Dead of Winter

by P J Parrish

  “She’s gone,” she said softly.

  Louis felt something cut into his chest. “Zoe...”

  “I have to find her.”

  She knelt to look under a chair then rose and pulled back the curtains. Louis watched her, suddenly afraid she was breaking down.

  She looked up at him suddenly. “I can’t leave her here,” she said, her eyes bright with tears. “Help me find her, please.”

  Suddenly, he understood. The other cat. She was looking for the other cat, the black one.

  She went into the studio, calling her name. Louis drew in a slow breath and scanned the room, looking for the animal.

  Zoe came back into the living room. “Isolde, I can’t find her,” she said, her eyes frantic.

  “She’s here somewhere,” Louis said.

  “I have to find her now. I’m leaving tomorrow, there’s no time. I have to go, I have to —- ”

  Louis grabbed her shoulder. “Zoe, stop. Come on, stop. Calm down.”

  She stared up at him then started crying again. He held her, stroking her hair, letting it all pour out of her, even as he struggled to hold his own emotions in. He held her until the crying dwindled and stopped.

  Finally, she pushed gently away from him, wiping her face, unable to meet his eyes.

  “I have to go, Louis,” she whispered.

  She moved away and he closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was standing by the door, wearing her coat. She was holding one of the carriers, waiting.

  He went to the door and she opened it. They stepped out into the bright sunlight. She didn’t look back as she went down the snowy walk, the carrier bumping awkwardly against her leg. She didn’t look back at him as she opened the door of her Jeep and put the carrier in the back. He waited, standing with his hands in his pockets. Finally, she faced him.

  “I loved you,” she said softly. “Was it wrong?”

  “No,” he said.

  She hesitated then nodded slightly. Her dark hair glistened in the sun, her eyes locked on his.

  “When will you be back?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  The question was there, in his head, but he knew there was no need to ask it. Nothing was possible for them. He had known that when he walked up the hill.

  He focused on her eyes, on her lips, her face, her hair, focused on every detail so he would remember. He would remember the taste of brandy on her mouth, the curve of her hip, the smell of patchouli.

  She got in the Jeep. She looked back at the cabin, then at Louis.

  “She might have gotten outside,” she said absently.

  “I’ll look. I’ll find her for you.”

  She nodded and started the engine.

  “Goodbye, Zoe,” he said.

  She smiled slightly. Then she put the Jeep in gear and pulled away.

  He watched the Jeep disappear down the hill. He turned and looked back at the cabin. He let out a breath, so long and raspy that it hurt his lungs. He was so tired, a sudden hollow feeling overtaking him, as if the last of his emotions had drained out of him with Zoe’s departure. He started down the hill.

  He didn’t know what made him stop and look back at the cabin. But when he did he saw something at the window. A small black form. A cat.

  It sat there calmly, staring back, its eyes luminous slits in the sun.

  He stared at it, transfixed. Its tiny pink mouth moved, a silent meow behind the glass.

  Damn...

  He went back into the cabin. The black cat came right to him, rubbing against his legs.

  “Damn,” he murmured.

  Picking it up, he put it in the empty carrier sitting by the door. Moving quickly, without looking back at the dim room, he left with the carrier, stepping back out into the sun.

  CHAPTER 45

  He rubbed his arms, watching the coffee dribble into the pot. It was the last of the can and he knew he was only going to get one or two cups out of it. It was too cold to go out and get more and the Mustang hadn’t started in days anyway.

  Something touched his leg and he looked down to see the black cat rubbing against his calf.

  He pushed it away gently with his foot, thinking about Zoe. He had called several times about the cat but she had never responded. He assumed she had left for Chicago and finally had left a note in her mailbox, telling her he had the cat.

  He glanced down at the animal. It sat staring up at him, its tail swishing slowly back and forth on the linoleum.

