friends every Saturday morning.”
“Have you seen him today, Mrs. Lundquist?”
“Actually, I haven’t. When one of these headaches comes on, Lewis generally sleeps in another room to avoid disturbing me. I assume that’s what he did when he got home last night.”
“He went out?” Waverly asked.
“Yes. We planned to have an evening out together, but with this migraine coming on, I talked him into going without me.”
“To the Brave New Workshop Comedy Theatre on Hennepin?” Ray asked.
“Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”
“His car is still parked in the lot behind the comedy club.” Seeing the fear mount in Marguerite Lundquist’s eyes, he added, “He could’ve had too much to drink, or had some kind of engine trouble and decided to take a cab home, but we need to check.”
She managed a small, nervous smile. “I don’t imagine the city is dispatching their detectives to handle parking issues these days. What is this about?”
Dodging her question, Ray asked, “You say you didn’t see your husband after he got back last night or before he left today?”
“No. He’d have slept in the other room, and I was still in bed by the time he’d have left to golf with his friends this morning. Why do you ask?”
“It’s important that we locate him,” Ray said.
“But why?”
“Mrs. Lundquist,” Waverly said, “bear with us. We’d like to make sure we don’t have the cart before the horse before we answer your question.”
“I see.” She put a hand to the side of her head and winced. “Dolores,�
� she called.
A heartbeat later, the housekeeper appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Mrs. Lundquist?”
“Dolores, would you mind calling the pro shop at the club for me? Ask if my husband is on the course this morning.”
“Right away,” she said, disappearing again.
“Detectives,” Marguerite said, “I appreciate that you’re trying not to upset me, but I’m quite good at reading people and your caution is having the opposite effect. What is it you’re trying so hard not to tell me?”
“I’m sorry,” Ray said. “Worrying you is the last thing we want to do.”
“If something is wrong, Detective Schiller, I promise you I’m stronger than you might think.”
“I’m sure you are, but—”
The housekeeper reappeared in the doorway. “Excuse me, Mrs. Lundquist. They haven’t seen Mr. Lundquist at the club this morning.”
“Oh. Th… thank you, Dolores.”
Waverly began to move around the room—a purposeful stroll. “Late last night or early this morning, two people were involved in an incident on Sixth Street not far from the comedy club, Mrs. Lundquist. We’re trying to establish their identities.”
Her hand began to tremble. “What kind of incident?”
“A mugging from the looks of it.” Waverly came to a stop in front of the fireplace and motioned for Ray to join him.
As he walked over and scanned several framed photos on the mantel, Ray’s heart sank.
He held one of the photographs up. “Mrs. Lundquist, is this your husband?”
“Yes, that’s Lewis.” Anxiety flooded her voice.
He set the picture down and stepped closer. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Mrs. Lundquist, but one of the victims was your husband.”
Her breaths came in short bursts as she started to rise. “Lewis was hurt? Where is my husband—which hospital?”
Waverly put his hand on her shoulder, easing her back into the chair. “I’m very sorry, ma’am, he didn’t make it.
Her head fell back against the chair. “Oh, no. Lewis, no.”
“I really am very sorry, ma’am,” Waverly told her. “I’m afraid we’ll need you to identify his body,”
“If it will make it easier for you,” Ray said, “we can arrange to have the medical examiner’s office provide a photo. Rather than doing it in person, you can make your identification that way, if you prefer.”
She raised her head and nodded as tears spilled down her cheeks. “How was he… How was Lewis killed?”
“A single gunshot.” Waverly said. “He didn’t suffer, ma’am. Your husband died instantly.”
She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Long moments later she said, “I talked Lewis into selling his business in Fort Lauderdale so we could move closer to our children and grandchildren. Lewis wanted to wait.” She took the handkerchief Ray offered. “If I hadn’t pushed him into…” Her voice cracked. “How am I going to tell Allen and the girls?”
“Your children?”
She nodded.
“Would you like me to call one of them for you?” Ray asked. “It might help to have someone with you now.”
“Yes, please, would you? Allen is nearest,” she said. “Dolores can give you his number.”
He left the room while Waverly remained behind.
“Fort Lauderdale…” Waverly said. “What kind of business did your husband have?”
“A boat dealership.”
“Alumacraft? Lund?” he asked.
“No. Yachts and offshore sportfishing boats.”
“Ah.”
Delivering the devastating news of a family member’s death was Waverly’s least favorite part of the job. Prodding the grieving family members for information afterward came in a close second.
He worded his next question carefully. “Ma’am, your husband and the other victim were found in the same location. Do you know if he invited someone to join him last night? A last-minute sort of thing. A niece, a family friend—someone to keep him company in your place maybe?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking at him over the edge of the handkerchief. “I’m not thinking very clearly at the moment. The other victim… It was a woman?”
“Yes. Late twenties or early thirties. Attractive. Short blond hair. Good figure. A scar on her throat. Does that sound like anyone you know?”
“No. They were together?”
Waverly answered as tactfully as he could. “They were found near one another in the same area, ma’am.”
“Was she killed, too?”
