Heart of Ice

by Parrish, P. J.

  “Yes, you do,” Rafsky said. “She told you she was pregnant. You didn’t want to give up your whole life for a baby that wasn’t yours. So you lost it and you hit her.”

  “No . . .”

  “You took her down to that basement—”

  “No, no!”

  “You killed her. You took her clothes to make it look like a stranger did it and then you left her there to rot.”

  “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Cooper jumped up, pulled against the cuff, trying to get to Rafsky. His chair clattered to the floor.

  “Got a bit of a temper there, Lange?” Rafsky said.

  Hands clamped down on his shoulders and Kincaid righted the chair, shoving him into it.

  Cooper wiped his face. “I want a lawyer,” he said.

  Rafsky picked up the photographs and put them back in the folder. “You’re going to need one,” he said.

  36

  Louis followed Rafsky downstairs and into Flowers’s office. Rafsky closed the door and went to the murder board. He tacked the sketch of Cooper Lange on the board and reached for the phone.

  The bulletin board wasn’t very big, so Rafsky had added two large drugstore poster-boards to the wall to extend it. But everything was there. The photographs of Julie, the skeleton, and the fetal bones. Danny Dancer’s mug shot and a blowup of Ross Chapman’s license photograph. A close-up of the school ring and shots of the basement from all angles. On one of the poster-boards Rafsky had written out in black marker a time line for all the dates and events. There was also a map of the island that showed the distance between the lodge, Dancer’s cabin, and the Chapman cottage. Another map marked the usual route downstate to Bloomfield Hills, noting the miles and driving time.

  “I don’t have a fucking clue if we can get phone records from 1969,” Rafsky snapped into the phone. “Have you ever heard the term ‘Give it a shot’?”

  Rafsky listened for a moment before he launched into a tirade about getting ahold of the Mackinac County DA Greg Thom and securing a quick search warrant for Cooper Lange’s home in St. Ignace. Louis knew Rafsky was hoping to find anything to put Lange in a bad light. Maybe Lange had lied and had kept Julie’s letters. Maybe he had lied about not knowing she was pregnant.

  Rafsky hung up and dropped into the chair. “Good job with Lange,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Louis said.

  The phone rang, but Rafsky let it go. He picked up the pile of pink message slips and spent the next minute sorting through them. Finally he tossed them aside and tipped his chair back. The man looked exhausted.

  “Do you think he killed her?” Rafsky asked.

  “I don’t know,” Louis said.

  Rafsky swung his chair around to the murder board. He stared up at it for a long time.

  “I blew it,” he said.

  Louis understood. If Rafsky hadn’t been so aggressive, Lange might have kept talking. He could have told them more about Rhonda Grasso and other kids who had been involved with Julie. Lange clearly needed to unload something, and if they had kept him talking through the night he might have even confessed to killing Julie.

  “Look,” Louis said, “something will break. We could find something of Julie’s at Lange’s place. Your investigators in Ann Arbor might uncover something about Ross. Hell, the skull still might turn up at Dancer’s cabin.”

  Rafsky pushed from the chair and reached up to straighten the photograph of the fetal bones.

  “I have to get this right,” he said. He turned to face Louis. “I don’t want my last case tainted ten years down the road with an overturned conviction when it comes to light we arrested the wrong man.”

  “Your last case?”

  Rafsky picked up a set of stapled papers. “These are my retirement papers. I filled them out weeks ago. I just haven’t turned them in yet.”

  “You having second thoughts?” Louis asked.

  “Maybe,” Rafsky said. “I don’t know. It’s just hard to pick up the pen and make it final. Once a decision like this is made you can’t go back.”

  There was a knock on the door, then it opened.

  “Hey, guys, am I interrupting anything?”

  Flowers. The last time Louis saw him was in the medical center more than two months ago. Flowers had been unconscious then, and there had been no time for Louis to say a proper good-bye before he left for Echo Bay.