  With a sigh, he looked back at the slow drip of the coffeemaker. Finally, he pulled out the pot and stuck the mug under the drip, staring out the window as he waited for it to fill. Frost obscured the windowpane. He reached up and used the sleeve of his sweatshirt to wipe it clear.

  Sunny...first time in a week.

  The pine trees stood tall and unmoving in their crisp green uniforms with their white epaulettes of snow. He shivered, glancing down at his feet in their old tube sox. His big toe was poking through a hole in the end. He used his other foot to turn the hole under as he pulled the cup from the machine. He stuck the pot back and walked to the table, sliding into the chair. Taking a sip of coffee, he picked up the stack of mail he had neglected for the last three days.

  A large manila envelope caught his eye and he stared at the Detroit return address with no name. He opened it.

  It was a copy of the Detroit Free Press, the most recent Sunday edition. As he snapped it open, a note floated to the table. He picked it up and read the unfamiliar scrawl.

  Thanks. I owe you one. Delp.

  P.S. How’s the weather up there?

  “Jerk,” Louis muttered.

  He looked at the front page. He couldn’t miss the big headline on Delp’s freelance feature story -- THE KILLING SEASON. And the small blurb below that: “On a cold winter day, two teenagers were murdered. Five years later, the cops who did it are brought to their final justice.”

  It was a long article but he read all of it, and when he put it down he was left with a begrudging respect for Delp. He had done a good job on the article. It was painstakingly researched and written with the sensitivity of a good novel, and between the lines anyone could read the unspoken theme: that the Lacey teenagers were not the only victims.

  Louis dumped sugar into the mug and stirred the coffee, thinking about Jesse. He was facing felony murder charges for beating Johnny and conspiracy to cover up Angela’s death. Gibralter was dead, his reputation shattered. Zoe was gone, her life shattered. And he...

  Louis sipped the coffee, thinking now of his own fate. Steele had dropped felony charges against him after Cole told the truth and recanted his statement about the Red Oak abduction. But Steele had still made an example of him, telling the TV reporters that “the actions of Louis Kincaid, while technically legal, were still unethical. I intend to pursue a charge of obstruction of justice, if only to ensure Kincaid does not remain a police officer in the state of Michigan.”

  Louis poured more sugar into the coffee. It didn’t matter anymore. He had already quit. He would survive. He would survive, he told himself, if his bitterness didn’t eat him alive. He had warned Cole against it but he could see it happening to himself these last couple of days. He had changed somehow, on some very basic level, and it arose from something more than just what had happened with Zoe or even the fear he might never work as a cop again. He felt adrift, his faith in the power of his badge destroyed, the idea of what he was shaken.

  Nothing was black and white, as he had believed, especially truth. Truth was nothing but different perspectives, refracted through the prisms of people’s pain. It was ever-changing, unreliable, not to be trusted.

  He turned back to the rest of his mail, sifting through the junk flyers and bills. His eyes locked on a small envelope with a Flint return address. It was from Stephanie Pryce. He ripped it open.

  The note was short, poignant, an acknowledgment for unraveling the truth about her husband’s death. She had added a postscript, the Ch
urchill quote from Pryce’s funeral plaque. Louis read it, a hand rubbing his brow.

  The only guide to a man is his conscience. With this shield, however fates may play, we march always in the ranks of honor.

  He put the letter back in its envelope. Rising stiffly, he went to the living room. He stood for a moment, his lassitude threatening to overtake him. He felt something rub his leg and looked down. It was the black cat again.

  “Don’t you have someplace to go?” he asked.

  It was getting cold. The fire was burning down; he needed to go outside and get more logs. Slipping on an old pair of loafers and a University of Michigan jacket he stepped out onto the porch.

  The bright sunlight made his eyes water, the cold air made his chest ache. He stared toward the log pile then paused, his eyes going out to the lake.

  It glistened in the sun, its white blanket broken only by the ripple of a lone snowmobile. The sound of its motor drifted in to him, fading as it headed away toward the north shore. He walked down to the shoreline and stood looking out over the flat white expanse, his hands thrust in his pockets.

