Dead of Winter

by P J Parrish

  Louis leaned his head back against the sofa, shutting his eyes. When he looked back at her, she was staring at the fire.

  He rose and walked slowly to the kitchen. He set the mug down and stood there, hands braced on the counter, staring down into the sink.

  “It’s late,” she said. “I’d better go.”

  He turned to face her. She was standing by the door. She slipped on her running shoes, kneeling to lace them up. Louis came over to the door and reached for his jacket.

  “I’ll drive you,” he said.

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “I want to.”

  They said nothing as they trudged out through the snow to the Mustang, half-buried in a drift. Louis wanted to say something, anything to fill the chill void that had formed between them. He wanted this to move forward somehow. Despite what she had said. Despite what he was.

  The Mustang started after several tries. “It’s an old car,” Louis said. “I never know what will happen. Sorry, there’s no heat.”

  She nodded vigorously. “Take 44 north,” she said. “I’ll tell you when to turn.”

  She said nothing after that. Louis made a few weak comments about the snow, the cold, the lake. But she remained silent. Finally, she directed him to turn onto a small side road and stop at the bottom of a hill.

  “It’s steep. Your car won’t make it up. I’ll walk from here,” she said quickly.

  She opened the door. Louis grabbed her left hand.

  “I want to see you again,” he said.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?” he pressed.

  In the dim glow of the car’s overhead light, he could see something anxious cloud her face.

  “I don’t know you,” she said. “And you don’t know me.”

  “Okay, but I want to.” His hand tightened on hers.

  She shook her head slowly.

  “Let’s just try it,” Louis said.

  She looked down at his hand. He felt her arm tense as she tried to pull away. He let go.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “Zoe — ”

  She got out of the car, started to close the door then stopped. She looked away, up the hill into the dark woods and then back at Louis.

  “Do you run?” she asked.

  “I used to in college. Cross-country.”

  “What did you think about?”

  Louis had only thought about winning the race but he knew that wasn’t what she meant. “Everything.”

  She nodded slowly. “I’ll think about it tomorrow. When I run.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Louis pulled the scarf up over his face against the blinding wind. Somewhere in the darkness ahead, he could make out the glow of the station house sign and breathed an icy sigh of relief. It was only a one mile walk from his cabin to the station, but Jesus, what a long damn mile.

  He forged ahead, hurrying the last steps. Inside, he fell back against the glass. The warm air filled his lungs, sending a violent shiver through him.

  Florence, the day-shift dispatcher, looked up from the desk. “Louis, are you all right?”

  He nodded and slowly unwrapped his scarf. He could feel the ice melting off his eyebrows. For a moment he just stood, afraid his bones would snap if he moved.

  “Did you walk to work?” Florence asked.

  He nodded again and moved stiffly to the fireplace, pulling off his hardened leather gloves. “Car wouldn’t start.”

  Florence went to the coffee urn. “For heaven’s sake, why didn’t you call someone?”

  Louis watched her as she poured a cup of coffee. She was in her sixties, a frizz of white hair topping a willow-thin body. She looked like a Q-tip, a skinny negative to Edna’s rotund positive.

  “No phone yet,” Louis said. He unzipped the jacket and let it drop off his arms.

  Florence pressed a mug of coffee into his hands and held her bands over his for several seconds. She smelled like peppermint and her wrinkled hands were warm. “Next time, you radio in and Dale will give you a jump.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Louis sipped the coffee, closing his eyes as the warmth trickled through him. He was pouring a second cup when Dale came through the front door, offering a cheerful “good morning.” When Dale returned from the locker room, Louis was waiting at the grating of the evidence room.

  “What are you doing here so early?” Dale asked.

  “Couldn’t sleep. I need the Pryce file cabinet.”

  Dale snapped the keys off his belt. “Sign the log and note the time.”

  Louis went to the counter, flipped open the ledger and signed in.

  “You want me to bring it out?” Dale asked.

  “Grab me that stool. I’ll just stay in here.”