  Flowers’s voice was soft and raspy, but Louis was surprised how good the guy looked. There was a healthy glow to his face and a fresh trim to his mondo-grass hair. He was wearing jeans and a turtleneck instead of his uniform, and Louis remembered what Clark had said last month when Louis called to check on the chief’s health. Flowers’s release from the St. Ignace hospital had been complicated by a respiratory infection and his recuperation at home had been long and hard.

  “Come in, Chief,” Rafsky said. “It’s still your office.”

  Flowers shut the door behind him. He gave Louis a big smile and stuck out a hand. “Hey, man, what are you doing back?”

  Before either Louis or Rafsky answered, Flowers noticed the murder board. He moved around the desk toward it. It took almost a full minute before he turned back to Rafsky.

  “What’s all this?” Flowers asked.

  “Things are heating back up, Chief,” Rafsky said.

  When Flowers glanced back at the board, Louis saw something flit across his face, like the chief knew he had never been a big part of the investigation and the shooting and his long recovery had shoved him even further into the margins.

  Flowers pointed to the drawing of Cooper Lange. “Who’s that?”

  “Our latest best suspect,” Rafsky said.

  “His name is Cooper Lange,” Louis said. “He was Julie’s boyfriend her last summer here.”

  “How the hell did you find him?” Flowers asked.

  Louis gave him a rundown of the visit to Dancer and how Lange had run when they confronted him in the bar.

  “Who’s this?” Flowers asked, pointing at the drawing of Rhonda Grasso.

  “A local girl who worked on the island. She was Julie and Cooper’s go-between to keep their relationship secret.”

  Flowers nodded. “Makes sense. A girl like Julie would have to keep it a secret. She wasn’t a pop-and-drop.”

  Rafsky looked up. “A what?”

  “It’s what the Bluff boys call it when they take up with a local girl.” Flowers shook his head. “But for a Bluff girl like Julie to be with a local kid like Cooper? It just doesn’t happen, even now.”

  The office was silent as Flowers went back to looking at the murder board. Louis wondered if Flowers thought it was odd that Ross’s picture was up there, but the chief probably thought Rafsky was just keeping track of the case’s cast of characters. Louis and Rafsky had agreed not to tell Flowers about the incest.

  “I heard they set Danny’s trial date,” Flowers said.

  “Yeah, but his lawyer is still fighting for psychiatric commitment,” Rafsky said. “And if that happens, he’ll be right back here in a year.”

  Flowers was staring at Dancer’s mug shot now. “I know in my heart Danny didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he said. “And I know he’s different than us and doesn’t understand things like we do.”

  He pulled down the collar of his turtleneck, revealing a jagged red scar. “But every time I look at this thing in the mirror I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

  No one said anything. The awkward silence lengthened.

  “I need a drink,” Rafsky said suddenly.

  “I need some food,” Louis said.

  “Chief?” Rafsky asked.

  Flowers looked surprised Rafsky had invited him.

  “My treat,” Rafsky added.

  Flowers cleared his throat, wincing. “Okay, but don’t you guys laugh at me when I cut my burger up into little tiny pieces. I lost some of my swallowing room when they patched me up.”

  * * *

  The table was a mess. Three empty burger baskets, seven
empty shot glasses, five empty beer bottles, crumpled wet napkins, cigarette butts that had tumbled from Rafsky’s ashtray, and a scattering of pretzel crumbs.

  Except for a big bearded guy in a flannel shirt at the bar, they were the last three customers in the Mustang.

  Louis picked up his Heineken and looked around the table. Flowers was wasted. He had announced when they got here that this would be his first drop of alcohol since the shooting, and it hadn’t taken him long to make up for lost time.

  Rafsky was drunk, too, but he was holding it well. Just sitting there hunched over the table, turning his bottle as he talked shit about his bosses, his days as a trooper, and his first car—a 1949 Kurtis in which he had “deflowered” his future wife during the summer of 1964. It wasn’t easy, either. It was a fuckin’ two-seater.

  His side of the conversation finally deteriorated to passing around pictures of his granddaughter, whose name Louis couldn’t remember at the moment.

  That prompted Flowers to pull out a picture from his wallet of his twin girls. Rafsky peered at it, grunted out a compliment, and handed it back to Flowers. Flowers turned to look at Louis.

