Heart of Ice

by Parrish, P. J.

  “Here you go,” Louis said, coming over to her.

  She hesitated, then took the key he was holding. From the moment she saw him standing on the dock she had felt the stir of longing. She was sure he felt the same, but she was glad he had made no assumptions.

  Upstairs Joe unlocked the door to room seven and turned to take her bag from Louis.

  “Where is your room?” she asked.

  “Right across the hall.” He glanced over her shoulder. “You have a kitchenette.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I have a Mr. Coffee, but it doesn’t work.”

  She smiled. “You can come over to my place for breakfast.”

  He returned the smile. She had forgotten how much she liked seeing him smile. His smiles had come easily when she first met him two years ago, when they were both still in Florida. But then she took the sheriff’s job in Michigan, and things started to change. It wasn’t just the strain of their long-distance relationship. Something inside of him began to change, like a strange moroseness had taken hold of him. He wouldn’t talk about it when she asked. When he called her from Palm Beach last Christmas there was a bitterness in his voice. She knew it was because he hated working as a PI, but it was more than that. He was adrift. And worse, he didn’t seem to care. She told him they needed a break from each other.

  Six weeks ago he called. He said he was coming to Michigan to visit Lily and wanted to know if he could come up to Echo Bay. No pressure, he said. I just want to see you again.

  The awkward silence was there again, filling the small space between them in the narrow hallway.

  “It’s going on five. You want to get something to eat?” Louis asked.

  She nodded. “And a glass of wine.”

  “Okay, let me just change my shirt.”

  She tossed her bag on the bed, set the flowers down, and took off her leather jacket. At the mirror she blew out a breath. Her lipstick was gone, and her hair was a wild mess. She thought about fishing her brush out of her bag but with a dismissive wave at her reflection she turned away.

  Louis’s door was open. She went across the hall and stood in his doorway, arms crossed, watching him. It had been four months since she had been with a man. Stephen was a doctor in Petoskey, and the sex had been good and the companionship just what she needed. The affair with Stephen had lasted three months, and there had been no one since.

  Louis was standing at the sink, his back to her. His shirt was off, and his back rippled as he reached for the towel.

  “You’ve been working out,” she said.

  He turned. Again, there was that smile.

  “For me?” she asked.

  “For Lance Mobley.”

  She stared at him.

  “I’ve put in for a job with Lee County.”

  She came further into the room. “You’re going back in uniform?”

  Louis nodded. “Mobley’s in trouble with the EEOC. I just have to go through certification, and I’m in.”

  “Detective?” she asked.

  “Probably not.”

  “You’re okay starting at the bottom again?”

  He nodded. “You’re the one who told me I had to want something for myself. I want my badge back.”

  From the moment she saw him on the dock she had sensed that something had come alive in him again. Part of it was probably Lily. Some of it was undoubtedly this case here on the island. But she felt certain most of it was because he was going to be a cop again.

  She went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He pulled her closer. All the awkwardness vanished, and the silence filled with sweet expectancy. She reached back and closed the door.

  16

  Flowers’s call woke them up early. He wanted Louis to meet him at the lodge.

  “What’s up?” Louis asked.

  “We found out how he was getting inside,” Flowers said.

  “I’m on my way.”

  When Joe, curled by his side, asked to go along he didn’t hesitate. They had worked two cases together, and though he sometimes felt a tug of competitiveness he wanted her with him. He had planned to go to the Chapman home this morning to interview the housekeeper, Maisey, but that could wait for now.

  It was cool, but the sun was climbing in a blue sky as they headed to the lodge in the police golf cart Flowers had sent for them. The officer positioned on the back road to keep out the curious waved as Louis drove past.

  Louis could see a CSI tech with a metal detector working the brush at the edge of the property. The side yard was roped off in a grid pattern and stabbed with small red flags.

  Joe took his hand as they trudged through the weeds, her eyes taking in the lodge. Flowers was standing on the side porch, and as they approached, his eyes locked for a moment on their intertwined hands and lingered on Joe’s face.