  Dale slid a rolling stool over to him and Louis wheeled it into the small room. The ceiling-high plywood shelves towered over him, sagging with age and the weight of decades of boxed and bagged evidence. Everything was sealed with orange tape and dated with wrappers’ initials. On one shelf were confiscated weapons: broken guns, knives, power tools. Louis stood up to turn on the light. His eye caught a Ziploc bag with a pair of women’s panties inside. The tag read CUNNINGHAM RAPE, 69-23119.

  Louis sat down and pulled open the top drawer of the file cabinet from Stephanie Pryce. He wanted one more look before they sent it back to Flint. He sifted through the folders, pulling out one that said RECEIPTS. It was crammed with bills for gas, dry cleaning, a new holster, boots and other job-related expenses. Pryce must have been saving these for his taxes.

  As Louis slipped it back in its place, he noticed another file wedged inside of it. He pulled it out; it was labeled RÉSUMÉ and he knew immediately that he had missed it last night. Inside were a dozen crisp copies of Pryce’s résumé, clippings of employment ads and a few letters. A familiar letterhead caught his eye: The City of Detroit. He pulled out the letter, addressed to Pryce at his home. Due to budget cuts, the city is not adding additional officers at this time...

  Louis smiled wanly. So Pryce had been trying to make it to the big time, too. He thumbed through the other letters, his smile fading. There were at least a dozen letters of inquiry and almost as many rejections, the oldest dating back to February 1982. Pryce had joined the Loon Lake force in 1981. If this file was any indication he sure grew bored here quickly.

  But that made no sense. Stephanie Pryce said they were happy in Loon Lake. Maybe Pryce didn’t tell her he was looking for another job. Who knew what went on between husbands and wives?

  Louis set the résumé file aside and continued on through the rest. Forty-five minutes later, in the second drawer, he came across a well-worn yellow legal pad that he also hadn’t noticed last night. The top binding was filled with doodles like the ones on the desk blotter. He went quickly through the pages: more doodles amid Pryce’s small, hard-to-read handwriting. A few numbers but nothing that registered.

  Slowing down now, he flipped to the last page of the pad, looking for anything relevant to Pryce’s last days. He kept going, reading each page, until he got to the top again. It was dated from last summer. It contained brief notes about the burglary of a tourist cabin Jesse had mentioned.

  Louis tossed the pad on the floor in disgust. Shit. Nothing...absolutely nothing.

  He stared at the open drawer of the cabinet, and he kicked it closed. His eyes fell on the legal pad, lying face-down on the floor. Doodles, more damn doodles. The whole back of the pad was one giant paisley doodle that fanned out in elaborate concentric circles. In the center was one number — 61829.

  Louis wheeled the stool to the room entrance. “Hey, Dale, come here a sec.”

  Dale looked up from his computer and came over.

  Louis held out the pad. “Look at this number. Any thoughts?”

  “Too short for a social or phone,” Dale offered.

  Louis stared at the number. It was probably nothing but then again maybe Pryce had drawn this elaborate des
ign around it on purpose, like Jesse giving emphasis to his signature with a double underline.

  But cops didn’t routinely record notes on bulky legal pads; they wrote important stuff in their pocket notebooks. Pryce’s was still missing. He had asked Gibralter about it but the chief said he had never seen it.

  Louis gathered up the legal pad, the résumé file and a few papers he had set aside to be copied. The rest, he was sure now, was useless and he could send it back to Stephanie Pryce. Standing up to stretch, he switched off the light and closed the gate behind him.

  “You lock it?” Dale called out.

  Louis snapped the padlock closed. “Done.”

  Going to the desk, he put the materials in his drawer and glanced at the clock. It was past seven. His research time was almost up for this morning. He knew he could work late tonight, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He wanted to be home in case Zoe jogged by.

  He went to the locker room to change into uniform. Normally, he preferred dressing at home but with the weather as cold as it was and his car on the fritz he couldn’t risk appearing at briefing less than crisp and spit-shined. Yesterday, Gibralter had blasted one guy for having mud on his shoes. Ten inches of snow and Gibralter was worried about mud.

