Dear Crossing by Marjorie Doering Read Free Book Online

the limelight. He’s been telling the reporters everything that was meant to be kept under wraps.”
    “That poor woman.”
    “Yeah.” The single word conveyed his exhaustion.
    “So, how worried should the rest of us be?” Gail’s tone was calm but uneasy.
    “I don’t think the community-at-large is in any danger. Keep your doors and windows locked. The usual precautions.”
    Some part of him wanted to offer his presence on their couch to provide peace of mind until the killer was caught. The other part reminded him that Gail had another man in her life willing to protect…and serve.
    “I’ve got to go. Give the girls a kiss and a hug for me.”
    “I will.”
    Emotions too close to the surface, Ray hung up before his bitterness could make its way through the phone line. Shedding his remaining clothes along the way, he went to the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast. The apartment’s ample water pressure was its only redeeming feature. The torrent pounded against his bruised ribs, forcing him to change his position. He let the water beat against the tight muscles in his neck, shoulders and back.
    He rinsed, dried, put on his briefs and a pair of sweatpants before pouring two fingers of scotch. Glass in hand, he turned on his TV and located a news channel. An exotic, dark-haired female led off the broadcast with the story about Valerie Davis’s brutal death in Widmer, Minnesota. Woody, Neil, Chuck, and other members of the force, including himself, showed up briefly in the film clips against the backdrop of the Davises’ lakeside summer house. Other familiar faces popped in and out of view—Mr. Weidemeyer of Weidemeyer’s Bakery, the high school football coach, Laurie’s third grade teacher. They and dozens of others were all there, getting an eyeful.
    The ‘butcher,’ the ‘baker,’ the ‘candlestick maker.’ Nosy bastards. Ray spotted Mark Haney and tossed back half of his drink. At least Gail wasn’t with him.
    The film switched, showing Valerie Davis being taken away in a body bag. The news teams had done their usual thorough job, sensationalizing the manner of her death while spouting platitudes about the loss to Minneapolis and her adopted Widmer community.
    Woody’s face appeared on the screen as he fielded a few questions from the jostling reporters. A little frazzled, but not bad for a debut performance.
    With typical disregard for the grieving family’s privacy, the station’s unrelenting news crew—one of many—had taped brief statements given by Paul Davis and Chet Stockton in Minneapolis. Ray couldn’t pinpoint the exact location, but the scene was all too familiar. It made his stomach turn.
    Davis, looking strained but in control, asked in vain for the media’s understanding and restraint. Accustomed to the attention of the press, seventy-one-year-old Chet Stockton stood at Davis’s side, his shoulders squared as the throng of reporters thrust microphones in his face. He pled for the public’s help in finding his daughter’s killer. His chin trembled and tears flooded his eyes as he concluded his brief comments. Stockton’s shoulders slumped as Davis wrapped an arm around his father-in-law and led him away.
    Downing the rest of his drink, Ray turned off the set in disgust. Fed, showered, and self-medicated with Dewar’s scotch, Ray hoped for at least a few hours of sleep. He dropped onto his bed and listened to the slow drip, drip, drip of water on Saturday morning’s dishes still in the kitchen sink. The only other sound came in the form of the questions thundering in his head.
    Who’d you call, Davis? What are you trying to hide?

7
    Sunday evening, April 4th
     
    At her stylish Mendota Heights home just south of St. Paul, Dana Danforth watched her third newscast of the day. The Minneapolis Star Tribune , already read and discarded, lay on her glass coffee table since morning. By midday, her wait was finally over. News of Valerie Davis’s murder aired on the local