  “Hey, Chief,” Louis said. He looked to Joe. “This is my friend Joe Frye from Echo Bay. She’s—”

  “Good to meet you, Chief,” Joe interrupted, sticking out her hand.

  She had stopped him from introducing her as a sheriff, which surprised Louis. Last night, Joe had pumped him about the case, but he realized now that she was going to keep a low profile for his sake. With her hair loose and dressed in a gray sweater coat, white blouse, and jeans, she looked like anything but a sheriff.

  Louis nodded toward the tech in the yard. “Looks like you’re being pretty thorough,” he said.

  “You bet I am,” Flowers said. “I’m tired of that prick Rafsky chewing on my ass.”

  At the mention of Rafsky’s name, Joe gave Louis a look and slipped her camera off her shoulder, wandering away to take some photos.

  “Hey, Pike,” Flowers said.

  A second tech had emerged from the front door carrying a brown bag sealed with evidence tape. His face was smeared with dirt.

  “Louis, this is Pike, my lead tech guy,” Flowers said.

  Louis gave him a nod.

  Pike looked up to the second floor. “This is one big place to process, Chief.”

  “You find anything?”

  “Zip-o so far. No clothes, jewelry, or skull anywhere in this place. Nothing but a couple of Faygo cans and hundreds of prints and hairs.”

  “You finish with the luminol?”

  “Almost. But other than the blood in the basement, we haven’t found a trace anywhere else.”

  “So how did he get in here?” Louis asked.

  “He’s got a little rat hole. Follow me,” Pike said.

  Joe held up a hand, indicating she would stay on the veranda. Pike led Louis and Flowers around to the far side of the lodge. An orange flag hung from the porch railing, and a section of the latticework had been removed to allow a clear view of the crawl space.

  Pike pointed. “There’s a hole in the foundation. Take a look.”

  “I’ve already seen it,” Flowers said, handing Louis his flashlight.

  Louis dropped to his knees and crawled under the veranda. The flashlight beam picked up the gray stone of the foundation. Then he saw it—a ragged three-foot hole. It looked as if the concrete had deteriorated and instead of repairing it, someone had framed out the hole with studs and nailed boards over it. The intruder had simply removed the boards to get inside.

  Louis shined the flashlight on the nail holes in the studs and ran his fingers over them. They were worn smooth. He picked up one of the boards, and its nails easily went into the holes. It was obvious the boards had been removed and put back repeatedly. The hole opened into the basement. It was maybe a four-foot drop to the floor.

  He backed out from under the veranda and gave the flashlight to Flowers. “The boards and nail holes are worn,” Louis said. “I think he came and went many times.”

  “That supports your theory that he returned to watch the body decompose,” Flowers said.

  As they started back toward the front of the house, Louis spotted Joe on the front veranda. Below her, down on the perimeter road behind the iron gates, two women were
straddling their bikes, taking pictures of the lodge.

  “Have you had any trouble with reporters trying to get up here?” Louis asked Flowers.

  “Yeah, we caught some photographer from the Lansing State Journal scaling the fence yesterday. We threw him off the island.”

  “That reminds me, Chief,” Pike said. “Could you post an extra officer to watch the interior paths?”

  “Why?”

  “Some guy’s been lurking back there in the trees. I think he’s local, because he just walks in from the woods.”

  “Has he tried to get under the tape?” Flowers asked.

  “No. Just stands there and watches us.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Stocky fellow, unshaven, and walks with a shuffle,” Pike said. “He wears overalls and one of those old red-and-black-checkered hunting hats.”

  “That’s just Danny,” Flowers said.

  “Danny who?” Louis asked.

  “Danny Dancer,” Flowers said. “He’s a hermit who lives up around the bend in one of the old cabins left on state land.”

  “Why would he be so interested in what the techs are doing here?”

  Flowers shrugged. “Hell, Kincaid, everyone on this island is interested in this case.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “Danny? Shit, no.”

  “How old is he?” Louis asked.