  There was a clean uniform hanging in the locker, one of the three he’d received his first day. He wondered when he’d get more. Surely, they would give him more than three. Shit, he probably had to buy them.

  “Good morning,” Jesse said from behind him.

  “Morning, Jess.”

  “You’re here early.”

  “I wanted one more crack at the file cabinet.”

  “Find anything new?”

  “Résumés and letters. Pryce was looking for another job.”

  Jesse didn’t look up. “Not surprised. Sometimes I think he felt we weren’t good enough for him.”

  Louis let the comment go. “I was also going over the case file. There’s a statement I’d like to follow up on, a Moe Cohick, lived behind Pryce. He saw a man running.”

  “He saw a shadow, that’s all,” Jesse said. “Couldn’t give us any description.”

  “Well, sometimes people remember things later. I’d still like to talk to him. Can you go after shift?”

  “Yeah. Remind me to call Julie though. Tonight is taco night and she gets pissed if I’m late.”

  Jesse pulled off his white T-shirt and opened his locker. “Motherfucker. He didn’t bring them.”

  “Bring what?”

  “Pop’s Cleaners. They were supposed to drop off my uniforms.” Jesse looked at his watch. “Chief is going to rip me apart if I’m not in a clean uniform.”

  Louis turned to say something but his eyes were drawn to Jesse’s bare, brawny back. Across the shoulders and down the spine were faded little scars, like small whip or knife marks.

  The door suddenly opened and an old bald man with a fuzzy goatee rushed in, a dozen or so plastic-wrapped uniforms over his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Jesse. Snowed in this morning.”

  Jesse took five of the hangers from him. “Damn it, Pop, you know it’s tough to work the streets bare-ass naked.”

  “Cold, too.”

  Jesse pulled out his wallet. “How much?”

  “Forty.”

  “You greedy old bastard.” Jesse slapped the money in the old man’s palm.

  “You keep talking to me like this and one day I’m going to keep the shit you leave in your pockets.”

  Jesse sighed. “How much this time?”

  Pop held out a handful of wrinkled bills. “What? You think I count it?”

  “I know you fucking count it.”

  “Five ones and twelve cents.”

  Jesse took it from him, paused then stuffed the bills in the old man’s shirt pocket. “Can’t believe I keep tipping you.”

  “Can’t believe I keep thanking you.” Pop grinned. He folded the remaining uniforms over his arm and nodded toward Louis.

  “New customer?”

  “Louis, this is Pop,” Jesse said. “He picks up and delivers. Usually, he’s on time.”

  Louis shook his hand. “How do I get in on the pickup?”

  “Just leave ‘em on that table in your bag every Monday. I come back on Wednesday.”

  “Sure thing. Thanks.”

  Pop leaned over to Jesse. “Same size as Pryce, isn’t he?”

  “Man,” Louis moaned.

  “Reminds me,” Pop said. “I still got three of his. I’ll bring ‘em to you. And they’ll be on the house.”

  Jesse passed the park and turned left on Fourth Street. It was only five, but in response to the winter dusk, the streetlights were already on. Louis craned to look up at the modern poles. They cast the street in harsh, Martian-landscape light. Forget the quaint old lamps that lined Main Street. Even in a burg like Loon Lake property owners wanted the brightest, newest lights to protect their homes.

  Jesse swung the cruiser into Moe Cohick’s drive. Like Pryce’s house, it was the last one on the block. To the south was a sturdy twelve-foot wooden fence, which marked the boundary of a small lumberyard beyond. To the north were more homes, each yard partitioned by chain-link fences.

  Moe came out on his porch. He was a round little man, with red cheeks and wispy white hairs sprouting from a bald head. He was wearing a brightly striped turtleneck sweater that made him look like a Russian stacking doll. He was eating a bearclaw.

  “Evening, Officers. What brings you about?”

  Jesse didn’t offer his name and Louis assumed he and Moe knew each other. Louis introduced himself. “We wanted to ask you about the man you saw running the night Officer Pryce was killed,” he said.