  His fingers closed around something small and hard in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was a black stone, the snowflake obsidian Ollie had given him. He held it up to the sun. It is the stone of purity, that balances the mind, body and spirit.

  More of Ollie’s words trickled into his mind, something he had said about finding his place, where he needed to be, something about water. What had he said?

  But then, Frances Lawrence was in his head, too, whispering. People have places on earth where their souls feel comfortable, Louis, places where they feel at home.

  His fingers closed around Ollie’s snowflake stone, and he remembered: The water is where you need to settle, Kincaid. It doesn’t have to be here. There’s lots of water in the world.

  He stared out at the frozen lake. This was not the place. He had thought it would be but it wasn’t. Right now, he wasn’t sure where he did belong.

  The only thing he knew for sure was that he had to go on trying to find it. Gripping the hard black stone, he turned and started back.

  Books by P.J. Parrish

  DARK OF THE MOON

  DEAD OF WINTER

  PAINT IT BLACK

  THICKER THAN WATER

  ISLAND OF BONES

  A KILLING RAIN

  THE UNQUIET GRAVE

  A THOUSAND BONES

  SOUTH OF HELL

  THE LITTLE DEATH

  THE KILLING SONG

  CLAW BACK

  (A Louis Kincaid Novella)

  HEART OF ICE

  CLAW BACK PREVIEW

  Chapter 1

  He hadn’t been inside in a long time.

  It was as dark as he remembered, and it smelled as bad. The place also still had that weird vibe in the air, like the testosterone that bubbled up from the balls and brewed in the reptile parts of the brain was being secreting through hundreds of sweat glands and was pinging around the room like cosmic rays.

  O’Sullivan’s was a cop bar. Located a block from the Fort Myers police station, it had the air of a married guy’s den. Stale smoky air, cigarette burns on the tables, rows of trophies, a floor of crushed peanut shells and a big-screen TV permanently tuned to ESPN.

  Like all primitive habitats, it had a pecking order. City detectives had staked out the back of the bar; county detectives, out of legendary necessity, owned the tables by the men’s room so they could piss and moan more conveniently; the round tables in the middle belonged to the rank and file uniforms.

  And in the back, by the juke box, sat Lance Mobley. Arms spread across back of the booth, perched under a glittering Happy Birthday banner, he looked like a king in a red leather throne.

  Louis Kincaid waited until his eyes adjusted before he started back. He needed to see everything clearly right now because this wasn’t going to be easy.

  When he stopped at the table, Mobley was talking over his shoulder to a pretty lady in a blue halter top. No one was sitting in the booth with the sheriff, but the table was littered with empty bottles, heaping ashtrays and crumpled wrapping paper. Louis scanned the gifts while he waited for Mobley to finish flirting. A bottle of Leopold’s Gin with a tag that read: Gin makes you sin. Three cans of John Freida’s hair mousse ducted-taped together. A bundle of Cuban cigars. And a twelve-pack of animal print condoms.

  Louis had known Mobley a few years now. Knew he was a publicity hound, a hard-ass leader, an office iron-pumper, a ladies’ man, a closeted lounge pianist. But probably most important, he was a competent sheriff who used his charm and good looks to mask his lack of good judgment and investigative skills.

  Louis glanced around the bar. Half the Lee County cops -- and more than handful of city cops -- were here. No matter what Mobley was, his men liked him. And that was important.

  Mobley’s voice broke his thoughts. “Sit down, Kincaid.”

  Louis slid into the booth. Mobley grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured himself another shot.

  “You want a drink?” Mobley asked.

  “Sure.”

  Mobley tried to signal the bartender, but when he was ignored, he searched the cluttered table for an empty glass. He found a used shot glass beneath a crumple of gold paper and filled it for Louis.

  Louis let it sit in front of him.

  “So what did you want to talk to me about that was so important you’re interrupting my birthday party?”