  Flowers had to think. “I don’t know, forty, maybe?”

  “Then he was here the winter of 1969. He might know something. He might be the—”

  Flowers quickly raised a hand. “Look, I know Danny. He’s harmless. He was raised by his aunt Bitty, a sweet old lady from what I hear. He comes into town once a week for groceries and eats a tomato-and-lettuce sandwich on the fifteenth of every month—the day his aunt passed—at her favorite restaurant.”

  “I don’t care what he does now,” Louis said. “In 1969 he would’ve been around the same age as Julie, and he lives near this lodge.”

  “I’m telling you Danny Dancer is no killer,” Flowers said. “Look, you said at one point you thought the killer might have abducted Julie from downstate. Danny doesn’t even own a car. I don’t think he’s been off the island in his entire life.”

  “The pregnancy changes our theory, Chief,” Louis said. “Maybe she wasn’t abducted. Maybe she came back willingly to meet the father of her baby. And maybe that boy didn’t want to be a father. And maybe Dancer was that boy.”

  Flowers laughed. “If you only knew how crazy that was.”

  “Why?”

  “Danny’s a likable guy, but he’s homely, real shy, and a little dim,” Flowers said. “A guy like him would’ve been invisible to a girl like Julie Chapman.”

  “Sometimes girls play cruel games with dumb boys.”

  Flowers shook his head. “From what we know about Julie Chapman that doesn’t make sense.”

  “We need to talk to him,” Louis said.

  “Good grief, Kincaid.”

  “Humor me, Chief.”

  “Okay,” Flowers said. “But you’ll see what I mean when you meet him. Come on, we can walk to his place from here.”

  Joe was sitting on the railing on the veranda. Louis went up to her. “I have to go with the chief to talk to someone,” he said.

  “I heard.” Joe glanced over his shoulder at Flowers. “I can’t believe he doesn’t see this Dancer guy as a suspect,” she said softly.

  “Now you see what I’ve gotten myself into?”

  “You never could resist a cold case or a lost cause.”

  “The chief’s not a lost cause, just a little lost.”

  “Well, go help him,” Joe said with a smile. “Give me the golf cart keys. I want to go take some pictures of that old cemetery we passed coming in.”

  He was fishing the keys from his pocket when Flowers came up to them.

  “I just had a thought,” he said. “It might be a real help if Joe came along with us.”

  “What for?” Louis asked.

  “Danny tends to clam up around men,” Flowers said. “He’s been that way since his aunt died.” He looked at Joe. “I think he’d be intimidated by two cops. Having a lady there would make him feel better.”

  Joe looked questioningly at Louis.

  “You mind?” he asked her.

  “Not at all. I’m happy to help out, Chief,” Joe said.

  * * *

  It was a small log cabin sitting in a copse of peeling white birch trees. A rock chimney rose up on the right, a small porch jutted out from a rough-hewn wood door. The two front windows were shuttered, and the shed set back in the tall grass had a padlock on the door. A wrought iron table sat in the yard, its two chairs tipped over into the carpet of leaves.

  “The place looks deserted,” Joe said.

  “He’s in there,” Flowers said, starting toward the cabin.

  Still scanning the yard, Louis and Joe fell into step behind him.

  Suddenly, the front door of the cabin swung open.

  A man stood in the doorway.

  “Danny!” Flowers called out as he walked toward the door.

  The man took one step forward. Something in his hands glinted in the sun.

  Louis froze and threw out a hand to stop Joe.

  “Gun! Get down!” he yelled.

  The crack of the rifle split the silence.

  Louis dropped to his belly, searching for cover, but he was caught between trees, each six feet away.

  More rifle fire. Three, four, five shots.

  “Joe, you hit?”

  Her voice came from behind him. “I’m okay.”

  “Chief?”

  No answer.

  Louis raised his head. The cabin door was still open, but Dancer had retreated into the dark interior.

  Oh God.

  Flowers lay in the leaves about ten feet to Louis’s right.