  “Sure, but I don’t know what else I can tell you.” Moe popped the last of the bearclaw into his mouth.

  “Can you show us where you saw him?”

  Moe nodded and led them around his garage to the backyard. A long-snouted dog leapt at them from the neighbors’ yard, barking furiously. Moe stopped in the center of his backyard. He pointed to the back of the Pryce house then moved his finger along the chain-link fence north, toward the end of the block.

  “He was going that way.”

  Louis opened his notebook, where he had jotted what little description Moe gave the first time. “You said he was big?”

  “Well, now, I think I said bigger than me.”

  Moe was so short Louis could see a birthmark on his scalp. “Can you be more specific, Mr. Cohick?”

  “How tall are you?” Moe asked.

  “Six-foot.”

  “Not as big as you. But he could’ve been bent over, like hunkering down.”

  Jesse let out an annoyed sigh. The dog behind them was still barking. Moe picked up a snowball and threw it at the dog. “Shut up, you mangy mutt!”

  The snowball splattered against the fence, seeming to make the dog angrier. It was growing hoarse.

  “Where were you standing?” Louis asked.

  “At my kitchen window.”

  “You’re up at three-fifteen in the morning?” Louis asked.

  “I own the bakery on Main. I have to be in by four.” Moe patted his belly. “I make the best stuff in the county. Always fresh.”

  “We ain’t here to talk about your damn donuts, Cohick,” Jesse said. Louis glanced at Jesse. He guessed Jesse had gotten an earful from Julie about being late.

  Another bark drifted to Louis. This one was high-pitched, almost shrill. Louis peered over Cohick’s head to the house catty-corner. An agitated terrier was straining against its chain, yapping back at the long-snouted dog behind them.

  “Mr. Cohick, what direction did the man come from?” Louis asked.

  “Well, now, I believe he came around that way and headed that way. Toward Pine, where the park starts.”

  Louis trudged through the snow to the back fence. He squinted in the fading light at the tall wooden fence of the lumberyard; there was no way a man could scale that. He looked the other way, down the long e
xpanse of chain-link fence that separated all the yards. He could see the pines of the park at the end of the block and in between he counted six backyards that the killer could have cut through on his escape. He was assuming the killer had stayed in the back, under the cover of darkness, making his way across the yards to Pine Street. It was only a guess, but it made sense. A shotgun made a big noise; the neighbor had called it in almost immediately. The killer needed to stay hidden as long as possible. He couldn’t take a chance of being spotted in the glare of those streetlights out front.

  Louis went back to Moe and Jesse.

  “Jess, did you talk to everyone on this block?”

  “Everyone. Moe’s the only one who saw anything, such as it is.”

  “Hey, at least I saw something,” Moe protested.

  “Thanks, Mr. Cohick, sorry to bother you,” Louis said.

  “No problem.”

  They started back toward the house. The long-snouted dog behind the fence came alive again as they neared, provoking the terrier into action as well.

  Jesus, how did these people sleep? Louis stopped and turned. “Mr. Cohick, were the dogs barking that night?”

  Cohick rubbed his bald head. “Well, now, come to think of it, they were.”

  “Damn it, I asked you if you heard anything, Cohick, and you said no,” Jesse said.

  “You asked me if I heard anything unusual,” Cohick said. “Dogs barking their asses off at three in the morning ain’t unusual around here!”

  “Watch your mouth, doughboy,” Jesse snapped.

  Louis stepped up. “Mr. Cohick, how many dogs are there on this block?”

  “Let’s see...” He began to count on his hands.

  Jesse cut in. “I can tell you how many. The Smiths, the Jessups, and what’s his name...Haskins. They all got dogs. We’re out here all the time giving them leash-law citations.”

  “Pryce didn’t have a dog?” Louis asked.

  “No.”

  “Show me where these people live.”

  Jesse pointed out the houses. It was every other one and no two butted up against each other. To avoid the dogs, the killer would have been forced to hop the fences diagonally. That’s only if he knew the dogs were there. Which meant he probably knew the neighborhood or had scoped it out to plan his escape route.