  “You told me to meet you here,” Louis said. “You never said you’d be at a party.”

  “Fuck it,” Mobley said. “Talk to me.”

  Louis drew a breath, glanced down at the whiskey and decided to drink it. His throat was still burning when he spoke.

  “I’m here to ask you for a job,” Louis said.

  Mobley’s brow shot up and his eyes took a moment to focus. The bar was nosier than hell but suddenly, it seemed that there was no one here but the two of them.

  “I want back inside,” Louis said. “I want to wear a badge again.”

  Mobley continued to stare at him, but as understanding sank in, his lips tipped up in a small smile.

  “And I didn’t think this day could get any better,” he said.

  Suddenly someone slapped Mobley on the back of the head, mumbled something about the sheriff getting lucky tonight and wandered away. Mobley paid him no attention, his gaze still on Louis.

  “You’re too old,” Mobley said.

  “I’m twenty-nine.”

  “You look thirty-five easy.”

  “It’s seasoning.”

  “You’re too controversial, too well known as a PI,” Mobley said. “I don’t need any deputies who get their names in the papers.”

  “You mean deputies who get their names in the papers more than you do.”

  “See, that attitude is exactly what I’m talking about,” Mobley said. “You’ve been rogue too long. You’ve forgotten what it’s all about, lost respect for things like protocol and even fucking rank.”

  Louis leaned over the table. “Listen to me,” he said. “I graduated pre-law from Michigan. I trained in one of the best police academies in the country and graduated third in my class. I’ve been shot at, stabbed and nearly hanged and have worked with some of the best investigators in this state and up in Michigan on half a dozen cold cases. With all due respect, you have no idea what kind of cop I was or what kind I will be. Sir.”

  Mobley’s dimmed expression never changed. For a few moments, the bar was a cacophony of noises -- clinking glasses, deep throated laughter and the pounding music of Guns and Roses’s “Welcome to the Jungle.”

  “No,” Mobley said, turning back to his drink. “Go ask Chief Horton for a job. He seems to like you.”

  “The city is on a hiring freeze,” Louis said. “You’re not. I saw the notice two days in the newspaper.”

  “We’re hiring deputies only,” Mobley said.

  “I don’t care where I start.”

  “I said no.�
�

  Louis sat back, staring at the empty shot glass in front of him. He hadn’t wanted to make the argument he about to make -- it seemed desperate and self-serving to use his race to pry an opening in the tightly shut door. But truth was, his brown skin was exactly what Mobley needed right now.

  “I also read something else in the newspaper this week,” Louis said. “Your department is facing seventeen counts of employment discrimination. I hear the justice department is coming down to review your hiring and promotional files.”

  Mobley shoved his glass aside and leaned into Louis. “Those charges are bullshit. I don’t have a bigoted bone in my body. Everyone knows that.”

  “I guess you can tell that to the DOJ when they get here,” Louis said “And trust me, once they get ahold of you they never let go.”

  Mobley was quiet, grinding his jaw.

  “Did you know,” Louis continued, “that there are some police departments in the south that are still under DOJ hiring quotas from the 1960s?”

  “You’ve managed to sink lower than I thought possible,” Mobley said. “Threatening me with discrimination. Get out of my bar.”

  Louis didn’t move, instead ordering two beers to give Mobley time to simmer down. When the sheriff had taken a long pull from his bottle, Louis went on.

  “Listen, sheriff,” he said. “I don’t like affirmative action either, though I know that even now there are some companies that still need it forced down their throats. But I never took advantage. I didn’t even put my race down on my college application.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  “My point is, you need some brown faces in your department and you’ve got one right in front of you asking you for a job.”

  Mobley shook his head. “You don’t get it, Kincaid,” he said. “We’ve gone out of our way to find qualified minorities. I’m not stupid. I know I can’t police a Hispanic community with nothing but white men, but I’m telling you the quality of human being I need just isn’t out there.”