  Suddenly more gunshots, zinging through leaves and snapping bark off trees. Louis waited a few seconds, then crawled forward. When he reached Flowers, he tugged on his uniform jacket and it fell open.

  Blood . . . his white shirt was soaked at the collar. He had been hit in the neck.

  Flowers moaned and coughed up blood.

  Louis put a hand to Flowers’s chest, trying to keep him from moving.

  “Joe! Flowers is hit!”

  A crack of a bullet smothered her answer.

  Louis grabbed the radio from Flowers’s belt and keyed it.

  “Dispatch, Dispatch, this is Louis Kincaid. We’re at the cabin of Danny Dancer, and Chief Flowers is down with a GSW. Need medical assistance now! Right now!”

  Another volley of bullets zipped overhead.

  “Dispatch, approach with extreme caution. We’re still under fire!”

  The dispatcher spat out a shocked expletive but then acknowledged. Louis stuck the radio in his jacket and pulled the gun from Flowers’s holster.

  He looked down into Flowers’s face. His eyes were wide and liquid.

  “Chief, I’ve got you. It’s okay,” Louis said. “You’re going to be okay.”

  He looked back at Joe. She had found cover behind a woodpile and was sitting up, her breathing fast and her face flushed.

  Louis took a quick look at the door. “Dancer! Stop shooting! We’re not here to arrest you!”

  Two more rifle shots ripped into a nearby tree. It sounded like Dancer was shooting a .22 rifle, what hunters called a varmint gun. Dancer could keep them pinned down and just reload. Which meant he could outlast them—and Flowers.

  He had to do something. And to do it, he had to leave Flowers. He crawled on his belly back to Joe.

  “How bad is the chief hurt?” Joe asked.

  “Bad. Hit in the neck.”

  “What do you want to do?” Joe asked.

  “I need to get up there.”

  “And do what?”

  “The windows are shuttered, so he can’t see me if I go for the porch. If I can get close enough, I can grab the rifle and ta
ke him down.”

  He held out Flowers’s .45. “You need to distract him.”

  “You’re going to go up there unarmed? Are you nuts?” Joe said.

  Maybe he was, but they had no choice. Joe’s Glock was locked in a safe back at the hotel, so they had only the chief’s gun. If Dancer managed to turn the rifle on Louis it would be up to Joe to drop the bastard.

  Louis pressed the .45 into her hand. “Shoot at the door to keep him inside until I make the porch. If we’re lucky he’ll think you’re reloading and stick his head out.”

  Joe gave him a nod and took aim at the cabin.

  Louis began crawling toward higher brush at the side of the cabin. Joe started firing.

  Immediately Dancer ripped the air with bullets in the direction of the woodpile. Louis used the distraction to scurry to the side of the cabin. He pressed back against the logs.

  Everything suddenly seemed sharper and louder. The rustle of the leaves sounded like someone chewing potato chips into a microphone, his breathing like wind whistling through a canyon. How could Dancer not hear him?

  Move. Keep moving.

  At the corner of the house Louis slid along the front of the cabin toward the door.

  Joe’s bullets continued to splinter wood on the far side of the cabin, forcing Dancer to stay hidden.

  Louis stopped inches from the open door and held up a hand to signal Joe to stop firing.

  Suddenly, it was quiet.

  One, two, three seconds.

  The barrel of the rifle popped into view. Louis had only inches of steel to grab, but he went for it. The barrel was hot, but he held on and yanked it outward.

  Dancer stumbled out, stunned, but didn’t let go of the rifle. Louis flung him to the porch. He hit hard but still wouldn’t let go.

  “Give me the damn gun!” Louis yelled.

  The rifle went off, the recoil and shock of the concussion almost making Louis lose his grip on the barrel. Furious, he ripped the rifle from Dancer’s hands and slammed the stock down against his head.

  Dancer’s hands flew to his face and he rolled to his side, moaning.

  Louis put a foot on his shoulder to keep him there. He jerked the radio from his jacket and radioed the station.

  “Clear! We’re clear! Get that ambulance in here now!”