  “Show him yours,” he said.

  “My what?”

  “A picture of your daughter.”

  Rafsky’s head swiveled to Louis. “You got a daughter?”

  Louis hesitated, then fumbled for his wallet. He felt an odd swell of pride as he pulled out the picture from behind his license. Rafsky took it, stared hard at it, then even harder at Louis before he gave it back.

  “Pretty girl,” he said.

  Louis nodded. The three men were quiet, each taking a moment to look at their own pictures before stashing them back in their wallets.

  “So your ex-wife . . . Cathy, is she’s still—” Rafsky said finally.

  “Carol,” Flowers corrected him. “And yeah, she’s still here. Took a leave of absence from her job.”

  “She gonna stay?”

  Flowers shook his head. “No, she has a really good job in KC,” he said. “But she wants to reconcite, recon . . . she asked me to come back with her.”

  “You gonna go?” Louis asked.

  “I don’t know,” Flowers said. “I don’t know how to do anything but this and electrical work, and I sure as hell don’t want to go back to that. With my luck I’d probably electrocute myself.”

  “Apply to the Kansas City department,” Rafsky said.

  Flowers gave a small shake of his head and took a long drink of his Labatt. Rafsky glanced at Louis, then back to Flowers.

  “You don’t have a degree,” Rafsky said.

  “No,” Flowers said. “And all the big departments—the ones that pay—want one now. I don’t want to go KC and have my wife supporting me.”

  “Not the worst thing in the world,” Rafsky said. “Being a househusband. I bet your girls would love that.”

  “Didn’t you see Mr. Mom?” Flowers asked. “The guy was a moron, sitting around in his robe watching soap operas all day. I ain’t that guy. I’m a cop. I’m a fuckin’ cop. I’m not a fucking Mr. Mom.”

  Rafsky sat back in his chair, nearly falling out of it. Once he regained his balance, he pulled out his wallet again and opened it. He stared down into it for a moment, then carefully pulled out a business card. He slid it across the table to Flowers.

  “Call this guy,” Rafsky said.

  “Who is he?”

  “Friend of mine,” Rafsky said. “Specializes in getting cops grants to advance their education so they can keep their jobs.”

  “In Kansas City?” Flowers asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Rafsky said. “Just call him and use my name. He’ll do right by you.”

  “Thanks, Rafsky.”

  Flowers reached for his own wallet but couldn’t seem to figure out what pocket he had put it in, so he slipped the card into his shirt pocket.

  “That’ll keep you with Cathy,” Rafsky said. “That’s the most important thing. Cathy. Remember that.”

  “Carol,” Flowers said.

  “Who?” Rafsky asked.

  “Never mind,” Flowers said.

  “And you,” Rafsky said, looking across at Louis. The blue eyes were a little duller, muted by the alcohol and who knew what else.

  “What about me?” Louis asked.

  Rafsky pointed a finger at him. “You are the stupidest one of us all. Going back to Florida. What the fuck you got in Florida?”

  “A badge, man,” Louis said.

  “What else?” Rafsky asked.

  “What do you mean, ‘What else?’ ” Louis asked. “Right now, there is nothing else for me.”

  Rafsky shook his head. “Like I said, you’re the stupidest one of us all. Where does your lady live?”

  Louis stared at him.

  “Come on,” Rafsky said, “tell me and Flowers here where your lady lives.”

  “I already know where she lives,” Flowers mumbled.

  “Shut up,” Rafsky said, waving a hand. “I’m making a point here. Tell him where she lives.”

  “Here in Michigan,” Louis said.

  “Where’s your little girl live?” Rafsky asked.

  “Here in Michigan.”

  “You got parents alive?”

  “Foster parents.”

  That made Rafsky pause for a second, then he went on. “Where do they live?”

  “Here.”

  Rafsky threw up both hands. “Could it be any more fucking obvious, Kincaid?”

  Louis glanced around the bar. The bearded man was looking at Rafsky like he was crazy. But he wouldn’t say anything. Everyone in town knew they were cops.

  Louis leaned toward Rafsky. “I want my badge back. After I get that I’ll figure everything else out. Now get off my back.”