“No, ma’am. She should be able to clear up a lot of details for us eventually, but it’s going to be awhile before we’re able to question her.”
Returning, Ray said, “Mrs. Lundquist, your son’s on his way.”
Waverly stepped up to Ray and spoke in a hushed tone. “Our Jane Doe’s description doesn’t ring any bells with her.”
“Crap.” Ray approached her and said, “Ma’am, excuse me for being blunt, but if we’re going to find the person responsible for this, we need answers to some difficult questions. Was your husband involved with someone else?”
“Lewis?” She shook her head. “No.”
“You sound very sure of that.”
“Detective Schiller, I don’t know who that woman is, but my husband has never cheated on me.”
Ray took no pleasure in pursuing the line of questioning, but he had no choice. “Maybe involved isn’t the right word. Some men aren’t interested in forming an emotional relationship outside their marriage, but they—”
“You’re asking me if Lewis paid for the service of prostitutes?” Her tone became indignant. “No, not Lewis. He would never engage in that sort of thing.” She buried her face in her hands and doubled over, sobbing. “You don’t live with a man for thirty-eight years without knowing what kind of person he is. Lewis was a good, kind, caring man, and not once did he give me any reason to doubt that he was faithful to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Ray said. “Believe me, I wouldn’t ask these questions if I didn’t have to.”
Her already pale complexion turned a chalky-white. “I’m going to be sick.” She bolted from her chair and rushed from the room.
“I really hate this job sometimes, Dick.”
“I hear ya, buddy.”
“Ma’am?” Ray called out, looking for the housekeeper. He tried again. “Dolores?” He wasn’t surprised when she appeared as if out of nowhere an instant later.
“What is it?” she said.
“How long have you worked for the Lundquists, Mrs….”
“It’s Shadick,” she said. “It’s been about a year—ever since they moved into this place.”
“Then, by now, you know something about the kind of people they are. Do you agree with what Mrs. Lundquist just told me about her husband?” Ray asked.
“I didn’t hear. I wasn’t in the room.”
Ray dipped his chin and looked at her from under his brow. “Mrs. Shadick, let’s not waste time; you heard every word.”
“Now, just hold on. I—”
“I’m not interested in playing games. Was Mr. Lundquist a player?”
“Well,” she said, giving up her pretense of innocence, “God knows I’ve worked in plenty of households where the husbands were dipping their wicks outside of the home.”
“We’re only interested in Mr. Lundquist.” Waverly said.
“All I can tell you is that he never made any moves on me.” She looked from one of them to the other and added, “Don’t go giving each other those funny looks; I’ve been hit on plenty, believe you me.”
“As their housekeeper,” Ray said, “have you ever come across anything that might suggest he was seeing another woman—lipstick on a shirt collar, a suspicious note tucked in a pocket. Maybe you’ve overheard his end of a private phone conversation.”
Dolores shrugged. “Can’t say I have. I suppose he might’ve been fooling around, but that’s hard for me to imagine. The man
was prim and proper. Nice-looking, scads of money, but dull as dishwater.”
That description seemed at odds with a man who had gone to a comedy club the night before, but then, Dolores Shadick didn’t seem highly reliable.
Marguerite Lundquist returned, making her way back to the wingback chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your questioning.” She raised the handkerchief to her eyes as she sat down.
“It’s all right, ma’am,” Ray said. “You’re doing fine.”
“Mrs. Lundquist,” Waverly said, “it might help us locate the person who did this, if we knew what kind of valuables your husband had on him last night—aside from money and credit cards. Did he wear a neck chain or anything like that?”
“Jewelry?” A sad smile flickered to life. “Not Lewis, no. He never wore anything he didn’t consider functional.” Her eyes welled. “The only exception he made was his wedding ring. He never took it off.”
“So, he wore no other jewelry,” Ray said.
Marguerite Lundquist bowed her head, pressing a hand to her temple. “I gave Lewis a Rolex watch on our thirtieth anniversary—a Yachtmaster II. I don’t know if you consider that jewelry. Lewis didn’t.”
“So he’d have been wearing it last night.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Yes. It was the first thing he put on when he got dressed in the morning, and the last thing he took off at night.” Her lip trembled. “It’s missing?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry.”
“It was a silly question.” She crumpled the handkerchief in a fist. “As valuable as the watch was, that may be the reason Lewis was mugged.” Her eyes closed. “If I had any idea it would put his life in danger—” Her head bobbled as though she might faint.
Dolores Shadick stepped closer and patted her shoulder. “You’re talking foolish now, Mrs. Lundquist. Don’t go blaming yourself. Mr. Lundquist could’ve gotten careless and let someone see the wad of money he always carried around.”
Ray saw the color of the widow’s face shift to a sickly hue as she put a hand to her stomach. “I think we’ve covered all we need to, ma’am,” he said in a hurry. “We’ll go now. I’m sure Mrs. Shadick will be glad to stay with you until your son gets here.” He glanced at the housekeeper for confirmation.
Web of Silence: A Ray Schiller Novel (The Ray Schiller Series Book 4) Page 3