  “Don’t fight, guys, come on,” Flowers said. “I don’t want to see anyone fight.”

  “No one’s fighting, Chief,” Rafsky said. He picked up his wallet, fished out two twenties, and tossed them on the table. He hesitated, then added one more. It took him three tries to get his wallet back in his pocket. “I’m done for the night.”

  “Not me,” Flowers said. “I don’t have anything to do tomorrow. I’m going to close the bar.”

  “I thought you were back on this case with us,” Rafsky said.

  Flowers blinked. “Well, I’d like to be, but I wasn’t sure . . . I don’t know what I can do.”

  “You can go to Cedarville.”

  “What’s in Cedarville?” Flowers asked.

  “Rhonda Grasso, hopefully,” Rafsky said.

  Rafsky finished off his beer and stood up. As he tried to put his overcoat on he stumbled and knocked over a nearby chair. Louis jumped to catch his arm, but Rafsky caught himself on a post.

  Louis watched him struggle to get his bad arm in the sleeve but resisted the urge to help.

  “You going to be okay to get home?” Louis asked Flowers. “It’s snowing pretty heavy out there.”

  “I’ll call one of my guys,” Flowers said. “You go ahead and tuck Rafsky in. The last thing we need is to find him frozen stiff in a drift tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t need an escort,” Rafsky mumbled.

  “I’m going your way anyway,” Louis said, standing. His head started to spin, and he put a hand to the table. He realized he wasn’t much more sober than Rafsky.

  Rafsky wandered toward the door, trying to button his coat.

  Louis looked to Flowers. “Where’s Cedarville?” he asked.

  “About a half hour from St. Ignace. I’ll run a check in the morning for her address.”

  “If you find her, I’d like to go,” Louis said.

  “Sure, company is good.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Louis threw some money on the table, grabbed his parka, and hurried to catch up with Rafsky. He stepped out into a blast of snowy wind coming off Lake Huron.

  It took him a moment to spot Rafsky. He was sitting in a snowbank, staring at his
shoes.

  “Watch that step,” Rafsky said. “It’s a little slippery.”

  Louis went to him and held out a hand. “Come on, you old drunk,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

  Louis pulled Rafsky to his feet, and the two of them started down Main Street toward the Potty. Rafsky trudged through the snow like an exhausted husky pulling a sled.

  “Did I show you the picture of Chloe?”

  “Yeah. Keep walking.”

  “Did I tell you about my papers?”

  “Yeah. Keep walking.”

  “I’ve spent my whole life doing this fuckin’ job,” Rafsky said. “My whole life, and sometimes I feel like I haven’t learned a fuckin’ thing.”

  “Here’s the hotel,” Louis said. “Watch your step.”

  Rafsky grabbed the railing and shuffled in ahead of Louis. Louis stopped in the lobby to stomp the snow off his shoes, but Rafsky just walked toward the stairs, trailing puddles. He stumbled again halfway up, and Louis had to catch him.

  “Thanks. I’m sorry.”

  “No problem.”

  “I can’t find my key . . . where’s my key?”

  “Look in your pocket.”

  Rafsky patted every pocket and finally came up with his key. Louis took it from him and unlocked the door. When he pushed it open Rafsky nearly fell inside. Somehow he found his way to the bed and plopped down, face-first, coat on and wet shoes hanging off the end of the mattress.

  Louis tossed the key to the dresser, turned off the light, and started to close the door.

  “Kincaid.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “Kincaid.”

  Louis sighed and stepped closer to the bed. Rafsky’s face was buried in the pillow.

  “What?” Louis asked.

  “Tell Frye . . .”

  Louis waited.

  “Tell Frye I forgive her.”

  Louis stood by the bed, waiting, wondering if Rafsky was going to say anything else. When he heard Rafsky snoring, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  37

  They followed a snowplow into Cedarville. What should have been a half-hour drive from St. Ignace had taken more than an hour because of the snowstorm that had dumped six fresh inches overnight. The other side of the two-lane highway was still covered in high drifts, so Louis had no choice but to stay in the plow’s wake.